Read Online The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories by Ian Watson, Ian Whates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Watson, Ian Whates
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Alternative histories (Fiction); English, Fantasy Fiction; American, Alternative History, Fantasy Fiction; English, Alternative histories (Fiction), Alternative histories (Fiction); American
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walls or the infidel beyond.
Absalom told the madman, and, for the first time, got a reaction out of him.
“It has come. It is time. One thousand years.”
“What’s the babbling idiot talking about?” Isaac asked.
Absalom shrugged, feeling a stabbing under his arm as his broken bones shifted.
“I don’t know. He’s mad.”
There was a lot of that about too.
“No,” the madman said, “listen ...”
It was quieter than usual. The dying were calming down.
A rabbi scuttled around the corner, bent over by the low roof. He was hardly more than a boy, his beard still thin and wispy. His robes were full of tears, each rip a ritual sign of grief for a dying man he had attended. All the rabbis in the city were looking like beggars these days.
“Hear me,” the madman said, “hear my confession ...”
“What, what,” said the rabbi, “confession, what’s this, what’s this?”
“Is it true about the sky?” Absalom asked.
“Yes,” said the rabbi, “a rain of blood has fallen, and a lamb with a glowing heart has been seen in the clouds. Most significant.”
“Of course, of course,” said the madman. “He has returned. It was prophesied.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the rabbi, “I know all the prophecies by heart, and this is without precedent.”
“Hear me out.”
There was something about the man that persuaded the rabbi. Absalom was interested too, and Isaac. A few of the others, dim shapes in the dark, pulled themselves nearer. The madman seemed to glow. His pain was forgotten, and he let the rag fall away from his festering wound. It was a bad one. Absalom could see into the man’s entrails, and could tell they were not healthy. It must have been a sword stroke at one of the gate skirmishes that had done for him. But the madman did not feel the hurt any more. He sat up, and, as he spoke, his eyes glowed brighter . . .
* * * *
My name is Joseph. I was born in Judaea a thousand years ago. No, I’m not mad. Well, maybe I am. A thousand years, a thousand deaths, would send anyone mad. Whatever, I’m a thousand years old.
When I was born, Judaea was ruled by the old Roman Empire. Romans were accustomed to being welcomed, or at least tolerated, as wise and beneficent rulers throughout their imperial domain. But they could never persuade the Judaeans to accept their rule and there was always a revolt going against them. The biggest of these, led by Judas of Galilee, was against a poll tax the Romans imposed. It was suppressed with efficient brutality. But the Romans never broke the spirit of the Jewish people, the Chosen People . . .
In a shithole called Nazareth, there grew up a humble carpenter. We were born in the same year, so we’re the same age. He was Yeshua bar-Joseph; called, in the Romanized form, Jesus, son of Joseph. About the age of thirty, He decided to quit His trade and become a travelling preacher. He pulled in the crowds wherever He went. He also gathered a small band of dedicated followers, hangers-on who believed all He said and talked Him up with the rabble, and bully boys who kept Him out of trouble with the priests and the occupation goons. As Yeshua’s reputation spread, so did the stories about Him, stories of miracles that He performed - walking on water, raising the dead, curing the sick, the crippled, the blind, the leprous . . . Back then, the cure for anything was a miracle. He could also turn water into wine, which made him very, very popular.
His disciples decided that Yeshua was the promised one, the Redeemer, the Messiah of the Jews. Others said He was the son of God. Yeshua the Nazarene, son of Joseph became known as Yeshua the Anointed One. In later years He would be called by the Greek word meaning the anointed one, Christos.
As I said, this was a bad time for Judaea politically; the Messiah, if Yeshua was He - something He never
Absalom told the madman, and, for the first time, got a reaction out of him.
“It has come. It is time. One thousand years.”
“What’s the babbling idiot talking about?” Isaac asked.
Absalom shrugged, feeling a stabbing under his arm as his broken bones shifted.
“I don’t know. He’s mad.”
There was a lot of that about too.
“No,” the madman said, “listen ...”
It was quieter than usual. The dying were calming down.
A rabbi scuttled around the corner, bent over by the low roof. He was hardly more than a boy, his beard still thin and wispy. His robes were full of tears, each rip a ritual sign of grief for a dying man he had attended. All the rabbis in the city were looking like beggars these days.
“Hear me,” the madman said, “hear my confession ...”
“What, what,” said the rabbi, “confession, what’s this, what’s this?”
“Is it true about the sky?” Absalom asked.
“Yes,” said the rabbi, “a rain of blood has fallen, and a lamb with a glowing heart has been seen in the clouds. Most significant.”
“Of course, of course,” said the madman. “He has returned. It was prophesied.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the rabbi, “I know all the prophecies by heart, and this is without precedent.”
“Hear me out.”
There was something about the man that persuaded the rabbi. Absalom was interested too, and Isaac. A few of the others, dim shapes in the dark, pulled themselves nearer. The madman seemed to glow. His pain was forgotten, and he let the rag fall away from his festering wound. It was a bad one. Absalom could see into the man’s entrails, and could tell they were not healthy. It must have been a sword stroke at one of the gate skirmishes that had done for him. But the madman did not feel the hurt any more. He sat up, and, as he spoke, his eyes glowed brighter . . .
* * * *
My name is Joseph. I was born in Judaea a thousand years ago. No, I’m not mad. Well, maybe I am. A thousand years, a thousand deaths, would send anyone mad. Whatever, I’m a thousand years old.
When I was born, Judaea was ruled by the old Roman Empire. Romans were accustomed to being welcomed, or at least tolerated, as wise and beneficent rulers throughout their imperial domain. But they could never persuade the Judaeans to accept their rule and there was always a revolt going against them. The biggest of these, led by Judas of Galilee, was against a poll tax the Romans imposed. It was suppressed with efficient brutality. But the Romans never broke the spirit of the Jewish people, the Chosen People . . .
In a shithole called Nazareth, there grew up a humble carpenter. We were born in the same year, so we’re the same age. He was Yeshua bar-Joseph; called, in the Romanized form, Jesus, son of Joseph. About the age of thirty, He decided to quit His trade and become a travelling preacher. He pulled in the crowds wherever He went. He also gathered a small band of dedicated followers, hangers-on who believed all He said and talked Him up with the rabble, and bully boys who kept Him out of trouble with the priests and the occupation goons. As Yeshua’s reputation spread, so did the stories about Him, stories of miracles that He performed - walking on water, raising the dead, curing the sick, the crippled, the blind, the leprous . . . Back then, the cure for anything was a miracle. He could also turn water into wine, which made him very, very popular.
His disciples decided that Yeshua was the promised one, the Redeemer, the Messiah of the Jews. Others said He was the son of God. Yeshua the Nazarene, son of Joseph became known as Yeshua the Anointed One. In later years He would be called by the Greek word meaning the anointed one, Christos.
As I said, this was a bad time for Judaea politically; the Messiah, if Yeshua was He - something He never
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