John's voice took on a tone of deep sadness—and of shame too—as he reported how these men, wading out of the ooze and slime, began again to plot against one another as before. Prophets came and went, reminding the people of the great calamity that had befallen their fathers and predicting more trouble if they did not now obey God's command for peace. But the stronger ones ignored them and those who sought the favour of the stronger ones laughed at them, and even the weak, who were set upon daily and robbed of their very rags—they too mocked the prophets and threw stones.
Here John paused for a long time—and bowed his head. The awed multitude sat transfixed, far-eyed, holding its breath, though well it knew what was coming.
'So—now—in these latter days,' he went on sadly, measuring his phrases, 'it is our fate to witness another outpouring of God's wrath. It is not a flood this time, but a purge of the world's wickedness. You will ask, "When is it coming?" And I shall answer, "It is not coming: it is here!"
'And do I hear you say, "It is not my fault that the world is wicked: it is the Empire that enslaves and robs and kills; am I to be punished for the crimes of Caesar?" Then I must answer you that every one of us is guilty!' John's words came fast now, fast and scathing. 'Do not blame all injustice, all cruelty, all meanness on Caesar's Empire! For each one of you is a little empire filled with lust and greed and hate! It is easy enough to condemn the government, which is, indeed, a rapacious thing that God will cleanse and cleanse until its bones show through! Easy enough to denounce the Temple for its well-fed lethargy: it deserves and will receive just punishment! But if any peace is to bless this sick world, salvation must first come to you—to you, the lonely shepherd in the hills; to you, the farmer at the plough; to you, the carpenter at the bench; to you, the housewife at the loom; to you, rabbi; to you, lawyer; to you, scribe; to you, magistrate. For—except you repent, you shall perish! It is so decreed. God has again spoken. There is One near at hand to rid the world of its iniquities! Indeed—He is now here!'
Suddenly a black-robed, distinguished-looking man of middle age, at the far end of the second row, arose from the small group of similarly well-groomed company surrounding him and called out in a loud voice that turned all eyes his way:
'Meaning you, Baptizer? Are you, then, this avenger who will wreak God's wrath upon Caesar—and the High Priest—and upon us all?'
'No, I am not He,' answered John humbly. 'I am but His courier, unworthy to stoop down and buckle His sandal-straps. I am but a voice, crying in the desert. I am commanded to say: make the way straight for the oncoming of the Anointed One. Level the road! Lift up the valleys where the poor despair! Pare down the mountain-tops where the powerful have sat in their arrogance and pride! Level the road for Him in your own hearts!'
Here the impassioned voice lashed out like the crack of a bull-whip.
'Do not be content with saying that the world might find justice and peace if the Greeks stopped hating the Egyptians and the Romans stopped robbing the Greeks! Look to yourselves! Let the Macedonian merchant stop hating the Syrian camel-driver! Let the Jew stop hating the Arab! Let the Pharisees and Sadducees stop hating one another! Let the poor farmer with two cows and an ass and twenty chickens stop his sneering at the poor farmer with only two goats and ten chickens! Let the woman with the fine cloak for Sabbath and the wedding-feast stop her haughtiness toward the woman with only a week-day cloak and no wedding garment!'
Another man of the little company of critics now stood up in his place and said, 'Does this avenger come with a sword—to make peace?'
'Not with a sword,' said John, 'but none the less with a power so mighty that the whole world will be shaken by it! He comes with an axe and a flail! The axe will be laid at the roots of all the trees. Every tree that bears fruit will be spared, but every tree that is barren and an encumbrance to the ground will be cut down and burned! His flail will thresh the harvest of your deeds. He will save the grain, but the chaff will be blown away!'
It was some moments before the crowd realized that the prophet had made an end of speaking, for he stood in silence before the people, with his head bowed in weariness; or perhaps, Fara thought, in silent prayer.
At length he lifted his head, turned slowly, and walked away toward the neighbouring hill to the north. Their eyes followed him until he disappeared among the scraggy olive trees. Wordlessly and without looking at one another, they rose and moved toward the camp-sites they had chosen in the broad pasture-field.
Dazed and bewildered, Fara followed the slow-moving crowd. She found herself abreast of the family she had met at supper. The pretty girl, Ruth, gave her a sidelong glance and smiled. Her mother, alert to her daughter's behaviour, scowled and muttered intentionally loud enough for Fara to hear, 'Any more of that and I shall tell your father!'
* * * * * *
Having brought no camping equipment except a pair of camel-hair rugs, Fara slept for the first time in her life under the open sky. She retired early, for there was little else to do. A half-grown boy had been given a few pennies for bringing water to Saidi, after which Fara had removed the saddle and bridle, carrying them to a grassy spot near a cypress tree. During the slow twilight the people quietly pitched their simple camps, and by the time the stars appeared in full splendour the pasture-field was still. Occasionally a tired baby cried, a dog barked, there was a brief argument among the pack-asses; but the people were quiet. Fara wondered whether they slept or reflected soberly on the strange words they had heard. The distinguished men from the city—what were they thinking? Ruth's mother—did she say to herself that at least she was innocent of any fault? And what would this peace-loving prophet think if he knew that one of his interested auditors was on her way to kill her own father? It was a long time before her mental confusion gave way to her bodily fatigue. She went to sleep wondering whether Arabia, too, would be warned of what was coming. And would anyone speak to the Romans about it? Surely the world was larger than Judaea.
Even before dawn there was a stir of activity. Fara rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, sat up and combed her boyish hair, drew the red bandeau down over her forehead, rolled up her rugs, and set off to see how Saidi had fared. Saidi was gone! There was the stake to which she had been tethered, but Saidi was nowhere to be seen. Doubtless she had contrived to tug loose and wander away. She might even be well started for home. Intelligent horses were known to do that.
After fruitless inquiries of the men and boys who were attending to their beasts, Fara decided to climb the hill for a wider view. As she reached the summit, her heart beating hard with the exertion and alarm, she shaded her eyes and carefully surveyed the plain below, every rod of it, from the faraway north to the congested encampment; but there was no sight of Saidi. She suddenly felt so weak and faint that she laid a hand against the trunk of a tree for support against the westerly morning breeze. She started at the sound of a voice immediately behind her.
'What are you looking for, daughter?'
Fara turned slowly to confront the prophet, who was regarding her with sober eyes.
'My horse,' she replied unsteadily, returning to her search of the valley. 'She must have wandered away in the night.'
'May have been stolen,' suggested John, advancing to stand beside her.
'Surely no one, among these people, would steal!' said Fara.
'There is no place in this greedy world, my daughter, where men do not steal.'
There it was again—'my daughter.' Fara hoped she had misunderstood, the first time; but there was no doubt about it now. Somehow he knew. But she must listen, for he was speaking quietly, almost as if to himself.
'They steal. They steal anything, everything, anywhere, everywhere; anything from a horse to a halter; anywhere from a scroll in the Synagogue to a vase in the graveyard. They steal on the farm, in the marketplace, on the highway, at the inn, at the goldsmith's, at the rag-picker's, in the gambling-house, and in the Temple. There is no limit to it. They steal from babes and pennies from dead men's eyes. They steal from bankers and beggars. Where do you live, young woman, that you should be incredulous of theft?'
'I am from Arabia,' said Fara.
John chuckled briefly, but without smiling.
'You must have lived a sheltered life,' he said dryly. 'Your people have taken no prizes for honesty. Perhaps you are not very well acquainted with your countrymen. Have you always lived in Arabia? I detect an accent on your tongue, though I must say your Aramaic is correct. How do you happen to speak it? And you look Jewish—as much Jewish as Arabian. Tell me, daughter, why are you wearing a man's burnous; and why that shorn hair?'
Fara's knees were giving way now, and she sat down. The prophet seated himself on a small boulder near by. Slowly turning her face toward him, she encountered a searching gaze that compelled frankness.
'I am on an errand, sir, that could not be safely performed by a young woman. I told you that I am an Arabian because I prefer to think of myself that way; but it is only half true. My mother was an Arabian. My father is a Jew.'
'Your mother is dead?'
'Only three days ago.' Fara turned her eyes toward the valley.
'And that sent you on your errand, I think; and your errand takes you to Judaea, and your father is a Jew. Perhaps you go to notify him of your mother's death.'
'Ye-yes,' stammered Fara, hoping the answer might suffice.
There was a considerable silence before John spoke.
'So it is something else besides telling your father. Has he not lived with your mother in Arabia?'
'Not for many years.'
'How did they happen to marry?'
'It's quite a long story, sir. I have no wish to detain you.' She looked again into his inquiring eyes. 'Must I tell you?' she asked, in a voice that seemed a little frightened.
'Not if you don't want to,' said John kindly, 'but perhaps it might help—if you confided in someone you could trust.'
'I am on my way to find my father,' said Fara. 'He lives in Galilee—at the city of Tiberias.'
'Then he must be in the employ of the Tetrarch,' surmised John. 'There is little else in Tiberias but the great establishment of Antipas.'
Fara nodded and turned her eyes away. Tardily and in a barely audible, reluctant voice she said, 'Antipas is my father.'
John seemed a person not easily surprised, but he impulsively rose to his feet and exclaimed, 'You don't mean it!' He searched her face, and apparently satisfied that she was telling the truth, he said, 'Of course I know the story. Everyone does. You have no cause to be proud of your father.'
'I am quite aware of that, sir,' agreed Fara.
'But—surely—after the cruel and shameful treatment he gave the Princess of Arabia, you are not going to Tiberias to live with this—'
'I have vowed to avenge my mother,' interrupted Fara huskily.
'You mean—you would kill your father?'
'If I can.'
'But you can't!' exclaimed John. 'In the first place, it's quite impossible. The place is fortified like a besieged city. I was born a Galilean, and my friends have told me that the Tetrarch lives like a fugitive, heavily guarded by night and day. You would only lose your life to no purpose at all. And—even if you succeeded, which is inconceivable, your crime would haunt you all your days. No good ever comes of revenge.'
'I heard you say yesterday that there was One arriving now to avenge God,' said Fara. 'Is no good to come of that?'
John did not have an answer ready. After some delay, he said, 'That is a far different matter, my daughter. Vengeance is permitted only to God. He will repay!'
'But I mustn't!' Fara's tone was satirical. 'It's all right for God to seek vengeance—but it is wrong for me to do it. I'm supposed to have a finer moral character?'
'That remark,' reproved John, 'does you small credit, daughter. It is irreverent.'
'But practical,' defended Fara.
'And excusable, I suppose,' reflected John. 'You probably had no religious training—in Arabia.'
'Why not?' Fara demanded. 'The Jews and Arabians worship the same God, do we not? Abraham is our common father; is that not so?'
Any further discussion of this matter seeming fraught with more heat than light, John nodded absently.
'Perhaps you may see the Anointed One in Galilee,' he said. 'I wish you might be able to talk with Him. He lives in the town of Nazareth. He is a carpenter.'
'Disguised as a carpenter?' wondered Fara. 'Same as I am disguised as a boy?'
'No, He really is a carpenter, and a very good one, whereas you are only pretending to be a boy—'
'And not doing so well at it,' she broke in, with a pensive smile. 'However,' she added, 'you are the first one to discover.'
'You mean—I am the first one to tell you.' John paced back and forth, frowning thoughtfully. 'But this is no light matter,' he went on. 'You have vowed a vow. I shall not be the one to induce you to break it. A vow is a vow. You are intent upon going to Tiberias. Very well. Go first to Nazareth: it is not far from there. Tell your story to the Carpenter—Jesus. Abide by His counsel. You will make no mistake if you do as He tells you. . . . I must leave you now. Since your horse is gone, you will proceed on foot, I suppose. Follow the Jordan. It is much shorter than by the travelled roads and it will be safer for you.' Pointing to an angling path down the northern slope of the hill, he said, 'May God be with you, daughter, and keep you safe from any harm.' He extended a big, bony hand, and she confidently gave him her small one. Turning it about for inspection, he smiled. 'It is not a boy's hand. You must be very careful. I can't advise you, now that your hair is shorn, to dress as a girl should; but,' he repeated gently, 'you must be careful. Those riding boots, that fine burnous. You should get into less conspicuous clothing—peasant's clothes—as soon as possible. You could be thrown into prison for this, you know.'
'That would be unpleasant,' said Fara. 'They say that prisons are very uncomfortable.'