'I have never been in one,' said John, 'but I expect to be—at almost any hour now. The authorities will arrest me as a disturber of the peace.'
'But there is no peace,' said Fara.
'No—there is no peace,' agreed John soberly.
'Is it the Temple that would silence you?'
'Yes—but the Temple has no authority to imprison me.'
'Who, then?'
'The provincial government; and as I am a Galilean I shall be taken before Antipas.'
'Then—we may meet again—in prison.' Fara smiled grimly.
John shook his shaggy head in reproof of her ill-timed levity.
'It is quite clear that you do not realize the utter hopelessness of your undertaking, my child,' he said sadly. 'I do not expect ever to see you again. . . . Farewell.'
'Until we meet,' persisted Fara.
Halfway down the long hill, she turned and looked back. John was still standing where she had left him. She waved a hand and he extended his arm, as if to give her his final blessing.
It was early morning on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. Enough remained of an unusually hot summer to strip the fishermen to the waist, but intimations of autumn were in the smoky haze that overcast the distant mountains, obscured the dome of the new Synagogue in Capernaum, and dulled the sheen of the Tetrarch's marble palace.
The ugly huddle of weather-beaten shacks and wharves where the fishermen kept their tackle and dried their nets had come alive to the day's work. Browned, bushy, bare-footed men and youths scampered about on the docks, loading flat-bottomed dories with equipment for the larger craft which rocked indolently in the quiet cove, tugging in unison at their anchor-chains.
Fully a score of these boats, of all shapes, sizes, ages, and degrees of dirtiness and disrepair, were congregated in the bay, waiting for their skippers and crews to haul up the much-mended sails and wallow forth to what they hoped might be promising fishing-grounds.
Haughtily apart from the clutter of nondescript old tubs, and conspicuous for their trimness, lay a fleet of three blue-hulled schooners moored side by side and so closely lashed together from midship to stern that their freshly painted gunwales would have chafed but for the heavy hempen pads that cushioned them. Built for stability, they were broad in the beam and sat low in the water; and they were of identical design, though the central ship,
The Abigail,
carried three masts and was somewhat larger than her two-masted companions,
The Sara
and
The Rachael.
Tethered loosely about their prows bobbed half a dozen empty dories.
On the closely yoked afterdecks the combined crews, totalling thirty and ranging in age from sixteen to sixty, sat cross-legged a few feet apart, forming a circle around a huge net that plainly needed extensive repairs.
Alone on the broad tiller-seat of
The Abigail
a gigantic, hairy, deeply tanned Galilean of thirty-five—as busy with his awl as were his employees—occasionally looked up to survey their work, and sometimes they met his eyes as if to inquire whether he was satisfied with what they were doing. They all worked skilfully, swiftly, and in silence, though their faces did not indicate that they were hard-driven. It was obvious that the relation of the master and his men was cordial; indeed, it was better than cordial, for there was evident in their diligence a desire to please. Especially was this loyalty noticeable in the attitude of the younger ones, who seemed proud of their employment, as they had reason to be, for it was a testimonial to a man's seamanship if he was signed on to sail under Simon the son of Jonas.
Among the Galileans the name of Simon was so common that it had to be tagged for better identification. Every Simon bore a special designation: Simon the tanner, Simon the weaver, Simon the clubfoot, Simon the juggler, Simon the little, Simon the scribe, Simon the sot, Simon the bald, Simon the son of Jonas. Doubtless if the skipper's sire had been less distinguished, an appellation appropriate to his characteristics would have been promptly contrived for him by the community. In that case he might have become known early in his youth as Simon the brawler, or Simon the scoffer. But to the neighbours and relatives who had known him since childhood he was Simon the son of Jonas; and—they were likely to add—not much of a credit to the good old man; for nobody was more fanatically devoted to the Synagogue than Jonas, and nobody had less use for it than his tough and burly son Simon.
It was inevitable, however, that the huge, noisy, quick-tempered, lamentably irreverent son of Jonas should become known by a more colourful name. All up and down the western shore, throughout Capernaum, Magdala, Bethsaida, and the hamlets between, and at the Roman fort, and among the servants in the great villa of the Tetrarch, and on the lake, and in the country round about, Simon the son of Jonas was referred to as the Big Fisherman.
From early boyhood the sacrilegious and belligerent Simon had been a growing affliction to his parents. True, he obeyed the laws, specializing in a scrupulous observance of the Fifth Commandment, which in this case was not easy; for the religious duties of Jonas, his diligent attention to all the fasts and feasts, his frequent pilgrimages to Jerusalem, and his unctuous exhortations on the streets and in the market-place left him but little time for any gainful employment; and had it not been for the industry of Simon and his elder brother, Andrew, their parents would have lived on meagre fare.
As for the docile bachelor Andrew, his idea of keeping the Fifth Commandment had required his regular attendance at the services of the Synagogue and a strict observance of the stated fasts, but it had laid no such burden on Simon, whose conception of honouring his father and mother did not go any further than being kind and respectful to them and seeing to it that they were well fed and clothed. By the time he was twelve Simon heartily despised the Synagogue and everything it represented, because, he felt, it had made a loafer and a tiresome bore of an otherwise fine man.
By a practice of great restraint, he never disclosed his private contempt for his father's sanctimoniousness. Sometimes it was difficult to exhibit a proper respect when, on business in the markets, he would come upon Jonas parading the aisles, scroll in hand, solemnly haranguing the customers, who rarely paused to give heed and more often grinned and winked at one another as he passed by. But if Simon's attitude toward his father was circumspect, he found a measure of relief for his pent-up feelings by a forthright excoriation of religion when in the company of his young contemporaries. He was still beardless when all the friends and acquaintances of the family referred to him as an infidel—and an uncommonly noisy one. Jonas knew it and deplored it with tears, and prayed aloud in the public places for his wayward son; but ate with relish the provender that the incorrigible sceptic brought home.
Beginning as a mere roustabout and chore-boy on a dirty trawler, his wages paid in low-grade mud-suckers, which he peddled from door to door among the very poor, Simon had gradually made himself useful enough to be in a bargaining position among the fleet-owners; for he was strong as an ox and fearless to the point of foolhardiness. In weather that tied up most of the ships in the cove at Tiberias—for the little sea could be dangerously rough on short notice—Simon would be eager to go out and do battle with the waves; and the catch—taken in such circumstances—fetched higher prices for lack of competition.
And so it was that before he was twenty-three Simon owned a half-share in a fairly good fishing-smack. At twenty-eight he owned it fully and had taken on a crew of four. And now he was master of the most prosperous and best known fleet on the lake.
As his self-made success increased, the Big Fisherman's character reflected both his earlier frustrations and his current achievements, not always to his credit. Conscious of having missed almost everything that lent enchantment to a normal childhood, he was inclined to be contemptuous of youngsters who wasted their time at play when they might be making themselves useful. He had never been to school; could hardly read and rarely tried to write anything more than his own name. In consequence of this illiteracy, he scoffed at education and considered the professional scrivener an object of ridicule. Physical weakness he viewed with smiling condescension.
As for his loyalties and enthusiasms, Simon, though stridently irreligious, possessed a passionate love of his race. Not to be a Jew was equivalent to not being anybody at all. In his regard all nations except Israel were of one ignominious category. If they were in any way different, their distinctions were trivial. Never having travelled more than twenty-five miles from home—and privately sensitive about his provincialism—he had accumulated quite a lot of prejudices about the world beyond little Galilee. He spoke derisively of people who lived in cities, even Jewish cities. The Greeks foolishly pretended to be better scholars than the Romans, when the fact was that they were only lazier than the Romans and idled their time away on such fripperies as stone statues and the spinning of arguments concerning theories on which one man's guess was as good as another's; with nothing to come of it, no matter who was right. The Romans had proved themselves better fighters than their weaker neighbours, but so were dogs better fighters than conies, when it came to that. The Egyptians were in decay and thought only of building tombs to house their bones. And Arabia had never been anything but a murderous horde of liars, cheats, and robbers. Israel was not only the Chosen Race but the Human Race. The rest of the people were no better than animals. Simon could and did discourse on this subject by the hour. He was an Israelite indeed!
And he was loyal to his comrades. From boyhood he had shown an extraordinary talent for making friends among all classes of people. He had an instinctive love of common justice and fair play, though he was not always himself a cheerful loser. He liked practical jokes but preferred not to be the object of them; and, sometimes, when finding himself at a momentary disadvantage, the Big Fisherman would display a childish petulance that seemed amusingly incongruous when exhibited by a man of his heroic stature.
In short, success had turned Simon's head a little. Having come up through many tribulations into a conspicuous prosperity, he was intolerant of other men's failures to achieve. He liked to be complimented upon his accomplishments and was not reluctant to speak pleasantly of them himself. But—for all his vanity, his intolerance, and his wide assortment of showy weaknesses, his employees idolized him, worked long hours for him, applauded his strength, laughed immoderately at his clumsy witticisms; and, when off duty, imitated his swagger.
By the time the Big Fisherman had won his prowess as a fleet-owner, saintly old Jonas and his mousey wife Rachael had been summoned from their cottage in Capernaum to an abode Elsewhere, leaving him free to marry young Abigail of Bethsaida, who lived with her widowed mother Hannah. Andrew, who rarely offered any unsolicited advice to his more resourceful brother, perhaps because he was an employee, had gently cautioned Simon against this marriage; for Abigail, though winsome and pretty, had no health at all. Doubtless it was her very flower-like fragility that had attracted the big, brawny fellow whose latent talent for tenderness had never been given a chance to develop.
He had been very considerate of Abigail. As she slowly faded, the common solicitude and sorrow shared by Simon and Hannah greatly endeared them to one another, and when his girl-wife died he continued to live with his much-cherished mother-in-law in her commodious home on a quiet, shady corner in the northern suburbs of Bethsaida. Andrew joined them; though, unwilling to burn his bridges until satisfied that this arrangement was mutually agreeable, he kept the old family residence in Capernaum intact and often went there to tend the flowers.
Now that the shadow was lifted from the small household in Bethsaida, it took on an unaccustomed brightness, for Hannah was gifted with a quiet drollery and an inexhaustible good humour refreshing to the brothers who had found so little to amuse them in their parental home. Andrew, sober and taciturn, allowed many a quip to pass unnoticed, though he could be depended upon to give an amiable, bewildered smile. Simon's big, booming laugh, on an open-windowed summer evening, could be heard a long way off. Near neighbours often wondered, rather testily, what manner of entertainment could produce such hilarity. It was the general opinion of the conservatives in that part of the town that the Big Fisherman had added little to the gentility of Bethsaida.
But though they regarded Simon with scant respect, there was one thing about him that stirred their curiosity—and their envy too. He seemed to be on friendly terms with David, the wealthy, haughty Sadducee. Up the cross-street which bounded Hannah's property on the north side and rose gently for a quarter-mile to the east, lay the spacious grounds and imposing old mansion of the eminent Zadok family, now reduced in numbers to a pair of unmarried, middle-aged aristocrats and a score of elderly servants.
Old Zadok, the departed grandfather of David and Deborah, had held himself aloof from the town; nor had Bethsaida made any effort to intrude upon his lofty isolation, for he was a Sadducee, the only Sadducee in all that region, and if he wanted to live in seclusion Bethsaida was willing he should do so, the Sadducees being of a cynical, supercilious sect that affected a social superiority. Nor was that all that ailed old Zadok and the Sadducees, in the opinion of Bethsaida. It was a known fact that he hated the government of Galilee and had been heard to speak scornfully of Antipas the Tetrarch. It was a wonder he hadn't got into trouble about that. Of course he paid exorbitant taxes. Rich men who paid large taxes might be able to speak their minds more recklessly than poor people, who for the same indiscretion could be clapped in jail. Maybe it was better not to have much to do with the Zadoks or any other Sadducee.
Just why David had retained his residence at the old palace on the hill was a mystery, for until his recent retirement he was seldom at home. Maybe it was the commanding view of the lake that had held him and brought him back for his summers. Surely it was inconvenient for him to have lived there during his active life, for his law practice was in Caesarea and the only local client he served was Jairus, whose large estate lay in the foothills above Capernaum.