'Know anything about the city of Tiberias?'
'Not much. It's the seat of the Tetrarch. There is a Roman fort hard by.'
'You will make inquiries at the fort?'
'Not at first; not until I have to. I'd much rather find my fugitive friend without calling so much attention to him. I shall not needlessly embarrass him. . . . Do you know that country, sir?'
'A little. If I may venture a suggestion, Voldi, there is a discreet man of my acquaintance living in the small town of Bethsaida, only a short distance from Tiberias. He is a lawyer, in retirement now: a man of broad sympathies and much prudence. You might give him your confidence.'
Voldi was glad to accept the advice. He brought out a small slate tablet from his pocket and wrote the Bethsaidan's name and the directions for finding him. Atrius negligently allowed his eyes to follow the red chalk as the Arabian wrote.
'You've lived in Greece?' he inquired when Voldi had pocketed the tablet.
'No, sir; I have never been in Greece.'
'Do many Arabians understand Greek?'
'Probably not.' Voldi rose, thanked Atrius for his kindness, and remarked that he must find Mencius before retiring.
'It would please me to learn how your mission succeeds,' said Atrius, as they parted; 'and please convey my greetings to my friend, and former colleague, David Ben-Zadok.'
* * * * * *
At the first intimation of dawn Voldi slipped out quietly so as not to waken Mencius, to whom he had said farewell at midnight after a lengthy but inconclusive discussion of the probability of his finding Fara in Galilee.
Mencius had then gone promptly to sleep, apparently undisturbed by the relentless racket of heavy traffic in the street below, where enormous wagons, laden with building materials, ground their iron-shod wheels into the cobble-stones, and drivers screamed and lashed at their straining oxen. The hideous clamour had not annoyed Mencius. He was quite accustomed to it, he said. That was the way it sounded all night, every night in Rome. The Emperor, wanting to keep the streets free of construction traffic in the daytime, had decreed that all heavy hauling must be done between sunset and sunrise. Caesarea, being now a Roman city, observed this rule. But Mencius didn't care. He was more than a bit homesick and the infernal din seemed to soothe him. Not so with Voldi, who had had no experience in big, bustling cities. The unceasing noise had kept him wide awake, and the dilemma confronting him had grown to appalling dimensions in the darkness.
At the well-kept stables, where he found Darik sleek and shining from the diligent grooming he had received (another attestation to the proficiency of Roman discipline), Voldi was not much surprised to encounter an armed legionary waiting courteously to escort him out of the city; for Mencius had confided that Commander Antonius Lucan of
The Augusta
would feel more comfortable after being informed that the grudge-bearing young Arabian had ridden through Caesarea's east gate and had disappeared on the open road toward Galilee.
In half an hour he was alone on that road, after having received the legionary's deferential wishes for a safe and pleasant journey, though they were both fully aware of the reason why the honour of a Roman escort had been conferred upon a young citizen of Arabia. Voldi looked back over his shoulder, waved a hand, and laughed quietly over the little drama in which he had been invited to play. In spite of their reputation for insufferable egoism and bloody-handed ruthlessness, reflected Voldi, the Romans were—in many respects—to be admired. They were superbly organized. They were effective. They were cruel, yes; but not because they loved cruelty. They preferred your friendship to your enmity. They would rather lead than drive. They could even set a watch over your movements and do it so graciously that you wanted to wave a friendly farewell to your keeper when he was done with you.
The road, angling to the north-east, was not so busy as the coast highway. It was therefore narrower. With a long day's journey ahead of him, Voldi encouraged Darik to settle down to a comfortable canter. They were in level country now, the broad Plain of Esdraelon, where the landscape was too monotonous to divert a stranger's attention from his own problems. . . . One fact brought a crumb of comfort: the Tetrarch was still alive. Of course, he didn't deserve to be alive; but at least Fara had not got herself into trouble by killing him. And it was unlikely that she had attempted to kill him, for surely Commander Antonius Lucan would have known of it; and having known of it, would have told of it.
Came now a plodding donkey-train, bearing small, greasy-looking casks, probably containing sesame and olive oil bound for Caesarea, in charge of shabby, shaggy, sullen men who frowned and spat as they passed.
But what would Fara be likely to do now that her mission had failed of accomplishment? Assuming that she had arrived in the vicinity of Tiberias to await an opportunity for settling with her rascally father, would she await his return from Rome?
Here came a lone traveller, ambling along on an infirm, sore-eyed camel, followed—at a hundred yards—by a hump-backed old man with a scowl on his wrinkled face and an axe on his bony shoulder.
Voldi greeted each of them in turn with a cheery good morning. Neither replied. Was that because he was riding a good horse and they were envious? Or was it because he was an Arabian? Or because he was a stranger—any stranger? Or because they were by nature impolite? He had to admit, though, as he rode on, that the Arabians would have shown no more courtesy to a travelling Jew.
Perhaps Fara would decide to return to Arabia, now that she had failed. But, having risked so much—to come so far—would she not persevere and wait for the Tetrarch's return? There really wasn't much in Arabia for her to go back to since her mother was gone. Himself, of course, but she may have put him out of her mind. Having left him without a word of farewell, she might assume that he would have given her up—and turned his attention elsewhere.
Now a family on foot, single-file, was overtaken. Reluctantly they sidled off the road and stood stolidly in the dusty weeds waiting for the rider to pass. Father, leading the procession, wore an impressive black beard and a ragged black robe, but bore no burden. Mother had a sleepy baby in the crook of one arm and a big basket of wheat in the other. The boy towed a white milch-goat. The half-grown girl carried a bulging bag of apples on her back. Voldi rode by slowly, yielding room. He nodded amiably. Father and the goat raised their chins and sneered with expressions so similar that Voldi grinned. Mother, imitating her lord, made an ugly face. The boy stared, without malice. The girl lifted pretty eyes and smiled shyly.
It was the older people's fault, thought Voldi, that the different races despised one another. He wondered whether the world might be more harmonious if all the old people were abolished: say, everyone over twenty. Luckily for himself, such a commendable decree would leave him to help establish the new order in which strangers meeting on the road would be more ready to smile than spit. But—they would all have to remain at twenty—and never grow old. Perhaps the project was impracticable.
Well, it wouldn't be long now before he might know something more about Fara. An Arabian boy in his teens would be noticed in a small fishing village, where everybody knew everybody else. Someone would remember having seen this young Arab. Voldi wondered what success Fara might have had—posing as a boy. Risky business that was!
At a cross-roads in sight of a village that the sign-post said was Megiddo, four legionaries, their spears and shields leaning against the stone fence, were sprawled on the ground intent upon a dice-game. Voldi expected them to challenge him. In that event he was going to say that the Tetrarch had bought the black gelding while in Caesarea and he was delivering it at Tiberias. But the soldiers barely glanced up as he passed. Apparently the discipline of the troops had been eased somewhat since the Tetrarch's departure. Or perhaps the attention of the officers had been diverted by the large assemblies that Mencius had spoken of, lately congregating in the vicinity of the Sea of Galilee. A carpenter had been addressing the people and was reputed to be healing all manner of diseases. This latter feat being clearly an incredible rumour, it was not likely that the carpenter would last very long as a popular leader, Mencius had said. There was nothing inflammatory about it or the Tetrarch would not have left the country.
Voldi wondered how much interest Fara might have in such a movement. He could not conceive of her showing any curiosity about a thing like that, except for the fact that she had turned aside at Hebron to listen to another itinerant prophet. It had seemed quite unlike Fara to be attracted by a performance of that nature.
A bad lunch—smoked fish and stale barley-bread—was sullenly tossed on to a dirty table at Megiddo's only inn. Voldi nibbled at the unappetizing food and paid the pockmarked woman with a shekel. She threw down a handful of unfamiliar copper coins. He kept one of them, meaning to examine it later, and went out to water his horse at the public trough. A group of small boys, in soiled tatters, gathered about. A woman screamed from a near-by doorway and the oldest boy ambled off in that direction, turning to spit before leaving. There was another female screech from somewhere in the neighbourhood and all the lads scurried away but two. The smaller boy's eyes were brimming with pus. Voldi reached in his pocket and brought up the copper he had been given in change at the inn. He offered it to the sore-eyed boy, who did not reach for it.
'He's blind,' explained his brother. 'Give it to me!'
Voldi handed him the coin.
'Yaa! Yaa!' screamed the boy, flinging the copper down. 'Bad money! No good! Yaa! Yaa!' He set off, dragging his little brother—doubtless to report the incident. Voldi mounted and rode on. A small group of indignant men and women was collecting about the outraged boy who had been offered a worthless coin. They reviled the Arabian as he passed. Megiddo was not an attractive village. Was it typical of Galilean communities? Voldi hoped not. Poor Fara!
As the afternoon wore on, the country became more fertile, but it was plain to see that the inhabitants had not made the most of it. It was indeed a backward land. One day the Romans would come in and prosper. The Galileans would be virtually enslaved, but have more to eat, no doubt, than now.
At sundown Nazareth was sighted. At a distance, with the late afternoon glow on the squat dome of the synagogue and the houses whitely gleaming, the town promised to be picturesque. On closer acquaintance it was a disappointment. The residences were small, shabby, and forlorn. As usual, the principal street widened at the centre of the village, describing a circle around the inevitable community well. Apparently most of the mercantile business was concentrated here. Little bazaars and shops elbowed one another for standing-room. Beyond the circle was the inn. The proprietor made it obvious to Voldi that he was unwelcome, but grumblingly consented to give him lodging when he heard the clink of substantial money. After toying disgustedly with the worst food that had ever been set before him, Voldi strolled out on to the deserted street. Everyone was at supper.
He came upon a farrier's shop and found a greying man of fifty or more at his forge, mending a broken cistern-wheel, probably a matter of some urgency. Always interested in farriers' shops, he paused in the open doorway. The man looked up from his work and nodded amiably. It was a pleasant surprise to be greeted in this friendly manner, and Voldi sauntered in.
'Stranger in these parts?' The farrier gave the bellows-rope another tug and pointed to a seat on an old tool-chest.
'Yes—I am an Arabian.' Voldi thought it better to have this awkward subject disposed of without delay.
'We don't see many,' said the farrier. 'Are you staying with us awhile, sir?'
'Tonight only. I am on my way from Caesarea to Tiberias.'
'The Tetrarch came through here a couple of days ago. Quite a procession. Going to Rome. Perhaps you know about it.'
Voldi said he did.
'Ever been in Tiberias?' asked the farrier.
'No. I suppose you have been there many a time.'
'Never. But I mean to go—tomorrow. That's why I'm working late. Big doings over there, these days. Perhaps you've had wind of it along the way. Our prophet, Jesus, has been talking to great multitudes.'
'Your prophet? Meaning that you believe in him? Have you heard him?'
'I've known him since he was a baby! This is his home!' The farrier put his hammer down on the anvil and leaned comfortably against his work-bench, relishing the stranger's evident interest in him.
'Is it true that he performs miracles?' asked Voldi. 'I've heard a rumour to that effect.'
'That's what I want to know,' said the farrier soberly. 'It wouldn't surprise me much; though he never did anything strange here in Nazareth. He is a carpenter, a good one too.' He pointed through the open window behind Voldi, who turned to look. 'That's the shop, over there, across the road. It's his father's. And it was his father's before him. Jesus has worked there ever since he was a youngster—until a few months ago.'
'Anything queer about him?' encouraged Voldi.
'He was a dreamy little fellow,' remembered the farrier, averting his eyes. 'The other children liked him though. As a lad he used to tell them stories.'
'What kind of stories?' wondered Voldi.
'I never heard any of them myself. He seemed shy of grown-up people and didn't talk much when they were around. But my eldest brother Laban's boy, Ephraim—my namesake—said the stories were mostly about some far-away country where there was no winter and no darkness—and the rivers never dried or overflowed—and nobody was ever sick—and nobody died—and nobody wept. And everyone loved the King.'
Voldi waited in silence for the farrier to continue.
'It seemed strange for a small boy to have such fancies,' soliloquized Ephraim. 'According to my nephew, Jesus always talked about this distant land as if it was real; almost as if he had been there. The country was at peace. There were no soldiers, no forts, no prisons, no alms-houses. Everyone had some work to do, but not for money. There wasn't any money. No one was rich; no one was poor. And flowers grew everywhere and always—but nobody gathered them. . . . The child made much over flowers. From the time he was able to toddle, the little chap would carry water from the village well to his garden. We all thought he wouldn't amount to much, being so interested in flowers. But—as he grew up he turned out to be a skilful carpenter; better than Joseph, his father.'