It occurred to him, as he slowly retraced his steps to the house, that he must presently have a serious talk with his architect about the dome of the atrium. It would be foolhardy to take any more chances there.
* * * * * *
With heavy steps and a heavier heart, Simon slogged along over the muddy mile that slanted toward Capernaum. He was alone and lonely. This singular day of excitements and exultations had come to a drab ending.
Early in the afternoon Simon had been amazed and uplifted to find himself possessed of a peculiar talent that would make his service to Jesus of much value. At a difficult moment he had taken full charge of an importunate multitude; and, if he did have to say so himself, it had been a good job. Tactfully but firmly he had kept that sopping wet, tatterdemalion pack in order and had successfully insisted upon an appropriate respect for the unusual privileges accorded the public by the eminent Jairus.
Their prompt and willing compliance had surprised him. He had not shouted or scolded or entreated. He had calmly commanded, as if he had a right to tell them what to do, and they—all of them, young and old—had acknowledged his authority. Scores of them he had recognized, finding in their sober, astonished eyes a bewilderment over the power he was exercising, doubtless wondering by what strange magic this huge, uncouth fisherman had achieved such leadership; for surely they knew that they were under no obligation to obey his voice.
It was the first time that Simon had ever issued orders to a crowd. Until now his commands had reached no further than the decks of his fishing smacks and had been obeyed only by his employees. Today he had suddenly become aware of a hitherto unsuspected capacity for compelling the attention and respect of a great throng. They had seemed mystified by it, but no more than Simon himself.
Even Jairus had given him a grateful smile and an approving nod. And Joseph, the butler, had sidled up to remark deferentially, 'I don't see how you do it, sir! I'm sure they wouldn't have listened to me.'
When the densely packed crowd had finally come to a stand, Simon, suffused with a new elation, had said to himself that this must be the reason why Jesus had laid hands upon him. . . . Apparently the Master had divined that Simon had been gifted by nature for the skilful handling of great multitudes. Not much wonder that Jesus had asked his assistance. 'Simon—I have need of you,' he had said. Or could it be that Jesus had endowed him with this power? Well, however he had come by it, here it was; and Simon was deeply stirred.
After the spectacular event of the day had occurred, and the rain had ceased and it was time for the house to be cleared of its dripping guests, Simon had again assumed command, speaking calmly but confidently to the people; and again they had obeyed him. His words still re-echoed in his ears as he trudged through the mud on the way to Capernaum. He had said, simply, 'We are all leaving now.' And they had left, without disorder and without tarrying.
When the last of them were out of the house, Simon had come upon James and John, who had lingered on the verandah, uncertain what was expected of them.
'Jesus is with Jairus,' Simon had explained. 'He is resting. I shall wait for him. . . . I think Andrew may he taking the fleet across to the south shore for fishing at sundown, now that the weather has cleared. Perhaps he would be glad to have your help.'
Nodding briefly, the brothers had turned away to follow the departing throng. They too had accepted Simon's quiet orders without a sign of reluctance.
Hitching up his belt, he had leaned against one of the marble pillars in a posture that might easily have been mistaken for an air of proprietorship, and had absently watched the bobbing heads of the people as they plodded doggedly down the sloping road. He had been moved to pity over their bewilderment and their helplessness. They were like so many sheep. Jesus had said so. Simon had straightened to his full height and had drawn a sigh of satisfaction. 'Sheep,' he murmured.
While thus reflecting upon the very considerable and gratifying difference between his present rating and theirs, his attention was diverted by the appearance of Joseph, attended by a crew of men-servants bearing mops, buckets, and brooms.
'I am waiting for the Master,' said Simon casually. 'Do you happen to know how long he may be tarrying?'
'No, sir,' said Joseph respectfully.
'See if you can find out.' Simon had spoken quietly but authoritatively; and, after an instant of perplexed indecision, Joseph had set off on his errand, returning presently to say, with some embarrassment, that Simon was not to wait.
It seemed a rather cool and curt dismissal. Of course, Simon knew he had no right to expect that Jesus himself would come out and explain that he wasn't ready to go; nor was it likely that Jairus would appear with this message. As he tramped down the stone steps which descended from one terrace to another, he tried not to feel hurt. Jesus was indeed very weary. Jairus was taking good care of him. Perhaps it was an excellent opportunity for them to become acquainted. But—Simon was humiliated. After the singular service he had rendered, it was disquieting to be sent away by the butler.
Trudging along with his eyes on the road, Simon reviewed the events of the past few days. Not all of them had been entirely to his liking or his understanding. To begin with, there was that deeply moving episode on the beach at dawn, when Jesus had laid his hands on Simon's bowed head and had commanded him to follow. It had been a high moment! And Simon had followed, gladly, proudly, blind with welling tears. But where had Jesus taken him? Not to some quiet spot for a conference or instructions in his new duties. No; he had silently led the way to the old boat leased by the Zebedee youngsters and had indicated that Simon had an errand there.
As he recollected it, this reconciliation with James and Johnny had given him some momentary pleasure. It was a relief to have their friendly relations restored. But now, flushed with disappointment, it occurred to him that if any apologies were due in patching up that estrangement, it might have been more fitting if Johnny had been invited to attend to it. Simon had not abandoned Johnny: it had been the other way about. It wasn't quite fair to make Simon do the apologizing; or so it seemed this afternoon, after the rebuff at Jairus' house.
And then, the next day, Simon had invited Jesus to come aboard
The Abigail,
and Jesus had seemed glad enough to say that he would do so. It had delighted Simon. Doubtless Jesus would be surprised to see what valuable ships he owned. Maybe Jesus would appreciate the sacrifice he had made when he consented to devote himself to the new cause.
'Master,' Simon had said, 'I am going to show you the finest fleet on the lake!'
And Jesus had suddenly changed his mind about visiting the ships. 'Another day, Simon,' he said absently, as if he didn't care whether he ever saw them.
Wholly preoccupied with his depressing meditations, Simon marched through the main thoroughfare of Capernaum, nodding soberly to those who hailed him, and proceeded toward Tiberias. His fleet, he observed, had put out to sea. He was glad that Andrew had decided to sail, though it would have pleased him to go along. It might have lifted his depression.
He slowed his steps to a stop and for a long moment gazed at his fleet with a feeling of pride. They were indeed beautiful vessels, even if Jesus had no interest in them and didn't care to visit them. A homesick memory of carefree, sunny, happy days at sea swept through him, a vivid remembrance of restless sails overhead bending to a capricious breeze, wisps of sailors' songs drifting back from the little forecastle, the blended aromas of wet hemp, warm tar, fresh paint. Simon sighed deeply and wondered whether he would ever be really happy again.
Perhaps there would be some comfort in going home. Hannah would welcome him, he was sure of that. Hannah was dependable in all weathers. She could be sympathetic without being silly. He hoped she would not question him about his absence from home. Maybe she would chatter him out of his despondency. He brightened a little and lengthened his stride.
He found her near the front gate, mending a broken rose-trellis.
'Simon!' she cried, hurrying to meet him. 'What a storm! And what a day you have had! How proud you should be!'
He laid a big hand on her shoulder affectionately.
'Proud?' he said, soberly. 'What about?'
'Why—how you took charge of that crowd at Jairus' house! They're all talking about it! The neighbours have been here. Many of them were over there. How happy you must have been to be of so much help to Jesus! Do tell me more about him!'
'How much do you know about him, Hannah? Have you seen him?'
'Yes, Simon. I went out into the country to hear him. I would have done so sooner; but I feared you might be offended. Esther wanted me to go. He is indeed a wonderful man!'
They strolled toward the house.
'You were surprised, I think,' said Simon, 'that I should have anything to do with him.'
'Yes—I was surprised.' She waited for him to explain how it had happened, but Simon said no more until they had sat down in the little parlour. Hannah's eyes were bright with expectation.
Impulsively—for he had not planned to confide any of his recent experiences—Simon began, haltingly at first, to tell her how he had been forced to abandon his prejudices and admit the miraculous power of the strange young man from Nazareth. He told Hannah about the blind baby. He told her how Jesus had summoned him, in the early morning, to be his friend and helper. It was a moving story, and when he had ended it Hannah's eyes were full of tears. There was a long silence.
'But—it is not easy, Hannah,' murmured Simon, shaking his head. 'Following Jesus is not easy.'
'Tell me,' she entreated softly.
With averted eyes, he slowly unburdened himself of the disappointments and humiliations he had suffered. No—following Jesus, he repeated, was not easy. He reviewed the events of the day at Jairus' mansion; the exaltation he had felt when Jesus had looked to him to control that dripping, selfish mob of curiosity-seekers; the strange sense of power that had come to him; and the dismaying rebuff that had sent him plodding off alone through the mud, plainly aware that—after all—he was nobody!
Hannah's eyes lighted with sudden understanding.
'Simon!' she exclaimed. 'Has it not occurred to you that Jesus may be wanting you for some great service? Maybe he is training you for it! . . . You know, the way they train soldiers—to endure hardship—and learn to obey—and ask no questions! The commander gives them heavy packs to carry—and long marches—and they are not told where they are going or why!'
For a long time Simon sat moodily staring out of the window before attempting a reply.
'I should have been much happier, Hannah, if I had never met him. I was quite contented to be—just a fisherman. Now, I don't know who—or what—I am!'
'Why don't you go out with your fleet for a few days—and get this all off your mind?'
'I don't even want to do that!' rumbled Simon dejectedly. 'That's part of the trouble, Hannah. Even my ships mean nothing to me—any more. . . . I am this man's captive! . . . What is to become of me, I do not know.'
'You are tired and hungry,' said Hannah gently. 'I shall get your supper ready. You will feel better when you have eaten—and rested. . . . Come—and gather a few eggs for me.'
Willing to be diverted, Simon followed her to the kitchen, caught up a small basket, and started out toward the chicken-yard, pausing at the little feed-room in the storage shed for a basin of corn. The hens fluttered about his feet, dabbing at the grain. They were unafraid, untroubled. Nothing ailed their world. Simon envied them.
Hannah stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him with brooding eyes. Her intuition told her that their quiet, uneventful life together had come to an end. Simon, she felt, would never be the same again.
Considering all the dangers she had faced and escaped on her audacious journey from the mountains of Southern Arabia to the Sea of Galilee, the young daughter of the Tetrarch felt that her expedition had been singularly successful.
However shabbily the gods had treated her in filling her veins with the incompatible blood of two mutually contemptuous nations, making it impossible for her to feel at home in either of their lands, it was clear that her quest of vengeance had not been disapproved on Mount Olympus where (according to Ione) these deities maintained their headquarters.
True, Fara's vow still lacked fulfilment; but perhaps the gods, having thus far blessed her adventure, might be counted upon to help her see it through. Even if it should culminate in a swift tragedy for her, an untimely death would be preferable, she thought, to any length of life in a world that had made such poor provision for her happiness.
But, resolutely as she had schooled her mind to a stoical acceptance of her probable fate, there were occasional days when her courage ebbed, and for its renewal Fara would take counsel of their heroism who had lived dangerously—and, in many cases, briefly—for honour's sake. She was in need of such courage today.
Curled up childishly in a heavily upholstered leather chair that had been built expressly for the comfort of Tetrarch Antipas, and was therefore several sizes too large for his daughter, Fara had been trying to bolster her morale by reacquainting herself with her favourite hero. What a gallant youth was Demosthenes! No burden could weight him down; no obstacle could slow him up! He too had vowed a vow, pledging himself to prepare for a bold attack on the rapacious merchants and wicked politicians who had impoverished and debauched his beloved Athens. Like Fara, Demosthenes had had his bad days. Sometimes he felt that he was throwing his youth away on a hopeless undertaking, and only by the most rigorous self-discipline had he been able to adhere to his resolution.
The story about him that Fara liked best was of his shaving one side of his head so he wouldn't be tempted to abandon his hard studies and rejoin his gay companions in the baths and at the theatre. Having herself done a bit of sacrificial barbering in the interest of keeping a vow, Fara felt that she and young Demosthenes had a great deal in common. Her admiration of him was unbounded. Of course this devotion took no toll of her maidenly modesty, for her hero had been dead these three hundred and fifty years and would never know how tender was her sympathy.