Esther rose—and smiled into his eyes.
'Very well, Petros,' she said softly, 'I will be patient—and I will have faith! . . . Shall we go now?'
They retraced their steps in silence. At her tent-door, she whispered, 'You have done much for me, tonight, Petros.'
'And you have strengthened me, my child,' said Peter.
The next afternoon, as if to confirm what Peter had said about the Master's faith in the common people—and their value to him—he told a story of a king who had planned a wedding-feast for his son, the prince; and had invited all the great ones of his own and neighbouring states to be his guests. The nobility offered flimsy excuses. So—the king sent his servants out into the highways and hedges to find guests for the banquet.
After the crowd had dispersed for the day, Peter paused at Esther's tent for a friendly word.
'Did you tell the Master about our conversation last night?' she asked.
Peter shook his head and smiled.
'I think you have in mind his parable about the king's banquet—and the guests from the highways and hedges. . . . No; I had not told him about our talk. I didn't need to. He knew of it without being told.'
'Do you mean to say that Jesus knows—without hearing—what we say and think?' asked Esther mystifiedly.
'I'm afraid so,' said Peter. 'There's abundant proof of it.' He gave a slow grin, and added, 'I always know when he disapproves of my thoughts. He does not chide me, but he calls me Simon.'
Esther laughed a little and said she had never heard of anything so strange.
'And who are you today?' she asked. 'Simon or Peter?'
'I'm Peter—today,' he said, smiling.
* * * * * *
It was the beginning of a comradeship which was to mean a great deal to both of them. The Big Fisherman's attitude toward the trusting girl was strictly paternal and protective, though at times uncomfortably possessive. He could be as jealous as a lover.
One afternoon—it was the day before they left Cana on their eastern journey—Philip surprised Esther by asking her to call on his aged mother. The lonely old lady was confined to her room, he said, and had few visitors.
'The trouble is,' he explained, 'my mother never learned to speak Aramaic with any confidence; and because she cannot talk with the neighbours, they do not come to see her. I think the sight of you would do her good, even if you find conversation difficult.'
'What language does she speak, Philip?' Esther had inquired as they neared the cottage.
'We are Macedonians,' he replied.
It appeared that Philip had promised his mother that he would try to bring Esther to see her, for her widowed daughter who opened the door for them seemed to be expecting their call. The aged woman, obviously made ready for company, was sitting up in bed. Esther took the proffered chair beside her, patted the thin hand, and was rewarded with welcoming smiles and vigorous noddings of the old grey head.
'I . . . do . . . not . . . speak . . . your . . . tongue,' laboured the frail voice.
'Then we will talk in your tongue, Mother,' said Esther, in fluent Greek. 'I'm never sure of myself in Aramaic either.'
Philip's mother took both of Esther's hands in hers, and cried, 'Bless you, my child! Bless you!'
His sister laughed happily and drew her chair closer. Philip, dumbfounded, sat down on the other side of the bed and stared as Esther and his ecstatic mother chatted companionably.
At the first pause in their conversation, he broke in to ask, 'Why haven't you told me that you know Greek?'
'You never asked me,' said Esther, which made them all laugh.
'But you're not a Greek,' said Philip, suddenly serious. 'How did you learn to speak it so well?'
'It's a long story, Philip,' she replied. 'Much too long to tell; and, besides, we must be going now.'
'Tell me this, Esther,' he said soberly. 'Do you and the Master speak to each other in Greek? He seems to know the language.'
At that, she rose, and again affectionately patted the wrinkled hand. Noting that Philip felt somewhat rebuffed, she murmured, as for him alone, 'Our Master knows everything, Philip. Everything about everything!'
On their way back to the field, where hundreds of people, aware that the meetings were ended, were preparing to return to their homes, Philip was still questioning her, without results, about her origin. Preoccupied with their conversation as they moved through the throng, neither took notice that Peter was immediately behind them. Philip was finishing a remark as they turned to greet him. The Big Fisherman was frowning darkly.
'Esther speaks Greek!' explained Philip, in a tone that invited Peter to be pleasantly surprised; but it didn't have that effect on him. He was annoyed and went to no pains to conceal it.
'Humph!' he grunted. 'Now you should really enjoy yourself, Philip. Our own language is good enough for me!'
There wasn't much to be said in reply to that. Momentarily stunned by the Big Fisherman's unexpected rudeness, and looking as if they had been slapped for no reason at all, Philip and Esther, having exchanged a bewildered glance, turned to go.
Peter, angrily gnawing at his underlip, followed them for a little way, saw them separate at Esther's little tent, and slowly trudged up the hill. At the limestone rock he halted, sat down, ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and cursed himself bitterly.
Early the next morning they broke camp and took to the road, with Peter far in advance of the others. John said to James, 'D'you suppose someone has hurt his feelings?' To which his brother replied, 'More likely he has hurt somebody else.'
'Let's catch up with him,' suggested John, 'and give him a chance to air his trouble.'
'You may—if you like,' said James. He turned about and called to Philip, who was strolling along behind them. 'Phil—do you want to move on ahead with Johnny and see what ails Peter?'
'Not me,' growled Philip. 'I don't want to know.'
'Let him alone,' advised Andrew. 'He'll get over it, whatever it is. If he needed any help, the Master would have joined him.'
Instinctively they turned to face the rear. Far behind them they saw Jesus walking between Esther and old Bartholomew, with young Thaddeus, somewhat in advance of them, pushing a high-wheeled cart containing Esther's tents and tackle.
'Where did she dig up those tents?' inquired Philip.
'Simon bought them,' said Andrew, 'with some of the money old Manasseh paid him for
The Rachael.
He gave most of it to Hannah.' It was a long speech for Andrew and they listened attentively. 'My brother has his odd moments,' he added, 'but he is not mean.'
'Come on, Johnny,' said Philip impulsively. 'Let us overtake him.'
'I'll go with you,' said James.
They lengthened their steps and moved forward.
'They're good boys,' said Andrew.
'Do you know how much he got for
The Rachael
?' asked Judas.
'Yes,' said Andrew crisply.
They walked along in silence for some time.
'I suppose old Manasseh got it for a song,' said Judas.
'He used to be the cantor at the Synagogue when he was a young man,' reflected Andrew. 'Excellent voice, too.'
* * * * * *
By the time the party reached Nain, where they were to tarry for a day, hundreds of people were following. That evening a large crowd assembled on the village green intent upon hearing Jesus speak. As he rose to address them, a lean middle-aged fellow raised his arm for recognition and shouted, in a rasping tone:
'Good Master, I heard you speak a parable in Cana about the king's banquet where the rich despised their invitations and the poor were brought in.' His harsh voice had risen until it had gripped and silenced the restless crowd. 'I believe you, sir!' he went on. 'It is high time the poor, who outnumber the greedy rich, should sit at the banquet-table! I would that you repeat the story for these slaves in Nain who are toiling their lives away, working for beggarly wages, to keep old Simeon Ben-Edom in luxury.'
There was a dissenting murmur in the crowd as the revolutionary diatribe came to an end. It was evident that the people of Nain considered the impudent fellow as a trouble-maker. They grew quiet now, wondering what Jesus would say. Peter had stepped forward, glowering at the self-appointed orator. The Master laid a gently detaining hand on the huge, flexed forearm; and in a friendly tone obliged his inquisitor by retelling the parable of the king's banquet, and how the poor were brought in from the highways and hedges to attend the party.
But the parable had taken on a new chapter since it had been told in Cana, Jesus continued.
The king, he said, was quite willing to welcome the ragamuffins into his beautiful banquet-hall, but he wanted them to look and feel and be as respectable as possible. So he ordered his servants to offer each guest a clean and suitable garment to wear at the dinner.
But one sulky fellow, wanting to show his contempt for the king—and the palace—and the feast, refused to accept the robe they gave him to cover his dirty tatters. 'They asked me to come here just as I was,' he growled, 'and now they can take me, just as I am—or throw me out. . . .' So they threw him out.
The crowd was delighted. They laughed and cheered. When the meeting was over, Peter—who hadn't spoken to Esther since yesterday—turned to her with a broad smile, and said, '"The meek shall inherit the earth"—but they'd better be meek!'
* * * * * *
The news that Jesus was coming to Jericho had raced on ahead of him and a great audience was awaiting his arrival. It was the largest assembly he had encountered. Within a fortnight more than fifteen thousand people—from all over Samaria and Judaea and the contingent following from Galilee—had converted the open country north of ancient Jericho into a city. Those were memorable days for the Master's companions. Sometimes, when the day's trying work was done, Peter had sought Esther for comfort and companionship. They had become very close friends. One evening he had asked her, as they sat side by side on the grass at her tent-door, whether Greek was a difficult language to learn.
'You shouldn't find it hard,' she had replied. 'Want me to teach you a few words, Petros?'
He had smiled and nodded.
She patted the ground with the palm of her slim hand.
'Ge,' she said. 'The earth . . . Say it, Peter. Ge.'
He repeated the word after her.
She patted her head. 'Kephale. . . .' She laid her hand upon her heart. 'Kardia.' She touched her girdle. 'Zone.' She pointed aloft at a brilliant star. 'Astron. . . . Now what is the word for head?' she asked, after the manner of a pedagogue. Peter couldn't remember—but he did recall the Greek word for heart, and seemed happy over his progress. He was learning Greek—and fast. . . . An inquisitive little lizard scampered across his worn sandal. He pointed to it.
'Sauros,' said Esther.
'What is the word for God?' he asked.
'Which one?' inquired Esther innocently.
'The only one,' he said severely.
'Theos,' she replied, after a little pause.
And that was the way they had spent most of their evenings during the strenuous weeks in the region round about Jericho. Peter, who had never known a word of any language save his own—and was far from being a master of that one—was infatuated with new interest and proud of his progress. Esther gave him every encouragement. It was not long before the Big Fisherman was piecing his Greek words into sentences. He had been jealous of Philip. Now he was cultivating the Macedonian and vaingloriously talking to him in his own language; though sometimes Philip laughed a little and offered an amendment.
The summer was advancing. There was an occasional whiff of autumn in the early morning breeze. Then came the day of Jesus' triumphal entry into the city of Jericho, the welcoming crowds that lined the streets, the memorable luncheon at the mansion where Zacchaeus lived in lonely splendour, despised and feared by his fellow-townsmen. And, as an outcome of that interview, the rascally Zacchaeus had publicly announced his intention of restoring, four-fold, the unjust taxes he had filched from the people.
That night, at their encampment in the hills, Jesus told them the summer's work was ended. Tomorrow, he said, they would start back to Capernaum. The twelve were glad, but somewhat surprised; for it might be a whole month before the rains came on. The Master seemed suddenly anxious to return to Capernaum. They did not ask him why: they knew better than to question him any more.
The longest week that Voldi had ever spent elapsed before Felix called at the prison. It seemed doubtful that their friendship would survive.
It was after supper when he came. Twilight was settling. The dim oil-lamp had been lighted. Voldi was sitting apathetically on his bunk when he heard an argument in the corridor.
'The Prefect isn't going to like this, you know,' the fat jailor was whimpering.
'Did you have orders that no one was to see the Arabian?' came the irritated voice of Felix.
'N-not exactly, sir; no,' admitted the jailor. 'But if your father learns of it, he'll punish me.'
'Then you'd better not tell him. Open that door now and run along. I may be here for a couple of hours.'
There was another whine of protest from the jailor, followed by the screech of the key in the rusty old lock, and Felix entered. Voldi came to his feet and they embraced each other in silence.
'I can't quite make you out,' said Felix soberly, when they were seated.
'It must have been something very urgent indeed that would justify your excursion into forbidden territory. Obviously the Tetrarch was not the object of it, for you knew he had gone to Jerusalem.'
'You deserve to know, Felix,' said Voldi, 'and I'm ready to tell you. My girl is up there, waiting to hear from me. I had to go, regardless of consequences. I didn't succeed, but it was worth trying.'
'Your girl, eh?' Felix brightened with interest. 'It was a foolhardy thing to do, though. She must be something very special. I never met a girl I would risk going to jail for. . . . So—now—when it's too late for anything to be done about it, you're going to tell me. . . . Very well: I'm listening.'