'My boy,' said the Prefect; and Felix's face fell, for whenever his parent addressed him as 'My boy,' you wanted to look out. There would be bad news presently.
'My boy, I assume that in my absence you have continued your friendship with that rash young Arabian.'
'Yes, father,' admitted Felix contritely. 'I have been seeing him—almost every day.'
'Quite right!' declared the Prefect. 'Men should be loyal to their friends, especially when they are in trouble.'
Felix gave a quick intake of breath and blinked a few times before he gave a tentative smile of relief.
'I have just ordered Captain Malus to set this chap free,' continued Sergius. 'But Malus is much too busy to attend to it today. Perhaps you would like to inform your friend that he is at liberty to go his way, in any direction that suits his fancy.' He brought out a stylus, scribbled a note to the jailor, and handed it to his son.
'You are very kind, sir,' stammered Felix. 'Thank you, sir! . . . May I go now?'
'Why not?' The Prefect and the Captain of the Guard marched up the steps of the Praetorium. Felix thought he heard a chuckle, but did not look back as he made off for his horse—and Darik.
At the prison, Voldi was astonished when his half-hysterical friend hugged the breath out of him. The good news was so incoherently spluttered that it was some minutes before the amazing tidings were made clear. They pounded each other on the back and shouted joyously. Soon the prisoner was out in the sunshine, squinting against the unaccustomed glare, and affectionately patting Darik on his glossy shoulder.
'Where to, now?' inquired Felix, suddenly sobering. 'I have been so happy to see you freed that I've had no time to think about your leaving. I'm going to miss you, Voldi!'
'And I shall miss you, Felix,' said Voldi, with deep feeling. 'Something tells me I should return to Arabia and report to my King. He deserves to know what has become of Fara, and the faithful Ione should be told. And I must see my family.'
'But—you will be coming back, I think,' said Felix.
'Unquestionably,' said Voldi. 'King Zendi will doubtless consent to my return—on a special mission.'
'Do I know what it is?'
'I'm sure you do.'
'Ticklish job, eh?' reflected Felix.
'It could be that,' agreed Voldi.
They mounted their horses to ride back to The Agrippa for personal belongings that Voldi had deposited.
'If there is ever anything that I can do—if you should get into trouble—if you should suddenly need a friend—' Felix was saying.
'There is no one I would rather trust, Felix,' said Voldi. 'But this is a one-man undertaking—and strictly an Arabian duty. . . . I shall try to be careful,' he added.
'Careful!' scoffed Felix. 'That sounds funny, coming from you!'
Again the rains came on, earlier than usual this time but gentle and intermittent, in comforting contrast to the relentless ferocity of last winter's storms.
Sometimes there would be two or three consecutive days without showers, though the sky remained obdurately overcast and nobody ventured very far from home unless his errand was urgent.
Jesus seemed glad to retire to Andrew's cosy cottage in Capernaum and the old house resumed its service as headquarters for most of the devoted band that had left everything to follow their Master.
Of the absentees, Judas had returned to Kerioth to look after some neglected business; Philip had gone home to Cana to visit his aged mother; Thomas, lacking a lodging-place, had accepted a job carding flax for Jairus; and Thaddeus, unhappy over the deterioration of the fishing fleet, was living alone on
The Abigail,
diligently caulking the deck-seams with pledgets of pitch and oakum.
The others, unemployed and restless, showed up every day at the cottage and watched the Carpenter at his work; for the decrepit tools belonging to Ebenezer, who had passed away in the summer, had been reborrowed and the improvised shop had all the business it could handle, though little of it was of any profit. Much discussion was had among them concerning tentative itineraries for the coming spring: some were for going back to Hammath or Cana, and some thought they should revisit Jericho. Jesus was given every encouragement to express an opinion but he only shook his head and murmured, 'Not now'—an enigmatic response that sobered them. It seemed clear that he had already determined what he would do. The fact that he was reluctant to confide caused them much anxiety. There was no telling what hazards might be in store for them all. . . . Following Jesus was not easy.
One morning, when a yellowish sun was feebly attempting to shine through the ragged rents in a grey cloud-bank, John ventured the remark that a great many idle people might be willing to risk a wetting if it were announced that the Master would appear in the plaza and speak to them, but the suggestion was not approved. Noting his young friend's disappointment, Jesus explained briefly that he didn't care to be responsible for an epidemic of bad colds.
When, that afternoon, John reported this conversation to Bartholomew, adding, 'But he could easily cure their colds,' the old man said, 'It would be much easier to prevent them.' And then he went on to say, 'These miracles of healing, son, make a heavy drain on his strength. Had you not noticed that?'
'I know,' nodded John. 'That's true. They make him sweat.'
Bartholomew sat thoughtfully stroking his beard for a long moment: then he said, 'Johnny—sometimes I have felt that every burden he lifts is taken upon himself. Don't misunderstand me: I do not mean that when he heals a leper he takes on the man's leprosy: I mean that whenever he lifts another man's burden he adds the weight of it to his own. Out Master is carrying a very heavy load. . . . I often think of Esaias' prophecy that the promised Messiah would be a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.'
The enforced inactivity of these inclement days, however irksome for the others, was especially disquieting to Peter who had been constantly in the forefront of the summer's excursions and excitements. And how he had looked forward to this period of rest and recuperation! Now—after a few days of idleness—he had begun to fret under the weight of little Bethsaida's apathy; and, much as he enjoyed the company of his Master, the long afternoons at the cottage in Capernaum, where he sat with empty hands, were increasingly depressing.
Sometimes during those tumultuous days of sultry Sivan and Tammuz, the responsibility of directing the great multitudes of desperate and inconsiderate people had been almost beyond his endurance. Often when darkness fell and the throng had gone home or into improvised camps in the neighbouring fields and hills, the Big Fisherman would fling himself down on the ground, with his shaggy head buried in his sun-browned arms, too utterly exhausted to eat his supper. Had it not been for Esther's gentle solicitude and the challenge of her amazing fortitude, Peter couldn't have borne his burden. And he had been honest enough to tell her so.
It was a most unusual friendship. A stranger, having made the acquaintance of both of them, but never having seen them together, would certainly have thought it incongruous if not impossible that this huge, blustering, untravelled, uneducated fisherman, and the sensitive girl who had been brought up in an environment of exceptional privileges, could have anything in common. By training and temperament they were leagues apart. Simon Peter had had no use for Esther, nor she for him, until their boundless devotion and tireless service to Jesus had made them kin.
They had often talked about this frankly, agreeing that their peculiar relation was no less than a miracle, Peter declaring his belief that a close friendship with the Master could provide a bond for all the people who loved him, no matter how different they might be as to race, colour, language, disposition or mode of living. If they loved him, they would love one another. Jesus had said so—and these two understood what he meant.
Their comradeship, that summer, had invited candid confidences. Esther had told Peter all about herself, and when they were alone together he had—at her request—called her Fara. One evening, as they sat for a little while on either side of the Master, Peter had inadvertently addressed her as Fara, and Jesus had smiled with pleasure, though he made no comment.
It was not, however, a selfish friendship. Often a little group formed about them. Esther was one of the family. She repaired old Bartholomew's tattered sandal-thongs, bandaged Johnny's thorn-torn hand, mended Andrew's jacket; even sewed on a button for Judas, whom she intuitively distrusted and disliked. Thad was always at her heels, helping with the tents and carrying provisions as devotedly as a friendly dog. And on their hurried trip back to Galilee, when Esther lagged a little one afternoon, he wanted her to get into the high-wheeled cart, already heavily loaded with tents and tackle—and ride. She had declined the offer; but, walking alongside him, she said tenderly that if everybody were as kind to everyone else as Thad had been to her, the world would soon be a beautiful place to live in.
A flush of pleasure, mixed with embarrassment, glowed through the shy young fellow's tan. After some deliberation he said that he thought the world was beautiful enough to suit him; and he ventured to give Esther a worshipful glance.
* * * * * *
The winter days had dragged drearily. Peter, lodging at home in Bethsaida, would trudge through the mud every morning to Capernaum and return in the late afternoon, moody and taciturn. Andrew rarely came home; but last night he had accompanied his brother, for John and James had arranged to spend the night with Jesus.
This morning, Hannah's household had assembled about the breakfast table. It was something of an event, for they were having fried perch, the first they had had for a long time.
'I heard a meadow-lark a little while ago,' remarked Hannah cheerily, 'and there's a patch of blue in the sky. We may be having some fair weather soon,' she went on, 'though I'm in no hurry to see it come, for it means you will all be leaving me again. . . . I do wish you wouldn't go this time, Esther. It's too hard on you.'
'Well—as for me,' said Peter, splitting open another fish, 'I'll be glad when it's time to go. I've been penned up too long. And I want to see the Master get out of that shop. They've been imposing on him—dreadfully! . . . Don't you think so, Andy?'
Andy slowly agreed that that was 'one way of looking at it'; and, turning to Hannah, irrelevantly remarked that he had seen a blue jay yesterday with a straw in its beak. Esther couldn't help smiling. Andrew certainly had a gift for changing the subject. But Hannah wasn't interested in Andy's blue jay.
'How do you mean, they impose on him?' she inquired.
Peter was ready with the particulars. Apparently he had given the matter considerable thought. . . . Well, first there was all that work on old Becky's loom.
'It happened just after we had come home,' he went on. 'The people were all stirred up over the Tetrarch's crime and the hot-heads were keen on punishing somebody. Antipas had broken the law; and, seeing they couldn't do anything to him, they decided to make everybody else obey the laws. This old Rebecca person lived alone in a mere hovel on the outskirts of Magdala, and was generally disliked. Many people thought she was a witch—and she looked the part, a very ugly old woman. The children threw stones at her whenever she appeared on the highway. And she put a curse on the neighbours' cattle, so that their milk dried up.'
'How ridiculous!' exclaimed Esther. 'You don't believe that!'
'Of course not,' said Peter, 'but what I believe isn't important in this case. A lot of people did believe it—or said they did. . . . One charge they had against Becky was that she never attended the Synagogue. One Sabbath morning they heard her rickety old loom clacking, and to show how righteous they were a dozen of them stormed into her hut and smashed the loom to kindling-wood. . . . And the next day she came to see Jesus about it.'
'Were you there?' wondered Hannah.
'Johnny and I. Becky opened the door and came in, as if she lived there. She had on a dirty old dress. Her tangled white hair hadn't been combed and her bare feet were muddy. She came directly to where Jesus sat and dropped down in a chair beside him, without a word. Her wrinkled face was twitching and it was plain to see that she was badly upset. But if the Master saw anything peculiar about her conduct he gave no sign of it. He turned to her with a friendly smile and said, 'Good morning, daughter. What may I do for you?'
'Her leathery old face softened,' continued Peter, 'and she put her bony hands over her eyes, and cried. And Jesus said, "What is the trouble, Rebecca?"'
'And then she did cry, in earnest, I'll wager!' put in Hannah, whose own eyes were misty.
'Little by little, he got the story out of her,' said Peter; 'and when she had finished, he said, "You should not have been working on the Sabbath Day—unless it was necessary to someone's welfare. If a man's ox should fall into a pit on the Sabbath, he should come to its rescue. . . . But you say you were weaving a rug—to sell. That was wrong, as you know. However, your punishment was much too severe. . . . I shall build you a new loom, Rebecca."'
They listened attentively while Peter went on with his story. The Master had spent a fortnight making the loom, and when it was finished and the boys had hauled it to Rebecca's little house, he had gone with them. Rebecca had cleaned up her room, and herself too. The neighbours had crowded in. The old woman didn't seem so ugly now. Jesus was her friend, and her manner suggested that they had better take notice.
'A few days ago,' said Peter, 'old Becky came and presented the Master with a robe she had woven for him.'
'And that sweet soul will probably wear it,' said Hannah, 'no matter what it looks like!'
'It looks very well,' said Andrew. 'He likes it.'
'Yes,' nodded Peter. 'He wears it constantly now. I think he's really proud of it. . . . But—after all—he shouldn't be burdened with hard labour; not for people like old Becky!'
'I think that is a beautiful story,' said Esther softly. 'He did more for her than make her a new loom: he made her a new Becky!'