'Andy,' he remarked to his sober-faced brother, seated on the ground beside him, 'Andy, down there in the city are hundreds, perhaps thousands, from all the provinces, who would feel honoured to have the Master eat the Passover with them; but are afraid to admit that they are his friends.'
Andrew nodded slowly, but made no reply, and Peter continued reminiscently:
'Last summer, when they brought their sick ones to him for healing, and were deeply moved by his words of comfort, they wished they might invite him home with them to be their guest. Now that he is in danger—'
Peter's low-voiced soliloquy was interrupted by a little stir immediately behind them. Jesus, who had been sitting quite apart from the silent men, had come forward and reseated himself between John and James. All eyes slowly drifted in that direction.
'We will observe the Passover,' he said. 'You two brothers will arrange for it. Go now to the highway and proceed through Bethany until you overtake a man who will be entering his home with a pitcher of water on his shoulder. There is an unused upper room in his house. Tell him to prepare it for your Master and his company.'
They rose to do his bidding.
'Shall we try to find a sacrificial lamb?' asked John.
Jesus closed his eyes and shook his head.
'The master of the house will provide you with wheaten bread and a flagon of wine,' he said. 'That will suffice.'
'Will we be returning here for the night, Master?' asked James.
'No. Take your blankets with you. After supper we will rest in the Garden of Gethsemane.'
'Have you money to pay this man for the use of his room?' inquired Judas, jingling the coin-pouch.
The brothers turned inquiring eyes toward Jesus and he waved them on their way, making no reply to Judas, who, realizing that he had spoken out of turn, shrugged and resumed his seat. Young Thad, sitting nearest him, presently got to his feet and strolled over to drape his jacket about old Bartholomew's shoulders; for the sun was setting and the air was chilly.
* * * * * *
It was a most depressing feast. The fear that had haunted them for many days was now confirmed. The Master told them that the end was near. This, he said, would be their last supper together.
He had preceded them on the road, and when their intuition told them he preferred to walk alone they slowed their steps as he retraced last Sunday morning's journey, when he had been attended by the shouting thousands who thought they wanted him to be their King. Under the bright moonlight could be seen the withered palm-branches which the disappointed crowd had flung into the gutters. Peter was blind with tears; and when Philip pointed to the palms, he could only shake his head. There were no words for his grief.
When they arrived at the house where John and James were standing at the gate they found that Jesus had already entered and was waiting for them at the doorway of the upper room. He had provided himself with towels and a basin of water. It was customary, when guests were expected, to station a servant at the door to wash the visitors' dusty feet. The disciples were appalled to find that the Master intended to perform this menial service. Peter, when his turn came, stoutly refused to consent; but yielded reluctantly when Jesus insisted.
They quietly took their places about the table. The supper was not after the manner of the traditional Passover feast. This, Jesus explained, was the inauguration of a new festival. In the days to come, he said, whenever they—and the others who would believe in him—sat together, and the cup was passed among them, they were to remember him as the sacrifice for men's salvation. He would die that all those who believed in him might live.
The words were spoken softly. The disciples were heartsick. Judas slipped quietly out of the room. They were all relieved to see him go. Johnny, sitting beside the Master, now broke down completely and cried like a lost child. Jesus put his arm around him tenderly and drew him close. They were all weeping.
'Let not your heart be troubled,' the Master was saying. 'In my Father's house are many mansions. I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am you may be also.'
* * * * * *
It was close to midnight when Jesus rose from the table and announced that they would now depart. The evening, despite its sadness, had passed quickly; for the disciples, now awake to the fact that they were presently to be left without his guidance, had many questions to ask of their Master.
And the questions were of a surprising nature. Even in the face of all the instructions they had received concerning a Kingdom-to-come, their last-minute entreaties for reassurance showed how vaguely they had understood. So long as they had had him by their side, walking and talking with him, the future seemed far off, something to be dealt with when they got to it. Now that they had got to it, the future demanded a fresh examination.
Jesus had just finished saying, 'You all know where I am going. Though you cannot come with me now, you know the way.'
Thomas had spoken up promptly: 'But, Master, we do not know where you are going: how can we know the way?'
'I am the way,' said Jesus patiently. 'I go to our Father.'
'Tell us about the Father,' begged Philip, as if he had never heard a word on the subject.
'The Father is in me,' said Jesus. 'The words that I have spoken are His words. The deeds that I have done are His deeds.'
They all nodded their belief that this was true, but their apparent understanding did so little to assuage their feeling of utter desolation that the Master continued, tenderly:
'I shall not leave you comfortless. I shall come to you.'
At length they descended the stairs and came out into the moonlight, Jesus pausing to offer a gracious word of thanks to their host, who followed them to the gate as if reluctant to see them leave his house.
It was only a short distance to the brow of the hill that overlooked the silent city. Jesus tarried there for a long moment before turning off the highway to the hard-beaten path that wound through the grove of aged olive-trees.
Peter, James, and John had followed closely, the others trailing at some distance, not sure what was expected of them. Deep in the shadows of the grove, Jesus turned to the three and asked them to wait there. He went on a little way and knelt in the shadow of a rock. After a while the watchers' eyes grew heavy. For the past few nights they had been too gravely troubled to take their accustomed rest, and this evening's drain on their emotions had left them exhausted. Soon they were stretched on the ground with their heads pillowed in the crooks of their arms, fast asleep.
After an hour of anguished prayer, Jesus returned to them. The little group of men who had known him best and loved him most were unprepared to support him with assurances of their sympathy and affection. He was alone now, without a friend in the world.
* * * * * *
The arrest was quite obviously unauthorized and singularly lacking in dignity. It was not conducted by the Roman patrols, but by an unofficial rabble under the leadership of the High Priest's butler, Malchus, a Roman.
Malchus, with an ear accustomed to lingering at keyholes, had learned of his eminent employer's decision to hale the Galilean into court; and, thinking to improve his rating in the esteem of Caiaphas, had taken it upon himself to make the capture, which was the last thing that the High Priest desired on the solemn night of the Passover.
There was quite a crowd of them, armed with sticks and stones, as if they were out to hunt down a mad dog and beat it to death. Judas had been shameless enough to come along with the riff-raff that comprised the mob. Malchus needed him to identify the victim.
Peter lunged forward and surprised the butler with a savage blow on the head, but Jesus cautioned him against further resistance. He would go with them quietly. Seeing that their captive intended no defence, the crowd became boldly courageous, bound his hands, tugged him roughly down the long hill and through the darkened streets to the palace of the High Priest.
Although it was long past old Annas' bedtime, he was still up. With a dozen or more dignitaries of the Rabbinical College and the Sanhedrin, he had accepted the invitation of Caiaphas to celebrate the Passover with him in his council-chamber. Deep in a discussion of the most feasible procedure to dispose of the Nazarene with a minimum of protest from his adherents, the pundits were suddenly startled by an unseemly clamour in the corridor.
Malchus, exuberant over his conquest and confident of a warm welcome, burst in upon the conclave with his quarry, pushing his dishevelled prisoner into the midst of them and presenting him with a proud flourish. 'Ecce homo!' announced Malchus dramatically.
The wise men were stunned to speechlessness. This was not the place and certainly not the time to prefer charges against this man; but here he was, and they must do something about him.
'So—you are this Jesus of Nazareth!' snarled Caiaphas contemptuously.
Jesus said he was; and, after an awkward pause, Caiaphas asked, 'What have you been teaching?'
'You might inquire of those who have heard me,' said Jesus.
Malchus, standing close beside him, slapped him in the face and shouted, 'You should not speak so to the High Priest!'
Ignoring the blow, Jesus continued, 'I have not taught in secret, but openly.' His eyes swept the group and came to rest on the face of Rabbi Ben-Sholem, who seemed annoyed by this searching scrutiny. 'Many people,' Jesus went on, 'could testify as to my sayings.'
'The rabble!' squeaked Ben-Sholem shrilly. 'Outlanders! Damascenes! Samaritans! Camel-boys!'
Jesus made no reply to that. A few more questions were asked, but the inquisition lacked spirit. They were all aware that there wasn't much that they could do, and they surmised that Jesus knew it. It had been their intention to bring him to trial before the regularly constituted authorities. This present company could badger him and insult him as long as they liked, and nothing would come of it except damage to their own dignity. It was difficult to decide what to do with him.
Caiaphas ordered Malchus to take the prisoner outside and await further instructions. The command was growled so crossly that the butler, disappointed over the apparent failure of his effort to ingratiate himself with these learned men, jostled and jerked the captive out of the room to make him share his own inglorious exit. A servant slipped quietly into the room and up-ended the tall hour-glass on the table at the High Priest's elbow. It was two o'clock.
After a considerable silence, each man hoping that someone else might come forward with a promising idea, Obadiah, Chief of the Scribes, cleared his throat.
'Why not send him directly to Pilate?'
'What?' snorted Caiaphas. 'At this hour?'
'He'll still be up,' muttered old Nathan, the High Priest's legal adviser.
'He'll be drinking and telling bawdy stories all night with the visiting Legates.'
'He might even be pleased with some diversion,' chortled old Annas. 'Write him a note, Caiaphas. Tell him we want him to try this fellow—forthwith!'
'Good!' exclaimed Ben-Sholem. 'The whole thing might be over and done with before the city awakes in the morning!'
'No—it's not that good!' grumbled Caiaphas. 'All this business on Passover night! What will he think of us? If such a note is to go to Pilate, Father Annas, you may write it!'
'I'm not the High Priest,' rumbled the old man. 'And what does that Roman know or care about the Passover!'
'And why should we care what he thinks?' added Nathan. 'He will do what he's told to do.'
They all seemed agreed on this. Nathan got out his stylus and wrote the note, Caiaphas signed it, and Malchus was given his orders. The mob hurried their prisoner to the Insula.
The Procurator was not only awake but, as Nathan had predicted, was having a party for the visiting Legates and a Prefect or two who had accompanied the legions from forts related to their cities.
It was a beautiful night, warm enough to be comfortable out-of-doors, and the Procurator was entertaining his long-time friends on the spacious porch of the Insula.
'What now?' he growled, as the mob swarmed up the marble steps. He scowled at the note that Malchus handed him and stared hard at the prisoner.
'What evil have you been up to,' he demanded, 'on a night when you're supposed to be attending to your religious duties? You are a Jew, aren't you?'
It was not a question that could be answered in a word, and Jesus was tardy with a reply. The butler jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow and shouted, 'Speak up, fellow!'
Pilate's lip curled.
'And who are you?' he demanded scornfully.
'My name is Malchus. I am of the High Priest's household.'
'Well, you're no credit to it, I must say. Malchus, eh? That doesn't sound Jewish.'
'I'm a Roman, sir!' said the butler, with a little more confidence.
'That's unfortunate,' snapped Pilate. 'Take your hands off the prisoner and stand aside!' He held the note at arm's length and scanned it distastefully. 'Now, then, Jesus, what's all this about? You're said to be a disturber of the peace. In the name of all the Gods, where—in this quarrelsome country—have you found any peace to disturb?'
The crowd was getting restless, a few of them suspecting—and not without warrant—that the Procurator was more interested in amusing his grinning guests than attending to his business as judge. The muttering in the rear of the pack grew urgent. Somebody shouted, 'Away with the Galilean!'
Pilate caught at it.
'Are you a Galilean?' he inquired, and slowly turning his head toward Legate Julian of Capernaum, he winked impishly.
Jesus said that he was a Galilean.
'Then you don't belong here at all,' declared Pilate. . . . 'You—Malchus—or whatever your name is. Take him to the Galilean Embassy and tell your troubles to Herod Antipas.'
There were many angry shouts of 'No!' But the Procurator hurled an overhand gesture of dismissal at the crowd—and ordered some more wine. The Chief of the city patrols stepped forward and whispered, 'Shall I send a deputation over there to keep order, sire?' To which Pilate replied indifferently, 'No—let the Tetrarch attend to that; unless,' he added, 'there is disorderly conduct in the streets.'