In the centre of the dining-room there was a long table surrounded by a dozen fine-looking patrols, impressive in their black-and-scarlet tunics. By a front window, Prefect Sergius sat alone. He rose with a welcoming smile, an action that brought his stalwart guards instantly to their feet.
'By all the Gods, Mencius!' he exclaimed. 'So it was you then, and not your ghost, that I saw in Pilate's loathsome congregation this morning! . . . Do sit down and we will find you something to eat.'
The old inn-keeper shuffled up and put a bowl of steaming lentil soup and a plate of small barley loaves before the new guest.
'Yes, I was there, Sergius,' said Mencius soberly. 'It was a disgraceful affair, was it not?'
'Shocking!' agreed Sergius. 'A sad tragedy for the young fellow from Galilee, but worse for the Procurator. By this time the hapless Galilean will be dead and out of his trouble, while Pilate's disaster is still to come. The canny old men of the Sanhedrin now know that they have him saddled, bridled, and ready to ride whenever they like.'
'Didn't they know that before?'
'Not so definitely. Pilate has been walking his tight-rope with something like dignity. Today he lost his balance. They had no case at all against that inoffensive young dreamer, and they knew it. And they knew that Pilate knew it. Everybody knew it. They demanded that the Procurator commit a murder, and he did it. . . . What I can't understand, Mencius, is the terrific volume of malice hurled at that defenceless Galilean. . . . A king? Absurd! Imagine that supine young philosopher—or fool—or whatever you like—attempting to lead a revolution! Imagine him on a horse! Imagine him directing a charge of ten thousand bowmen!' The Prefect waved it all away with his spoon. 'The Sanhedrin has too much sense to believe that this country preacher threatened their prestige.'
'Better not be too sure about that,' cautioned Mencius. 'All you saw of the Galilean this morning was an utterly exhausted, blood-smeared young idealist on his way to execution. The fact is: this man has demonstrated supernormal power. Thousands have followed him about through the provinces. There is plenty of good evidence that he has healed the sick, the blind, the crippled.'
'Pouf!' railed the Prefect. 'I don't believe these tales and neither do you! Such things don't happen. . . . Who told you?'
'I was informed by the last man in the world who could be taken in by a trickster. . . . Do you remember that rich young Arabian who came with me to Caesarea, after he had saved my life in a fight?'
'Do I?' Sergius laughed aloud. 'I had to lock the youngster up to make sure he wouldn't murder our precious Tetrarch.'
'And turned him loose, later, to go wherever he pleased, and do what he liked, with your blessing,' grinned Mencius.
'Well, Antipas isn't fit to live,' mumbled Sergius, defensively, 'but I couldn't have him assassinated while under my protection. When he was out of my custody, I didn't care what happened to him. . . . By the way, what became of your handsome cut-throat? Did he return to Arabia?'
Mencius nodded, and for a moment Sergius thought there might be further information on that subject, but the Proconsul was attentive to his food.
'I'm rather surprised that your Voldi hasn't tried to settle Arabia's claim on Antipas. The boy seemed not lacking in courage. My Felix became greatly attached to him.'
'What's Felix doing?' inquired Mencius.
'He's in Rome, attending the Military Academy.'
'Good! I'll look him up when I get home. . . . Reverting to this mysterious Galilean, Sergius, I'm no more gullible on the subject of miracles than you are—or my cynical young Arab, who isn't interested in anything but fine horses, sharp steel, and good sportsmanship. But there can be no doubt that this Jesus performed some remarkable deeds, quite beyond human understanding.'
'Very well! Very well!' barked the Prefect impatiently. 'Have it your own way! For the sake of argument, let us say that these wonder-tales were true. Let's concede that the Galilean gave sight to the blind, ears to the deaf, new legs to the cripples. Let's say he cured leprosy and raised the dead! Where does that leave you? Why didn't he try to help himself today? Either he had superhuman power or he hadn't! If he had it, he could have exercised it! Instead of standing there, helpless, roped like an animal on the way to slaughter, he could have pointed a finger at Pilate and stiffened him into a cataleptic fit!'
'There you are!' Mencius brought his fist down hard on the table. 'That's where the mystery mounts! Let us say that the man was no ordinary creature; that he did possess superhuman power; that he had a commission to improve the world's way of living. Let us conjecture that he performed these miracles of healing solely to attract an audience, and give the public a valid reason for believing that he spoke with divine authority! All he asked of them was that they treat one another with kindness. That, he said, would cure the world of its afflictions.' Mencius paused.
'Well—go on!' prodded Sergius. 'You haven't answered my question yet.'
'We're coming to that—now. Let us say that it finally dawned on this Torchbearer that the world wasn't ready to receive the light. Men were too selfish and greedy to make the experiment. Everybody wanted peace and prosperity; nobody would do anything to earn it. Next-door neighbours quarrelled and fought, blood-relatives hated one another, the religious sects were contemptuous of other beliefs.
'He looked about him and found that every institution in the world was at enmity to his proposed kingdom of truth, and good-will, and peace. No Government wants peace, Sergius! Which one of us would have a job if good-will became popular? Can you imagine the Empire taking steps toward peace? . . . Why, a wave of decency among men would wreck the Empire! . . . What would become of the temples, the shrines, and the Gods themselves if humanity suddenly decided to be honest and merciful? No man would need to howl for somebody to save his soul from hell if he lived a life of rectitude! . . . But—it was a lost cause! . . . And so,' concluded Mencius, 'the messenger gave it up as a hopeless job!'
'That's certainly a fantastic theory,' commented Sergius.
'It's better than none,' said Mencius.
'Let me ask you'—the Prefect regarded the Proconsul with a sly grin—'would you yourself have adopted this soft and silly programme of patting everybody on the back—slaves and all—and being kind?'
'Of course not!' declared Mencius. 'I couldn't afford it. I'd soon be on the street in rags, begging my bread.'
'Then—the Galilean's theory is no good?'
'Apparently not. And that's why he gave it up. You wondered why he didn't stand up for himself, this morning. My solution is that he saw it was no use. The world wasn't ready for it.'
'Do you think it ever will be, Mencius?' The Prefect was pushing back his chair.
'Frankly, no! One would think that whoever devised the world might have something better in store for it than hunger, slavery, and bloodshed, but—'
'But—meantime,' grinned Sergius, 'you will continue to bring copper for our invasion wharves, so that we may raise all hell with these poor Jews. . . . You're quietly losing your mind, Mencius. You think too much. You'd better accept things as they are. The world's a pretty grim show, but it's the only world we've got. . . . Shall we go now?'
They preceded the patrols to the paddock, mounted their horses, and rode for some distance in silence.
'You haven't told me what brought you to Jerusalem,' said Sergius.
Mencius told him briefly about the Emperor's message to Marcellus, which Captain Fulvius would deliver before the day was over.
'What do you suppose it was about?' wondered Sergius.
Mencius had no idea, but surmised it might be a recall to Rome.
'The old man probably wouldn't order Marcellus to go and hang himself,' he said.
'He's crazy enough to do that,' remarked Sergius. 'It was a dirty assignment that Pilate gave the boy,' he added, wincing. 'But it's doubtful if the Legate will have much to do with it personally. Those tough rascals from Minoa will know how. Marcellus was tight as a drum. . . . I was to have stayed for the banquet tonight, but begged off. Pilate will not have a very happy time, I'm thinking. He'll have a load on his mind.'
They were nearing the fork in the highway, the road to the right leading to Caesarea, straight ahead to Joppa. Their horses were slowed to a walk.
'Give my regards to my boy,' said Sergius.
'I will do that—with pleasure,' said Mencius.
'When do you expect to be home?'
'In seven weeks, if all goes well.'
'Well, good luck—and fair weather.'
They rose in their stirrups and exchanged a formal salute, for the benefit of the observant patrols. Spurs were put to the horses and the distance between them rapidly widened. Mencius was glad to be on his way. He had had a most distressing experience in Jerusalem and hoped he would never have an occasion to visit the Holy City again. In seven weeks he would be at home with his family. . . . It would have appalled him if he had known that in seven weeks he would be back in Jerusalem again, on an errand of such mystery that even he himself did not know who had summoned him—or why.
* * * * * *
All that afternoon, Thad followed Peter, making no effort to catch up with him, but keeping him in sight. It wasn't like Peter to be running away. Perhaps his grief over the Master's plight had gone to his head.
Well, whatever it was that ailed Peter, he needed someone to look after him. There was nothing more that could be done for Jesus.
Peter had walked fast, with long, lurching strides, until the Damascus Gate was reached. Then he began to run. It was not easy for Thad to keep up with him. Sometimes Peter would fling himself down by the roadside, with his head buried in his arms; then he would wearily drag himself to his feet and hurry on.
At the village of Lebonah, Thad bought half a dozen small wheaten loaves and a few smoked perch. Peter was out of sight when he took to the road again, and it was a mile further before he overtook him. It was mid-afternoon now. Peter was lying, face downward, under a cypress tree. Thad approached quietly and sat down on the ground a few feet away.
After a long time, the Big Fisherman sat up. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Thad silently opened his knapsack and offered the food he had brought. Peter shook his head.
'You shouldn't have followed me, Thad,' he said hoarsely. 'Don't touch me! I am unclean!'
'You mean—you're—a—leper?' mumbled Thad.
'Oh, my boy—if that were all!' moaned Peter.
'What's the trouble, sir?' begged Thad.
Tears were streaming down Peter's cheeks.
'I denied my Master!' he cried. 'They asked me if I was his friend—and I said, No! . . . Go back, Thad! Join the others. I'm no fit company for you. Go back, I tell you!' And, with that, Peter rose, and staggered on toward Galilee.
And Thad, bewildered, heartbroken, continued to follow him.
* * * * * *
Shortly after noon, Joseph of Arimathaea called at the Insula and asked to see Pilate. He was informed that the Procurator was resting and must not be disturbed. Joseph insisted that the matter was urgent. After a considerable delay, he was shown into the council-chamber, where Pilate sat at his desk, blear-eyed and sullen.
'Well, Joe,' muttered the unhappy Procurator gruffly, 'what is it?'
'I want permission, sire, to bury the Galilean—when he is dead.'
'Friend of yours, Joe?'
Joseph nodded slowly.
'At a distance, sire,' he said. 'I was not a follower. I did not have the courage. But—I want to put him away . . . in my own tomb.'
'Perhaps you think the Galilean was unjustly convicted,' rasped Pilate crossly.
'I am not here to criticize,' murmured Joseph.
'But you think the man was innocent,' said Pilate. After a pause, he added impulsively, 'So do I, Joe! . . . But—what could I do?'
'May I have his body, sire?'
The Procurator picked up his stylus and wrote a brief order.
'Give that to the Legate from Minoa.'
The door was quietly opened, and the Captain of the Insula Guard approached the desk.
'A small delegation is here, sire, sent by the Sanhedrin,' he said.
'Very well,' muttered Pilate wearily, 'bring them in.'
The spokesman, a youngish priest, bowed deeply, and said:
'The writing, sire, that we requested, is misleading.'
'What writing?' demanded Pilate irascibly.
'That we nailed at the top of the cross, sire. You wrote, "This is the King of the Jews." It is misunderstood. We would like you to write, "He said he was the King of the Jews."'
'Do your own writing!' shouted Pilate angrily. 'I have written enough! Quite enough! Let me hear no more of it!' He beat the desk with both fists. 'No more of it—I tell you!'
The delegation bowed itself out. Joseph rose to go.
'Farewell, sire,' he said, 'and thank you!'
Pilate, glumly preoccupied, nodded, but made no reply.
Hard on the heels of the shocking news that Jesus had been crucified bounded the incredible story that he was alive again.
The provinces couldn't believe their ears. In areas where he had spoken and healed the sick all work was suspended. Nothing else was talked about; nothing else mattered.
Nor was this excitement contained within the confines of Jewry. The mysterious Galilean had for so long been a popular topic of conversation that his fame had filtered into all the surrounding countries. His sayings and doings had been discussed not only all the way from Damascus to Petra and from the Jordan to the Sea, but up in far-away Cappadocia and down in farther-away Ethiopia.
It was not true, as Proconsul Mencius had surmised, that the extraordinary career of the wonder-working Carpenter was a localized phenomenon observed only by the farmers, vine-dressers, and fishermen of Israel's hinterland. Mencius was to discover presently that the slaves who tugged at the heavy oars in his cargo-ships had heard of Jesus and his forecast of a Kingdom in which all men of good-will would be free.