The stunning news of Jesus' death and restoration to life had got off to a swift start. Ordinarily the long caravans that regularly plodded to and fro between the interior and the ports were the common carriers of current doings. They were notorious gossips, in a class with the wandering minstrels in respect to their reliability. And had the astounding story of Jesus' resurrection been caravan-borne, it may be doubted whether many sensible people would have believed it. But this news had outsped the caravans. At the end of Passover Week all the highways and their tributaries were full of travellers and all the travellers were full of talk.
First on the roads were the Gentile merchants from distant places who had no compunction about beginning a journey on the Sabbath Day. They told of the crucifixion. Next came the Jewish pilgrims who had set off for home at daylight on Sunday. They sadly confirmed the earlier reports of the Gentiles. Then, later in the forenoon, the confounding stories of the resurrection started on their journeys, moving forward at various speeds, hour by hour and day by day, on foot, on horseback, on camelback, in donkey-carts, in litters, in chariots, in ferry-boats and deep-water ships, until everybody for a thousand miles in all directions had heard that the crucified Galilean wonder-worker had come alive!
It was the first time in anyone's experience that good news was startling; the first time that good news was news at all. Life was uncertain for every man, but death was not. When men died they were permanently dead. Nobody was exempt; not even the Caesars, who claimed to be divine. Now it appeared that a penniless carpenter had overcome death. He had more power than the Emperor. Not everyone believed the story, but everyone talked about it. Even those who shook their heads wished they could believe it; hoped it was true.
There were various versions of the story. Reduced to its simplest form: certain women, devoted followers of the Master, had gone out at dawn on Sunday to the beautiful Garden of Sepulchres to anoint the mangled body with myrrh. They had found the tomb open and empty. Then they had seen him, strolling among the flowers. After a tender moment of ecstatic recognition the women were told to notify 'my disciples—and Peter.'
* * * * * *
Proconsul Mencius was restlessly pacing the wharf when Captain Fulvius arrived at twilight on Saturday evening accompanied by the Legate from Minoa, his slave, and half a dozen cavalrymen.
'We are taking Legate Marcellus Gallio with us to Rome,' explained Fulvius as he wearily dismounted. Lowering his voice, he added, 'Don't expect too much of this boy. He's out of his head.'
Introductions were attempted unsuccessfully. Young Gallio, pale, haggard, and bewildered, made no effort to be gracious.
'The Legate is ill, sir,' interposed Fulvius. 'I will show him to his quarters at once.' He beckoned to the slave, who collected their luggage and followed his badly befuddled master. Mencius reflected that he had never seen a more perfect specimen of physical manhood than this handsome Greek. In a few moments Fulvius reappeared on deck and took the Proconsul aside.
'What a day!' The Captain mopped his perspiring brow. 'First chance I had to deliver the Emperor's letter was at Pilate's banquet, last night, for the visiting officers.'
'And Marcellus read it—and lost his balance?' wondered Mencius.
'He had already lost his balance. He was dazed, dead on his feet, utterly indifferent to the Emperor's message ordering his return to Rome. He inquired when we were sailing and asked if he might go with us.' Fulvius shook his head. 'It's beyond me. I tried to talk to him today. All he would say was, "Were you out there?"'
'Maybe the crucifixion was too much for him,' suggested Mencius.
'He's used to the sight of bloodshed.'
'The slave seems intelligent. Think he knows what ails the Legate?'
'Perhaps. He is worried about him. I told the Greek we weren't sailing directly to Rome and he replied, "There's no hurry."'
'He probably wants the Legate to have time to recover his senses before he meets the Emperor,' thought Mencius.
Fulvius chuckled.
'Old Tiberius may like him better if he is a bit crazy. . . . By the way, you haven't heard anything from your Arab?'
'It's hardly time yet.'
'Looks like an interesting voyage,' drawled Fulvius, 'with a crazy man in one cabin and a fugitive in another.'
* * * * * *
Late in the forenoon on Sunday, Voldi cantered up the wharf to the ship's side. Somewhere along the line he had abandoned his rags and tatters, and was well clad in riding clothes and boots. He was in good spirits.
'It was just as I expected,' he explained. 'At dusk, last night, our caravan was set upon by bandits. There was some hard fighting, but we drove them off. We lost a few men, among them the Tetrarch himself. Somebody killed him with his own dagger.'
'Perhaps you'd better go aboard,' advised Mencius, soberly.
'It's a good idea,' agreed Fulvius.
In a few minutes
The Vestris
was inching away from the dock and her sails were creeping up the tall masts. Darik and Brutus, in adjoining stalls, were rubbing noses. The other ships of the fleet were winching up their anchors and hauling up canvas.
Voldi rejoined his Roman friends on deck. A slave brought them their luncheon. Mencius grinned mischievously and remarked, 'You stole the Tetrarch's horse.'
'Not at all!' protested Voldi. 'I stuffed the coin-pouch, containing the three hundred shekels, into the Tetrarch's pocket.'
'And so,' said Fulvius solemnly, 'you and the Tetrarch are square.'
'Right!' declared Voldi. 'And the Tetrarch and Arabia are square!'
* * * * * *
It was Wednesday morning. For the past hour the Big Fisherman had been down on his knees, industriously caulking the open seams on the deck of
The Abigail.
He had found that this monotonous manual labour, if he gave himself to it with diligence, temporarily eased his wounded spirit. There was something, too, about being on one's knees. That helped a little.
Thad had gone ashore for some provisions. The loyal youngster had hardly left Simon's side since their abrupt departure from Jerusalem until their arrival Sunday evening. As they hurried through Capernaum, Thad had entreated the unhappy skipper to go home and get some proper food and a good night's rest, but Simon wasn't ready to face Hannah. No; he would wait until Andrew had had time to come home. Andrew could tell her.
'I'll sleep on
The Abigail
,' he had said. 'But I want you to go home tonight, Thad. It's no more than fair to your parents. You row me out—and then you go home.'
'But that would leave you without a boat, sir.'
'That's the way I want it,' Simon had declared grimly. 'If there's a dory tied up to the ship, it will mean that somebody's aboard. And I want to be alone.'
Thad had remonstrated, but Simon had been obdurate; and after the little boat had pulled away into the thickening gloom,
The Abigail,
instead of offering a welcome, seemed aloof and reproachful. The long-unused blankets in the little forecastle were damp and mouldy. Simon had dipped up a bucket of water and washed his dusty feet, trying to pretend that he was back again on familiar ground and repeating accustomed habits, but nothing was quite real. He flung himself down on the cot, hoping his exhaustion would compel sleep; and presently he dozed, only to waken with a start, and the awful thing that had happened to him would engulf him, bringing out the sweat on his forehead. The silence was profound, terrifying. It had been a mistake to let Thad go.
The long, wretched night had eventually ended and a pink dawn came up rapidly from behind the eastern mountains, giving promise of a beautiful early summer day. It was an hour that had always stirred Simon deeply, but this morning his spirit did not rise to sense the oncoming glory. He strolled aft and stood at the rail, dully facing the pageant, and there recurred to his mind a remark of the Master's—not fully understood at the time, 'You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt lose its savour . . .' That was the trouble. From now on, as long as he lived, Simon's life, he felt, would be tasteless.
To his immeasurable relief, he saw the dory coming now. Thad pulled up under
The Abigail's
bow. Simon lowered a basket and drew it up, well filled with supplies, bread, smoked perch, and sun-cured figs. He leaned far over the rail and grasped one end of the cot that Thad had brought from home, and hauled in a great roll of bedding. It was a comfort to know that he would have company now.
All that day they had worked side by side, and mostly in silence, on the long neglected deck. Occasionally Thad ventured some brief comment, but received little co-operation. Once, when he addressed the taciturn skipper as 'Peter,' the Big Fisherman had said sadly, 'My name is Simon. Please remember that.' On Tuesday, Thad rowed in for one of the tents Esther had used last summer. If it should rain in the night he would be protected. His eyes were bright with excitement when he returned.
'They're saying in the village,' he reported, 'that the Tetrarch's caravan was set upon—and he was killed!'
But even this shocking news failed to lift Simon's apathy. He was silent for a while and then remarked, 'That will close the palace.' After another interval, he added, 'They will not need any more fish.'
And now it was Wednesday morning. Thad had gone ashore on an errand. Simon's knees were lame from his unaccustomed exercise, and after an hour of it he got wearily to his feet and walked the length of the deck, wondering what had detained the boy. Three dories were on the water, and moving rapidly, their oars flashing in the sun. With narrowed eyes, shaded by his cupped hands, Simon identified the occupants of the boats. Thad was bringing Andrew. James and John were in the second dory, which had overtaken and was now passing Thad's. Lagging behind came Philip with Thomas and old Bartholomew.
Simon's heart was in his throat. How could he face these men? They were drawing closer now, near enough for him to see their animation. They seemed happy! Whatever could have happened? He tossed a rope to the first dory and Johnny scrambled up, flung a leg over the rail and threw his arms around the bewildered skipper.
'You haven't heard!' he shouted exultantly. 'You don't know! Listen! Jesus lives! . . . I tell you—he is alive again!'
James had grasped Simon's arm.
'We have seen him, Peter! He came to us—Sunday night—at Ben-Josef's house!'
They had all swarmed over the rail now, all but Bartholomew, who was being tugged on board by Thad. Simon stood there dazed, his lips quivering, the tears running down his cheeks.
'He told us to make haste and go home,' said Philip. 'He was anxious for you to know.'
'That's what he said,' put in Johnny. 'He said, "Go and tell Peter!"'
'Are you sure he said "Peter"?' asked the Big Fisherman huskily.
'Aye! That he did!' declared Bartholomew. '"Go—quickly—and tell Peter!"'
'Where is he now?' entreated Peter. 'I must go to him!'
'We're to wait here,' said Andrew. 'He is coming to us.'
They slowly drifted to the afterdeck and sat in a circle around Peter. If anyone remembered his unaccountable apostasy and flight on the morning of the great tragedy, it was not apparent. They were too full of joy to remember anything but their Master's conquest. They were all talking at once. Peter's brightened eyes darted from one to another as he tried to follow their fragmentary narratives. Then he began asking questions: 'Was Jesus the same—with the same body?'
'Absolutely the same,' declared Thomas. 'A bit pale, perhaps. There were deep black thorn-cuts on his forehead and purple nail-wounds in his hands and feet, and the gash of a sword-thrust in his side; but he was real!'
'Not just a spirit, then,' concluded Peter, 'but flesh and blood.'
At that, they suddenly fell silent. Old Bartholomew cleared his throat.
'There was a little difference, Peter,' he admitted. 'It is true, as Thomas says, that he appeared in his real body—'
'And he ate, too, a bit of fish and some honey in the comb,' interposed Philip.
'We don't know that—for sure,' put in James. 'The only light in there was a small candle, for we were in hiding.'
'Well—he took the plate,' persisted Philip. 'He could have eaten.'
Peter turned his attention to the old man.
'What was it you started to say, Bartholomew?'
They all listened, their eyes lowered as if they knew what was coming.
'Only this, Peter,' replied Bartholomew. 'There was a little difference. When he came into the room, he didn't bother to open the door.'
Peter's eyes widened. The others did not look up.
'You mean—he walked through it!'
'I suppose so,' said Bartholomew lamely. 'The door did not open; and then—he was standing there.'
'And when he left you,' pursued Peter, 'did he open the door? And do you know where he went?'
'That was mysterious, too,' rejoined Bartholomew. 'He was standing there among us, as I say, talking earnestly with us; and, as James has told you, the room was but dimly lighted; and, presently, he was gone.'
'Didn't go out through the door?'
'Didn't go near the door! Didn't move! . . . He just vanished!'
Johnny broke the ensuing silence to say, 'It was reported that two men met him on the highway near Emmaus, that evening at supper time. Both of them were firm believers in the Master; had often seen him and had heard him talk. They were discussing the report of the resurrection when he overtook them and joined in the conversation. They invited him to have supper with them at the Emmaus inn. He sat with them for a time at the table—'
'But ate nothing,' put in James.
'And vanished!' ended John.
'The queer thing about it was that he talked with these men at Emmaus about the same time that he appeared to us at Ben-Josef's house,' contributed Thomas.
'And it's a good three-hour walk from Emmaus to Jerusalem,' said Philip.
Nothing more was said for a while. Peter sat thoughtfully stroking his jaw. Andrew observed that there was a mixture of white in his brother's black beard. Yes—and there was a patch of silver in his forelock that had not been there before. It must have taken a deal of suffering to do that to Peter.