The homeward trek had been tedious. Although habitually light-hearted, Simon had become taciturn and glum. The men of his caravan, customarily full of laughter and song, lost their gaiety. And as if the journey were not long enough and dull enough, they had been required to make a detour almost to Memphis for a river crossing, the lower Nile being at flood later than usual. This had added many wearisome miles to an already intolerable journey.
Now—at last—the jaded caravan was within one day's tramp of its destination. Tonight's encampment would be the last. By late afternoon tomorrow they would all be back on the beautiful and beloved plantation within sight of the sea where even the oldest of them had been born.
Simon, weary and dispirited, retired early and fell at once into a deep sleep, a sleep so profound that he was quite defenceless when the handsome young courier rode boldly into his tent and, dismounting gracefully, approached the cot and stood in silence for a long moment looking down upon the inert figure of the man he had come to see. Strangely enough, Simon was not affrighted by this unbidden visitation. The messenger was obviously intending him no harm. Indeed, he seemed a friendly youth, probably in his later teens. There were tight little ringlets on his fair brow and at his temples that had escaped from the gold bandeau circling his head. He was exquisitely dressed in white silk, and on the left breast of his tunic was a device appliquéd in gold which Simon could not identify. The beautiful white horse stood quietly waiting. It too was equipped with trappings of great value, the bridle and saddle heavily ornamented with silver.
Simon felt now that he was expected to acknowledge the presence of his incredible guest.
'That's quite a turn-out you have there, my son,' he found himself saying.
'It befits my errand,' said the courier. 'I come on business for my King.'
'Say on, then, friend,' said Simon, 'if this business concerns me.'
'I bear a summons to you, Simon. Early in the morning you will send your caravan home. You are not going home. You are required to be in Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost.'
Simon was instantly stirred to anger.
'I'll not go!' he growled. 'I've seen quite enough of Jerusalem! I do not know by what authority you command me, but I tell you I shall not go! Not even if the Emperor summoned me!'
The courier smiled and shrugged indifferently.
'You're not being summoned by a mere Emperor, Simon. You might defy Caesar: you might hide from him. But you will obey my Master. He wants you in Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost—and you will be there!'
'And who is your Master?' demanded Simon.
'You know him,' said the youth. 'You carried his cross.'
'But he is dead! I saw him die!'
'True; he was dead. But he came alive again!'
'Nonsense! This is only a dream!'
'It is not a dream, Simon.'
'Give me a token, then—some sign that shall remain when I awake.'
The young courier obligingly thrust his hand into his tunic and brought forth a long, rough, blood-rusted nail and laid it into Simon's open hand.
'Ever seen that before?' he asked soberly.
'Yes—but it could be part of my dream. I'm sure you'll not be leaving it here for me to find in the morning.'
'No; I shall not leave it here. I may need it again.' The courier retrieved the heavy nail, restored it to an inner pocket of his tunic, and seemed ready to depart.
'Farewell, friend Simon,' he said gently. 'Tomorrow you will ride your horse to Alexandria, where you will find a ship embarking for Joppa. This will shorten your trip. I shall see you on the Day of Pentecost. . . . Mid-forenoon—at the Coppersmiths' Guildhall.'
Simon chuckled a little.
'This is the strangest dream I ever had,' he mumbled. 'It seems impossible that I could have invented so many things I never saw before. . . . I'm sure I never saw anybody like you! . . . By the way—what is that golden device on your tunic?'
'It is the crest of the Master's Kingdom.'
'Come closer,' said Simon. 'Let me see it plainly.'
'What does it resemble?' asked the courier, bending over the cot.
Simon frowned and shuddered.
'I should never have chosen that ugly, cruel thing as an ornament!' he muttered.
'Simon,' murmured the courier, impressively, 'that device is destined to become the most beautiful emblem in the world!' And with that, he mounted and rode out of the Cyrenian's fantastic dream.
Again Simon slept, a sleep so deep as to be deathlike. It was broad daylight when he awoke, dazed by the recollection of having had an eventful dream. He heard the cheerful voices of his men as they dismantled and packed their tents for the final journey home. He wondered if they would notice, in his face, any evidences of his bewilderment. He must pull himself together—and try to forget about it.
Throwing open the door of his tent, he beckoned to his body-servant, who came running with a basin of water and an armful of towels. Simon plunged his bearded face into the basin and splashed the sleep out of his eyes.
'How did you hurt your hand, sir?' asked the servant. 'There's blood on it.'
Simon gazed intently into his right hand. A broad bloodstain diagonally transversed his palm. He dipped it into the basin and scrubbed it vigorously, but the stain was indelible. The servant stared hard, but ventured no comment when he observed that his master's hands were trembling. . . . The butler now appeared with a breakfast tray and stood ready to serve.
'Take it away,' ordered Simon huskily, 'and bid Enos come to me.'
It was obvious that the butler had been disturbed by his master's strange manner; for when the steward arrived his wide eyes showed concern.
'Enos,' said Simon, 'I find that I must return at once to Jerusalem. You will take the caravan home. I shall ride to Alexandria and take passage on a ship.'
'Are—are you well, sir?' stammered Enos. 'Perhaps I should go with you.'
'I am quite well, Enos. Notify my family that when my errand in Jerusalem has been accomplished I shall return. . . . Order my horse. I shall leave directly.'
The loyal steward reluctantly turned to do as he was bidden. At the tent-door he paused to say, 'But you have been injured, sir! There is blood on your hand!'
'Be at ease, my good Enos,' said Simon quietly. 'I have not been injured. That is not my blood.'
* * * * * *
Although the virile young Prince of Arimathaea was customarily an early riser in summer, and this was an exceptionally beautiful day, he was finding it difficult this morning to shake off his lethargy and regain full consciousness.
For a long time he sat on the edge of his bed, with a bare foot in one hand and a silk stocking in the other, staring dully out through the open window, unable to proceed with his dressing. He was still under the spell of an extraordinarily vivid dream.
At length he tugged himself loose from his captivity, drew on a robe, and made his way out to the patio, where his pretty sister awaited him at the breakfast-table.
'Whatever has been keeping you, Joe?' she inquired. 'Hassan is in a great dither; says they have been ready to start for an hour.'
'Start?' mumbled her bewildered brother. 'Start where?'
'Maybe good old Hassan is going crazy—or perhaps you are. I thought it queer that you had said nothing to me about this sudden trip to Jerusalem. But—weren't you intending to go?'
Now the sleepy Prince came awake with a start. Leaning forward on his elbows he studied his sister's eyes. Then he slowly rubbed the back of his shaky hand across his forehead and huskily ordered the serving-maid to send for Hassan.
'This is the most unbelievable thing that ever happened,' he muttered, half to himself. 'Tamar, just what did Hassan say?'
'Here he comes,' she said. 'He'll tell you.'
The dignified steward, tall, greying, dressed for travel, approached the table and stood at attention with anxiety in his eyes.
'Hassan,' said the Prince, 'who told you we were going to Jerusalem?'
The steward's voice was unsteady as he apologized for his mistake.
'I am very sorry, sire! I had a most peculiar dream, last night; something more than a dream. It seemed real!'
The Prince impulsively turned his chair about to face his steward directly.
'Proceed, Hassan,' he said soberly. 'Tell me about this dream.'
'I fear it will sound very foolish, sire. I know you do not believe in dreams.'
'Don't be too sure about that!' said the Prince. 'Let's have it!'
'Well, sire, to begin with: do you remember the well-favoured youth who assisted us that night when we took the body of Jesus down from the cross? And how he helped us at the tomb? And we couldn't understand his behaviour at all—the way he held the Master's body caressingly, as one might carry a sleeping child, with a tender smile; and showing no grief, no grief at all!'
The Prince nodded his full remembrance, and Hassan went on:
'The handsome youth was garbed in a working-man's clothing; but after his exertions and while we rested at the tomb, he slipped off his brown jacket and revealed a white silk tunic of exquisite texture—'
'That sounds like a dream, too, Hassan,' interposed Tamar.
'What Hassan says is true, my sister. I was about to pay the handsome youth for his service to us; but when I saw that tunic it seemed inappropriate to offer him anything. . . . Continue, Hassan.'
'This strange young man has been much in my thoughts, sire. There was one story, you will remember, about the women seeing an angel, clad in white, when they went to the tomb that Sunday morning.'
'Perhaps you have thought about it so much that it has gone to your head, Hassan,' put in Tamar.
'No, no, sister!' cautioned the Prince. 'Hassan is not crazy! Let him tell his story.'
'He came to my bedside last night, sire, saying that we were wanted in Jerusalem, mid-morning of the Day of Pentecost, at the Coppersmiths' Guildhall; an important meeting, to which your grace and his humble servant Hassan were both invited. . . . He said you had been notified, sire. It was all so real that I believed it, and prepared for the journey. I see that I was mistaken—and I crave your grace's pardon!'
There was a lengthy silence before the Prince spoke. In an unsteady voice, he said, 'Hassan, you were not mistaken. I was notified. He came to me. I dismissed it as a dream. We will go to Jerusalem, as he commanded.'
Hassan's gloomy face instantly cleared. He drew himself up to his full height, saluted, and withdrew. Tamar broke the silence.
'Joe, dear,' she said solicitously, 'you know you don't believe in such things! . . . They just don't happen!'
'I wish you could have seen him, Tamar! Wherever he came from, they practise no economy. You never saw such clothing! White silk; satin, maybe, with a luminous sheen! On the breast of his tunic was some sort of insignia done in gold. I didn't recognize it.' He beckoned to the maid. 'Bring me a slate and a stylus. . . . See, Tamar—it looked like this! What is it?'
She rose, came round to his side of the table, studied the drawing, and shook her head.
'Have you any idea what it means?' she asked.
'Yes,' said Joseph. 'It is the cross on which they crucified the Master! . . . Tamar—that was a greater event than we knew!'
* * * * * *
Every able-bodied employee on Jairus' vast estate, whatever his specific occupation, was annually drafted for a week to assist in the barley harvest.
By virtue of his recent appointment to the position of overseer of the vineyards, Joel could have claimed exemption from this hard work in the harvest-fields, but had not done so. From dawn to dusk, every day that week, he had cheerfully toiled beside the common labourers, adding much to their diligence and his own popularity. Nor had this evidence of his sincere concern for his master's welfare escaped the attention of Jairus himself; and when the last load of yellow sheaves had been stored and the harvesters were wearily trudging home with Joel bringing up the rear, he dismounted from his horse to express his appreciation.
'You are entitled to a few days' rest, my boy,' said Jairus. 'Perhaps you would like to go fishing.'
'If you would be so kind, sir,' said Joel, 'I should like to go to Jerusalem and see the celebration of Pentecost. I have never been there, and, sir'—he hesitated, flushing a little through his tan—'I have a particular reason for wanting to go.'
Jairus' face had suddenly become so sober that it seemed stern; and Joel, rather crestfallen, feared a rebuke.
'What is this particular reason, Joel?' demanded Jairus.
'I'm afraid I can't rightly explain, sir,' murmured Joel, much embarrassed. 'If you prefer not to let me go, I will think no more about it.'
'No, no!' barked Jairus, impatiently. 'I did not say you couldn't go! I asked you what is your reason for wanting to go to Jerusalem—on the Day of Pentecost!'
Joel sheepishly dug the toe of his worn sandal into the ground and avoided his rich employer's eyes. After a long moment, he confessed, 'I dreamed that I was expected to be there.'
'My God!' ejaculated Jairus, in a shaken voice. 'So you dreamed! Tell me about it!'
Joel was frightened now. Jairus had thought better of him than that he would turn out to be a superstitious dunce. He shook his head and grinned foolishly.
'It was nothing, sir,' he mumbled. 'I can't remember.'
'Perhaps I can refresh your memory, Joel,' said Jairus. 'You dreamed that a fine-looking young man came to you—by the way, was he riding?'
Joel was staring up into Jairus' face now, with wide eyes.
'Yes, sir; on a white horse.'
'Silver-mounted bridle?'
'Yes, sir.' Joel swallowed noisily. 'And a silver saddle! How did you know, sir? Did you see him?'
'He rode into my bedroom last night,' admitted Jairus. 'He told me to come to Pentecost. It seemed very real. But, this morning when I awoke, I decided to give it no further thought; though, I must say, I have thought of nothing else all day. . . . It's a strange business, Joel!'
'Yes, sir! It is that!' And it was also a strange business, reflected Joel, to be having this man-to-man talk with his eminent employer.