'Well, Joel'—Jairus turned to mount his horse. 'We are summoned. Go home now and make ready for the journey. We will try to get off at daybreak.'
* * * * * *
Ephraim, the good-natured farrier and general blacksmith of Nazareth, lounged at full-length on his tool-scarred work-bench and waited for a cessation of the pelting summer shower that was detaining him long past supper-time.
Since early morning he had been toiling on a broken ploughshare, hoping to complete his task by the end of the day, but the sudden storm had darkened the shop, already at dusk, and he had given it up—complacently, however, for the gardens needed the rain more than Hoseph needed his plough. Wearied by the day's work and drowsy in the darkness—for he had banked his forge-fire in preparation for leaving—Ephraim stretched out comfortably and fell asleep so soundly that he was quite unaware of the opening and closing of the double doors facing the street.
A brightening glow from the suddenly revived fire on the forge attracted his attention, though he did not stir. In his dream he saw a well-favoured youth tugging at the bellows-rope with what seemed an experienced hand. Every fresh blast from the old leather bellows quickened the fire. It was possible to see more clearly now. The tall white horse—a superb animal—was attempting to take a drink from the grimy water-tub beside the anvil, just as any other horse would have done, and his young master was forbidding him to do it, just as any other man would have done; but Ephraim knew it was only a dream because neither the horse nor the man was wet.
With his curiosity considerably stirred, Ephraim turned on his side, elevated his head into the crook of his arm, and had a better view of his remarkable visitors. The handsome youth was gorgeously clad in white, with a broad fillet of gleaming gold circling his head, and the horse's trappings were heavily ornamented with silver.
'How does it happen, young master,' Ephraim heard himself inquiring, 'that your clothing and your horse's coat are dry, after coming through that rain-storm?'
'We came another way,' replied the youth casually, still pumping the bellows.
'But you're cold,' remarked Ephraim, 'or you wouldn't be firing the forge.'
'That's for light,' said the youth, raking the coals toward the centre.
'A young fellow as queer as you are,' chuckled Ephraim, 'should be able to see in the dark.'
'Perhaps I can—but you can't.' The strange visitor let go of the bellows-rope now and approached the work-bench. 'I wanted you to see me plainly enough to remember what I came to say. I have an important message for you, Ephraim. You are expected in Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost.'
Ephraim heard himself laughing softly in his sleep. What a dream this had turned out to be!
'What's the idea of my going to Pentecost?' he inquired. 'I don't need a camel. I can't even afford a good donkey.'
At this juncture the young messenger seriously proceeded to explain. A large number of the friends and followers of Jesus were being called together in Jerusalem on the morning of the Day of Pentecost. The meeting would convene in the Coppersmiths' Guildhall, in the middle of the forenoon.
'And you are entitled to be there, Ephraim,' he went on. 'You always showed kindness to Jesus, from his childhood. Nobody in Nazareth—except his family and you—had any sympathy for him because he was different from other children. And when he was grown to manhood, the Nazarenes—all but you—openly scoffed at his singular powers. So he went away and talked to people who believed in him and loved him. And you left your shop—and followed him.'
'Aye, sir; that I did!' said Ephraim. 'I heard him speak, for many days, in Cana and Hammath and Capernaum. And I saw him heal the sick. . . . But how did you know?'
'And when you returned to Nazareth,' continued the young messenger, ignoring Ephraim's query, 'you told all Nazareth what you had heard and seen, and they said you were a blasphemer. . . . Doubtless it injured your business.'
'Not very much,' replied Ephraim cheerfully. 'When the chain to the well-bucket is broken, Nazareth is willing to have it mended by a blasphemer. . . . But I must say for Nazareth that the people were sorry when they heard that Jesus had been crucified.'
'What did they say when the word came that he had returned to life?'
'Well—of course they didn't believe that!'
'How about you, Ephraim? Do you believe it?'
'I don't know,' replied Ephraim vaguely, after some delay. 'It's not easy to believe, especially in a town where the people are sure it can't be true. . . . I ponder on it—every day.'
'Would you be glad to have firm proof that it is so?'
'Indeed I would, sir!'
'Then come to Jerusalem on Pentecost.'
'I might do that if I knew that this message was real.'
The youthful messenger made no reply to that. The leaky old bellows wheezed a few times, so loudly that it brought Ephraim wide awake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. His visitor was gone. But the coals on the forge glowed brightly. . . . Ephraim knew now that he would be in Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost.
* * * * * *
The strong and steady northerly breeze that had shortened the voyage of
The Vestris
from Gaza to Joppa continued unabated, to the considerable delay of the return trip.
Captain Fulvius, whose detestation was labour that wasn't strictly necessary, had sailed in light ballast, and
The Vestris
had frisked about in a manner unsuitable to her age and decrepitude. The voyage had been tiresome beyond description for everybody but Voldi, who was in no hurry to make port anywhere, though the Captain and the Proconsul were of the opinion that only a perfunctory investigation, if any, would be made into the assassination of Herod Antipas.
To make sure, however, that Voldi was not apprehended, an action that might disturb the ever-delicate political relations of Jewry and Arabia, it had been decided that Voldi was to remain under cover during the stop at Gaza and proceed on
The Vestris
to Rome. He could return to Arabia when the sensation caused by the Tetrarch's death had ceased to be of interest.
It had been the hope of Mencius and Fulvius that the salt-caravan from Engedi might have arrived by the time
The Vestris
tardily waddled to her berth in the dirty old city, but they were disappointed. Of course almost anything might have happened to delay that slow-plodding, heavily-laden procession. The weather was cruelly hot, requiring longer and more frequent periods of rest for the camels. You couldn't hustle a camel, either by appealing to his moral obligation to serve the Empire with all his heart, mind, and strength, or even by the more practical method of beating his rump with a club. When a camel decided that he had done his day's work he sat down, right where he was, and no amount of flattering cajolery or forthright brutality would alter his resolution to adjourn. Mencius and Fulvius knew, from experience, that they might have to wait another fortnight.
As for Voldi, his confinement on the ship, as the empty days and hot nights dragged out their length in the suffocating stench of Gaza's waterfront, was almost more than he could bear. He had promised to remain on board at the insistence of men who had befriended him at no little risk. It was not only that they didn't want him to get into trouble; they didn't want to get into trouble themselves for harbouring a fugitive.
But after a week had passed, the Arabian's impatience boiled over. He had had time to do much thinking and most of it concerned Fara. Now that Jesus was dead and there was nothing more that she could do for him, where would she go? Surely not to Galilee to be dependent upon the fisherfolk. In her loneliness, was it not likely that she would want to return to Ione? Now that she was adrift, perhaps Fara would listen to reason. Voldi felt confident that she loved him. This might be the time to present his case with some hope of success.
Mencius sympathetically heard him out, and Fulvius too agreed that if the authorities had suspected he was sailing in
The Vestris
they would have had ample time to pursue the ship by land and arrest him. After some debate it was decided that Voldi might leave without much risk to any of them, which he did forthwith, it being then two hours past midday, when all Gaza had crept into the shade to sleep. At the last minute, Mencius impulsively announced that he would accompany him for a few miles. Brutus needed exercise.
They stopped at the old fort of Minoa for water. The sentry at the gate immediately recognized the Proconsul and deferentially volunteered to notify Centurion Paulus, who, he said, was in temporary command. Paulus cordially extended such hospitality as was to be had, and while they lounged in the shade their conversation promptly turned to the singular case of the young Legate, Marcellus, who had been unexpectedly summoned to Rome.
'And half out of his wits, too,' put in Paulus. 'That crucifixion was too much for him.'
'The whole affair,' growled Mencius, 'was a disgrace to the Empire! The dead man is better off than the people who condemned him.'
'So you think the Galilean is dead,' remarked Paulus.
'What else should I think?' demanded Mencius. 'You crucified him, didn't you?'
Then the strange story came out. The contingent from Minoa had not left Jerusalem until Monday morning. By that time the city was buzzing with rumours that the crucified Galilean had left his tomb and had been seen by many credible witnesses. The Sanhedrin was making every effort to have the report officially denied and the rumour-spreaders punished, but Pilate was doing nothing about it.
'Of course, sir, it can't be true,' added Paulus, unwilling to be suspected of half-believing it himself.
'Why not?' barked the Proconsul, to the Centurion's amazement. 'This Galilean was no ordinary man. There is no doubt at all that he healed the sick and gave sight to the blind. Why shouldn't he have the power to come to life?'
'Well, sir, the way I look at it, if he had the power to recover his life after death, why did he permit himself to be killed? It cost him great suffering.' Paulus waited for further comment from the grizzled Roman who outranked him, and when it was not forthcoming he ventured to ask, 'Do you think it makes sense, sir?'
'No,' muttered Mencius. 'It doesn't make sense. And opening the eyes of the blind doesn't make sense, either. . . . I would give a great deal, Paulus, to know whether there is any truth in this story. . . . How does it strike you, Voldi?'
'I have no opinions, Mencius. It's difficult to believe.'
'But you saw him in action, and were deeply impressed. You even suggested that he might be humanity's "Torchbearer."'
'That is true,' admitted Voldi, 'but it hadn't occurred to me that he would live for ever. Couldn't he give the world all the light it needed—and then depart? What more can he do, now that he has returned from his tomb? Will he continue to admonish the new generations as they arrive?'
It was a long speech, coming from Voldi, who was habitually laconic, and Mencius regarded him with fresh interest.
'That raises an important question,' he said. 'If this generation paid no attention to his panacea for the world's agonies, what hope is there for better success with the next generation?'
'In other words,' interposed Paulus, 'what's the good of his resurrection—assuming it to have happened? The world doesn't want him: didn't want him last week; won't want him next week!'
'You're a cynic, Paulus,' drawled Mencius.
Paulus grinned, shrugged, toyed absently with the handle of his dagger, and mumbled that his occupation was not calculated to make a man sentimental or optimistic.
Apparently having had his fill of this inconclusive discussion, Voldi said he would be on his way. Paulus suggested that he spend the night at the fort and leave in the cool of early morning. Mencius too thought this was sensible. Paulus extended the invitation to the Proconsul, but he declined. Fulvius might think he had got into trouble. After an early supper under the trees, farewells were said, and Mencius departed for Gaza at sunset.
The air grew cooler as twilight came on; and Brutus, seeming anxious to stretch his long legs, quickened his brisk trot to a canter. After half a mile, he suddenly threw up his head, laid back his ears, and increased his speed, Mencius wondering why a horse so intelligent as Brutus should be eager to get back to his sweltering stall in the hold of
The Vestris.
Now Mencius himself heard the distant hoof-beats to the rear. Brutus had remembered an unpleasant incident on this road and wanted no repetition of it. The sound of hoof-beats was increasing. Mencius turned in his saddle and saw, through the gloom, a rider rapidly overtaking them on a tall white horse. Brutus, who had no intention of being outrun, leaped to a greyhound gallop, putting everything he had into it, but his pursuer presently drew alongside, making no effort to pass.
Mencius stared hard into the face of the stranger and was amazed to see a mere youth, clad in white, whose disarming expression of good-will caused the Proconsul to check his speed, an action immediately followed by his unexplained companion. After some effort they tugged their panting horses to a walk. Mencius spoke:
'That's a very indiscreet thing to do, my boy, overtaking a man in the dark, on a bandit-infested road, without giving a sign of your intentions.'
'I shouldn't have done it,' admitted the handsome youngster, 'but you have a very fast horse, Proconsul Mencius, and it's so rarely that Israfel has a chance to let himself out; and he was enjoying himself so much, sir.'
'So were you, I think,' commented Mencius dryly. 'I see that you know my name. And who are you? Where do you hail from? I'm sure you don't belong in this poverty-cursed neighbourhood. What's that insignia on your tunic? I don't recognize it.'
'It's the cross on which they crucified my King.'
They halted their horses now, and Mencius turned Brutus about so that they faced each other directly.
'There are tales in circulation,' said the Proconsul in an unsteady voice, 'that he returned to life. Have you any information on that?'