'They're loathsome!' mumbled Peter.
'And the one on this side of the wart hog,' continued the Angel, undisturbed by Peter's interruption, 'is a chimpanzee. Looks a little like a man, does he not? And the creature shuffling along behind him really is a man, even if lacking somewhat in refinement.'
'What's all this about?' demanded Peter crossly.
The mysterious visitor drew his chair nearer and when he spoke his tone was serious.
'Peter—I have been sent to say that you have been entrusted with a very important mission. It will take you to far places and you will meet all manner of God's creatures. You must learn to say to yourself, "God either created all of us—or none of us!" The Master intends his Kingdom to serve the whole world. If it is not open to everybody, it is not open to anybody! I was sent to tell you this.'
Peter came wide awake now and found himself alone. Good old Simon's white head appeared at the top of the stairs.
'There are three strangers here to see you,' he said. 'They are from Caesarea.'
'What can men of Caesarea want of me?' muttered Peter crossly.
'Perhaps they will tell you,' said Simon, retreating down the stairs.
* * * * * *
How he had hated the Romans! Ever since he was a little boy the very word angered him! Their cavalry from the Capernaum fort had galloped, four abreast, on the Galilean highways, frightening poor people half out of their wits, sending women and children scurrying into the hedges. Their drunken foot-soldiers had reeled into the little shops shouting for attention. They had grossly insulted women of all ages on the streets. They had helped themselves to the defenceless farmers' grapes and melons. Peter had despised the Romans with a bitter loathing!
And now, here he was in Caesarea, the honoured guest of 'The Italians,' a social club composed entirely of Roman civilians in the employ of the Prefect's government.
The three mounted men who had called for him in Joppa had deferentially explained that Cornelius, the Senior Regent of 'The Italians,' urgently desired him to come at once to Caesarea for an important conference. Very much bewildered, Peter had awkwardly climbed on to the tall black horse they had brought for him; and there he was, riding along under the bright moonlight, in the company of Romans; to all appearances the same kind of Romans he had learned to hate! Sleek, well-fed, well-accoutred Romans, with the despised black eagle insignia on their scarlet tunics, with the clean-shaven faces and close-cropped hair, and the inevitable black bandeaux on their heads. The journey was made mostly in silence. The couriers had told him little about his summons to Caesarea. Cornelius wanted to see him. That was about all. The name of Cornelius meant nothing to Peter, but evidently it meant a great deal to these men. They spoke his name almost reverently. Peter was to learn later that Cornelius was the treasurer of the Roman government in Caesarea and high in the esteem of Prefect Sergius.
It was a fast trip. Peter had had almost no experience of riding. When they arrived in Caesarea, he was weary and lame. They took him directly to their well-appointed club-house, showed him into a beautifully furnished guest-room, and told him to rest until Cornelius came. He bathed, slept, and wolfed the food a servant brought him. And now—in the early afternoon—he was invited to see the mysterious man who had summoned him from Joppa.
Cornelius was seated behind a large desk in a sumptuous office. As Peter entered, he rose, bowed deeply, and pointed to a heavily upholstered chair opposite his own. Peter sat and regarded the Regent with interest. He was a handsome old man of seventy, with snow-white hair and a benign countenance. When he spoke, his voice was low and gentle.
'You may think it strange, sir,' he began, in laboured Aramaic, 'to be summoned here with so little information concerning your errand. . . . By the way,' he interrupted himself to ask, 'do you converse in Greek?'
'Not too well,' admitted Peter.
'Is your Greek as good as my Aramaic?'
'Yes, sir; not meaning any offence.' They both grinned.
'We will speak Greek, then,' said Cornelius softly. 'What I have to say to you could not be confided to those fine fellows who brought you here. They would not have understood. I have had a mysterious dream, and I am informed that you can interpret it.'
Peter leaned forward and listened attentively.
'On the night before last I was visited by an Angel,' continued Cornelius. 'Let me say that it is not my habit to dream of Angels. This one seemed very real. He was a handsome young fellow, clad in white satin, and wearing a golden fillet. On the left breast of his tunic—' Cornelius laid his hand over the black eagle on his breast.
'There was a gold cross, I think,' assisted Peter.
Cornelius' deep-set eyes widened. He nodded his head.
'You too have seen him, then?' he asked.
'Yes, sir. He is a courier, representing the Kingdom.'
'Precisely!' said Cornelius. 'That is what he told me! And when I asked him to tell me about this Kingdom, he told me to send for you! . . . Proceed, please! What manner of Kingdom is this?'
'It is a long story, sir,' said Peter, wondering where to begin. 'Doubtless you have heard of Jesus, the Galilean, who went about the Jewish provinces, healing the sick, encouraging the downtrodden—and was crucified by Pontius Pilate—and, on the third day, left his tomb, to be seen alive by many witnesses.'
Cornelius nodded, indifferently, almost impatiently. Yes, he had heard all that—but these were tall tales, and who were these witnesses? And what was this Kingdom?
Peter recrossed his legs and began at the beginning. He himself had been a witness. He hadn't wanted to believe in this Carpenter. He had been a rough, profane, sceptical, roistering fisherman. He had gone out into the country to scoff at this young upstart and prove to the deluded men of his fishing crew that the wonder-working prophet was a fraud.
Cornelius listened with mounting interest.
Peter told him of the day when he had been forced to carry a blind child to Jesus, and had seen the bewildered eyes open; told him of the vast throngs that followed, day by day, hungry, footsore, fascinated by tidings of a Kingdom to come where all men would be free of oppression; told him of the healing of cripples, yes, and lepers!
The afternoon wore on. The story continued.
The authorities had tried to silence the Carpenter, but feared an uprising by the people. The crowds increased. The highways were crowded with frantic relatives bringing their sick to be healed.
Dusk came down. A servant slipped quietly into the room and lighted the lamps. Cornelius told him to serve supper here on the desk. The servant retired and Peter went on.
Now it was Passover Week in Jerusalem. Jesus had rebuked the Temple as a place of merchandise. He had been arrested, tried for blasphemy and treason, convicted, whipped, reviled, crucified. And then he had come to life again.
'And you say you saw all this?' demanded Cornelius, sharply.
'I saw it all, sir. Yes, sir, all but—' Peter's voice broke. He bowed his head and covered his distorted face with his huge, trembling hands. Cornelius waited silently. Recovering his voice with an effort, Peter went on. 'I saw him after he had returned to life, sir; but I must confess, in shame, that I was not present at his trials, nor was I at his side when he went to his death. At the last, when everything seemed lost, I denied, in the presence of strangers, that I had ever known him—and I ran away!'
There was a long silence. At length the old Roman huskily cleared his throat and said gently, 'You are a brave man, my friend! And your testimony is believable. Your confession proves your integrity. You would not have told me this if you were not speaking the truth. I believe you, Peter. I believe everything you have told me.'
Servants came in to serve supper, but Cornelius shook his head and motioned them to leave.
'Do you want to tell me now about this Kingdom?' he asked softly. 'Or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow?'
'Tomorrow,' murmured Peter.
'Come,' said Cornelius, rising, and laying a hand on Peter's bowed shoulder. 'You shall go to your room; and when you are ready for your supper they will bring it to you. . . . I know you are weary. It was a heavy task. Only a very strong man could do that!'
Taking his arm Cornelius accompanied him back to his room and quietly closed the door. Utterly spent, Peter flung himself at full length upon his bed. It seemed very strange that his shameful confession of cowardice and disloyalty should have made him an accredited ambassador of the Master's Kingdom!
* * * * * *
The following afternoon, closeted with Cornelius, was a memorable occasion. Peter had never met anyone like him. The gentle-spirited old Roman had given much serious thought to the future of mankind. Indeed, he disclosed a far deeper invasion of this subject than had ever been undertaken by Peter, who knew next to nothing about the history of nations.
'Now, as for this universal peace and freedom which your Kingdom expects in the near future,' Cornelius was saying, 'I fear that you—and all who share your hope—are letting yourselves in for a great disappointment.'
'But does not every sane man desire peace?' queried Peter.
'As an individual, yes,' agreed Cornelius, 'but men are not permitted to exercise their own private desires. They are in captivity to their nation, and nations have neither the talent nor the training for the achievement of peace.'
'But every man can claim the peace of the Kingdom in his own heart,' argued Peter.
'Certainly!' said Cornelius. 'As an individual, he may acquire peace of mind, or, as you say, peace in his heart; but why call that a Kingdom? . . . You have been talking about a triumphant King whose reign will supersede the authority and power of all regularly constituted governments. You have been too discreet—or too polite—to tell me that the coming Kingdom of your Christos will destroy the Roman Empire; but that's what it comes to, does it not?'
Peter had shifted uneasily in his chair.
'I shouldn't want to put it that way, sir,' he said. 'The Christos will not destroy the Empire. The Empire will destroy itself! As men see the advantages of living in good-will toward one another—'
'They will not need the Empire,' broke in Cornelius. 'But it isn't that simple! Your man of good-will is not at liberty to choose how he may treat other men. His nation decides that for him.'
'But you yourself, my good Cornelius, believe in kindness and friendship toward all men,' said Peter softly, 'and you practise it, too. You are not far from the Kingdom.'
'Further than you think, my friend,' insisted Cornelius. 'It is true that I do not bear arms. I do not slaughter or enslave other men. I have not the physique to be a soldier. The Empire has given me the more decent task of keeping the accounts and disbursing the funds for the building of these great wharves which will be used some day in an attack on you unhappy Jews.'
'If it hurts your conscience, why do you do it?' ventured Peter.
'What would you have me do?' countered the old man. 'Shall I live in solitude, despised by my friends, unable to support my dependents? . . . What I am saying is: your Kingdom presupposes that every man is free to determine what manner of life he shall live. In that it is hopelessly impractical.'
Peter was no match for the old Roman in debate. His faith in the victory of the Master's Kingdom was undimmed, but he had no answer for the problems that Cornelius presented. He had never confronted them.
'Is it your belief then,' he asked, 'that men are for ever to be the victims of greed—and their rulers' lust for power?'
'It has been so from the beginning,' sighed Cornelius. 'Have we any way to judge the future, save by the past?'
The afternoon slipped away quickly, Cornelius doing most of the talking today. . . . It was, he reflected, a strangely constructed world. All that it knew about heroism it had learned on the battlefield. All that it knew about the navigation of the seas it had learned in naval warfare. Its sculpture, its architecture, its monuments, its songs, its poetry—was there any art-form that found its theme elsewhere than in the valour of armed men? . . . It was unfortunate that this should be true; but wasn't it true?
The pity of it, admitted Cornelius, was that whole nations so often were obliged to follow mad rulers, wicked men recklessly gambling with the blood and property of their subjects.
The sun was sinking.
'I hope I have not wearied you, Peter,' said the old man. 'And I hope I have not discouraged you. . . . Good luck to your Kingdom of love. . . . I can say that much without committing an act of treason; for the Roman Empire will not regard your Kingdom seriously. If it really constituted a threat to the Empire, you would be tossed into prison—and so would I, for entertaining you as my guest.'
'But—do you expect the Empire to endure for ever?' asked Peter.
'I have no opinion, my friend, about the Empire's ultimate future. It is customary for the sceptre to pass from one hand to another. A nation may be in the saddle today, and on foot—and barefoot—tomorrow. Perhaps that, too, is God's will.' The old Roman sat in meditative silence for a while; then he said, 'I have been wondering today about the fate of your neighbours in Arabia. Their Crown Prince lies hopelessly paralysed. Word came last night that their King Zendi is dead. The Arabs have known what to expect of their royal house. What becomes of them now will depend upon a new ruler. Will he reach out for territory that he does not need? Will he be content with what he has? Will he let the shepherds tend their flocks, or will they have to leave them to the wolves and the weather while they gallop off to war?'
'War? With whom?' asked Peter.
'With Judaea, perhaps. It is possible.'
'The Empire might not like that,' observed Peter naively.
Cornelius smiled dryly and said no, the Empire might be annoyed.
It was supper-time now, and they proceeded to the club's spacious dining-room, where two hundred of The Italians were assembled. Peter sat at Cornelius' right and was formally presented. After supper he was asked to speak, and he told the story of the divine Galilean who had laid down his life in the cause of world-friendship. The Romans listened respectfully. Peter did not raise his voice or his hand. His audience, from the first moment, was held completely captive. He confidently promised peace and freedom for all men in the name of his risen Lord. He even dared to tell his fascinated audience of the torch-like flames of Pentecost. And nobody stirred, and nobody smiled.