Authors: Unknown
This rambling route included the Roman Consulates, a not very imposing
group of official residences, where brief pauses were made to salute the
imperial arms rather than the imperial representatives of Samaria, Decapolis,
and Galilee.
'You watch them,' advised Melas, 'when they stop to salute Herod's
house. It's funny.'
And it was funny. Herod, who handled Rome's diplomatic dealings with
Galilee, which were reputed to be trivial and infrequent, had made himself very
well-to-do, but the homage paid to his establishment was perfunctory enough to
constitute a downright insult.
'I've heard them say,' Melas had explained, 'that this Herod fellow
would like to be the Procurator. That's why Pilate's Legion begins the salute
with the thumb to the nose. Maybe that's orders: I don't know.'
Back at the parade-ground, the companies were dismissed for the day. By
twos and threes the men swaggered down into the congested business zone,
capitalizing the privileges of their resplendent garb and glittering weapons,
rejoicing alike in the shy admiration of the olive-tinted girls and the candid
hatred of the merchants whose wares they impudently pawed and pilfered.
In the afternoon, the majority of the troops strolled out to the small
arena, south of the city, and watched the games--footraces, discus-hurling,
javelin-throwing, wrestling--tame sports, but better than none. No gladiatorial
combats were permitted, nor any other amusing bloodshed. Immediately outside
the arena, but within its compound, every conceivable type of imposture
flourished. Many of the mountebanks were from far distances. There were
magicians from India, pygmies from Africa, Syrian fortune-tellers. Patently
crooked gambling wheels and other games of chance beguiled many a hard-earned
shekel. Innumerable booths dispensed lukewarm, sickeningly sweet beverages of
doubtful origin, flyblown figs, and dirty confections.
To the Romans, accustomed at home to more exciting events on their
festal days, the arena and its accessories had but little charm. To the country
people, it was a stupendous show, especially for the younger ones. Most of
their elders, mightily concerned with the sale of pottery, rugs, shawls,
assorted homespun, sandals, saddles, bracelets, bangles, and ornamental trifles
in leather, wood, and silver, remained downtown in the thick of serious trade.
As for Marcellus and his staff, and the ranking officers of the other
garrisons, their chief diversion--apart from lounging in the baths--was
gambling. After the first day, spent in making ceremonious calls upon the
Procurator and the Consuls, and a little sight-seeing, the staff members idled
in their sumptuous quarters.
There seemed to be an unlimited supply of wine, and it was apparent that
the officers were making abundant use of it. On two occasions, Centurion Paulus
had not appeared at the evening dinner, and many another place was vacant at
the well-provided tables in the ornate mess-hall. Demetrius had been pleased to
note that his master was exercising a little more discretion than some of the
others, but it was evident that he too was relieving his boredom by the only
available method. It was to be hoped that the week could be brought to an end
without a row. The materials for quarrels were all at hand; the wine, the dice,
the idleness. It had never taken very much liquor to make Marcellus reckless.
Paulus, when drunk, was surly and sensitive. Demetrius had begun to count the
hours until it would be time to take to the road. Minoa had its disadvantages,
but it was a safer and more attractive place than Jerusalem.
He wished he could find out what had become of the man who didn't want
to be king of this country. One day he had broached the subject to the
Thracian; but Melas, who knew everything, knew nothing about this; had quite
forgotten the little furor on the hill.
'The patrol probably scared him back to the country,' surmised Melas.
'Perhaps they put him in prison,' wondered Demetrius.
'He'd be lucky,' laughed Melas. 'Men who gather up big crowds around
them are better off in jail, this week, than on the street.'
'Do you know where the prison is?' Demetrius had inquired, suddenly
inspired with an idea.
Melas gave him a quizzical glance. No, he didn't know where the prison
was and didn't want to know. Prisons were fine places to stay away from. Any
man was a fool to visit a friend in prison. First thing you knew, they'd gobble
you up, too. No, sir! Melas had had enough of prisons to last him the rest of
his life.
One afternoon (it was their fourth day in Jerusalem) Demetrius went out
alone over the road on which they had come into the city, and on up the long
hill until he reached the place where he had seen the lonely man with the
beseeching eyes. He easily recognized the spot: there were dusty and broken
palm branches scattered along the roadside, poor shreds of a brief and doubtful
glory.
Retracing his steps slowly to the brow of the hill, he turned aside into
a public park, where well-worn paths wound through a grove of ancient olive
trees, gnarled and twisted as if they had shared with the hapless Jews a long,
stubborn withstanding of persecution. He sat there in the shade for an hour
looking down over Jerusalem. You'd think a city thirty-five centuries old would
have a little more to show for its experience. For that matter, the whole world
seemed incapable of learning anything useful. Jerusalem wanted her freedom.
What would she do with freedom if she had it? Everybody in the world wanted
more freedom; freedom to do, and be, what?
Suppose (it was inconceivable), but suppose the Jews contrived to drive
the Romans out? Then what? Would they leave off quarrelling among themselves,
and forget their old party differences, and work together for the good of their
country? Would the rich landlords and money-lenders treat the poor more
leniently? If they disposed of the Romans, would they feed the hungry and care
for the sick and clean the streets? Why, they could do all that now, if they
wished. The Romans wouldn't stop them. The Romans would be glad enough to see
such improvements, for some of them had to live there too.
What was the nature of this bondage that Jerusalem so bitterly resented?
That noisy pack of fanatics on the road, the other day, thought their trouble
was with the Roman Government. If they could find a leader strong enough to
free them from Rome, they would set up a kingdom of their own. That, they
seemed to think, would make everything right. But would it? How would a
revolution help the mass of the people? Once a new Government was in the
saddle, a small group of greedy men would promptly impose upon the public.
Maybe this lonely man from the country knew that. This tatterdemalion throng
wanted him to be their king, wanted him to live at the Insula, instead of
Pilate. Then the few, who had helped him into power, would begin to make
themselves great. But Jerusalem would continue to be what she was now. A change
of masters wouldn't help the people.
Demetrius rose and sauntered back to the main thoroughfare, surprised to
see that so few travellers were on the road. It still lacked two hours of
sunset. Something important must be going on, to have drawn the traffic off the
highway; yet the city seemed unusually quiet.
He walked slowly down the hill, his thoughtful mood persisting. What
kind of government would solve the world's problems? As matters stood, all
governments were rapacious. People everywhere endured their rulers until they
had gained strength enough to throw them off and take on another load of tyranny.
The real trouble wasn't located at the capital, but in the immediate
neighbourhood, in the tribe, in the family, in themselves. Demetrius wished he
could talk with the lonely man from the country, and learn what he thought of
government; how, in his opinion, a better freedom might be found.
It suddenly occurred to him that the impudent little Athenian might know
what had become of the man who didn't want to be a king. He quickened his
steps, resolved to make inquiries for a caravan with spices to sell.
Down in the city, nearly all the usual activity had ceased. What had
become of everybody? Even in the market area, there were very few traders
about. Accosting a bearded old Greek, who was laboriously folding a bundle of
rags, Demetrius inquired what was happening; where were the people? The tired
old man shrugged and grinned, without making a reply. It was evident that he
thought the young fellow was trying to be playful.
'Has anything happened?' persisted Demetrius, soberly.
The old man tied his bundle and sat on it, puffing from his exertion.
Presently he regarded his fellow countryman with fresh interest.
'You trying to say,' he exclaimed, 'that you honestly don't know what's
happening? My boy, this is the night of the Jewish Passover. All the Jews are
in their houses. And those who haven't houses have crawled in somewhere under
shelter.'
'For how long?'
'Until morning. Tomorrow they will be out early, for it is the last day
of Passover Week, and there will be much business. But where have you been, that
you didn't know?'
Demetrius was amused at the old man's comments on his ignorance.
'I've never been here before,' he said. 'I know nothing about the Jews'
customs. For the past two hours I've been out on the hill. There's an olive
grove.'
'I know.' The old man nodded. 'They call it the Garden of Gethsemane.
Not much there to see. Ever on Mars' Hill--in Athens?'
'Yes; beautiful!'
'These people can't make any statues. It's against their religion. Can't
carve anything.'
'There's a lot of carving on the Temple,' said Demetrius.
'Yes, but they didn't do it.' The old man rose and shouldered his
burden.
'I wonder if you know where I might find a caravan from Athens that
deals in spices,' asked Demetrius.
'Oh, yes. You mean Popygos. He's down by the old tower. You passed his
place when you came in from the hill. Popygos. Better keep your hand on your
wallet.'
'Would he rob a fellow Greek?'
'Popygos would rob his grandmother.'
Demetrius grinned and bade the grizzled old merchant good-bye. He
started toward the Insula. It was too late to go back looking for the spice
caravan. He would find it tomorrow. People were very much alike, wherever you
found them. The Jews hated their government. So did the Greeks. But a change of
government wouldn't help. That wasn't the trouble. The trouble was that the
people couldn't change each other or themselves. The rug merchant discredited
the spice merchant. Popygos would rob his grandmother. But that wasn't Tiberius
Cæsar's fault. Tiberius was a bad Emperor, no doubt; but under any other
government the grandmother of Popygos would be no more safe than she was now.
The lonely man from the country probably knew that. He didn't want to be a
king. No matter who was king, you'd better keep your hand on your wallet. The
world was in serious need of something--but it wasn't something that a new king
could furnish.
Demetrius did not wait to watch the early morning inspection. As soon as
he had finished serving his master's breakfast, he made off alone. Already the
streets were crowded. You had to pick your way carefully through the market
district or you might tramp on some reckless huckster sitting cross-legged on
the narrow sidewalk surrounded by his pitiful little stock of merchandise--a
few crude earthenware jugs, perhaps. Here sat a shapeless bundle of rags that
turned out to be an old woman with three eggs and a melon for sale. The roadway
was choked with pack-animals unloading into the little bazaars. Everywhere
emaciated arms stretched out for a penny. Loathsome sores were unwrapped and
put on display accompanied progressively by a wheedle, a whine, a hiss, and a
curse. A hollow-chested old man with empty fly-infested eye-sockets
apathetically blew a plaintive squawk from a decrepit flageolet. Now the street
narrowed into a dark pestilential cavern that declined over a series of broad
stone steps, slippery with refuse, swarming with beggars and mangy half-starved
dogs. According to Centurion Paulus, the Jews believed that they were created
in the image of their god. Demetrius held his nose and hurried through this
assortment of divine reproductions, taking care not to brush against them.
The caravan was not hard to find. Near the old tower, overlooking the
little Kedron River, there was an open plaza where the road to the west began.
A pungent aroma--distinctly refreshing after a trip through the market--guided
Demetrius to his destination. A welcoming voice hailed him.
'Ho, adelphos!' shouted the garrulous little Athenian. Demetrius was
honestly glad to see him, though at any other time or place he wouldn't have
liked to be hailed as brother by this intrusive fellow. They shook hands. 'I
was hoping to see you again. My name is Zenos. I don't think I told you.'
'I am Demetrius. You have a pleasant location here.'
'You're right! Plenty of room, and we see everything. You should have
been here last night. Much excitement! They arrested this Nazarene, you know.
Found him up there in the old park.'
'Nazarene! I hadn't heard. What had he done?' asked Demetrius, without
much interest.
'Why, you know! The man we saw on the white donkey, the other day.'
Demetrius quickened, and asked a lot of questions. Zenos was delighted
to have so much information to dispense. Troops from the Insula had been on the
look-out for this Jesus ever since Sunday noon. Last night they had captured
him; brought him, and his little band of friends, back into the city.
'But what had he done?' demanded Demetrius, impatiently.
'Well, they arrested him for stirring up the people, and for wanting to
be a king. Popygos says if they convict him of treason, it will go hard with
him.'
'Treason! But that's nonsense!' exclaimed Demetrius, hotly. 'That man
doesn't want to upset the Government; doesn't want to have anything to do with
the Government; neither this Government nor any other. Treason? They're all
crazy!'