Authors: Unknown
He turned about and looked into the bewildered eyes of the tall
legionary.
'That was a strange thing, sir!' muttered the soldier.
'More strange than you think!' exclaimed Marcellus.
'I would have sworn the Greek was dead! He thought he saw someone coming
to rescue him!'
'He
did
see someone coming to rescue him!' shouted Marcellus,
ecstatically.
'That dead Galilean, maybe?' queried the legionary, nervously.
'That Galilean is not dead, my friend!' declared Marcellus. 'He is more
alive than any man here!'
Thoroughly shaken, his lips twitching with emotion, Marcellus moved away
with the scattering crowd. His mind was in a tumult. At the first corner, he
turned abruptly and retraced his steps. Nobody was interested in Stephanos now.
The troops from the Insula, four abreast, were disappearing down the street.
None of the friends of the intrepid Greek had yet ventured to put in an
appearance. It was too soon to expect any of them to take the risk.
Dropping to one knee beside the battered corpse, Marcellus gently drew
aside the matted hair and gazed into the impassive face. The lips were still
parted in a smile.
After a long time, old Benyosef hobbled out of the shop. His eyes were
red and swollen with weeping. He approached diffidently, halting a few steps
away. Marcellus looked up and beckoned to him and he came, pale with fright.
Stooping over, with his wrinkled hands bracing his feeble knees, he peered into
the quiet face. Then he searched Marcellus's eyes inquisitively, but without
recognition.
'It was a cruel death, sir,' he whimpered.
'Stephanos is not dead!' declared Marcellus. 'He went away with Jesus!'
'I beg of you, do not mock our faith, sir!' pleaded Benyosef. 'This has
been a sad day for us who believe in Jesus!'
'But did he not promise you that if you believe in him, you will never
die?'
Benyosef slowly nodded his head, staring into Marcellus's eyes
incredulously.
'Yes, but
you
do not believe that, sir!' he mumbled.
Marcellus rose and laid his hand on the old man's thin arm.
'Jesus may never come for me, Benyosef,' he said, quietly, 'and he may
never come for you--but he came for Stephanos! Go, now, and find a younger man
to help me. We will carry the body into your shop.'
Still pale with fright, the neighbours gathered about the mangled form
of Stephanos as it lay on the long table in Benyosef's workroom. All were
crying. Rhoda's grief was inconsolable. Some of the men regarded Marcellus with
suspicion that he might be there to spy upon them. It was no time to explain
that he felt himself one of them. Presently he was aware of Demetrius at his
elbow, and importuned him to stay and be of service.
Taking Benyosef by the arm, he led the tearful old man into the corner
behind his loom.
'There is nothing I can do here,' he said, laying some gold coins in the
weaver's hands. 'But I have a request of you. When Justus comes again to
Jerusalem, tell him I saw Stephanos welcomed into Jesus' kingdom, and am
persuaded that everything he told me, in Galilee, is the truth.'
It had been a long day for Simon, sitting there heavily manacled in the
darkness. At noon they had brought him some mouldy bread and a pitcher of
water, but he had not eaten; he was too heartsick for that.
For the first hour after his incarceration, derisive voices from
adjoining cells had demanded to know his name, his crime, and when he was to
die. With noisy bravado, they jested obscenely about their impending
executions, and taunted him for being too scared to speak. He had not answered
them, and at length they had wearied of reviling him.
The wooden bench on which he sat served also as a bed. It was wider than
the seat of a chair, and Simon could not rest his back against the wall. This
unsupported posture was fatiguing. Sometimes he stretched his huge frame out on
the bench, but with little ease. The wall was damp, as was the floor. Huge rats
nibbled at his sandals. The heavy handcuffs cut his wrists.
He thought that he could have born these discomforts and the threat of a
death sentence with a better fortitude had he been able to leave behind him a
determined organization to carry on the work that had been entrusted to him.
Obviously he had blundered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to establish the
Ecclesia. Maybe the time had not come for such a movement. He had been too
impatient. He should have let it grow, quietly, unobtrusively, like yeast in
meal, as Jesus had said.
What, he wondered, would become of the Christian cause now, with all of
them scattered and in hiding? Who would rise up as their leader? Philip? No;
Philip was a brave and loyal fellow, but he lacked boldness. The leader would
have to be audacious. John? No. James? No. They had the heart for it, but not
the voice. There was Stephen. Stephen might do it--but not in Jerusalem. The
Jews would insist on an Israelite, as perhaps they should; for the Christian
heritage was of the Hebrew people.
Why had the Master permitted this dreadful catastrophe? Had he changed
his plans for the prosecution of his work? Had he lost confidence in the leader
he had appointed? Simon's memory reconstructed the eventful day when Jesus had
said to him, 'Simon--I shall call you Peter, Peter the Rock! I shall build on
this Rock!' Simon closed his eyes and shook his head as he compared the
exultation of that moment with the utter hopelessness of his present plight.
When night fell, a guard with a flickering torch noisily unlocked each
cell in turn and another replenished the water-pitcher. Noting that his bread
had not been eaten, the guard did not give him any more; nor did he offer any
comment. Perhaps it was not unusual for men, awaiting death, to take but little
interest in food.
At feeding time there had been much rattling of chains and scuffling of
feet, but everything was quiet now. Simon grew drowsy, sank back uncomfortably
with his head and shoulders against the old wall, and slept. After a while, he
found himself experiencing a peculiar dream, peculiar in that it didn't seem
like a dream, though he knew it was, for it couldn't be real. In his dream, he
roused, amazed to find that the manacles had slipped from his hands and were
lying open on the bench. He lifted his foot. The weight was gone. He drew
himself up and listened. Everything was quiet but the rhythmic breathing of his
fellow prisoners. He had never had a dream of such keen vividness.
Simon stood up and stretched his long arms. He took three or four short
steps toward the cell-door, slipping his sandals along the stone floor as he
felt his way in the darkness. There was no sound of the scuffing of his sandals
on the flagging. Except for this, the dream was incredibly real. He put out his
hand and touched the heavy, nail-studded door. It noiselessly retreated. He
advanced his hand to touch the door again. It moved forward. He took another
step--and another. There had never been such a dream! Simon was awake and could
feel his heart pounding, and the rapid pulse-beat in his neck; but he knew he
was still asleep on the bench.
He put his hand against the damp wall and moved on with cautious steps
that made no sound. At the end of the long corridor, a feeble light showed
through the iron bars of a door. As he neared it the door swung open so slowly
and noiselessly that Simon knew the thing was unreal! He walked through with
firmer steps. In the dim light he saw two guards sitting on the floor, with
their arms around their knees and their heads bent forward in sleep. They did
not stir. He proceeded toward the massive entrance gates, recognizing the
ponderous lock that united them. He expected his dream to swing them open, but
they had not moved. He put his hand on the cold metal, and pushed, but the
heavy gates remained firm.
By this he knew that the dream was over, and he would rouse to find
himself manacled in his cell. He was chilly. He wrapped his robe more tightly
about him, surprised that he still had the unimpeded use of his hands. He
glanced about, completely bewildered over his strange mental condition.
Suddenly his eye lighted on a narrow gate, set within one of the greater gates.
It was open. Simon stepped through, and it closed behind him without a sound.
He was on the street. He started to walk briskly. At a crossing, he stumbled against
a kerb in the darkness. Surely this rough jar would waken him. Simon stood
still, looked up at the stars, and laughed softly for joy. He was awake! He had
been delivered from prison!
What to do now? Where to go? With lengthened steps, he made his way to
Benyosef's, where all was dark. He moved on to the home of John Mark. A frail
light showed from an upstairs window. He tapped at the high wicket gate. After
a little delay, the small window in the gate was opened and he saw the
frightened face of Rhoda.
She screamed and fled to the open house-door.
'It is Simon!' he heard her shout. 'Simon has returned from the dead!'
Rushing back to the gate, she unbolted it and drew it open. Her eyes
were swollen with weeping, but her face was enraptured. She threw her arms
around Simon, hugging him fiercely.
'Simon!' she cried. 'Jesus has brought you back from death! Did you see
Stephen? Is he coming too?'
'Is Stephen dead, Rhoda?' asked Simon, sadly.
Her grip relaxed, and she collapsed into a dejected little figure of
hopeless grief. Simon raised her up tenderly and handed her over to Mark's
mother.
'We heard they had killed you,' said Mark.
'No,' said Simon. 'I was delivered from prison.'
They moved slowly into the house, Rhoda weeping inconsolably. The place
was crowded with Christians. Their grieving eyes widened and their drawn faces
paled as Simon entered, for they had thought him dead. They made way for him in
silence. He paused in the midst of them. Some great experience had come to
Simon. He had taken on a new dignity, a new power. Slowly he raised his hand
and they bowed their heads.
'Let us pray,' said Peter the Rock. 'Blessed be God who has revived our
hope. Though in great heaviness for a season, let us rejoice that this trial of
our faith--more precious than gold--will make us worthy of honour when our Lord
returns.'
After walking up and down on the other side of the street facing the
Insula for an hour or more, Demetrius's anxiety overwhelmed his patience. He
must have been mistaken in his surmise that Marcellus would visit Julian
himself on behalf of the persecuted Christians.
Abandoning his vigil, he made off rapidly for Benyosef's shop. While
still a long way off, he began meeting well-dressed, sullen-faced men,
apparently returning from some annoying experience. When he saw the sunshine
glinting on the shields of an approaching military force, Demetrius dodged into
an alley, and continued the journey by a circuitous route.
In spite of the edict prohibiting any further assembly of Christians, fully
a score were crowded into the shop, silently gathered about a dead body. To his
amazement, Demetrius saw his master in the midst of the people, almost as if he
were in charge. He shouldered his way through the sorrowing group. Rhoda was
down on her knees before the body, sobbing piteously. It seemed very unreal to
find Stephanos, with whom he had talked only a few hours ago, lying here broken
and dead.
Marcellus had taken him aside, when he had regained his composure.
'You remain with them, Demetrius,' he had said. 'Assist them with the
burial. My presence here is an embarrassment. They cannot account for my
interest, and are suspicious. I am going back to the inn.'
'Did you see this happen, sir?' Demetrius had asked.
'Yes.' Marcellus drew closer and said confidentially, 'And much more
happened than appears here! I shall tell you--later.'
After they had put poor Stephanos away--and no one had molested them
while on their errand--Demetrius had returned home with John Mark, thinking he
would be free presently to rejoin Marcellus at the inn. But Mark's mother,
Mary, and Rhoda, too, had insisted so urgently on his remaining with them that
he dared not refuse. When their unwanted supper had been disposed of and
darkness had fallen, friends of the family began to arrive singly and by twos
and threes until the lower rooms were filled. No one acted as spokesman for the
pensive party. There was much low-voiced conversation about a vision that
appeared to Stephen before he died, but none of them had been close enough to
know exactly what had happened. Demetrius had not attached much significance to
the rumours. The only one who felt confident was Rhoda.
And then, to the astonishment of everyone, Simon had arrived; a more
important, more impressive figure than he had been before. He seemed reluctant
to tell the details of his release from prison; but, by whatever process that
had come to pass, the experience had fortified Simon. He even seemed taller.
They all felt it, and were shy about initiating conversation with him; hesitant
about asking questions. Oddly enough, he had quietly announced that henceforth
they should call him Peter.
Beckoning John Mark apart, Demetrius had suggested that they ask Simon
Peter to lodge there. As for himself, he would cheerfully surrender his room
and return to the inn. So it had been arranged that way and Demetrius had
slipped out unobtrusively. It was nearing midnight when he tapped at
Marcellus's door, finding him awake and reading. They had talked in whispers
until daybreak, their master-slave relationship completely ignored in their
earnest discussion of the day's bewildering experiences.
'I too am a Christian!' Marcellus had declared, when he had finished his
account of the stoning of Stephanos, and it seemed to Demetrius that the assertion
had been made with more pride than he had ever put into 'I am a Roman!' It was
very strange, indeed, this complete capitulation of Marcellus Gallio to a way
of belief and behaviour so foreign from his training and temperament.