Authors: Unknown
Early in the afternoon, Demetrius accompanied him to the edge of the
disreputable field that was called Golgotha. They were quiet as they approached
it. Acrid smoke curled lazily from winnows of charred refuse. In the distance a
grass-covered knoll appeared as a green oasis in a desert.
'Do you remember the place, sir?' asked Demetrius, halting.
'Vaguely,' murmured Marcellus. 'I'm sure I couldn't have found it. Is it
clear in your memory, Demetrius?'
'Quite so. I came late. I could see the crosses from here, and the
crowd.'
'What was I doing when you arrived?' asked Marcellus.
'You and the other officers were casting dice.'
'For the robe?'
'Yes, sir.'
Neither spoke for a little while.
'I did not see the nailing, Demetrius,' said Marcellus, thickly. 'Paulus
pushed me away. I was glad enough to escape the sight. I walked to the other
side of the knoll. It has been a bitter memory, I can tell you.'
'Well, sir,' said Demetrius, 'here is the path. I shall wait for you at
the inn. I hope you will not be disappointed, but it seems unlikely that Simon
Peter would try to keep his appointment.'
'He will come, I think,' predicted Marcellus. 'Simon Peter is safer from
arrest to-day than he was yesterday. Both the Insula and the Temple have tried
to convince the public that the Christians have no legal or moral sanction for
their beliefs. Having captured their leader, with the expectation of making a
tragic example of him, they are now stunned by the discovery that their victim
has walked out of prison. Neither Julian nor Herod will want to undertake an
explanation of that event. I think they will decide that the less said or done
now, in the case of The Big Fisherman, the better it will be for everybody
concerned. I fully expect Simon Peter will meet me here--unless, in all the
confusion, he has forgotten about it.'
Peter had not forgotten. Marcellus saw him coming, a long way off,
marching militantly with head up and a swinging stride that betokened a
confident mind. The man had leadership, reflected the admiring watcher.
As The Big Fisherman neared the grassy knoll, however, his steps slowed
and his shoulders slumped. He stopped and passed an unsteady hand over his
massive forehead. Marcellus rose and advanced to meet him as he mounted the
slight elevation with plodding feet. Peter extended his huge hand, but did not
speak. They sat down on the grass near the deep pits where the crosses had
stood, and for a long time they remained in silence.
At length, Peter roused from his painful meditation and glanced at
Marcellus with heavy eyes, which drifted back to the ground.
'I was not here that day,' rumbled the deep, throaty voice. 'I did not
stand by him in the hour of his anguish.' Peter drew a deep sigh.
Marcellus did not know what to say, or whether he was expected to say
anything. The big Galilean sat ruefully studying the palms of his hands with a
dejection so profound that any attempt to relieve it would have been an
impertinence. Now he regarded Marcellus with critical interest, as if noting
him for the first time.
'Your Greek slave told me you were interested in the story of Jesus,' he
said, soberly. 'And it has come to me that you were of friendly service,
yesterday, when our brave Stephen was taken away. Benyosef thought he heard you
profess the faith of a Christian. Is that true, Marcellus Gallio?'
'I am convinced, sir,' said Marcellus, 'that Jesus is divine. I believe
that he is alive, and of great power. But I have much to learn about him.'
'You have already gone far with your faith, my friend!' said Peter,
warmly. 'As a Roman, your manner of living has been quite remote from the way
of life that Jesus taught. Doubtless you have done much evil, for which you
should repent if you would know the fullness of his grace. But I could not ask
you to repent until I had told you of the wrongs which I have done. Whatever
sins you may have committed, they cannot compare to the disloyalty for which I
have been forgiven. He was my dearest friend--and, on the day that he needed
me, I swore that I had never known him.'
Peter put his huge hands over his eyes and bowed his head. After a long
moment he looked up.
'Now,' he said, 'tell me how much you know about Jesus.'
Marcellus did not immediately reply, and when he did so, his words were
barely audible. He heard himself saying, as if someone else were speaking:
'I crucified him.'
The sun was low when they rose to return to the city. In those two
hours, Marcellus had heard the stirring details of a story that had come to him
previously in fragments and on occasions when his mind was unprepared to
appreciate them.
They had found a strange kinship in their remorse, but Peter, fired by
his inspiring recollections of the Master-man, had declared it was the future
that must concern them now. He had daring plans for his own activities. He was
going to Caesarea, to Joppa--perhaps to Rome!
'And what will you do, Marcellus?' he asked, in a tone of challenge.
'I am going home, sir.'
'To make your report to the Emperor?'
'Yes, sir.'
Peter laid his big hand heavily on Marcellus's knee and earnestly studied
his eyes.
'How much are you going to tell him--about Jesus?' he demanded.
'I am going to tell the Emperor that Jesus, whom we thought dead, is
alive, and that he is here to establish a new kingdom.'
'It will take courage to do that, my young brother! The Emperor will not
like to hear that a new kingdom is coming. You may be punished for your
boldness.'
'Be that as it may,' said Marcellus, 'I shall have told him the truth.'
'He will ask you how you know that Jesus lives. What will you say?'
'I shall tell him of the death of Stephanos, and the vision that he had.
I am convinced that he saw Jesus!'
'Emperor Tiberius will want better proof than that.'
Marcellus was silently thoughtful. It was true, as Peter had said, such
testimony would have very little weight with anyone disinclined to believe.
Tiberius would scoff at such evidence, as who would not? Senator Gallio would
say, 'You saw a dying man looking at Jesus. How do you know that is what he
saw? Is this your best ground of belief that your Galilean is alive? You say he
worked miracles; but you, personally, didn't see any.'
'Come,' said Peter, getting to his feet. 'Let us go back to the city.'
They strode along with very little to say, each immersed in his
thoughts. Presently they were in the thick of city traffic. Peter had said he
was going back to John Mark's house. Marcellus would return to the inn. Now
they were passing the Temple. The sun was setting and the marble steps,
throughout the day swarming with beggars, were almost deserted.
One pitiful cripple, his limbs twisted and shrunken, sat dejectedly on
the lowest step, waggling his basin and hoarsely croaking for alms. Peter
slowed to a stop. Marcellus had moved on, a little way, but drifted back when
he observed that Peter and the beggar were talking.
'How long have you been this way, friend?' Peter was saying.
'Since my birth, sir,' whined the beggar. 'For God's sake, an alms!'
'I have no money,' confessed Peter; then, impulsively, he went on, 'but
such as I have I give you!' Stretching out both hands to the bewildered,
cripple, he commanded, 'In the name of Jesus, stand up, and walk!' Grasping his
thin arms, he tugged the beggar to his feet--and he stood! Amazed--and with
pathetic little whimpers, half-laughing, half-crying, he slipped his sandals
along the pavement; short, uncertain, experimental steps--but he was walking.
Now he was shouting!
A crowd began to gather. Men of the neighbourhood who recognized the
beggar were pushing in to ask excited questions. Peter took Marcellus by the
arm and they moved on, walking for some distance in silence. At length
Marcellus found his voice, but it was shaky.
'Peter! How did you do that?'
'By the power of Jesus' spirit.'
'But the thing's impossible! The fellow was born crippled! He had never
taken a step in his life!'
'Well, he will walk now,' said Peter, solemnly.
'Tell me, Peter!' entreated Marcellus. 'Did you know you had this power?
Have you ever done anything like this before?'
'No, not like this,' said Peter. 'I am more and more conscious of his
presence. He dwells in me. This power--it is not mine, Marcellus. It is his
spirit.'
'Perhaps he will not appear again--except in men's hearts,' said
Marcellus.
'Yes!' declared Peter. 'He will dwell in men's hearts--and give them the
power of his spirit. But--that is not all!
He will come again!'
It was common knowledge that Rome had the noisiest nights of any city in
the world, but one needed a quiet year abroad to appreciate this fully.
Except for the two celebrated avenues intersecting at the Forum--the Via
Sacra and the Via Novo--which were grandly laid with smooth blocks of Numidian
marble, all the principal thoroughfares were paved with cobblestones ranging in
size from plums to pomegranates.
To relieve the congestion in these cramped, crooked streets and their
still narrower tributaries, an ordinance (a century old) prohibited the
movement of market-carts, delivery waggons, or any other vehicular traffic from
sunrise to sunset, except imperial equipages and officially sanctioned parades on
festal occasions.
Throughout the daylight hours, the business streets were gorged with
jostling crowds on foot, into which the more privileged ruthlessly rode their
horses or were borne on litters and portable chairs; but when twilight fell,
the harsh rasp and clatter of heavy iron wheels grinding the cobblestones set
up a nerve-racking cacophony, accompanied by the agonized squawk of dry axles,
the cracking of whips, and the shrill quarrels of contenders for the right of
way; nor did this maddening racket cease until another day had dawned. This was
every night, the whole year round.
But the time to see and hear Rome at her utmost was during the full of a
summer moon when much building construction was in progress, and everybody who
had anything to haul took advantage of the light. Unable to sleep, thousands
turned out in the middle of the hideous night to add their jostling and clamour
to the other jams and confusions. Shopkeepers opened up to serve the meandering
insomniacs with sweets and beverages. Hawkers barked their catchpenny wares;
minstrels twanged their lyres and banged their drums; bulging camel-trains
doggedly plodded through the protesting throng, trampling toes and tearing
tunics; great waggons loaded with lumber and hewn stone ploughed up the
multitude, pitching the furrows against the walls and into open doorways. All
nights in Rome were dreadful, and the more beautiful nights were dangerous.
Long before their galley from Ostia had rounded the bend that brought
the city into full view on that bright June midnight of their home-coming,
Marcellus heard the infernal din as he had never heard it before; heard it as
no one could hear it without the preparation of a month's sailing on a placid
summer sea.
The noise had a new significance. It symbolized the confounded outcry of
a competitive world that had always done everything the hard way, the mean way,
and had very little to show for its sweat and passion. It knew no peace, had
never known peace, and apparently didn't want any peace.
Expertly the galley slipped into its snug berth, to be met by a swarm of
yelling porters. Demetrius, one of the first passengers over the rail, returned
in a moment with a half-dozen swarthy Thracians who made off with their
abundant luggage. Engaging another port-waggon for themselves, the travellers
were soon swallowed up in a bedlam of tangled traffic through which they crept
along until Marcellus, weary of the delay, suggested that they should pay off
the driver and continue on foot.
He had forgotten how insufferably rude and cruel the public could be.
Massed into a solid pack, it had no intelligence. It had no capacity to
understand how, if everyone calmly took his turn, some progress might be made.
Even the wild animals around a water-hole in the jungle had more sense than
this surly, selfish, shoving mob.
Marcellus's own words, spoken with such bland assurance to the cynical
Paulus, flashed across his mind and mocked him. The kingdom of good will, he
had declared, would not come into being at the top of society. It would not be
handed down from a throne. It would begin with the common people. Well, here
were your common people! Climb up on a cart, Marcellus, and tell the common
people about good will. Admonish them to love one another, aid one another,
defer to one another; and so fulfil the law of Christ. But look out! or they
will pelt you with filth from the gutters, for the common people are in no mood
to be trifled with.
The reunion of the Gallio family, an hour later, was one of the happiest
experiences of their lives. When Marcellus had left home a year ago, shaky,
emaciated, and mentally upset, the three who remained mourned for him almost as
if he were dead. True, there had been occasional brief letters assuring them
that he was well, but there was a conspicuous absence of details concerning his
experiences and only vague intimations of a desire to come home. Between the
lines they read, with forebodings, that Marcellus was still in a state of
mental upheaval. He had seemed very far away, not only in miles but in mind.
The last letter they had received from him, a month ago, had said, in closing,
'I am trailing an elusive mystery for the Emperor. Mysteries are his
recreation. This one may turn out to be something more serious than a mere
pastime.' The Senator had sighed and shaken his head as he slowly rolled up the
scroll.
But now Marcellus had come back as physically fit as a gladiator,
mentally alert, free of his despondency, in possession of his natural zest and
enthusiasm.