The Big Fisherman (65 page)

And so, bitterly disappointed and noisily disgruntled, they led Jesus to the Embassy, the crowd increasing as they proceeded. The disciples had fallen far behind the shouting mob, and trudged along, silent, helpless, frightened.

They hammered at the imposing bronze doors of the Embassy until they were admitted, and stormed into the beautiful, high-domed courtroom, yelling impudently for Antipas. All of the disciples edged themselves into the lobby, all but Peter. For a while he stood irresolute and alone on the pavement outside, tugging nervously at his underlip. Then he ambled over to the wide-open gate to the carriage-court and looked in.

There was a pleasant fire burning in the middle of it and a few tall, gaudily uniformed patrols were warming their hands. Peter felt chilly and advanced toward the fire. The urbane legionaries saw him coming—and grinned. He knew they were amused at his provincial garb. For a moment he had a notion to retreat; but, presuming that the soldiers would laugh scornfully if he did so, he shambled on, feeling himself very much out of place; for the first time in his life an object of derision.

* * * * * *

The Vestris
had done very well on the voyage up from Gaza; had berthed at one of the new wharves in Joppa shortly after dawn on Thursday. The sister-ships of the fleet had discharged their cargo and were swinging lazily at anchor in the roadstead waiting orders to sail.

Proconsul Mencius and Captain Fulvius limbered up their horses and started on their thirty-mile journey to Jerusalem, intending to break the trip at Ashnah; but after a bad supper and a glance at the guest-rooms of the only inn, they decided to press on. Their horses were fresh and the moon was bright, and the highway, all but deserted of traffic, was free of dust. It was half-past two when they reached the city.

They were going to put up at Levi's Inn, known to be the best tavern in Jerusalem. It was a little way outside the east gate, on the slope leading up the long hill toward Bethany. As they passed the front of the large, high-walled compound adjacent to the Insula, Mencius wondered whether they might not find better accommodation for the horses in the barracks-stables. It might be worth inquiring about.

Fulvius was too tired to take any interest in this suggestion. He had no taste for a long walk. He wanted to get to bed. Mencius decided to stop at the Insula's stables. Fulvius, with the Proconsul's saddlebags, was to go on and make a reservation for him at the tavern. He would be up later and see him at breakfast.

They were quite deferential at the military stables; but, 'as you can see for yourself, sir, we haven't a stall. Everything full up. But I feel sure there is room in the stables at the Galilean Embassy. It's only a little way—just around the next corner to the right. You can't miss it, sir. Some kind of a brawl going on over there.'

'I don't want to get into a brawl,' said Mencius.

'It isn't among the horses, sir. Everything will be quiet in the stables.'

'What's the racket about?' asked Mencius.

'Oh, they're trying some country preacher for teaching the wrong doctrine,' drawled the old hostler. 'The horses aren't in it. They've too much sense to get mixed up with a thing like that, sir.'

The Proconsul handed the old fellow a couple of shekels, remounted Brutus, and followed directions.

There stood the costly and superfluous Embassy that Herod's rich and worthless son had built to satisfy his vanity. The main part of the imposing structure, fronting the street, was brightly lighted and noisily doing business. From the tone of the excited voices that shrilled through the open windows the litigants were angry. The Proconsul chuckled. You'd never hear such a bedlam as that in a Roman court. No, indeed! A Roman court wasn't always fair, but it was always orderly. . . . A country preacher—being tried for his heresies—at three o'clock in the morning—when everybody was supposed to be sequestered because of the Passover. It was incredible! . . . A country preacher, eh? . . . Could it be possible that this was Voldi's 'Torchbearer'? . . . Mencius rode on a short way further and found the stables. They were of an architecture consistent with the Embassy, ostentatious to the point of absurdity if not vulgarity; quite appropriate for the official seat of an Ambassador, but too foolishly grand for his horses.

The white marble stables were scrupulously clean, but Brutus had a sharp nose and he was very tired. He needed no urging to turn in. A middle-aged man, whose tunic bore the Embassy's crest, came to the door. The Proconsul dismounted, identified himself, and made his request, which was cheerfully granted.

'My name is Aulus, sir. You've a fine horse there! He deserves the best. The Tetrarch will be pleased to have him here. His Highness is a great one for beautiful horses.' Aulus had tugged off Brutus' trappings and was leading him into a roomy box-stall, Mencius following along. 'You see that tall, black Arabian in the next box, sir?' chattered Aulus. 'He's the latest one. The Tetrarch bought him—for a song—only the day before yesterday.'

Brutus had stretched his neck and was nuzzling the oak stanchions that separated the stalls. The black horse moved closer to the partition and nickered softly.

'By Jupiter!' laughed Aulus. 'They act as if they were acquainted!'

Mencius walked over to the waist-high door of the adjacent box. Darik turned his head in that direction; and, sauntering to the door, sniffed the visitor's extended hand.

'He's making up with you, sir, better than he has with me,' remarked Aulus. 'He's not a friendly horse—sort of a one-man horse, as we say.'

'The Tetrarch bought him cheap, eh?' Mencius tried to sound casual. 'How did that come about? He is a very valuable animal.'

Aulus became confidential.

'If you ask me, sir, I think he was stolen. The young Arab who brought him here was in rags and tatters; had no business owning a horse like this. Wanted only three hundred shekels for him. His Highness was quick enough to take him.'

'It's a wonder the Tetrarch did not suspect that he was buying a stolen horse.'

'Maybe he did.' Aulus' crafty chuckle did not improve his royal employer's reputation. 'The ragged young Arab is still hanging around. We gave him a job. He's handy with horses. All Arabs are, I guess. That's about all they know—horses. It's a funny thing now about this gelding. He follows the fellow around like a dog. Maybe he did belong to him, though it doesn't sound reasonable.'

'Is the Arabian on duty?'

'Just daytime, sir. . . . Thank you, sir. We'll take good care of your horse. Yes, sir!'

The Proconsul was turning toward the door. Aulus, happy over the half-dozen sesterces clinking in his hand, called after him:

'If you stop in the carriage-court, sir, the kitchen-girls will gladly bring you a bowl of hot broth. Might taste good after your long ride.'

Mencius told him he was going directly to Levi's Inn and would have his breakfast there. . . . He walked north and halted before the open doors of the noisy Embassy. In the street a score of Roman patrols leaned casually against their long lances, apparently under orders to give no attention to the clamour within the building.

Mencius ascended the steps. The spacious foyer was filled with unpleasantly scented men who apparently had been unable to gain entrance to the courtroom. Mencius joined them. They seemed to be inquisitive spectators rather than partisans, all of them shabbily dressed, probably tramps. The Proconsul wore no distinctive uniform; his credentials were in his pocket; but the loafers inferred from his bearing that he was accustomed to being treated with deference, and made way for him as he moved toward the door into the high-ceilinged auditorium.

The place was full of restless, clamorous civilians who seemed to have little in common but their exasperation over the proceedings of the court. A pompous, distinguished-looking man of fifty, in a black robe, presided; or, more correctly, was seated behind the massive table up in front where the magistrate would naturally be found. This puzzled man, with the frozen grin, was obviously the Tetrarch, and it was equally obvious that the trial had got completely out of hand. The affair had degenerated into a repulsive travesty.

The defendant was seated in a high-armed, tall-backed, throne-like chair, facing the audience, clad in a scarlet robe absurdly inappropriate to the man's pale, dejected face and slumped posture. A thorn-bush, wound to imitate a crown, had been so roughly forced upon his head that slender streams of blood were coursing his cheeks and spattering the embroidered collar of his royal robe.

It was not difficult to guess what this undignified play-acting was about. The hapless captive was being mocked as a pretender to the throne. But what throne? Mencius could hardly believe his own eyes. Surely this supine young man, with the bearing of a teacher and the long, slim hand of an artist, could have no kingly ambitions. Apparently he had no following. Nobody championed his cause. Whose throne would he attempt to usurp, even if he had ten thousand troops behind him? Caesar's? Nonsense! Could he have been plotting to supplant Pilate? Ridiculous!

But now the light broke for Mencius! The noisy persecutors who passed before the prisoner, with exaggerated bows of reverence, were satirically hailing him as the King of the Jews! That was it! The young prophet must have identified himself as the 'Messiah' who would restore the Kingdom to Israel.

The unhappy Tetrarch appeared now to have had more than enough of the farce. He rose and demanded order. Gradually the racket died down. The crowd seemed expectant of a judicial decision. It was high time, they grumbled.

'Whip him—and let him go!' shouted Antipas.

A storm of protest rose. One enraged zealot mounted a chair and screamed, 'To death with him! Nothing less!' The crowd yelled its approval. Antipas held up a hand for silence, and the place grew suddenly quiet again.

'It is not in the province of this court,' he exclaimed, 'to put any man to death.'

'Yaa!' shouted the man on the chair. 'You sentenced the Baptizer to death—for no reason at all!' The noise was deafening now. . . . The Tetrarch, clearly frightened, wheeled about and disappeared through the small door behind him. The prisoner was roughly jerked from his mimic throne and a thick-set brute with a bull-whip began lashing him cruelly.

The Proconsul's impulse was to leave the disgusting spectacle, but the exit was already blocked and he stood aside to wait. Pandemonium had broken loose in the vicinity of the magistrate's elaborately carved bar. The august tribunal was being wrecked. The Tetrarch would presently learn his rating in the opinion of Jerusalem's unwashed and irresponsible. Costly tapestries were being torn down, broadswords were thrust through the upholstery of the furniture, pikes were gouged into the exquisite mosaic portraits. Even the haughty face of Emperor Tiberius had lost an eye (not that the Proconsul cared a damn).

Pressing into the rioting pack that funnelled through the door, Mencius struggled out into the street. A score of the more audacious were attempting to tear down the hoarding and scaffolding from a building under repair across the street; and the legionaries, feeling that enough was enough, were cracking heads and making arrests. The rioters had been free to do what they liked to the inside of the Embassy, but they were not at liberty to set the building on fire.

With no taste for getting himself involved in the brawl, Mencius walked hurriedly north to the avenue of the Insula and turned to the right. Once away from the sight and sound of the frenzied mob, his thoughts turned toward the doomed Galilean. He wished he might have heard the man speak. He had never seen anyone quite like him. Not much wonder that Voldi had been impressed. It was a face that puzzled you, difficult to assign to any category. A profound student? A dreamer? What manner of man was he? A 'Torchbearer'? No; Voldi had been clearly mistaken about that. A Torchbearer, with the mind and will of a Plato, a Socrates, or an Aristotle, would never have got himself into such an appalling predicament. He might be a teacher, but that didn't mean that he was a Torchbearer. Whatever light he had thrown upon the path of a few people of the Palestinian provinces would be snuffed out before another sunset. Whose lamp—in backward little Galilee—would shed a reflected glow beyond the borders of his own community?

Anyhow, mused Mencius bitterly, as he moved wearily up the long slope toward Levi's Inn, the human race didn't want any light; it didn't deserve any light; and it would never be granted any light—certainly not in his time! . . . The world was a disgrace to its maker, whoever he was; or to its makers, whoever they were! It was a wonder it had survived so long in its brutalities. Brutalities? That was not the right word for it. The brutes carried themselves with some dignity!

As Peter neared the glowing fire he walked more slowly and diffidently, realizing that he had made a mistake to enter the courtyard.

The half-dozen tall patrols, self-confident in their brightly polished helmets and scarlet-and-black uniforms, were awaiting his approach with an embarrassing interest. Yet, when he stood among them, taller and heavier than they, he was relieved to see something of friendliness in their faces.

'A chilly morning,' remarked the eldest, stepping aside to make room for the massive stranger. Peter agreed that it was, and warmed his hands. 'The kitchen-girls will be bringing some mulled wine, presently,' said another. 'Here they come—now.'

And here they came, the girls he had joked with when delivering fish at the Tetrarch's palace in Tiberias in the almost forgotten days before he had left all to follow Jesus. He recognized them instantly, with a sinking heart; the tough little Roman, Claudia; Murza, the cynical Arimathaean; Anna and Leah, the Jewesses.

While still at some distance, Claudia, tripping along with a loaded tray, shouted to the others:

'But look! Murza! Leah! Do you see what I see? It is the Big Fisherman—no less!' They put down their flagons and mugs and honey-cakes on the serving table and swarmed about him with excited little cries. 'The Big Fisherman!' Claudia tried to span both hands round his heavily muscled arm, as she had been accustomed to do. The patrols gathered closely about, enjoying the reunion.