The Big Fisherman (66 page)

'You girls seem to know this Hercules,' chaffed the grey-haired soldier.

'Know him!' echoed Claudia. 'But of course! And a bad influence he was, too, what with his making sport of all the gods! A quite terrible fellow; no?'

'And what brings you to Jerusalem?' inquired Anna. 'I'll warrant it wasn't to eat the Passover!'

Peter hadn't had a chance to put in a word. He stood there grinning foolishly; tugging at his underlip.

'Maybe he's here with this Carpenter,' teased Leah, 'this man who thinks he's the Messiah.'

'That's it!' shrilled Claudia. 'The Big Fisherman's gone religious!' They all laughed.

'You know better than that!' growled Peter. 'I don't hold with such nonsense!'

'Well—seriously,' said Anna, 'what do you think of this Jesus?'

'I have no opinion at all,' answered Peter huskily. 'Never met him!'

'They're trying him over there—for blasphemy and treason!' said Murza.

'Indeed?' grunted Peter. 'Well, he's no friend of mine.'

The patrols were tiring of this conversation and had edged toward the serving-table, the girls following along. Peter suddenly turned to leave.

'Wait!' cried Claudia. 'Have some wine!'

But the Big Fisherman did not wait and he did not reply. Unsteadily, for he felt sick and his legs were shaky, he made for the gate. Outside, he leaned against the wall, panting and swallowing hard. He walked with uncertain steps, bracing a hand on the wall for support, toward the entrance to the Embassy. Now he could hear the clamour of angry voices. He stopped. The noise subsided. Now came the sound of lashes. They were whipping his Master! He turned about and staggered down the street, still with a groping hand on the wall. His legs were weak and his knees buckled under him at every step. Now he began to cry, the whimpering, retching cry of a badly hurt little boy.

Notwithstanding his weariness, Mencius was unable to sleep. Obsequious old Levi had waited up to conduct the Proconsul to what he asserted was the most comfortable bed in the house; the tavern was quiet, nobody astir; there was no vehicular traffic on the cobbled street. But Mencius lay wide awake, still listening to the bull-whip cutting into the bleeding shoulders of the defenceless Galilean.

It was not because he was unused to the sight and sound of cruel floggings. Roman discipline was harsh and punishments were severe. Three-quarters of the Empire's population were slaves. To treat their infractions of the law with any lenience at all was to invite conspiracy and rebellion. Every free-born Roman lived dangerously, alert to the merest hint of insubordination. Corporal punishment, administered in public, was the best medicine for disobedience, far more effective than imprisonment. The brutal scourging of the young Galilean, therefore, would have been—for the Proconsul—just another brutal scourging added to all the brutal scourgings he had witnessed on land and sea throughout the Empire, but for the fact that the victim was a man of mystery, a man to be treated with dignity; imprisoned, perhaps; beheaded, perhaps; but not flogged.

Mencius readjusted his pillow and resolved to stop thinking about it. It wasn't his problem, he told himself. It was none of his business. He would go to sleep now. But that whole affair at the Galilean Embassy needed explanation. The noisy prosecution was in the hands of a mob that had no respect for the court, although the baffled judge had utterly disgraced himself to humour the screaming riff-raff, who apparently had no warrant for the captive's arrest, no formal charges preferred by any recognized authority, and, in short, represented nobody but themselves, which was the same as saying that they represented nobody at all.

It was evident that Pilate, who couldn't help knowing of this shocking abrogation of justice, had decided to keep out of it. But that didn't tally with what Mencius had heard of Pontius Pilate's reputation as a self-respecting Prefect. No Provincial Governor could afford to ignore such an impudent flouting of the law. It would require some very potent behind-the-scenes pressure to persuade the gruff Procurator of Judaea that he must keep his hands off and let the riot run wild. That course, for any Roman ruler, was a direct road to ruin.

Pre-dawn light was breaking now. With an exasperated apostrophe to all the gods, for none of whom he had more than an antiquarian's respect, Mencius rose, dressed, and went softly downstairs to the small patio hedged at the rear of the quadrangle by a rose-garden which extended almost to the high wall that enclosed the area. The roses were softly lighted by the oncoming sun. Mencius strolled toward the garden. A few yards ahead of him, and moving slowly with a furtive glance over his shoulder, was a tall, lean, ragged young fellow, who, instead of stepping aside, turned and waited at the wall, thrusting out a dirty hand for alms. Mencius chuckled.

'You might have fooled me with your tatters,' he said, 'but I knew you were in the city. What's all this about, Voldi, selling your horse to the Tetrarch and working as a hostler in his stables?'

'Let's step behind these rose-bushes,' said Voldi soberly. 'We mustn't be seen together. I've only a moment to stay.'

'Very well. Talk fast. I'll listen. What's up?'

Voldi proceeded rapidly with his story.

'Aulus told me where you were, Mencius.'

'I was expecting you.'

'You know what happened in the night at the Embassy. The mob all but wrecked the building. Antipas is badly frightened, as he need be, and expects to leave within the hour for Tiberias. He has engaged a small detachment of cavalry from the Capernaum Fort to accompany the caravan. He will ride his own horse. I am to ride Darik.'

'But you aren't going all the way to Tiberias, I think,' put in Mencius, with a knowing grin.

'Probably not. There are bandits in the Samaritan mountains. They may attack us. Our force is small. Someone may get hurt. . . . I may be looking for some place to go—in a hurry. What are your travel-plans, Mencius?'

'I'm here to deliver an important letter to one of the visiting Legates. I shall do that this morning. Then I ride to Joppa, where my ship is ready to sail. We will wait there until you come.'

'Have you room in your hold for Darik?'

'Of course! . . . But I thought you had sold Darik to the Tetrarch?'

'He may not need a horse—after tomorrow night.' Voldi was getting restless to be on his way.

'Good luck!' said Mencius earnestly. 'We'll be on the lookout for you. It's
The Vestris.
New pier number seven.'

'If I'm not there by noon Sunday, don't wait any longer; for I'll not be coming. . . . By the way, what's your next port?'

'Gaza—and then home. Will you come with us, all the way?'

'It depends. I don't know. I must go now!'

Mencius clutched his sleeve.

'Your "Torchbearer" seems to be doomed. Any news about that?'

'Aulus says they carried him off to the Sanhedrin, hoping for authority to try him before Pilate. If they succeed, the trial may be held this morning. . . . Did you see him?'

'Yes—but I didn't hear him speak. I saw him scourged. It's a strange case. I'm full of curiosity about the man. Perhaps I'll go down to the Insula—and see what happens.'

'It's all up with him, I'm afraid.'

'Doubtless. If Pilate consents to hear the case at all, he will probably accommodate them with a decision. If the Sanhedrin's at the back of it—'

'That's the trouble. They're in the driver's seat.'

'Still think he's the "Torchbearer"?'

'Perhaps; I don't know.'

'Think a Torchbearer would let himself be condemned to death?'

'It's possible. Socrates did. I'll see you on Sunday—I hope.'

* * * * * *

After a brief breakfast alone, Mencius left a note for Fulvius, before setting forth to the Insula.

'I am leaving early,' he wrote, 'to attend a trial of peculiar interest in Pilate's Court, the case of that young Galilean who has had the whole country by the ears and is now indicted for blasphemy, treason, and the Gods only know what else. I must see it. You have the Emperor's letter in your baggage and I do not wish to disturb you. Keep it locked. I shall probably return within a couple of hours.'

The broad, marble-paved terraces leading to the imposing portico of the Insula were already packed with a scurrying crowd when Mencius arrived. Way was made for him as he advanced to the highest level, where the prosecutors waited impatiently with their haggard prisoner, still arrayed in the scarlet finery that had mocked his phantom kingship last night at the Embassy.

Apparently it was the Procurator's custom to hold open-air court from the spacious porch, for it seemed to be the focus of interest, although still unoccupied. A huge desk served as the bar of justice; behind it stood a tall, throne-like chair, flanked on either side with orderly rows of less conspicuous seats.

On any ordinary occasion Mencius would have felt free—indeed he would have felt obliged—to enter the Insula and present himself. It would have been no presumption for a Proconsul to express fraternal greetings to a Prefect with the assurance of a cordial welcome. In terms of protocol they were of much the same rating. And should Pontius Pilate learn that Nicator Mencius had attended a session of his court without making himself known, he could consider it a breach of etiquette. But the extraordinary affair confronting the Procurator of Judaea would be sufficiently embarrassing, thought Mencius, without adding any more witnesses to Pilate's discomfiture than were already available.

He surveyed the group of principals that clustered closely about the captive. There was quite a delegation of scribes, ostentatiously busying themselves with their papyrus rolls—a detestable breed of prigs and snobs wherever you found them, in any country. There was a sprinkling of priests, young ones mostly, none of them distinguished in appearance. Evidently the real prosecutors were represented only by proxies. Perhaps they had conveyed their wishes—and demands—by letter.

Presently a shout went up as the great bronze doors swung open and the impressive procession of dignitaries filed out into the portico, Pilate leading in his official robes, followed by a dozen Legates, Prefects, and other bigwigs. Mencius recognized only a few: there was Julian, who had been his instructor in tactics at the Military Academy in Rome; Julian was getting to be an old man, cropped hair white as a rat, wrinkled face brown as a boot; yes—and there was dapper old Menelaus, Governor of Petra; Mencius had sailed with him once. . . . And of all things—there was Prefect Sergius of Caesarea, though why, in the name of every unpredictable God, Sergius should be in Jerusalem at Passover time, was beyond imagination. Mencius searched the faces for a youngish Legate who might pass for the obstreperous son of Senator Gallio, but couldn't find anybody with the probable measurements. . . . The court sat. The crowd quieted. Pilate, frowning darkly, puffed his lips as he studied the document which bragged of its importance with a clatter of dangling waxen seals. He pounded on the massive desk and looked down sternly at the prisoner. At length he spoke, in a tone so low that it was obvious he didn't care whether the crowd heard him or not.

'It says here that you have made pretence of being a King,' and then he added, with fine irony, for the benefit of his Roman guests, 'though the Sanhedrin'—Pilate tapped the ornate document with his finger—'assures this court that it will recognize no King but Caesar. Doubtless Emperor Tiberius, when he learns of this, will be pleasantly surprised.' The distinguished guests grinned appreciatively. 'Now, young man,' continued the Procurator, 'you do not look much like a King, in spite of your royal garb. Has it been your custom to go about in this ridiculous costume?'

The prisoner shook his head without looking up.

'Has the prosecution anything to say about that?' demanded Pilate.

After some hesitation a young priest admitted sheepishly, 'It was put on him at the Embassy, sire.'

'Then you will restore his clothing to him immediately,' growled Pilate. 'This court, probably lacking in humour, is in no mood for buffoonery.'

There was some delay before the defendant's brown homespun robe was found. His back, when they bared it, bore deep lash-wounds, still bleeding. Pilate's sharp eye may have seen the prisoner wince, may have seen the people stare, for he commanded the Galilean to turn round.

'It would appear,' he said, 'that the prisoner has been already tried, convicted, and punished. By what process of law has he now been brought into this court? Has he then committed some fresh crime since his case was judged?'

Nobody volunteered to answer this question, but an ominous rumble of dissatisfaction rose from the densely packed throng. Pilate glanced again, with distaste but something of anxiety, at the indictment. Mencius, studying the Procurator's expression, gathered that the document worried him. Putting down the papyrus on the desk and leaning forward on his folded arms, Pilate asked: 'Are you, then, a king?'

'I am!'

It was the first time that Mencius had heard the Galilean speak and the tone of his voice produced a peculiar sensation. The words were crazy enough, but the man who spoke them was not crazy. The voice was calm, respectful but self-confident. Evidently Pilate had been similarly affected, for his face remained soberly attentive. The murmuring in the crowd had ceased.

'Tell us about your Kingdom,' said Pilate. 'Where is it?'

'My Kingdom,' replied the Galilean, 'is not of this world.'

He paused. Pilate listened. The multitude was silent.

'Proceed,' said Pilate. 'Your Kingdom is not in this world, you say. Where, then, is it?'

'My Kingdom is not of this world, but it is in this world for all who seek truth. They who love truth hear my voice—and understand what I say.'

The words were not spoken in the strident tone of a demagogue. Mencius had a feeling that the Galilean was talking to him personally. Perhaps Pilate felt the same way. The Romans who sat on either side of the Procurator were leaning forward. Nobody was smiling.

'Truth,' mused Pilate, half to himself. 'What is truth?'

There was no reply to that. The Galilean faced the Procurator squarely for a moment and then averted his eyes, closed them, smiled briefly, and shook his head, as if to say that this was not the time or the place to explain truth.