The Big Fisherman (67 page)

The spell that had gripped the crowd suddenly lifted now, and impatient voices rose in angry demand for a decision. Pilate pounded for order and didn't get it. He rose and shouted for silence in the court and there was a momentary cessation of the tumult.

The defendant, he said, was apparently innocent of any wrongdoing. There was no evidence that he had committed a crime. He had already been severely punished. . . . But the crowd would have none of it. 'Away with him!' they yelled. 'To death with him! Crucify him!' The fanatic shouting rose to a concerted roar! 'Crucify! Crucify!'

Pilate sat down heavily. His hand shook as he beckoned to one of the guards, and flung an order over his shoulder. Presently the guard returned with a silver basin of water. Pilate turned back his sleeves. . . . That settles it, thought Mencius. The Procurator is helpless—and has given in. He will wash his hands of the whole affair. After all—Pilate wasn't there to quarrel with Jewry, but to keep the peace or at least the semblance of it. He could save the Galilean only at the risk of his position, already precarious enough. Pilate dipped his hands in the water, and the crowd cheered. . . . Mencius had seen enough now, and wanted to get out of the snarling pack. He turned about and worked his way to the street, intending to return at once to Levi's Inn and deliver the Emperor's message to the Legate from Minoa.

On the corner, across the street, stood a little group of forlorn and frightened men, garbed in simple country dress. Mencius guessed that these despairing people might be the helpless friends of the doomed man from Galilee. He crossed over and joined them. They were too preoccupied with their grief to notice his presence among them. One huge, middle-aged man, towering over the others, with streaming eyes and a contorted face, stood beating an open palm with a clenched fist, breathing in audible gasps like an exhausted runner.

There were a few weeping women in the company, two of them quite young and attractive in spite of their red and swollen eyes.

Now the crowd at the Insula was breaking up, coming apart, and a platoon of Roman legionaries marched through and down the terraced steps. The Commander, with the insignia of a Legate, was a handsome young fellow with an exaggerated military bearing which Mencius surmised was not quite natural for him. No—he was tipsy, that was the trouble; and doing his best to walk straight. A few paces in advance of him strutted a grizzled veteran bearing a banner. Mencius recognized it as a duplicate of the old rag that used to hang limp and listless over the big gate at the Fort at Minoa. So—it was young Gallio, then, who had been given this disgraceful job. . . . Now came the prisoner, towed by a rope, and not gently, for the legionaries were marching with long strides. The rabble pressed closely. There was very little shouting now. They had got what the Sanhedrin wanted. Everybody would be satisfied now—the moneylenders, the landlords, the grafters; yes, and the Temple that couldn't afford to offend anybody with property.

As the captive was tugged past his weeping friends, he turned his face toward them compassionately. They slowly followed the crowd with irresolute steps as if they were uncertain what to do; all but the gigantic fellow, who turned the other way and began to walk rapidly, lurchingly toward the west. Apparently he had no mind for attending the execution. Mencius followed him with his eyes, trying to contrive a story that might explain the man's conduct. Was he, for all his physical strength, a coward? Or had the condemnation of his hero driven him to utter stampede? . . . Now a youngish chap, who had been in the company of the Galilean's friends, hurried past in the direction taken by the big man. Mencius expected the young fellow to overtake him, but he made no effort to do so. He continued to follow at a distance.

There was no occasion now for any hurry in the delivery of the Emperor's message to Marcellus Gallio, whose day's work had been cut out for him. It would take hours to complete it. Mencius had never seen a crucifixion and didn't intend to see one.

He walked the short distance to the Embassy stables. The place was practically deserted. A hostler saddled Brutus and led him out. Mencius mounted and started for the inn. The usual traffic clattered in the street. Jerusalem had resumed her customary activities. The food-markets were crowded with shrilly bargaining shoppers. Somewhere, in an out-of-the-way place, nails were being driven through the hands and feet of a man whose only offence was his confessed devotion to the truth. The quarrelling markets, with their short measures, short weights, short change, and short tempers, were still doing business in the old way, the merchants trying to sell bad produce and the customers trying to pay for it with bad coinage; and had any one of them adhered to the truth—either as a buyer or seller—he would soon have nothing left but his impracticable idea. The truth was a luxury that nobody could afford. Mencius himself—he had to admit—couldn't afford it: a Proconsul must be diplomatic. Pontius Pilate couldn't afford it: a resolve on his part to abide by the truth would have meant his prompt recall from his Prefecture. And had old Tiberius decided to tell the truth he would have lost his Empire. It was that kind of a world.

The brave Galilean, reflected Mencius, had accomplished nothing. He had thrown away his life to no purpose at all. The world wasn't ready to hear his voice. There never had been a time, in human history, when the world would have listened to his voice. And—there never would be such a time. It was too much to expect. Humanity had no capacity for moral grandeur. This Jesus had misjudged the world. By sunset, this evening, he would be dead and buried. And by next week he would have been forgotten, except by a little handful of little people in a poverty-cursed little hinterland.

* * * * * *

It was mid-forenoon. The sun was hot. Esther and Myra were slowly plodding up the long hill to Bethany. They walked in silence, for they were physically and emotionally exhausted: they had wept until they could weep no more.

As for Myra, however deeply she grieved over the soul-sickening tragedy, she still had her family to go back to—and Joel. She was definitely on Joel's side now, whatever her grandfather might say. . . . For Esther, everything was lost. The Master, for all his superhuman power, had been led away to die. He had saved others, but he had been unable to save himself. Not a friend had come to his aid. Even Peter had run away.

In a day or two, Myra would return to her home and friends in Galilee. Esther had no home. There would be no reason for her returning to Galilee. Hannah didn't need her. And she wasn't sure that she wanted ever to see Peter again.

As a guest in suburban Bethany, Esther might have known nothing of the dreadful night and tragic morning that had befallen Jesus until it was all over, had not an expected friend of Myra's Uncle Boaz—who had met with a delaying misadventure on his long journey from Askelon—arrived at daybreak with the appalling news.

Grandfather Asher's high-pitched voice had roused the house. Habitually an early riser, Asher had been the first to hear the report. The Sanhedrin was sending the Nazarene blasphemer to Pilate's court this morning to be tried for treason. And that, shouted the old man, would finish him! And it was about time!

Uncle Boaz hadn't been much stirred by the announcement, and when his excited father declared he was going to the Insula to hear the trial he had cautioned him against it. 'It's a long trip. It will be a hot day. There will be much confusion.'

'But I cannot miss this, my son! I want to see this trouble-maker finally disposed of! A day to remember! An historic occasion!'

Esther listened with a sinking heart. She felt she must go. Myra had tried to dissuade her; and, failing of it, decided reluctantly to go too. They did not wait for Grandfather Asher, but left the house through the patio and the garden gate. They sped through Bethany, down the hill, into the awakening city—and on to the Insula. A great crowd of clamorous men had massed there at the entrance. The girls did not venture into the angry throng, but crossed the street and waited. Huddled together at the corner were the disciples. But why were they not beside the Master? There was Peter, wide-eyed, haggard, gnawing at his lip. Surely Peter could have been depended on to stand by the Master, even at the risk of his life! Esther could not believe her own eyes.

Terrible things, incredible things were happening now. A savage voice had screamed, 'Crucify him!' The mob instantly echoed it, 'Crucify him! Crucify him!' The words mounted into a horrifying chant, 'Crucify! Crucify! Crucify! . . .' There was a sudden silence; then a wild cry of victory! The mob spilled over the terraces and cascaded into the street. A company of Roman soldiers marched rapidly down the steps, tugging Jesus by a rope. The crowd closed in behind them. Now the bewildered disciples followed; all but Peter, who was running away! Young Thad had followed after him.

Myra cried that she could bear no more, and entreated Esther to return with her to Bethany. There was nothing they could do. But Esther caught her by the hand and pulled her along into the procession. At the next corner, a dozen men came in from a side street bearing a heavy piece of timber about twelve feet long with a cross-bar near the top. The parade halted. Esther, still dragging Myra by the hand, forced her way toward the front. The rough-hewn cross had been laid on the Master's shoulder. He staggered under its weight and sank to his knees.

A burly lieutenant, sighting a tall, heavily built man standing among the spectators, shouted, 'You, there! Put a shoulder under this cross and help the man carry it!'

'That I will not!' boldly boomed the big man. 'I am a free-born Roman citizen! And this is no affair of mine!'

'We'll see about that!' shouted the young Commander. 'What's your name, fellow? And where do you come from?'

By this time the crowd had grown quiet, expectant. It was not customary to talk back to a Roman officer.

'My name, sir, is Simon. I live in Cyrene, a ten days' fast journey from here, in North Africa. I am in Jerusalem on business, with a caravan of herbs and spices. I protest that you have no right to impress me into this degrading service.'

In spite of his tragic predicament, Jesus was listening sympathetically to the Cyrenian's courageous self-defence. He gave the big man a friendly look of compassion. . . . Then, to the surprise of the soldiers, the blustering Cyrenian stepped forward and shouldered the cross. Jesus smiled his gratitude and made a feeble attempt to help.

'No,' said Simon kindly. 'I will carry it. You have quite enough to bear today.'

The procession moved on. Esther and Myra stood, for a little while, watching. Then they turned and silently went their way. Near the top of the long hill they sat down to rest under an ancient olive tree.

'I have just now decided what I shall do, Myra,' said Esther. 'I am going back to find my old nurse, Ione. She is in the southern mountains of Arabia. If she still lives, perhaps I can do something for her.'

'You mean—you would go alone all that long way?'

'It would be safe enough, I think. I would keep to the main highways—and stop at night in the homes of farmers.' Esther elaborated her plan. She would provide herself with some inexpensive trinkets—and be a peddler. . . . Yes—and she would try to find a tame little donkey to carry her pack. Proceeding from village to village in the daytime, no harm would befall her.

'You will need money,' cautioned Myra.

'I have money,' said Esther. 'Not much—but enough.'

Myra remembered having seen a sign on a paddock gate a little farther up the road, announcing a donkey for sale. Esther came to her feet, eager to find the place. They stopped before the gate and a middle-aged man came toward them. Was it true, Esther inquired, that he had a donkey for sale?

'What do you want with a donkey?' he asked, suspiciously. 'Do you live hereabouts?'

'No,' said Esther, 'I want a donkey to carry a light pack for me on a journey—many miles away.'

'When are you going?'

'Early tomorrow morning.'

'Very well, you may have him—for ten shekels—if you take him at once!' The man went into the stable and led out a little white donkey.

'What's the matter with him,' asked Esther, 'that you are selling him for ten shekels?'

'There's nothing the matter with him,' said the man, 'except that I don't want to be involved in any trouble. If you're going away, you won't be bothered. But I lent him to a man a few days ago who is accused of treason; and I don't care to be mixed up in it. And you'd better not go through the city when you leave!'

Esther produced the money and the man handed her the halter-strap. The little donkey sniffed at her hands.

'His name is Jasper,' said the man, as he turned toward the house.

* * * * * *

Mencius tied Brutus to a hitching-rack in the stable-yard of Levi's Inn and found Captain Fulvius lounging in his room. Briefly he recounted the events of the morning, Fulvius listening attentively. When he had made an end of it, the Captain, who had been fascinated by the story of Voldi's dangerous errand, inquired, 'But suppose the youngster sees a chance to do his work while they are in camp tonight? In that case he would flee at once, and arrive in Joppa many hours before the time he had set. They would have no authority to take him aboard
The Vestris;
and there he would be, without protection; possibly pursued.'

'You are right!' said Mencius. 'I had not thought of that. Perhaps I had better leave at once for Joppa and make sure he doesn't get into trouble.'

'How about the Emperor's message?' queried Fulvius. 'This young Legate Marcellus will be occupied most of the day.'

'Do me a great favour, Captain,' entreated Mencius. 'Take charge of the letter. See that it gets into the Legate's hands as soon as he has returned to the Insula.'

Fulvius consented, without enthusiasm, and the Proconsul set out on his journey. Once out of the city's congested streets, Brutus was encouraged to a brisk canter. At the village of Emmaus, twelve miles to the west, he drew up before a tidy-looking inn for something to eat. The place was doing a thriving business today. In the paddock a dozen or more beautiful horses were tied, all of them a glossy black, their saddle-blankets bearing the familiar Roman device, the fasces.