The Big Fisherman (79 page)

In the grey light that announced the coming dawn, the caravan started down the tortuous trail toward the Valley of Aisne. In two hours they had left the snow behind them and the men were taking off their leather jackets. Peter preferred to walk—and he walked alone, his grey head bent in serious meditation. He had made a mistake, it seemed. He had wanted to do a great favour to a foe, but his good intentions had only widened the breach and fanned the smouldering fire of hatred.

* * * * * *

The astounding and unwelcome news of Prince Deran's miraculous recovery, after the country had thought itself well rid of him, travelled fast and far. The Councillors met informally in the venerable Dumah's encampment, but found no cure for their dilemma. Only one opinion was unanimously agreed upon: the Jews should mind their own business.

But if the Councillors had no plan to alleviate the tragic situation, the 'Sons of Ishmael' thought they might give aid. This exclusive and secretive organization was composed of the sons and adult grandsons and nephews of influential tribal chiefs who ran the caravans from Arabia to the port cities. These long and dangerous journeys conducting flocks and herds, hides and wool, to far-away Damascus and Caesarea and Gaza, menaced by well-equipped bands of robbers, demanded the safeguarding of fearless men. It was an honour to be chosen for this perilous business, and the young fellows who undertook it were indeed a tough aggregation.

Now that winter was coming, most of the caravans had returned from their expeditions, and the 'Sons of Ishmael' were having some free time. On the second day after the Prince was restored, word was passed from camp to camp announcing a secret meeting for the following night in the tent of Jeshri, their leader. After an hour's conference, Jeshri, in their presence, filled a quiver with thirty arrows, which was the number of men present. All the arrows but one were made for target-practice. The exception was tipped with a long, slim finger of steel, sharpened to a needlepoint.

Jeshri walked out of the tent and into the moonlight, and mounted his horse. A half-mile up the trail he halted beside a large oak-tree; and, still mounted, drove a nail at the height of his shoulder, hung up the quiver, and returned to camp. One by one, at intervals of a few minutes, the silent men mounted their horses and set out for home. As each man passed the quiver, he paused to take an arrow.

Late in the afternoon of the following day, Prince Deran's sorrel mare arrived at her paddock, riderless.

* * * * * *

The Antonia
would sail within the hour. Grizzled old Captain Polemus was happy to make this announcement, for his passengers had been on board nearly a week and were growing restless.

With plenty of time to reflect on his dilemma, Voldi had decided that the course he was taking was the right one. As a Councillor he would be completely at odds with Deran, and it would be of small service to Arabia if a Councillor and the King were in constant conflict. Besides, once he and Fara were in a strange country, relying more and more upon each other for companionship, he might persuade her to marry him. He faced the voyage and their new adventures with increasing interest.

Fara stood by his side at the rail as the sailors made ready to cast off. She slipped her arm under his and Voldi felt her trembling with excitement.

'It will not be long now,' she said softly.

Voldi did not hear her. His eyes were fixed on two horsemen, riding on the wharf. He identified them now. Museph and Raboth! Their horses were wet.

Leaving Fara abruptly, he ran down the gangway as his friends dismounted. He faced them with apprehensive eyes. What could have happened to bring them here? They straightened, and formally saluted him.

'That was a close thing, sire!' muttered Museph. 'We weren't a minute too soon.'

Voldi grinned at the 'sire,' and wondered why. It was a strange time to be teasing him.

'Deran is dead,' said Raboth, in a half-whisper.

'Dead!' echoed Voldi. 'How?'

'He was found beside a mountain trail with an arrow in his back,' said Museph.

'And I suppose you have come to ask me to return,' said Voldi. 'But I can't now! I have gone too far with my other plans!'

'But the King's Council insists that you return—forthwith, sire!' entreated Raboth in an unsteady voice.

'And why is my presence in Arabia of such urgent importance?' demanded Voldi. 'And why, in God's name, are you fellows "sire"-ing me?'

'Because,' said Museph, 'you are the King of Arabia!'

Peter had not been too uncomfortable here. For one thing, the cell was dry, a welcome change from the perpetual dampness of the Catacombs. Perhaps when winter came—it was August now—the prison would be damp too; but Peter did not expect to be here when winter came, so there was no need to worry about that.

The cot was narrow, but there were two folded blankets on it, kindly provided by Glaucus, the jailor. There was also a bare wooden chair. Throughout the daytime hours a little strip of sunshine penetrated the mere slit of a window near the ceiling; not enough light to read by, but better than the Catacombs, where there was no sunlight at all.

True, it was wearisome, sitting here all day with nothing to do, and the nights were still more tedious; for, with no physical exercise to tire him, he did not require much sleep. Indeed it was the long nights that had made his prison-life so hard to bear. His mistakes asked to be reviewed as he lay awake for hours in the darkness. Every painful detail of his quarrel with Johnny that day on
The Abigail
was re-experienced. There was no use saying to himself that he had been fully forgiven for his treatment of Johnny; he had to go through it again, night after night. When the torturing memory of his denial of Jesus' friendship threatened to invade his mind, he would sit up and make an effort to drive it away by sheer will-power; and sometimes he succeeded, but not always.

Occasionally through the day a guard would pause briefly at his barred door and inquire how he was feeling today, and Peter would say that he was very well, thank you. A slave brought food and a pitcher of water in the morning and again in the late afternoon, but without tarrying to talk. Perhaps he was not permitted to speak to prisoners. Twice, during the past month of his incarceration, Glaucus himself had come in to call. On these occasions Peter sat on the cot; and Glaucus, turning the chair about, bestrode it, facing him. It was not easy to talk with Glaucus, who spoke some outlandish variant of the vulgaris. By exerting his imagination, Peter gathered that the badly scarred jailor was a veteran of the wars. Once he had understood Glaucus to inquire why these foolish Christians were throwing their lives away, and he had tried to explain; but Glaucus didn't understand it. He had shaken his head and yawned and left.

For several days now Peter had been expecting a visit from Mencius, who was making an effort to have the sentence commuted. He had worried more than a little about Mencius' intervention in his behalf. It was a risky business, even for an influential Proconsul, to be showing such concern for the welfare of any Christian, especially for the known leader of the movement. It was of no great importance to Peter whether he himself lived or died, but he didn't want to see Mencius punished; and that might easily be, for young Caligula was fiercely determined to stamp out this indomitable underground party that seemed to thrive on persecution.

As he had sat there alone in his cell, day after day, Peter had passed the dragging hours by re-living his experiences of recent years. During the first days of his imprisonment, his reminiscences would speed from one event to another. A couple of hours would cover the significant episodes of the past quadrennium. Next day he would do it all over again. So he had contrived a better plan. He would give a whole half-day to the recovery of one event.

On one morning after breakfast he would project himself back to Gaza. . . . After a tedious delay,
The Antonia
was making ready to sail. Peter felt himself standing at the rail, watching the last bales and boxes of cargo come on board. Voldi and Fara stood very close together, only a few feet from him. What a handsome, well-matched pair they were! Voldi had made a wise decision to get out of Arabia. He and Fara were made for each other.

Suddenly two young horsemen had appeared on the wharf. Voldi had run down the gangway to greet them. The three friends had held a brief parley. Then Voldi had slowly returned, followed by the visitors, who explained to Fara why Voldi could not leave the country. His fellow Councillors had just appointed him King of Arabia. She had taken Voldi's hands in hers and had tried to smile. Then Voldi had put his arms around her, had kissed her tenderly, before them all, and had whispered something into her ear; and she had nodded her head. And he had whispered to her again, and she had shaken her head. Then he had followed his friends down the gangway. His horse had been brought up from the hold. Fara had disappeared, probably to her cabin. Captain Polemus had shouted an order. The mainsail was creeping up.
The Antonia
edged away from the wharf.

It would take Peter all forenoon to remember that scene in its every detail. In the afternoon, he would decide to review the voyage, the long talks with Captain Polemus and with Fara, who tried to be cheerful, but the sight of whose eyes made his heart ache.

Peter had made no secret of his devotion to his Master and his firm belief in the early victory of the Kingdom. Weather-beaten old Polemus had listened respectfully, but shook his grey head. It was a pleasant dream, he would admit. It would be a happy day for the world when all men were brothers, but Polemus didn't expect to live so long.

'You'd better be careful who you talk to about this,' he cautioned. 'You're safe enough with me, of course. I like to hear you tell of this Jesus. He must have been a great man. But this idea of a new Kingdom—you'd do better to keep that to yourself. . . . Of course, in Athens you won't be in much danger. The Empire doesn't care what they talk about in Athens.'

'And why is that?' Peter had wanted to know.

'Oh, Athens is full of windy old philosophers who spend their time sitting in the park on Mars Hill, talking all manner of nonsense. Not meaning,' Polemus was quick to add, 'that what you believe is nonsense; but you can say almost anything you like in Athens, and nobody will take you seriously. . . . I'll wager you could make a public speech predicting that the Empire would collapse tomorrow, and even the Roman patrols wouldn't bother you.'

'But—isn't there a Christian Ecclesia in Athens?' Peter had inquired.

'I suppose so,' drawled Polemus. 'Almost everywhere now there is an organization of these Christians. And some of them have to be cautious; but not in Athens. I'm glad you are going there. Now if it was Rome, I'd advise you to stay away. They're making it mighty tough for these poor people in Rome.'

Peter hadn't felt much complimented by the Captain's friendly counsel to avoid all danger.

'Perhaps that's where I'm needed, Polemus,' he had said.

'You wouldn't last very long, sir!' the Captain had declared. 'Some ordinary fellow, average height, dragging his heels, looking like ten thousand other men of no importance, might not be run in for a long time. You, sir, would be a marked man! You take my advice and make your home in Athens.'

So Peter had gone on to Rome. He hadn't even got off the ship at Piraeus. Fara and Ione didn't need him. In fact, they might be better off without him. He might get them into trouble. It had been a sad parting, though. Fara had pleaded with him.

'Dear Petros, you have had trouble enough. You deserve some rest, free of danger. Let us take care of you.'

And that would have been very pleasant, Peter knew. Good old Polemus had overheard the conversation. 'You'd better do as she says,' he advised.

Then
The Antonia
had swung about to resume the long voyage. One chilly morning, for it was mid-winter now, they had arrived at Ostia's busy roadstead; and, after brief formalities of clearance, proceeded up the river. It was late in the evening when they tied up at the wharf that served the huge granaries. Peter had expected to find the streets deserted, but they were noisy with heavy vehicular traffic and crowded with pedestrians. Did these Romans never sleep? . . . He had walked the streets all night, bewildered by the throngs. The food-shops were open. Hawkers shouted their wares. Mendicant musicians added to the din. Blind men whined.

He found himself in an area of magnificent public buildings: the Praetorium, the forums, the stupendous Colosseum. In the grey light of morning he had come upon the broad Via Appia and had followed it out of the city. Polemus had told him how to find the Catacombs. . . . It always stirred him when he remembered the welcome he had received. He was amazed that these forlorn fugitives had heard of him and the miracles he had wrought in the Master's name. They had gathered about him and knelt at his feet; and he had prayed that they might all be given faith to watch and wait for the coming of the Kingdom.

* * * * * *

And then there was that first visit from Mencius. Peter loved to recall it. One morning, late in the autumn, Mencius had come. He hadn't said how he had discovered Peter's whereabouts, but here he was in the Catacombs—a Roman Proconsul! The frightened refugees had scurried away in the darkness. But Peter had had no fear. He had heard all about Mencius: Voldi had told him.

'Let us go outside,' Mencius had suggested. 'It will do you good to breathe some fresh air.'

'Will it not endanger you, sir,' Peter had inquired, 'if you should be seen talking with a Christian?'

'No,' Mencius had declared. 'The patrols are not interested in my goings and comings. I talk with whom I please. The Emperor might not approve of my being here in friendly converse with you, Peter; but he cannot dispose of me. I know how to deal with the copper-miners in Cyprus. I know the ruffians who run the salt-caravans from Engedi to Gaza. I know what is going on in Joppa and Caesarea. . . . Come—we have much to talk about.'

So they had gone up the narrow ladder and had sat down under the locust trees.