The Big Fisherman (80 page)

'How do you find it possible to live down there in those caverns?' Mencius had wanted to know.

'Because I must!' Peter had replied. 'It is not so difficult to do what one must do.' And then he had told the Proconsul about the little groups of Christians who met secretly in their own houses until the patrols suspected them, and they would flee to these labyrinthian caverns for safety, frightened, beaten, sick, and hungry; and of the secret exits from which the more fearless ones emerged to procure food from the peasant farmers and cheap fish from the smaller markets along the waterfront. 'I pray with them and minister to their sick ones, Mencius. I offer words of comfort when they die—and beside their graves. . . . And I bid them be of good cheer, for the Kingdom is coming!'

'It must take great faith, Peter,' mused Mencius, 'to believe that the Kingdom of the Christos is coming when everything they had is lost.'

'That's when our faith is strongest, Mencius,' Peter had replied; 'when there is nothing else to lean upon. The Spirit of God is very real—and near—to these distressed ones. . . . You remember how you felt on the Day of Pentecost? We have Pentecost every day in the Catacombs!'

After a little silence Peter had asked Mencius to tell him about himself, and his recent journeys; and the Proconsul had had quite a story to tell. He had just returned from the usual round: Cyprus, Caesarea, Joppa, Gaza, Engedi; and had ridden up into Arabia to see Voldi.

'Is he making a good King?' Peter had wanted to know.

'The best ever!' Mencius had declared. 'The Arabians love him.'

'Married?'

'No—and perhaps it's for the best. Voldi rarely shows up at the King's Encampment. He spends his time visiting the tribesmen. Arabia has never been so completely unified. . . . By the way, he told me a good story. I know he would want you to hear it, for you were on the ship when the word came that Prince Deran had been assassinated. The secret band of young caravan-guards, who called themselves the "Sons of Ishmael," drew lots to see which one should attend to the Prince. Old Jeshri, their leader, filled a quiver with thirty arrows, the exact number of all men present at the meeting. Only one arrow was armed with steel. Jeshri hung the quiver on a tree and each man as he rode past took an arrow.'

'So no one of them knew which man was appointed to kill the Prince?'

'Right. . . . But, afterwards, one of the men who had aspired to be their leader remembered that old Jeshri himself had not taken an arrow from the quiver, and he talked about it to Jeshri's disparagement. . . . Voldi told me that when the old man lay sick unto death he asked them all to leave his bedside except the King, and to him he said, "I have been maligned for refusing to take one of the arrows. I want you to know, sire, that I did take one of the arrows before I hung the quiver on the tree. It was the steel-tipped arrow. When I am gone, sire, will you tell my brave lads?"'

* * * * * *

It had been very wearisome, sitting here day after day in his prison cell, with nothing to do but remember. Often he spent a whole afternoon recalling that eventful night when Marcellus and Marcipor had brought him out of the secret passage into the old quarry, and had taken him swiftly to the Gallio mansion, where the gallant Greek slave lay dying of his wounds. . . . The Spirit of God had empowered him, that night, to heal Demetrius. . . . And, after that, many agitated fugitives came with reports that the Gallios' physician, one Sarpedon, was seeking in high quarters for his arrest. . . . But God had withheld the hands of his enemies.

Perhaps God would save him this time, too; though Peter was not sure he wanted to be saved, this time. Life in the Catacombs had taken a heavy toll of him. He was gaunt, weak in the legs, hollow-eyed. Maybe his work was done. If there was anything further for him to do, he would try to do it. But if it should be his Father's will to take him home now—to the House of Many Mansions—it would be a relief.

* * * * * *

One morning he fell to thinking about the day when Marcipor brought him the Master's robe. Marcellus had sent it to him. Noble fellow, that Marcellus! And his bride! They had been very brave! . . . Only a little while, perhaps, and he would see them. . . . Marcipor had brought the robe. Peter remembered its comforting softness when he had taken it in his arms. He had not tried to put it on over his huge shoulders. Somehow he didn't want to put it on, anyhow. It was too sacred for that. They had laid it reverently upon the altar in the taper-lit chapel. . . . It was there now. Every day the people knelt before it. He had tried to counsel them not to worship it, but they probably did. . . . Well—he couldn't blame them much. After all, it was the Master's robe. If they needed something tangible to fix their eyes upon while they prayed for courage, what token of His presence could serve so well?

'I have often knelt there beside them,' Peter had admitted.

'And worshipped the robe?' wondered Mencius.

'It stirred cherished memories, Mencius, and brought the Master very near. If that is idolatry, I think I shall be forgiven.'

* * * * * *

For the past few days, Peter had meditated deeply upon the incident that had brought him to prison.

Mencius, returning from another long voyage, had come out one morning, very much agitated, to say that the son of his longtime friend, Prefect Sergius of Caesarea, who had just finished his course in the Military Academy, was dangerously ill.

'This splendid young fellow, Felix, is the apple of his father's eye,' Mencius had said. 'He is very near death, I fear. He is burning up with a fever. Since yesterday he has been unconscious. The physicians admit they are helpless. . . . Now I cannot ask you to go to him, Peter. You would certainly be arrested. Sarpedon, who has charge of the case, would see to that. You must not be seen there.'

'What would you have me do?' Peter had inquired.

'Can't you pray for his recovery?' entreated Mencius.

For a long moment Peter had wrestled with his problem. Then he had said, 'I shall go with you, Mencius.'

'It is too great a risk! You would be seen by many. Doubtless Sarpedon himself will be there. He would leave no stone unturned to have you brought to trial.'

'But if, by the Holy Spirit, I should heal the boy—'

'No; that would make no difference to Sarpedon. His professional pride is more important than the life of young Felix.'

'Be that as it may, Mencius, I am going with you!'

'Come, then,' said Mencius in a shaken voice. 'Perhaps an Angel will stand guard over you.'

* * * * * *

But no Angel had intervened. Nor had Peter been permitted to see the dying Felix. He had been arrested in the courtyard of the Academy upon arrival there; and, after a hasty trial on the charge of conspiracy to overthrow the Government, he was thrown into prison.

'Is it true, then,' the Judge had demanded, 'that you believe, and have taught others to believe, in the coming of a King who will rule the world?'

'Yes,' Peter had replied boldly, 'that is true!'

'You are a fool!' the Judge had growled, adding, 'But an honest and fearless fool. You have not the manner and speech of a seditionist. If you will renounce this idiotic theory and promise not to speak of it again, this court will let you off with a prison sentence. Otherwise you are condemned of treason by the words of your own mouth, and the penalty is death. Which would you have?'

The courtroom had been very quiet.

Mencius had dared to rise and ask permission to speak. The Judge showed surprise, but replied deferentially, 'It will be our pleasure, Proconsul Mencius, to hear anything you wish to say.'

'Your Grace,' began Mencius, 'this man Peter is well known to me. He has no designs on the Empire. He has incited no one to rebellion. He has healed the sick and comforted the down-trodden and distressed. This Kingdom in which he believes is not a temporal but a spiritual Kingdom. It has naught to do with Caesar!'

Then Mencius had sat down and the Judge had faced Peter, inquiring: 'Is this true?'

It had been a trying moment. It was not an easy question. Mencius had done his best to find a way out for him. After some delay, Peter had found his voice.

'Sir,' he said, 'the Proconsul has told you truly that the Kingdom of the Christos is a spiritual Kingdom. But when it rules the hearts of men everywhere it will be their highest allegiance. Peace will reign throughout the earth. And when it comes, there will be no need of armies; no, nor of magistrates.'

'And what becomes of Caesar?' demanded the Judge, sternly.

'Our Christos, sir,' declared Peter, 'will rule the world and every knee shall bow before him!'

The heavy silence now had been broken only by the rattling of the papyrus sheet as the Judge recorded his decision on the indictment. Then he arose and said: 'You have left this court no alternative, Peter. The law is the law. It is not in our province to amend it, not even to save the life of a misguided fanatic. You will be taken hence to prison and in thirty days you will be put to death!'

* * * * * *

The next day, Mencius had come to see him. Glaucus, admitting him, had waited. The court order, he said, required him to remain. The Proconsul had sat silent for a while before speaking.

'Peter,' he began, gently reproachful, 'why did you do it? Fabius was doing his best to save you.'

'I had to tell the truth,' Peter had replied. 'I disowned my Master once. I think he depends on me not to do it again.'

'But—did you have to say that the Master's Kingdom would rule the world? Judge Fabius is really quite a decent fellow. He did not want to inflict the sentence of death upon you. It was your prediction of the fall of the Empire that left him helpless. Had he been lenient with you, the Emperor would have punished him.'

'And you have risked too much, Mencius,' said Peter in Greek. 'Much as I value your aid—'

'None of that, Peter!' broke in Glaucus. 'You will speak in our tongue!'

'I am having another session with Fabius,' said Mencius, ignoring the interruption. 'Perhaps the sentence may be commuted. . . . This makes me sick at heart, Peter.'

* * * * * *

And so the days had dragged on. The day after tomorrow would mark the expiration of Peter's month in prison.

Late that afternoon, Mencius had come. His haggard face made his report unnecessary. He laid his hand on Peter's arm and sadly shook his head.

'I am permitted to be with you for only a moment,' he said. 'But on Friday morning, I shall be here for a farewell word. Is there anything I can do for you, Peter?'

'Pray for me, good Mencius, that my faith fail not.'

'I have prayed for you, Peter,' murmured Mencius, 'but it hasn't done you any good.'

'I'm sure it has!' said Peter. 'I haven't been afraid. Your prayers may have helped me. You have been a loyal friend, Mencius. We will meet, one day, in our Father's House!'

Peter had risen early and was calmly waiting. His mind was at rest. The only question that had troubled him had been answered in the night. An Angel had visited him in a dream.

On the Day of Pentecost the stirring demonstration of the Holy Spirit's power had led him to believe that the establishment of the Master's Kingdom throughout the world was imminent. It was not easy to conceive of such an event, but neither was Pentecost easy to accept as an actual experience. All things were possible with God and His ways were beyond understanding. God had waited long and patiently for His children to acknowledge His fatherhood and their brotherhood. Now the time had come for the cleansing of the nations and the reign of peace. Now!

He had expected it to begin in Jerusalem, where thousands of fear-ridden men had hung upon his words. Jerusalem was the right place for the new Kingdom to manifest itself first. A society would be formed for the demonstration of friendship and good-will. The news of it would quickly spread. But the Jerusalem experiment had been unsuccessful. Perhaps Jerusalem was not the right place to begin.

He had declared the early coming of the Kingdom to the harassed slaves in Joppa. They had listened wistfully, but without comment. He had repeated his message to 'The Italians' in Caesarea: they had received him politely and had left the dinner tables in silence. No one had paused to ask a question or express an opinion. Wise old Cornelius, quite dissatisfied with things as they were, had no expectation of a remedy for the world's sorry predicament, and had shaken his grey head at any mention of an early triumph of the Master's Kingdom.

Undaunted, Peter had journeyed to Arabia in the hope of effecting peace and friendship between the Arabs and the Jews. Perhaps the Kingdom would begin its work here. It would be a great day for the Kingdom when the tidings spread that two hostile nations, at enmity for fifteen centuries, had resolved their difficulties. But his efforts had been in vain. The relations between the sons of Israel and Ishmael had not been improved. Indeed they had been worsened.

Fara was a firm believer in the Master's power; but, when the Kingdom of peace on earth was mentioned, she had nothing to say. Captain Polemus thought the idea fantastic. Mencius, although deeply impressed at Pentecost, was silent when Peter talked of the coming Kingdom. In the opinion of Judge Fabius, clearly a man of good intent, Peter was a fool; a brave and honest fool—but a fool.

In the days of his solitude, he had wondered whether he might be mistaken. He still clung to his belief, but he wished more people shared it. Was the Kingdom coming now? And, if not now, was the Kingdom coming at all?

Last night an Angel had cleared his mind.

Yes, Peter, the Master's Kingdom is coming, but not by some spectacular miracle whereby thrones would topple in a day and all men everywhere would cast aside their weapons and clasp hands.

'From the beginning of the world, Peter,' the Angel had said, 'the rulers of the nations have striven for power over other men's lives. The ablest minds among their subjects always spent their genius on contriving instruments of destruction.

'The kings of the earth, for their own pride and glory, have laid waste their neighbours' lands and enslaved their children. . . . You, Peter, have daily talked about "these latter times." But—these are not "latter times." The world has suffered grievously, but it must suffer more and more. Again and again, in desperate hours, men have come to a parting of the ways, and they have always chosen the road to national pomp and glory; never the road to peace and friendship.