The Big Fisherman (60 page)

But now Peter had another tale to tell of the way people imposed on Jesus. . . . Last week, Zebedee's fretful and avaricious Naomi had called at the cottage to complain that John and James were spending most of their time at home doing nothing. Their little house was crowded. Poor old Zebedee hardly had a place to sit down!

'So—what did the Master do but promise Naomi that he would make a new chair for Zebedee, which he proceeded to do; a beautiful chair, too, that will make everything else in their house look cheap and shabby. It took him all week to finish it. Yesterday, Naomi came, we thought, to thank him, but she had come to complain. The boys, she whimpered, should have more attention paid to them. They were giving the Master all of their time, and what were they ever going to get out of it, she wanted to know!' Peter snorted his disgust.

'Did she say what sort of honours they should have?' queried Hannah.

'She did indeed!' growled Peter. 'She wanted them to have the most prominent seats in the Master's Kingdom. . . . Yes—and the foolish creature got that off before the whole roomful of us. Didn't she, Andy? And the youngsters sat there, red-faced, making no attempt to stop her!'

'Maybe they didn't want to stop her,' reflected Hannah. She glanced at Andrew, soliciting an opinion.

'I think they were embarrassed,' he said.

'But they made no protest,' Peter went on. 'They just sat there, looking down their noses and counting their fingers while Naomi babbled. It was the first time the subject had ever come up, who was the most important man among us.'

'And what did Jesus say to her?' asked Hannah.

'He said nothing directly to Naomi,' answered Andrew, 'but he did say something to the rest of us.'

'It must have made Naomi feel very small—and insignificant,' said Peter. 'Jesus paid no more attention to her than if she hadn't been there. He looked around the room, and seemed to gather us all into a confidential little group; and then he said, "Whoever among you would be great, let him be your servant. And whoever would be the greatest of all, let him be the servant of all."'

'And then what?' inquired Hannah.

'Well—Naomi left, and nobody could think of anything to say,' replied Peter. 'John and James looked ashamed, as they should have done. They were foolish to think that anything they had accomplished should give them prominence.'

'It was an awkward moment,' contributed Andrew. 'Even my brother'—he gave Esther a slow wink—'was speechless.'

'Somebody should have changed the subject,' thought Hannah.

'That's what happened,' said Peter. 'The Master did it himself. He turned toward the Zebedee boys, with a smile, and remarked that it had been a long time since we had had any fresh fish. And they were quick enough to take the hint, for they certainly wanted to get out of there. They got up and left in a hurry. It was the best thing that could have happened to them—in the circumstances.' Peter seemed about to go on with the story; but, apparently thinking he had said enough, he tossed his napkin aside and pushed back his chair.

'There's a little more to it,' drawled Andrew. 'As James and Johnny went out of the door, Jesus asked Simon if he didn't want to go too.'

Peter gnawed at his bearded underlip, and nodded.

'I suppose that's the reason we have perch for breakfast,' laughed Hannah.

'It's a good enough reason,' said Andrew. 'There isn't a better fisherman on the lake than my brother.'

No one seemed inclined to add anything to that. The men rose, pulled on their caps and heavy jackets, and proceeded to Capernaum. The carpenter's shop was well filled when they arrived, everyone in unusually high spirits over the signs of returning spring. The Master had finished the table he had been making as a gift for Lydia, the widow of Ebenezer, in appreciation of the tools he had borrowed. It was evident that he had planned no further work. Perhaps he would tell them now when and where they would go.

Peter ventured to bring up the subject.

'I suppose we will be leaving presently, Master,' he said, 'now that fair weather is in sight.'

'Yes,' replied Jesus, 'we will start on the first day of the week, and attend the Passover in Jerusalem.'

There was a heavy silence, and for a long moment all breathing was suspended.

'No, Master, no!' entreated Peter. 'Anywhere but Jerusalem! You have dangerous enemies there. This must not be!'

Jesus gazed steadily and sternly into the Big Fisherman's eyes.

'I must ask you to stand aside, Simon,' he said firmly. 'Your counsel is not that of a faithful and courageous friend. I am going to Jerusalem—on business for my Father!'

One by one the dazed Galileans—all but the Big Fisherman, who sat stunned and disheartened with his shaggy head in his hands—slipped quietly out of the room and reassembled at the front gate.

Andrew broke the silence.

'Well—he apparently means it. There's no use trying to dissuade him. He is going to Jerusalem.'

Old Bartholomew cleared his throat and murmured huskily, 'We too will go—and die with him.'

* * * * * *

The oncoming winter season, so far, had not amounted to much in Caesarea; light, frequent showers, but no snow and no cold weather.

It had been Voldi's intention to visit Jerusalem on his way home; but, once started on the south-bound road, he decided to retrace the course he had pursued in the company of Mencius.

At Joppa he spent a day touring the docks, surprised at the extensive operations in progress there, where the Romans were conducting harbour installations similar to those in Caesarea, though on a less lavish scale.

That the Empire contemplated an invasion had been plainly evident by the expensive works in Caesarea; now it appeared that the military strategists were not putting all their eggs in one basket. Frowsy old Joppa too was being converted into an available beach-head; and with such undisguised urgency and earnestness that it seemed the long-threatened Roman offensive might be imminent. All Palestine, preoccupied with her internal feuds, pretended not to notice. Perhaps Jehovah, who had fed the Children of Israel with manna in the wilderness, would take care of this situation. He'd better, thought Voldi, or the Promised Land was doomed: yes, and Arabia too, if the Romans thought it worth the bother of conquest; though they might not want Arabia, for the Romans had no taste for a nomadic life. They might be content to levy a high tribute on the Arabs and let them remain unmolested with their flocks and herds. It was high time, though, that Arabia considered the danger she faced. Voldi felt that he would have much to report to his King.

And so on, day after day, with brief, begrudged pauses at night for rest, he followed the much-travelled highways, through beautiful Askelon, drowsing in charmingly unseasonable sunshine, to wretched old Gaza, whose squalor, plagues, stenches, and wickedness no felicity of climate could forgive; and on and steadily on through ancient Hebron to parched Engedi and the Dead Sea. He made a half-circle of this dazzling white brine and turned east again over the blistered crust of the salt-flats into the Valley of Aisne.

Darik was so tired now that he didn't care who knew it. Instead of picking up his feet smartly, as was his custom, he was shuffling and stumbling along like a spiritless pack-ass; but after the Valley of Aisne had been traversed and the winding road up through the hills lay before him, the tall black gelding, recognizing his homeland, renewed his strength. As they gained altitude, snow was encountered on the northern slopes, and when the shoulder of the high plateau was reached Voldi was happy to find an endless, undulating blanket of white that covered the hillsides and valleys as far as he could see in all directions. This was good! Arabia had the sure promise of a prosperous spring and summer. There would be fat cattle and sheep. Well-fed camels would produce strong, sleek foals.

Voldi breathed deeply of the crisp, tonic mountain air, inhaling it hungrily as if he ate of it. He rose in his stirrups and stirred echoes in the hilltops with boyish shouts. As never before, he realized how much Arabia meant to him. And Darik, noisily blowing his nose, tugged for an easement of the bridle-reins, tossed his head and stretched his long legs to a lope.

In the late afternoon King Zendi's encampment was sighted and a few minutes later Voldi dismounted at the main entrance to the extensive compound, warmly greeted by the amazed sentries. Soon he was surrounded by a score of excited household servants and hostlers, patting and stroking the steaming Darik, who slobbered over all of them with cordial impartiality.

Wrinkled old Kedar now came limping up, elbowing his way through the pack to Voldi, who affectionately laid a hand on the bent shoulder.

'You have ridden him hard, sir!' growled old Kedar, turning gruff to hide his emotion.

'It was his own idea, Kedar,' laughed Voldi. 'Once he was on a familiar road, there was no holding him in. . . . But tell me: how are Their Majesties?'

'They are well, sir, but very sad today. You have come home none too soon. Councillor Mishma is ill; very low. The King and Queen are over there now. You must go—without a moment's delay. I'll get you a fresh horse.'

Ione, pale, thin, and nervous, crept timidly into the circle. Voldi threw his arm around her and drew her closely to him. He bent and whispered into her ear.

'Fara is safe and well, Ione, and sends her best love to you. I shall tell you everything, when I return. I must go now—to my grandfather.'

In a few minutes he had dashed away to Mishma's encampment, five miles distant. The commodious paddock was filled with beautiful horses, some of which Voldi recognized. His unannounced entrance into the Chief Councillor's spacious bedchamber was greeted with gasps of surprise and relief by the sober-faced group of old retainers clustered within the doorway. The tall, dignified members of the King's Council stood in statuesque silence with Zendi in the midst of them, a distinguished figure, his hair prematurely greying. It was evident, by the posture and demeanour of all present, that they were waiting for the end to come.

Kitra gave a little cry of gladness in her grief and rushed forward to embrace her son. Taking him by the hand she led him to the bedside; and, raising her voice, called:

'See, father! Here is Voldi!'

The frail old Titan laboriously opened his eyes and gave a wan smile. Voldi dropped to his knees and slipped his arm tenderly around the thin, deep-lined neck. Mishma was trying to speak. With a great effort he managed to ask huskily:

'Did you find her?'

Voldi's eyes were blind with tears. Unable to speak, he nodded.

'But—she could not do it,' whispered Mishma, between laboured breaths; and when Voldi had shaken his head, the old man drew a satisfied sigh, and murmured, 'That is good.'

There was a long interval of silence, after which the fading voice asked, 'Is she with you?'

'No, sire,' said Voldi regretfully.

'But—you will bring her home—to Arabia,' entreated Mishma.

'I hope to, sire, when I have completed the work she tried to do—for our country.'

Old Mishma slowly nodded his approval and lapsed into sleep. Zendi had drawn closer, during this difficult conversation. Voldi, suddenly aware of the King's nearness, got to his feet—and saluted.

Bending over the bed, and raising his voice so that it startled the silent watchers, Zendi called:

'Mishma! Open your eyes, Mishma! Harken! Have you a final request to make of your King? Speak, Mishma!'

The dying statesman tugged himself back to partial consciousness, clumsily moistened his dry lips, and whispered: 'Voldi.'

The weary old head slowly sank. There was an ineffectual reaching of the lips for one more breath. Mishma was dead.

Turning about to face the company, Zendi drew himself up to his full height, and announced: 'I hereby appoint Voldi to fill the vacancy in the King's Council!'

Captain Fulvius, never given to rash predictions, had remarked at sunset to his most important passenger that if this brisk breeze continued through the night
The Vestris
might see Gaza at dawn.

'Good!' exclaimed the Proconsul. 'I shall go down and tell poor old Brutus.'

'Better take a handful of sugar along,' advised the Captain. 'Your poor old Brutus is getting mean. Yesterday, when I went down for a friendly word with the horses, he laid his ears back and bared his teeth. I'm afraid he is at the end of his patience.'

'I don't blame him,' grumbled Mencius. 'So am I.'

It had been seven weeks since the fleet had sailed from Brindisi, bound for Cyprus, where a cargo of copper awaited transport to the new docks at Joppa. The winter had been so mild that Fulvius, hoping to make time, had risked a lighter ballast than the season justified; and, once they had rounded the peninsula and headed east, everybody was sick—and disgruntled, too, for the voyage was to be long and, in the opinion of the crew, inexplicably roundabout.

Their natural course, if they had business in old Gaza, would have taken their seven cargo-ships with the copper directly to Joppa, but
The Vestris
was under orders to sail first to Gaza, where the Proconsul had an important errand at the Roman Fort of Minoa, a few miles inland. The rest of the fleet would proceed to Joppa and stand by until rejoined by the flagship.

The capable Lieutenant Pincus, with a skeleton crew of experienced men, would also disembark at Gaza and engage a camel-caravan for the tedious trip to the salt-fields at Engedi on the Dead Sea.

Then
The Vestris,
having paid her brief call at Gaza, would sail to Joppa, join the fleet, dump the copper, and double back to Gaza to pick up Pincus and his salt. And nobody knew how long they might have to wait for the return of that plodding caravan. It was doubtful whether they would be back in Rome before mid-summer.

Mencius had paced the deck and counted the days like a jailbird. He had been required to make these long voyages to Palestinian ports so often that they had lost all interest for him. Of course he always enjoyed a shore-leave at Caesarea, where he found many long-time friends at the luxurious Agrippa; but he wasn't going to Caesarea this time; only as far as Joppa, which the Empire might make something of, eventually, though the mouldy old city offered few attractions at present.