The Big Fisherman (58 page)

'Master David,' he croaked unsteadily, 'you are a lawyer. Is it ever permissible for the Tetrarch to put a man to death?'

'I believe not, Your Highness,' said David. 'I bid you Goodnight.'

* * * * * *

Without an hour's delay the shocking story fanned out across the country with incredible swiftness. The palace courtyard had been packed with servants and soldiers; Jairus' litter-bearers, David's attendants, and a score of legionaries who had escorted Julian. There were also the small party of armed guards who had accompanied the magician from Caesarea, the family of acrobats from Damascus, and the company of harpists from Jericho. It was a ghastly tale, and they all made the most of it. A southbound caravan, which had camped for the night near Capernaum, made off with the news at dawn. Within a week the sordid scandal had gone north through Perea, had crossed the Jordan in half a dozen fording places, and was common talk down deep in Judaea. It had even penetrated the thick walls of the old prison in Caesarea, conveyed by Felix.

Thousands who had listened apprehensively to the foolhardy hermit's reckless predictions of an oncoming doom that would blast a wicked world, toppling greedy temples and gaudy thrones—but had all but forgotten them, and him—were stirred to sullen anger by the monstrous crime.

Doubtless the shaggy preacher, who lived in a desert cave and ate roasted locusts, had been misled: the catastrophe he had so boldly threatened hadn't come off. But by what right had this pompous ruler of Galilee murdered his defenceless prisoner for no better reason than to entertain a handful of pampered Romans? Nobody knew what should or could be done about it. Pilate, with plenty of troubles on his hands, had merely shrugged and muttered, 'It's no affair of mine. Let the Galileans attend to him.'

And so they did, not with violence, which the Tetrarch could easily have overcome, but with a concerted campaign of inarticulate contempt for which he had no defensive weapons. A farmer could not be punished for having his back turned toward the highway when the Tetrarch rode by on his black stallion, nor could a whole village be tried because every door was shut and not a soul in sight when their ruler took his daily exercise.

Early the next morning after the disgraceful birthday banquet, when the vine-dressers and carpenters arrived for their day's work in the new vineyard, they learned what had happened; and, refusing to take up their tools, ominously gathered about the prison where the prophet's body lay.

The Tetrarch made no move to quell this incipient rebellion. Instead, he voluntarily ordered the guards to be withdrawn and sent word that if any of the dead man's friends wished to claim his body they might do so without hindrance. This unexpected concession was obviously intended as a peace overture; but the outraged Galileans—by no means the fools Antipas thought them to be—interpreted this lenience as a sign that the great man was frightened, if not remorseful.

Jesus, who had just returned to the Capernaum cottage after ten laborious and exciting weeks of speaking to vast multitudes in Cana, Ephraim, Bethel, Jericho, and the region round about, was informed of the tragedy late in the night. Andrew had wakened him with the bad news. At sunrise, Peter, hurrying in from Bethsaida, drew up a chair beside Jesus' cot and repeated the story.

'They are burying him this afternoon, Master, in the cemetery at Bethsaida. The people are aroused. A great crowd will assemble there. John thinks it would be well for you to speak some words of comfort at the graveside.'

After a moment's deliberation, Jesus slowly shook his head. That indignant throng in the Bethsaida burial-ground would be in no mood for comforting words. Anything he might say to these angry people would surely be misconstrued. If he deplored the Tetrarch's crime—and how was the subject to be avoided?—it would amount to a sanction of public rebellion against their government, in direct contradiction to his earnest pleas for peaceful submission. Nor was it an occasion when the multitude would listen, with any patience at all, to calm advice about loving your enemies and praying for them who despitefully use you and persecute you. John had indeed paid a high price for his courage in fearlessly speaking the truth—but—

'But—Master!' broke in Peter impulsively. 'You have told us that the truth will set men free!'

'Yes,' said Jesus softly, 'and John is free. . . . Come—let us cross the lake to some quiet place—apart from these resentful people. Tell the others to meet us at the shore. I have much to say to you.'

Though it was still early in the morning, a great throng, noisily rebellious, had assembled in the Synagogue plaza. At the sight of Jesus a shout arose and the crowd surged about him, demanding that he speak to them, but he proceeded to the lake-shore, where Peter and the others—who had been quietly summoned—awaited his coming.

Stunned to silence by this unexpected withdrawal of the Carpenter on whom they had depended for counsel in this critical hour, they watched the three borrowed dories moving out toward Peter's long-idle fleet, where their passengers boarded
The Sara.
The sails were quickly set and the little ship slowly sidled away from her sister craft.

'I wonder why they took
The Sara
,' remarked one of the puzzled onlookers, shading his eyes against the sun.

'They're bound for some shallow cove,' surmised a bystander wearing a sailor's cap. 'See! They're heading north-east—toward the desert.'

'Let us follow them!' shouted someone. The suggestion met favour. The crowd moved forward along the shore, unorganized and without leadership, but bent on finding Jesus.

It was a hard-breathing, shuffling, straggling procession that laboured through the reeds and weeds and sand for eight long miles. Many of the more provident ones, knowing what a difficult journey faced them and aware that no food was to be had in that desolate region, scurried to their near-by homes and the town's provision stores to stuff their pockets with smoked fish and wheaten loaves.

Weary, bedraggled, footsore, their sandals ripped and clothing torn by nettles and briers, five thousand exhausted people found Jesus and his company at mid-afternoon. There was no shouting now; they were too utterly spent for shouting, too tired to hate anybody.

The Big Fisherman immediately took command. In his self-confident, booming voice he directed them to sit as closely together as possible in semicircular rows facing the dune where the Master and his companions waited. Not until the last of the stragglers had arrived did Jesus rise to speak. A hush fell on the expectant multitude as his gentle voice began its ministry of comfort.

He beheld them, he said, as one great family of brothers and sisters who, weary and heavy-laden, had come to him for rest. Not strangers now, but men and women of one blood, all children of their Father in Heaven; not drawn together by any hot desire for revenge or redress but related by their mutual compassion. . . . And as the quiet voice continued a strange miracle was wrought that gave them a heart-warming sensation of kinship.

By the time his talk had ended, the shadows were lengthening on the eastern mountains. Released from the spell that had held them silent and motionless, the crowd straightened its relaxed spine, drew a long breath, and shifted its posture. What now? Should they go? They were hungry. On any other occasion, those who had been foresighted enough to bring their own food would have had no hesitation at all to eat it in the presence of others as hungry as themselves. But, though many a man silently inspected his neighbour out of the tail of his eye, nobody reached in his pocket.

There was a whispered colloquy among the Master's companions. They called him into conference with them, the expression on their sober faces indicating that they were troubled. Jesus did not seem worried over the situation.

'Feed them!' he said.

'With what?' they inquired. 'Even if we had the money to buy that much food, there is no place out here where it could be had.'

By now the crowd was craning its neck and listening sharply with its good ear. A small boy, overhearing the discussion, came forward and handed his small lunch-basket to the Master, who thanked him; and, holding up the basket, addressed the people.

'We will now have our supper,' he said.

Everybody laughed. It was the first time anyone had laughed today. But Jesus did not think it was funny. He held up his hand for silence, bowed his head, and prayed, thanking God for this food and for the kind heart of the generous child who wanted to share what he had with his neighbours. Then, breaking up the lad's five little loaves and his two fishes into tiny morsels, he told his companions to distribute the food among the people.

With sheepish grins, the men and women who had provided for themselves tugged their parcels out of their pockets and passed them down the row. . . . It had turned out to be a day of marvels!

Presently the crowd began to thin out. The afternoon was far advanced and the northern sky was darkening. The people seemed anxious to be on their way.

Andrew, turning to Bartholomew, remarked confidentially, 'I think I know now why the Master brought us over here.'

'You're right, Andy,' said the shrewd old man. 'He knew the crowd would follow, and he wanted to give those hot-heads a chance to cool off.'

'And think about something else besides their hatred of Antipas,' added Andrew. 'Well—they were cooled off by the time they got here—no doubt about that!'

'Yes'—Bartholomew pointed toward the menacing cloud—'and they'll be cooled off a little more before they reach Capernaum.'

The old man's prediction was correct. It was hard travelling along the shore-line. And it was the roughest night that anybody could remember on the lake.
The Sara
all but capsized.

* * * * * *

And while all this strange business of feeding five thousand people out of a little boy's lunch-basket was taking place in the desert, a mere handful of Bethsaidans quietly buried John's body in the village cemetery beside his long-departed father and mother. Frail old Rabbi Elimelech quaveringly intoned an ancient prayer for the peace of the prophet's soul. Esther, who had returned only yesterday from her arduous labours in the hungry, thirsty, weary crowds that had followed Jesus during his eastern journey, tarried with Hannah until the grave was filled and covered it with garden flowers.

So—there was no revolution in Galilee. But the public's attitude toward the Tetrarch and his household and his pagan guests, while lacking in any demonstration of hostility, became quite unendurable. Without waiting for
The Augusta
to come for him, a month hence, Antipas impetuously organized his retinue and made off early one morning for Caesarea, hoping to be lucky enough to find a vessel presently sailing for Rome. No spectators lined the streets to gape at the procession as it passed.

Fortunately for the harried Tetrarch, a dirty and dilapidated old freight-ship,
The Ostia,
was—at the moment of his impromptu departure from Tiberias—discharging the last shovelful of her cargo of Cyprian copper on one of the new wharves in Caesarea, and would sail home within a few days.

Among the small group of passengers who had disembarked from
The Ostia
was Sergius, the Prefect. Captain Malus, half expecting him to arrive, was at the wharf and greeted his master with a warm welcome.

'And how is Felix?' the Prefect wanted to know, as they rode together toward the Praetorium.

'Very well, sir. He will be overjoyed to see you.'

'Lonesome, I dare say,' mused Sergius. 'How has he been spending his time?'

'He rides, sir,' reported the Captain. 'And he often visits the young Arabian, Voldi, in prison.'

Sergius scowled.

'I do not like that, Malus. You shouldn't have permitted it! I lock this fellow up for disobeying orders—and my son visits him. I won't have it. Suppose all this should reach the ear of the Tetrarch!'

Malus meekly protested that there had been no instructions to forbid callers at the prison.

'I had no authority, sir, to tell Felix where he might and might not go in your absence. I can't think that any harm's been done,' he added. 'The Arabian is still in prison. . . . And—by the way—Antipas has just arrived in town with his large party. They sail for Rome on
The Ostia
.'

'That dirty old tub?' shouted Sergius. 'The Tetrarch must be in a hurry.'

'Yes, sir. Antipas made a mistake—all Galilee is buzzing with it, on the verge of revolt. Apparently it got too hot for him up there.'

The Prefect demanded to know the story, and Malus told him of the Tetrarch's revolting crime: beheading a harmless fanatic to entertain a dinner party; having the bloody head brought to the table on a platter.

Sergius grew purple with indignation as the sordid tale unfolded. Never having had the slightest respect for this pompous Romanized Jew, the loathsome story disgusted him almost to the point of nausea. The Prefect had had men beheaded, but not to entertain anybody!

'Gossip has it,' went on Malus, 'that the idea was Herodias'.'

'It would be!' growled Sergius. After smouldering in his anger for a while, he suddenly blurted out, 'I've had quite enough of that low-lived Tetrarch! There'll be no pomp and ceremony wasted on him, this time. I don't intend to see him off. And you needn't make any ado about protecting him. If he asks to see me, tell him I'm sick abed—with leprosy! . . . And, Malus, go down to the prison and turn the Arabian loose. Take him his horse. Tell him he is free to go wherever he likes!'

They had drawn up before the Praetorium now, and were stepping out of the chariot. Felix came running up and warmly embraced his father.

'Greetings, my son!' said Sergius. 'I am glad to see you! Malus tells me you have been a good boy!'

'Thanks, Malus!' said Felix so fervently that his shrewd old father grinned.

The three of them fell into step together and moved toward the marble steps leading to the bronze doors of the Praetorium. Sergius halted there and regarded his son so soberly that he winced. Good old Malus, reflected Felix, had let him down, after all.