The buildings were ugly and shabby, the equipment bad, the climate abominable. No provision had ever been made for an adequate water-supply. On the sun-blistered grounds there wasn’t a tree, a flower, or a blade of grass; not even a weed. The air was always foul with yellow, abrasive dust. You couldn’t keep clean if you wanted to, and after a few months at Minoa you didn’t care.
The garrison was lazy, surly, dirty, and tough. With little to do, except occasional brief and savage raids on the Bedouins, discipline was loose and erratic. There were no decent diversions; no entertainment. When you couldn’t bear the boredom and discomfort another minute, you went down to Gaza and got drunk, and were lucky if you didn’t get into a bloody brawl.
As for that vicious old city, was not Gaza known throughout the world for the squalor of its stinking kennels where the elderly riff-raff of a halfdozen quarrelsome races screamed imprecations, and the younger scum swapped unpleasant maladies, and the hapless stranger was stripped and robbed in broad daylight? Gaza had her little imperfections; there was no doubt about that. But she had docks and wharves and a spacious harbor. Little coastal ships tied up to her piers; bigger ships lay at anchor in her bay. You strolled down to watch them come and go, and felt you were still in contact with the outside world. Sometimes ships’ officers would come out to the fort for a roistering evening; sometimes military men you had known in Rome would visit you while their vessel took on cargo.
Paulus’ unexpected appointment to Capernaum had been received with hilarious joy. He had never been there, but he had heard something about its quiet charm. Old Julian had been envied his post.
For one thing—the fort was within a half-hour’s ride of Tiberias, that ostentatious seat of the enormously wealthy sycophant, Herod Antipas. Paulus had no notion he was going to like this toad: he had nothing but contempt for these provincial lickspittles who would sell their own sisters for a smile from some influential Roman; but Herod frequently entertained interesting guests who, though they might despise him, must make a show of honoring his position as Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea.
And Capernaum, everyone said, was beautiful; ringed by green hills, with snow-capped mountains in the distance. There was a lovely inland sea. The people were docile. They were reputed to be melancholy over the execution of their Jesus, but they were not violently resentful. Doubtless that problem would solve itself if you gave it time. Old Julian’s tactics—listening at the keyholes of cottages for revolutionary talk, the posting of harsh edicts, floggings and imprisonments—what did they accomplish but to band these simple, harmless people together for mutual sympathy? Of course, if the foolhardy fishermen persisted in making a nuisance of their cult, you would have to punish them, or get yourself into trouble with Herod. That’s what you would be there for—to keep the peace.
Now that you were here, you had much more peace than you had bargained for. Had the gods ever ordained such quiet nights? Paulus had not fully appreciated this oppressive silence for the first day or two. There was the novelty of settling into his immeasurably better quarters. He proudly inspected the trim pleasure-craft that Herod had placed at the disposal of the Legate. He luxuriated in the well-equipped baths, thinking kindly of old Julian whom he had never had any use for.
The fort buzzed with activity. A fairly large contingent from Minoa had accompanied Paulus. There had been the usual festivities at the Insula in Jerusalem during Passover Week—though Paulus had been moody and taciturn, anxious to have it over with, and move on. His retinue had come along to Capernaum, for defense on the journey as well as to dignify his inauguration. A generous dinner had been served after the ceremonies to which Herod—represented by a deputy—had contributed lavish supplies of potent wine. It was a noisy night. Heads had been cracked, noses flattened, more urgent arguments had been settled with knives. Paulus had filled the courtroom with battered celebrants; had crowded the guardhouse; had stormed and shouted oaths new to the local legionaries; and, well pleased with his first day’s duties, had gone to bed tight as a drum.
Next day, the Minoa contingent had left for home—all but Sextus. At the last minute, Paulus—with a premonition of loneliness—had told Sextus to remain, at least for a time. And when the last of them had disappeared, a strange quietness settled over the fort. That night, after Sextus had ambled off early to bed, Paulus sat by his window watching the moonlight on the lake. Except for Sextus’ snoring, the silence was profound. Perhaps it had been a mistake to retain Sextus. He wasn’t very good company, after all.
What did one do for diversion in Capernaum? The little town was sound asleep. The Herod family was away. Tiberias was dead as a doornail. If this was a sample of life at Capernaum, you had been better off at Minoa.
The days trudged along, scraping their sandal-heels; sitting down, now and then, for a couple of hours, while Time remained standing. Paulus, strolling in the courtyard, paused before the sundial, read its laconic warning, ‘Tempus fugit,’ and sourly remarked to Sextus, it’s apparent that old Virgil never visited Capernaum.’
After a week, Paulus was so restless that he even thought of contriving some errand to Jerusalem, though his recent visit there had been lacking in interest. Perhaps that was because the insufferable young Quintus, who had been sent by the Crown to reshuffle the Palestinian commands, was too, too much in evidence. Paulus, who was a good hater, had never despised anybody so quickly, so earnestly. Quintus was a vain, overbearing, patronizing, strutting peacock; he was an insolent, ill-mannered puppy; he was a pompous ass! In short, Paulus didn’t like him at all. But Quintus would have sailed for home by now. Maybe Quintus was what had ailed Jerusalem, this time.
***
It was late afternoon. The sun was setting. Paulus and Sextus had been apathetically shaking the old leather dice-cup on the long table in the courtroom. Sextus yawned cavernously and wiped his eyes.
‘If it’s bedtime,’ drawled Paulus, ‘perhaps we’d better light the lamps.’ He clapped his hands. A guard scurried up. Paulus pointed to the lamps. The guard saluted and made haste to obey. ‘Nine,’ mumbled the Legate, handing the dice-cup to his drowsy friend.
At this juncture, old Namius had come in with three disheveled slaves. Somewhere, Paulus felt, he had seen that tall Greek. Sextus jogged his memory. Ah—Demetrius! He had always liked Demetrius, in spite of his cool superiority. Demetrius was a haughty fellow, but you had respect for him. Paulus suddenly recalled having seen an announcement, posted at the Insula in Jerusalem, offering a reward for the capture of a Greek slave belonging to Tribune Marcellus Gallio. The bulletin said that the Greek had assaulted a Roman citizen in Athens, and was thought to be in hiding in Jerusalem. So—here he was. Somebody had gathered him in. But no—a brief examination revealed that Demetrius had been arrested on suspicion. He had been loitering; he was shabby; he had money. In prison he had fought the rascally Syrians who denied him water. So much for that. Then Paulus had wanted to know about Marcellus, who had been reported crazy—or the next thing to it—and was delighted to learn that his friend was in the neighborhood.
But before he could release Demetrius, he must learn something about this charge against him. If it were true that he had struck a Roman, and run away, you couldn’t dismiss him so easily. Paulus put them all out, including Sextus, who didn’t like it.
‘Demetrius’—Paulus frowned judiciously—‘what have you to say about this report that you are a fugitive; that you struck a Roman citizen in Athens? That is very serious, you know!’
‘It is true, sir,’ replied Demetrius, without hesitation. ‘I found it necessary to punish Tribune Quintus severely.’
‘Quintus!’ shouted the Legate. ‘You mean to say you struck Quintus?’ He leaned forward over the desk, eyes beaming. ‘Tell me all about it!’
‘Well, sir—the Tribune came to the Inn of Eupolis with a message for my master. While waiting for the reply, he made himself grossly offensive to the daughter of the innkeeper. They are a highly respected family, sir, and the
young woman was not accustomed to being treated like a common trollop. Her father was present, but feared to intervene lest they all be thrown into prison.’
‘So—you came to the damsel’s rescue, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t you know you can be put to death for so much as touching a Roman Tribune?’ demanded Paulus, sternly; and when Demetrius had slowly and remorsefully nodded his head, the Legate’s frown relaxed, and he asked, in a confidential tone, ‘What did you do to him?’
‘I struck him in the face with my fist, sir,’ confessed Demetrius. ‘And—once I had struck him—I knew I had committed a crime punishable by death, and couldn’t make my position any worse, so—’
‘So—you hit him again, I think,’ surmised Paulus, with mounting interest. ‘Did he fight back?’
‘No, sir. The Tribune was not expecting that first blow, and was unprepared for the next one.’
‘In the face?’ Paulus’ eyes were wide and bright.
‘Many times, sir,’ admitted Demetrius.
‘Knock him down?’
‘Oh, yes, sir; and held him up by his helmet-strap, and beat his eyes shut. I was very angry, sir.’
‘Yes—I can see that you were.’ Paulus put both hands over his suddenly puffed cheeks and stifled something like a hiccough. ‘And then you ran off?’
‘Without a moment’s delay, sir. There was a ship sailing. The Captain befriended me. Tribune Quintus was on board, and would have had me apprehended, but the Captain let me escape in the small boat at Gaza. From there I walked to Jerusalem.’
‘Didn’t the Captain know he could be punished for that?’ growled Paulus. ‘What was his name?’
‘I cannot remember, sir,’ regretted Demetrius, after some hesitation.
‘That is undoubtedly a lie,’ said Paulus, ‘but you are to be commended for your loyalty. So, then, you went to Jerusalem. Why?’
‘My master expected to come shortly.’
‘What did you do there?’
Demetrius told him of the weaver’s shop. Paulus grew interested again. ‘I understand there is a weaver’s shop where the leaders of the Jesus-people meet. What was the name of your weaver?’
‘Benyosef, sir.’
‘That was the name! And how did you happen to be in that company, Demetrius? Are you, perhaps, one of these—these—what do they call them—Christians?’
“Yes, sir,’ confessed Demetrius, tardily. ‘Not a very good one; but I believe as they do.’
‘You can’t!’ shouted Paulus. ‘You have a good mind! You don’t mean to tell me that you believe all this nonsense—about Jesus returning to life, and being seen on various occasions!’
‘Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. 'I am sure that is true.’
‘But—see here!’ Paulus stood up. ‘You were out there, that day, and saw him die!’
‘Yes, sir. I am sure he died; and I am sure he is alive.’
‘Have you seen him?’ Paulus’ voice was unsteady.
Demetrius shook his head and the Legate grinned.
‘I hadn’t thought,’ he said, dryly, 'that you could be taken in by such a story. Men who die do not return. Only fools think sol’ Paulus sat down again, relaxing in his chair. ‘But you are not a fool. What makes you believe that?’
‘I heard the story from a man who did see him; a man of sound mind; a man who does not lie.’ Demetrius broke off, though it was evident he would have said more.
‘Very well; go on!’ commanded the Legate.
‘It did not surprise me very much,’ continued Demetrius. ‘There never was a person like that before. Surely—you, sir, must have noticed that. He had something nobody else ever had! I don’t believe he was an ordinary man, sir.’
‘How do you mean—not ordinary? Are you trying to say that you think he was something else than a man? You don’t think he was a god?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Demetrius, firmly, I think he was—and is—a god!
‘Nonsense! Don’t you know we are locking up people for saying things like that about this dead Galilean?’ Paulus rose impetuously and paced back and forth behind the long table. ‘I mean to let you go—for your master’s sake; but’—he stopped suddenly and shook a warning finger—‘you are to clear out of Galilee—and there’s to be no more talk about this Jesus. And if you ever tell anyone that you told me about your assault on Quintus—and I learn of it—I’ll have you flogged! Do you understand? I’ll have you stripped and lashed with a bull-whip!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Demetrius, gratefully. ‘I am very sorry that I struck him.’
‘Then you don’t deserve your freedom,’ growled Paulus. That’s why I am turning you loose—and now you’re sorry you did it. And you believe that dead men come to life. You’re crazy!’ He clapped his hands, and a guard stalked in. ‘Make this Greek comfortable,’ he barked. ‘Have the physician attend to his cuts. Give him a good supper and a bed. He is to be released from prison.’
Demetrius wincingly brought his arm up in a salute, and turned to follow.
‘One more thing!’ rasped Paulus, to the guard. ‘When you have finished with the Greek, return here. I want you to carry a message to Shalum’s Inn. Make haste!’
***
Marcellus was pleased to observe that Paulus’ promotion had not altered his manner. The easy informality of their friendship was effortlessly resumed.
A small table had been laid in the Legate’s handsomely furnished suite; a silver cake-tray, a bowl of fresh fruit, a tall flagon of wine. Paulus, cleanshaven, wearing an expensive white toga and a red silk bandeau that accented the whiteness of his close-cropped hair, was a distinguished figure. He met his guest in the doorway and embraced him warmly.
‘Welcome, good Marcellus!’ he exclaimed. ‘And welcome to Galilee; though, if you have been touring about up here, you may be better acquainted with this province than I.’
‘It is a delight to see you again, Paulus!’ rejoined Marcellus. ‘All my good wishes for the success and happiness of your new command! It was most generous of you to send for me.’
With his arm around Marcellus’ shoulders, Paulus guided his friend to a chair by the table, and sauntered to its mate on the other side.
‘Come; sit down.’ He filled their goblets. ‘Let us drink to this happy meeting. Now you must tell me what brings you into my quiet little Galilee.’
Marcellus smiled, raised the goblet to the level of his eyes, and bowed to his host.
‘It would take an hour to explain my errand, Paulus,’ he replied, sipping his wine. ‘A long story—and a somewhat fantastic one, too. In short, the Emperor ordered me to learn something more about the Galilean whom we put to death.’
‘A painful business for you, I think,’ frowned Paulus. ‘I still reproach myself for placing you in such an unhappy position that night at the Procurator’s banquet. I did not see you again, or I should have tried to make amends. If it is not too late to say so I am sorry it happened. I was drunk.’
‘We all were,’ remembered Marcellus. I bore you no ill-will.’
‘But it wasn’t drunkenness that ailed you, sir, when you groped your way out of that banquet-hall. When you put on the dead man’s Robe, something happened to you. Even I, drunk as I was, could see that. By the gods!—I thought you must have sighted a ghost!’ Raising his goblet, Paulus drank deeply; then, shrugging his dour mood aside, he brightened. ‘But why revive unpleasant memories? You were a long time ill. I heard of it and was sad. But now you are quite recovered. That is well. You are the picture of health, Marcellus. Drink—my friend! You have hardly tasted your wine; and it is good.’
‘Native?’ Marcellus took another sip.
Paulus grinned; then suddenly stiffened to pantomime an attitude of cool hauteur.
‘My eminent patron,’ he declaimed, with elaborate mockery, ‘my exalted lord, the ineffable Herod Antipas—Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea, robber of the poor, foot-washer of any titled Roman that comes within reach—he sent the
wine. And though Herod himself may be a low form of life, his wine is noble.’ Slipping easily out of his august rôle, Paulus added, casually, ‘I have had no native wine yet. By the way—the country people have a Story that our Jesus once supplied a wedding-party with a rare vintage that he made by doing some incantations over a water-pot. There are innumerable yams of this order. Perhaps you have heard them.’
Marcellus nodded, but did not share the Legate’s cynical amusement.
‘Yes,’ he said, soberly, I have heard them. They are very hard to understand.’
‘Understand!’ echoed Paulus. 'Don’t tell me you have tried to understand them! Have we not plenty of such legends in Rome—tales that no one in his right senses gives a second thought to?’
‘Yes—I know, Paulus,’ agreed Marcellus, quietly, ‘and I should want to be among the last to believe them; but—’
At the significant pause, Paulus stood up, busying himself with refilling their goblets. He offered the silver cake-tray, which Marcellus declined, and sat down again with a little gesture of impatience.
‘I hope you aren’t going to say that these Galilean stories are credible, Marcellus,’ he remarked, coolly.
‘This Jesus was a strange man, Paulus.’
‘Granted! By no means an ordinary man! He had a peculiar kind of courage, and a sort of majesty—all his own. But I hope you don’t believe that he changed water into wine!’
‘I do not know, Paulus,’ replied Marcellus, slowly. ‘I saw a child who had been born with a crippled foot; now as active as any other little boy.’
‘How do you know he was born with a crippled foot?’ demanded Paulus.
‘The whole village knew. There was no reason why they should have invented the story for my benefit. They were suspicious of me. In fact, the boy’s grandfather, my guide, was reluctant to talk about it.’
‘Well—you can be sure there is some reasonable explanation,’ rasped Paulus. ‘These people are as superstitious as our Thracian slaves. Why—they even believe that this man came to life—and has been seen!’