Benyosef, ceasing his racket, scowled thoughtfully, but made no comment. The older brother shook his head. The younger calmly stared through and beyond the inquirer as if he had not heard. The Greek, who might be Stephanos, slowly turned about and faced the big man in the corner.
‘You could go, Justus,’ he said. ‘You were intending to go home, anyhow; weren’t you?’
‘How long do you want to stay?' rambled Justus, after some deliberation.
‘Two weeks, perhaps, or three—or a month.’ Marcellus tried not to sound too urgent. ‘Once I am up there, and have found my way about,’ he added, ‘you could leave me—if you had other things to do.’
‘When do you want to start?’ inquired Justus, with a little more interest.
‘Soon as possible. How about the day after tomorrow?’
‘The day after tomorrow,’ put in Benyosef, reproachfully, ‘is the Sabbath of the Lord our God!’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Marcellus. ‘I had forgotten.’
‘Don’t you Romans ever observe a day of rest, young man?’ demanded Benyosef, enjoying his right to be querulous.
‘The Romans rest oftener than we do,’ drawled Justus, encouraged to this audacity by the broad grin with which Marcellus had met the old man’s impertinence.
‘But not oftener than you do!’ growled Benyosef, darting his bright little eyes at Justus.
This was good for a chuckle. Even the younger brother turned about and smiled a little. As if to prove himself a man of action, Justus rose and led the way to a wooden bench in front of the house. Marcellus, with a nod to the others, followed. So did the boy, who sat beside them, hugging his knees.
With more resourcefulness than Marcellus had expected, Justus led the conversation about necessary arrangements for the journey. They would need a small string of pack-asses, he said, to carry camp equipment; for some of the smaller villages offered very poor accommodations. Four asses would be sufficient, he thought, to pack everything including whatever might be purchased.
‘Will you buy the asses for me, and the camping tackle?’ asked Marcellus. ‘Doubtless you could make better terms. How much money will it take?’ He unstrapped his wallet.
‘You are trusting me to buy these things?’ inquired Justus.
‘Why not? You look honest.’ Noting that this comment had brought a little frown, he added, ‘You would not be an acceptable visitor at old Benyosef’s shop if you were unscrupulous.’
Justus gave him a long sidewise look without turning his head.
‘What do you know about old Benyosef—and his shop?’ he queried gruffly.
Marcellus shrugged.
‘The place is of good repute,’ he answered, negligently. ‘Benyosef has been in business for a long time.’
‘That means nothing,’ retorted Justus. ‘Plenty of rascals stay in business for a long time.’ And when Marcellus had agreed to that with a nod, and an indifferent ‘Doubtless,’ Justus said: ‘There will be no need to buy packasses. You can hire them—and a boy to drive them. Hire the tent, too, and everything else.’
‘Will you see to it, then? Let us be on our way early on the first day of the week.’ Marcellus rose. ‘How much will you expect for your services?’
‘I am willing to leave that to you, sir,’ said Justus. ‘As you heard Stephen say, I had intended going home in a few days to Sepphoris in Galilee. This journey will not inconvenience me. I have nothing to do at present. My time is of little value. You may provide me with food and shelter. And I could use a new pair of sandals.’
‘Well—I mean to do better than that by you,’ declared Marcellus.
‘A new robe, then,” suggested Justus, holding up a frayed sleeve.
‘With pleasure.’ Marcellus lowered his tone and said, ‘Pardon the question, but—but’—he hesitated—‘you are a Jew; are you not?’
Justus chuckled and nodded, stroking his whiskers.
When they parted, a moment later, with a definite understanding to meet at the Damascus Gate soon after sunrise on the next morning after the Sabbath, Marcellus felt confident that the journey would be rewarding. Justus was a friendly old fellow who would tell him everything he wanted to know. He was just the type to enjoy reminiscence.
With his errand satisfactorily performed and nothing in particular to do, Marcellus strolled back toward the busy, ill-flavored market-place where he idled past the booths and stalls, pausing to listen, with amusement and disgust, to the violent rages of hucksters and shoppers over deals relating to one small pickled fish or a calf’s foot. Vituperations rent the air. Unpleasant comments were made by customers reflecting on the merchants’ ancestry. Insults were screamed, and ignored, and forgotten, which—had they been exchanged in a Roman barracks—would have demanded an immediate blood atonement. At one booth, where he stopped to witness an almost incredible scene involving the disputed price of a lamb kidney, Marcellus was a bit surprised to find, close beside him, the boy he had seen at Benyosef’s shop.
Having had more than enough of the market-place, he decided to return to his inn. It was a long tramp. Turning about, at the top of the steps leading to the entrance, Marcellus looked down toward the city. The boy from Benyosef’s was sauntering down the street. It was more amusing than annoying to have been followed. On second thought—these people were quite within their rights to investigate him as far as they could. Perhaps they wanted to know at what manner of place he was stopping. Had he been a guest at the Insula, they would have had nothing further to do with him.
That evening, as he sat in the walled garden of the inn, after supper, studying the ancient scroll that Benjamin had given him, Marcellus glanced up to find Stephanos standing before him.
‘May I speak with you privately?’ asked Stephanos, in Greek.
They walked to the far end of the garden, and Marcellus signed to him to sit down.
‘You were surprised not to find Demetrius,’ began Stephanos. ‘About a fortnight after he wrote to you, he had the misfortune to be recognized on the street by the Tribune with whom he had had trouble in Athens. No effort was made to apprehend him, but he believed that the Tribune might seek revenge. In that case his friends at Benyosef’s shop might be involved—and we are in no position to defend ourselves.’
‘Where did he go, Stephanos?’ asked Marcellus, deeply concerned.
‘I do not know, sir. He returned to our lodgings and awaited me. We sat up and talked nearly all through the night. Several of our men were in a secret meeting at Benyosef’s shop. We joined them an hour before dawn. Demetrius, having bade us farewell, slipped away before the sun rose. He will return when it is safe; when the Tribune has left. You may leave a letter for him with me, if you like, or send it later in my care—should you find a messenger who can be trusted. He confided to me that you were coming and asked me to explain his absence. None of the others were told.’ Stephanos lowered his voice, and continued, ‘Demetrius also confided your reasons for wanting to visit Galilee.’
‘Just how much did he tell you?’ Marcellus studied the Greek’s face.
‘Everything,’ replied Stephanos, soberly. ‘You see, sir, he wanted to make sure that Justus would go along with you. He felt that I might be of some service in arranging this. And when he began to explain the nature of your interest in Jesus—with much hesitation, and many mysterious gaps in the story—I urged him to make a clean breast of the whole business; and he did. You can trust me to keep your secret.’
Marcellus had no rejoinder ready to meet this startling announcement. For a time he sat quietly deliberating.
‘Are they suspicious of me, at Benyosef’s shop?’ he asked, at length. ‘I was followed, this afternoon.’
‘Young Philip is my nephew, sir,’ explained Stephanos. ‘I needed to know where you were lodging. You need have no anxiety about Philip. He will not talk. No one at the shop will learn of our meeting. I feared, for a moment, this morning, that John might recognize you, but apparently he did not. He is a dreamy fellow.’
r />
‘How could he have recognized me?’ asked Marcellus.
‘John was at the crucifixion, sir. Perhaps you may recall the young man who tried to comfort Jesus’ mother.’
‘His mother! She was there? How dreadful!’ Marcellus bowed his head and dug his finger-tips into his temples.
‘It was indeed, sir,’ muttered Stephanos. ‘I was there. I recognized you instantly when you came into the shop, though of course I was expecting you. I think you may feel sure that John did not remember.’
‘You have been very kind, Stephanos. Is there any way in which I can serve you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Greek lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Have you the Robe?’
Marcellus nodded.
“May I see it?’ asked Stephanos.
‘Yes,’ said Marcellus. ‘Come with me.’
***
They had been on the road for three days now, and the name of Jesus had not been mentioned. For all his apparent ingenuousness, Justus was surprisingly profound. His ready smile promised a childish capitulation to your wishes. His deference to your rating as a well-to-do young Roman was graciously tendered. But your negligent prediction that Justus would be eager to talk about Jesus had turned out to be incorrect. You were learning that there were a few things which not even a wealthy, well-dressed Roman could acquire either by cajolery, command, or purchase; and one of these things was the story of Jesus.
It had never occurred to Marcellus that an occasion could arise when his Roman citizenship might be an inconvenience. If you were a Roman and had plenty of money, you could have what you wanted, anywhere in the world. Doors and gates were swung open, bars and bridges were let down, tables were set up, aliens climbed out of public vehicles to give you their seats, merchants made everybody else stand aside while they attended to your caprices. If you arrived late at the wharf, the boat waited. If there was only one commodious cabin, the rich Jew surrendered it without debate. When you said Come, people came; when you said Go, they went.
But if you had journeyed on foot into the impoverished little provinces north of Jerusalem, ostensibly to purchase homespun, but actually to make inquiries concerning a certain penniless carpenter who had moved about in that region, your Roman citizenship Was a nuisance and your money was of no aid.
The project—as Marcellus had originally conceived it—had presented no problems. Barsabas Justus, full of zeal for his new cause, would be bubbling with information about his hero. Perhaps he might even have designs on you as a possible convert. He would be eager to introduce you to the country people who had often met this strange Galilean face to face. You would be shown into their homes to see the outgivings of their household looms and, before you had a chance to sit down, they would be reciting stories of enchanted words and baffling deeds.
Well—it hadn’t come out that way. True, the country people had welcomed you at their little wayside inns, had greeted you respectfully on the highway, had shown you their fabrics, had politely answered your random questions about their handicrafts; but they had had nothing to say about this Jesus. They were courteous, hospitable, friendly; but you, who had often been a stranger in strange places, had never felt quite so lonesome before. They all shared a secret; but not with you. Justus would present you to a household and tell them why you had come and they would make haste to bring out the best specimens of their weaving. And presently, the father of the family and Justus would exchange a covert glance of mutual understanding and quietly drift out of the room. After a while, your hostess would excuse herself, leaving you with auntie and the children; and you knew that she had slipped away to join her husband and Justus.
The very air of this country was full of mystery. For instance, there was this fish-emblem; figure of a fish, freshly cut into the bark of a sycamore, scrawled with a stick into the sand by the roadside, chalked on a stone fence, scratched into a bare table at a village inn. Demetrius had said it was the accepted token of the new movement to practice the teachings of Jesus.
On the second day out, Marcellus, hoping to make Justus talk, had asked casually:
‘What’s all this—about fish?’
And Justus had replied:
‘That’s what we live on—up here—fish.’
Marcellus had been miffed a little by this evasion. He resolved to ask no more questions.
***
Marcellus, lounging against the fig tree, studied the tanned face of old Justus, and wondered what he was thinking about; wondered, too, how long he was likely to lie there gazing wide-eyed at the sky. Justus gave no sign that he was aware of his client’s restlessness.
After a while, Marcellus came slowly to his feet and sauntered over toward the pack-asses which the cloddish young driver—sound asleep under a tree—had staked out to graze.
Noticing with indignation that the lead donkey’s bridle was buckled so short that the unhappy creature’s mouth had been tom by the bit and was bleeding, he tugged the torturing harness off over the long ears; and, sitting down on the grass, proceeded to lengthen the straps by punching new holes with the point of his dagger. It was not an easy task, for the leather was old and stiff; and before he had put the bridle together again, the donkeyboy had roused and was watching him with dull curiosity.
‘Come here, stupid one!’ barked Marcellus. ‘I shall not tolerate any cruelty to these beasts.’ He reached into his wallet and drew out a copper coin. ‘Go you to that house—or the next—or the next—and get some ointment—and don’t come back here without it!’
After the dolt had set off, shambling down the road, Marcellus rose, carelessly patted the old donkey on the nose, and returned to find Justus sitting up, smilingly interested.
‘You like animals,’ he observed, cordially.
‘Yes,’ said Marcellus—‘some animals. I can’t say that I am particularly fond of donkeys; but it irritates me when I see them mistreated. We will have to keep an eye on that dunce!’
Justus nodded approvingly. Marcellus sat down beside him, aware that his guide was studying him with the air of having made a new acquaintance.
‘Do you like flowers?’ asked Justus, irrelevantly, after a length, candid, and somewhat embarrassing inspection.
‘Of course,’ drawled Marcellus. ‘Why not?’
‘This country is full of wild flowers. It’s the season for them. Later, it is very dry, and they wither. They are especially abundant this year.’ Justus made a slow, sweeping gesture that covered the sloping hillside. ‘Look, sir, what a wide variety.’
Marcellus followed the tanned finger as the gentle voice identified the blossoms with what seemed like confident knowledge; pink mustard, yellow mustard, blue borage, white sage, rayed umbel, plantain, bugle-weed, marigold, and three species of poppies.
‘You must be an ardent lover of nature, Justus,’ commented Marcellus.
‘Only in the last couple of years, sir. I used to pass the flowers by without seeing them, as almost every man does. Of course I recognized the useful plants; flax and wheat, oats and barley and clover; but I never thought much about flowers until I made the close acquaintance of a man who knew all about them.’
Justus had again stretched out on the grass, and his tone had become so dreamily reminiscent that Marcellus, listening with suspended breath, wondered if—at last—the soft-voiced Galilean might be about to speak of his lost friend.
‘He knew all about flowers,’ reiterated Justus, with a little shake of his head, as if the recollection were inexpressibly precious. Marcellus thought of asking whether his friend had died or left the country, seeing that Justus’ reference to him sounded as if it belonged to the past; but decided not to be too intrusive with his questions.
‘You would have thought,’ Justus was saying, half to himself, ‘that the flowers were friends of his, the way he talked about them. One day he bade some of us, who were walking with him, to stop and observe a field of wild lilies. “See how richly they are clad!” he said. “They do no work. They do not spin.
Yet even King Solomon did not have such raiment.”’
‘A lover of beauty,’ commented Marcellus. ‘But probably not a very practical fellow. Did he not believe in labor?’
‘Oh, yes—he believed that people should be industrious,’ Justus had been quick to declare, ‘but he held that most of them spent too much time and thought on their bodies; clothing—and food—and hoarding—and bigger barns—and the accumulation of things.’
‘Sounds as if he wasn’t very thrifty.’ Marcellus grinned as he said it, so it wouldn’t seem a contemptuous criticism; but Justus, staring at the sky, did not see the smile, and the comment brought a frown.
‘He was not indolent,’ said Justus, firmly. ‘He could have had things, if he’d wanted them. He was a carpenter by occupation—and a skillful one too. It was a pleasure to see him handle keen-edged tools. When he mortised timbers they looked as if they had grown that way. There was always a fair-sized crowd about the shop, watching him work; children all over the place. He had a way with children—and animals—and birds.’ Justus laughed softly, and exhaled a nostalgic sigh. ‘Yes—he had a way with him. When he would leave the shop to go home, there was always a lot of children along—and dogs. Everything belonged to him; but he never owned anything. He often said that he pitied people who toiled and schemed and worried and cheated to possess a lot of things; and then had to stand guard over them to see that they weren’t stolen or destroyed by moths and rust.’
‘Must have been an eccentric person,’ mused Marcellus, ‘not to want anything for his own.’
‘But he never thought he was poor!’ Justus raised up on one elbow, suddenly animated. ‘He had the spirit of truth. Not many people can afford that, you know.’
‘What an odd thing to say!’ Marcellus had stared into Justus’ eyes, until the older man grinned a little.