Chapter 21

As Peter neared the glowing fire he walked more slowly and diffidently, realizing that he had made a mistake to enter the courtyard.

The half-dozen tall patrols, self-confident in their brightly polished helmets and scarlet-and-black uniforms, were awaiting his approach with an embarrassing interest. Yet, when he stood among them, taller and heavier than they, he was relieved to see something of friendliness in their faces.

‘A chilly morning,’ remarked the eldest, stepping aside to make room for the massive stranger. Peter agreed that it was, and warmed his hands. ‘The kitchen-girls will be bringing some mulled wine, presently,’ said another. ‘Here they come—now.’

And here they came, the girls he had joked with when delivering fish at the Tetrarch’s palace in Tiberias in the almost forgotten days before he had left all to follow Jesus. He recognized them instantly, with a sinking heart; the tough little Roman, Claudia; Murza, the cynical Arimathaean; Anna and Leah, the Jewesses.

While still at some distance, Claudia, tripping along with a loaded tray, shouted to the others:

‘But look! Murza! Leah! Do you see what I see? It is the Big Fisherman—no less!’ They put down their flagons and mugs and honey-cakes on the serving table and swarmed about him with excited little cries. ‘The Big Fisherman!’ Claudia tried to span both hands round his heavily muscled arm, as she had been accustomed to do. The patrols gathered closely about, enjoying the reunion.

‘You girls seem to know this Hercules,’ chaffed the grey-haired soldier.

‘Know him!’ echoed Claudia. ‘But of course! And a bad influence he was, too, what with his making sport of all the gods! A quite terrible fellow; no?’

‘And what brings you to Jerusalem?’ inquired Anna. ‘I’ll warrant it wasn’t to eat the Passover!’

Peter hadn’t had a chance to put in a word. He stood there grinning foolishly; tugging at his underlip.

‘Maybe he’s here with this Carpenter,’ teased Leah, ‘this man who thinks he’s the Messiah.’

‘That’s it!’ shrilled Claudia. ‘The Big Fisherman’s gone religious!’ They all laughed.

‘You know better than that!’ growled Peter. ‘I don’t hold with such nonsense!’

‘Well—seriously,’ said Anna, ‘what do you think of this Jesus?’

‘I have no opinion at all,’ answered Peter huskily. ‘Never met him!’

‘They’re trying him over there—for blasphemy and treason!’ said Murza.

‘Indeed?’ grunted Peter. ‘Well, he’s no friend of mine.’

The patrols were tiring of this conversation and had edged toward the serving-table, the girls following along. Peter suddenly turned to leave.

‘Wait!’ cried Claudia. ‘Have some wine!’

But the Big Fisherman did not wait and he did not reply. Unsteadily, for he felt sick and his legs were shaky, he made for the gate. Outside, he leaned against the wall, panting and swallowing hard. He walked with uncertain steps, bracing a hand on the wall for support, toward the entrance to the Embassy. Now he could hear the clamour of angry voices. He stopped. The noise subsided. Now came the sound of lashes. They were whipping his Master! He turned about and staggered down the street, still with a groping hand on the wall. His legs were weak and his knees buckled under him at every step. Now he began to cry, the whimpering, retching cry of a badly hurt little boy.