Chapter 24

Because he was the furthest away and needed more time than any of the others for the unexpected journey to Jerusalem, Simon of Cyrene was the first of the one hundred and twenty men to receive an invitation.

It was anything but welcome. Simon had left the old city at daybreak next morning after the soul-sickening tragedy in which he had unwittingly become involved, and he had promised himself that he would never set foot in Jerusalem again. Never!

It had been his custom, and his father’s before him, to attend the Passover Week in the Jewish capital, where he had always found a ready market for his merchandise: tropical spices, aromatic and medicinal herbs, and the bulbs of exotic plants.

This season, business had not been good. His potential customers were preoccupied and uneasy. They bought the spices as usual, but had no interest in tulip-bulbs or flowering shrubbery. It was almost as if they expected an early invasion demanding flight, though anybody could see that the Romans weren’t ready for their long-threatened offensive. Simon’s sales hadn’t been worth the bother and expense of the trip and he was half minded not to do it again.

Then, on that dreadful Friday morning, he had become accidentally entangled in the crucifixion of the young Galilean. It had done something to Simon. He was not a man given to meditation on the mysteries of human existence. Whenever some thoughtful friend had expressed an interest in such old riddles as: Why are we here? What is the good of it? Who is in charge of it? What will be the outcome of it? Simon would chuckle and shake his head and say that he was willing to leave all that to the unemployed wiseacres who had time to worry over these matters. Now Simon himself had joined the worriers. The shameless abrogation of justice in the case of the innocent young preacher—a crime sponsored and legalized by both the Insula and the Temple in a country proud of its piety—indicated that humanity was not moving forward toward the achievement of a better world: it was not even standing still. It was losing ground, by the hour! The Cyrenian was a very unhappy man as he departed from the Holy City firmly resolved that he would never return.

The homeward trek had been tedious. Although habitually light-hearted, Simon had become taciturn and glum. The men of his caravan, customarily full of laughter and song, lost their gaiety. And as if the journey were not long enough and dull enough, they had been required to make a detour almost to Memphis for a river crossing, the lower Nile being at flood later than usual. This had added many wearisome miles to an already intolerable journey.

Now—at last—the jaded caravan was within one day’s tramp of its destination. Tonight’s encampment would be the last. By late afternoon tomorrow they would all be back on the beautiful and beloved plantation within sight of the sea where even the oldest of them had been born.

Simon, weary and dispirited, retired early and fell at once into a deep sleep, a sleep so profound that he was quite defenceless when the handsome young courier rode boldly into his tent and, dismounting gracefully, approached the cot and stood in silence for a long moment looking down upon the inert figure of the man he had come to see. Strangely enough, Simon was not affrighted by this unbidden visitation. The messenger was obviously intending him no harm. Indeed, he seemed a friendly youth, probably in his later teens. There were tight little ringlets on his fair brow and at his temples that had escaped from the gold bandeau circling his head. He was exquisitely dressed in white silk, and on the left breast of his tunic was a device appliquéd in gold which Simon could not identify. The beautiful white horse stood quietly waiting. It too was equipped with trappings of great value, the bridle and saddle heavily ornamented with silver.