Chapter 27

How he had hated the Romans! Ever since he was a little boy the very word angered him! Their cavalry from the Capernaum fort had galloped, four abreast, on the Galilean highways, frightening poor people half out of their wits, sending women and children scurrying into the hedges. Their drunken foot-soldiers had reeled into the little shops shouting for attention. They had grossly insulted women of all ages on the streets. They had helped themselves to the defenceless farmers’ grapes and melons. Peter had despised the Romans with a bitter loathing!

And now, here he was in Caesarea, the honoured guest of ‘The Italians,’ a social club composed entirely of Roman civilians in the employ of the Prefect’s government.

The three mounted men who had called for him in Joppa had deferentially explained that Cornelius, the Senior Regent of ‘The Italians,’ urgently desired him to come at once to Caesarea for an important conference. Very much bewildered, Peter had awkwardly climbed on to the tall black horse they had brought for him; and there he was, riding along under the bright moonlight, in the company of Romans; to all appearances the same kind of Romans he had learned to hate! Sleek, well-fed, well-accoutred Romans, with the despised black eagle insignia on their scarlet tunics, with the clean-shaven faces and close-cropped hair, and the inevitable black bandeaux on their heads. The journey was made mostly in silence. The couriers had told him little about his summons to Caesarea. Cornelius wanted to see him. That was about all. The name of Cornelius meant nothing to Peter, but evidently it meant a great deal to these men. They spoke his name almost reverently. Peter was to learn later that Cornelius was the treasurer of the Roman government in Caesarea and high in the esteem of Prefect Sergius.

It was a fast trip. Peter had had almost no experience of riding. When they arrived in Caesarea, he was weary and lame. They took him directly to their well-appointed club-house, showed him into a beautifully furnished guest-room, and told him to rest until Cornelius came. He bathed, slept, and wolfed the food a servant brought him. And now—in the early afternoon—he was invited to see the mysterious man who had summoned him from Joppa.

Cornelius was seated behind a large desk in a sumptuous office. As Peter entered, he rose, bowed deeply, and pointed to a heavily upholstered chair opposite his own. Peter sat and regarded the Regent with interest. He was a handsome old man of seventy, with snow-white hair and a benign countenance. When he spoke, his voice was low and gentle.

‘You may think it strange, sir,’ he began, in laboured Aramaic, ‘to be summoned here with so little information concerning your errand…By the way,’ he interrupted himself to ask, ‘do you converse in Greek?’

‘Not too well,’ admitted Peter.

‘Is your Greek as good as my Aramaic?’

‘Yes, sir; not meaning any offence.’ They both grinned.

‘We will speak Greek, then,’ said Cornelius softly. ‘What I have to say to you could not be confided to those fine fellows who brought you here. They would not have understood. I have had a mysterious dream, and I am informed that you can interpret it.’

Peter leaned forward and listened attentively.