Chapter 27

‘What would you have me do?’ countered the old man. ‘Shall I live in solitude, despised by my friends, unable to support my dependents?…What I am saying is: your Kingdom presupposes that every man is free to determine what manner of life he shall live. In that it is hopelessly impractical.’

Peter was no match for the old Roman in debate. His faith in the victory of the Master’s Kingdom was undimmed, but he had no answer for the problems that Cornelius presented. He had never confronted them.

‘Is it your belief then,’ he asked, ‘that men are for ever to be the victims of greed—and their rulers’ lust for power?’

‘It has been so from the beginning,’ sighed Cornelius. ‘Have we any way to judge the future, save by the past?’

The afternoon slipped away quickly, Cornelius doing most of the talking today…It was, he reflected, a strangely constructed world. All that it knew about heroism it had learned on the battlefield. All that it knew about the navigation of the seas it had learned in naval warfare. Its sculpture, its architecture, its monuments, its songs, its poetry—was there any art-form that found its theme elsewhere than in the valour of armed men?…It was unfortunate that this should be true; but wasn’t it true?

The pity of it, admitted Cornelius, was that whole nations so often were obliged to follow mad rulers, wicked men recklessly gambling with the blood and property of their subjects.

The sun was sinking.

‘I hope I have not wearied you, Peter,’ said the old man. ‘And I hope I have not discouraged you…Good luck to your Kingdom of love…I can say that much without committing an act of treason; for the Roman Empire will not regard your Kingdom seriously. If it really constituted a threat to the Empire, you would be tossed into prison—and so would I, for entertaining you as my guest.’

‘But—do you expect the Empire to endure for ever?’ asked Peter.

‘I have no opinion, my friend, about the Empire’s ultimate future. It is customary for the sceptre to pass from one hand to another. A nation may be in the saddle today, and on foot—and barefoot—tomorrow. Perhaps that, too, is God’s will.’ The old Roman sat in meditative silence for a while; then he said, ‘I have been wondering today about the fate of your neighbours in Arabia. Their Crown Prince lies hopelessly paralysed. Word came last night that their King Zendi is dead. The Arabs have known what to expect of their royal house. What becomes of them now will depend upon a new ruler. Will he reach out for territory that he does not need? Will he be content with what he has? Will he let the shepherds tend their flocks, or will they have to leave them to the wolves and the weather while they gallop off to war?’

‘War? With whom?’ asked Peter.

‘With Judaea, perhaps. It is possible.’

‘The Empire might not like that,’ observed Peter naively.

Cornelius smiled dryly and said no, the Empire might be annoyed.

It was supper-time now, and they proceeded to the club’s spacious dining-room, where two hundred of The Italians were assembled. Peter sat at Cornelius’ right and was formally presented. After supper he was asked to speak, and he told the story of the divine Galilean who had laid down his life in the cause of world-friendship. The Romans listened respectfully. Peter did not raise his voice or his hand. His audience, from the first moment, was held completely captive. He confidently promised peace and freedom for all men in the name of his risen Lord. He even dared to tell his fascinated audience of the torch-like flames of Pentecost. And nobody stirred, and nobody smiled.

Next morning, after bidding farewell to Cornelius, Peter left Caesarea on foot; his destination, Arabia.