Chapter 5

Having inflicted upon Hannah the thankless job of looking after the ragged young Idumean—an impetuosity that had already caused him some appropriate misgivings—Simon hurried away as if late for an important engagement, though the fact was that he had no plans for the day. He had never been so restless in his life. As he neared the highway, his long strides shortened and slowed to an indecisive saunter; and at the corner, he looked both ways, gnawing his bearded under-lip.

Daily habit suggested that he return to the fleet, but the idea was rejected. Simon had no relish for reappearing among his men so soon after the quarrel with Zebedee’s boys, an affair which, he now felt, might easily have been avoided. Besides, Andrew would probably have sailed by this time. And, as for the Tetrarch’s fish, doubtless one of the crew had been sent to deliver them, seeing the skipper had said he would not return today.

With no plausible errands in the direction of Tiberias, Simon turned the other way and walked slowly toward the sleepy little business zone of Bethsaida, for no reason at all except to keep in motion. He couldn’t stand there on the corner any longer. Salutations were offered along the road, to which he responded grumpily, in no mood for neighbourly conversation.

Not for a long time had Simon been in this part of the town, but nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed in Bethsaida. Old Seth still sat where Simon had seen him last, on the stone flagging before the open door of his pottery-shop, hugging his thin knees tight against his bearded chin.

‘Don’t see you down this way very often,’ shrilled the old man, unexpectedly stirring from his torpor. It was an invitation to tarry and talk, but Simon merely grunted and ambled on. At the wide doorway of the blacksmith’s shop he paused only long enough to agree with sooty-faced, leather-aproned Ben-Abel that it was a hot day. Ben-Abel clanked down his hammer, advanced to the door, and further deposed that we needed rain. Simon nodded and moved away.

On the broad steps of the Synagogue lounged a beggar whom he distastefully recognized by the bulky and filthy bandage on a perennially sore arm. The loathsome creature straightened, grinned, and began to unwrap his odorous merchandise. Wrinkling his nose, Simon signed that he didn’t want to see it, and dropped three copper pennies in the battered cup.

‘No use going out there now,’ advised the beggar. ‘Everybody that’s going today has gone a good two hours ago. Time you get there, it will be all over.’

‘What will be all over?’ demanded Simon gruffly.

‘The Carpenter! That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘What gave you that foolish idea?’