Chapter 6

The fleet rocked gently in the cove. A dory was tethered to the prow of The Abigail. That would be one of the boys doing his trick as watchman. The rest of them were on holiday, supposedly attending to their religious duties, though Simon surmised that they would be strolling idly about on the quiet streets of Capernaum, consorting with drunken legionaries from the neighbouring fort and guzzling raw new wine. That was about all a religious holiday came to: the older folk would be huddled together in the Synagogue, praying for their wayward whelps, who would show up an hour late in the morning with white tongues and red eyes. Simon had no patience with drunkenness and was frequently heard to say that any wine at all was far too much wine. It had been a long time since he had tasted a fermented drink.

Pausing at his own wharf, he drew in the floating live-box and filled a basket with perch. The palace would not be needing so many now that the number of residents had been greatly reduced, but the few who remained would see to it that they had enough to eat. Lysias, the steward who, during the family’s absence, was always left behind in charge of the establishment, made no effort to economize and apparently gave but little attention to such trivial expenditures as the daily order of fish. Simon rarely saw the shrewd, stocky, swarthy Greek steward while the Tetrarch was in residence, but was always grimly amused at the swagger Lysias affected once his master had departed. Evidently the fellow had a high opinion of his charms. Simon gathered that the servant-girls were more than a bit afraid of him.

Slipping his hairy arm under the handle of the dripping basket, the Big Fisherman trudged up the winding driveway to the rear courtyard, noting that all operations on the new stables had been suspended. That would be because of the religious holiday. Not that the Day of Atonement would mean anything to the stone-masons and sculptors, who were all Greeks, but the hod-carriers and other unskilled workmen were Galileans. Their religion forbade them to do carving, but it was quite permissible for them to carry the hewn stones. Simon snorted, contemptuous of this hypocrisy. Nearing the kitchen entrance he heard gay, bantering conversation. The servants were celebrating the family’s departure.

At sight of him, the girls poured through the doorway, all talking at once, and fluttered about him with hilarious greetings. Murza, the tall, dark Arimathean, who had never before accorded him better regard than a nod and a sniff, relieved him of the basket and patted him on his arm. She was pungent with wine. The Roman, Claudia, seemed a little drunk. Simon tried to be jovial, but the pretence was not easy.

‘Doesn’t the Big Fisherman feel well today?’ Murza contrived a condescending smile.

‘Well enough,’ retorted Simon unpleasantly. ‘Do I look frail?’

‘You look sour,’ said Leah—’as if you’d eaten something.’

‘His own fish, maybe! No?’ Claudia gave a shrill giggle.