Chapter 7

For the past hour the highway had been receiving more and more traffic from the tributary roads and lanes, all manner of traffic: high-wheeled market-wagons filled with people of all ages, elderly couples in donkey-carts, here and there a garden-barrow occupied by a frail and feeble old woman or a pale and wizened lad, pushed by an earnest-faced young farmer. Occasionally a cot joined the procession bearing the prone figure of an emaciated, half-grown girl or a crippled old man with pain in his eyes. Clumps of people on foot, by the dozen, by the score, overtook and passed the sick ones. Every path, every open gate, every cross-road fed them into the highway.

Simon had found himself wishing that the Carpenter would be soon exposed as an ordinary man who had nothing much to work with but a winning voice, a confident manner, and the ability to make people listen to him—and trust him. But as he surveyed these sorry crews of hopeful burden-bearers, he began to wish, with all his heart, that something could be done for them. If the Carpenter was a fraud, this conglomeration of misery was indeed a tragic spectacle. Maybe the Carpenter didn’t realize what a responsibility he had taken on. If he didn’t, it was high time he found out!

It was a pitiful sight. Why couldn’t this Nazarene have stayed in his carpenter-shop? What was the good of stirring up hope that couldn’t have any outcome but a cruel disappointment? These wretched ones had learned to bear their galling loads. Most of them had done all their crying and calluses had formed to ease the pain of their yokes. Now they would lay their burdens down at this Carpenter’s feet! What monstrous cruelty if—after so great hope—they must strap on their heavy packs again and plod wearily home, broken-hearted!

A half-mile east of Hammath the highway divided, the road to the right proceeding to the village and on toward Cana, the left fork bearing southward through the Province of Samaria and onward to Jerusalem. In the triangle at the parting of the ways a small encampment was breaking up. The service tents were already down and being loaded on to the pack-train. The master tent, a beautiful thing of white and blue, was in process of dismantling. Half a dozen fine horses, expensively caparisoned, were restlessly waiting their riders, who now emerged from the sagging tent.

Full of curiosity, Simon slowed his pace and candidly stared. The leader of the party was a mere youngster, certainly not more than eighteen, and his companions were youthful, too, though not so young as he. They were extravagantly dressed. Simon drew off to the side of the highway, sat on the ledge of the stone-walled well, and studied this pageantry at his leisure. That it was a company of nobles he had no doubt. Presently, to his surprise, he saw the young master of the group point toward him: and give an order to a servant, who made off at once to the well. Simon’s brow furrowed as he saw the man coming. He was quite sure he was within his rights to rest at the well.

‘Do you live in this neighbourhood, sir?’

The servant, a tall bearded man of Simon’s age, had bowed respectfully, before asking the question in a quality of Aramaic that was spoken in Judaea.