Chapter 7

Simon shook his head and replied, ‘Bethsaida.’

‘But that is not far away,’ continued the servant. ‘Would you perhaps know anything of this Carpenter who has stirred up so much excitement?’ His arm swept the congested highway.

‘Not much,’ said Simon. ‘I saw and heard him a few days ago, and I am hoping to see him again today.’

‘Would you object to having a word with my master, sir?’

‘Who is your master?’

‘Joseph—the Prince of Arimathaea,’ said the servant proudly.

Simon rose now and followed. It was little enough he knew about the small but fertile Principality of Arimathaea, up north beyond Ramah, which had been ceded to the fabulous Hyrcanus and his descendants many generations ago, in consideration of some long-forgotten favour to northern Jews. Whenever Arimathaea was mentioned the word suggested wealth. ‘Rich as an Arimathaean’ was a trite phrase which the Galileans used without examining it more closely than many another simile, such as ‘Tricky as an Arab’ or ‘Wise as a serpent.’

The beautiful tent was down now and the swarming servants were folding it with care. The vanguard of the pack-train was moving off down the Jerusalem road. The young Prince was standing by his white horse in evidently playful conversation with his friends. He was a handsome youth with a ready smile and a gracious manner. Simon was favourably impressed and doffed his forebodings about the interview.

Courteously requesting him to wait a moment, the servant approached his master and made a brief report in low tones, after which he beckoned to Simon, who advanced rather diffidently and removed his cap.

‘My friend,’ said the Prince, looking up at the big Galilean who towered over the lot of them, ‘we are curious about this great multitude and the man they are said to be seeking. They tell us that he speaks to great crowds and heals many sick ones. Noting your extraordinary height, it occurred to us that you might have been able to hear and see what has been going on.’

‘I would that I had more to tell you, sire,’ said Simon. ‘I heard the man speak. He has a strange voice. The people hang on his words as a sailor overboard in a storm clings to a rope.’

‘Good!’ approved the Prince to his companions. ‘The fellow has some imagination.’ Turning to Simon, he said, ‘Perhaps you are a sailor yourself.’

‘A fisherman, sire.’ Simon smiled briefly, and went on, ‘No matter what he is saying, the people hardly breathe for fear of missing something; yet they are simple words.’