Chapter 7

‘Just a moment!’ he said. ‘One thing more! We are advised that a homemade, self-appointed prophet has recently been gathered in by our good friend, your Tetrarch, for predicting the advent of an avenger who is to upset thrones, strip the wealthy, free the slaves, and put all the riffraff on horseback. Do the people hereabouts think that this wonder-worker is out on such an errand?’

‘It is quite impossible, sire!’ declared Simon. ‘Surely no one who had heard him speak could have that opinion. So far as I have learned, the Carpenter has no quarrel with the rich; though I think he pities them.’

‘Pities them!’ exclaimed the Prince, while the others grinned incredulously. ‘What impertinence! Who does this wandering beggar think he is—to be pitying his betters?’

Simon ventured no immediate comment on this smug remark, but his lip curled to match a frown that had a good deal of scorn in it. The Prince was quick to notice this irritation, and prodded it.

‘If you do not object to the question, my massive friend, how do you yourself feel toward the rich? You are obviously not a man of property. Tell me truly: do you too pity the rich?’ The raw taunt was stirring Simon to anger.

‘No, sire,’ he answered, staring fearlessly into the young man’s eyes, ‘I do not pity the rich. I envy them, as they expect me to do. I peer through their high fences and lament that I do not have their great possessions, for this pleases them.’ Simon’s voice rose and rasped as he continued recklessly, ‘Whenever we poor cease envying the rich, we will be punished for robbing them of their highest satisfaction!’

The Prince had mounted now. He rose in his stirrups to shout: ‘That is the most impudent thing that was ever said in our presence!’

‘Well,’ growled Simon sullenly, ‘you asked for it.’

‘In our country, fisherman, you would get thirty-nine lashes for that!’

‘Aye, sire—and in my country too,’ retorted Simon; and because he now had nothing to lose by further frankness he added, ‘The great ones are the same everywhere, I am told. They face the truth with a bull-whip.’

‘Be off with you!’ shouted the Prince, raising his riding-crop.

‘No—no—Joseph!’ muttered the mounted friend at his side.

The Prince lashed his horse. They bounded away. Flushed with rage, Simon watched them galloping down the road. Never had he felt such bitter contempt for a fellow creature. Quite a courageous youngster, this Prince, when surrounded by his fine friends and a score of armed guards. Had he been alone, he would have been meek as a lamb. Simon wished he could have had the Prince all to himself for a few minutes. No, he would not have hurt the boy badly. He would have been satisfied to take the insolent brat by his beautifully curled hair—and fold him over the ledge of the old well—and spank him: a thorough spanking; a spanking he should have had earlier. Simon was sore. It had never been his habit to covet other men’s property or privileges. He had nothing against the rich. Until now. Now he despised them! All of them! They were all alike! To hell with them! All of them!

He had trudged toward the Hammath highway now and had joined the pilgrimage. Looking across the field to the Jerusalem road, he observed that the Prince’s party had halted for a parley. After a rather lengthy colloquy, they wheeled about, galloped back to the junction, and came bearing down upon the crowded highway. The people screamed and rushed to the sides of the road for safety as the gay riders ploughed a wide furrow through them. Everybody was for saving his own skin in this frantic rout. Old people were trampled. Carts were upset. Children were crying. Shouting with laughter, the princely cavalcade swept on.

Simon stood still and watched the shameless scene, his every muscle taut with impotent rage, his big fists clenched.

‘Men on horses!’ he shouted aloud. ‘Brave men on horses!’

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