Suddenly the tall man stopped and seized a fish from a stall before which he was passing. Luke thought for a moment that he was trying to steal the fish, but he only lifted it high above his head, shouting in Greek, “Stephanos! Stephanos! Take courage in the name of Jesus!”
The effect upon the prisoner was startling. He turned his head, and at the sight of the fish held above the heads of the crowd, his face suddenly shone with an unearthly radiance. Exultantly he raised his manacled hands above his head and shook them in a gesture of triumph.
“Fear not, Stephanos,” the tall man shouted. “His words will be saved.”
Stephen nodded then and marched on, his head even more proudly erect than before.
Luke was so intent upon this odd happening that he stumbled into the tall man and would have fallen into the street to be trampled underfoot by the crowd swirling around them had he not clutched at the dingy robe for support. The proprietor of the fish market was waving his arms and shouting indignantly, but the big man calmly transferred the fish to one hand and put the other arm around Luke to support him. Then, placing the fish upon the counter from which he had taken it, he set Luke on his feet, patted him on the head as if he were a child, and strode off through the crowd. Surprised by this odd occurrence, Luke stood there dumbly until the tall figure disappeared around a corner into another street. Then he turned to the proprietor of the fish market. “Who is that man?” he asked in Greek, which was spoken in Jerusalem as often as the Aramaic tongue, which he did not understand.
“He is a member of the accursed Company of the Fish.” He spat out a string of curses, then, noticing the rich material of Luke’s toga and cloak, held up the fish. “A valuable fish has been ruined,” he whined. “I am but a poor merchant, sir, and cannot afford the loss.”
Luke could not see that so much as a scale of the fish had been disturbed. He tossed the man a coin from his purse, anyway, and hurried to catch up with the Roman party. But his mind was seething with questions. Who was the big man with the strangely majestic mien, so out of keeping with his garb? What was the Company of the Fish, so obviously hated by the Jews? And what had the tall man meant by “His words will be saved”?
Luke found no answers to his questions, for the party escorting the prisoner was already climbing the steps leading to the lower terrace of the temple, where the council chamber of the Sanhedrin was located. Great signs in Aramaic, Greek, and Latin adorned the walls, warning all those not of the Hebrew faith to remain at this lower level. Only Jews could ascend the nineteen steps of polished marble leading to the second terrace, and most of these were priests who would take part in the sacrifices of the feast day which was now in progress.
Luke saw no sign yet of Sixtus, the proconsul, and his party. Knowing that the hearing of the Sanhedrin could not start until the Romans arrived, he decided to make a brief tour of this most popular portion of the temple while waiting for them. As he walked along the cool terrace in the shade of the broad arcades, he was jostled by Jews, Greeks, Romans, dark-skinned Asiatics, Egyptians, Nubians, men of every race. From the booths ranged along the walls rose many strange scents. The delicate aroma of myrrh and frankincense from Egypt mingled with all manner of diverse perfumes, while from the next stall came the strong odor of goats or sheep as tender kids and lambs were sold to the chatter of bargaining voices. The sellers assured the Jewish pilgrims that all were equally pleasing to the nostrils of their God when sacrificed on the altars of the temple, but added shrewdly that of course the Most High expected every man to sacrifice according to his means. Wrinkling his nose against the smell, Luke wondered how they could have much respect for the perceptions of their divinity, if the odors of rare perfume and burning goat flesh pleased Him equally well.
A special area aloof from the stalls of the merchants was reserved for the money-changers. Silvanus had told Luke that the Jews did not accept foreign coins as offerings in the temple, since their religion forbade any graven image and Roman coins were adorned with the heads of the Caesars. Seated behind little tables covered with stacks of coins, the money-changers were doing a thriving business changing coins for the Jewish pilgrims from all parts of the empire who had thronged here for the feast and religious holiday.
Antioch, where Luke lived, was a city to which came many caravans from the wild lands to the east, as well as the merchants from Rome, Greece, and Egypt who landed at the neighboring port of Seleucia. And familiar as he was with the currency of the empire, he saw at once that the money-changers were shamefully cheating the pilgrims, who had no other choice but to change their money to Jewish coin if they were to make the gifts which they had traveled so far to lay before their God. Disgusted by such obvious chicanery, he moved on to the booths where the sellers of written scrolls displayed their wares.
The scrolls, wax tablets, and papyrus sheets found in such places held fascination for Luke, who had the true scholar’s weakness for anything containing written information. He stopped now at the booth where an intelligent-looking Jew was busy copying a scroll from Aramaic into Greek, setting down the letters in a fine, scholarly script. “Can I serve you, sir?” the Jew asked pleasantly in Greek.
“I am interested in the history of your people,” Luke told him.
The man opened one of the parchment rolls. “Here is a copy of the very words of Moses translated into the Greek tongue.”
“I will take it,” Luke said promptly, remembering that this same Moses was supposed to have received from Jehovah the very laws which the prisoner Stephen was accused of breaking and for which he would be tried today.
“These others here contain the sayings of our prophets,” the seller continued. “You will find them as interesting as the writings of your Greek philosophers.”
Luke purchased these scrolls, too. Then, obeying a sudden impulse, he asked, “Do you have a scroll containing the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth?”
The Jew’s face paled and he backed away, almost upsetting his small worktable. “Why do you ask?” he said almost in a whisper. “Who sent you?”
“A friend of mine, a Roman centurion, told me of him,” Luke explained.
“Are you one of the Company of the Fish?” There was a curious urgency in the Jew’s voice.
Luke shook his head, puzzled by the man’s obvious agitation over such a simple question. “I am a Greek of Antioch, a student of medicine.”
The man looked at Luke closely. “There is said to be such a scroll of the sayings of Jesus,” he admitted. “But I know of no one who has seen it, unless it is one who is to be stoned to death this day.”
“Stephen?” Luke asked in surprise. “My foster father, Theophilus, is here because of the trial of Stephen.”
The man’s manner became friendlier. “Theophilus is known to be a good man and a just one, and you appear to be like him. What is it that you wish to know?”
“Can you tell me something about the Company of the Fish?”
“It is the name which the—” Whatever he was going to say was never finished, for suddenly he gave Luke a shove and shouted, “You have made your purchase, Roman. Be off with you now. No one has cheated you.”
Luke stumbled backward, clutching the packet of scrolls he had purchased. Then he saw the reason for the sudden change in his informant. A priest was almost upon them, and undoubtedly the scroll seller had been afraid their conversation would be overheard.
This was the second time within the hour Luke had heard that strange phrase, the “Company of the Fish.” But there was no prospect of learning more just now. The seller of scrolls stepped quickly out on the terrace and began to harangue the passersby, extolling the virtues of his merchandise. And just then a Roman trumpet sounded on the steps of the temple, warning Luke that the party of the proconsul was arriving. Clutching the scrolls under his arm, he hurried to join the group, fearful lest he miss the trial he had come to see.
A tal
l, handsome youth in military dress was in the van of the procession. This was Apollonius, the natural son of Theophilus, and Luke’s foster brother, who would sail in a few days from Joppa for Rome and an eventual commission as a tribune in the Roman army. Luke and Apollonius had grown up together, brothers in everything but reality. “Hah! Little brother,” Apollonius jeered as Luke arrived, panting. “Wasting your coin on scrolls, I see.”
“It is better than snoring your life away in bed,” Luke retorted.
“Let Tanos carry your burdens to the Antonia and return to wait upon us.” Tanos, the personal slave of Apollonius, carried the short spear and small round shield affected by the servants of Roman officers. Shifting the shield, he took the bundle of scrolls and placed it under his arm while Luke and his handsome foster brother followed the party of the proconsul into the chamber of the Sanhedrin and found seats beside Silvanus, where the Roman officials were seated to one side of the chamber.
III
Barely a dozen members of the Sanhedrin, highest religious and judicious council of the Jewish people, were ranged behind a long table at the end of the chamber. Before them the prisoner sat quietly on a stool, his manacled hands in his lap. His eyes, fixed on some point above the heads of the judges, burned with a strange look of exaltation, as if he were seeing something invisible to the others.
“Will they crucify him, Silvanus?” Apollonius asked in a whisper.
The centurion shook his head. “The crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth has already caused no end of trouble,” he said. “Sixtus tells me that he and Theophilus have decided to allow only death by stoning.”
“But Stephen has not been convicted yet,” Luke protested.
“This trial is only an official formality,” Silvanus explained. “The Sanhedrin has already sentenced him. That is why only a few of them are here. This is only to allow Sixtus to approve the verdict for Rome.”
Caiaphas, the high priest, rapped for order, and the hum of conversation died. The other two sides of the room were packed, and the crowd filled the door and extended back along the terrace outside. A short man had been talking to the high priest in low tones. Now he stepped into the open space between the court and the prisoner. Barrel-chested, bandy-legged, and not impressive of stature, he somehow seemed to radiate an inner quality of power that gripped the interest of the onlookers. Without effort he dominated both the crowd and the council even before he spoke.
“Who is he?” asked Silvanus in a whisper.
“Saul of Tarsus, prosecutor of the Sanhedrin. He has been commissioned to destroy the followers of Jesus.”
Saul seemed to be about thirty, Luke judged. The most striking thing about him was his majestic, almost godlike head. The wide, mobile mouth, the broad planes of the face, the deep caverns in which his eyes burned with a fanatical zeal, and the broad high forehead gave individuality to a face that was not easily forgotten. Slowly he looked around the room, waiting for the crowd to grow completely quiet. Then, unrolling a thin scroll from the table before the high priest, he began to read the charges against Stephen in a deep, vibrant voice. It was an astonishingly puerile list of crimes, Luke thought, having to do with what was called “blasphemy” against their God and their prophets. A Roman judge would have disregarded them entirely, but they seemed to be serious accusations according to Jewish law, judging from the manner of the judges and the crowd.
Following the reading, Saul brought a succession of witnesses before the court. They had obviously been well coached, for they recited their accusations as if by rote. At the end of each account Saul turned to the prisoner with studied courtesy and inquired if he wished to question the witnesses. But Stephen only shook his head and continued to look afar off, seemingly unaware that he was convicting himself when he could easily have proved the absurdity of the evidence.
As he listened to the arraignment, Luke’s anger rose steadily, fanned by pity for the prisoner and indignation at the trumped-up charges. His every sense of fairness was appalled by the way Saul was building a tissue of obvious untruths to justify the death penalty requested by the Sanhedrin of its Roman masters.
One witness said, “I have heard him speak a blasphemy against God and Moses.” But he was not even asked to specify the nature of the blasphemous utterance.
Another recited, “He has blasphemed against the temple, saying that Jesus of Nazareth shall destroy it and set at naught the laws of Moses.” All of which Luke recognized as absurd, for Silvanus had told him that Jesus had been dead for several years.
Finally, when a third witness stated, “Stephen has been heard preaching that Jesus is King of the Jews,” Luke could contain his indignation no longer. Leaping to his feet, he cried, “What crime is this? Obviously a dead man cannot be King of the Jews.”
There was an instant of stunned silence at this sacrilege. The prisoner turned to Luke and smiled, as if to thank him for the protest. Then Luke felt Silvanus tugging at his sleeve and sat down again, appalled now at his own temerity. Sixtus turned, a look of displeasure on his face, but seeing the cause of the disturbance, he hesitated to order the son of his distinguished colleague ejected from the room. Fortunately Silvanus saved the situation. “He is young, noble Sixtus,” the centurion volunteered. “I will see that he remains quiet.”
The Romans laughed, and Luke shrank down in the seat, his cheeks burning with humiliation. Turning to the high priest, Sixtus said courteously, “Forgive the interruption, please, respected Caiaphas. The young man does not understand your law.”
“It is forgiven,” the high priest said. “Proceed, please, O Saul.”
Seeing that he was not to be summarily executed, Luke dared to lift his head again, and his eyes met Saul’s. The prosecutor was staring directly at him with a strange expression upon his face. It was, Luke thought, a look of doubt, perhaps of momentary uncertainty in regard to what he was doing. Then Saul turned back to Stephen. “What say you, Stephen?” he asked, his voice oddly gentle.
The prisoner got to his feet, and his eyes moved around the room slowly. But his gaze was neither angry, beseeching, nor condemning, as might have been expected. Rather, the tender smile on his face was one of compassion, as if those who sat in judgment upon him were children who should not be held accountable for their actions.
“Men, brethren, and fathers, listen,” he began, his voice soft, yet vibrant with conviction and power. “I hold it not against you that you persecute me and seek to take my life when I have committed no crime. For One greater than I also laid down His life that men might know the truth and through it live forever with Him.”
There was a rumbling of anger from the crowd, and Caiaphas spoke sharply in their tongue.
“You make much of the holiness of this place which Herod built to blind you to his many sins, O Priests of Israel,” Stephen continued. “And I am accused of blasphemy against the temple when I say that Jesus of Nazareth will one day destroy it. Yet, you, yourselves, blaspheme against it when you turn it into a den of money-changers and thieves who cheat pilgrims coming here from far-off lands to worship the Most High.”
A fanatic-looking individual at the front of the crowd cursed Stephen, then spit upon him. The spittle struck the prisoner’s face and ran down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it off. Before Caiaphas could reprimand the offender, Stephen turned and spoke directly to him.
“Why do you spit upon me, you Pharisees? You claim to keep the law, but you are stiff-necked and uncircumcised in heart and ears, for you continue to resist the Holy Ghost, even as your fathers did. Which of the prophets did not your fathers persecute?” he thundered at them suddenly. “And did they not slay those who spoke of the coming of the Just One?”
The accused had now become the accuser, and the council squirmed under the lash of his voice. “And why do you set so much store on the temple and the forms of your worship, O Priests,” Stephen continued, “when the prophet says
that the Most High dwells in temples not made with hands? You know His words: ‘Heaven is My throne, and earth is My footstool. Where is the house that you will build Me? And where is the place of My rest? For all those things My hand has made.’”
Stephen’s eyes lifted to the ceiling and his voice rose in a shout of exaltation: “Behold I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God! Repent, you who crucified Him, acknowledge your sins while there is still time that they may be forgiven!”
When Stephen thus accused the high priest and the Sanhedrin of killing the man he served, the rumblings of the crowd became voice now in a full-throated roar, an animal-like clamoring for blood. The soldiers at the door were forced to lower their spears to keep the excited crowd from surging into the chamber.
The high priest looked questioningly at Saul in the midst of this hubbub, but the prosecutor was staring at the prisoner with a strange look on his face, and only when Caiaphas spoke sharply to him did he recover his attention. “Have you finished, Stephen?” Saul asked.
The prisoner did not answer but remained standing, his eyes uplifted, his face glowing with exaltation. When it was apparent that he would not speak further, Saul nodded to Caiaphas and the members of the Sanhedrin filed from the chamber.
“What do you think of this man Stephen, Luke?” Apollonius asked as the murmur of conversation filled the room.
“I would choose him before I would the priests,” Luke said promptly.
“He seems to possess a strange power,” Apollonius agreed. “I wonder if all followers of Jesus have it.”
“If you had seen Jesus you would understand from whence comes this power to move the hearts of men,” Silvanus volunteered.
Luke would have questioned Silvanus further, but just then the Sanhedrin members returned, their farce of deliberation over. The council filed solemnly into the room and took their seats.
The Road to Bithynia: A Novel of Luke, the Beloved Physician Page 2