Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  She laughed again. “It doesn’t shock me that you swear by your gods, Marcus, as long as you don’t expect me to.”

  He looked greatly relieved. “Nevertheless, I shall try to be more careful in the—”

  They turned as the sound of hinges squeaking caught their attention. Miriam’s father was just coming in from the street. Marcus immediately got to his feet. “There’s your father.”

  Miriam stood too and started back for the main courtyard. “Hello, Papa.”

  He was a little surprised at the sight of her company but then immediately recovered. “Marcus, I’m sorry for being late.”

  “No apology necessary, Mordechai. Your daughter is a most charming hostess.”

  He came over and gave her a quick hug. “So she has not been rude to you?”

  She poked him in the ribs, and he yelped in pretended pain.

  “I have a hard time believing that Miriam is ever rude to anyone,” Marcus said nobly.

  “Then you haven’t seen her before the third hour of the morning.”

  “Father!”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “I didn’t mean it.” Then to Marcus. “You’re staying for dinner?”

  He shook his head and explained the new development.

  “Then I won’t detain you further. Miriam, could you get us some wine and bring it to the library in about five minutes?”

  She nodded, surprised that he had not called one of the servants. Then she understood that her father wished to be alone with Marcus.

  “Yes, Papa.” She watched them walk away, then started for the wine cellar, which was around the back of the house, where the wall of the courtyard and the trees provided the greatest shade.

  V

  As Marcus took a chair, Mordechai walked to his desk. He retrieved a small metal key from a chain around his neck and opened it. He pulled out a drawer, then pressed a hidden latch. The door swung away to the side. Reaching deep inside the desk, Mordechai pulled out a rolled parchment. He looked at the seal, still fresh from when Miriam had pressed the hot signet stamp into the red sealing wax yesterday afternoon. She thought he had taken it to a trusted member of the Council. Instead, he had brought it only this far.

  He handed it to Marcus. “Don’t let Miriam or anyone else see this,” he said. “Give it to Pilate. It will help him see how things are progressing.”

  Marcus took it and shoved it inside his tunic.

  “There are still a few details to work out, but I am satisfied that things are going forward as planned. Tell the governor that I shall come to Caesarea to report personally when things are finalized.”

  “He asked that I remind you that he will need sufficient time to make the arrangements. It is not a simple thing that you are asking.”

  “I understand. I shall come the moment things are finally in place.”

  Marcus tapped his chest where the scroll was hidden. “I suppose this does not reveal any names.”

  Mordechai smiled easily. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Tell the governor that things are going exactly as I had hoped,” he said in a low voice. “In another few weeks, I think we will have his little Galilean problem solved.” Then with a pleased smile he turned and looked at the door. “Come in, my dear,” he called.

  vi

  “Papa?”

  Mordechai looked up from his papers. “I thought you were in bed.”

  She gave him a quick look of disbelief. She never went to bed before the second watch.

  “Come in.”

  She did so, taking a chair in front of the desk on which he worked. “I have something I need to talk to you about.”

  He pushed the papers aside and sat back. “Say on.”

  She hesitated, then took a quick breath. “I have done something without your permission.”

  As she began to tell him about asking Marcus to find a slave hunter who could locate Livia’s family, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he would be angry. But when she finished sharing Marcus’s report that day, he merely grunted. “I see.” And then his next question completely took her by surprise. “Do you find Marcus attractive?”

  “I—well, I—” She was stammering and blushing hotly.

  He laughed. “I think that’s answer enough. And there is no question about how Marcus feels about you. When you are in the room, I can hardly get him to look at me.”

  “Father!”

  “Well, do you think I am too old and senile to notice such things? After all, I have trotted out a dozen possible suitors for you in the last year or two, and you brush them aside as though they were ants trespassing on your table. I am past forty now. I wish to see our family carried on.”

  She was so flabbergasted she didn’t know what to say.

  “Marcus comes from a powerful Roman family. They have great influence with the emperor, I am told.”

  “He said he was going to have Tiberias invite you and me to Rome to thank you for your efforts in bringing peace to our land.”

  “Really?” he said, genuinely pleased.

  But Miriam was still in shock. “You would have him become a suitor, Father? He isn’t Jewish.”

  Mordechai gave a nonchalant shrug, as if Miriam had mentioned that Marcus had a mole on one cheek or something. In that instant Miriam saw that though her father was one of the most powerful of the religious leaders in Jerusalem, religion really meant very little to him. That realization suddenly filled her with a deep sadness.

  “Well,” he went on, not noticing the expression on her face, “we shall have to see what develops. Is that all you wished to talk to me about?”

  She had to fight to recover her thoughts. Her mind was still reeling from what had just happened. “No, there is something else. I—It’s about Livia, Father.”

  “Yes?”

  “She has become much more than a servant, Papa. She is my dearest friend.”

  He frowned momentarily, then nodded. “I understand. Unfortunately, you are so bright and so mature, you haven’t found many friends among the spoiled children of the elite, have you?”

  Again she could barely hide her amazement. He never spoke to her about suitors or her friends—or lack of them. He rarely spoke to her at all about her personal life. She went on, hesitant now. “Knowing that Livia’s parents are gone and that she has no family, I have been thinking. I would like to adopt Livia as my sister.”

  “What?” He had been only half listening, but that jerked him back in a hurry.

  She rushed on, anxious now to have it said. “I’m not asking you to adopt her, Father, for I know that would have implications for inheritance and all of that. But you have given me my own funds. I have invested them and seen them multiply. I would pay for everything, and anything she receives would come from me.”

  His brow was deeply furrowed, and the lines around his mouth were deep and rigid. “Miriam, think what you are saying.”

  “I have thought, Father. I’ve thought a lot about it. We are so close. I love her as though she were my sister, Papa.”

  “I know, and that’s fine, but—”

  “No, you don’t know. We are so much alike. Like yesterday, when we heard Jesus of Nazareth. We both—”

  The look on his face cut her off. “You heard this Jesus yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Now she realized she may have made a serious mistake. “Livia heard that he was on the Temple Mount. We were there when Azariah brought that woman.”

  “The fool!” he spat. Then his eyebrows shot up. “So that’s what he meant?”

  “What?”

  “He said there was something about my family I ought to know. When I asked him what it was, he said it could come later. He saw you there, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “And he thinks he can use that against me,” he said to himself. There was a mirthless laugh. “What an old hypocrite. And what was he thinking, trying to act on his own with that w
oman without the voice of the Council?”

  “It was terrible, Papa. They were using that pitiful woman as though she were a block of wood.”

  He brushed that aside. “I don’t want you having anything to do with Jesus, Miriam. Do you hear me?”

  “But, Papa!”

  He leaned forward and slammed his fist down. “I mean it, Miriam,” he bellowed. “You’ve flirted with this and that in religion over the years, and I’ve held my tongue. But I will not have you listening to this madman from Nazareth.”

  She couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Madman? Father, he’s not. What he says makes so much sense. And what he did for that woman yesterday was one of the most wonderful things I have ever seen.

  “Enough!” he roared. “This man is threatening everything we’ve worked for, everything we have built up so carefully.”

  “Jesus?” she asked, completely incredulous.

  “Yes! The people fawn over him as if he were some great prophet. Mobs follow him wherever he goes. You know what that does to the Romans. If we don’t stop him, he could be like Samson and pull everything down on top of our heads.”

  Miriam felt the coldness shoot through her. She remembered the words of the impotent man when he had found Jesus yesterday. Take care. The leaders are furious with you. Some even talk of putting you to death. “What do you mean you have to stop him?” she half whispered.

  “Miriam, I will say nothing more of this man. Nor will I have you speak his name in this house again. Do you understand? I have powerful enemies who would love to know that I cannot control my household.”

  Somewhere down deep in her, a coldness began to spread. “Are you telling me what I can and can’t believe, Papa?”

  He shot to his feet. “I am telling you what you will and will not do,” he thundered. “I will not hear one more word! Not one! Now you are excused.”

  Miriam got slowly to her feet, dazed and bewildered. In her eighteen years of life, she had never seen her father like this. And she could never remember him raising his voice in more than mild irritation at her. Her chin came up, and without a word, she turned and walked quietly to the door.

  As she opened it, he spoke again. “And there will be no more of this nonsense about Livia, either. If I have to, I shall find another servant to take her place.”

  Chapter 22

  Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.

  —Luke 18:16

  I

  27 May, a.d. 30

  “It is so good to have you back home, Deborah.”

  “It is good to be home again.”

  “I am glad that Naomi recovered. I was afraid that the reason you were there so long was that there might have been a funeral.”

  “No, I—” Deborah stopped. “I wanted to be sure she was completely better.”

  They were lying together on the bed, the cover thrown back. The windows to their room were open. Moonlight filled the room with soft light, and the breeze coming off the Galilean highlands was finally taking some of the day’s heat away.

  David sighed in contentment and laid back, putting his hands beneath his head and looking up at the ceiling.

  “David?”

  He turned his head. “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to you about Simeon.”

  He nodded. When she had arrived just an hour earlier, he had been surprised at her reticence to say more about their son than that he had gone to Jerusalem and that when he returned, he would probably stay in Beth Neelah for a few more days. “Go on.”

  And so she told him. She told him why their son had left Capernaum so abruptly. She told him about the hurt and the anger, the sense of betrayal, the bitterness not only against his father, but for Leah and Ephraim as well, because they had tacitly taken their father’s side in this. Through it all, David said nothing. He turned on his side to face her again, watching her face in the moonlight, seeing the pain there, and feeling the unspoken condemnation.

  “I don’t know what you are going to do, David,” she said in conclusion. “The damage that has been done may be irreparable.”

  For a long moment he said nothing. He had a pain of his own, and it was greater than just for his son, though that had settled in over him like a shroud. Finally, he took a breath and began. “The other day when you and I talked about Sextus Rubrius, I made you a promise. I told you that I would not have any further association with him.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice husky now. “Yes, you did.”

  “Deborah, I—” Again his breath came out in a sigh. “As you know, our people have come to develop deep feelings of animosity and mistrust toward the Gentiles.”

  “This isn’t just a Gentile, David. This is the man who tried to kill my son.”

  “Our son,” he gently corrected her. Then he went on quickly. “Part of those feelings developed out of a response to God’s commandments to avoid partaking of the influences of the world. Part of it came because somehow we thought being the chosen people made us superior in some way to everyone else.”

  She came up on one elbow. “David—”

  “No, hear me out, Deborah. Then you can say what you have in your heart.”

  She nodded and lay back again.

  “Some of the more extreme rabbis have taken this charge to keep ourselves separate from the world to ridiculous lengths. For example, one has even said that if you see a child fall in a stream of water, if it is a Jewish child, you are under moral obligation to try to save it. If it is the child of a Gentile, however, you may save it if you wish, but there is no moral imperative.”

  There was great dismay in his voice. “Have we become so spiritually blind, so utterly bankrupt? I didn’t go out seeking Sextus Rubrius, Deborah. Neither did he come looking for me. His servant was gravely ill. He couldn’t bear to stand by and do nothing. When you think about it, it is astonishing that he would come seeking out Jesus—a Roman soldier coming to a Jew for help! When he saw me there in the crowd, he saw a face that he knew, someone who might help in a time of great need. Would you really have me turn away under such circumstances? Would you have me leave the child to drown in the river because it is the child of a Gentile?”

  Deborah didn’t answer. She had begun this conversation on an accusatory note. Now she and Simeon were the ones being questioned. And what was worse, she knew he was right. Simeon’s bitterness had deeply affected her, but she knew in her heart this was not a deliberate betrayal on David’s part.

  “I will try to explain all of this to Simeon,” he continued, “and I shall do so as gently as I can. I do understand his anger. I do understand the pain that both of you feel. But I must say this. If Simeon cannot see why I did what I did, then there is something deeply flawed in our son, and I grieve to think that he has come to this point.”

  “David, I tried to tell Simeon that you had not initiated this contact.” She took a deep breath. “You know what cut him most deeply? When you called Rubrius your friend.”

  He sat up. “But he was a friend, Deborah. I was sick when I learned what he did to Simeon. I hated him bitterly for a time. How could he have done that? After all we had done together.” He began to rub his eyes. “And yet . . . Sextus is an honorable man, a good man. Are we so nearsighted that we see goodness only in those of our own kind?”

  “I’m just telling you what Simeon said,” she answered dully.

  “Simeon evidently turned around and left when he heard me say that. He didn’t get to see what happened next.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters very much,” he answered softly. And then he explained about Sextus and his conversation with Jesus, about how he felt unworthy to have Jesus come into his house, and about giving orders and having them obeyed.

  “It was later that afternoon,” David went on. “Another servant from the household of Sextus came to report to Jesus. He told us that when Sextus returned home, he found his servant completely
healed. Amazed, Sextus inquired of the others in his household at what hour his servant had been cured.” There was a brief pause. “It was the exact hour when Jesus told Sextus that his request for Jesus’ help had been granted.”

  Deborah said nothing. Here it was again, the question of Jesus. It seemed to loom up before them every time they talked, every time they were together. He was a miracle worker. He was a fraud. He taught like no other teacher. He was mad. She was so weary of going back and forth, up and down.

  “You need to know, Deborah, that while you were gone, some amazing things have happened. I saw them. Leah saw them. Ephraim and Rachel were there to see some of them as well.”

  Her breath came out in a long, soft sound of weariness. “I’m not surprised.”

  “You probably sensed tonight that something has happened to Leah.”

  Deborah’s head came around. She had noticed that. Leah had been . . . What? It was like she was bursting to tell her mother something, but held back. When Deborah had commented on it, her daughter had laughed awkwardly and said they would talk in the morning. “What about Leah?” she asked slowly.

  “She is completely convinced that Jesus is the Messiah.”

  Her mouth tightened as the impact of his words hit her. “So that’s what you’ve been doing while I’ve been gone,” she said. It came out with more bitterness than she had intended.

  “No, Deborah. That is what has been happening while you were gone.” He paused, then said, “Ephraim and Rachel too.”

  She jerked up to a sitting position, turning to face him. She stared at him, but words didn’t come.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I did not initiate this. Leah and I went for a walk down to the boats and things just started happening from there.”

  “So now it’s Simeon and me against the rest of the family?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Is that how you see it?”

  The pain in his voice sent a jab of shame through her, but she was too hurt to respond to it.

  “Leah wants desperately to talk with you about it. Rachel too. But they won’t unless you ask them. If you don’t wish to hear, they’ll know that and won’t say anything.”