Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I’ve mulled this over and over in my mind. I have to have faith. Remember what Jesus said to Peter as he was sinking? ‘Wherefore did you doubt?’ I can’t start doubting now.”

  “But—”

  “This isn’t blind faith, Mother. I’m not going to just blithely walk in and hope the Lord drops manna from the sky. I’ve tried to foresee every possibility, but I feel strongly that this is the right way. This is my answer. But it’s only for me. The moment I start thinking about dragging others into it—Issachar, Father, Miriam—any sense of peace I have leaves me.”

  His father’s eyes were calmer than his mother’s, but they still showed anxiety. “Are you sure you’ve worked out a way to get out of there if Pilate decides he wants you and the gold?”

  Simeon wished he hadn’t asked that question. “Yes,” he said, more firmly than he felt. He had worked it out in his mind. Over and over and over. It was a good plan. A tight plan. But who knew what that cunning old lion would do when the gazelle walked right into his lair?

  He felt like a further answer was needed. “I can’t depend on Pilate. In the first place, I don’t know him. I don’t know how to predict his reactions. I’m going to work through Marcus. He’s part of all that we are fighting against, but I believe him to be a man of integrity.” He took a quick breath. “And like it or not, I did save his life at the pass. Surely there will be some sense of obligation there.”

  He looked back and forth at these two people who were everything in the world to him, and a sudden pang of doubt swept over him. If he was wrong—and he had surely been that before—he might never see them again. Or tease a smile out of Esther. Or—

  He shook his head, suddenly angry at himself. O ye of little faith, wherefore do you doubt? “It is going to be all right, Mother. I have to believe that. I have to.”

  Deborah sighed and stepped back. “Go, then,” she said, her head high. “Go with God, my son.”

  II

  Caesarea 7 July, a.d. 30

  Simeon was surprised at his patience, a trait for which he had never been renowned. In fact, his mother had once commented that he had been born impatient and greatly increased his birthright. But a great calm had settled over him. Ever since his baptism the week before, he had not lost the sense of peace, the sense of all being right.

  It had been a long and tiring week. Simeon had gone first to Tiberias, then over to Ptolemais, the port on the Mediterranean coast about thirty miles north of Caesarea. His hope had been to raise the full amount between those two cities where his family did so much business, but he hadn’t been able to do so. So, praying that he wouldn’t be seen by anyone who would recognize him from his previous trip, he returned to Damascus, then finally back to Ptolemais. His sense of urgency was such that he had paused on the Sabbath only to attend the local synagogue, then continued on. He had risen before dawn this morning and started south. Now he sat with his back against the wall a few strides away from the entrance to the Praetorium, the palace of Pontius Pilate, governor of Judea. And he waited.

  He had arrived to the north of the city just after dark, which was as he had planned. He buried the gold, then rode into the city. For the last two hours he had sat here in this narrow alley, which was not quite straight across from the main gate of the great Roman compound. There had been no changing of the guard since his arrival, but he knew that would eventually happen. He was neither frustrated nor tempted to alter his plans. Twice now, observing through the great gates, he had seen Tribune Marcus Didius pass through the great courtyard lit by torches mounted on the walls. That was the important thing. He had feared that Marcus might be out of the city on assignment somewhere and that the letter Simeon carried in his tunic would sit on a table somewhere for several days.

  But Marcus was here. The first possible obstacle was behind him.

  Simeon glanced up at the sky. The stars were out in their fulness. Later there would be a quarter moon, but now it was totally dark. The city was quieting and to the west of him, he could hear the faint wash of the sea on the massive pier built by Herod the Great.

  It shouldn’t be much longer now. In the Roman system, a typical “watch” was about four hours, and this, the first watch of the night, had to be near its close.

  Simeon leaned back against the rough stones of the building that formed one wall of the alley. The air was stifling in the narrow passageway. The breezes from the Great Sea had not penetrated here as yet, and he could feel the stickiness everywhere on his body. That was all right too. He would be moving again soon enough.

  Simeon straightened as he heard the crunch of sandals. It was an unmistakable sound. Soldiers in the legion had sandals with short iron spikes in the soles. No other sandals sounded quite like these. He straightened, brushing at his shoulder in case he had gotten dust on his tunic. Once again, as that first time in Damascus, Simeon was dressed as a young Roman gentleman.

  Four new soldiers came through the gate with spears in hand and swords at their belts. They saluted the four waiting there. Simeon went immediately into action. He cut across the street, moving confidently, but not swiftly. The slap of his sandals on the paving stones brought all eight heads around. The oldest of the first watch took a step forward, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He was not wary, but he was definitely alert.

  Simeon stopped ten paces away and the man visibly relaxed. “Sir,” he said in Latin, speaking with obvious deference, “I have a letter to be delivered to Tribune Marcus Quadratus Didius. I see you are about to go off duty. Would it be possible to have you carry it to him?”

  All eight men were watching him curiously. “A letter?” the senior man said.

  “Yes.” As he reached in his tunic for the folded piece of parchment, with his other hand he fished out three denarii and rattled them softly. That immediately changed everything.

  The guard came forward and took the letter and the coins, ignoring the sudden hungry look of his companions. “Do you require an answer?” he asked.

  “No. There are instructions in the letter on how the tribune is to contact me.” He paused for a moment. “Do you know if the Tribune is in the Praetorium at this time?” The last time he had seen Marcus was almost an hour ago. There might be a second gate, which Simeon had no way of covering.

  “Aye, he is,” one of the new arrivals said. “I saw him just a few minutes ago.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  The coins disappeared and the parchment followed. “Very well then,” said the man, “if you require no answer, we shall be off.”

  Simeon moved away. Just before he turned the corner, he looked back and saw the four old guards disappear through the gate as the relief detachment took up their watch. He let out his breath slowly. Second possible obstacle down.

  III

  Capernaum and on the shores of the Sea of Galilee 8 July, a.d. 30

  The courtyard was quiet except for the soft twittering of a bird that Miriam could not see in the branches of the pomegranate tree. She sat beneath the trellis covered with grape vines, enjoying the cool morning air. She had been awakened when she heard David slip out of the house about an hour before and had finally gotten out of bed and dressed. Careful not to wake Livia or anyone else in the house, she went outside.

  It surprised her to see how dramatically her habits had changed since coming north. In Jerusalem, she always poked and puttered around until late at night, long after the rest of the household went to bed. Then she would sleep until the third or even fourth hour of the day, lazily taking another half an hour in bed even when she did finally wake up.

  Here, in the household of David ben Joseph, she was up early every day, even when she stayed up late in the night. She found herself sleeping so deeply that she awoke early, completely refreshed. She loved having time to herself to savor what was happening to her.

  The noise of the door opening brought her head around. Her mouth softened at the sight of Leah, dressed but barefoot. She straightened and waved a hand. Leah waved
back and came directly over to join her. “Boker tov, Miriam.”

  “Good morning, Leah.”

  The girl dropped down on the opposite bench. “You’re up early.” She smiled. “Again.”

  “I love it,” Miriam said enthusiastically. “I love this time of the day.”

  “As do I. I often go for walks down by the seashore.”

  “Really? Does your mother need help with breakfast? If not, I would love to go for a walk with you.”

  “No. Mother promised to help Father catch up on things at the warehouse. She’s helping Father with the books. They’ve already eaten and gone. We’re on our own for breakfast.”

  Miriam stood. “Then let’s leave a note for the others. We can eat when we return.”

  Leah stood too. “No need. Phineas is just leaving too. I’ll ask him to tell them.” Phineas was her father’s chief steward, and while they no longer had household staff, he often came to the house to confer with her father on matters. He had offered to clear away breakfast and insisted Deborah and David go on ahead.

  She ran into the house and reappeared a moment later, now with sandals on her feet. Miriam moved to join her, and together they exited through the gate and into the street.

  One of the things Miriam loved about Capernaum was how quickly you could be out of the city and at the water’s edge. Even at its widest part, the city was not more than five or six streets from the sea. They passed the main pier and started westward, where the beach was strewn with smooth, round rocks, but level and easily traversed.

  Neither spoke. Leah was humming a tune that Miriam didn’t know. It was lilting and joyous, and Miriam wondered if it was a song of the Galilee. She dropped back a step so she could watch Leah without her noticing. There was nearly three years difference between them—Leah would be sixteen in October; Miriam would be nineteen four months after that—but Leah seemed older than her age. Her features were those of a mature young woman. More to the point, she was mature in her outlook. She was wise and judicious, not at all giddy or frivolous as were so many of the girls her age that Miriam knew in Jerusalem. Her skin was quite fair even though her hair was dark, lustrous now in the rays of the sun coming from behind them. It occurred to Miriam then that Leah was a wonderful combination of both her parents. Already slightly taller than her mother, her countenance was also an inheritance from Deborah. By the time Leah was five or ten years older, Miriam guessed that she would look very much like Deborah. Yet in temperament and personality, she was mostly David. Gentle and patient, she would weigh her words carefully, speaking only after she had considered the feelings of others. She often acted as peacemaker when conversations got a little too heated.

  And her faith. Miriam felt that most keenly. According to her father, Leah had accepted Jesus from the beginning and had been instrumental in bringing Ephraim, Rachel, and even her mother to that same point. Miriam had been impressed with Leah when she had met her briefly during her first visit here. Now, staying with the family for this time, she had come to feel the deepest affection and admiration for her.

  Suddenly, Leah stopped humming and looked at her. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “Me, too. But I loved the Golan Heights. I’m glad Ezra had to go up there.”

  “You should have seen it a couple of months ago. It is beautiful in the spring. The wildflowers make it look like a rainbow has fallen from the sky. The grass can reach up to the belly of a horse.”

  “Yes, we saw that, though it’s all dry and brown now. Ezra was elated. The cattle are like fat old men and women, barely able to waddle around the hillsides. He says the leather is of excellent quality. Now he can honestly tell my father that this trip was very worthwhile for his sandal business.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Last night your mother said that Anna thinks Jesus and the Twelve will be back today or tomorrow.” It had been a disappointment to Miriam to return from Gaulanitis and find that Jesus was not in Capernaum.

  “Yes. They only went up to Chorazin and some of the other small villages to the north of us. They’ll be here today.”

  “Is his mother still with him?”

  “No. Mary returned to Nazareth the same day you left.”

  “That is too bad. She is such a lovely woman.”

  They continued on. Miriam walked right along the water’s edge, loving the soft rasping sound her sandals made on the wet rocks. “Oh, Leah. I love it here. I don’t want to leave.”

  “So do I,” Leah said happily. “This is my favorite place in the whole world.”

  The light in Leah’s eyes was enchanting, and Miriam suddenly remembered a question that had come to her mind earlier. “Have you been promised to anyone, Leah?”

  Leah’s face was instantly pink. “Promised?”

  “Yes, betrothed. You soon will be sixteen.” She moved up beside her, poking her lightly in the shoulder. “You can’t tell me there aren’t a dozen suitors trying to arrange a match with your father, pretty as you are.”

  The pink turned to scarlet.

  Miriam laughed lightly. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my affair.”

  “Oh, no, it’s just that—” She was completely flustered now. Her chin dropped and she was suddenly fiercely interested in her hands. “Yehuda once asked my father if he would consider Daniel as a suitable husband for me.”

  Miriam stopped abruptly. “Daniel!” she blurted. “Yehuda’s brother?”

  Leah nodded. “My parents declined, though. Papa thought I was too . . . ” She hesitated. “Too tender for a man of Daniel’s nature. I think Papa knew how hard it would have been for me to marry a Zealot warrior.” Leah slowed her step, her countenance falling. “I wept when I learned of his death.”

  “I, too, wept,” Miriam said, taking Leah’s hand.

  “Father would like me to marry an honest, hardworking man. But all he really cares about is that it is someone with whom I can be happy.”

  “Your father is a wise man, Leah.”

  “He has told me that who I marry must be my choice too. He is often criticized because I am not promised yet, but I am glad.” She shrugged, her color deepening again. “So far I have found no one to my liking.”

  Miriam slipped an arm around her. “It would have been wonderful to keep it in the family.”

  Leah’s head came around. “In the family? I do not understand.”

  “You and Daniel. Simeon and Shana.”

  Leah stopped dead, pulling away from Miriam’s grasp. “But do you not know?”

  “Know what?”

  “The betrothal has been canceled.”

  Miriam’s eyes registered her surprise.

  “Yes,” Leah went on sadly. “Because of Simeon, Daniel was killed and Yehuda was captured. That was too great a thing between them.”

  “I know, but that wasn’t Simeon’s fault. Simeon was trying to prevent a tragedy.”

  Leah looked at her strangely for a moment. “Of course, but Daniel is still dead. Can a woman be happy with the man responsible for her brother’s death? Maybe even responsible for the death of two of her brothers, if Simeon is not successful in freeing Yehuda. Simeon took the bill of divorcement to Beth Neelah himself. He understands her feelings and wanted her to be free of any obligation.”

  Miriam didn’t know what to say. She had been in Beth Neelah. She had seen the adoration in Shana’s eyes whenever Simeon was near. “Perhaps if Simeon is successful on this trip, Shana will reconsider.”

  Leah shook her head slowly. “I suggested that to Simeon. All he would say is that he may bring Yehuda back from Caesarea, but he can never bring Daniel back from the grave.”

  Miriam started forward again. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. For both of them.”

  “It makes me want to weep each time I think of it. Shana and I were very close. She would have made a good wife for Simeon.”

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  They walked in silence. The surface of the sea was smooth like polished brass. The cooln
ess of the morning was already diminishing as the sun rose higher above them.

  “Miriam?”

  “Yes?”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You will soon be nineteen. Are you promised to anyone?”

  Now it was Miriam who felt her face go hot. She should have expected to have the conversation turned on her, but she hadn’t. “No, I—”

  Leah gave her a dubious look. “No? That’s all. Just no?”

  Miriam couldn’t help herself. She laughed softly at the persistence of this gentle peacemaker. “No, I’m not promised to anyone at this time.”

  Leah’s nose wrinkled and her eyes were teasing as she quoted Miriam’s previous words. “You can’t tell me there aren’t a dozen suitors trying to arrange a match with your father, pretty as you are.”

  “And as wealthy as my father is,” Miriam added somberly.

  “Yes, that too.” Leah giggled again. “Especially that.”

  More serious now, Miriam decided to be honest. “Well, for one thing, in the circles in which my family lives, betrothal at the age of fifteen or sixteen is not as common as it would be up here in the Galilee or out in the countryside of Judea.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, more typical would be about eighteen.”

  “You are eighteen.”

  “I know,” she sighed, “but I am like you. If there was even one among the many who come calling who had even a pinch of promise, it wouldn’t be so disheartening.”

  Leah sighed. “So we both have the same problem.”

  Miriam laughed at her morose countenance. “Let’s make a pact, Leah. Let’s both of us agree to marry only when we find the right man. And if the other men don’t like it, then let them marry a camel.”

  Leah laughed aloud, the sound like a crystal bell in the morning air. She moved her hand, turning it into a firm handshake. “Done!” she cried.

  Laughing together, they put their arms around each other’s shoulders and continued slowly on. After a long silence, Leah looked at her. “I wish you weren’t going to Rome.”