The Galley Read online

  I decided to toy with him a bit, unsure of what he was after.

  “What kind of rumors?” I asked.

  “I have heard,” he responded, “That the fire was no accident. That Nero himself was responsible. Is it true?”

  I recounted for him my own experience of the fire and what I had seen on that first night. He listened patiently and made no remarks. All the while his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. When I had finished speaking, he sat silently for what seemed like a long time. Never looking up even when the signal horn in the harbor called the boats in for the night. He finally looked into my face with very sad eyes.

  “I see.” was all he had to say. He looked to the shore. “They are lighting the signal fires,” he said, “We had better get back in.”

  We turned our little boat to the harbor and tacked our way in. It took almost an hour and nothing was said except for the requirements of seamanship. Three hundred yards out the wind picked up and we struck sail and rowed the last of the way. We arrived in the slip just as darkness closed in. “All that rowing has made me hungry,” I declared, “There is a very good inn on the way back to town!” We hired a litter to take us back as we did not feel much like riding. An hour later we were seated at a table, enjoying roast pork and honeyed fruits.

  Throughout this time we made small talk, but Marcus’ heart really was not in it. He had been quiet for several hours as if his mind was elsewhere. I hadn’t asked him why, but it seemed as if something was growing inside of him. As if he was mustering the courage to tell me something. I began to wonder what it was. As the meal was nearing its end, his expression registered that gentleness that I had known ever since we were boys, and I could sense he was going to open up to me at last.

  “I want to show you something!” he whispered.

  After glancing around the busy inn, he reached into his tunic and produced a small medallion on a silver chain that was about his neck. He held it for me to see. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. It was a common medallion you would see on numerous Romans of property, a simple shield of porcelain in the likeness of one of The Muses, but this one had a red cross painted upon it.

  “It is a cross.” I replied.

  “Yes, it is a cross,” he answered, “But do you know what it symbolizes?”

  “It looks like the crosses used for crucifixion of criminals.” I said, for that was what it seemed to me.

  “It is infinitely more than that, my friend.” he said, and put it back into his tunic. He leaned against the wall, never letting his eyes leave mine. “Have you ever heard of a group known as the Christians?” he asked expectantly.

  Of course I had, every Roman has heard the gossip of this strange cult that has caused so much furor in the East. There were many tales of them, mostly unflattering. They were spreading out into the West. Everyone knew it. Most Romans held them in contempt.

  I felt a concern for my friend, hoping that he had not become one of those people. I dreaded what he would say next. “Marcus, are you trying to give me a subtle hint?” I said. “I hate it when you do that.” He grinned at me unconcerned.

  “You have become one of these Christians?” I asked. “You have not become a Death-Worshipper!”

  “We do not worship death, we worship the one, true god,” he replied, “Jesus taught men how to live! Through our faith we can achieve eternal life.” I frowned at him, it all sounded pretty silly to me. “Simon Peter is the Chosen One,” he said, “Chosen from living men by Jesus Himself to spread His Word.”

  This was all too much for me. My friend, who was in the same situation as I: bound by his freedman parents to make something of himself, was in danger of throwing it all away. I mustered my patience. “Marcus,” I said, “You are a Roman of both property and brains. For a man with your potential to throw it all away just because some smooth talking mountebank promises you the moon is madness! Worse than that, it is immoral. Come to your senses!”

  He looked at me, undeflected by my comment, and leaned in close. “Do you remember when we were boys?” he asked. “That year of the drought when the Tiber receded and we went treasure hunting on the banks?”

  “You got stuck in the mud,” I recalled, “You screamed and screamed until I pulled you out!”

  “I was still stuck,” he said, “Torn apart and confused by this Roman World that makes no sense. Everything is a contradiction. Men do not even believe in their own gods. They go through the motions without any conviction at all. They sacrifice to gods they stole from somebody else. They live a lie!”

  “That is the life we live, Marcus,” I replied smugly, “There is no sense in trying to be what you are not.”

  “That is precisely my point,” he argued, “Rome believes in nothing. It lives a lie!” He leaned in closer and spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “Peter is in Rome,” he said, “The Fisherman Himself is among us, and tonight he is going to speak! Come with me. We will hear him together.”

  I did not like this idea. I do not care much for speeches and even less to be lectured to by a Jew that had talked himself into thinking he was not a Jew anymore. Besides that, it had been many weeks since I had the chance to really relax.

  “I shall pass on that,” I said, “I was thinking of finding a game of chance, a bottle and a woman, in that order. Why not come along? The Christians still do believe in sex, do they not?”

  Marcus sat back deflated and drew a long sigh. The disappointment clearly registered on his face. I must admit there is just something about him that always affects me when he does that. It is kind of like slapping a puppy, you just feel terrible afterwards. He looked at me with those innocent eyes and I could feel myself caving in. Finally, against my better judgment, I nodded my head.

  “Alright Marcus,” I finally answered, “I will accompany you and listen to your prophet. Provided you agree that we will get good and drunk afterwards! Agreed?”

  He perked right up, “Agreed!” he said. He had done it to me again, damn him.

  “After all,” I thought to myself, “It is a small sacrifice to please an old friend.”

  THE FISHERMAN

  In the weeks after the fire, the City had slowly come back to life. In the narrow, torch lit streets the shadows of people moving about could be seen again, going about their amusements. Rome’s nightlife was returning among the ashes. Marcus and I moved about one of the undamaged quarters to a secret destination which he refused to divulge for fear of being overheard. On his recommendation, I had raised a hood to cover my head. I probably would have done so anyway, as the thought of being recognized doing something as stupid as this seemed unthinkable. So we kept going, first, this way, and then that, until we were in an area that I was not familiar with.

  “How much farther?” I asked.

  “Just ahead here.” he replied.

  We turned a darkened corner and reached a narrow row of steps leading down to a doorway. I could see the yellow glow of torchlights coming from just inside. Other shadowy figures could be seen closing into the same place as we went down. As we passed through the entrance a courtyard opened up in front of us. It was completely enclosed on all sides, and had once been a garden; the bases of fountains and statuary could still be seen along the walls. At the far end a crudely fashioned wooden cross stood, like a monument, surrounded by oil lamps. The courtyard was filled with people, and we elbowed our way toward the front of the dense throng.

  Everybody had hoods on. I could not tell whether I knew anyone there at first. People continued to arrive and, before long, the crowd became so tightly packed in that the atmosphere became oppressive. Tempers were beginning to flare and pushing and shoving was breaking out. Everyone tried to get near the makeshift altar in front. Soon a scuffle broke out.

  A giant figure moved to the front and began to push the people back. As he struggled with the crowd his hood fell down and I could see his face. I recognized him at once. It was Cassius Barbosus, the former gladiator, who had won his f
reedom after seeing five seasons without defeat in the arena. I could not help thinking how strange it was to see a man who had made his fame killing here among these people.

  I was just about to comment on this to Marcus when yet another wrestling match broke out in the crowd. As Barbosus began shoving back, another man stepped forward and raised his arms. He was much older and had a long beard.

  “My friends,” he cried out, “There is room for all who seek The Lord. Do not push each other!” The voice of a woman cried out. “He pushed my husband!” Yet another voice cried out, “I did not!”, and the shoving resumed.

  Finally Barbosus stepped forward and his voice boomed over the crowd. “Let all come forward according to his station,” he said, “Let the Nobles to the front and the slaves move to the back of the crowd.” This did not set well with the slaves at all and the shoving increased, which made Barbosus impatient. He pushed several men very hard.

  “I told the slaves to get back…” he shouted.

  “Leave the slaves alone. All are equal here!”

  At first I did not know where this voice came from, it was unlike any I had ever heard before. It seemed to boom over everything and yet, it was soft. A hush fell over the crowd and everyone lowered their hoods as if on some unspoken cue. All eyes moved to the front and the maker of the voice. That is when I saw him.

  I regret that I lack the skill with words to describe him. He moved into view as if from nowhere. As he walked, he seemed to glide to the altar. He was a man of large stature, yet as plain as could be. His hair and beard was purest white, like his tunic. Over that he wore a robe of red homespun material that was plain too, yet on him it draped like the finest silks. Two green eyes seemed to sparkle from his face in the firelight, like emeralds.

  Lordly he was, yet simple. Strong, yet possessing an understanding that permeated his presence. When he spoke, his soft, sometimes graveled voice seemed to flow out of his mouth like music. His expression was unlike anything I had ever seen before or since. I can only say that when I looked into his face I could see the same serenity I had seen in Marcus, only infinitely more powerful. This was not a man who believed, he knew.

  As he moved, all bowed their heads, others fell to their knees. I stood with my mouth open, I had so forgotten myself. Barbosus fell on one knee and bowed his head. “Forgive me, Lord…” he began, but stopped when the Great Man touched him upon the shoulder.

  “One does not address me as a lord, Brother,” said he, “For I am only a fisherman, as low as the dust itself.”

  As he said this, I noticed his hands. They bore the scars and calluses of many years’ labor at sea, of hook and rope, of countless hours, tying knots and weaving nets. I grew up looking at hands like those. He was a fisherman.

  “Arise, my friends,” he said with a kindly smile, “For I am come among you to spread the joyous news of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. I still recall that day so many years ago, that I first saw Him on the shore of Galilee. I was fishing when He seemed to call to me from the shore. He drew me to Him from within my own heart.

  “ ‘Come, Simon’, He said to me, ‘follow me and I will make you a Fisher of Men!’ But I replied that I could not, I would go hungry if I ceased my toil. Then, He told me to cast my net into the sea, and I did. Almost in an instant, I could feel the pull upon it. When I drew it in, the catch was so great that almost swamped my little boat!”

  As he spoke, this man moved softly through the crowd. His words seemed to take on a life of their own, as if the whole world had stopped and all nature had focused on his words.

  “Later,” he continued, “Our Lord said unto me: ‘You shall be called Peter. You are the rock upon which I will build My Church!’ His was The Word of God. I became the first of His Apostles and traveled with Him to many lands. He taught me, as He taught many others, laying hands upon the sick, freeing their souls of sorrow and confusion. Finally leading us into the Holy City of Jerusalem itself, where He made the ultimate sacrifice of His own life so that others may know God’s mercy. Taking the world’s sins upon Himself from the cross. Flinging open the doors of Heaven for all who seek Him!”

  He had now moved very close to us as he continued to speak.

  “For we,” he said, “Are God’s children. It is for us here on Earth to do his bidding. We are His hands, His heart, His Holy instruments in this world.” He stopped in front of me and looked deep into my eyes. He smiled gently at me and placed his hand upon my shoulder.

  “God,” he said, “Is counting upon you.”

  He looked deep into my eyes for emphasis. “You are His hands! Even if we deny Him three times, or three times three, He will never deny us!”

  He moved on and continued as he worked his way back to the front of the crowd.

  “So you see, my friends,” he said, “There is always room for those who seek His Truth: That all are God’s people, and all that is, belongs to Him. Here on Earth and in Heaven. These are His lessons: Love your enemies as you would be loved. Give unto others as you would have given unto you. Forgive as you would seek forgiveness. Turn the other cheek to the hand that smites you, even as Our Lord has done, and you will become His true apostles, just as I have: Blessed in the eyes of the Almighty.”

  “Even to the Romans?” asked one of the crowd.

  “Yes,” he answered, “Especially to the Romans, for their way to God is hard.”

  “What about my Master?” a slave asked.

  “Serve him with patience,” he replied, “And serve The Almighty with all your heart.”

  “What about Paul?” asked another.

  “I bless him,” he said, “For his road to God has been the hardest of all.”

  A wall of voices came with questions and he raised his hands to silence the crowd. “The answer is always the same,” he declared, “For Christ has said it: Love another, help one another and, above all, put your faith in The Living God.”

  “Now my friends, will you not let me share in Our Lord’s Prayer with you all?” The crowd moved to its knees and bowed their heads, without even realizing it, I had knelt too. He began to pray:

  “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name,

  Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will be Done…”

  The serenity of his words was quickly interrupted by the chilling scream of a woman. As we looked up, a man rushed in terrified. “The soldiers are here,” he shouted, “They’ve come to arrest us!” Before he could say another word, an arrow struck him down. I looked up at the top of the wall. It was lined with archers.

  Panic seized the crowd and a riot ensued. In an instant, we were trapped by bodies crushing us in a frantic effort to get out. The soldiers had cut off the only exit. Marcus and I were caught in a wave of flailing humanity. I glanced over my shoulder at Peter, whose expression was one of sadness but there was no hint of fear at all. As I turned around I could feel my feet only just touching the ground. I cried out to Marcus. “We have got to try for the wall!” I cried. “We will be crushed if we stay here!”

  No sooner had I said this, when Marcus, whose head I could see in the crowd, fell suddenly from sight. I cried out for him to get up, but it was to no avail. My friend was being trampled to death only a few feet away from me and I was powerless to help him. A great sickening feeling grew within me as I was helplessly swept upon the human tide toward the entrance. It was impossible for me to get to the wall, which turned out to be fortunate, for the archers killed anyone who tried to do so. Fearing for my own life, I could only follow the wave to its end, no matter what that would be.

  It was not long before the soldiers rushed in and the crowd was forced up the steps into the open street with me among them. It was a ghastly scene, for the soldiers had used considerably more violence than necessity demanded. Nearly a dozen were killed in the confusion and several were trampled to death, including Marcus.

  We were bound and counted. Then wagons were brought in to remove all of us to the City Prison. As they brought out the dead, I saw Marcu
s for the last time. His gentle face was almost gone. His nose was crushed, one of his eyes was missing and his jaw was hanging from one side of his face. As I watched them throw his body into the cart like a bag of grain, I wept. I do not think it was so much the pathetic state of his injuries that affected me so, but the limp, doll-like way his extremities moved as they carried him.

  Few things can truly make us realize our mortality than the sight of lifelessness in one who had reveled in it only moments before. A part of me had died with him and I knew would never get it back. The mind can do very irrational things. I looked at one of his sandals left on the cobblestones and I thought: “It will still be here tomorrow and he will not.”

  Pointless, it was utterly pointless.

  THE WRONG HOUSE

  It seemed as if an eternity had passed as I waited for my turn to be put upon the wagon. The faces of the guards and the Christians all looked the same to me now: dark and sinister, like specters in the night. It was growing cold, or maybe it was me. I cannot tell, for my mind was caught up in grim thoughts of the unknown mistreatments that awaited me and my fellows.

  As I looked up I noticed the huge shape of Barbosus climbing into the wagon ahead of me. He leaned against the side of it and hung his head. It made me feel sad to see him like this. In the daylight I had seen him walk tall among men, proud and indomitable, with garlands at his feet and the ringing of cheers in his ears. Now he was a shadowy figure slumped over in a prison wagon. He looked over at me and our eyes met. I do not know what it was about me that caught his eye, but he let a hint of a smile register on the corner of his mouth. He looked at the soldiers and back at me.