He placed his crook over his shoulders-he had heard the bells of his goats and sheep-and hurried off, whistling.

Zebedee’s adopted sons had made a fire meanwhile and put on water for the fish soup. As soon as the water boiled they threw in rock fish, limpets, sea urchins, a dentex or two, and a green-haired stone to make the food smell of the sea. In a little while they would add the giltheads and red mullets, for how could they be satisfied with just rock fish and limpets. The hungry fishermen squatted in a circle around the pot and waited anxiously, talking in low voices among themselves. The oldest leaned over to his neighbor. “It was wonderful to see the blacksmith rub it in his face. Patience. The day will come when the poor will rise to the top and the rich sink to the bottom. That’s the meaning of justice.”

“Do you think that will ever happen?” replied the other, who had been consumed by hunger ever since his youth. “Do you think that will ever happen on this earth?”

“There’s a God, isn’t there?” the old man answered. “Yes, there is! And he’s just, isn’t he? He’s got to be if he’s God, hasn’t he? He’s just! So you see, it will happen. All we need, son, is patience-patience.”

“Hey, what are you mumbling about over there?” said Zebedee, who had caught some of it and grown suspicious. “You just worry about your work and forget about God. He knows better than you what he’s about. Good lord, what next!”

They all immediately fell silent. The old fisherman got up, took the wooden spoon, and stirred the soup.

THE HOUR the adopted sons lifted the nets to their shoulders and the morning fell over the lake, so virgin it seemed to have come fresh from the hands of the Creator, the son of Mary was traveling along with Jacob, Zebedee’s elder son. They had already left Magdala behind them. Now and then they stopped for a moment to comfort the women who were lamenting the lost wheat; then, conversing, they continued on. Jacob had also been caught by the squall. He had spent the night in Magdala, lodging at the house of a friend, and had risen before dawn to resume his journey.

He sloshed through the mud in the blue half-light, anxious to reach the lake of Gennesaret. The bitterness of all he had seen in Nazareth had already begun to settle down calmly within him. The crucified Zealot had become a distant memory, and Jacob’s mind was once again dominated by his father’s fishing boats and men: by everyday concerns. He strode over the pits which had been scooped out by the rain. The trees dripped, half smiling, half weeping; the skies above him laughed; birds awoke-it was a glorious day. But as the light increased, he was able to see how the torrents had laid waste the threshing floors. The wheat and barley which had been stacked up ran now with the water in the road; the first farmers and their wives had already poured out to the fields and begun the dirge. Suddenly he saw the son of Mary, bent over with two old women on a devastated threshing floor.

He clenched his staff tightly and cursed. Nazareth jumped back into his mind, together with the cross and the crucified Zealot-and now, look! here was the cross-maker lamenting the lost wheat with the women! Jacob’s soul was rough and unaccommodating. Loud-mouthed, rapacious, without compassion, he had taken all his father’s characteristics and bore no resemblance either to his mother Salome, who was a saintly woman, or to John, his sweet, lovable brother… Clenching his staff, he advanced angrily toward the threshing floor.

At that same moment the son of Mary, the tears still running down his cheeks, rose in order to go back to the road. The two old women held his hands, kissing him and not allowing him to leave. Who could possibly match this unknown wayfarer in finding the right words to comfort them?

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, I’ll come back,” he kept telling them as he gradually extricated his hands from the aged palms.

Jacob halted in his tracks and stood gaping with astonishment. The cross maker’s eyes glittered, brimming with tears. At one moment they gazed up at the rosy, elated heavens, at the next down at the earth and the stooping people who were scraping in the mud and lamenting.

“Can this be the cross-maker-this?” murmured Jacob, and he drew to one side, troubled. “His face shines like the prophet Elijah’s!”

The son of ‘Mary had now stepped over the rim of the threshing floor. He saw Jacob, recognized him and put his hand over his heart in the sign of greeting.

“Where are you going, son of Mary?” said Zebedee’s son, sweetening his tone. But before the other could reply, he added, “Let’s go together. The road is long and calls for company.”

The road is long and calls for company, the son of Mary repeated to himself, but he did not divulge his thought.

“Let’s go,” he said, and together they started down the paved road to Capernaum.

They did not speak for some time. The women’s laments rose up from every threshing floor. The old men, propped on their staffs, watched the wheat run off with the water. The farmers stood dark-faced and motionless in the middle of their mown and devastated fields. Some remained silent; others cursed.

The son of Mary sighed. “Ah, if there was only one man who had the strength to starve to death so that the people would not die of hunger!”

Jacob glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “If you were able to become wheat,” he scoffed, “so that the people could eat you and be saved, would you do it?”

“Who wouldn’t?” said the son of Mary.

Jacob’s hawk eyes flickered, as did his thick, protruding lips. “Me,” he answered.

The son of Mary was silent. The other took offense. “Why should I perish?” he growled. “It was God who sent the flood. What did I do wrong?” He looked fiercely at the sky. “Why did God do it? How did the people offend him? I don’t understand-do you, son of Mary?”

“Don’t ask, my brother: it’s a sin. Until a few days ago I too asked, but now I understand. This was the serpent which corrupted the first creatures and made God banish us from Paradise.”

“What do you mean by ‘this’?”

“Asking questions.”

“I don’t understand,” said Zebedee’s son, and he quickened his pace.

He no longer cared for the cross-maker’s company: his words weighed heavily on him, and his silences were even more unbearable than his words.

They came now to a small rise in the plain. Visible in the distance were the glittering waters of Gennesaret. The boats had already reached the middle, and the fishing had commenced. The sun rose out of the desert, brilliantly red. On the shore of the lake a rich market town gleamed in all its whiteness.

Jacob saw his boats in the distance, and his mind filled with fish. He turned to his inconvenient companion. “Where are you going, son of Mary?” he asked. “Look, there’s Capernaum.”

The son of Mary bowed his head and did not reply. He was ashamed to say he was going to the monastery to become a saint.

Jacob gave his head a toss and eyed him. An evil thought had suddenly entered his mind. “You’d rather not say, is that it?” he growled. “You’re keeping it a secret, are you!”

Grabbing hold of his companion’s chin, he raised his head. “Look into my eyes. Tell me: who’s sending you?”

The son of Mary sighed. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he murmured. “It may be God, but it may be the…”

He hesitated. He was so frightened, the word stuck in his throat. What if he were truly being sent by the devil?

A dry laugh, filled with contempt, burst from Jacob’s lips. He grasped him tightly by the arm and shook him with violence. “The centurion,” he bellowed softly, “your friend the centurion-is he the one who’s sending you?”

Yes, that was it: the centurion must be sending him as a spy. New Zealots had cropped up in the mountains and the desert. They came down to the villages, got hold of the people secretly and spoke to them of revenge and liberty. The bloodthirsty centurion of Nazareth had unleashed a greased-palm spy of a Jew to every village. This fellow, this cross-maker, was without a doubt one of them.