Peter

  Cover image: Lord, Save Me © Simon Dewey, courtesy Altus Fine Art; for more information, visit www.altusfineart.com or call 801-763-9788.

  Cover design copyright © 2015 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2015 by Toni Sorenson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. Some of the characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: June 2015

  For

  Bob Fletcher

  Also a fisherman and rescuer of souls

  Prelude to a Prophet

  The centurion’s blade felt hot as its tip pierced his bare shoulder. Young Simon did his best not to wince, even when a trickle of blood flowed down his arm and splashed red onto the gray-pebbled sand.

  “Leave my brother alone!”

  Simon’s eyes cut to his younger brother, Andrew, who strained helplessly against the strength of a Roman guard. Simon’s look warned Andrew to stay still.

  “What are you called?” Antonius demanded as the tip of his sword turned slightly, digging deeper into Simon’s shoulder.

  “I’m Simon, son of Jona. My father owns this fishing shop, along with Zebedee. We have a license.” He drew in a quivering breath and forced his eyes to meet the Roman’s. Simon almost smiled. He thought the centurion’s plumed helmet made him look like a rooster. Tattered strips of leather girded his loins, and the man’s scrawny legs looked too weak to support his girth. “You had no right to strike this old man,” Simon told Antonius.

  “I had every right to strike him. Galilee is my watch, and this old man wanders around these waters professing to be your messiah. He denounces the empire.”

  This was not Jerusalem. It was not even Sepphoris or Magdala or Capernaum. It was Bethsaida, a humble, shoreline fishing village where zealots and self-proclaimed messiahs like Dikla were common enough to ignore.

  “He’s an old man, a lunatic with no teeth,” Simon told Antonius. “You are a mighty Roman centurion. What harm can Dikla do you or your empire?”

  Antonius made a huffing sound, drew away his sword, and slid it into the sheath tied to his belt. He turned his attention to Simon’s friends, John and James, also constrained by guards. “And you are the sons of Zebedee?”

  “We are,” James, replied, his face red with fury, while John kept his eyes fixed on the ground. James’s fists were balled, and Simon knew he would fight if he were given the chance.

  “Where are your fathers this day?”

  “They’ve gone to Jerusalem on business. They’re due to return before nightfall,” Simon explained.

  “My brother speaks the truth,” Andrew said, still struggling against the guard’s grip.

  Antonius smirked as he gazed around at the crowd that had gathered. Men and women, priests and children, even a Pharisee and a publican stood staring at the old man who was lying on the ground. One of the soldiers had silenced him with a punch to the nose.

  “There must be hundreds of you,” Antonius shouted to the crowd. “Surely you all know this would-be prophet, and yet only these four boys dare come to the rescue. They are but children.”

  “I’m not a child,” Simon said, stooping to help Dikla to his feet. “Next year I’ll be a son of the commandment.”

  “Oh, yes—the Jewish law.” Antonius curled his lips. “And what god do you honor, boy? Priapus, I suppose, since he is the god of fishermen. Juventas, maybe, since he is the god of youth. Or Muta, since he is the god of silence—and you need to be silent.”

  There was laughter, jittery at first, but soon swelling into something riotous. Not only were the Romans laughing at Simon, but his own villagers were laughing at his expense. Andrew, James, and John stayed silent, but many of the others joined in.

  “I worship only the Lord of Israel—the true and living God.”

  The smirk sloughed from Antonius’s face. He reached for a small dagger, and his tone fell somewhere between solemn and dangerous. “Are you a zealot? Is your father a zealot?”

  “No! We’re loyal to our land and we pay our taxes.”

  “Are you affiliated with this self-proclaimed messiah?”

  “Dikla’s no messiah. Whoever reported to you that he’s a threat to the empire lied. He’s as harmless as the others.”

  “Others?”

  Someone in the crowd called, “Be silent, Simon!”

  Again, the boy looked for help from the village priest. It was not going to come, so he spoke with all the courage he could muster. “There are others who claim to be the messiah. They want to topple your pagan gods and cleanse our land once and for all.”

  “You speak mightily for one so young. What do you know of this messiah?”

  “I know that the true Messiah will come with the strength of the north wind. I know that your sword will clatter and break against His. I know that the Messiah will return our people to the high places you’ve stolen from us.”

  The amused expression returned to Antonius’s face. “How do you know all of this?”

  Every face was nervous, and eyes warned Simon to be quiet.

  “Please, Brother, say no more,” Andrew begged.

  “I know what’s in my heart,” Simon told Antonius. “When the true and living Messiah appears, I’ll know Him in my heart.”

  “Isn’t that what Herod said? Yet he didn’t recognize the Holy Child.”

  For a terrible moment, the air went perfectly still. Water lapped the shore but made no sound. The birds soared above them, but their wings flapped silent. Dikla’s groaning stopped. Antonius did not laugh—did not even breathe.

  Simon knew the centurion’s sword might come down on him. He could apologize, could recant his words, but Simon believed that when the true Messiah appeared, his heart would testify of it.

  A fly buzzed near Antonius’s eye. He swiped at it with impatience. “Release the boys.”

  Andrew, John, and James were shoved forward.

  Antonius’s hand rested on Simon’s wounded shoulder.

  “I want you to make a vow to me, Son. When this all-powerful messiah appears, you must find me and report it. Yes?”

  Simon looked into Antonius’s eyes. They were sparkling as if he’d told a joke.

  “I give you my word, Sir. I’ll search you out and make it known to you.”

  Antonius cuffed Simon on the back of the head. “I’m bored now.” He yawned. As he began to climb back in his chariot, Dikla rose, spun, and spit toward the centurion.

  “Rome is a sick dog about to be kicked to death by Jewish sandals!” the old man shouted.

  Simon’s skin prickled as people in the crowd gasped and wheeled back. If only his father was here. If only one of the men in the crowd was brave enough to stand up and take command. He looked to Bethsaida’s priest, but the man’s eyes were fixed on Dikla. The old man’s nose was bloody, but being bullied had only enraged him.

  “I am the voice of God!” Dikla screamed. “He has raised me to save this people. I come in His holy name to deliver the children of Moses from Roman oppression.”

  Simon was strong for his age. But even though Dikla was a beggar, weak and thin, Simon could
not hold him back or keep him quiet.

  “Jupiter is weak,” Dikla spewed directly at Antonius. “Soon all the Roman gods will fall before me.”

  Antonius cleared his throat, his fingers tight around his dagger’s hilt.

  “Please, Sir, have mercy,” Simon pleaded.

  Dikla swatted at Simon. “I am mercy!”

  “You are a zealot,” Antonius said.

  Dikla looked at the angry face of the centurion. “I am a zealot sent from God Almighty! I will raise armies that will crumble your gods and drain the last drop of blood from Caesar!”

  Simon winced. All the mercy in the world could not save Dikla now.

  “You stand accused of treason against the empire,” Antonius said with surprising evenness.

  “And I stand tall. If you have ears to hear, then hear this—Rome is God’s enemy and will be destroyed!”

  In the blink of an eye, Dikla’s arm went up just as Antonius’s blade came down. The lone zealot crumpled to the rocky ground, clutching the side of his head where his ear had been severed.

  For an instant Simon feared there would be uproar, a charge against the Romans. But there was nothing—only a few village women brave enough to tend to Dikla, to offer a few scraps of cloth to soak the blood.

  Antonius climbed back into his chariot. He snapped his fingers and pointed to Andrew. “Fetch water for the horses. And you—” he pointed at James, “fill each soldier’s water skin afresh.”

  Simon was quick to help, though Andrew stood motionless, stricken with fear. Tracing his gaze, Simon understood. Jews used water skins made from sheep bladders, but the water skins the Romans now wanted filled were made from pigs’ bladders. Andrew did not dare touch them for fear of breaking the law.

  Simon didn’t hesitate. He went to work filling the skins to bursting. The sooner the Romans’ thirst was quenched, the sooner they would leave. Dikla was hefted up, made to sit behind a Jew who was hired to bring up the rear of Antonius’s band.

  Simon handed up a full water skin. “Sir, what will become of Dikla?”

  “He’ll be given a trial fit for a zealot who dares to mock and challenge Caesar.”

  “You mean he’ll be slaughtered, maybe crucified along a roadside for others to see.”

  “What concern is it of yours?”

  “We are all brothers in the eyes of God.”

  “All brothers?” he asked, and Simon was certain he saw a flicker of pain in the Roman’s hard eyes.

  The chariot turned, and the horses and footmen fell into line.

  “Now hear this!” Antonius shouted. “Rome will not be mocked. Caesar is king, and the gods of Rome will smash and destroy the feeble god you pitiful people worship. Where is your god when you cry for him? Hiding in the heavens? No. He is nowhere, because your god does not exist.”

  The whip was laid to the horses’ backs, and the Romans departed Bethsaida. People hurried to the safety of their homes, to the marketplace, where they could gossip about the scene that had just played before them, to the synagogue, where they could determine which laws Simon bar Jona had broken—for surely a boy so brazen deserved to be punished.

  * * *

  It was a clear day, and Simon could easily see the gray stone town of Capernaum almost directly across from his smaller home village of Bethsaida. People bustled about like ants. In both directions, the shoreline around him was busy too. Men stooped over, casting small nets. Others were using single lines and hooks. The sea bobbed with fishing boats, and the hot, dry air smelled of fish and brine. Thatched stalls scalloping the shore were occupied by merchants selling wine and salt and oil for pickling fish. Herod’s appointed distributors waited for fishermen to haul in their draughts. Simon could see the chief publican, Chaim, waiting for someone to violate a law—to fish without proper license, to attempt to barter to escape paying taxes.

  The entire scene added to Simon’s already glum mood. Life went on as if Antonius and his band had not just invaded the shores and taken one of their own. The lapping water washed Dikla’s blood away.

  “What should we do now?” Andrew asked. It was unusual for the boys to have a day free from chores. If they were not out on the fishing boats with their fathers, they were braiding nets, washing nets, repairing nets, or folding nets.

  John splashed water on Simon. “Let’s follow the shoreline east. We can cliff-jump.”

  James nodded, but Andrew shook his head. “I heard some boys from Joppa hit rocks while cliff-jumping. One of them died.”

  John scoffed. “That was when the water was lower. We’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t feel like swimming,” Simon told them. “Go ahead. I’ll stay here and think.”

  “Think?” John smiled. “Think about how much you hate the Romans, how much you hate Antipas, how much you hate to lose to me!” He ran into the water. “I’ll race you to that outcropping and back!”

  Simon could not resist one of John’s challenges and was right on the heels of his friend. John was thinner and taller, but Simon was stronger and faster. Spraying water with every stroke, Simon beat John to the rise of rocks, spun, and headed back to shore—but by the time his feet touched sand, John was already there, smiling victoriously.

  “Now let’s see who makes it to the top of that point.” John aimed a finger at a hill just beyond Bethsaida.

  Simon looked at the rocky hill. He called it Kaddish, which meant “holy” in his Aramaic tongue. It was a place Simon sometimes climbed just to seek solitude. It was the place he had uttered his first solo prayer.

  “Are you coming?” John called, but he didn’t wait for a reply. His bare toes dug into the rocks and sand and propelled him off again.

  Andrew and James tore out after John, but Simon took his time. He could not win a foot race, and he knew it. In fact, Simon felt like he was always coming in second. Andrew caught more fish. John could read and write better. James could cast a net farther. And they all understood the laws of Moses better than Simon did.

  Andrew leaned on a rock, waiting for his brother. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m upset. You saw what the Romans did to Dikla. No law stops them from doing the same to any of us.”

  “You’re afraid Father is going to be angry when he hears how you stood up to the centurion.”

  Simon’s chest tightened. “Do you think he’ll hear?”

  “Of course. Gossip has probably already reached him.”

  Simon knew Andrew was right. Gossip traveled faster than the wind.

  “Hurry!” Andrew called. “They’re probably halfway to the top already.”

  It was the turn of a new season; spring warmed the sand, and Simon paused to put on his sandals.

  “Watch where you step, Brother,” he warned Andrew. “Snakes lay wait in the grass.”

  As the brothers scrambled higher, Simon on the heels of Andrew, they paused to look north.

  “Mount Hermon is still snow-capped,” said Andrew, squinting against the barbs of light being reflected off the waves. He held a flat palm up to shade his eyes and vowed, “One day I’ll travel there and feel the cold for myself.”

  “One day I’ll travel beyond Palestine,” Simon said, pointing west to Mount Carmel, then sweeping his hand east toward the sprawling Jordan valley. “I’ll see the whole world for myself.”

  “First, you’ll have to catch me!”

  By the time Simon reached the summit, his face was damp with sweat and even redder with effort.

  “Hand me your water pouch,” he told Andrew. “I’m parched.”

  A leather pouch was produced, but it came from James.

  “Anyone else hungry?” asked John, who produced a handful of dried apricots.

  Simon drank thirstily. He then reached into his own pouch and shared bread and hard cheese he’d packed that morning. Andrew brought forth a fistful of figs. John shared his sling, and the boys took turns hurling stones at an ancient Cyprus tree. Simon chose a small, round rock, pushed it into the tattered leat
her cradle, and sent it sailing through the air.

  After a while the boys grew bored and looked down on the great road that snaked below. It was a road cleared and cobbled by generations of slave labor, the road that joined Caesarea to Damascus—a road occupied by merchants, royalty, camel caravans, pilgrims, and beggars.

  Simon cringed at a sight on a rise not far from the road. A trio of crosses stood like lone trees.

  “I wonder what those men did to deserve crucifixion,” John said.

  “Probably sneezed,” Andrew replied.

  Simon’s sight wasn’t as sharp as the others. He could not see condemned bodies, only the too-familiar shape of the crosses. He felt his body flush feverish, felt his fingers curl to fast fists. He lay on his stomach and crawled to the border of the ledge, peering down. A camel caravan was in the way, but when it moved, he thought he saw the agonizing form of a human nailed to wood.

  “You don’t think one of them is Dikla, do you?” Simon asked.

  The boys fell silent, knowing it was possible.

  That evening, back in the safety of their home, Andrew and Simon put the table plank in place. Aunts added soft cheese and olives. A married cousin brought almonds. Their grandmother brought a bowl of oil. Others put down the crushed herbs and spices for dipping. The men sat on the ground, surrounding the low table, and waited until Simon and Andrew’s mother, Aliza, carried in the deep, large bowl of lentil stew. It smelled of cumin, coriander, and mustard seed.

  Simon’s stomach growled as he slid over to make room for two of his father’s day servants.

  Their father, Jona, wasn’t home yet, so Aliza’s eyes went to Simon. He led the family in prayer, and then all the men dipped into the bowl to eat. Only then was room made for the girls and women to join them.

  They were still eating, talking about Simon’s encounter with Antonius, when Jona appeared. He leaned his lanky frame against the doorpost and kissed the small leather mezuzah as Aliza jumped and hurried to greet her husband. While he washed his hands, she brought fresh bread from the fire.

  Andrew nudged Simon with his elbow. It was clear to both sons that their father had already heard of Simon’s confrontation with the Roman centurion.