“Blessed is death,” he murmured. “Glory be to God!”

The disciples, meanwhile, had burrowed into Simon the Cyrenian’s tavern. They were waiting for the crucifixion to be over and night to fall so that they could escape without being seen. Squatting behind the barrels, they listened with cocked ears to the happy throngs which passed by outside in the street. The whole city-men and women-had begun to run toward Golgotha. The people had enjoyed a fine Passover, had eaten more than enough meat, drunk more than enough wine; and now here was the crucifixion to while away their time.

The people ran; the disciples listened to the noise in the street and trembled. Now and then John’s muffled weeping could be heard. At times Andrew rose and paced up and down the tavern uttering threats. Peter cursed and vilified himself for being a coward and not having the courage to race outside to be killed along with the master. How many times he had sworn to him: “With you, Rabbi, to the death!” But now that death had appeared, he had burrowed behind the barrels.

Jacob grew furious. “John,” he said, “stop your bawling-you’re a man. And you, gallant Andrew, don’t twist your mustache. Sit down. Sit down, all of you. Let’s come to a decision. Suppose he’s really the Messiah. With what kind of faces will we appear before him if he is resurrected in three days’ time? Did you ever think about that? What do you say, Peter?”

“If he’s the Messiah, we’re done for-that’s what I say,” answered Peter hopelessly. “I told you, I already denied him three times.”

“But if he isn’t the Messiah, we’re still done for,” said Jacob. “What do you say, Nathanael?”

“I say we should get out of here. Whether he’s the Messiah or not, we’re done for.”

“And leave him like this, unprotected? How can your hearts endure that?” said Andrew, starting to rush toward the door.

But Peter caught hold of his tunic. “Sit down, wretch, before I break you into a thousand pieces! Let’s find another solution.”

“Hypocrites and Pharisees!” Thomas hissed. “What solution? Let’s speak out and not blush over it: we made a transaction, we sank in all our capital. Yes: business! Why look daggers at me-that’s what we did; we transacted a little business. You give me and I give you. I gave my wares-combs, spools of thread, pocket mirrors-in exchange for the kingdom of heaven. All of you did the same. One gave his boat, another his sheep, a third his peace of mind. And now the whole affair has gone to the devil. We’re bankrupt; our capital has disappeared down the drain. Look out we don’t lose our lives in the bargain. What advice do I give, then? Go while the going’s good!”

“Agreed!” shouted both Philip and Nathanael. “Go while the going’s good!”

Peter turned anxiously to Matthew, who was sitting off to one side. He had been listening with cupped ear, not breathing a word. “For God’s sake, Matthew,” Peter said, “don’t write all this down. Play deaf. Don’t make us ridiculous for all eternity!”

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” Matthew answered. “I see and hear a lot, but I select… A word, however, for your own good: Come to a noble decision; show how brave you are-so that I can write about it, and you poor fellows can be glorified. You are apostles, and that’s no small matter!”

Just then Simon the Cyrenian shoved open the tavern door and entered. His clothes were torn, his face and chest full of blood, his right eye swollen and running. Cursing and groaning, he threw off the rags that remained to him, plunged his head in the tub he used to clean the wineglasses, grabbed a towel and wiped his chest and back, all the while bellowing and spitting. Then he put his mouth to the tap of the barrel and drank. Hearing a disturbance behind the barrels, he leaned over. When he saw the pile of huddling disciples, he went wild.

“Out of my sight, filthy dogs!” he screamed at them. “Bah! Is this the way you stick by your chief! Ducking out of battle, eh! Lousy Galileans, lousy Samaritans, lousy bastards!”

“God knows our souls were willing,” Peter ventured, “but our bodies-”

“Shut up, jabber-jaws! Bah! When the soul is willing, the body doesn’t mean a thing. All becomes soul, even the club in your hand, the coat on your back, the stones you walk over-all, all! Look, cowards, look at me: black and blue, my clothes in tatters, my eyeballs ready to fall out of my head. Why?-the devil take you, filthy disciples!-because, damn it, I defended your master. I fought the whole population-me, me, the innkeeper, the lousy Cyrenian! And why did I do it? Was it because I believed he was the Messiah and tomorrow he’d make me great and important? Not a bit; no, not a single bit. It was because my confounded self-respect got hold of me, and I’m not sorry, either!”

He paced up and down, tripped over the stools, spat, cursed. Matthew was sitting on hot coals. He wanted to learn what happened at Caiaphas’s palace, what at Pilate’s, what the teacher said, what the people shouted, so that he could record it all in his book.

“If you believe in God, Simon, my brother,” he said, “quiet down and tell us what happened: how, when and where; and if the teacher spoke.”

“He certainly did speak!” Simon answered. “’Damn you to hell, disciples!’-that’s what he said. Well-write! Why are you looking at me? Grab your pen and write: ‘Damn you to hell!’”

Lamentations arose from behind the barrels. John was rolling on the ground and screeching, and Peter was beating his head against the wall.

“If you believe in God, Simon,” Matthew begged him again, “tell the truth so that I can write it down. Can’t you understand that at this moment the future of the whole world depends on what you say?”

Peter was still beating his head against the wall.

“Blast it, don’t get desperate, Peter,” the innkeeper said to him. “I’ll tell you what you can do to win glory for all eternity. Listen: soon they’re going to lead him by here-I already hear the noise. Get up, open the door like a man, go take the cross from him and put it on your own shoulders. It’s heavy, curse it, and your God is very delicate, and exhausted.”

Laughing, he shoved Peter with his foot. “You’ll do it? I want to see some action, here and now!”

“I would do it, I swear to you, if there weren’t such a crowd,” Peter whined. “They’ll make mincemeat out of me.”

The enraged innkeeper spat. “Go to hell-all of you!” he shouted. “Will none of you do it? You, Nathanael bean-stalk? You, Andrew cutthroat? No one, no one? Pfou! To the devil with you all! Ah, my poor Messiah, what sterling generals you chose to help you conquer the world! You’d have done better choosing me-me! I may deserve to be hanged and have my head displayed on a stake, but I’ve got a little self-respect all the same, and when a fellow’s got self-respect it doesn’t matter if he’s a drunkard, a robber or a liar: he’s still a man. When you’ve got no self-respect, you might be an innocent dove, but pfou! you’re not worth a miserable shoe patch!”

Spitting again, he opened the door and stood on the threshold, puffing.

The streets had filled with people. Men and women were running, shouting, “He’s coming! The king of the Jews is coming. Boo! Boo!”

The disciples burrowed again behind the barrels. Simon whirled around. “Bah! Don’t you have any self-respect? You’re not going out to see him, eh? Won’t you even give the poor fellow the consolation of a glimpse of his disciples? All right, then: I’ll go out, I’ll wave to him. ‘It’s me,’ I’ll say, ‘me, Simon the Cyrenian-present.’ ”

With one bound he was in the road.

The multitude passed by, wave after wave. In front, Roman cavalry; behind, Jesus bearing the cross. Blood ran over him, and his clothes hung in tatters. He no longer had the strength to walk. His face pitched more and more forward; he continually stumbled, ready to fall, and they continually set him up straight again and kicked him onward. In back ran the lame, the blind and the maimed, enraged because he had not healed them. They cursed him and struck him with their crutches and canes. He frequently looked around him. Would none of the beloved companions appear? What had happened to them?