Peter shifted his position slightly, adjusting the horsehide scabbard that protected the razor-sharp edge of his Roman short sword he always carried.

Peter's father had purchased the sword from an Arabian trader who claimed he had bought it from a man of Alexandria who had taken it from a Roman mercenary in the battle at Actium. No matter the sword's history, Peter was happy for it. The sword had become a part of him. He used it for everything from scraping on the family boat when it needed repairs to helping in the mending and weaving of nets, from helping with the butchering of a sheep or goats they bought to slicing the fish he smoked for sale.

Maybe, Peter mused, the blade would yet serve him well, serve some greater purpose in this revolution of which Jesus spoke than the mundane chores of his business, or slapping some balky mule alongside the flank with the flat side of the heavy blade.

His eyes swept over the vast blue expanse of the Sea of Galilee, stretching away to the purple-hued distance. The water was dappled now with the blue-black shadows of this day's collection of cumulus that marched like so many white sheep toward the southeast, across the heights on the other side, where the steep slides of trims showed grayish in the shimmering light that bespoke of the area of the Gadarenes, where people claimed a famous wild man lived among the tombs.

They had come here, panting with exertion, to follow Jesus' stocky figure as He climbed rapidly above them, and, taking comfortable seats about Him in this rocky amphitheaterlike flat with its breathtaking view, had settled down to listen to a major teaching session.

Jesus was known as a good builder and honest. His brothers gave you a fair share, hard work, and built true, and you could expect the work to come in at or below the estimates. Joseph had run the building trade from their home up in the tree-covered hills around Nazareth, and, after Joseph's death, Jesus had branched out a bit so that substantial homes, public buildings, sheds and warehouses in the whole Galilean region had been constructed by "Joseph and Sons, Contractors."

He looked plain enough, almost too plain the way Peter saw it; it might be better for the position of leadership He occupied and was soon to take if Jesus had some of the swashbuckling black handsomeness of, say, Judas Iscariot, or the sharper features and deep brown eyes of Luke, the physician. But, in spite of the fact He appeared so commonplace, so ordinary, with even, plain features, there was nothing ordinary about His voice, or the authority with which He spoke.

Peter heard the faint whisper of Luke's scratching now and then on the small slate he held on his knees and watched Matthew with his own note material. It was natural for Luke and Matthew to be taking such careful notes, Peter thought, what with Luke being a trained physician and in the habit of writing out his orders, receipts, prescriptions and the like, and Matt a publican, accustomed to making careful records of all kinds of personal business and property transactions for people. Luke and Matt were both skilled at a new short form of writing that had become popular, and no doubt were adding little shortcuts of their own. Peter wondered momentarily whether he ought to be taking his own notes until he thought ruefully how clumsily and slowly he wrote; he remembered how Andrew was the one who always kept the family business records or even wrote letters for Jona now that his hands shook so; he was widowed and had no one else to write for him.

Peter was glad they were keeping careful records. Someday soon it would be necessary to refer to them. No doubt open fighting would break out eventually, and in the aftermath of any revolution there would have to be a day of reckoning in some official form; maybe it would be like a new type of Sanhedrin or some other body of judges.

Peter's eyes swept the vast distances to the east again, and he mused of the ancient times he had heard described so vividly from the old ones, the elders and sages of the town, about how the kingdom of Solomon had stretched from Egypt to Persia and how his ships had circumnavigated all of Africa. They had brought ivory, peacocks, apes and all manner of strange creatures from the far, far lands of Put, leagues and leagues farther eastward from the glittering desert lands of the gentiles who lived with their camel and goat herds along the edges of the Red Sea. Solomon's mines, it was said, had been producing diamonds and fabulous jewels as big as a man's fist. From the terrifying country of eastern Africa, Solomon had even made himself a fabulous throne of the tusks of the gigantic thick-skinned, long-nosed animals the Greeks called elephants." How many had it taken? Dozens, he supposed.

And Jesus was talking of a kingdom even greater than that—greater than Solomon's!

Imagine! A kingdom even greater than the greatness of Rome! Peter knew of the growing economy of the world's greatest empire in history; he knew at least something of the fabulous extravaganzas said to be held in Rome; of the growing traffic in exotic animals from Africa until it was said a lady of the court was virtually undressed without her own pet cheetah or leopard. Probably while he sat here Julius Caesar's own personal envoy was leading a centurion's force in search of the fabled unicorn of the African plains! While he sat here the ships of Rome plied the seas beyond the Gates of Hercules. Around Africa and to the far lands of the East, Caravans plodded through the soaring mountain passes beyond the lands of the Persians and brought silks, tapestries, spices, exquisite works of ivory and porcelain, paintings and delicately curved, razor sharp swords and knives. There were coins and tiny spice boxes made with cleverly inlaid pieces of rare woods and mother-of-pearl to be seen passing through. Precious little of these goods ever remained in Galilee, Idumea, Judea or the tetrarchies of Philip or Herod, though. They kept right on going; a golden, glittering, fabulous outpouring of the wealth of the world, right into the bulging treasure houses of the Caesar himself.

Peter had heard from dockyard laborers from the SyroPhoenician ports talking of the new rumors that Roman sailors had heard about the fierce Northmen above the Islands of the Angaels and Kelts, that they had already colonized another whole new continent, another whole world, countless leagues to the west, far, far beyond Hercules' gates and over the unknown oceans.

He sighed. There was so much to be done. It was a big world, a fearsome one with the powerful forces at work within and without the empire. How could a tiny revolutionary force like this fight the might of Rome itself?

Peter knew it had been tried. His history teacher, Ben-yehuda, a wizened, stooped old man who had been to Carthage, to Rhodes and even to Rome, had lectured him often enough about the past 60 years of turbulence.

Why, only a little more than 27 years before Peter's own birth, Octavian had met Antony's ponderous battleships with a fleet of 200 lighter, handier vessels—and, when Antony found Cleopatra had sneaked off in the midst of the smoke and confusion, he ordered his own warship out of the battle, leaving his leaderless men to fight it out for themselves. Peter thought his own sword might have come from that battle.

Peter knew Herod—the skunk—had gone straight to Rhodes (Ben-yehuda claimed to have been there and knew all about it) to meet Octavian right after the battle to have his kingship over Palestine confirmed. His own mother-in-law, Miriam's mother, was friendly with Cleopatra, whom Herod had openly snubbed, wanting to flaunt his own power. The woman hoped Cleopatra could aid her in overthrowing her son-in-law. Though Antony had been a virtual mentor of Herod's and was Cleopatra's lover, the power of both was broken, and Octavian was in clear command of the field. Herod took the opportunity and slunk over to Rhodes to get himself a slice of the pie.

Peter's head would swim with these lessons as he heard the elderly Levite counting off the names, dates and places. The acid in his voice when he spoke of the chicanery of the family of Herods that was like a curse on the land was plain. Peter remembered how Ben-yehuda had talked of Herod's murder of many leaders in the Sanhedrin, and how he had seized their properties on some pretext or other. Herod had killed the high priest, a mutilated character who, it was alleged, had been a Babylonian.

Zacharias had been murdered. Herod had caused two of his own sons to be strangled and then killed another on his own deathbed. He died five days later, a murderer to the last, a killer of his own seed. Peter involuntarily shuddered at the thought of being embroiled in such filthy corruption, such intrigue, suspicion and hatred. His son, and successor to the throne, was little improvement.

It was no wonder Jesus' eyes fairly blazed when He spoke of the filthy hypocrisy of some of the political and spiritual leaders. He was familiar with the history of the times, much more so than Peter, for He was studious and possessed a keen memory.

Maybe Jesus would finally grow angry enough to use His vast powers in a military action—no matter their pitiful few in number, no matter the trained, brutal gentiles of Pilate's mercenaries. Remember Elijah and the prophets of Baal? Remember how the captains of fifty had turned into burnt, smelling cinders of broiled human flesh when they tried to take him? Remember Moses and the Red Sea and all of Pharaoh's armies? Remember Jehosaphat and so many others? Why, nothing could hold Him back if He ever decided to use His fabulous power!

For the present, though, it seemed Jesus was content just to build His popularity with the little folk and teach His own personal disciples the finest points of His entire philosophy and theology.

Peter knew when the time was truly ripe Jesus would rally the throngs of tens of thousands and take His rightful place on the throne, overthrowing that pompous bag of lust, Herod, and then . . . then it would be on to Rome!

This was a well-remembered place to Simon who was called Peter—carrying the nostalgia of boyhood days when he had pretended to storm Roman citadels among these scattered boulders high on this mountain overlooking the sweeping expanse of Galilee off in the distance. He remembered how he would wield his wooden sword with piercing boyish yells, hacking away at the tall weeds and small trees, imagining himself at the head of a large armed force striking down the hated Romans before his wrath, dreaming boyish dreams as he acted out the hopes of the elders, such as his father, Jona, and his partner, Zebedee, who would sit on the jetty after a hard day on the nets and speak of "next year, in Jerusalem," when their country would be free at last.

It was this same high vista to which Peter's grandfather had come when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. It was also the scene of one of their rare family outings when Simon had first seen little Elizabeth, a distant cousin, and then only a stripling of thirteen years—remembering how they exchanged shy glances, knowing the elders sat about and talked about their children, about future arrangements for dowries and marriages and such.

Now here he sat, powerful shoulders covered lightly against the breeze that had begun to sweep down the hills and ripple the surface of the lake below—brawny forearms, tanned, weathered face that had seen countless sunrises paint the lake below while he hurled his nets in the early morning light, working at his trade, fishing for his family's living—the frank brown eyes were deep-set beneath craggy brows, and the wide, generous mouth was mostly hidden by a brownish beard now bleached almost white around the edges from the hundreds of hours spent in the blazing sun with its reflected glare.

Just beyond him, and closer to Jesus, Luke wrote busily on his note slate, the sound of his scratchings not quite carrying to Peter above the sound of Jesus' voice, who had begun what sounded like a major, lengthy discourse.

Matthew, whom some called Levi, was also taking notes, and the others—ten more whom Jesus had chosen by name, plus many more who tagged along like Luke—were sitting or reclining here and there in a sprawling semicircle about Jesus.

Judas, who carried their common purse, sat closely together with Simon (who was a Canaanite), and Bartholomew could always be depended upon to be somewhere close. The three tended to spend much time together, just as both of Zebedee's sons, James and John, stuck close to Peter and Andrew, for they were from the same city and their fathers plied their trade together.

Simon, the big fisherman, couldn't help but feel the inevitable nostalgia of this moment; it had been many years since he had bothered to scale this height above the lake. It caused his mind to whirl with thoughts of the past.

His family had been fishermen for generations: simple, hard-working folk, roughened and weathered from the work. While much of the populace was illiterate, and dependent on the publicans for letters and figuring, Jona had earned enough to insist Peter and the others, especially Andrew (who was the scholar of the family), avail themselves of the tutelage of a couple of gifted Levites who held class, and who would teach in the home now and again—so Peter could read and write and could even speak a passable amount of Aramaic, as well as a bit of Greek.

Peter left the book work to Andrew when it came to their trading but was up to the task if the occasion demanded. He had never expected his life to be any different from that of his father and his clan, content to ply his trade at home with the wind and the waves, away from the crowds and the constant strife and talk in the markets and caravan yards, alone with his fishing chores and the weather.

But, with the turbulent politics of a troubled world, his own country under the heel of the Roman despot, and with that pompous bag of fatuous greed, Herod, sitting on his puppet's throne as if in pretense of great office (the while smarting, no doubt, over how his father had to trot over there to Cyprus following his mentor's defeat at Actium and practically beg Octavian for the crown), Peter could only wonder about these rapidly changing times—wonder whether the elders in the cities and towns were correct in their calculations, and wonder whether this Jesus of Nazareth was, in fact, the Messiah of whom they all spoke.

There had been particularly emphatic gossip about the Messiah during these past years because of odd occurrences about thirty years before when some strange priests from Persia—some said they were students of the mysterious Zoroaster—had showed up in Bethlehem talking about a star they had followed and claiming the Messiah had been born there.

Peter had heard the stories often, as Jona and Zebedee retold the tale, much embellished, no doubt.

Peter had heard much of the talk in the evenings about the coming of this Messiah: a Deliverer, like Judas Maccabaeus, or even a Joshua, or King David, who would overthrow Herod and perhaps even Rome, who would reestablish a kingdom even greater than that of Solomon.

The elders had continually speculated about who this man should be and from whence he would come. Many had taken to quizzically hanging onto every word of each would-be rabble-rouser, who could be guaranteed an instant audience merely by raising his voice in the public squares. A man named Theudas claimed to have strange powers, raised up a group of rabble, it was said, who followed him here and there as he would stand up in the synagogues and preach to the people. A man named Barabbas had collected a band that raided the villages from down in the Arabah, the burning desert, and who was said to give to the poor, even if he did loot the shops of the merchants and steal from the caravans.

But for all their speculations about a coming Messiah, the people remained hopelessly passive and helpless. Their feelings of futility proved contagious; seldom dared any person say what he felt too openly. Oh, you could get angry and make boasts when it was talking time after the day's catch was smoked or salted, and the elders gathered to exchange their philosophies and rumors. But, Peter observed, talk was all they did.

How well he knew that talk dwindled to awkward silence when the measured tramp of a squad of Roman soldiers came quick-stepping through the streets, their leathern skirts slapping against dusty, swarthy thighs, their short spears held at a trail, helmets jouncing as they trotted off on some errand or other at the orders of their centurion. Then the elders would become suddenly interested in the asses, or in the coals of the fire, or checking on the smoke fires in the huts where the fish were hanging.

Now, Peter thought, the time for all that talk and speculation was over.

The Messiah was actually here, right here in this mountain, beginning a powerful discourse to His followers, speaking things no man had ever heard before, startling his listeners into silence and wonderment. They had actually found the Messiah—this Jesus, a builder from Nazareth who had a business there and a home down below them in Capernaum; Jesus, the son of old Joseph who had died years ago, and who some claimed was the illegitimate son of the old man, who had died in disgrace and shame. Jesus had four brothers named James, Judas, Joses and Simon—and sisters at home. Though Peter only vaguely remembered the occasions he had met this same Jesus a time or two, when the Man from Nazareth would stop by their boats to purchase a little of the catch, or to spend time talking to Zebedee or Jona. Peter had paid little attention to Him during these times; there was nothing outstanding about Him, nothing particularly attractive in His appearance or His clothing.

But now Peter found Him totally fascinating!

This stirring, powerful leader had surprised him again when, only about an hour ago, He had terminated the growing argument with the large crowd down below in Capernaum and, looking at Peter over the heads of those surrounding Him on the bales of trade goods that had formed a pedestal of sorts, had nodded to Peter, strode through the crowd, signaling the others to follow, and, striding quickly through the streets of the city, had gained the countryside and continued His walk around the shore until He began to scale these heights.

He forced his thoughts back to the here and now.

The small flat was ringed by pink-hued, quartz-laden rocks, and the others, Thaddeus, Bartholomew, Matthew and Luke, Judas, John, James the son of Alphaeus, James, John's brother, and all the rest were gathered around, some sitting cross-legged on the ground and others on nearby boulders or convenient fallen tree trunks.

As Jesus was speaking a few of the hardier of the crowd had come panting up to the last rise, stopping as they saw the host of disciples gathered close about Jesus, and, brushing at their garments and wrapping their cloaks more tightly around them against the brisk wind, stepped quietly closer until they too could hear. What was it He had been saying?

"Blessed are those who have opportunity to show mercy; they are the ones who will be given mercy."

At this Peter could recall the absolute mercilessness of most of the brutish, illiterate mercenaries in the Roman army. It was commonplace to see strong, husky Roman soldiers loading down the elderly of Peter's town with their own knapsacks, mail sacks or other burdens; it was commonplace to see them pushing older people out of their simple dwellings and sleeping on the beds while forcing the tenants of the house to sleep outside; it was commonplace to see people lashed in the public square for some small infraction.

Peter remembered how sickened he had been when on the occasion of a visit to the Syro-Phoenician sea coast he had paused to watch the bales of cordage, hemp, cotton, papyrus, fabrics, amphorae and trade goods of every sort being swayed into the holds of some of the Roman ships. He had seen the long rows of wealed, scarred backs of the hapless wretches conscripted into the Roman ships as galley slaves. Peter could only shudder at such a sight, wondering how long even he, with his well-muscled shoulders arms and back could stand up to the incredibly cruel rigors of a slave galley.

Certainly no one in the Roman army that he had ever met, with the possible exception of Alexios, a famous and kindly centurion who had actually put up the money to help build a synagogue, had ever shown anyone any mercy that he could recall!

Gathering his cloak even closer about his neck against the breeze and looking again at the dappled surface of the lake below, Peter's thoughts once more drifted back to his wife, Beth, and how she had been desolate when she learned he was picking up a small traveling kit and possibles bag and simply leaving to go tramping up and down the country following some tradesman from Nazareth who had some great ideas about revolution!

"Simon," she had said in that familiar, half-chiding tone, hands on ample hips, a wisp of her graying hair falling over one eye, the brow lightly smudged with flour that was being transferred to her dress from her hands, "now you listen to me! You've no business picking up and leaving your family—and your business! Why, you don't know anything about politics, religion and such. You've always been a simple, hardworking fisherman, and honest. You leave the politics and talk of new kingdoms to the elders in the village, the leaders of the synagogue, or those rabble out in the desert who go galloping off here and there to irritate the Roman garrisons! There are enough would-be revolutionaries to populate every city of refuge. You're a homebody, a father, and a partner with your father and brothers. You've got responsibilities! "

How they had argued! Finally, when she saw his mind was implacably set, she shrugged, bit her lower lip, blinked back the moisture that suddenly sprang to her eyes, and said, "You'll need your best walking boots and your warmest heavy cloak and, and . . . " Then she had turned, brushing angrily at the wisp of hair that fell over her eye, and fled into the sleeping quarters to help her husband get ready to leave.

But it hadn't been so bad. He had found Jesus intended spending a good deal of time within a reasonable radius of Capernaum, which wasn't very far from Bethsaida up here in Galilee, so he had opportunity to stop in and see the family fairly often and even to spend a night now and again. It was during these brief family reunions, or when Jesus Himself was a guest in their home, that Peter had held his family entranced with his glowing tales of the birth, childhood and early life of Jesus, with amazing tales of His great feats of power, His miracles and signs, His retorts to the persecutors, and His tenderness toward the sick, afflicted and the poor.

Peter's thoughts turned to the present again.

Here he was, a member of Jesus' own select group, sitting here on this mountain listening to a powerful discourse.

He became aware of Jesus' glance in his direction and brought his thoughts quickly back to the scene before him.

Luke was still taking rapid notes; Matt had paused and was looking thoughtfully at Judas. Jesus was saying, "Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake . . . " Was He paying closer attention to Peter now, knowing his quickness of temper, his bold, blustering manner when threatened? Peter colored a little, looked at Jesus and nodded slightly, indicating he got the point.

"… For theirs is the Kingdom of God."

There He goes again, Peter mused, saying the only way to help Him bring about His glorious new latter-day resurrection of Solomon's great kingdom under God was the exact opposite of what Peter would have supposed. Peter shifted the weight of his Roman short sword in his scabbard at his side, pulled the blade scarcely free of the scabbard and fingered its carefully honed edge tentatively.

What would he do, he thought, if someone tried to injure or murder Jesus? I'd slice his head in two like a ripe melon, he thought, with a mixture of bravado and doubt as he wondered what Jesus would think.

Looking at the other upturned faces and the rapt attention of the crowd, Peter thought, Ah, well, let the idealism and philosophy motivate these men. Jesus certainly knew how to cut right into the heart of the matter, into the innermost conscience of people, but, when fighting time came, Peter knew he would be ready. He liked and admired Jesus so much he couldn't bear the thought of anyone harming Him; Peter almost imagined himself as an older brother, protector and self-styled bodyguard to this Jesus, an anachronism of strong build, well-muscled arms and body, calloused hands and confident, sure manner, but who on the other hand spoke so much of gentleness, goodness, faith, peace, mercy, love and forgiveness.

The contrast was almost overwhelming. Jesus had gained this height many long steps ahead of the rest; even Peter had been laboring a little, his brow covered with sweat. There was power in Jesus' frame. Peter had seen Him force open huge doors when they balked on rusty hinges that two other slighter men couldn't budge; He had lifted big beams, heavy tables, large stones, and could leap up outer stairways three at a time as well as climb lofty slopes like this one with only a minimum of effort. Still, for all this obvious good physical condition, He remained a meek mannered, polite, unthreatening person.

That is, until His eyes blazed with anger and His voice rose in controlled intensity. Peter had seen that occur a time or two when a particularly incautious Pharisee's simpering complaints ignited some deep-seated indignation within the Lord. He had seen men shrink back before Him, briefly frightened by the sheer force of His person, His voice and His authority that seemed to radiate from Him.