Only the Man no longer subject to this life and its discretions could ask a question like that. And ask it in front of everyone in incautious head-on terms. He wanted to know whether Peter loved him, and loved him more than James and Matthew and Philip and Bartholomew, more even than John.

Was Peter happy? Why did he have to be snatched from his reserve in this way? Why was he required to play with words, and why wasn't the Master--who could read people's hearts--content this time too to find the answer himself in the depths of Peter's rustic thoughts? He swallowed his saliva, recapitulated the story between him and his extraordinary friend from the day of the big haul when he and Andrew joined up with Jesus (�Follow me, and I'll make you fishers of men�), to the day of the high praise (�You're blessed, Simon . . . and I'll give to you the keys of the kingdom of heaven�).

And then those thousand days and nights spent with him, the miracles, the dead opening their eyes, the outbursts against his arrogance, Christ's head bent to wash his feet, and his bitter lament that selfsame night � �Are you asleep, Simon? Couldn�t you have watched with me for an hour�---and again on that night the crowing of the cock . . .

Peter wasn't happy: he would have liked to weep and he couldn't, to answer and he didn't know how, to throw that sackful of memories of sun and tears at Christ's feet and run away . . . But Jesus was silently waiting.

�Yes, Lord you know I love you.�  He had to say it three times, because the Master repeated his absurd question three times as though he were deaf or absentminded. On the third occasion the fisherman, disheartened and impatient, extricated himself by appealing to his interlocutor's powers: �You know everything, you know I love you.�

And what then? What followed if Peter loved him? What could he do with the love of a stubborn, cowardly and talkative man? Perhaps in his heart Peter imagined he might finally have to opt for some gentle form of communal life, as between friends on whose goodness one can count. His proposal on Mount Tabor��Lord, let's set up three tents here�--had come to nothing; but a tent would still be possible in some recess among the rocks. With the other companions too, if he wanted them--because they also loved him. Or just in a fishing boat, where they could sleep at night and cook fish in the evening. But Christ had decided otherwise.  �Feed my sheep�, he said. �Feed my lambs, feed my sheep.�

�Your lambs, your sheep? Who are they, how many, and where? And what does it involve?� Yes, of course--Peter certainly understood in a vague kind of way: the others, his brothers. He would feed them: if this was the sign of loving him, if the two things--as that voice seemed to imply --were one and the same.

Then Peter was happy. He had satisfied the Lord. He would watch not just for an hour (as he hadn't been able to do in the garden) but for many, many nights. For his whole life he would watch over his friend's sheep. And he hoped his life would be long; that he could be the rock�whatever that meant.

But what was the sense of these other words Jesus was adding? When you're old you'll offer your hands and someone else will bind you and take you where you don't want to go.� He saw a white sea of lambs, he felt the wool between his fingers, he heard the bleating. He didn't hear the hammer-blows, he didn't see them leading an old fisherman to another cross, and nailing him on it upside down.