13th Apostle

by Richard F. Heller

  The stranger’s dress was not as those bedecked for revelry. This young man wore a simple caftan of white coarse cloth and a head covering of a woven pattern unknown to Micah.

  “Who’s that, Tobiah?” Micah asked, as he elbowed his companion into wakefulness. “See, there, the one in the middle.”

  “I know a little about him. Why do you ask?” questioned Tobiah, waking in an instant for the possibility of fresh gossip.

  “It’s just that he’s so different looking. You know, interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Tobiah smirked with a knowing smile.

  Not like you think, you depraved little wretch, Micah thought. Knowing that Tobiah would offer far more information if he thought he might gain some inside gossip, Micah kept his thoughts to himself and nodded.

  Tobiah, fueled by what he now assumed to be their common predilection, related to Micah all of the rumors to which he was privy.

  “His name is Yeshua, Yeshua ben Yosef,” Tobiah began eagerly. “They say that around the time of his birth, there were those who proclaimed that the King of the Jews had been born, in Bethlehem of all places.”

  Tobiah snickered at the absurdity of the thought and continued. “It is said that when King Herod heard that the temple priests proclaimed that a baby had been sent to fulfill the prophecy of the Messiah, he became furious. He ordered a house-by-house search of Bethlehem for the baby. Now, I don’t know if it’s true, but they say that’s where Herod’s order for the slaying of all firstborn sons came from. I mean not necessarily because of Yeshua ben Yosef, but who knows, it was just about the time he was born.

  “Anyway,” Tobiah continued, “the day before the ‘slaughter-order,’ as my parents called it, was to be carried out, Yeshua’s parents apparently fled with him to Alexandria, where they lived in the security of the home of Yeshua’s father’s rich relatives.”

  “He does not dress as one of wealth,” Micah said absently, still unable to take his eyes off the slow-moving figure that seemed to glide through the crowd.

  “They say he scorns the love of riches. He could be a man of means if he so desired. Supposedly, he’s not a bad carpenter and a pretty good harness-maker and fisherman, as well—that is, when he works at it.”

  “He doesn’t look like he would shirk his responsibilities,” Micah mused to himself.

  “Well, from what I hear, he’s more strange than lazy. His family moved back to Nazareth when Yeshua was only a couple of years old, but he still wears clothes from every place he’s lived.”

  Micah nodded absentmindedly.

  “But it goes far beyond his peculiar dress. He’s headed for big trouble, that one!” Tobiah announced with delight.

  Micah turned with interest. “What do you mean by trouble?”

  “He’s fashioned himself a teacher, questioning the wisdom of the high priests. He’s making enemies in all the wrong places, if you know what I mean,” Tobiah added with a snicker.

  Apparently Yeshua’s radical talk against Roman taxes, fellow Jews he knew to be corrupt, and any issue he thought a crime against the poor, were earning him quite a reputation as a troublemaker. He had begun to beseech people to prepare for the coming of The Kingdom of God and to reject all false prophets. The most dangerous of his detractors was Ananus, the High Priest, who Yeshua claimed was culling his son and sons-in-law to follow in his footsteps in the hierarchy of the Temple.

  Barely stopping to draw a breath, Tobiah drew in a little too close for Micah’s liking and continued. “Now I know this is none of my business but they say that when he prays he talks directly to his ‘Father in Heaven.’ He claims it’s just as good to pray in the fields or on the mountainside or among the trees of the forest, as it is to pray in the Temple. Oh, how the Priests must just love that!”

  Micah’s heart pounded with excitement. How could one his own age and with no riches that would ensure his safety be unafraid to challenge the Temple priests?

  According to Tobiah, the Romans and Temple priests were not Yeshua’s only targets. He rejected the Pharisees, saying that they were hypocrites and dishonest. He had no kind words for the Sadducees either, whom he believed to have grown rich on the suffering of others. He even managed to make enemies among the Essenes, though many were not certain what to make of him.

  Suddenly the name “Yeshua” rang a bell in the recesses of Micah’s mind. “He’s Yeshua. I know who he is! I heard old Abidan ben Ehud talking about him just yesterday. He, too, said that this Yeshua was causing quite a stir!” Micah added.

  “And all of it bad,” Tobiah added with a snort of self-satisfaction.

  In his excitement, Micah lost sight of the subject of their discussion. Searching the faces of the crowd, Micah discovered that the form of Yeshua had disappeared from view. Only the image of the extraordinary young man remained, burned into Micah’s memory.

  “There might be lots of trouble now, but not half as much as there will be if he continues his foolishness,” Tobiah concluded self-importantly. “Mark my words, Micah, you haven’t heard the last of that one!”

  Chapter 42

  Day Ten, early afternoon

  Downtown London

  “If anything happens to me, there are a few things you need to know,” Sabbie began.

  Gil had just completed the quickest cross-traffic change of lanes ever maneuvered in the history of driving and, as per Sabbie’s instructions, was in the process of making an illegal U-turn, when she broached the subject of her imminent demise.

  The green sedan was nowhere in sight, apparently left behind in the wake of Gil’s stunt-level driving.

  She was right. Not a problem after all.

  “Look, could we discuss this when we get where we’re going? If you ever decide to tell me where that might be,” he added.

  “Get out and let me drive,” she said.

  He ignored her order. The road ended one hundred feet ahead. “Which way?” Gil asked. “Left or right? Which way?”

  “Right, and take it slowly. I’m trying to get the scroll back in the box. It doesn’t fit anymore.”

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Follow the signs to the train station,” Sabbie said. “And tell me when you’re a couple of blocks away.”

  It was useless to ask her how he would know when they were a few blocks away when he’d never been there before. She was trying to coax the scroll into the rotted and disintegrating box. It was no easy job given that the scroll was twice as bulky as it had been before she unrolled it.

  “The hell with this,” he heard her mutter, then he watched in wonder as she produced two huge reinforced paper shopping bags. Sabbie slid the blanket-wrapped scroll into one and, into the other, the ancient box.

  Satisfied with her solution, she sat up and peered over Gil’s shoulder.

  “Good, we’re almost there,” she said, as they approached the station.

  So, we’re taking the train.

  It made sense, given that the green sedan would be looking for their car.

  “Now, do exactly as I tell you,” she said slowly. “For once in your life, don’t ask questions.”

  Instinctively, Gil’s gaze flashed to the rearview mirror.

  There it is, as if we never lost it.

  The green sedan was on their tail and, this time, it was not content to stay a car’s length away. With each second, it gained on them. In less than a block it would overtake them, and it was obvious that was the driver’s intention.

  “Hard right,” she shouted. “Now!”

  Gil turned to see if the lane was clear.

  “Now!” Sabbie repeated.

  He gritted his teeth and cut the wheel without knowing what car might be coming in the opposite direction.

  “Now drive straight, no matter what. Don’t stop, don’t turn, just go straight.”

  Two curbs and three speed bumps slowed them down a bit, but Gil did as directed.

  “Now, pull to the curb and get out,” Sabbie commanded as they app
roached the passenger drop-off area of the train station. “Leave the keys. Follow me.”

  Gil threw the car in park and left it running. He was by her side in a few strides. She was going full speed with the two shopping bags in tow. They ran into the railway station, across the slippery floor, and past the ticket windows.

  He had no breath to ask her where they were going. It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t about to debate the matter.

  The driver from the green car had abandoned his sedan and was in pursuit. Sabbie and Gil had the clear advantage for the moment but, at some point, they would have to come to a stop, and Gil could not imagine what good this race could possibly do.

  Sabbie dashed toward a revolving door exit. As she approached, she apparently realized the slow-moving door occupied by even slower-moving people would put them in jeopardy. She hesitated, then changed directions. Gil almost ran into her. She turned, shoved aside a large trash can that blocked a glass and metal door, and pushed hard on the door. To his amazement, it swung open under the weight of her thrust and, in an instant, he and Sabbie were out of the building and onto the side parking lot.

  The big black town car took Gil by surprise. It cut them off, nearly ran them over, then screeched to a halt in front of them. When the passenger door opened, Gil expected the worst. But Sabbie piled into the front seat and ordered him to follow her in.

  “Slam it, slam the door,” she ordered, as the car began to move. They were off, away from their pursuer, away from the train station, just plain away.

  Chapter 43

  Three years before the Crucifixion Bethany, East of the River Jordan

  No matter how he positioned himself, Micah’s back ached incessantly. The summer robes clung and twisted about his body. The stifling air, filled with dust and the odor of animal droppings, filled his chest. He tried to remind himself of how fortunate he was to be riding on his old and faithful ass, while others walked such great distances, but the self-directed rebuke simply served to irritate rather than to humble him.

  I am getting too old for this.

  In his youth he would have eagerly anticipated the excitement of adventure. It had been a decade since he left his father’s weapons enterprise and had established himself as a jewelry and metal crafter. He had endured more than his share of the filthy accommodations, barely edible food, and perilous encounters necessitated by his business excursions. It had become clear that no matter where one might journey, there seemed to be a commonality as to the best and the worst in man.

  More than a decade had passed since he had walked these streets. They seemed not to have changed at all. The poverty, the filth, the debauchery, remained unaffected by the years. In his youth, Micah found his father’s easy condemnations of the poor to be abhorrent. Now, he saw the miserable masses in much the same way.

  As he liked to say, he had become a practical man. The dreams of his youth had died with the loss of his wife and yet-to-be-born first child. Their fate had been determined by a legionnaire who had urged his horse forward, trampling the young woman, heavy with child, who had been unable to get out of his way.

  Lena was the love of his life, a free-spirited woman who would not tolerate an arranged marriage and had come to him as his equal. Strong and forthright yet soft and loving, she was all things. With her and for her, he had been happy to do anything.

  After her death, nothing mattered. He had neither the desire to broker the sales of fine metals and crafts, nor the wish to take up his tools. Friends cared for him. They fed him when he cared not for food and housed him when he could not face returning home.

  For one year Micah remained a dead man, rousing himself only to go to the temple to recite Kaddish, the traditional prayer by which her soul might be elevated to Olum Haba, The World to Come.

  Then, on the anniversary of her death, as he recited the Kaddish prayer, Micah’s pain was miraculously lifted. No longer twisted in agony, the reason for his Lena’s death and that of their innocent babe had become clear. There was no reason, there was no deliverance, and clearly, there was no God. Tall, calm, and free, he left the temple never to return again.

  With a new purpose fashioned from bitterness, he struggled to reclaim his craft and rebuild his life. He might have succeeded, for he needed little to survive, had not Herod Anipas levied yet another tax, this one on all goods bought or sold in Galilee. It had been the deathblow to far better established metalsmiths than he and, though Micah was willing to take on any type of labor, those few opportunities that still existed were given to men with families or high connections, both of which he no longer had.

  His father had been right all along. Financial security was more important than a righteous life and trust in self, rather than in God, was the intelligent man’s only path. Now Micah was returning home, ready to face the man whom he had denigrated in his youth, and to ask forgiveness as well as help.

  The night before he was to leave, as Micah packed for his journey, an old friend delivered an unexpected blow.

  “You can’t go home,” Jeremiah cautioned.

  “Why not?” Micah asked. “There is nothing here for me but poverty and debt. Those few who still have money know better than to flaunt their self-indulgence by wearing the jewelry I craft. It is useless. I have failed. I will go back to my family and beg for their forgiveness and help.”

  “That door is no longer open to you.”

  “You are wrong,” Micah said. “A father’s love does not so easily vanish no matter how many years have passed. And my mother, she will welcome me with open arms and tears. And, perhaps, a fine and lavish meal.” Micah laughed as his stomach growled loudly in anticipation.

  “No, Micah, they won’t,” Jeremiah said solemnly.

  Micah stopped packing. “What are you not saying?”

  “After you left, your father did more than disown you,” Jeremiah admitted. “Every night he went to Temple and said Kaddish for you.”

  “He included me in prayers for the dead? No, he couldn’t have!” Micah cried in disbelief. “You must be mistaken.”

  It had been true, however, for Jeremiah had borne witness to a father who would rather count his son as among the dead than to allow him to make a life of his own. At the time, Jeremiah had not the heart to tell Micah what he had seen with his own eyes. As the years passed and Micah had traveled far from the home of his childhood, it seemed less and less important. But now there seemed little choice.

  Much to Jeremiah’s surprise, however, Micah, without so much as a word, resumed his preparations for his trip and, next morning at sunrise, bid his friend good-bye.

  “But why would you go back?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I don’t know,” Micah answered. “It is what I must do.”

  “There is nothing there for you, my friend.”

  “Nor is there anything here,” Micah concluded.

  Now, after long days of travel, Micah approached Nazareth. It may have been the long ride, or the pounding heat, or the fact that today, on his thirtieth birthday, he had nothing to show for his life other than a few pieces of silver and copper he had crafted himself. Whatever the case, he was empty and directionless and, though a good meal and some respite from the blazing afternoon sun might have helped to heal his body, it would not have lessened the void that engulfed his soul.

  The steady roll of his old mount, slower with each hour in the blazing sun, lulled him into a troubled sleep. Through his dreams came the sound of a woman’s cries. Micah pushed away images of Lena that once again threatened to haunt him and forced himself awake.

  His old mount had stopped to graze by the river’s edge at a spot renowned to be the place where David escaped during Absalom’s rebellion a thousand years earlier. This point along the Jordan put them an hour or two south of Galilee.

  Micah’s journey had been swifter than he had anticipated, and he welcomed an unexpected rest at the place he had once loved as a boy. It was here, in the late afternoon, that the farmers’ wives would come
to rest and the soft background of their voices had often lulled him to sleep in the tall grasses.

  Today, more than a hundred people had congregated on the banks; some huddled in small gatherings, some stood alone in silence. All watched one man, taller than most and broad across his tanned shoulders, clad only in a white sindon wrapped round as a loincloth. His dark hair and beard, dripping with water, shone almost golden red in the sun. Waist-deep in the river, he cradled a young woman, guiding her to shore, as she cried with exalted shouts of joy.

  On their approach, an old woman seated among others her age, rose and joined the small group that waited at the water’s edge. Though the crowd that waited seemed to close in front of her, the man in the sindon beckoned the old woman to join him. She took his hand and allowed him to guide her to the middle of the flowing water steadied by his gentle hold.

  Two men joined them and gave support to the old woman as the taller man poured water about her head. When it all was completed, she silently made her way to shore. She appeared transformed and walked straight and steady, as if the years had been washed from her body as well as her soul.

  Micah dismounted and approached her from behind. She turned as if knowing he was there, smiled, and embraced him. Then, without a word, she moved on, enfolded by the welcoming arms of some of the onlookers.

  A sweet sadness overwhelmed Micah. He wanted to reach out and draw her back. Filled with a yearning, an almost imperceptible song that lingered just out of earshot, he longed to feel what she felt, to know what she knew, what he, too, had once known; that which life’s pain and struggle had since worn away.

  A prayer formed on Micah’s lips. He entreated God to deliver him from his bitterness and his anger. Nothing more did he ask save for the chance to serve God once again, in word and action, and to bring joy and hope to others as did this man before him.

  Then, as if he himself had received the ablution, Micah moved through the crowd. He had been transmuted to the man that a less painful life might have produced.