13th Apostle

by Richard F. Heller

  But neither was forthcoming. Instead, Sarkami calmly inquired as to how she intended to dispose of the body and whether it would be given an appropriate burial. With these words, Sabbie explained, Sarkami made her act of violence real to her and transformed her prey into a human being.

  She told Sarkami her story, from beginning to end, in much the same way she was telling it to Gil, she added.

  “Then he did the most incredible thing,” Sabbie said. “He asked me how he might help.”

  In that offering Sarkami had given Sabbie back her life. She was no longer an animal, fending for itself, in a world intent on consuming her alive. She was a human being capable of engendering sympathy in another. And compassion.

  She had said all she had to say and she waited for Gil to say something in return. He struggled desperately for anything other than the usual words of comfort and sympathy.

  In the end, he whispered only one phrase, a simple thought that came from his heart. “I wish you hadn’t had to go through all of that,” he said simply.

  Sabbie looked at him with a wry smile, hesitated, then, without warning, it all fell apart. The wall. The anger. The distance. The horrendous hurt. Even what Gil assumed to be her rationalization of all that had happened.

  It was all gone and she was crying, sobbing like he hadn’t thought possible. Young and sad, terribly sad. Gil knew it was the first time that she had cried since that day when all had been lost.

  When she had finished, he had held her, never speaking. He smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead, and had gone for toilet paper for a dozen nose blows. In the end, when she seemed all cried out, he covered her gently and brought a glass of water.

  She reached for him, both arms around his neck and pulled him to her. Only then did they make love. Softly, strongly, honestly. They never stopped looking at each other, drinking up the sight, the smell, the joy of giving each other pleasure and of being alive.

  Chapter 49

  Day Eleven, early morning

  Carlton Bay Hotel, London

  It was a very sexy dream. Her body melded with his in perfect form and perfect rhythm. She rose to meet him with each thrust. Her excitement filled him with an anticipation he had never experienced and she climaxed with him, and he with her.

  Gil awakened and cursed the shaft of sun that stabbed into his brain and pulled him from his sleep. Oh, how he ached to go back. Just a few more minutes. Just to smell her and touch her and pretend she was real. Then, in one warm wave of pleasure, it all came back to him. It hadn’t been a dream.

  He turned, reluctantly checking the time. 8:45. They hadn’t fallen asleep until dawn. Even as he was drifting off she began to give him instructions on how to get the scroll back to the U.S. should he need to do it alone. He had tried to tease her out of her pessimistic predictions, but it had been of no use.

  “You can put the scroll in the backpack and take it as carry-on luggage,” she had explained. “It seems strange, I know, but there shouldn’t be a problem. Even when it goes through security’s X-ray machine, they won’t question you. Their job is to look for anything that poses a potential threat. You’re not about to blow up the plane with a scroll.”

  Gil wasn’t buying it. “You just don’t walk around carrying an ancient copper scroll without someone asking you where you got it,” he argued.

  “Actually, you do. When you get to customs in the U.S., they’ll ask you if you have anything to declare. You say ‘no’ because, in fact, you are bringing in nothing on their list of items for declaration. Chances are, they won’t even check.”

  “And if they do?”

  “If they do, they’ll check the scroll against a list of stolen items and your name against a list of felons. If neither you nor the scroll are listed, you pass right on through.”

  The whole thing was moot, he concluded, given that she’d be coming with him.

  “Oh, if I’m with you,” she said. “That changes everything. I’m a convicted felon.”

  She told him to get some rest while she went to the other room to check the street. No one had shown up all night. A good sign, Gil thought. Sabbie wasn’t as optimistic.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those no-news-is-good-news people,” she said. “I have no time for ostriches that bury their heads in the sand.”

  Wisely, he had fought down the impulse to correct her misconception about animal behavior. It wasn’t the time or place, he told himself. Besides, his track record had been far from sterling. Sabbie had been more on top of things than he had. Far more. More than he wanted to think about right then. And apparently, she required far less sleep.

  Gil dragged himself to his feet and listened. No shower running. She was probably on the toilet.

  He knocked on the door and got no response. She was probably in the next room, checking out the street for the thousandth time. With anticipation he pushed the shower curtain aside and surrendered to the hottest, most satisfying shower he had experienced in a long, long time.

  Chapter 50

  Day One following the Crucifixion, evening North of Jerusalem

  Micah paused to catch his breath. He had been walking as quickly as he could without attracting attention, and though Joseph said all was well, his chest was wrapped with bands of fear. He approached the stable carefully.

  A faint light emanated from cracks in the stable wall. Was this a Roman trap? Set, perhaps, for the Apostles? Or for him? No, nothing could have happened with such haste. With the exception of the Apostles and Joseph, all thought Yeshua lay dead in the sepulcher.

  Stealthily, Micah drew closer. Several of the voices were known to him. Clutching the precious bag of ingredients for the brew that would save Yeshua’s life, Micah waited and listened.

  Peter’s deep voice was the easiest to recognize. “We have to look out for ourselves as well. It was by the grace of God that we too were not arrested and hung on crosses beside him. His actions have angered too many. He has put us all in danger.”

  “I agree,” Bartholomew concurred. “And who would be there to save us? He has gone too far this time, challenging the Priests and the Pharisees. I told you that we should have gone to Galilee for Passover. He would not have offended the authorities there.”

  Micah flushed with anger. He peered through a crack as James began to speak. “As long as he lives, he presents a danger to us all. You all know it is true. I will say what none of you has the courage to say. It is better for all of us if he never wakes.”

  Thomas rose and, as was his custom, spread his arms wide to emphasize his words. “We first followed him in the promise that he would become King of the Jews and that we would prosper as one of his inner circle. That promise is now like smoke from a fire; it rises and disappears. I for one believe it to be nothing more than good judgment to rid ourselves of the malevolence he will bring down upon us if he remains alive. He no longer serves our purposes or his own.”

  “Or that of his God,” another added.

  The cold breath of anger caught in Micah’s throat.

  Traitors! How much Yeshua had done for them and this is how he was to be repaid. Were these just words of dissatisfied rabble, chewing their cud of discontent, or were they really contemplating bodily harm to he who took them in and made them holy?

  Only moments ago, such a display would have been unthinkable. Now he was bearing witness to words so dark and sinister that only Satan himself could have uttered them.

  With all that had transpired the last few days, could it be that he and Joseph were all that stood between Yeshua and death? A darker thought yet, entered his heart. Could Joseph still be trusted or was he, too, part of this heinous conspiracy?

  No, not Joseph, of that Micah was certain. Together they had carried Yeshua’s bloodied and broken body from the hill and, with each step, the good man from Aramethea had wept deep silent tears of grief. Of all, he was to be trusted. Micah’s face flushed with shame at so disloyal, if brief, a contemplation.

 
So this is was what it has come to.

  The night was still and growing cool. Micah forced himself to continue to listen through the stable cracks.

  Thaddaeus was next to speak. “Could we not just spirit him far enough away so that we could be left in peace to continue our work?”

  At last one who speaks for Yeshua!

  The silence that followed gave voice to the condemnation of Thaddaeus’ words.

  Matthew, who had remained quiet, now spoke. “We know three things about the Priests and the Pharisees: they hate Yeshua, they hold the reigns of power, and they have the ear of Pontius Pilate. If Yeshua lives, the Romans would hunt him to the ends of the earth and, as we too would bear the stain of his name, we shall be hunted. I must agree with James to say with candor what we all already know, that Yeshua serves us better dead than alive.”

  Filled with his own certainty, Matthew continued. “Yeshua’s death will provide the people with a martyr, someone to worship and rally against the Priests, Romans, and Pharisees. We, his Apostles, will be exalted only if history does not view Yeshua as a rabble-rouser and troublemaker. And that view depends on the decisions—hard decisions—we make here today. With courage, one of us still may be regarded King of the Jews.”

  “God willing,” said another voice, and they all laughed.

  Micah could no longer force himself to listen. He fought to get control of his fury and entered the stable. With ostensibly warm camaraderie, he related the tale of trickery that he and Joseph had perpetrated upon the Roman guard, their successful retrieval of Yeshua from the cross, and the placement of Yeshua in Joseph’s sepulcher.

  The others listened as Micah informed them of Pilate’s assignment of Roman guards at the entrance of the sepulcher. Had he not heard their evil plans, Micah might have assumed the Apostles’ concern was for Yeshua’s safety, but now, with knowledge of their intent, Micah understood that each of the Apostles feared that Yeshua might yet recover and, in so doing, put each of them in danger.

  With obvious relief and jubilance, they welcomed the news that Joseph of Arimathea planned to deliver Yeshua to them at the close of the Sabbath. Fighting back the tears, Micah understood why the news was so well received. He and Joseph would soon be delivering Yeshua’s life into their hands.

  Micah continued the charade that the others had begun. He explained that he must remove himself so that he might prepare the counteragent intended to revive Yeshua. He bid them good rest and told them that he would wake Peter when all was in readiness.

  As he removed himself to a small shack adjacent to the stable, Micah wondered if he, too, was slated for the same fate as Yeshua? Probably so, he thought, yet he had no fear.

  As he prepared the antidote, Micah began to devise a way in which he might yet take back Yeshua’s life from the hands of those who would rob him of it.

  With each passing hour, Micah fought his body’s demand for rest much as he would fight any enemy reaching to snatch Yeshua’s life. His eyes grew heavy and his body ached for sleep, yet Micah worked through the night. As the preparation of the counteragent was completed, so was the secret plan that Micah prayed would succeed.

  Micah mixed a few drops of the strong-smelling counteragent with some of the unfinished wine from dinner and poured the concoction into a small flask. He was sure that this “false brew” would never reach Yeshua’s lips. If Yeshua were to be saved, it would be up to Micah to retain the real counteragent.

  Micah placed the flask that contained the false brew on the makeshift table where the still-sleeping Apostles were certain to find it and then prepared for his own journey. After he carefully siphoned the remaining counteragent into a small earthen vial, he returned the stopper and placed it within his travel pouch, taking care that it would not spill.

  With the vial safely out of view, Micah roused Peter and informed him that the antidote was finished and had been placed on the table. Barely awake, Peter listened while Micah gave him instructions on how and when to administer the bogus brew.

  After he concluded his instructions to Peter, Micah added that he was leaving for his cave immediately and would meet them all there, then he allowed Peter to drift back to sleep.

  In the moonlight, Micah looked once more at the men who slept, the men who called themselves Yeshua’s Apostles. Then he left the stable, mounted his mule and as the moon still hung heavy in the sky, headed for the home of Joseph of Arimathea.

  Chapter 51

  Day Eleven, mid-morning

  Carlton Bay Hotel, London

  Ten o’clock came and went and still no Sabbie.

  She wouldn’t have gone out alone, not without giving me one of her in-case-you-never-see-me-again lectures.

  Gil stopped short. Suddenly Sabbie’s predictions of doom didn’t sound quite so silly. No, he was being ridiculous. She had gone out for breakfast or a paper. She probably planned to get back before he had awakened but something had come up. Maybe she’d gone over to Sarkami’s to get the scroll by herself.

  Gil pushed the thought of a morning liaison out of his mind.

  He longed to see her come through the door. He would yell at her for not leaving a note and they would have a good fight, then a good laugh about how silly he had been to be worried. The minutes passed. She didn’t come through the door and she didn’t call.

  When Gil ran out of I’ll-just-wait-five-more-minutes promises to himself, he formulated a plan. Three things had to be done. He needed to see if Sabbie had gone to Sarkami’s and, if she hadn’t, he needed to inform Sarkami that she was missing; he needed to get Sarkami’s help in finding her; and he needed to get the scroll back. All of which involved making his way back to Sarkami’s.

  Gil had managed to get a look at the second intersection they passed when they left Sarkami’s house the night before. The cab had stopped under a conveniently well-lit corner, and Gil had made note of the street names though, at the time, he had no idea why. Now, they were the most important two words in his vocabulary. The third was “money.”

  Gil dug into his pants pocket in search of the one credit card he had not surrendered to Sabbie. If he could find an ATM in his bank’s system, he could get all the money he’d need and in the right currency as well. Then, all he’d require would be directions to the intersection near Sarkami’s house.

  A sudden recollection brought a smile of satisfaction. Gil reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out his PDA. He had not opened it since he left CyberNet. An ache of longing washed over him. He missed his work, his home, and his life. He even missed George. Well, almost.

  Gil typed in a request for a local ATM, and the PDA’s Global Positioning System sprang into action. Money awaited him out the door and two blocks to the left. He added a request for the intersection. From there, Gil could reconstruct the trail back to Sarkami’s by following the odd snaking back alley until he came to a green door equipped with four locks. His PDA offered a choice of maps or step-by-step directions.

  Gil’s mood soared. He would find Sabbie at Sarkami’s, he was certain. Chances were, she had convinced herself it was safer for her to go out alone and intended to surprise him, still sleeping in their hotel room, with the scroll, all neatly cut into strips upon her return. Or else, she’d give him a spiel on why she couldn’t be expected to wait around all day for him to wake up and add that she had every intention of calling him when she got a chance. In either case, he’d be glad as hell to see her.

  Gil grabbed his clothes and made his way for the door. He was starting to feel like his old confident self again. So confident that he never even bothered to check out the street before he left his room.

  Chapter 52

  Day Two following the Crucifixion, morning Home of Joseph of Arimathea, Judea

  Joseph, face set, sat unmoving. “I need not ask you if you are certain of what you heard,” he said.

  “I wish that it were untrue but I swear to you, Joseph, it is as I have described. I bring this antidote to you and beg you to
administer it. I know not who else to trust.”

  “But the false potion you left them, what if they administer it to Yeshua?”

  “It will do him no harm, but I know it shall never reach his lips,” Micah added with sadness. “You must go to Yeshua and remove him to safety before they can reach him. I can do nothing else for him now.”

  “Then it is up to me,” Joseph agreed. “I thought to bring Yeshua to them long before morning. The guards known to me shall come to the watch at midnight. But now I am afraid to wait…”

  “Peter and the others sleep soundly and will not be awake until morning,” said Micah.

  “As if they might enjoy sleep of the just,” Joseph said bitterly, then waited for Micah to instruct him further.

  It was all laid out in a matter of minutes. Joseph insisted that Micah take his horse rather than Micah’s ass, arguing that the steed would get Micah to the cave more quickly in order to make things ready.

  “I have no use for my horse,” explained Joseph. “If I am successful and I am able to bring Yeshua to you, it would be best for both of us to ride separate asses. The sight of both of us on a single horse would draw too much attention. We must each ride separate asses so as to not draw anyone’s attention. If, God forbid, I am unsuccessful and am unable to remove Yeshua from the sepulcher, I will have no need for the speed that a horse could provide.

  “You, on the other hand,” Joseph continued, “will do well to have a steed for your use should you need to make a rapid escape from the cave.”

  They embraced, for a moment longer than they had on their partings in the past, and with more unsaid than spoken, bade each other well.

  Micah’s ride to his cave at Qumran had been swift and uneventful, yet his mind had been filled with far too many fears and too great a sadness to find any pleasure in the journey.