13th Apostle (18 page)

Seventeen years before the Crucifixion Midway between Medeba and Bethlehem

Micah held back the tears until he reached the cave. Safe inside, in a place that no other knew existed, he could allow himself the luxury of his true feelings. Tears cut rivulets down his dust-layered cheeks. At least he had not given them the satisfaction of knowing they had made him cry. After all, it had been three years since his Bar Mitzvah and, even if his father's business associates still treated him as a child, it was considered that he had come of age among his fellow Jews. After all, four of the apprentices in his father's workshops were married by the time they were his age and one already fathered a boy of his own. Yet each acted more like a child than the younger boys who followed after them and begged for their attention.

This morning, in a great show of their prowess, the three eldest sons of his father's oldest business associate had forced Micah to flee. Each had chosen a pilum from the best of the newly forged swords and together they formed a circle around a young goat. Each took turns throwing the spears at the terrified kid. In the end, it crawled to its mother's side, bleeding and bleating, and died—the boys' weapons still dangling from its flesh.

When Micah had cried out in protest and threatened them should they continue their cruel mischief, they had ripped their weapons from the dead goat and set out after him. At any other time, they might have been concerned about the consequences of laying a hand on the son of Haggai, but on this day they were so taken with their power, that they cared not for the consequences.

Jonah, his father's chief metalsmith, had misdirected them so that Micah had enough time to get away. Micah's father would have been livid had he but known of Jonah's actions. Haggai put great stock in a man's ability to counter violence with violence. Even greater would have been his anger had Haggai known of Jonah's ongoing instruction to his son. Micah was, after all, the eldest son in the wealthiest house in the district and destined for greater things than could be imparted by a mere metalsmith.

To Micah, however, the hours spent under the metalsmith's tutelage had been the best in his life. At Jonah's side, he had learned to see the world in a scrap of metal and in the skill and touch he brought to the moment.

“No, no,” Jonah would exclaim. “Don't gouge the silver. The metal is like a woman. It should be warmed gently, only when it is soft and flowing, will it move as you wish. Remember, with metal, as with a women, or as with life, you must wait for just the right moment. That is a most important and most difficult skill.

“Patience, always patience,” Jonah added. He ruffled Micah's hair. “It is the difference between a good metalsmith and a master craftsman. And true as well if you wish to be a good husband.”

At the time, Jonah's wisdom was lost on Micah. Meaningless, also, were the older craftsman's caustic criticisms of the barbaric treatment of the poor and the enslaved. In the years to come, however, Jonah's wisdom would reach out like a lifeline, guiding Micah when no other was there for comfort or advice.

Had Micah's father ever learned of Jonah's instructions, craft wise or worldly, it might have meant Jonah's life. The old craftsman's radical ideas, including the equal treatment for all men, were nothing less than heresy.

Micah sensed that his mother knew of the hours he spent with Jonah but that she chose to ignore it. Micah never broached the subject with her or any other living soul. Not even when he was told that Jonah had died, not even when no cause of death was given and no body was ever seen for ritual burial. Not even then. Micah kept their secret, grieved in silence, and tried desperately to remember the wise and loving counsel he had taken for granted for so many years. In so many ways, Jonah had been more of a father to Micah than Haggai would ever be.

The voices of Micah's tormentors could not be heard deep in the cave where he sat among his collection of tools and scraps of precious metals. He breathed deeply. They would never find him here.

Micah pulled a lumpy piece of copper sheeting toward him. He reached for the wooden mallet and felt cloth that were as familiar to him as his own two hands. Gently, he pounded the metal on the flat rock that served as his workbench and gave himself willingly to the hypnotic rhythm. As the copper sheet thinned and smoothed to a fine luster, the pain that lingered from the cruelty of his persecutors, slipped away.

It seemed as if it had always been thus. Though he longed for acceptance and camaraderie with all his heart, both were as elusive as the stars—easily seen but beyond his grasp. He was too much of this or not enough of that. In spite of all the time he spent at the Essene settlement nearby, the keepers of the faith still considered him an outsider. Jonah said they didn't trust Micah because of his father's wealth, but he knew it was more than that.

Though he was drawn to them because of his respect for their compassion and ideals and, perhaps, because Jonah so admired them, Micah could not bring himself to commit to their ascetic ways. Their lives, devoid of worldly possessions and personal relationships had, at first, offered an attractive alternative to his father's world of riches and power. After a while, Micah had come to realize that among the most religious, man's avarice did not disappear, it simply changed form, replacing a hunger for wealth with that of a spiritual materialism.

Even among the youngsters, orphans and outcasts that the Essenes adopted and who lived in far less comfortable circumstances than his father's poorest servant, a young man's worth was measured by his devout service to God. No matter if he were cruel to the man who had taken him in when none other would spare him food or shelter; no matter if he did nothing for the other children or for the community of fellow devotees who accepted him as one of their own. So long as he appeared most pious and, in word and action deferred to God's will, among the Essenes he would be afforded the greatest of respect. Micah thought it wrong to place so great a value on one's devotion to God and so little on his action to his fellow man. He could never be an Essene.

At the same time, Micah could not imagine himself a Sadducee, conspiring for power, always in the name of the Almighty; nor a Pharisee, caught up in endless debates over the minutia that supposedly proved one's devotion to God, a God who, to Micah, had seemed to distance Himself from the needs and struggles of the very men who worshipped Him.

Micah's chest filled with an indescribable longing. He yearned for a friend, a confidante, either man or deity—it didn't matter which—someone that might understand, love, and care for the young man who struggled from the depths of his soul to find meaning and goodness in life; a caring soul who dreamed of equality for all men and dared to see the justice in equality for women, servants, and even slaves.

His dreams were as great a burden as was his father's wealth, for the first beckoned him to explore the world while the second prevented him from doing so. In reality, he was not free and, he feared, would never be so. He owed too much to a father who had showered him with such luxury that even the son of a Roman Centurion might envy. Too, there was an obligation by birthright to his mother, young sisters, and the family servants, all of whom counted on him to carry on the family's financial legacy, and to support them in their later years.

His life of adventure and discovery had been traded on the auction block for a life of obligation long before he knew what such words might mean. There was no way out. His lot was little different from that of poorest of Jews the Romans used as slaves. They were both held captive by another. The only distinction was simply that of how well appointed was one's prison. Upon sharing this insight with Jonah, the elder craftsman had grown pale with fear.

“Never speak of such things to your father,” Jonah had cautioned sternly. “It will be the end of all. Never even think of it again.”

Jonah was right. To speak of such matters would be to cross the unspoken line that each person knows exists within another; to confront that which is so unthinkable as to make further relations impossible. If he had tried to express his yearnings to his father, if he had even hinted that he was less than content with the life Haggai had crafted so carefully for him, he would have denigrated all that his father held meaningful. And it would have profited him nothing.

When the responsibilities of a life so completely preordained seemed too overwhelming, Micah sought the solitude of his cave and his metalwork. While his father's men crafted swords for the taking of lives, Micah crafted only things of beauty, that which would harm no other in its transmutation.

In the half-light of the cave, Micah continued to pound the copper sheeting. The rhythm lulled him, and he imagined himself walking freely into the sunlight, tall and unafraid, bringing truth and peace to his fellow man, then ascending to the heavens where a benevolent God awaited him.

The thought of a heavenly father was suddenly replaced by an earthly one, probably filled with fury by now, as he awaited a son who had forgotten the birthday celebration so carefully planned on his behalf. Micah's mother, Ruth, would be worried, begging his father to be patient, calming his sisters, and praying that no ill had befallen her firstborn.

With this birthday, his father had promised to fulfill Micah's wish to accompany him on his upcoming expedition along the great Silk Trade Route. He knew that Haggai regretted the promise, and Micah's lateness would now provide his father with perfect excuse to put him off for yet another year. Quickly setting aside his metalwork, Micah ran from the cave, barely observing his usual precautions to emerge unnoticed.

Day Ten, noon
Northeast of Weymouth
North Circular Road to London

Sabbie looked up from the scroll and caught Gil's eye in the rearview mirror. “We've got a problem,” she said.

How the hell did she know?

Gil had been watching the green sedan follow them for over a half hour. Since they left the gas station, it had remained exactly one car length behind them. Although the road changed direction and the sun was no longer reflected off the windshield of the sedan, Gil could not get a good view of the driver.

In an attempt to force the car out of its position, Gil switched on his flashing hazard lights and slowed to a crawl. The sedan slowed to a matched speed. There was no doubt about it. They were being followed, and the driver had no intention of hiding the fact from them.

“Any suggestions?” Gil asked.

“Yes, I think we're going to have to cut it into strips,” she said without looking up from the scroll.

“What?”

Sabbie repeated her recommendation. “I hate to do it but there's really no other way,” she added.

“How do we do that in a moving car?”

“Oh, not me. That's not my expertise. But, remember I told you about the man that makes the faux facsimiles for the Museum? He ought to be able to handle it.”

“What? Cut up the scroll?” Gil asked incredulously.

“Of course, the scroll. What did you think I was talking about? I can translate a bit more of it, actually quite a bit, but I can tell by the tightness of the roll that there will come a point where we'll risk damaging it if we try to go too much further. It's going to have to be cut in strips like The Cave 3 Scroll.”

“I thought you were talking about the car that was following us,” Gil said. While he had been trying to shield her from concern about their safety, she had been free to debate the pros and cons of how best to expose the final section of the scroll. It was time for her to come down to the level of reality he'd been dealing with for the last half hour.

“What? You mean the green sedan?” she asked without looking around.

Gil nodded.

“No worries. He wouldn't think of approaching us on the highway.”

“You know who it is?” Gil asked hopefully.

“No,” Sabbie answered and returned to her translating.

“Then how can you be sure?” Gil asked. He looked for her answer in the rearview mirror.

“Army training,” she mouthed, and went back to her reading.

“Look, I'm really sorry to interrupt you,” Gil protested sarcastically. “But I have this fondness of knowing who might be after me with intention of doing me bodily harm. So, what's going to happen when we get off the highway?”

Sabbie sighed, annoyed at being interrupted once again. “Number one, he's not after you. He couldn't give a shit whether you live or die.”

“Well, that's comforting.”

“Actually, it should be,” she replied.

“So, he's only after the scroll,” Gil said.

“And me,” she added.

“Why you?”

“Because I'm one of the world's best translators, if you put any stock in what DeVris says, though you wouldn't know it from my paycheck. Now, if I can get back to what I do best…”

“What happens when we get off the highway?” Gil insisted.

“You turn right.”

“Don't be an ass. What happens to the scroll and what happens to you?”

“It's all taken care of,” Sabbie answered.

“Oh, just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Seventeen years before the Crucifixion Medeba, East of the Sea of Salt

Micah's birthday outing was indistinguishable from any of his father's usual business trips.

“First, I need to stop at the shops of two clients. Then, if we have time, we'll take some refreshment at Saul ben Simon's house. There is much business I must discuss with him, so I want you to make yourself busy when we get there. You can find yourself something to do around the city, as long as you don't go too far. If Saul's youngest son, what's his name—Tobiah—is home, then you may wish to play with him.”

It was useless to inform his father that he no longer “played” with other boys. Even if he still engaged in such juvenile pursuits, Tobiah was not a companion he would choose. The boy was three years his junior and a girlish gossip to boot. Micah could not bear the thought of spending yet another useless evening dodging Tobiah's attempts to pump him for some morsel of scandal that might be used on the morrow. Micah's desires, however, mattered little. His father sought neither his opinion nor preferences with regards to the itinerary, on this or any other day. He bent down and patted the ambling horse for which he felt far more affection than his father and took silent pleasure in his dislike for the man who always rode just a few paces ahead.

By the time they arrived at Saul ben Simon's house, it was well past dark. The city was crowded in celebration of the repeal of the Roman tax levy that had been so drastic as to bring the people close to rebellion. The Jews of the city counted its revocation as a victory, but Micah believed their triumph would be short-lived. Within a few months, the Romans would impose a new tax, once again. The new tax would be smaller in amount but wider in scope. In time, bit-by-bit, the taxes would continue to rise, though never at so great a rate as to warrant revolt. It was a clever trick that the Romans had learned to use to their full advantage.

On arrival at ben Simon's house, the effeminate young man met them at the gate. All hopes that Micah held of avoiding Tobiah's presence were quickly dispelled. Not only did the boy appear eager to engage Micah in discussion, he announced that he had been waiting all evening to spend time in town with him.

“They're celebrating the tax repeal, you know, and everything will be open late in town tonight,” Tobiah announced joyfully.

Micah spent the next hour in misery, walking the streets with the boy, enduring endless prattle about meaningless actions by meaningless people.

To cool himself off and as well as to escape his irritating companion's ceaseless chatter, Micah suggested a drink and dessert bread from a nearby shop. He positioned himself and his annoying charge on a low stone wall where they might see the revelers as they partied past. The boy ceaselessly waved to passers-by—many of whom appeared to move along far more quickly after being hailed. Refreshed by his repast, Micah found himself a little more tolerant of his companion.

“Hey, look over there,” Micah said, jabbing his elbow into Tobiah's side. Four young women walked without a chaperone. The prettiest of the young women shot Micah a flirtatious look. She glanced backward as she walked and smiled with triumph at the confirmation that his eyes had followed her down the street.

Micah's mood rose. This was fun. “Let's look for more girls!” he said, then remembered Tobiah's limited preferences.

The boy seemed to be growing more tired with each passing minute, and Micah had no desire to take him home. To keep him awake, Micah engaged Tobiah in conversation about the passing crowd.

“Look at those,” Micah laughed, pointing to two drunken men who attempted to navigate three asses through the street. “And those!” he added, noting two sparsely dressed women of ill repute, openly advertising their more-than-abundant wares. The boy nodded, more asleep than awake.

Suddenly, for Micah, the crowd seemed to fade away. A young man, about Micah's own age, came into view as he walked down the center of the street. The stranger moved among the tumultuous crowd, yet he walked as if alone. On all sides, people laughed with drunken revelry and made lewd comments to passersby. Some pushed and jabbed those who came too close or for no reason whatsoever. Others hurled insults at those around them in their frustration and impatience. Still the young man walked effortlessly amidst the crowd. He moved with a serenity, the likes of which Micah had never seen.

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!”