13th Apostle

by Richard F. Heller

  At Micah’s urging, those who waited for baptism allowed the sickest and weakest to come to the fore. He insured that each was to be taken to the river according to his need. Micah’s voice, calm and reassuring, engendered trust. Those who had been restless or quarrelsome now waited patiently. When the baptisms had been completed, Micah turned from the river and walked toward his horse.

  “James,” called the baptizer to his friend on the shore. “Go ask that man to remain, I wish to speak with him.”

  “But tonight we were going to…” James argued.

  “Quickly, James!” the man ordered. “Quickly! Don’t let him go.”

  James did not move to the task.

  Another, who called from the shore, approached the baptizer and in a voice that Micah could overhear, explained James’ reluctance. “We don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to see him, Yeshua. James and I don’t like it. He could be a Roman spy. Maybe someone from the Temple. After all, in the little time he’s been here, he’s practically taken over. The people seem more willing to listen to him than to either James or me.”

  The baptizer ignored the explanation and called once again to the shore. “James, stop him. Ask him to join me for the evening meal. Do as I say!”

  Grumbling, James complied, moving as slowly as he might as to be unable to catch up.

  Micah moved slowly to ensure the invitation would be delivered and that he would accept.

  They did not speak on the road to the nearby public house. James and Peter quietly disappeared. Once their mounts had been cared for, Micah and the baptizer settled down to a simple but much welcomed meal. Micah’s host introduced himself.

  “I am Yeshua ben Yosef,” he began. “How came you to be who you are?”

  Micah had no explanation for either his life or the transformation he had experienced that very day. “I know not yet,” Micah replied.

  “As do any of us. Perhaps that is why we meet today,” Yeshua said smiling.

  Micah nodded. He could barely bring himself to gaze into the eyes of one who had inspired such respect as to make him feel almost unworthy.

  Yeshua urged his guest to recount his past, and Micah spoke with an honesty he had not known since he talked with his beloved Lena.

  “I could recite the journeys that make up a man’s life, the trade routes I have traveled from Tyre and Sidon on the West or the caravan roads from Damascus to the Northeast. I could regale you with stories of my adventures along the great imperial highways that traverse the whole of Palestine or the knowledge I have gained in Antioch and along the Egyptian frontier. But I think that is not what you truly desire, is it?” queried Micah.

  “No, it is not,” answered Yeshua. A smile of amusement spread across his face.

  “Then I will respond to the question your heart wishes answered,” continued Micah. “I have traveled far and wide. I have journeyed in search of knowledge and wealth, not always in that order. I have had the wisest of teachers and have been the most willing of students.”

  In his youth, Micah explained, a loving and wise metalsmith showed him a world and the man within himself that he might otherwise have never known. After he left his father’s home, Micah spent time exploring the world before pursing his own metal craft.

  For a short time, he dwelt with Apollonius from Tyana, who believed that the practice of illusion was justified when it was used for the good. The great teacher, renowned for his knowledge of healing and pain-alleviating potions, also instructed Micah in the use of “loving deceptions,” sleights of hand that caused an otherwise intelligent man to overlook that which appeared right before his eyes. From manuscripts and from those schooled in their teachings, Micah studied the simplicity of Lao Tzu, the wisdom of Confucius, and the discipline of Buddha. Only then was Micah ready to start raising the family that others had begun a full decade earlier.

  Yeshua nodded. “You were wise to travel and to learn. Now you are well versed in the ways of the world.”

  “It is true,” Micah agreed. “Yet nowhere in my daily life have I been able to apply these teachings nor the miraculous works they may allow one to manifest. Fortune has made me wise, but it has left me without purpose…until now.”

  “And now?” asked Yeshua.

  All was changed that day, Micah said. He had been compelled to bear witness to the futility of his life and the pointlessness of his existence. “Now, I am changed. I have been returned to myself,” Micah said.

  “You have not yet been baptized,”

  “No,” answered Micah, “nevertheless I have been transformed. I have touched those you have touched. The spirit was in them as it was in you and…” Micah looked steadily into Yeshua’s eyes as he continued, “and it has filled me with the purpose that lives in you.”

  Yeshua seemed transfixed. He had ministered to countless converts, he said, and he had healed the minions, but none had spoken to him as did Micah. To others he was the leader, the healer, the father. To Micah, he was a brother. And this, he had yearned for, for too many years.

  Long into the night they spoke, as old friends, as equals. Each related his story; each listened in turn. Teachings, understandings, losses, dreams and, most of all, purpose; they shared them all. Together they were stronger than either had been alone. Though it was never put into words, it was understood that Micah would stay and join in Yeshua’s ministry.

  “One thing must be said.” Micah added. “I want nothing of you. To be with you, help you in your work, share your journey, and to learn from you as I may. That is all I ask.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Yeshua countered, “that it is I who may learn from you? Those who call themselves my Apostles worry like old women. Though, I must add in all fairness, that they are not altogether wrong. They say I underestimate the anger I instill in those who are at cross-purposes with my teachings.”

  “What do they advise?” asked Micah.

  “Ah, there is the problem,” responded Yeshua. “Though they observe a danger, they are at a loss as to how to thwart it. Perhaps, as I may teach you about the Kingdom of Heaven, you may teach to me all that you have learned about men and human nature and share with me the wonders of the many skills you have learned in those lands to the east.”

  “It would be my joy,” Micah answered softly.

  Concern clouded Yeshua’s face. “Not necessarily so.”

  Yeshua explained that he feared that the twelve who traveled with him would not take kindly to Micah. “As men will do, they have taken into their minds that no other may join our inner circle.”

  They believed there must be only twelve apostles, Yeshua explained, as there were twelve tribes of Israel. To his Apostles, a greater number would be sacrilege. He did not agree, but he allowed them this indulgence.

  “They are good men in their own right,” Yeshua, said, “though they are neither as learned nor perhaps of such lofty thought as you.”

  In the early hours of the morning an idea came to Yeshua, and a plan was set. He would bring Micah into the circle, not as another apostle, but as a scribe; one who would record their daily comings and goings for posterity or, should need be, for legal defense before a tribunal.

  “We’ll say you’re going to record my life for all the future generations who might thirst for such details,” Yeshua announced with a grand sweep of his hand. Then, falling back in laughter at the absurdity of such an event, he continued. “Or at least your writings may bear witness to my innocence should I meet a less noble end,” he added, raising a goblet of wine in toast.

  “But I must warn you,” Yeshua added more soberly. “While they will have no choice but to accept you as my scribe, they will make your life less than easy. I fear you shall, once again, be as an outcast.”

  “I will trust in you and in myself,” Micah assured Yeshua. “I came in hopes of finding welcome in my father’s home. I have found it, instead, in the house of the Lord. I seek nothing so great as to be counted as one of your Apostles. If fortune has decre
ed that my task is that of a scribe, I will nonetheless consider myself blessed.”

  Chapter 44

  Day Ten, mid-afternoon

  Hillingdon Towne Centre, London

  He was tall for a Syrian and broad in the shoulders. Gray hair bristled in all directions, and his prominent nose, deep-set brown eyes, and dark skin combined to give him the look of a great aging eagle.

  Sarkami escorted Gil and Sabbie to his home through a back alley that weaved its way past tiny backyards, each groomed with meticulous care. White picket fences marked boundaries between properties, and neatly arranged, unblemished rubbish cans stoutly awaited their consignments.

  For Gil, the short walk from the car to Sarkami’s home was less than pleasant. Neither Sabbie nor Sarkami spoke a word. They didn’t seem to need to.

  Gil maintained his silence as well, though it was not a comfortable one. He was the outsider, forced to bear witness to the most intimate of wordless exchanges between them, and he longed to be somewhere else; anywhere else.

  Sarkami carried one shopping bag, Sabbie, the other. Gil walked behind, intrigued by the look of contentment on her face. This was a different Sabbie, the woman Gil would have loved to know, the product of a different life. Her face was soft and beautiful and she gazed often into Sarkami’s eyes. They held hands and, as they walked, their bodies moved in step.

  Anger rose in Gil’s chest, and his face grew hot. What was he getting so angry about? He had no claims on her. All the same, he didn’t have to watch her make love to the guy.

  Four bolt locks barred entry to the sea green backdoor of Sarkami’s tiny home; a great deal of protection for so humble a dwelling. The scene that greeted Gil beyond the door, however, surprised and amused him.

  The small, simple layout was not unlike his own apartment. Square, simple utilitarian furniture filled a minimum of space. The room was one of singular purpose, the comfortable and efficient completion of one’s work.

  In the area where Gil would have placed computers and display screens, the tops of two long tables and a desk held vices, cutting tools, engraving instruments, inks, scissors, paper, and pens. Extension cords crisscrossed the floor.

  One long folding table against the back wall appeared to be designated a clean zone. It was covered with a fine white cloth on which were carefully laid several small sections of parchment, a couple faux facsimile scrolls, and more than a dozen strips of copper, not unlike The Cave 3 Scroll sections Sabbie had shown him at the Museum. Books, dust, scraps of paper, bits of metal, and sketches littered every surface of the room save for the clean table. This was the workshop that Sarkami called home. Gil understood the man completely.

  Sarkami ignored Gil and turned to Sabbie. “Was it very bad?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Did he know you were there, at the end?”

  She nodded again. “They left him there to die slowly and turned him so he had to face Sarah’s body.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “He said he was sorry,” she began, then broke into sobs.

  Sarkami looked puzzled. “Sorry for what? He never gave them the diary.”

  “I know. He was just saying he was sorry things turned out like they did.”

  Sarkami shook his head sadly.

  “Victims often blame themselves, you know,” Sabbie said softly with a slight shrug. “Even though they could have done nothing to stop their assailants. A very wise man once tried to teach me that,” she added and looked knowingly at Sarkami’s gentle face.

  Sabbie closed her eyes, opened them after a moment, and continued. “He told me that he had wished he could have been there when it all came to be. I promised him we would not fail. He smiled and said we had better not. Then he told me to take everything from the oven safe and get the hell out.”

  “No problem with the diary?” Sarkami asked.

  “No problem. It was right there in the oven safe with the passport you gave him for Gil. Whoever killed him never knew it was a few feet from where they left him.” She choked back a sob.

  “Something else?” Sarkami prompted.

  Sabbie nodded. “Next to the diary, he left a pile of several thousand pounds in traveler’s checks. On top of the pile was a post-it that read: ‘Take it. You’ll need it.’” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Considering his salary, it must have taken years of sacrifice to accumulate that much money.”

  She surrendered herself into Sarkami’s open arms.

  Gil watched in amazement. He hadn’t thought Sabbie capable of such love, not for Ludlow, not for anyone.

  Sabbie blew her nose into a handkerchief Sarkami offered, then continued. “I should have known it was the work of McCullum’s boys. It had WATSC written all over it, down to keeping Ludlow’s wife alive until he arrived home and causing Sarah enough damage to…”

  Once more sobs overtook her, and Sarkami held her as he had before.

  She straightened and continued. Until she had spotted McCullum at the Museum, she hadn’t considered him to be a player. McCullum must have gotten smart and stopped using e-mail to communicate with DeVris. Otherwise, she would have been able to pick up on their ongoing connection.

  There was more, she added, and it wasn’t good. “McCullum wasn’t the only one after Ludlow. As I was leaving Ludlow’s, I spotted two men—definitely not WATSC—checking out the apartment. One of the men was very large, the other was small and dark. I think the smaller one had a scar on his cheek but I couldn’t be sure.”

  Sarkami’s face became grim.

  She added that she had spotted both men again in Weymouth, waiting outside their hotel. She didn’t think they saw her on either occasion but, again, she couldn’t be certain.

  Sarkami asked if she had encountered anyone in Weymouth. By the way he emphasized the word “encountered,” Gil was certain he was using the euphemism for Gil’s benefit. Sabbie seemed to have no such reservations.

  “I took down one in the restaurant bathroom and put another on hold at the Monastery. They weren’t McCullum’s WATSC boys. That’s what really has me worried.”

  “The guy in the Monastery?” Gil interrupted. “You said he was a maintenance man!”

  “We had more important things to deal with at the time,” she answered simply, then exited the room with Sarkami. Gil heard a door close behind them.

  They returned a few minutes later.

  “Give me your wallet,” she said. She held her hand out for Gil’s expected offering.

  Gil didn’t move.

  “I need the bills with the translation to give to Sarkami,” she said.

  “Screw you!” Gil shouted.

  He had put up with more than enough, he said. He added that he was tired of being treated like a child, a potentially dead one at that.

  “You got what you wanted from me, so why don’t I just go and leave you two to whatever you two want to do.”

  Sabbie and Sarkami looked at him with shocked expressions, then both smiled, and shook their heads.

  His anger soared. They were doing it again, only more so. He told them what they could do with their patronizing smiles as well as the scroll.

  “You don’t understand,” Sabbie said. “We’re not done with you…”

  “So what, you’re saying you’re not going to let me go?” Gil asked.

  “No, we’re not done with you because the scroll’s not done with you. There is much more for you to do. When you’re ready to know, it will all become clear…”

  They were treating him like a schmuck once again. “What is it?” Gil asked. “Aren’t I smart enough or violent enough or whatever it is you want to be part of your little game?”

  Sarkami addressed Gil for the first time. “Not violent enough?” he asked incredulously. “Yes, that’s true. Not violent enough to defend the scroll against those who would destroy its message? I think so. God, I pray so. You have a far greater task ahead of you, one which requires far more than the mere ability to spot pursuers and remove t
heir threat.”

  Gil waited for an explanation, but none came.

  “What kind of task?” Gil asked skeptically.

  “One that only you can complete,” Sabbie said. Her touch on his shoulder was electric. The warmth he felt when he first found the scroll surged through him once again. She held the scroll and was passing it to him.

  “Take this,” she urged. “Then protest if you like and we’ll do as you say.”

  Gil stared at her. He knew what he would feel even before she laid the scroll in his arms.

  There was no anger. There was no distrust. A lifetime of betrayals had been wiped clean and with it the petty concerns and jealousies that had filled his thinking and his heart. Ludlow—God rest his soul—Sarkami, Sabbie, and he, together they now shared one purpose: to complete the promise of those who had gone before, to protect this scroll, and to deliver the two-thousand-year-old message it bore.

  Though, for whom the message was intended, Gil could not imagine.

  Chapter 45

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

  It was a dream filled with terror. It disappeared even as Micah reached to grasp hold of it. Perhaps it was for the best. Waking brought with it a dread almost too horrible to bear. Judas’ betrayal, Yeshua’s arrest, and the flight of the Twelve. Last night, in only a few moments, all was changed, all was lost.

  Had he not been so foolish, so willing to be swayed by Yeshua’s assurances, Micah might have seen it coming and, perhaps, might have taken some action, any action, to prevent it.

  The last ten days had seemed interminable. From the moment that the Apostles heard of Pontius Pilate’s intention to have Yeshua arrested, the debates raged without resolution. Simon wanted to approach the Temple Priests and try to appease their anger by promising to keep Yeshua out of Jerusalem and to have Yeshua tame his attacks on the Pharisees and the Priests. Bartholomew and James argued that all of their lives were in danger, and it was best that they not go to Jerusalem for the Passover celebration.