Yeshua, himself, claimed the best path was one of nonresistance, saying, “The Roman guards will seek me out wherever I go. I need not take others with me. Each of you has a far greater duty than to join me in prison or, even worse if it should come to be, to languish on a cross alongside of my own. Rather, if it is to be, I will die as I have lived, in the service of my Father’s will.”
Now, as he looked back, Micah bitterly blamed himself for siding with Yeshua in his plan to celebrate the rest of the Passover in Jerusalem. All knew the danger that waited there, but Yeshua would not be dissuaded.
Late into the night, while the others slept, Yeshua had conferred with Micah. It was the evening before they made the journey, and Yeshua argued each point as only he could. In the end, when no logic remained to support Yeshua’s intention, he stated simply to Micah, “I must do as I must do.”
Micah knew that once he made up his mind, Yeshua would be as immovable as the Temple itself and, so, turned his attention to convincing Yeshua to make a quiet entrance into the city. Even here Yeshua held his ground.
“I come to Jerusalem to celebrate with my brethren. If they choose to recognize me and follow me, so be it.”
On arrival at the city, Micah’s worst fear was realized. The reception at the city gates had been greater than any had imagined. With hordes following him and praising his name, Yeshua made his way to the Temple. When he discovered money changers plying their trade on this holiest of Holy Days, Yeshua was enraged beyond words. Unable to contain his fury and fully aware of the possible repercussions of his actions, Yeshua drove the offenders out of the Temple.
That night, Yeshua spoke little during the Seder meal, although the few references he did make regarding the wine and bread seemed undecipherable to the Apostles. Only Micah, who lay close by Yeshua’s side, understood too well the symbolism of the blood and body of which Yeshua spoke.
When Yeshua spoke of one who would yet betray him, several of the Apostles made light of the matter. To betray Yeshua would be as to betray themselves, they said, and they would speak of it no more. Micah, alone, recognized too well the import of Yeshua’s portent of treachery. His heart, alone, ached with the knowledge of what was to come to pass.
At Yeshua’s request, Micah joined the others and reclined in accordance with tradition at the Seder table, though he knew full well this might be their last supper together.
Micah was The Disciple, as the Twelve called him in derision. To them he would never be an apostle, always the follower, never the messenger. Within his bosom, however, Micah held the knowledge that Yeshua did not regard him as they did.
“Know this,” Yeshua had assured him. “We are all disciples, followers of God’s way. There is honor, not disgrace in being called thus. Be assured as well, my dear friend, that you are an apostle as much as any of the others. You shall carry my message to lands and times they cannot imagine. You stand forever as Protector of the Word. You, alone, are my beloved Thirteenth Apostle.”
Micah had kept his silence as he partook of the Sabbath meal. He had been forbidden by Yeshua to speak of the play that was about to unfold. As they traveled together to Gethsemane he was overcome with certainty of the travesty that was about to take place. Weary after their journey, the Twelve slept. Finally, Micah was free to attend his friend who stood alone.
It was there, among the olive trees, that Yeshua spoke to Micah of the tzaddikim; thirty-six righteous souls born to each generation who, by their very existence, assured the continuation of the world.
According to Abraham’s Covenant, Yeshua explained, once each millennium, God shall return to earth to count among the many, those who remain righteous. Only the tzaddikim, the righteous ones, standing in God’s judgment, may ensure God’s promise to Abraham, His Covenant of Continuance. Without these righteous souls, mankind’s fate would be in grave and certain peril.
Yet these tzaddikim have no knowledge of one another, neither have they any awareness of their own singular importance. As innocents, they remain unaware of the critical consequences of their thoughts, their faith, and their deeds.
“All of this is known to me,” Micah said softly.
Yeshua looked up in surprise.
“Some say that you are tzaddik,” Micah added.
“I would not claim it for, in doing so, I would prove I was not,” Yeshua answered.
“Yet neither can you deny it,” Micah said softly.
Yeshua smiled.
“You are as wise as I counted you to be, dear friend, for you know that of which I cannot speak.”
Micah nodded.
“Good,” Yeshua said, with obvious pleasure. “Then let me add only this. If by God’s good grace, I bear so divine a blessing and so great a burden as you know me to carry, and if I am unable to complete my sacred tasks, then when my soul has shed its mortal sheath, I pray that you, dear brother, shall rise and take my place.”
“Your prayer is mine,” Micah whispered.
“These are difficult times,” Yeshua continued. “Things are not always as they seem. Nor are people,” he added, glancing thoughtfully at his sleeping Apostles. “It will come to pass that those who cannot tolerate the truth shall take action to silence it. And to silence me, as well.”
Micah remained steadfast, his eyes fixed on his beloved Yeshua. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He understood.
“I ask only that which I know you will do…”
“Gladly,” Micah interjected.
“Yes.” Yeshua smiled. “And that which you are uniquely qualified to do. I would ask that no matter what may befall me, you shall not let the truth die with me.”
“I could not bear it if…” Micah interrupted.
“Have I your word?” Yeshua insisted.
“Before God.”
Yeshua smiled and seemed content, yet he shivered in the cold. He wore no cloak for, on the road to Gethsemane, he had given his outer garment to an old man who suffered in the cool night air. Micah removed his caftan and persuaded Yeshua to place it on top of his own for warmth.
“Then you will wear nothing but a sindon,” Yeshua protested. “I cannot accept it. I will be fine.”
Micah argued that the sacrifice was of little importance. “All that I am, all that I have, I gladly give in the name of God, Elyon.”
Yeshua smiled and accepted Micah’s offering. “Now, dear friend, leave me with Him.” Yeshua’s face was beatific with peace.
Micah watched his friend, powerless to put a halt to Yeshua’s prophecy of betrayal by one of the Twelve. Micah struggled in torment at the thought of that which would soon come to be.
Then, when he could bear the thought of the impending betrayal no longer, Micah’s anguish gave birth to a plan that might yet save Yeshua’s life. His heart soared. Yes, there was yet a way to save his friend! Were Yeshua to be arrested and sent to the cross, Micah could yet set him free. Fear was transformed to hope, anger to joy. It mattered not what any of the Twelve might do, Micah, the Thirteenth, scorned by the others, might yet save his beloved friend.
Micah rushed to Yeshua to reveal his plan but, even as he watched, Judas entered the garden and, with a single kiss, a signal to the guards who waited to arrest the recipient, betrayed both man and God.
Even as the Roman guards took Yeshua away, the Apostles scattered, fearful for their own lives. None remained in the garden; neither had any followed to attend Yeshua, to plead for him, or to stand by his side. The Apostles knew well that their fate would be the same as Yeshua’s had they interceded and all had cared far more for themselves than for him.
Micah, too, had fled from the garden though not in pursuit of his safety. Rather, he had rushed to enlist the help that he would require to make preparations for the deception he had devised; a deception he had hoped would never be brought into play. Last night, Micah’s plan had seemed little more than the result of fear-laden musings. Now, it appeared to be Yeshua’s only hope.
Chapter 46
Day Ten, even
ing
Hillingdon Towne Centre, London
They left Sarkami to do what he did best: to prepare the remaining section of the scroll for Sabbie’s translation. It meant cutting the innermost section into strips. It was a tedious job that would take the rest of the night.
“We can’t risk unrolling it after a millennium or two,” Sabbie said. Gil knew she was right but to both of them, cutting the scroll felt like a terrible sacrilege. One that could never be undone.
Remaining at Sarkami’s was out of the question. Though he did all the restorations and faux facsimiles in England, he was still considered a member of the Museum’s staff, the logical person Sabbie would seek out, and easily traceable. With a new set of players on the field, it was simply too dangerous. They made their way to a busy hotel and took up the all-night vigil. Sarkami would call as soon as he was finished.
Sabbie had requested two hotel rooms. It seemed unnecessary, but Gil didn’t object. A bit of time alone sounded wonderful.
“One room is for us, the other is for them,” she explained. “We stay in one, keep the lights on, do whatever we want.”
The other room was for observing what was happening on the street. It would be a bit obvious, she said, if they turned off the lights every time they wanted to look out of the window, then turned them back on when they were finished.
“Now we just keep our eyes open and wait,” Sabbie. added.
Gil fought the impulse to go to the window immediately and get a good look at the street, lights or no lights. He sat down on the bed, across from her. It was going to be a long night.
She had perched herself on the side of the big double bed, kicked off her shoes, and had begun to massage her feet. “Ever play chess?” Sabbie asked.
She isn’t suggesting we play chess to pass the time!
Gil nodded.
“Have you ever been castled?” she continued.
Castling was a powerful but greatly underused chess strategy. It involved removing the king from its normal position in the center of the board and placing it in a protected corner. With a single move, all of the plans that one’s opponent had in the works were turned upside down. Gil knew it well. It was one of his favorite strategies.
“Well, now it’s being pulled on us.” Sabbie explained. McCullum was no longer the only king on the board. Earlier in the evening Sarkami had pulled her aside and for good reason. She filled Gil in on the details.
Sarkami had wanted her to know that the two men she had seen circling Ludlow’s apartment were Abdul Maluka, head of Muslims for World Truth Video, and his bodyguard slash assassin, Aijaz.
“They are Syrian,” Sarkami had informed her.
“Countrymen!” Sabbie exclaimed. She understood how powerful the tie might be for Sarkami.
“No, Maluka was born in Syria like myself, but he is no countryman of mine,” Sarkami had answered. “Maluka seeks to expose the message the scroll bears only if it suits his purposes. Otherwise, he will destroy it. He is no countryman,” Sarkami repeated.
“They are not so different, Maluka and McCullum,” Sabbie said.
She turned to Gil. “The one who surprised us at the Monastery, didn’t he look familiar?” she asked.
Gil tried to remember. The wrinkled face, twisted body. Yes, they belonged to a cleaning man at the Museum but, like so many, Gil had paid him little attention. Sabbie had known at once, even in the dark of the Monastery courtyard, but she had no idea he was Maluka’s spy turned assassin.
“There’s something else, as well,” Sabbie explained. “Something we’re missing.”
Sarkami had agreed, she said. The pieces were not fitting together as they should. McCullum’s thugs and Maluka and his assassin had appeared at Ludlow’s apartment at about the same time and, apparently, with the same intent. McCullum’s man in the restaurant and Maluka and his men had arrived at the same time in Weymouth. The odds against such coincidences were overwhelming. And DeVris was conspicuously absent. It didn’t add up, and the missing piece could mean a castle move was in the works, Sabbie explained.
Best to keep the scroll and the person best able to translate the document in two different locations. At least for the moment. Besides, Sabbie said, there was more that the scroll had revealed than could be understood in a mere translation.
“What did you notice about the Gethsemane scene? she asked. “You know, where Yeshua is talking to Micah, right before the Roman guards came to take Yeshua away? What do you remember from that scene?”
The only thing that stuck in his mind was the image of Micah giving Yeshua his caftan so that Micah was left with only a sindon, or whatever Sabbie called the loincloth. It seemed a strange detail to leave behind for others to read in the millennia to come.
“Perfect,” she exclaimed. “That’s the whole point. Why would Micah include that detail in particular?”
“You mean, besides the fact that he had probably shivered his ass off after giving up his caftan?” Gil asked with a laugh.
She wasn’t smiling. Every word that Micah engraved in the copper took time and precious space. That detail must have held an important meaning, otherwise he wouldn’t have included it. Gil seemed unimpressed.
“You don’t get it,” she said in frustration. “Look, that scene is the confirmation we’ve been looking for. It’s what Ludlow would have given…Wait!,” she exclaimed, in excitement. “I know how to say it so you’ll understand. That scene is Micah’s signpost to us. Like the signpost that Elias left in the hidden page of the diary. This scene says, ‘There is something important I must tell you. Look here for the clues.’”
And extraordinary clues they were.
“In the section where they take Yeshua away, Micah tells us who he, himself, is,” Sabbie began. “And the Gospels of Mark and John confirm it. The Gospels describe a disciple who was there in Gethsemane, in the garden, on that night after the Last Supper. The disciple wore only a loincloth. This man was, and I quote, ‘the disciple that Jesus loved.’ In the Gospels, John even talks about this same disciple lying close to Jesus at the Last Supper, just as Micah describes his position at the Seder meal. According to John, this beloved disciple asks Jesus, ‘Who is he that betrayeth thee?’
“Don’t you get it?” she insisted. “The very scenes that Micah describes in the scroll, are the same that Mark and John recount in the Gospels. The beloved disciple they describe right there in the scriptures, that’s Micah.”
“Our Micah?”
“Our Micah,” Sabbie said. “To the Apostles, Micah was a disciple that Jesus loved above all others but still, only a disciple. To Jesus, he was an apostle, His Thirteenth Apostle.”
The words Micah recorded in the scroll were those of Jesus himself, etched into copper for all eternity, by the hand of one who was most loved by Him. They had uncovered the most important document in the history of mankind. It was too incredible to imagine. And far too important to allow it to fall into the wrong hands.
“So far the scroll confirms what the Gospels say about His adult life,” Sabbie began. “It’s exactly what McCullum and his WATSC organization would love to hold up for the world to see. At the same time, the scroll’s message is just what Maluka and his Muslims for World Truth want to bury forever. Both have a stake, and it is huge.”
But no one knew what the rest of the scroll would reveal, and there was the hitch. It could confirm the rest of the Gospels or dispute them. It could lay bare a whole new truth that no one had ever considered, one that could shake the very foundations of Christianity itself.
“Then the positions would be reversed,” Gil said with a certainty that he wished he didn’t own. “Maluka would want the scroll to be able to show it to the world as proof that Christianity is false to its core.”
“And McCullum would need to destroy any trace of its existence,” Sabbie added.
“Ever hear the term ‘tiger by the tail?’” Gil asked Sabbie. “It means we’re holding on to something too big to imagine, and we j
ust hope it doesn’t suddenly turn around and come after us.”
“More than that, I think we got a tiger in each hand,” Gil concluded.
“Maybe more,” Sabbie added thoughtfully.
Chapter 47
Day One following the Crucifixion, afternoon North of Jerusalem
The Apostles gathered in the old, abandoned farmhouse. Over a day had passed since Yeshua’s arrest but his friends and followers were filled with fear for his life. The Twelve had returned from their flight and, as they debated, those most loyal to Yeshua brought reports of him being shuffled from place to place and subjected to mock hearings and self-serving determinations.
Still, the Apostles continued their hypothetical arguments. When Micah could stand no more, he took the Twelve aside and presented his plan. Yet, even as they listened, word came that Yeshua was being crucified. No more debate. This was the time for action.
Micah’s proposal involved quite a bit of risk, though not to the Apostles themselves. Each agreed and set to work immediately, procuring the herbs that Micah would need to prepare Apollonius’ Elixir of Death, a potion he had learned to make on his last journey to the east. The sweet, aromatic solution would be given to Yeshua even as he hung upon his cross.
If all went as planned, a few minutes after its administration, the potion would make it appear that Yeshua had died. The antidote, to be used no more than two full days after administration of the elixir, would reverse its effects.
It was a simple enough plan with one great drawback; the unpredictable nature of the elixir. Give too little and Yeshua would awaken too quickly, making it obvious that he was very much alive. Give too much and he might never wake again. The timing was critical. Likewise, the antidote did not always bring about the desired effect of restoring the near dead to life once again.
Give the antidote within two days and one man would rise; administer it at one day and another would not. Though the thought of Yeshua dying by administration of Micah’s own elixir tore at his chest like the short sword of a Roman soldier, still, it seemed to be the only plan that offered any hope.
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