Empire's End (24 page)

“Too far,” Joseph said. “We'll be sleeping in the open tonight.”

“We deserve it.”

“
You
deserve it, Paul. You're the one who still looks like your old self after all these years. Nobody knows or cares what I look like.”

We rode in silence a while before I said, “I'm glad those men didn't get hurt. We treated them like enemies, like threats, and they are our brothers.”

“I know. I hope someday we will get to meet them again and laugh about this.”

“You're a dreamer, Joseph.”

Three days later we arrived in Jerusalem near midnight, weary and hungry. Due to the fiasco at Capernaum, we twice had to sleep under the stars, and our food had run out half a day earlier than we expected.

Joseph spent the last hour of the journey praising me for how I had held up on the trip, which I found strange, because the drive in the carriage was faster and easier than the painstaking caravan that had carried me from Arabia to Damascus.

He stopped at a trash heap outside the southeast corner of the city, tied the horse to a rock, and walked me to a smelly area where he pointed out damaged parts of the city wall. “People here got tired of bringing their refuse through the Dung Gate, so they broke through in a couple of places. Some have been repaired, but others have been reopened. If you are careful and stay in the shadows, you can slip through.”

“How long has this been in such a state of disrepair?” I said.

“You would know better than I,” Joseph said. “I have lived here only a few years and just recently became aware of it. Was it not this way when you lived here?”

“I didn't frequent this part of the city. I knew such squalor existed, but I didn't have to face it.”

“Once you get in, find your way to the upper city and wait for me.”

Joseph headed west to enter through the Essene Gate, and when we reunited an hour later, he had with him a quiet young man he introduced as his cousin, John Mark. “His mother, Mary, will put us up while we are here.”

“How kind.”

“I couldn't expect the apostles to let you stay with me just yet,” Joseph said. “Mary may not be happy if she recognizes you, but we're family, so . . .”

John Mark sat between us as we rode to his home, and twice I thought I heard him refer to Joseph by another name, but I assumed it was merely a term of endearment. I was stunned when we arrived at the palatial home of Joseph's widowed aunt, a handsome woman not much older than he, who immediately assigned servants to wash our feet and feed us.

Mary, too, referred to Joseph by another name I did not catch, but it was also apparent to me that while she was cordial and polite, she was wary of me. As soon as she had opportunity, she spoke privately to him in low tones. When he returned he asked me for a sheet of parchment and a quill. He scratched out a note and asked John Mark to take it to the disciples. “Unhitch my horse and take him, but beware. He's tired and jumpy.”

Joseph showed me where he and I would share a room. “She knows me, doesn't she?” I said.

He nodded. “She also knew the Lord. Would you like to see where He broke bread with the disciples the night He was betrayed?” He led me down the hall to a large room.

I stared, wide-eyed. “Here? She knew Him before you did?”

“She is not happy about your staying in the same house.”

“I'm not sure how
I
feel about it, Joseph.”

“You must tell her your story.”

“In time. I want to tell the apostles first.”

We heard fast young footsteps on the stairs. John Mark appeared breathless and shaking his head.

Joseph glanced at me as he whispered, “Excuse us” and led the boy away. He returned a few minutes later, alone. “I'm sorry, Paul. They won't see you.”

“But surely if you—”

He held up a hand. “I will talk to Peter.”

“Now?”

“Yes, but I cannot leave you here. You will come with me and wait outside. I will see if I can persuade him at least to meet with you since we have come all this way. He is a fair man. I believe I can talk him into hearing you out.”

JERUSALEM

I
SHOULD HAVE BEEN
exhausted from the last leg of the trip, crawling through the crumbled wall of the city, finding the rendezvous point with Joseph, and meeting his cousin and aunt. But the hospitality in the spacious home had invigorated me, despite Mary's obvious guardedness. Fed, feet washed, and now learning I would sleep not far from where Jesus had dined with His disciples the night He had been betrayed—I could hardly fathom it.

Besides that, nothing could have kept me from the possibility of meeting even one of Jesus' disciples. I had been waiting for this since the day the Master Himself had confronted me on the road to Damascus. How many times had I rehearsed what I would say, what I would ask?

As I followed Joseph downstairs before we headed out, he said, to a secret location in the bowels of the upper city, I heard John Mark arguing
with his mother in the parlor where we had been welcomed not a half hour before. He was begging to be allowed to accompany us, but she was having none of it.

“It's already third watch,” she said, “and you're going to bed!”

The boy mentioned a name I didn't recognize who, he claimed, said he could go. Mary swung a door open, dark eyes flashing, and confronted Joseph. “Nephew, it is not your place to raise my child! I have enough trouble without you—”

Joseph raised both hands, smiling. “John Mark, save me from this woman! Tell her I said you could go only if it was all right with her!”

“That's what he said,” the boy muttered.

“Saved from the gallows!” Joseph chortled, and Mary shook her fist at him.

John Mark trudged toward the stairs. “I never get to make my own decisions.”

At the door Joseph turned back. “Aunt Mary, you're the best mother I know.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You
are
!”

“My sister wasn't a bad mother herself, may she rest in peace. But how many mothers do you know?”

Joseph shrugged.

“Just go.”

“I don't know when we'll be back, but we'll have the gateman let us in so he won't have to wake you.”

I caught her glance of disapproval. “I appreciate that,” she said.

The horse appeared to be dozing. “I hate to wake him,” Joseph said.

“I don't mind walking. How far is it?”

“Only a couple of miles. The activity will calm you anyway. You appear too eager.”

“I can't deny that.”

I even walked too quickly for Joseph's taste. “We're not racing,” he said. “There's no profit in getting ahead of me when you don't know where you're going.”

“But you're not so much older than I that you should have such a deliberate gait.”

“Slow down and let me talk to you about John Mark.”

“Do.”

“He's a most unusual young man. He may seem typical in how he talks with his mother, but he is in many ways wise beyond his years. Would you believe he has been a counselor to Peter himself?”

“Truly?”

“The lad has never breathed a word of it, to his credit, but Peter told me that during some of his darkest hours, John Mark spoke such peace to his soul that Peter believes he may even have saved his life.”

“How so?”

Joseph was a good but not quick storyteller, and I was intrigued by the difference in the man when he was being careful. He kept to the shadows and avoided watchmen with a natural ease that somehow did not make us look suspicious. We merely appeared to be changing sides of the street or turning when our normal course might otherwise have taken us a more noticeable way.

“This is a story for him to tell, but imagine yourself in the days immediately following the death of the Lord. You're grieving, having lost more than your best Friend, but also the Man you believed in with all your heart and soul. You left everything for this person because you were convinced He was the Messiah, the Son of God. You believed—and swore—you
would have gone to your grave for Him, and in fact you hacked off a man's ear with his own sword in your zeal to see that no harm came to Him.

“And then, just hours after you had vowed you would never, ever deny Him, you do just that, and not once but three times, exactly as He predicted you would.”

I shook my head and sighed. “I had heard that story and found it hard to believe, especially when Peter eventually became the most defiant one, virtually shaking his fist in the face of the high priest and telling him that he would obey God rather than men.”

“He denied he even knew Jesus, the third time in the Lord's hearing where He could look into Peter's eyes.”

“I would have been suicidal.”

“Who wouldn't? But it was more than that, Paul. While many others, particularly before Jesus' resurrection, were sorely disappointed because they had believed Jesus was going to overthrow Roman oppression—and now their hopes were dashed—Peter believed he had lost forever any chance to right his terrible wrong. He had shown himself the worst of cowards, had discovered within himself something so odious he could hardly face it. There was no way to apologize, to repent, to seek forgiveness, to make amends.”

“I cannot imagine.”

“And John Mark somehow became a balm to his broken spirit.”

“He's not an adult yet, Joseph! How young must he have been then?”

“Barely into his teen years, but he had already long loved the Lord and listened to Him. He was a believer. He helped serve the meal the night Judas betrayed Jesus. He followed the men to the Garden of Gethsemane. He saw everything that took place. I dare say that's why he felt he had earned the right to be with us tonight.”

“He probably had.”

“But my aunt rightly points out that he remains her responsibility,” Joseph said.

“What must he have said to Peter?”

“That's between them,” Joseph said, then put a finger to his lips. He pointed me to an alleyway, then signaled he would be going across the street to a low-lying building that sat half-underground and emitted dim light from windows at street level.

“This is where John Mark delivered your message earlier?”

He nodded.

“And where you stay?”

“We move around,” he whispered, “but more stay here than anywhere else. There are usually about forty of us. You see our watchmen at the corners? They trade off those posts during the night. They will recognize me and allow me to pass. I will tell the closest one that you are my guest in case he notices you, but I will not tell him who you are.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Of course, Joseph.”

“Do I need to remind you not to attempt what you did in Capernaum?”

“I deserved that.”

“God may not strike you dumb again, but I will strike you dead.”

“No you won't. You have grown too fond of me.”

Joseph smiled and patted my arm. “Perhaps. But that is not true of any of the men across this street. If they even knew I brought you here before Peter had approved you, I would be under as much suspicion as you.”

He stole away and paused to speak softly to the watchman, who turned and casually glanced my way. I stayed in the shadows as Joseph moved to the center of the building and disappeared down a short flight of stairs. A sliver of light broadened briefly onto the street as the door opened
and closed, and a shiver of excitement rose from my feet to the back of my neck. Was it possible I was moments from meeting an actual friend of Jesus the Christ?

I knew I was of all men most privileged to have once encountered Jesus on the road. And then He had personally taught me His gospel and doctrine daily in the wilderness for three years, once transporting me into the third heaven where I heard holy utterances I dare not repeat. But before this night, the only people I had ever met who had seen Jesus with their own eyes had been the few in Yanbu who had encountered Him briefly.

Alastor had heard Him preach, seen Him heal the sick and give sight to the blind, and feed the multitudes with just a few loaves and some fish.

Taryn had marveled at His tenderness with her baby, whom He had cradled in His arms.

Even the gruff Zuriel had witnessed the Savior's crucifixion.

John Mark and his mother, Mary, had known Jesus, and I longed for the day when I might earn their trust so I could hear their stories.

But to be able to talk with those He had called and surrounded Himself with—the men He had loved and taught during the years He preached and performed wonders throughout this very land—what a privilege! What would they remember? How could they have forgotten a jot or tittle?

On the other hand, it had to have been harrowing for them every day to face danger and threats on their lives. Did that blight their memories, ruin whatever joy attended the adventure of pursuing an unknown future with Him?

My dream that Joseph would simply rush into the headquarters of the apostles and plead his case with Peter, then step out and wave me in, soon faded. As the minutes pooled and became an hour, the watchmen traded
corners and the night air grew cool enough to make me fold my arms and hunch my shoulders and walk in place. My emotions shifted.

Hope became frustration and frustration despair. Part of me wanted to take matters into my own hands, to march across the street and announce myself and demand to see Peter. I would tell him that yes, I was who Joseph said I was. I used to be Saul of Tarsus, once served as an operative in the Sanhedrin, proudly led the charge against people just like him. But he could trust me now, and I could explain why.

It made sense that the apostles would suspect me, but why could their own man not get through to them?

I couldn't keep my mind from wandering. Here I was, a man Jesus Himself referred to as an apostle, the thirteenth living man to be called so, and I had become as impulsive as John Mark when his mother forbade him to run off with his cousin in the night. Had I been one of His disciples, would I have been an impetuous one the Lord would have had to harness, to correct in public? There had to have been some reason He had chosen me to be an apostle now. I so wanted to prove worthy.