Jerusalem, Golgotha, 14th Nisan 30 C.E.

Golgotha. ‘The Place of the Skull’ — an apt name for an execution site. And an apt location—a limestone quarry: a stark landscape, pitted with the remains of industry. A desolate place, populated by carrion and outcasts —lepers, wild goats, and wolves. I never imagined I would ever be here, enduring the agony of one of our own: Yeshua bar-Yosef, accused of inciting rebellion against Rome by claiming to be King of the Jews. It was a lie. Yeshua never claimed to be a king. It was the excitement of the crowd proclaiming him the Messiah that led to this. Pilate would not tolerate anyone who might be or become the cause of civil unrest. 

There are six of us who have made the trek to this forsaken place. Six of us who are closely related to Yeshua: his mother Miriam, whom we call Miri, his brother Yaacov, and his sister Salome, better known to us as Shala. With us also is Mariam, his aunt, and our friend, Magda, whom we call the Magdalene. Last of all there is me, his uncle and foster father. 

The rules are clear. We all know them. We are not to approach the condemned. At all times we must maintain the distance of a javelin’s throw from the prisoners. And should we stray, there are two large legionnaires armed with javelins ready to remind us. Apart from the javelin throwers, there is a sizable military presence. If Pilate is expecting trouble from the rebels or the followers of Yeshua, he has left nothing to chance. But from what I can see he has nothing to worry about. It is not a large crowd. Apart from us, few are here to support the condemned men in their last hours. Most have come to gawk or mock, or to ensure the sentence is carried out.  

King of the Jews. 

The irony of the sign above Yeshua’s head appears to have escaped those who are mocking him. It’s Pilate’s little joke. It wasn’t intended to refer to Yeshua. But to our people. It's a reminder to us that our dream of independence has been once more crushed by the might of Rome.

Crucifixion is a cruel way to die. It’s inflicted on the lower classes of the empire, as if we needed any further reminder of our impotence. But it is in the nature of those with power to squash those whose lives are deemed to be nothing but who by their millions strike fear in their hearts. The object of crucifixion is not only to punish the condemned man but to intimidate his family, his community, his tribe, lest another Spartacus rises to challenge the authority of Rome. It’s an object lesson in communal suffering and humiliation. 

To which we are bearing witness.

I shut my ears when the nails were hammered into his wrists. Shuddered, when a cry of agony burst from his lips. Mariam grabbed Yaacov’s arm, and Magda and Shala supported Miriam. It is Miriam who concerns me. As his mother, she should not have to endure this. When they hauled the cross into position and pounded it hard into the ground, she moaned like a creature in such deep distress that my knees buckled and I grabbed hold of Yaacov to steady myself. 

Seeing Yeshua hanging in agony, his weight supported only by the nails in his wrists and the cross bar to which his ankles are nailed, I can’t imagine what he is going through. I do know that at the end he will struggle to breathe as his heart struggles to beat. His suffering is horrendous and depending upon how long he takes to die, he may go mad with thirst before the end. I’ve been told that some of these execution squads have a reputation for prolonging suffering as a form of macabre entertainment. I hope this isn’t one of them. Others are apparently more merciful and know how to shorten it. 

I pray for the latter. 

As the third cross is hauled up by ropes, the scream of the poor unfortunate was more than enough for me. It’s an obscenity to watch. And I bow my head and pray for it to end quickly.

I am not a coward but cruelty I cannot abide. Better to lose myself in my own thoughts than to participate in this abomination. There is nothing any of us can do. We are so far away that although we can see Yeshua's face, he isn’t looking at us. His eyes are closed, and from the movement of his lips, he appears to be praying.

I remember my father once said, never poke an adder with a short stick, it will be the death of you. Pilate might have ordered Yeshua’ execution but there are others who desperately wanted him out of the way. Yosef Caiaphas, the current High Priest for one. Yeshua frequently criticised him and his father-in-law, Annas, the former high priest for using their positions to enrich themselves. Anyone with even minimum contact with the Temple bureaucracy knows that in all matters of importance Caiaphas defers to his father-in-law. Annas has his grubby little hands in this matter somewhere. Of that I am certain.

The family of Annas bar-Seth has held the office of High Priest since the census of Quirinius almost without interruption. It is one of four families entitled to hold the office. No one knows why only these four, but such is our tradition. But it is a brave man or a foolish one who challenges the High Priest's authority. Or anyone acting for him. Some have accused Yeshua of wanting to destroy the Temple. But they are wrong. Yeshua regarded the Temple in much the same way as the Prophet Jeremiah—that it is the House of God—a merciful house for the living, not the mausoleum for the dead which it has become.

But in life he had walked a dangerous path. Again and again, I tried to warn him. Tried to dissuade him. But his mind was set. He was a prophet. And rulers, as we know only too well have never liked having their sins exposed. Prophets are irritants. Ask Herod Antipas. So much easier to cut off their heads. Or crucify them.

I never doubted Yeshua’s courage. Even as a boy he was resolute. Just recalling those early years when we travelled together brought a lump to my throat. I love him like a son and to watch him die is more than I can bear. And I am in awe of him. Criticising those who believe they are the chosen intermediaries of the Most High took enormous courage. The prophet Jeremiah did the same. But then Jeremiah lived out his days in exile. He didn’t face the combined weight of the Temple and the Imperial Power of Rome.

But for it to come to this…. 

I tried to stifle my emotions for the sake of the women huddled together sobbing. But I could not. I wept, only dimly aware of Yaacov’s arm around my shoulder. I don’t know how long I stood before I sat down on a protruding piece of limestone and lost track of time. Yeshua’s scream brought me back to my senses. It shocked me to the core. Even more so when Miriam echoed it.

On the cross, Yeshua’s head hangs low, his body still. I give thanks that mercifully it is all over. But an eerie darkness has fallen and voices in the crowd are expressing their unease.

“Come,” said Yaacov as he helped his aunt, Mariam to her feet. “There's nothing more we can do. We should go.”

Miriam can’t seem to move. Shala and Magda are trying to get her to stand. But she’s resisting them.

“Wait,” she pleads. “Let me look at him one more time. Just one more time.” 

We waited. And waited. People were leaving. Some were fleeing.

When a Roman started poking at Yeshua with his lance, Miri turned and looked at me in horror. Then I felt the first drops of rain brush against my cheek and splatter on the stony outcrop. I could not but wonder if Heaven was weeping. 

She came to me then and we comforted each other. Over her shoulder I saw the gaping mouths of the dying seeking a reprieve from their unbearable thirst. And between them Yeshua, the rain cleansing his body in a final act of mercy. 

“Come, Miri,” I said holding her to my breast. “We must go.”

We left Golgotha to be in position when Yeshua’s body arrived at the tomb. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of two influential friends of ours —Yosef bar-Mattityahu of Arimathea, and Nicodemus bar-Gurion of the Sanhedrin – plus a substantial bribe, we would not have been granted Yeshua's body. He would have shared the same fate as the two men crucified with him. Their bodies were destined for a lime pit further down the valley where in times past human sacrifices to the god Molech were made. Unless their families stole their bodies in the night, the bones of these unfortunates would lie in a common pit making their journey to the afterlife as perilous and uncertain as their earthly lives had been. 

We who loved Yeshua were determined to spare him such ignominy and inter him decently and honourably with his ancestors. We owe a great debt to Yosef of Arimathea for offering us his family tomb as a temporary measure. Some of the wealthiest families in Judea are erecting tombs here. They are not too far from the city’s walls and the poor are unlikely to be their neighbours. 

I dreaded the descent to the Valley of Hinnon. Limestone is notoriously slippery when it rains. One misstep and a fall could be fatal. But we took our time and helped each other. Yaacov had been given directions to Yosef of Arimathea’s tomb. He said there was a small cave nearby from which we could watch the interment.

It was agreed that Yosef‘s servants would take Yeshua’s body down from the cross and transport him on a bier to the tomb. While we waited, we huddled together in a cave with barely enough room to move. Rain was now falling heavily, splashing Magda and Yaacov who were trying to shelter Miri at the entrance.

Fortunately, we did not have too long to wait. Yaacov spied the men as soon as they came over the ridge. Four of them are carrying the bier and making their way cautiously down the hillside. It is raining heavily and my heart rate accelerated as they negotiated a tricky patch. It would only take one slip for the body to bounce off the rocks and roll down the slope. But the men are steady and careful in their descent. 

As much as we would like to, we cannot approach. To do so would be to incur corpse pollution. And this close to Passover, it would nullify our participation in the Feast. Yeshua would not have wanted us —any of us to forfeit that obligation when so many were dependent on us. The Passover is due to be held in my home this evening with family and friends. Shimon bar-Clophas has been entrusted with delivering the sacrificial lamb to the Temple.

We cannot enact the funeral rites for Yeshua at this time and I know it grieves Miriam. But once the Sabbath is over, the women will be able to perform their ministrations. Later, we will gather to give thanks for the life of this man through whom the Great Name has been sanctified. The death of a righteous man is a holy sacrifice to the Lord. Nor is Yeshua alone. He is wrapped in a burial shroud woven by Anna, his grandmother. Yaacov managed to get it to Yosef of Arimathea in time. In some small way we are with him. Even now.

On arrival the men laid the bier safely at the side of the tomb before opening it. Three of them pushed the stone, the fourth made sure it kept to its rightful course as it rolled. As soon as the tomb was opened, they carried the body inside. We couldn’t see what they were doing but Yosef said it was a new tomb and the men would place Yeshua in one of the niches. I promised Miri that as soon as we can arrange it, we will bury him in Bethlehem among his ancestors, beside his father and grandfather. When the men emerged, they propped the bier up against the side of the tomb before rolling the great stone in front of the entrance to seal it. 

It is time to go. 

We have to get back to the city before the gates close and the Passover officially begins, otherwise we will be locked out. We are neither rich enough nor sufficiently influential to warrant any consideration. And this year, the night of the Feast falls on the Sabbath making it doubly holy. When a flash of lightening startled us, Yaacov half smiled and began counting the beats on his fingers before the next burst of thunder. 

“It’s moving south. We should go now,” he said with a sweep of his eyes from Miri to me. 

“Now, uncle.”

I heard the urgency in his voice. “Miri,” I said. “It’s time.” 

She didn’t acknowledge me. But I knew she’d heard. Like me, she was feeling helpless. For hours we have done nothing but watch and wait. Watched helplessly while Yeshua suffered excruciating pain. Waited for strangers to carry him down to the valley, and watched while he was interned. So much has been denied us; Miriam most of all. 

The rain is easing but the rumble of thunder rolling through the valley promises its return. Miri, Shala, Mariam, Magda, Yaacov and I adjusted our headdresses and tightened the belts of our woollen cloaks. With a storm threatening, the journey home will be difficult. Miri was still in her prime but given the circumstances, frail. I was more concerned for Mariam. She is an older woman, heavy-set and in poor health. The climb will be strenuous for her. And for me. We are all tired and emotionally exhausted. None of us slept at all last night as we prayed and waited in vain for news. 

“Ready?” said Yaacov. We smiled encouragingly at each other and with heads bowed we ventured into the maelstrom. 

The dim light makes the journey perilous. We are constantly in danger of potholes and landslides. Where the path is steep, we formed a chain, each holding onto the hand of the person in front and the one behind. But it is a slow progress. Wet and miserable, we can only put our faith in the Lord and in his servant Yaacov, grateful that his tall frame and pale headdress stands out against the dark sky. Like his brother, Yeshua, Yaacov, has strong thighs and calf muscles from walking miles up and down the hills of our promised land. But he tempers his stride for the sake of the women following him, not to mention me, his ageing uncle. Magda is a young woman, although past the age of a first marriage. She reminds me of a Homeric warrior, tall, slim, and muscular. She is keeping us close to Yaacov. With her right-hand gripping Mariam, we follow behind them, link by link like unweaned kids: Shala, Miri, and me.

It was a slow steep climb with the weather shrouding our thoughts. The rain eased as we approached the summit and we raised our heads like wild goats and sniffed the air. On the ridge we paused to catch our breath just as a burst of lightning flashed across the gleaming marble columns of the Temple. It is a magnificent sight. One of the great wonders of the world, it rivals the pyramids, drawing pilgrims and sightseers from across the world. But the cost in lives lost to create such beauty has all but faded from the collective memory. 

Yeshua revered the Temple, but he saw beyond its glistening marble to the corruption that lay within. He called it a whitened sepulchre, devoid of life-giving sustenance. It was the scene of his final confrontation with everything it represented: greed, corruption, and selfish ambition.

Whitened Sepulchres.

It’s also what he called Annas bar-Seth and Yosef Caiaphas, and he was right. They offered neither bread nor water to our people. Their hearts are hard and far from the Lord, and their deeds have betrayed their office. Those who supported and enabled them were equally guilty in Yeshua’s eyes.

Woe to you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint and cumin and neglect the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. 

I will always remember him saying that. Mint and cumin. Herbs and seeds, little things that added flavour to a meagre dish. The wild greens of the valley are not even free from the grasping hands of our masters, whether priest or lay. And almost every day there is some new interpretation of the Laws of Purity which inevitably places an extra burden on the necks of the poor. 

Power is like a pyramid. The point might glitter in the sun, but underneath are the unseen foundations which support it. And in Jerusalem underpinning the House of Annas are the elite with their extensive political connections, domestically and internationally. 

The Temple is the nation’s treasury and revenue flows into its coffers from all parts of the Diaspora, much of it, but not exclusively, in the form of tithes. Overseeing and distributing this vast revenue is the High Priest making him a wealthy and formidable power in the land. But from what I have heard, Caiaphas, like his father-in-law, can't differentiate between the wealth of the Temple and his own personal fortune. 

The Temple is involved in the production of stoneware for both the domestic market and the Diaspora. It is a lucrative business which is supported by the Jewish aristocracy, but the products are too expensive for the poor. Under the Laws of Purity, stone is deemed to be the only material pure enough to contain the food and liquids to nourish God's People. But when Yaacov visits the houses of the wealthy, he sees not only the elite but priests using highly decorated imported clay cups and dishes to entertain guests in contravention of the law. He said many of their houses beyond their reception rooms are opulent. Their wives dress in silk and parade with painted lips and kohl-ringed eyes while the poor and sick are reduced to begging for basic sustenance. And he should know. Yaacov ministers to the poor and sick in the city.

Yeshua wasn’t surprised by this revelation. To him, it was just another example of the hypocrisy he despised. Wealth, he said, came with social obligations, and wealth without charity or dishonestly accrued, dishonoured the One who gave us the Torah and who commanded us not to oppress the hireling, the widow, and the orphan. A good shepherd, he said, cares for his flock, particularly for the weak. But the House of Annas which ought to set an example, he said, was like a den of ravenous wolves.

I warned him to curb his language. I am a businessman. I have done business in Jerusalem and elsewhere for many years, and I know how necessary it sometimes is to grease the palm to get things done. But Yeshua saw such compromises as collusion. He warned that retribution was coming, that all this glittering marble would crumble, and that the huge ashlars which supported the Temple would topple in a devastation that would annihilate the Holy City. He said this not because he was a sorcerer, but as a prophet, steeped in the knowledge of the Scriptures. In his judgement, what happened to the first Temple would happen to the second. 

Were people so blind they could not see there would be a reckoning? That the Holy One would not be mocked. 

My eyes are red and sore from weeping. Now I am beyond feeling. Beyond anger. Beyond despair. It is not just the splendour of the Temple that would be lost. Marble and mortar can be replaced. But the land cannot. We would lose the soil that anchors us, the place which has forged our identity and given us strength. Holding the land is conditional upon obedience to the Torah. Not by slavishly following its letter but by acting from its spirit. But when the shepherds have been replaced by wolves and the flock becomes prey, then no amount of glistening marble can protect us from the wrath of the Lord. 

What did Jeremiah say? “Do not trust in these deceptive words: This is the Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord.” 

And when it all comes crashing down... 

Then what?

We will go into exile like our forefathers. 

How long this time, Lord? Four hundred years? Four thousand years? And where will we go?

I cannot say. But knowing what I know of corruption in this city, I could not fault Yeshua’s reasoning.

Suddenly Miri’s hand slipped from mine and she collapsed.

“Here, let me,” I said, moving Shala out of the way and scooping her up in my arms. 

“Amos,” Miri murmured in protest. 

“Hush. I’m not too old and we haven’t far to go." 

I was surprised at how little she weighed and chided myself for not realising how close she was to exhaustion. When she laid her head on my shoulder, another day and time jolted my memory. 

Many years ago, during the siege of Sepphoris, I found her unconscious outside the city beside the dead body of her father. She had been little more than a child then and I wasn’t much older. But I was stocky and strong with muscles toned from lifting bales of wool in and out of my brother-in-law’s shop. I still am, strong that is, just tired and a little slower. But it is imperative to keep moving. It must be close to sunset. But the dim light is making it difficult to tell. The sighting of the third star traditionally heralds the start of the Sabbath, although what happens in the event of a storm, I’ve never been sure. 

As we climb the stairs leading up to the new wall, Yaacov races ahead to help a merchant trying to deal with a pair of fractious donkeys. The gate into the tunnel is dark and narrow and they are stubbornly refusing to budge. He took the donkeys’ reins and with their owner prodding them from behind, the animals moved. Magda and Shala took Mariam’s arm and walked her quickly through the tunnel with Miri and I close behind. 

The shofar had yet to sound but people were beginning to disperse as we entered the city. Shops were closing their doors; spice merchants were packing their wares and women with whatever produce they hadn't sold were queuing to leave the city through the gates. 

Everywhere there is evidence of Rome’s presence. On the walls above us, soldiers stand guard, their burnished helmets and shields, their swords and javelins a reminder of Passover's volatility. Every year Pilate sends troops from Caesarea to swell the city's forces to ensure there are no disturbances. 

I set Miri down. The others have already crossed the street. But we have been detained by a troop marching back to the Antonia. While waiting near the custom’s house for it to pass, I could see tax officials inside looking over the shoulders of tax collectors, making sure Rome was not being cheated. Or the Prefect. Pilate may have arrived in Judea a poor man, but he is determined to leave a rich one. 

As I turned away, I caught the inquisitive glance of a watchtower commander looking down on us. He must have seen us coming from the direction of the recent executions and guessed we were related to one of the condemned men, for who else would be out in this weather. But I didn’t like it. I acknowledged him with a thin smile and as soon as the last boot pounded, I reached for Miri’s hand and we melted into the crowd. 

After crossing the street, instead of heading straight home, I led her down an alley. We all know what Pilate is capable of. Reprisals against Yeshua’s followers are to be expected. But in a city we know well, it will be difficult to find us, particularly when it is swarming with pilgrims. As a people living under foreign occupation, our only value is our wealth and the strategic importance of our land. As individuals we are little more than vermin. 

With the wind lashing our bones, Miri and I scurry along the alley with the stench of blood and burnt meat in our nostrils, overlaid with the cloying smell of incense. The sacrifices in the Temple courtyard have ceased but the sickly aroma from hundreds of slaughtered beasts is inescapable. Approaching the house, I can see young Dimitri, my doorkeeper, urging us inside. As soon as we were safely home, Miri kissed me and vanished into the house with the other women. 

After Yaacov and I had changed into dry clothes we congregated in the dining room near the fire. My steward, Tycho has set a flagon of wine and a pitcher of warm milk on a side table. Since coming under the influence of Yohanan the Baptist, Yaacov no longer consumes strong drink or meat. He has adopted a frugal almost ascetic lifestyle, giving most of his wages to the poor. As we sat by the fire, Tycho pours our drinks and tells us about the rumours circulating in the city. According to some, the sun had bled at noon. Others said that the earth had opened and swallowed the mockers at the cross, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram who had rebelled against Moses. Yet others claimed that graves had opened and spirits were openly wandering the city.

Usually, I don’t place much credence in rumours. Nor does Tycho. People imagine all sorts of things when frightened. But just before he died, Yeshua screamed and I heard in it an echo of the word, “mercy,” although Yaacov claimed I misheard. Whatever was or wasn't said, it upset us all. Then Miri screamed with such ferocity that one of the soldiers shook his spear in her direction. Yaacov’s face had been white with anger. As for me, it was all I could do to stop shaking. 

But Miri’s outburst was quickly forgotten when people started shouting and pointing to the sun. When I looked up I saw that more than half of it had disappeared as if it had been eaten by some strange cosmic being. The chorus, which earlier had delighted in hurling abuse at Yeshua, had fallen silent. Then someone started a rumour that it was an omen of divine displeasure and it spread like wildfire. People fled, many in a state of panic. The only ones left, apart from us, were the ghouls who love the spectacle of suffering, and Caiaphas’ spies. But the eerie silence which followed as the world was momentarily plunged into darkness saw them scurrying away like rats to their nests. Even the battle-scarred soldiers of the empire had been noticeably uneasy.

I had seen such phenomena before, and the general opinion was that its occurrence signified something momentous. Though on what, no one could agree. At the time it held little interest for me as we were mourning Yeshua’s passing. Suddenly the silence was ruptured by a shout of victory from a legionnaire saluting the invincibility of the sun whose light had returned. By then few were left to hear it. When he began poking Yeshua with his spear, we left.

The guttural sound of the shofar brought me back to the present. The Sabbath has begun. Yaacov is drying his hair beside the fire. It is now past his waist. It is just one of the many differences between him and his brother Yeshua. None of us has adopted the Roman custom of short hair but then neither did we mind cutting it when necessary. It struck me then how much Yaacov was like his father, Yosef bar-Yaacov. The two men were deeply patriotic, stubborn and unmoveable on points of religious law and custom. Their forefathers have fought hard to maintain their culture in the face of sustained challenges in the Galilee over a long period of time. It shaped them both. But if Yosef was iron, Yaacov was the willow. Unlike his father, he learned how to bend.

Galileans, like Yosef bar-Yaacov's family recognised the Temple as the site of God’s presence but they disapproved of the Jerusalem priesthood. Too many changes had been made during the time of the Hasmoneans and Yosef’s family had never accepted them. For one thing the High Priests were not Zadokites as tradition demanded. The Hasmoneans had blatantly auctioned the office during their rule causing many of the pious to sever their links with the Temple. One such group established a community near the Salt Sea. Our families remained loyal, but we were not without criticism. 

Yaacov's father, Yosef bar-Yaacov was a supporter of the teacher, Yehuda of Gamla who inspired us to stay loyal to our traditions, to maintain purity, and to call no man master except God. He and his associate, Zadok the Pharisee stressed that our identity lay in our devotion to the Torah. They encouraged us to support local industries in Galilee, such as stoneware, to break the Temple's monopoly on the product and to stimulate local investment.

Yaacov had been a prodigy in the village of Nazareth, mastering the oral tradition at an early age. It was through Yehuda of Gamla’s influence that twelve-year-old Yaacov was brought before an assembly of elders in that city. For three days they questioned him on the Law, concluding after much deliberation to send him to Jerusalem to train as a scribe.

Yehuda of Gamla was known in the south as the Galilean. He was an educated man who encouraged gifted young men in rural communities to use their talents in the service of the Holy One. He was anxious, if not to shatter, at least to pierce, the Judean perspective on the Scriptures. And I could only concur. Like him, we northerners were tired of our stories and customs being marginalised by southerners. Yaacov was to be a first spear but not the last in this regional struggle. But that was many years ago. Like Yeshua, Yehuda of Gamla paid a similar price for his faith. He did not believe in violence and true to his beliefs when the Romans arrested him, he did not resist. 

Those who live by the sword, Yehuda of Gamla said, die by the sword.

Yehuda of Gamla and his teachings lived on in Galilee long after his demise. Even I had been influenced by him. But having travelled extensively, I found his insistence on ritual purity wasn’t always practical. But I shared his enthusiasm for supporting local industries and for not compromising our Jewish identity with foreign imports. Of course, as a cloth merchant, I could only go so far.

Yaacov had fulfilled Yehuda and Yosef’s expectations. He was now a protégé of Rabbi Zephaniah of Lod, a member of the Sanhedrin. Although I am not sure how much Zephaniah would currently approve of Yaacov’s admiration for the Baptist or for his support of Yeshua.

Yosef bar-Yaacov the carpenter was a pious man who believed the first-born male should be consecrated to the service of the Blessed One. Yaacov was his first born from his first wife Sarah, and Yeshua, the first born of his second wife, Miriam. While Yaacov found his calling early, Yeshua’s path was not so straightforward. We did not know then that he would become a great teacher, even a prophet, although no doubt few will think so after today. 

Yeshua received the same oral education from Yosef as did all his sons, but he was more argumentative than his siblings. I know because I witnessed more than one occasion where Yeshua and Yosef forcibly disagreed with each other, notably on the interpretation of Sabbath observance. 

Yeshua and Yaacov couldn’t have been more different, yet both had in these last few years proved to be the other’s strength when it was needed most. In appearance both men had Yosef’s height and physical strength, but Yeshua shared a gift with his grandfather, my father, Matthat - May he rise strong of mind and limb on the Day of Resurrection - they were both storytellers. Each had a wisdom which grasped the deep nature of things and cleverly wove their insights through story and parable. Whereas Matthat was a traditional storyteller, giving the epic tales of Deborah and Barak, Miriam and Moses, Elijah, and Elisha, and even Queen Salome, his own particular flavour; Yeshua chose simple things, everyday events that were familiar to us all but which in his telling became politically explosive.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Tycho sending my pulse racing. I hadn't realised how frayed my nerves were. When he handed me the message, my hands were shaking. It was from Nicodemus. But it was what I feared - a list of those proscribed. Only two names were recognisable.

“I can’t believe it. Only two. Cephas and Andreas bar-Yonas. The rest of these people I don’t know, “I said handing him the list.

“There're bandits,” he said scanning the names. “Shimon, Yehuda and Yaacov are the sons of Yehuda of Gamla. You remember him, surely?” 

“Of course,” I replied. 

“Then you know they renounced their father’s non-violence,” he said. “I don’t recognise the others, but they're probably all part of the same network. You know what this means?” 

“Yes…May heaven curse him. Pilate is aligning Yeshua with them. And we know they have only one objective -to overthrow the government. Someone will have to warn Cephas and Andreas.” 

Yaacov picked up his headdress and rebound his hair. “I’ll find them. Bar-Shimon might know where they are.”

I looked at the list again. It was a relief to know that few of us were on it. Two of Yeshua's brothers live in Nazareth, although Yossi was here for Passover. And Yaacov was not prominently active as a disciple. Yet it didn’t explain why so many others were not on the list, including Yehuda bar-Shimon who boasted that he knew people of influence even in the High Priest’s palatial mansion. Yet only two of us have been singled out. Fortunately, the city is so crowded with pilgrims that finding them will not be easy.

When Yaacov left, the oil lamps flickered and I shivered, not with cold but at the thought of the future that lay before us. I could hear the rain hammering on the roof, probing for any weakness in the building. Somehow it seemed an omen of things to come. Dimitri glanced at me and added more wood to the fire. When Miri and her grandson, two-year-old Asher entered the room, Dimitri went down to the kitchen and returned with hot wine in a stone beaker for Miri and warm milk for Asher. 

“Where is Yaacov?” said Miri. I told her about the list and Yaacov’s concern for Cephas and Andreas. 

“I pray they are safe,” she said, gathering Asher in her arms, and settling close to the fire. “It’s been a cruel day. I asked the Holy One to take me so many times. I just couldn’t go on. Is that so wrong of me?” Asher guzzled his milk and nestled close to his grandmother, his eyes heavy with sleep.

“No Miri. I buried three children, the last not much older than Asher. Each of them ripped my heart to shreds. Anger sustained me for a while – then grief overwhelmed me. When Naomi died, I was numb. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I didn’t have the faith of Job. I couldn't say with a good conscience: The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the Name. All I wanted to do was scream and curse the cruelty of fate. Then you entrusted Yeshua to me. If only you knew how much joy he brought back into my life.” My voice cracked and my eyes filled.

“Of course, I knew. Although I admit the only reason Yosef let him go with you was because his mind was everywhere except in the workshop.”

I wiped my face and managed the semblance of a smile. “I’d hoped to make a merchant of him. But he was such a poor businessman. He spent too much time listening to foreign travellers or giving our profits away to the needy. None of us could make him into our likeness. Not Yosef. Not you. Not me.” 

“No. But why this?” 

“None of us know the mind of the Lord,” I sighed. “But we will get through it. You will get through it —tomorrow and each day after. I won’t let anything happen to you or your family if it’s within my power. You know that.” 

She turned towards the fire but not before I caught a look of doubt on her face, and I wondered if she was remembering Matthew, Zillah’s husband and her uncle by marriage. He once said that he would protect her. After Heli her father died, Matthew had tried to appoint himself Miri’s guardian. It was not a good time and Matthew always evoked mixed feelings in her. It was Anna, my sister, Miri’s mother who suggested Yosef the carpenter as a husband. And it surprised us all how smoothly negotiations went, because with Yosef nothing could ever be taken for granted. 

I was Heli’s partner as well as his brother-in law. After the rebellions in the north in the wake of the death of King Herod, and a few false starts, I eventually relocated to Jerusalem with my sisters, Anna and Zillah. Later we were joined by Miriam after Yosef died. Although I am not rich, I am sufficiently prosperous to have a dining room, although I hasten to add it is plain and unadorned, not decorated like many of the aristocratic dining rooms in the city. It’s on the upper floor along with three rooms, one of which is occupied by Shala and her husband, Binyamin. At street level is the shop and behind it a kitchen leading out to a courtyard. On one side of the courtyard is a room where Tycho and his family are domiciled; on the other side is a room for storage. Next to it is a privy, the cost for which, without Binyamin’s help would have been exorbitant. Finally, just outside the courtyard is a communal cistern.

I am a reputable merchant in this city. We live in the street of cloth merchants and my business supplies many of the wealthiest families in Judea. The advantage we have over our competitors is our blue dye. It is sought after by priests and laymen for tzitzit, the fringes and tassels on prayer shawls, and by their wives for head coverings and borders. We have even sold to Antipas and his court. The colours are unique. The women of our family have possessed the secret of this dye for generations, passing it down from mother to daughter as part of their dowry. They can produce a blue from the lightest shade of a bird’s egg to one so rich it rivals lapis for depth and clarity.

Anna lives in the lower city in the street of the tanners near the Dung Gate. She oversees the dyeing process. Her sister, Zillah, also a widow, has recently taken up bee keeping. Rachel, Yaacov’s sister lives with them. All the women have specific tasks, including Miri. She is Anna’s assistant as well as a fine weaver in her own right. Now she is teaching her daughters, Rachel and Shala. My wife, Naomi used to help with sewing and embroidery but like other women, not of our blood family, she was never privy to the secret of the dye. 

Judeans view Galileans with a suspicion sometimes bordering on contempt. We are regarded as uneducated, headstrong, and given to violence. I believe this is because we survived independently from Judea for many centuries until the Maccabees fought their way to the throne and to the high priesthood and proved to be as corrupt as those they replaced. Once enthroned they called themselves the Hasmoneans. But for a short time under their rule, we were once more a sovereign independent and united nation, as we were under King David.

However, the only member of the Hasmoneans who earned our respect was Queen Salome Alexandra, after whom our beloved Shala was named. Queen Salome was the only woman to rule our nation and her reign is recalled as one of peace, prosperity, and stability. The Pharisees love her and extol her virtues, primarily because she put them into power. A cynical man might say that much can be overlooked and forgiven when power is the goal. But due to their influence, Salome has become a popular name for baby girls in the hope they will emulate their namesake’s piety. And that at least is true of Queen Salome even if much else is myth. But after her death, the rivalry between her sons and others drew the eye of the Romans and we lost our independence.

These days Judeans think more of Yehuda and Shimon Maccabee than they do of their more illustrious descendent, Salome. The reason, I suspect, is because Judeans are again yearning for their independence. But so too are Galileans. It was the Hasmoneans who re-united us as one nation. I don’t count the Herodians because they are nothing but Roman puppets. Yet prejudice towards us continues to persist in the city. Still, I believe we are safe here. Having lost my accent years ago through foreign travel, few in this city would know that I was born a Galilean - let alone that Yeshua bar-Yosef was my nephew. 

Was. 

It leaves a bitter taste on the tongue…Was.

But we cannot afford to be complacent. There are many spies in the city and Pilate will squash anyone he sees as a threat. It is the list that worries me. The Temple Guard will have already passed it to the military. Everyone on it is a wanted man or woman. Anyone harbouring them, whatever their rank or position would incur a similar fate: crucifixion. Or if Pilate was feeling magnanimous, slavery in one of the empire’s penal colonies, the salt mines or the galleys. Cephas and Andreas must leave the city as soon as possible. There is no other option. Andreas could take care of himself, it was Shimon now called Cephas, or Peter, who worries me. A big man, he is conspicuous by his size and accent. It was Yeshua who nicknamed him Cephas, “the rock;” a name he deserves if you’d witnessed him hauling in a fishing net single-handed. But it also meant he stood out in a crowd. Big man. Big voice. And much too impetuous. There is no telling what he would do if left to his own devices. Or what would happen to us if he were caught.

My stomach rumbled, awakened by the aroma of roast lamb drifting from the kitchen, reminding me I hadn’t eaten for hours. 

“They will soon be here, Amos,” Miri said, noting my concern. “Be patient.” 

Mariam had joined us during my reverie. She was looking better than she had been earlier. Asher has woken and is starting to grumble. Like me he is hungry and to distract him while the women talked, I took him across the room to a small cupboard in the corner. It contains many of the treasures I have gathered on my travels, including an Egyptian toy which spins on its axis. As soon as I showed him how it worked, he was so excited, I wasn’t sure I would be able to retrieve it from him without a fuss.  

I was so engrossed with Asher I didn’t hear our guests arriving for Passover. Ordinarily I would be filled with religious fervour. Not today. Today I feel only sorrow. 

Yaacov has returned with his younger brother Yossi, and Mariam’s son, Shimon bar-Clophas, closely followed by Yohanan and Yaacov, the sons of Zebedee, and Andreas bar-Yonas. There is no sign of his brother, Cephas.

“He’s out there somewhere. Brooding I guess,” said Andreas, with a wry smile. He is almost as big as his brother, but far less impetuous. A look from Yaacov told me that Andreas had been told about the list. 

As my eyes swept the group, I wondered how many of us would still be together in a year from now. All are young men with their own lives to lead and in some cases families to support. With Yeshua gone what was there to keep them together? Nevertheless, Cephas’s absence worries me. He was close to Yeshua. So too was Yehuda bar-Shimon whom I fear must be inconsolable. He expected so much from Yeshua. Too much I thought. I’d tried many times to temper his expectations but never succeeded.

Shala and Magda came up from the kitchen carrying plates of food for the table. Dimitri appeared with a basin. When he tied a cloth around his tunic and began washing the feet of our guests, it brought a lump to my throat. On the night of his arrest, Yeshua arrived with a few of his disciples to share a meal with us. To our utter amazement he took the cloth from Dimitri’s hands and began washing everyone's feet, beginning with Dimitri. When Cephas stridently objected, Yeshua said, If I do not wash you, you have no part in me. No one would dream of taking the cloth from Dimitri now. Yeshua had transformed a simple and humble task forever in our eyes. The pride in Dimitri’s eyes, the looks on the faces of our guests – was enough to tell me we were all reliving the lesson it embodied. 

The menorah on the window ledge cast a soft glow over the room. Yosef had carved it. It was a simple design made of olive wood. Shala had earlier spread an embroidered linen cloth in the centre of the dining table on which she had placed a basket of bread. The lotus flowers along the border were Naomi’s work. It was one of my favourite pieces. I remember her doing it and there was no way I would ever permit it to be sold. 

Bowls and cups soon followed and we took our places around the table, reclining on couches, dipping our bread into the same dish when possible. Tycho brought wine and filled our cups except for Yaacov’s, and Eirene set a pot of delicious fish soup, a recipe from her native Smyrna on the table as the first course. 

It was a strange Passover celebration. My mind couldn’t focus on anything. I mumbled the traditional prayers and floated through the ritual. 

Coaxed by his father Binyamin, Asher said. “Why is this night different from every other night?” 

It was almost my undoing. Yaacov seeing my distress answered him, for which I was grateful.

After we had finished eating, we sat around telling stories of Yeshua. Andreas recalled the day they first met him on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. 

“That’s when it all started,” said Andreas. “He seemed to be there every time our boat came in as if he was waiting for us. One day we invited him home. What we didn’t know was that Cephas' mother-in law was ill, and it was a bit embarrassing arriving home with an unexpected guest. Cephas’ wife, Olive had been too busy looking after her mother to prepare food. Yeshua understood the situation immediately. He just took the old lady’s hands in his own and lifted her up from floor where she was lying and held her for a moment. We didn’t know then of course that he was a healer. Suddenly she was better and in no time at all she was helping Olive prepare a meal. 

Afterwards we talked and I remembered where I’d seen him before - down at the Jordan. Cephas and I had gone down to see what all the fuss was about and after we were baptised, we stayed another day. When we told Yaacov and Yohanan, their father Zebedee was furious. As far as he was concerned, nothing and no one interrupted business.” 

Yohanan grinned. None of us required an explanation. Zebedee the fisherman was well known for his volcanic eruptions and his two sons were known locally as “the sons of thunder.” 

“The day we decided to follow Yeshua,” said Yohanan, “was the day the Baptist was arrested. But for our father’s sake we compromised. One of us would stay with the boat. You know what Zebedee was like. The whole harbour could hear him when he was angry. As it turned out Yaacov was the one who mainly stayed with Zebedee, but we switched when we could.”

After the others had contributed their reminiscences, there was a distinct pause and I saw the tears welling in many an eye. To distract them, I took up the thread.

“My story about Yeshua began many years ago.”

“And when was that uncle?” said Yaacov. 

“It all began with a chisel. A very expensive pair of chisels that I bought in Palmyra. You remember them, Miri?”

“How could I forget?” she said her eyes glistening in the lamplight. 

“I bought them for Yosef. Times were good then. The weather was a blessing. We were all doing well, and although Yosef stubbornly refused to work in Sepphoris because he hated the Herodians, he was finding work elsewhere. Most of it was in stone but the smaller chisel created further opportunities in wood. Like that menorah,” I said nodding in its direction.

“I’m sure he had chisels, uncle. Why would he need another?” said Yossi.

“Ah, because these were not ordinary chisels. They were made by the Seres — the people beyond the empire who make silk. The blades are made of a special metal called steel. The Seres have made unbelievable advances in their homeland. We are only just beginning to learn of them.”

“And what is special about steel?” said Yohanan.

“It’s harder than iron,” I said, hearing the gasps of amazement from the young men around the room. “It cuts quickly and finely. One day, I am sure the Romans will make use of it for military purposes. But once a craftsman masters it he can produce two items in the time it takes to make one. Yosef was thrilled. He kept turning them over and over in his hand marvelling at the quality of the work. Yeshua was fascinated.”

“Why?” said Yossi. “Yeshua was never interested in our father’s business.”

I smiled at my young nephew. Of all Miri’s children he was the most like her. His dark curly hair tumbled over a much smaller pair of shoulders than his bigger brothers. As the youngest in the family, he didn’t remember Yeshua as a boy with a boy’s interest and curiosity. 

“It wasn’t just the chisels, Yossi. It was where I bought them - Palmyra. It’s a border city in Syria. The Palmyrenes control the caravan trade from the borders of Egypt to the Indus. And Palmyra is the axis on which it turns. Merchants gather there from east of the empire and beyond. Even some of the Seres people have been there, although they mainly use middlemen to transport their goods. Their products have come from far away, over deserts and mountains near the end of the world. But they are not the only strange ones who come to Palmyra. People from the Indus arrive in caravans bringing the finest cotton you’ve ever seen. And they make a stronger kind of iron than other people do. The camels who carry their goods are equally strange. They are very hairy with a strange deformity —two humps on their backs. But those who ride them say they are better adapted to the desert and can go without water for many days. 

Yossi’s eyes filled in amazement. 

“Most importantly people come. People you have never seen, Yossi. Languages you’ve never heard. Some are as black as an olive, others pale with ruddy cheeks and yellow hair. Some have eyes shaped like almonds. Other shave their heads like the priests in Egypt. Many speak Aramaic and Greek. Initially I was surprised by this until a fellow merchant told me that everywhere Alexander the Greek travelled he built cities and established governments and put his own people in charge. I have travelled from Mysia to Egypt. Everywhere I’ve been I’ve seen the most amazing things, heard wonderful stories from places few have heard of. But none surprised me more than Palmyra. When merchants gather to trade, Yossi, it is as if all the kingdoms of the world have gathered in one place, and with them come not just goods to sell but new ideas.” I caught a wry smile of understanding on Yaacov’s face. 

“And Yeshua liked that?”

I laughed. “Yeshua couldn’t wait, Yossi. As soon as I told him about Palmyra, he wanted to see it for himself. He was only seven years old, but he vowed then to see all the kingdoms of the world. Didn’t he Miri? Do you remember?”

“I do. He was so excited. I think he imagined exploring every one of them.”

“But what happened to the chisels, uncle?’ said Yossi. “My brother Yehuda hasn’t got them. "

“Ah. The good times withered, and things went badly for Yosef. Herod Archelaus was deposed. He was such a bad ruler that the people petitioned Rome for his removal. The emperor listened to the people’s delegation but instead of giving Judea a better ruler, he annexed it, bringing it directly under Roman rule. Some of you will remember that when old King Herod died the Kingdom of Judea was divided up into territories or tetrarchies and Herod’s children were given parts of it to rule. Herod Archelaus was made Ethnarch of Judea, Samaria and Idumea; Herod Antipas was given Galilee and Perea, and Herod Philip was given Ituraea which is north of Lake Kinneret. Even Herod’s daughter, well the one he liked best, was given control over a couple of cities. None of these rulers had the title ‘king.’ Old King Herod was the last King of the Jews. 

But then came Yehuda of Gamla. With Judea now under direct control of Rome, the emperor decided it would be a good opportunity to assess the economic strength of Archelaus’ territory. It was still called Judea, but it was now territorially much reduced in size. Nevertheless, it had rich pickings and ordering a census was a good way of estimating the wealth and resources of the territory. But as Yehuda of Gamla pointed out, the census could be used for more than taxation. It could be used to conscript men for military service. And that would bring down the Wrath of God according to his understanding of the Torah, because in effect we would be surrendering our sovereignty.

Nothing however could stop the census. Quirinius, the Governor of Syria organised and implemented it. And that's when Herod Antipas decided that a little reappraisal of property in Galilee wouldn’t go amiss. He had a huge building programme to fund, most of which he was going to dedicate to the emperor and his family in order to curry favour. It was a good opportunity to update the property register. Yehuda of Gamla persuaded our people that Antipas’ ‘reappraisal,’ was basically a census in disguise and Yosef agreed. But his position divided Nazareth. Many were against him, including your Uncle Matthew.”

“Were you not against our father as well Uncle Amos? “said Yossi. 

“Never against Yosef. But I often disagreed with him. And yes, I thought resisting the authorities in either jurisdiction would lead to reprisals. Which it did. Yehuda of Gamla and many of his followers were crucified. Yosef was punished by Antipas for not declaring his olive trees and he lost his field which he could ill afford. But he still refused to work in Sepphoris and Tiberias. As for Nazareth, it was gaining a reputation as a village of fanatics and rebels.” 

Turning to Yohanan bar-Zebedee I said. “Yosef had a fine reputation as a stone worker and when he agreed to work on a project, he brought many of the young men of the village with him as labourers. His politics didn’t just affect him. They affected the village.”

“The same in Capernaum,” said Yohanan. “It was not just the family on the fishing boat. We have hired hands as well.”

“Then you understand. Eventually Yosef was forced to sell whatever he could to keep his family together, including the chisels. His son, Yehuda was working alongside him then. Yaacov was in Jerusalem and Yeshua was with me. When Yosef died, Yehuda was left with only a few of his father’s tools. It was a hard time, not just for Yosef but for Miri. She had little ones to feed, including you, Yossi. Ah, but let’s not talk about any of that now,” I said, shifting my body to a more comfortable position. “We are telling good stories tonight. Not sad ones. Yeshua and I saw steel again. This time it wasn’t a chisel. It was in the finest assemblage of medical tools and precision instruments I have ever seen. You know where that was?”

Yossi shook his head.

“It was at the medical school in Alexandria. But before we get there, let me tell you about Yeshua’s first visit to Palmyra.