“Since the crucifixion, John has lived in the large house of the widow Mary, where Jesus ate his last meat.”

“Those two are now married?”

“No, no,” he said unsmilingly, finally turning toward me. “Mary is a much older woman than the apostle and not in good health. Her home has become a virtual headquarters for Peter and James and the other leaders of the movement, here in the city. The place is maintained for their needs under John’s supervision, with the help of Mary’s son, Mark, and the Magdalene woman, who lives nearby, tends to Mary’s infirmities, and prepares meals for those who gather there to confer. With a single visit you may be able to talk with both John and Mary Magdalene, and I believe we should do it today for I fear that your time is running out.”

“But I still have three days,” I protested.

“Perhaps not,” he said solicitously, patting my knee. “Look out the rear window.”

I did as I was told, squinting through the dust from our wheels at the turbulent stream of humanity we left in our wake as we ascended to the upper city. “We’re not being followed, Joseph. I see no bald-headed or black-hooded man on a gray horse—or anyone else, for that matter, who looks suspicious.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Matthias, it is now no longer necessary for Pilate to have us followed. Do you recall your little conversation with him, in the hall, just before we departed, especially about Vitellius and your confirming that the governor is still riding his Arabian horses every morning?”

“Yes, why?” I asked with a sickening foreboding that I knew exactly what Joseph was about to say. Unfortunately, my premonition was absolutely correct.

“Vitellius was seriously injured nearly five years ago. One morning, while racing, he was thrown from his favorite mount and landed on a boulder with the base of his spine. Ever since then he walks with a pronounced limp, usually with the help of a cane, and he has never been on a horse since the accident Now Pilate knows that, at the very least, you are an impostor.”

Belching hot blasts of searing dust, riding the desert winds, forced their way into our open carriage, but suddenly I felt very cold.

eleven

BILLOWING DARK SMOKE floated lazily over Hell.

From Joseph’s palace, high in the city, I could see the infamous Valley of Hinnom far below, beyond the south wall, as we climbed into the carriage after a brief lunch of hot bread and honey. That valley, as I knew, was also called Gehenna, or Hell, not for the offal and garbage that was burned constantly on its lifeless slopes but because of the countless children who had been sacrificed there, in furnaces during Solomon’s time, to satisfy the deity known as Molech.