Curling through the desolate wasteland, around craggy rock mounds that rolled like placid waves to the horizon, was a thin strip of magenta-colored road that led to a small village.

“Bethlehem,” Joseph said reverently, in response to my questioning glance.

“Will there be time?” I asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not, Matthias. Not only will there not be time for sightseeing, but I must urge you to make this visit and any others you have in mind as brief as possible.”

The road from Joseph’s place to the house of the widow Mary descended at such a steep angle that only Shem’s great strength, applied constantly to the hand brake, prevented our carriage from gathering downhill speed until it was completely out of control.

Our vehicle finally came to a grateful and creaking halt before a walled courtyard fronting on a large two-story stone house at the bottom of the hill. No more than thirty yards away was the city gate used by travelers coming from or going to Bethlehem, or Hebron, fifteen miles beyond. Joseph was no stranger at this address. We were halfway across the courtyard before he stopped and pointed toward two dense pomegranate trees that dominated one corner of the small plot. Under the shady arches of their branches, reclining on a long wicker chair, an elderly woman was fast asleep.

“Mary,” the old man called softly, “Mary.”

The woman blinked her eyes several times before she recognized Joseph of Arimathea. Then she reached toward him with both arms and he went to her while I waited. After only a few minutes together Joseph kissed her lightly on the forehead and rejoined me, nodding toward the outside stone steps leading up to a second-floor open terrace.

“Mary says that John and her son, Mark, are at the Temple and the Magdalene woman has gone to the market. We can wait for them in the upper room. Come, let us walk up the same steps that Jesus ascended to eat his last supper,” he said casually, turning to watch the expression on my face. I didn’t disappoint him. There were fourteen steps. I took them all on my toes, and I was still walking that way when we entered the room.

Dominating the large, cluttered chamber was a huge table, rising no more than a foot above the mat-covered floor. It was at least ten feet long and four feet wide, and its dark, polished surface was free of the ubiquitous dust one usually finds on all desert furniture. At the head of the table was a tall, thick candle, set in a stone base, casting its flickering light across the burnished wood and the thick green cushions that were partially tucked beneath three sides of the tabletop. I didn’t need Joseph to tell me that this was the table where Jesus, with his twelve, had taken the Paschal lamb on that fateful night when he was eventually arrested in Gethsemane.