Nicodemus nodded. “I, too, went to bed soon after my return from Joseph’s house. The torment and anguish of burying our beloved Jesus had taken a great toll from my old heart and body.”

“And neither of you went out of your homes again that sight?”

Nicodemus looked puzzled until Joseph explained. “Matthias believes that the body of Jesus was removed from the tomb so that those of us who followed him could claim that he had risen from the dead, on the third day, as he had prophesied. You and I are on his list of suspected grave robbers—the last on his list, I must tell you.”

It was impossible to fathom the looks that now passed between these two old patriarchs. Sitting there I suddenly felt like a child struggling futilely to break the code of an adult conversation with only limited faculties and knowledge. Finally Joseph said, “Nicodemus, I want to help Matthias in every way that we can.”

Our host was silent for several moments before he said, “Then I believe it is about time that we showed him the garden.”

The garden of Nicodemus was without any doubt the most magnificent display of horticultural artistry I had ever seen. When we stepped out onto the shaded colonnade I literally held my breath. Spread out before us, on a gradually sloping hill, was a floral mosaic of incredible beauty. For at least the next hour, walking on paths paved with colored stones, I was treated to shimmering visions of anemones in purple, white, delicate pink, and scarlet. There were beds of rock-edged daisies, cyclamens, tulips, lilies, short and stately roses, larkspur, jasmine, circles of burning bushes around gurgling fountains, stars of Bethlehem, and scores of other lush flora that were still unfamiliar to me even after Nicodemus identified them. Ponds were everywhere, shaped to fit the sloping contours of the hill, each filled with different varieties of water lilies and goldfish, while hedges, meticulously trimmed, ran through the entire grounds, providing a much-needed contrast of greens and yellows to the eye-boggling array of colors. If ever there had been a Garden of Eden I was now strolling through it.

On the north side of the garden, as we rounded a gradual turn past a tall clump of damask roses, I saw the great stone. It was leaning against the side of a dark outcropping of rock. Next to it an opening had been cut into the rock that looked identical in size and shape to the one in the tomb I had just visited in Joseph’s garden. Joseph was standing next to me with a smug look on his face but he said nothing. Neither did Nicodemus, so I left them and ran ahead to the stone. It was round, stood nearly as tall as I do, and was a good foot in thickness. I leaned against its side and pushed. It refused to budge. I shoved harder. Not even an inch. I stooped down and looked inside the tomb. Then I fell to my knees. Incredible! Nicodemus had duplicated exactly, so far as I could see, the tomb in which the body of Jesus had been laid! Except for the great stone. I didn’t have to be reminded that it was the actual piece that Mark and, later, Mary Magdalene had found rolled aside on that morning six years ago. I was still shaking my head when the two led me to a curved marble bench nearby.