He started to rise. “Matthias, as you can see, I have no time for that now. Perhaps this afternoon, when I am in the courtyard—”

“James, I have only one question to ask, and I am here because you told me to come.”

He settled back on the bench. “I do not understand.”

“That other day, in the courtyard, you admitted to me that while your brother was alive you were filled with shame by his actions and you were certain that he was on a foolish path to destruction. I then asked you why, if that described your feelings truthfully, you were now his greatest advocate, risking your life each day in the Temple. You replied by telling me to speak to all the others, as I had planned, and then you would answer my question.”

He nodded, grinning. “Now I remember. Well, have you questioned all those witnesses that you had intended to see?”

“All of them.”

“And are you closer to the truth now than when you began?”

“I am, but you can still help me. If you, who did not believe, are now willing to risk the same death that Jesus suffered, then whatever you know, whatever it was that came into your life after his crucifixion, can also help me. It is one thing to see the truth through eyes that were once blind, but it is a far greater thing to understand the truth one sees.”

James bowed his head until it was almost to his knees, rubbing the back of his neck furiously. I sat beside him helplessly—hoping … hoping …

Finally he sat erect. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a shadow fell across the floor and I heard the clanking of metal. James leaped to his feet, and so did I, but not before three legionaries were inside the small tent. One of them stepped forward, his face showing little emotion.

“Are you called Matthias?” he asked, pointing to me with his short sword.

“I am,” I said hoarsely.

“Matthias, by order of the procurator, Pontius Pilate, you are hereby placed under arrest!”

fifteen

“WHO ARE YOU?”

I was once again in the quarters of Pontius Pilate. This time he poured no wine for me, nor did he invite me to sit on any of his plush couches. Pilate was in full dress uniform. Hands on leather-covered hips, he strutted back and forth in front of me, glaring—waiting.

“Who are you?” he demanded again.

“My name is Matthias. I am a historian from—”