The old man did not give up easily. He led me through the lower garden until we were facing toward the south. Below and slightly to our right stood an architectural eyesore. Unlike most of its graceful neighbors, the main building had two levels. “Whose place is that?” asked Joseph, in the calm tone of a good poker player.

This was going to be a shot in the dark, because I wasn’t sure, but by now I realized that there were not many landmarks remaining that would be meaningful to both of us. In my most positive voice I answered, “That is the home of Caiaphas, the high priest of the Jews, the place where Jesus was finally taken, after his arrest, to be judged by the Sanhedrin. And that outer court is where Peter was recognized as he warmed himself by a fire while his master was being tried inside. That’s where he denied Jesus three times, as Jesus said he would—before the cock crowed.”

“One more,” the old man exclaimed as if he were preparing to lay down four aces. He pointed beyond the house of Caiaphas and down the hill to a much smaller dwelling near the south wall, also two stories high, where a young man seemed to be diligently sawing wood close to the back entranceway. I decided to gamble. With my average I could afford to miss one.

“That is the place where Jesus and his disciples celebrated their last Passover before his arrest. In the upper room, there, on Thursday night, he ate his last meal on earth.”

Joseph closed his eyes. His lips were moving as if in silent prayer. Then, with his eyes still shut, he whispered, “And that boy? Who might he be?”

Now there were tears running down my face, tears I could not understand. But I did know who that boy was. “He lives in that house with his widowed and wealthy mother, Mary. His uncle is Peter, and later on in his life, after many trials and tribulations, he will write down the first life of Jesus. I have read his words and agonized over them hundreds of times in the past twenty years. His name is Mark—John Mark!”

We embraced for the first time and walked slowly back to the house without speaking another word.

After we had finished our dinner of tender partridge and lentils, washed down with cool Egyptian beer, I asked, “What do we do next, Joseph?”

The old man raised both hands, palms outward. “Tomorrow we begin.”

“But there are several things you must explain to me first.”

“Such as?”

“Language. How can I speak to these people?”

He chuckled. “Just as you have been doing with me, Matthias. Didn’t you realize that we have been conversing in Aramaic, the tongue of the common man here?”

“A-A-Aramaic?”

“You can also speak fluent Greek and Hebrew and, of course, the tongue of your own country.”