“Yes. It was his favorite place except for the hills of Nazareth. He spent many hours here, alone and with his flock, praying, instructing, or just refreshing himself after the heat of the city.”

“He came here once too often.”

The old man refused to be baited. “You mean on that night when he was arrested? Matthias, never forget that he was here, that evening, of his own free will. Knowing the grave danger he was in, he could have easily vanished north Into Galilee and escaped from the clutches of all his enemies. But those are things you must learn for yourself, my son.”

Shem had now joined us, walking several paces behind as we moved through the garden, which was more orchard than anything else. Suddenly the old man halted and placed his hand against my chest. “Look!” he whispered.

Up ahead and to our right was a small clearing. In its center was a kneeling figure with head raised toward the heavens and hands clasped tightly together as they rested on a large chalky boulder.

“Remain here,” Joseph instructed. “Let me go to him alone so as not to startle him. I’ll inform him of the purpose of your mission, and if he is willing to talk with you I shall signal.”

Joseph approached the praying apostle hesitantly until Matthew turned and saw his old friend. His face immediately brightened, and he bowed his head once more before leaping to his feet. Watching from my hiding place as the two old friends greeted each other, I had all I could do to keep from breaking and running. But to where? How could I get from here back to Phoenix?

Finally I could see Joseph pointing in my direction. Matthew was nodding his head, pausing occasionally to interrupt the old man. Then he raised his hands, palms upward, and I heard Joseph call my name. I stumbled twice before reaching the clearing.

Matthew’s head was crowned with short brown hair that barely reached his frail shoulders. His beard was neatly trimmed, covering an angular jaw below exceedingly high and protruding cheekbones, and his widely spaced gray eyes seemed unnaturally large against a skin so fair that it appeared never to have been exposed to the merciless Judaean wind and sun. A light-blue woolen cloak was draped loosely over his tall frame, partially covering a white linen tunic that parted only at his ankles to expose wooden sandals laced with heavy cord. He came forward to greet me, both hands extended in friendly greeting.

“You have a good name, Matthias.”

I smiled feebly and mumbled, “You too, Matthew.”

“Joseph tells me that you are writing a history of the Jews and wish to include the role that Jesus played in our lives.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and I am also seeking the truth about his death.”