Matthew smiled indulgently. “But Jesus is not dead. That fact you can verify without my help. Only a few hundred cubits from here, beyond the wall to the west of the city, is the place where he was buried. Have Joseph take you there so that you may view the empty tomb with your own eyes.”

If I wasn’t careful I could doom this interview before it ever began. “Forgive me, Matthew, but even when I see the tomb it will not be enough to satisfy me. Like your friend Thomas, I need more facts, more verification. To me an empty tomb is just a hole in the ground. It proves nothing. Joseph said that you might help me in my search for the truth, wherever it may lead.”

Matthew hesitated and then gestured toward Joseph. “You have a powerful advocate here in the Arimathean. However”—his eyes twinkled momentarily—“you must be on your guard with him, I warn you. Many doubters such as yourself have fallen under his spell and are now among our most loyal supporters. I shall be happy to answer your questions; however, all of us who live for Jesus must support ourselves as well as contribute to the central fund, and so I must be in the market by the third hour, to assist Obadiah the silversmith after he opens his shop for business. The poor man is an excellent craftsman but a terrible keeper of ledgers, and he was badly in need of a bookkeeper before we found each other.”

“I am most grateful for your assistance. Let us sit here and be comfortable while we talk.” I gestured toward the huge flat-topped boulder alongside which I had seen Matthew praying. I turned to sit—

“No!” they both screamed, their anguished cries echoing through the garden.

I froze, in a half crouch. Feeling silly, I stood erect again and looked toward Joseph for guidance. Instead, Matthew came forward and grasped my hand.

“Forgive us, Matthias. How were you to know that this common-looking slab of stone is sacred to us? It was on this rock that Jesus prayed on his last night here before he was arrested.”

I reached down and rubbed my hand against the hard chalky surface, remembering the idealistic paintings I had seen of Jesus praying in the garden. White dust still clung to my moist palm as we followed Matthew to a smooth patch of grass beneath an ancient olive tree and made ourselves comfortable. Shem moved nearer, squatting close to the path up which we had come, his dark body slowly turning in full circles as he constantly studied the shifting shadows within the garden. I began from square one. Although we had just been introduced, I asked nervously, “What are you called?”

Matthew smiled. “That depends on who is addressing me, friend or foe. I am Matthew, sometimes called Levi, a son of Alpheus of Capernaum.”

“And what is your age?”

“This is my forty-seventh year.”