Three other rooms in the lower wing were filled with scrolls, large and small, in parchment, leather, and papyrus. Another two contained his collection of paintings. There was an eighth room in the lower wing, but the old man purposely avoided its closed door when he was showing me around and I purposely avoided asking him about it.

The rooms surrounded an expansive peristyle, open to the sky and yet protected from direct sunlight by a latticed roof that allowed some of the sun’s rays to filter down on more than two hundred varieties of desert flowers that Joseph had collected over many years. Nicholas guided me through one of the libraries, opened a door leading to the plant-filled courtyard, and pointed toward the old man and his guest, sitting at a circular glass table with their heads together in animated conversation. Joseph stood when he saw us and extended his arms until I arrived at the table. Then he gently stroked my cheek and exclaimed, “No more cuts! Each day your mastery of that treacherous weapon increases.”

Still more asleep than awake, I replied, “Thank you. Progress of any sort is sweet at this point.”

He smiled and said, very casually, “Matthias, this is Peter.”

That woke me up! Peter! Simon! Cephas! The rock! Closest friend of Jesus. With his master from the earliest days—until he lost his courage at the very end. Or had he? Impulsive. Loyal. Chief spokesman for the apostles. Bold. Tough. The driving force behind the increasing number of converts. Acknowledged even by the brilliant Paul as the most powerful and respected Christian. The leader.

When we embraced, his biceps felt like thick strands of twisted steel. His smile was warm and open, but those deep-set black eyes told me what I already knew from my studies: that he could be a very rough opponent for anyone, even the chief priests, as they had learned to their sorrow. Peter’s darkly tanned square face was unlined and unmarked except for deep furrows in his wide forehead, and his thick auburn hair nearly covered his broad shoulders. The beard was full and laced with streaks of gray. His loose-hanging tunic, cut from unbleached linen, came to just above his corded, muscular calves. Around his massive right wrist was a thick, studded leather strap.

I tried to concentrate on what Joseph was saying: “…  telling Peter that we had planned to search him out today, and lo! he appears at my door to bid me farewell before he journeys to his old home in Capernaum to visit his wife’s family. Matthias, I have already taken it upon myself to explain the purpose of your mission, and Peter is willing to answer your questions providing he can be on his way before the sun is too high.”