When the people had dispersed, the magician met Rachel behind a wall of shrubs. He reached into his jangling pouch and dropped three shekels into her palm. Rachel looked over his shoulder to where her hungry children tumbled in the dust. “What would you pay me to play blind?” she asked.

CHAPTER 37

Somewhere within ancient Palestine—33 A.D.

Her hands sticky with plant saps and her back aching from traveling and tending to the sick, Ruth sat to rest in the shade of an olive tree. Before her, great hordes of people milled along the reedy shore of the Jordan, seeking aid and words of wisdom. As the number of Jesus’s supporters increased, Ruth had grown concerned that the three of them would exhaust themselves with the impossible task of healing and teaching such multitudes.

As if reading her mind, Jesus approached. His cheeks pale, his tunic smeared with grime, his hair tangled with salve and sweat. He sat by his friend, saying nothing. Together they gazed out upon the swelling crowd. As they watched, more people arrived, some limping, some blind. Others carrying sickly children.

Jesus glanced toward Ruth. He saw her exhaustion and sensed his own. “I have been thinking,” he said. “And I fear we may not be doing the right thing.”

Bewildered, Ruth looked over. “What do you mean?”

Jesus shook his head. “You have been asking me to help preserve The Way. And I have been leading us toward Nazareth. Collecting ever more followers. Depleting us of our strength and our focus.” He sniffed with disgust at himself. “And those who antagonize us will only grow in strength and number as we approach Jerusalem.”

“But we have helped many people,” Ruth observed.

“Yes, but we cannot help them all,” he said. He glanced down at his hands. They trembled with fatigue. “And even if we could, healing them does not preserve The Way. Nor does it ensure the safety of that which it is our duty to protect.”

Ruth nodded but kept silent.

Jesus closed his eyes. “I had a dream last night,” he told her. “It was exceptionally vivid.”

“Tell me.”

He swallowed. “I was back in the caves. Tending the water in the sycamore garden. Something had happened, some great shift, and a single powerful stream was issuing from the spring. It ran with such a concentrated force and fury that not only were the plants in its path destroyed, but those on the perimeter began to wither from thirst.”

Ruth’s eyes narrowed.