Peter hurled the oars into his boat. He left his tangled net on the shore. He had no intention of fishing. He only wanted to row as far as he could until exhaustion distracted him from the anger scraping at his insides.

“You are not fishing today?” a voice asked from the shore.

Peter started. It was the moon-faced magician. He had an unsettling way of showing up and disappearing without warning. “No,” Peter muttered.

The magician nodded. He noted the young man’s sallow complexion. “I thought you were hungry. And might join me in a meal.” He lifted a fresh loaf of bread, a sack of goat’s cheese, and a jug of wine.

Peter’s stomach rumbled. He did not particularly care for the magician’s company, but he was hungry. The magician shrugged. “Perhaps another time,” he said and turned to go.

Peter stepped out of the boat. “No,” he said. “I would have a meal.”

The men found a shady spot under a rock outcropping. Below them, date palms bristled in the breeze. The magician introduced himself as Saul, and spoke of trivial things while his companion ate ravenously. Whenever Peter’s cup ran dry, Saul filled it with wine.

Saul peppered his new guest with questions until he lured him into speaking of his days as a shepherd and his hatred of fishing. As one hour stretched into the next, Peter’s words began to slur. Saul’s eyes glimmered, noting the wine’s desired effect. When his guest reclined and laid a hand on his stretched belly, Saul hatched his plan.

“Why have you left your friend Jesus and his sisters?”

Peter grimaced. He lifted the wine jug and poured for himself. “He does not need me anymore, it seems.”

Saul nodded. “Has enough whores to do his bidding, does he?”

“I do no man’s bidding!” Peter shouted.

Saul lifted a hand. “You are right, you are right. Forgive me,” he confessed. “It was a woman’s bidding you did.”

Peter bit his tongue. “What did you say?” he slurred.

“Oh come now,” Saul said. “You do not have to hide it from me. I am a magician, after all. I know a ruse when I see one.”

Peter stared in a daze. His chest tightened and he began to wheeze.

The magician’s eyebrows arched in shock. “You mean? Are you saying that you truly did not know?” He shook his head. “I thought certainly you, the closest confidant, would know.”

“Know what?” Peter gasped, frustrated by the circular talk and the spinning of his head.

Saul held a shrug. “I am truly sorry to be the one to tell you, my friend. But it seems you have been deceived by a wicked, and very clever, female. For I swear to you, on my father’s grave, that Jesus of Nazareth is a woman.”