Peter poured himself another goblet of wine and buried his teeth in a roasted lamb shank. The business of enemies was Saul’s, not his.

Saul narrowed his eyes and said, “It is our duty, therefore, to rid the land of those who would question our Master’s legitimacy.”

The men grumbled in assent, eager to feel blood on their hands.

A hush fell over the tent when a rough-looking man tore down the tent’s camel hide door and stepped inside.

Peter stared in disbelief. “Judas!” he blurted, his judgment dimmed by wine. “Can it be you? We thought you had met your end all those years ago in this very city!”

Alarmed, Saul and the others leapt to their feet.

Judas faced the imposter. “Yes, Jesus, it is I,” he said, his voice tight with rage. With great speed, he drew Peter into an embrace and planted a kiss on his cheek.

From their positions outside, Pilate’s soldiers saw the assassin’s signal. Leaping from their hiding places, they swarmed the tent. Swords and armor clanked as Saul’s men fought back, one losing an ear to his attacker’s blade. Within minutes, the soldiers overpowered the drunken group and took their man, lashing his arms behind his back.

Peter wailed as Saul and his men slashed open the sides of the tent and escaped into the night.

CHAPTER 52

Somewhere within ancient Palestine—33 A.D.

The moonless night cast little light into the manger. A cow lumbered on the floor, chewing its cud, its stomach gurgling. Three guinea hens roosted in baskets of hay.

Outside, Mary and Tabitha stood guard. They had seen Saul’s men following them and knew it would not be long before they were discovered.

Deep inside the shelter, in the shadow of a crumbling wall, Ruth guided her quill across the luminescent fabric beneath her. The dark ink soaked her fingertips. Cramps gnawed at her joints. She completed a line and then dipped her quill into the small well of ink. She squinted in the diminishing light, afraid to brighten her lamp for fear of detection. She would have to hurry.

“So that life may come of death,” Judas had said when he opened the goatskin pouch on his back and handed Ruth the silk garment once worn by his beloved sister.

As the words fell under Ruth’s quill, tears dropped from her eyes. Her mind turned to Anna. She knew that she was dead. That her body had been desecrated. But she knew, too, that her spirit would rise again. That new life and new hope would spring from her story and its retelling. And in this way, she would live forever.

Thinking these things, she poured all she could of The Way, and of Anna’s journey, onto the sparkling silk.

Tabitha stepped into the doorway. “Hurry!” she whispered.