13th Apostle (20 page)

“One thing must be said.” Micah added. “I want nothing of you. To be with you, help you in your work, share your journey, and to learn from you as I may. That is all I ask.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Yeshua countered, “that it is I who may learn from you? Those who call themselves my Apostles worry like old women. Though, I must add in all fairness, that they are not altogether wrong. They say I underestimate the anger I instill in those who are at cross-purposes with my teachings.”

“What do they advise?” asked Micah.

“Ah, there is the problem,” responded Yeshua. “Though they observe a danger, they are at a loss as to how to thwart it. Perhaps, as I may teach you about the Kingdom of Heaven, you may teach to me all that you have learned about men and human nature and share with me the wonders of the many skills you have learned in those lands to the east.”

“It would be my joy,” Micah answered softly.

Concern clouded Yeshua's face. “Not necessarily so.”

Yeshua explained that he feared that the twelve who traveled with him would not take kindly to Micah. “As men will do, they have taken into their minds that no other may join our inner circle.”

They believed there must be only twelve apostles, Yeshua explained, as there were twelve tribes of Israel. To his Apostles, a greater number would be sacrilege. He did not agree, but he allowed them this indulgence.

“They are good men in their own right,” Yeshua, said, “though they are neither as learned nor perhaps of such lofty thought as you.”

In the early hours of the morning an idea came to Yeshua, and a plan was set. He would bring Micah into the circle, not as another apostle, but as a scribe; one who would record their daily comings and goings for posterity or, should need be, for legal defense before a tribunal.

“We'll say you're going to record my life for all the future generations who might thirst for such details,” Yeshua announced with a grand sweep of his hand. Then, falling back in laughter at the absurdity of such an event, he continued. “Or at least your writings may bear witness to my innocence should I meet a less noble end,” he added, raising a goblet of wine in toast.

“But I must warn you,” Yeshua added more soberly. “While they will have no choice but to accept you as my scribe, they will make your life less than easy. I fear you shall, once again, be as an outcast.”

“I will trust in you and in myself,” Micah assured Yeshua. “I came in hopes of finding welcome in my father's home. I have found it, instead, in the house of the Lord. I seek nothing so great as to be counted as one of your Apostles. If fortune has decreed that my task is that of a scribe, I will nonetheless consider myself blessed.”

Day Ten, mid-afternoon
Hillingdon Towne Centre, London

He was tall for a Syrian and broad in the shoulders. Gray hair bristled in all directions, and his prominent nose, deep-set brown eyes, and dark skin combined to give him the look of a great aging eagle.

Sarkami escorted Gil and Sabbie to his home through a back alley that weaved its way past tiny backyards, each groomed with meticulous care. White picket fences marked boundaries between properties, and neatly arranged, unblemished rubbish cans stoutly awaited their consignments.

For Gil, the short walk from the car to Sarkami's home was less than pleasant. Neither Sabbie nor Sarkami spoke a word. They didn't seem to need to.

Gil maintained his silence as well, though it was not a comfortable one. He was the outsider, forced to bear witness to the most intimate of wordless exchanges between them, and he longed to be somewhere else; anywhere else.

Sarkami carried one shopping bag, Sabbie, the other. Gil walked behind, intrigued by the look of contentment on her face. This was a different Sabbie, the woman Gil would have loved to know, the product of a different life. Her face was soft and beautiful and she gazed often into Sarkami's eyes. They held hands and, as they walked, their bodies moved in step.

Anger rose in Gil's chest, and his face grew hot. What was he getting so angry about? He had no claims on her. All the same, he didn't have to watch her make love to the guy.

Four bolt locks barred entry to the sea green backdoor of Sarkami's tiny home; a great deal of protection for so humble a dwelling. The scene that greeted Gil beyond the door, however, surprised and amused him.

The small, simple layout was not unlike his own apartment. Square, simple utilitarian furniture filled a minimum of space. The room was one of singular purpose, the comfortable and efficient completion of one's work.

In the area where Gil would have placed computers and display screens, the tops of two long tables and a desk held vices, cutting tools, engraving instruments, inks, scissors, paper, and pens. Extension cords crisscrossed the floor.

One long folding table against the back wall appeared to be designated a clean zone. It was covered with a fine white cloth on which were carefully laid several small sections of parchment, a couple faux facsimile scrolls, and more than a dozen strips of copper, not unlike The Cave 3 Scroll sections Sabbie had shown him at the Museum. Books, dust, scraps of paper, bits of metal, and sketches littered every surface of the room save for the clean table. This was the workshop that Sarkami called home. Gil understood the man completely.

Sarkami ignored Gil and turned to Sabbie. “Was it very bad?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Did he know you were there, at the end?”

She nodded again. “They left him there to die slowly and turned him so he had to face Sarah's body.”

“Did he speak?”

“He said he was sorry,” she began, then broke into sobs.

Sarkami looked puzzled. “Sorry for what? He never gave them the diary.”

“I know. He was just saying he was sorry things turned out like they did.”

Sarkami shook his head sadly.

“Victims often blame themselves, you know,” Sabbie said softly with a slight shrug. “Even though they could have done nothing to stop their assailants. A very wise man once tried to teach me that,” she added and looked knowingly at Sarkami's gentle face.

Sabbie closed her eyes, opened them after a moment, and continued. “He told me that he had wished he could have been there when it all came to be. I promised him we would not fail. He smiled and said we had better not. Then he told me to take everything from the oven safe and get the hell out.”

“No problem with the diary?” Sarkami asked.

“No problem. It was right there in the oven safe with the passport you gave him for Gil. Whoever killed him never knew it was a few feet from where they left him.” She choked back a sob.

“Something else?” Sarkami prompted.

Sabbie nodded. “Next to the diary, he left a pile of several thousand pounds in traveler's checks. On top of the pile was a post-it that read: ‘Take it. You'll need it.'” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Considering his salary, it must have taken years of sacrifice to accumulate that much money.”

She surrendered herself into Sarkami's open arms.

Gil watched in amazement. He hadn't thought Sabbie capable of such love, not for Ludlow, not for anyone.

Sabbie blew her nose into a handkerchief Sarkami offered, then continued. “I should have known it was the work of McCullum's boys. It had WATSC written all over it, down to keeping Ludlow's wife alive until he arrived home and causing Sarah enough damage to…”

Once more sobs overtook her, and Sarkami held her as he had before.

She straightened and continued. Until she had spotted McCullum at the Museum, she hadn't considered him to be a player. McCullum must have gotten smart and stopped using e-mail to communicate with DeVris. Otherwise, she would have been able to pick up on their ongoing connection.

There was more, she added, and it wasn't good. “McCullum wasn't the only one after Ludlow. As I was leaving Ludlow's, I spotted two men—definitely not WATSC—checking out the apartment. One of the men was very large, the other was small and dark. I think the smaller one had a scar on his cheek but I couldn't be sure.”

Sarkami's face became grim.

She added that she had spotted both men again in Weymouth, waiting outside their hotel. She didn't think they saw her on either occasion but, again, she couldn't be certain.

Sarkami asked if she had encountered anyone in Weymouth. By the way he emphasized the word “encountered,” Gil was certain he was using the euphemism for Gil's benefit. Sabbie seemed to have no such reservations.

“I took down one in the restaurant bathroom and put another on hold at the Monastery. They weren't McCullum's WATSC boys. That's what really has me worried.”

“The guy in the Monastery?” Gil interrupted. “You said he was a maintenance man!”

“We had more important things to deal with at the time,” she answered simply, then exited the room with Sarkami. Gil heard a door close behind them.

They returned a few minutes later.

“Give me your wallet,” she said. She held her hand out for Gil's expected offering.

Gil didn't move.

“I need the bills with the translation to give to Sarkami,” she said.

“Screw you!” Gil shouted.

He had put up with more than enough, he said. He added that he was tired of being treated like a child, a potentially dead one at that.

“You got what you wanted from me, so why don't I just go and leave you two to whatever you two want to do.”

Sabbie and Sarkami looked at him with shocked expressions, then both smiled, and shook their heads.

His anger soared. They were doing it again, only more so. He told them what they could do with their patronizing smiles as well as the scroll.

“You don't understand,” Sabbie said. “We're not done with you…”

“So what, you're saying you're not going to let me go?” Gil asked.

“No, we're not done with you because the scroll's not done with you. There is much more for you to do. When you're ready to know, it will all become clear…”

They were treating him like a schmuck once again. “What is it?” Gil asked. “Aren't I smart enough or violent enough or whatever it is you want to be part of your little game?”

Sarkami addressed Gil for the first time. “Not violent enough?” he asked incredulously. “Yes, that's true. Not violent enough to defend the scroll against those who would destroy its message? I think so. God, I pray so. You have a far greater task ahead of you, one which requires far more than the mere ability to spot pursuers and remove their threat.”

Gil waited for an explanation, but none came.

“What kind of task?” Gil asked skeptically.

“One that only you can complete,” Sabbie said. Her touch on his shoulder was electric. The warmth he felt when he first found the scroll surged through him once again. She held the scroll and was passing it to him.

“Take this,” she urged. “Then protest if you like and we'll do as you say.”

Gil stared at her. He knew what he would feel even before she laid the scroll in his arms.

There was no anger. There was no distrust. A lifetime of betrayals had been wiped clean and with it the petty concerns and jealousies that had filled his thinking and his heart. Ludlow—God rest his soul—Sarkami, Sabbie, and he, together they now shared one purpose: to complete the promise of those who had gone before, to protect this scroll, and to deliver the two-thousand-year-old message it bore.

Though, for whom the message was intended, Gil could not imagine.

Day One following the Crucifixion, morning Home of Joseph of Arimathea, Judea

It was a dream filled with terror. It disappeared even as Micah reached to grasp hold of it. Perhaps it was for the best. Waking brought with it a dread almost too horrible to bear. Judas' betrayal, Yeshua's arrest, and the flight of the Twelve. Last night, in only a few moments, all was changed, all was lost.

Had he not been so foolish, so willing to be swayed by Yeshua's assurances, Micah might have seen it coming and, perhaps, might have taken some action, any action, to prevent it.

The last ten days had seemed interminable. From the moment that the Apostles heard of Pontius Pilate's intention to have Yeshua arrested, the debates raged without resolution. Simon wanted to approach the Temple Priests and try to appease their anger by promising to keep Yeshua out of Jerusalem and to have Yeshua tame his attacks on the Pharisees and the Priests. Bartholomew and James argued that all of their lives were in danger, and it was best that they not go to Jerusalem for the Passover celebration.

Yeshua, himself, claimed the best path was one of nonresistance, saying, “The Roman guards will seek me out wherever I go. I need not take others with me. Each of you has a far greater duty than to join me in prison or, even worse if it should come to be, to languish on a cross alongside of my own. Rather, if it is to be, I will die as I have lived, in the service of my Father's will.”

Now, as he looked back, Micah bitterly blamed himself for siding with Yeshua in his plan to celebrate the rest of the Passover in Jerusalem. All knew the danger that waited there, but Yeshua would not be dissuaded.

Late into the night, while the others slept, Yeshua had conferred with Micah. It was the evening before they made the journey, and Yeshua argued each point as only he could. In the end, when no logic remained to support Yeshua's intention, he stated simply to Micah, “I must do as I must do.”

Micah knew that once he made up his mind, Yeshua would be as immovable as the Temple itself and, so, turned his attention to convincing Yeshua to make a quiet entrance into the city. Even here Yeshua held his ground.

“I come to Jerusalem to celebrate with my brethren. If they choose to recognize me and follow me, so be it.”

On arrival at the city, Micah's worst fear was realized. The reception at the city gates had been greater than any had imagined. With hordes following him and praising his name, Yeshua made his way to the Temple. When he discovered money changers plying their trade on this holiest of Holy Days, Yeshua was enraged beyond words. Unable to contain his fury and fully aware of the possible repercussions of his actions, Yeshua drove the offenders out of the Temple.

That night, Yeshua spoke little during the Seder meal, although the few references he did make regarding the wine and bread seemed undecipherable to the Apostles. Only Micah, who lay close by Yeshua's side, understood too well the symbolism of the blood and body of which Yeshua spoke.

When Yeshua spoke of one who would yet betray him, several of the Apostles made light of the matter. To betray Yeshua would be as to betray themselves, they said, and they would speak of it no more. Micah, alone, recognized too well the import of Yeshua's portent of treachery. His heart, alone, ached with the knowledge of what was to come to pass.

At Yeshua's request, Micah joined the others and reclined in accordance with tradition at the Seder table, though he knew full well this might be their last supper together.

Micah was The Disciple, as the Twelve called him in derision. To them he would never be an apostle, always the follower, never the messenger. Within his bosom, however, Micah held the knowledge that Yeshua did not regard him as they did.

“Know this,” Yeshua had assured him. “We are all disciples, followers of God's way. There is honor, not disgrace in being called thus. Be assured as well, my dear friend, that you are an apostle as much as any of the others. You shall carry my message to lands and times they cannot imagine. You stand forever as Protector of the Word. You, alone, are my beloved Thirteenth Apostle.”

Micah had kept his silence as he partook of the Sabbath meal. He had been forbidden by Yeshua to speak of the play that was about to unfold. As they traveled together to Gethsemane he was overcome with certainty of the travesty that was about to take place. Weary after their journey, the Twelve slept. Finally, Micah was free to attend his friend who stood alone.

It was there, among the olive trees, that Yeshua spoke to Micah of the tzaddikim; thirty-six righteous souls born to each generation who, by their very existence, assured the continuation of the world.

According to Abraham's Covenant, Yeshua explained, once each millennium, God shall return to earth to count among the many, those who remain righteous. Only the tzaddikim, the righteous ones, standing in God's judgment, may ensure God's promise to Abraham, His Covenant of Continuance. Without these righteous souls, mankind's fate would be in grave and certain peril.

Yet these tzaddikim have no knowledge of one another, neither have they any awareness of their own singular importance. As innocents, they remain unaware of the critical consequences of their thoughts, their faith, and their deeds.

“All of this is known to me,” Micah said softly.

Yeshua looked up in surprise.

“Some say that you are tzaddik,” Micah added.

“I would not claim it for, in doing so, I would prove I was not,” Yeshua answered.

“Yet neither can you deny it,” Micah said softly.

Yeshua smiled.

“You are as wise as I counted you to be, dear friend, for you know that of which I cannot speak.”

Micah nodded.

“Good,” Yeshua said, with obvious pleasure. “Then let me add only this. If by God's good grace, I bear so divine a blessing and so great a burden as you know me to carry, and if I am unable to complete my sacred tasks, then when my soul has shed its mortal sheath, I pray that you, dear brother, shall rise and take my place.”

“Your prayer is mine,” Micah whispered.

“These are difficult times,” Yeshua continued. “Things are not always as they seem. Nor are people,” he added, glancing thoughtfully at his sleeping Apostles. “It will come to pass that those who cannot tolerate the truth shall take action to silence it. And to silence me, as well.”

Micah remained steadfast, his eyes fixed on his beloved Yeshua. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He understood.

“I ask only that which I know you will do…”

“Gladly,” Micah interjected.

“Yes.” Yeshua smiled. “And that which you are uniquely qualified to do. I would ask that no matter what may befall me, you shall not let the truth die with me.”

“I could not bear it if…” Micah interrupted.

“Have I your word?” Yeshua insisted.

“Before God.”

Yeshua smiled and seemed content, yet he shivered in the cold. He wore no cloak for, on the road to Gethsemane, he had given his outer garment to an old man who suffered in the cool night air. Micah removed his caftan and persuaded Yeshua to place it on top of his own for warmth.

“Then you will wear nothing but a sindon,” Yeshua protested. “I cannot accept it. I will be fine.”

Micah argued that the sacrifice was of little importance. “All that I am, all that I have, I gladly give in the name of God, Elyon.”

Yeshua smiled and accepted Micah's offering. “Now, dear friend, leave me with Him.” Yeshua's face was beatific with peace.

Micah watched his friend, powerless to put a halt to Yeshua's prophecy of betrayal by one of the Twelve. Micah struggled in torment at the thought of that which would soon come to be.

Then, when he could bear the thought of the impending betrayal no longer, Micah's anguish gave birth to a plan that might yet save Yeshua's life. His heart soared. Yes, there was yet a way to save his friend! Were Yeshua to be arrested and sent to the cross, Micah could yet set him free. Fear was transformed to hope, anger to joy. It mattered not what any of the Twelve might do, Micah, the Thirteenth, scorned by the others, might yet save his beloved friend.

Micah rushed to Yeshua to reveal his plan but, even as he watched, Judas entered the garden and, with a single kiss, a signal to the guards who waited to arrest the recipient, betrayed both man and God.

Even as the Roman guards took Yeshua away, the Apostles scattered, fearful for their own lives. None remained in the garden; neither had any followed to attend Yeshua, to plead for him, or to stand by his side. The Apostles knew well that their fate would be the same as Yeshua's had they interceded and all had cared far more for themselves than for him.

Micah, too, had fled from the garden though not in pursuit of his safety. Rather, he had rushed to enlist the help that he would require to make preparations for the deception he had devised; a deception he had hoped would never be brought into play. Last night, Micah's plan had seemed little more than the result of fear-laden musings. Now, it appeared to be Yeshua's only hope.