

Restorer of the World

Clayton Spann

Copyright 2007 Clayton Spann

Smashwords Edition

_Restorer of the World_ is the 2nd volume

of the Roger Ward Trilogy

Discover others titles by Clayton Spann at Smashwords.com:

Exchange Rate

The Line of Eyes

Lord Protector*

Expelled*

Day Nine

Two Timed

Stoned

*Roger Ward Trilogy

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (except for historical figures), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For my nephews

Mike, Ken, Rob, Tom and Bill

Prologue

Wales

April, 2006

Roger Ward watched the founder of the Tudor dynasty walk toward the southern stone. Though she was arthritic, Margaret Beaufort stepped with confidence over the forest floor. Then a heel caught a twig. She stumbled slightly and strayed from the required straight line.

"You must go more slowly, my lady," said Bray.

The tiny woman glared at Bray, then returned to the northern stone. She again attempted to negotiate the passage.

Bray said nothing more. Ward would see how Sir Reginald did when his turn came. Bray was in worse shape than Lady Margaret.

Several minutes later she neared the southern stone. She took one last step and disappeared. Although Ward had seen this happen before, it still astonished him. In these greening woods of oak and ash Lady Margaret stood nearby, but five hundred years distant.

Bray began the twenty yard walk. The white haired, hunched man moved at glacial pace. Ward wanted to yell for him to speed it up. The minutes they were burning might be the minutes needed to stop Moustafa. But Bray was feisty enough to physically challenge Ward; that would really delay them.

He shouldn't quibble over minutes anyway. Moustafa had five days on them. They would need the help of Providence to thwart this would be Mehdi. But at this point Providence might not give a damn.

Sir Reginald disappeared, and on the first try. Ward was determined to match him. He proceeded with measured paces between the slate gray stones the size of basketballs. He reached the southern stone without incident and suddenly Lady Margaret and Bray popped back into existence. His spine tingled as he realized he now stood in the year 1499.

A sharp drop in temperature turned the tingling to shivering. Scattered snow lay in the woods and leaves had disappeared from the trees. Yes, this was early April during the heart of the Little Ice Age. Meteorological spring would not yet have arrived. He could see barren farmland through the now denuded woods.

They repeated the process and entered the early Eleventh Century, if the calculations of Lady Margaret were correct. Leaves again adorned the trees and the temperature was very mild. This was the era of favored climate when northwestern Europe began its march to greatness. Ward recalled it was so warm vineyards were cultivated in England.

They walked the line again. The yo-yo effect of temperature continued. Leaves were gone and the air stone cold. Now they were really back in time, circa 500 A.D. The woods appeared to extend indefinitely; Ward could detect no farmland. He half expected barbarian Saxons or Angles to attack. Or the Druids, who in the mists of the past had discovered the passage.

The three of them crossed the passage one last time. The air was still cold, but a smattering of leaves sprouted on the trees. Again Ward detected no farmland.

They looked at each other. They were in the First Century.

Part One

The Dogs Are Dead

Spring, 2006

Chapter 1

Roger Ward parked his ancient Yugo by the curb. The park and playground lay beyond.

Ward knew they were watching him. For the hundredth time he told himself there was nothing to fear as long as he kept his part of the bargain. They were good, he must admit. No vehicle had turned onto Camden behind him. He had watched the rear view mirror all the way down the residential street.

But he could feel their eyes. Over the past five months he had almost gotten used to those hidden eyes. Every day of those months he took comfort in a simple mantra: if the agents of Margaret Beaufort wanted him dead, he would already be dead.

And, of course, they were the lesser of his fears.

At the playground fifty yards beyond the curb he could see her. Anne had her back to him as she watched her young charge toss and chase a beach ball. Several other women watched their own toddlers squeal and scamper in play.

Ward summoned his courage.

He stepped from the decrepit car into the crisp air of a brilliantly lit day. In the last two weeks the foliage of the Northern Virginia suburbs had erupted to life. This morning at the end of March the land lay lushly verdant. The white and pink blossoms of dogwoods added to the glory of the day.

It took all his guts to walk up the sidewalk toward the playground.

With one utterance she could crush him. A simple "Please stay away" would effectively do him in. She was all the hope he had left in life, and it was such a tenuous hope.

What chance did he have, really? He was twice her age, and financially and professionally ruined. Yes, he was still an attractive man, he could still turn the heads of even teenage girls. Yet what of real substance did he have to offer Anne Hollingsworth?

As he drew closer Anne turned and saw him. Her face lit and she smiled.

"Hi, Roger."

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle au pair. How is young Sean behaving today?"

She laughed. "As usual. The little nutter."

The whooping three year old ran about as if on PCP. At least here the perpetual motion machine could rampage without causing too much damage. He sounded an absolute terror when confined by four walls.

Her brown eyes swung from Ward back to the child. Ward's eyes remained on Anne. He did manage to keep his view confined to the creamy complexion of her face and the auburn of her hair, and off the hourglass figure below.

A whiff of cologne drifted from her. Ward had not detected that before. Had she applied it in anticipation he would show up today?

"Are you teaching this week?" she asked.

"Yes. Wednesday and Thursday. At Coleman Middle again." Which was just four blocks away.

"Oh, lovely. Perhaps you can pop over for lunch either day."

It took all of Ward's control to remain calm. He could hardly believe his ears.

"I would like that."

This was incredible. He had made far more progress than he dared hope.

Careful, he told himself. Don't overplay your hand. Don't spook her.

"Ring my mobile Wednesday morning, then. We can set a time." She handed him a piece of paper containing a telephone number.

Would dropping to his knees and shouting thanks to heaven qualify as spooking?

"I will. I'll look forward to it."

Ward refrained from asking if she had cleared this with Sean's parents. They both worked so she would have the house to herself midday; she might not be informing them at all. He didn't want her to get in trouble. But—no way he was turning her down.

She laughed abruptly, then placed a hand on his sleeve. "Oh, you will think me mental, but let me tell you about the dream I had last night."

God, how he loved her laugh. From the time he first heard that laugh at Penshurst its delightful mirth had always warmed him.

"I would think you last person mental." Anne might laugh easily but she wasn't giddy. She had been quite level headed in the other world and here she seemed the same.

"Well, listen. You might after this. You know the other day you asked if I had visited Penshurst Place in Kent? And I said no?"

Of course he remembered. He had debated very hard whether he dared ask. He had yielded to the urge, and later regretted it.

Ward swallowed. "You dreamed about Penshurst?"

"It was so strange. Hilarious, I suppose. You were sitting at a huge desk in a long room that was almost all stone. A full suit of armor was on either side of the desk. You were dressed in a baggy shirt."

Oh, Jesus. It was coming back to her. His throat constricted further.

"Baggy shirt?" He managed to wheeze out the words.

"And I wore a snug blue dress that ran to my shoes."

A snug dress indeed, one that fully accentuated her voluptuous body.

She laughed. "I was bringing tea and crumpets or something to you. I called you 'my lord'."

Ward forced a laugh in return. "Dreams are weird. Why did you think we were at Penshurst?"

"I just knew. I got the distinct impression you owned the place and I was a servant to you."

"I wish I did own it. God knows how many millions of pounds it's worth."

Sean came running up to Anne, demanding a fruit drink. Anne patted his head and reached into the stroller at her side. She shortly fixed him up with a container that had its own straw.

Ward had to fight a mix of panic and euphoria. Her dawning recollection could permanently drive her away or permanently bond her to him. But he shouldn't have taken the gamble. He seemed to be winning her over anyway.

She smiled coyly. "Would you fancy that? My being your servant?"

Ward put his hand up as if taking an oath. "I am a man of the 21st Century, even if a devotee of medieval history. I believe in the honor and love part of marriage vows, not the obey part."

Jesus, what had he just said? That might undo all his gains, if she took that as a veiled marriage proposal. Unless—unless she had begun to think along those lines.

No, no, too soon for that. They had known each other only three weeks in this world.

"It seemed all so real," she said. She wasn't smiling now. He suspected she was leaving out the emotional content of the dream. In the other world she had been strongly drawn to him—or at least drawn to the dashing Earl of Kent.

It was real, Anne.

It had been a great ride in that world, in which Ward achieved the wealth and fame he vainly sought in this one. Yet eventually too many powerful people wanted him dead. Ward had been relieved when the real world was restored. Or, he should say, the world in which he had resided ninety-eight percent of his life. One world was no less real than the other.

"Some philosophers say we can't truly tell waking life from dream life," said Ward. "But we can. Your dream is part my mentioning Penshurst and part your own liking the Middle Ages." That had provided a congenial topic the past weeks, their knowledge of the era. She had gained hers from love of medieval romances, while he of course possessed a doctorate in the field.

The laugh returned. "I must say I did enjoy bringing you food. Which I will do again soon."

"Excellent, my fair lady."

With her cherubic face Anne was cute rather than beautiful, and he knew her true hair color was plain brown rather than auburn. He would also prefer that she were several inches taller, as the top of her head barely reached his chin. But he wouldn't trade her for Nicole Kidman or Scarlett Johansson. Or anyone.

She then asked about his latest stint as a substitute teacher and he curled her hair with tales of recalcitrant students. But these were mainly anecdotes passed by other teachers; he was faring well in the classroom battlegrounds.

As he spoke he noticed the other women at the playground, au pairs and mothers alike, glancing at him. The glances of the au pairs were direct, and those of the mothers were furtive. These glances he had garnered from age sixteen to now at age forty-one.

In his younger days that had puzzled him. His jaw was too heavy, his cheekbones too sharp, and he swore his bushy black eyebrows made him look sinister. No, he didn't put himself on the A list concerning looks. But women did, and they were the ones who counted.

All those years he had taken advantage of their attraction. He had broken many hearts and at times callously so. He supposed he did not deserve such a fine person as the lively and gracious lass beside him.

In the depths of his heart he knew he should have not looked for Anne. He had no right, really. She was a vibrant young woman at the start of her life, while he was a washed up man at the start of middle age.

Yes, at Penshurst she had fancied him. She would have become his mistress if he pressed matters. But the great question remained: just what did she fancy? In that other world Ward was a superstar, proclaimed and filthy rich and the most eligible bachelor in England. Who among the female gender would not have swooned?

Would Anne have wanted the man underneath the fame and wealth? Especially if she knew of his track record concerning women? And why would she want him now, once she learned about his bleak prospects?

He of course had no right. Yet here he was anyway.

It had taken him until February to learn she existed in this world. He was surprised and thrilled to find she left Britain months before, to take a position as an au pair in the United States. He was also relieved. It made for the greatest good luck she had gone across the Atlantic.

Even then he knew he was under the eyes of the agents of Margaret Beaufort. He was sure they would have killed him if he ventured back into Wales. Perhaps they would have anyway if he stayed longer in Britain.

Ward wondered if Anne in America was not mere happenstance. Especially since she ended up in Virginia, less than fifty miles from where he used to live on the Eastern Shore. In the other world the currents of history had thrown them together at Penshurst, and in this one the currents had seemingly again arranged proximity.

A truly selfless man would now back away. Leave her to her life. Not contaminate it with his own.

Ah, Anne. He did love her. He wanted only the best for her. He should find some excuse not to have lunch, then never return to this little park.

That was about as nervous as he had ever been, that day he approached her here. He was sure she would blow him off. He might still cut a fine figure, but she would see he was much older than she. At first Anne had been politely tolerant as befitted her amiable nature, but within ten minutes he had her engaged in enthusiastic conversation.

Perhaps the currents of history were also at work in that regard. The personalities that had meshed so well at Penshurst were fated to attract in the suburbs of Fairfax County.

Eventually Sean ran to Anne, this time demanding to go home. Anne packed him into the stroller and they were off. Though not before she rewarded Ward with a smile brighter than the day's sunshine.

Ward loathed roaches and mold. But in this apartment there was no avoiding them. Nor could he avoid his apartment mates, who he rated at a somewhat higher level.

If he feared Beaufort's men, he should fear the day laborers he roomed with more. Both Hispanics were habitually drunk, and one had gotten in a parking lot brawl over the weekend. Carlos broke the nose of his adversary. At least that confrontation involved only fists.

The machetes were another matter. Both men stowed them under their mattresses. Ward knew because they proudly showed him the weapons. They boasted what would happen to any black in the apartment complex that broke in and tried to rob them. Ward wasn't a prejudiced man, but these two guys reminded him of the Mexican villains in _Treasure of the Sierra Madre_.

Thankfully they seemed to like him. Ward did admit he strove to remain on good terms. He had helped one apply for a car loan, and he tutored the other occasionally in English. He was picking up some Spanish in return.

Ward was alone in the apartment. He took a beer from the refrigerator, then sat on the battered sofa in the living room before a 17 inch TV. His eyes swept the bleak white walls on which not a single picture hung. Dust caked venetian blinds kept out the afternoon sun. The odor of cigarette smoke rose from carpet that no amount of cleaning could erase.

He clicked on the TV. Fortunately his apartment mates had cable. Ward flipped among Fox, CNN, and MSNBC to get the day's news. The usual litany of Islamic atrocities dominated. From Nigeria to Malaysia the daily quota of bombings, kidnappings, and assassinations had claimed their victims.

But the market was up again. He laughed. A fat lot of good that did him.

Two centuries ago, they would have thrown him in debtor's prison. It was amazing anyway they hadn't arrested him for credit card fraud when he returned to the States. While in Britain he had maxed out all three of his cards, and not paid a bill in nine months. Upon arrival at JFK he owed over $20K.

His FICO score was probably the lowest in the nation. In addition to credit card woes, while away he had defaulted on his auto loan and condominium mortgage.

He had ruined his career, too. When Chesapeake College learned he had not met with foul play—how could he tell them otherwise—they canned his ass. In their eyes he willfully blew off fall semester. He had given them no prior notification, no word during the semester, no explanation afterward. That had left his name absolutely mud. No other collegiate institution would touch him.

He was fortunate to get something at the public school level. He did have a Ph.D. in history, and as long he had no criminal record, they would let him substitute. A full time position in the school system was another matter. He would have to prove himself reliable and effective in addition to taking a host of education courses.

So far he averaged substituting twice a week. At $100 a pop (no benefits included) that didn't give him much financial maneuvering room. His share of the rent came to $350 a month. Food ran another hundred. Then came expenses on the aging Yugo. Anything left over went for credit card debt.

His life sucked. If he were twenty-one he could shrug off these setbacks. At forty-one he was pretty well done. Oh, in a couple years he might land a steady job in the county school system. But after starting out so brilliantly, he was supposed to end his days as an instructor—babysitter said it better—of middle schoolers?

He had been one of the most promising prospects that the University of Chicago ever granted a doctoral degree in medieval history. He had immediately landed a tenure track position at Penn. There, and later at Maryland, he had regularly published in the top academic journals. He was a name, he was a force. A lot of people couldn't stand him, but even his worst enemies grudgingly accorded respect.

Of course, those enemies smiled when he failed to get tenure at either Penn or Maryland. They applauded when he was reduced to teaching at a backwater community college. They would dance to learn Roger Ward had bombed even there, and they would take as frosting on the cake that he was massively in debt and lived with machete toting illegal aliens.

Ward clasped his hands. Anne was the only good thing he had going. But what would she do when she learned more about him? So far he had revealed only that he formerly taught in college. He said he had left to complete research about the last members of the Plantagenet dynasty. Which was not a falsehood.

His stomach dove as he realized her invitation to lunch might also involve invitation to reveal more of his past. He did not want to outright lie. Even if he did, lies would not stand. A simple query on Google could confirm or refute anything he put before her.

Once she knew what would Anne Hollingsworth think of the beguiling stranger that had so suddenly thrust into her life? Would her now obvious attraction dissolve? How could it not dissolve? She would see him as a loser. At her core Anne was a practical woman, and she would be done with him.

He was right. He should never have approached her. What had existed between them in the other world—in that warped but compelling world—should have stayed there.

Ward made a great display of going to the phone by the kitchen and dialing her cell number. He would give his regrets about a lunch date. Anne would think or call him a bloody bastard, but the sooner he broke it off the sooner they could both recover. Or at least she could.

He punched nine digits of her number. His finger never pushed the tenth.

Chapter 2

Ward strode into the classroom. The enemy he would soon convert to allies barely ceased conversation as they flicked him sullen appraisals. Even the young ladies who usually gazed longingly showed hostility.

He parked his briefcase by the desk and faced them with a smile. He kept smiling until the room fell to silence.

"My name is Roger Ward. I am your substitute for Mrs. Lester today."

The students were exchanging glances. Who was this guy, grinning as if he were their pal? Didn't he know they ate substitutes for breakfast?

Of course, he heard that was what often happened. He also heard that substitute teachers preferred any other age group than those attending middle school. Second graders, twelfth graders, okay, but please deliver them from the barbarians of early adolescence.

But Ward saw he had evoked the start of respect from this score or so of ninth graders. Unlike most substitutes he stood before them as if he owned them. Which he knew he must. Students sensed fear better than feral animals.

In addition he was dressed resplendently in a blue silk shirt, a tan three-piece suit, and cordovan shoes. On his left wrist he sported a Cartier watch. Both the clothes and watch were among the few possessions salvaged after his return from Britain.

"First the roll."

Now he was going to really wow them. In medieval times, with paper scarce, skilled memorization had been essential for academics and clerics. While a graduate student Ward had trained himself in the same techniques of recall. In the teachers' lounge earlier he had filed each student's name and photo image in pews of an imaginary cathedral.

He accessed the first pew. He looked directly at a slovenly student in the back who sat more on his spine than butt.

"Mr. James Albert." Ward had a deep voice and he used it to full effect.

The student moved onto his butt. Which had more straightened the boy—that the teach knew him on sight or addressed him as "Mister—Ward didn't know. The boy managed a muted "here".

"Ms. Kelly Brandt."

"Here." From this blonde showing ample midriff he got a tentative smile.

Down the pews he went. He warmly regarded each student as he called out his or her name. Bemused curiosity had replaced hostility.

When he finished the roll, he sat on the front of his desk. "I have a question. I ask an honest response. How many of you would rather be somewhere else this morning than at Coleman Middle? Show of hands, please"

It didn't take long for almost every student to raise an arm. They started laughing and Ward joined in.

"My job today is to reverse the count. I'll take another vote at the end of class to see if I have succeeded."

Without reference to notes, Ward lectured for about thirty minutes. The lesson plan for today in the American history class dealt with the Truman years. Ward knew that as far as these students were concerned the Berlin Airlift, the Marshall Plan and the Korean War had happened way back. Not in Roman times, of course, but close.

Ward made the Truman era come alive. As usual he did this via analogy to current events and by presenting amusing anecdotes. The students especially got a kick hearing the exact words Truman used to a reporter who dared criticize his daughter's singing.

It warmed his soul to see delight on the faces of his students. Yes, he still had it. He had always been able to hold rapt those he taught, even when a graduate school assistant. He could always perform. One of his girl friends had said he was such a ham; true, but he was a good ham.

After the lecture he opened the floor to questions. They flew rapid fire. He was greatly pleased how energized the students had become. _Homo sapiens_ was born to learn, and these young of the species were doing what should come with enthusiasm instead of compulsion.

The bell ended the hour too soon. The students audibly groaned. But they were happy he would return on the morrow. The girls in particular drove home this point. Some batted their lashes. One was a real looker.

Ah, thought Ward, my heart belongs to another. And in all his days he had never touched one of his female students, jail bait age or not. He certainly wasn't going to begin at Coleman Middle.

Students for the next class started trickling in. Ward readied for the second wave of barbarians.

Lunch with Anne the next day went well. She didn't press for more information on his background. She served a fine spread, too. Ward had not expected much more than sandwiches and chips. Anne had obviously gone to a lot of trouble producing soup and salad, along with deviled eggs and iced tea. They had a tasty mousse for dessert.

It was also good to sit in livable quarters again. The cleanliness and fresh fragrance of the split level house were a tonic. Potted plants abounded. The well appointed furniture and fixtures gleamed, and Ward's eye in particular was drawn to a 50 inch plasma TV in the living room.

Lunchtime flew by. Undeniably the affection between them that had grown at Penshurst was growing again. The same look of adoration was beginning to fill her eyes. Ward was sure he could have kissed her without resistance as he left to return to class.

So what he had desperately wanted was coming to pass. He was again winning her heart. Earlier in life winning hearts served mainly to enhance his ego; breaking hearts was of no particular consequence. Women had to adjust to him, not he to them.

If Anne would have him, she was going to be the love of his life. He would give it his all to make her happy. She would come first. By God, he swore that.

But what if she would not have him?

Ward shuddered as he approached the brick and concrete and glass of the school.

Before Ward left Coleman Middle that day the principal called him to her office. Ward wondered if he had offended one or more students. His teaching methods were unorthodox. Perhaps he had in some way violated school policy. Dianne Prott was going to admonish and/or inform him he would not teach again at Coleman. She might even recommend he not teach anywhere in the county.

With visions of having to toil at a McDonald's, Ward took a seat opposite the woman he had never seen smile during his three stints at Coleman Middle. Policing the barbarians on an everyday basis probably did drain humor from a person.

Principal Prott didn't smile now either. She was a finely boned woman, still attractive, if over fifty. He liked her platinum hair though that had to be rinse assisted. Intense blue eyes stared at him behind gold rimmed glasses.

She removed the glasses.

"Thank you for stopping by, Dr. Ward."

Perhaps she did have a sense of humor, a malicious one at that. She had commanded him by. And they both knew how out of place a man with a doctorate from the University of Chicago was at middle school.

"I apologize if I have run afoul of any school regulations. I'm still not aware of everything."

Now she did smile. "No, no—may I call you Roger?"

"Certainly." He guessed she would still be Dr. Prott to him. Not that he thought a whole lot of doctoral degrees awarded in education.

She clasped her hands and put elbows on the desk. "Roger, I have received glowing reports of your performance with us. To get right to the point, I would like to offer you a position for our summer session."

Ward closed his mouth soon as he realized it hung open.

"A full time position?" he finally managed to reply.

"Yes. At entry level pay. I wish I could get you more but my hands are tied by regulations. Would you be interested?"

Oh, mother of God, yes, yes, yes.

Ward composed himself and said, "Very much so."

She nodded and smiled again. "It is rare to get a person of your teaching ability. If only we had a dozen like you."

"That's very generous of you to say." His mind was still whirling with the possibilities this opened. A full time job, even for the summer, was a considerable financial windfall.

"If your performance is satisfactory—as I am sure it will be—I will do all in my power to have you instated full time for the regular school year. You would of course have to agree to complete the courses for a teaching certificate, but I am sure that is well within your capabilities."

Ward couldn't believe his ears. A continuous full time position. The pay wasn't great but not bad either. A hell of a lot better than two hundred dollars a week.

"I have to admit you caught me totally by surprise, Dr. Prott. A most pleasant surprise."

She rose and extended her hand. "I will have the contract for the summer prepared. Perhaps you could stop by Monday to sign it."

Ward stood and shook her slender hand.

"I'll be back that morning. Is ten a good time?"

"Yes. Welcome to Coleman Middle School, Roger. You will be a great asset for us."

You would have thought she was general manager of an NFL team that had just acquired Peyton Manning. But that was okay. It had been a long time since he experienced such praise—in this world.

He left her office beaming.

As he walked to his Yugo, he believed he could now seal the deal with Anne. He wouldn't have to explain away his past since he now had a reasonable future. He would soon actually have the ability to support her if they got married. The employment she should view in a quite favorable light, as teachers were more highly regarded in Britain than the U.S.

But the hidden eyes had of course never stopped watching, and on this fine spring afternoon they were waiting for him in the parking lot.

Three men in suits and sunglasses stepped from nowhere. One opened his coat to reveal a pistol. Almost immediately a white sedan with tinted windows drove up. Another of the men opened a back door to reveal a woman he hoped to never see again.

He faced the agate eyes of Margaret Beaufort. Her hatchet face was grim.

"Get in, Restorer of the World. We must talk."

Ward readied to run. But he could hardly outrun a speeding bullet.

"I've kept my word, Lady Margaret."

"I know that. Worry not. If I wanted you eliminated, you would already lie on the bottom of the River Potomac."

The man beside him again flashed his gun.

Ward got in.

Chapter 3

They drove to Fort Hunt Park. Although Ward could see a mounted policeman in the distance, he neither shouted nor bolted as he and Lady Margaret walked toward a picnic table underneath a stately oak. Her muscle remained by the car.

On the vast green of the park a couple walked with their dog running ahead. On the road that looped the large park some walkers and joggers moved against a treeline. On a picnic table nearby a pair of elderly men were playing chess. But it would have been futile to seek help from them either.

"What do you want, Lady Margaret? For me to renew my oath?"

The small woman was dressed as if going to a funeral. She wore almost all black, from her wide brimmed hat to her shoes. She even wore gloves. He had never seen her not covered head to foot.

She handed him a business card. The card was for a bank with a Zurich address. "On the back you will find the number of an account I have established for you."

A number did exist on the back. Ward tried not to let his excitement show. Was this hush money? He wouldn't be offended at all if she wanted to buy his silence.

"You have proved your trustworthiness, Roger. I know the privation and discouragement you have endured since restoration. You must have been tempted to trade on knowledge of the passage."

He had. But any attempt would have brought death swiftly. She had to know fear rather than fidelity to an oath had kept his tongue still. As it would continue to. Why then give him money?

Her next words almost knocked him off the bench. "I have deposited ten million dollars into this account."

Ward didn't answer, as he was having trouble taking in breath. Surely she had misspoken—or she was playing a horrible trick on him.

"You heard me correctly. Ten million dollars—tax free. You may draw on the account immediately."

"Why?" he managed to croak.

She regarded him with the utmost solemnity. "You may accept this gift without reservation. Or on completion of a task, have another forty million dollars added to the account."

His chest tightened further. This was completely unreal. Maybe he was dreaming. That had to be it, for while he sure wished this crone had given him a fortune, the giving made no sense.

Not that he doubted she had the money. Ten million was probably a pittance for her. With ability to look ahead from the 1490's, she knew which firms and technologies were going to spectacularly succeed. Via proxies she could unerringly invest. Ward bet she was the richest person on earth. Of course, her wealth would be hidden behind hundreds of shell corporations.

Ward stood. He saw the men leaning by the car straighten. Lady Margaret waved them still.

"Roger Ward, my word is true. The money is yours—the first ten million at least. But spend it quickly."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Time runs very short. I am returning to England within six hours. If you want years rather than days in which to enjoy the money, you will join me on the flight."

"Stop talking in riddles."

"Sit back down. For what I am about to divulge would fell any standing man." If possible she grew more grave. "It may already be too late. But we must try to stop him."

"What are you talking about?" He half shouted the words.

The black eyes in the wrinkled face fixed him. "The dogs are dead."

Ward began to wonder if Lady Margaret were playing with a full deck. Maybe the descent of her son into mental illness had spurred her own slide. Or maybe Alzheimer's had onset.

"You mean Henry's mastiffs?"

"No. My dogs guarding the passage."

There had been no dogs at the passage. But that was when he went through last summer, in attempt to solve the mystery of the Princes in the Tower.

"You put dogs there?"

"Yes. Dobermans. I did not inform you because I intended they be a surprise. For you, or anyone else."

Ward wondered if that had been wise, and she was or had been one of the wisest of people. Lack of guard was the best way to keep secret the passage that allowed travel five centuries back. Dogs or men on patrol there, or even electronic monitoring, would rouse curiosity.

Then it struck him brutally. He gaped.

"Yes, Master Ward. Someone has gone through. Last week."

Ward frantically shook his head.

"I thought it ended with Jeffress," she said. "I am sure you expected I would have him killed. But four days elapsed before his elimination. Four days that allowed him to tell someone else about the passage."

Ward listened incredulously as Margaret Beaufort related what her agents had learned so far.

When Ronald Jeffress found himself back in a nursing home, the shock had apparently driven him mad. Ward could believe it. To go instantaneously from a vigorous big shot in the other world to a discarded paralytic in this one would have snapped any mind. The former cardinal first cursed God, Lady Margaret said, then he cursed his religion.

The man in the next bed was a Moslem of Egyptian origin, visited everyday by his grandson—one Moustafa El Ela. When the grandson heard Jeffress railing against the fraud of Christ's mercy, the young man was able to convert Jeffress to Islam. After that the pair were observed in hour after hour of whispered conversation.

"Moustafa has been identified from surveillance tape as having arrived at the Haverfordwest train station last Saturday afternoon." Margaret showed Ward a photo of a bearded man with backpack. The scruffy young man was staring at the surveillance camera, with pure hatred. "The next morning the dogs were found dead."

Ward wasn't asking how she got the photo. He was sure she had contacts at the highest levels of the intelligence services in modern Britain. Her cunning and her money would have assured that.

Lady Margaret sighed. "I had Jeffress eliminated quickly as I could. It could not be done immediately—though it should have."

"You're sure Moustafa was the one who killed the dogs? Not hunters or something else?"

She eyed him as if he were a fool. Yeah, it was too much a coincidence this guy showing up in Haverfordwest and the sentinels of the passage expiring shortly thereafter.

"You're certain he went through the passage?"

Another disdainful look.

"Okay. Anyone seen him on the other side? I assume you have had Henry raise the hue and cry."

"My son does not know any of this. Only Sir Reginald."

That brought a knot to Ward's gut, mention of Reginald Bray. The man who did wet work for both Henry VII and his mum. The man who would have killed Ward instantly if he had gotten to the pistol first after restoration.

Ward had last been at the passage in August. Then he was coming from the Fifteenth into the Twenty-first Century, accompanied by Bray and his two thugs. They were teaming to prevent the overthrow of the Tudor dynasty. Margaret shared the same goal but feared Bray's expedition would alter the course of history. She had been right.

The passage was a Pandora's box, alright. The thirty year battle between Margaret and Jeffress had changed history several times. The Wars of the Roses were fought in the present as well as the past. Jeffress came close to having the alternative world prevail; only the perseverance, and yes, the superior ruthlessness of the Tudors allowed the current world to win out.

"Lady Margaret, I know you are upset he got through. But I would think it a fairly simple matter to find Moustafa in the England of 1499. He will stand out like a sore thumb." The real problem would be if he had told fellow Moslems about the passage. Ward imagined Margaret had MI5 and Scotland Yard looking into that.

"I fear he is not in Tudor England."

"Where else would he be?"

"I fear we face absolute disaster."

Ward again wondered about her sanity—or at least her judgement. What real damage could this guy do back then? If he killed Henry VII or the future Henry VIII or even the pope, how would that help Islam? It might even lead to great reprisals against Moslems. The Europe of that era was a brutal Europe.

Over at the other picnic table one of the old coots yelled checkmate. His opponent sourly regarded the board. Then they began lining up pieces for another go.

"I hoped to never reveal to you the full power of the passage. I had hoped Jeffress was not aware. I thought this particular knowledge would die with me. Which as you know, is ten years hence."

Ward nodded. That would be a good day for him, when she breathed her last. Bray had only four years to go.

"I must tell you now." She took a deep breath. "Did you ever consider you could go back further than five hundred years? In multiples of that interval?"

"What?"

"It is not difficult. Merely repeat the southward walk between the stones."

Ward remembered when he attempted that walk a year ago. In the lonely stand of woods three miles from Haverfordwest twice he failed to cross between the stones as required. The third attempt to traverse in a perfectly straight line proved the charm. Or the curse, for ever after he had lived under the threat of death.

"You mean—"

"Owen told me multiples were possible and later I confirmed it."

Owen Tudor. The valiant but irresponsible man who let Donald Jeffress escape five hundred five years forward to play with the course of history.

"Yes. Jeffress must have known." Her lips twisted. "He had to know. How would it help Islam to send a believer back only to 1499? By then the rise of Europe and the decline of the Caliphate were inevitable."

Finally Ward saw the reason for her gravity. Good God—

"So you think it's the Tenth Century?" Christendom was in disarray then and Islam at its height. This guy could show Moslems how to make cannon and gunpowder. That would give them all the edge they needed in that era to conquer both Byzantium and the fledgling kingdoms of Europe.

"That is possible. But I don't think so. MI5 has interrogated Moustafa's grandfather. Moustafa evidently believes that he is the Mehdi. You know what the Mehdi is?"

Ward nodded. He had studied Islam as part of his graduate school education. Moslems considered the Mehdi the ultimate savior of mankind. The Mehdi would do this by establishing Islam as the world religion.

"Moustafa is Sunni, isn't he?" Most Egyptians were.

"Yes."

The Shiites believed the Mehdi was born in 868 and still lived, although in a hidden state. The Sunnis believed this savior was yet to be born, or was recently born.

And Moustafa was recently born.

"This guy has to be delusional," said Ward.

"Quite. He told his grandfather he would soon perform a great deed proving that he is the Mehdi."

Ward saw Lady Margaret shiver. He had never heard her voice quaver, but it did now.

"I believe Moustafa is headed for the First Century. I calculate he will arrive approximately in 25 A.D. The date could vary several years. "

Which would help Islam even less. Neither Moslems nor Christians existed at that time.

Then, of course, Ward understood. He gasped.

"Yes," said Lady Margaret. "He has gone back to destroy the True Faith at its birth. Moustafa will try to assassinate Jesus the Christ. Before His ministry can begin."

Ward found a secluded area of the Dulles Airport concourse. The three men in suits who had given him a cell phone kept a discrete distance. Lady Margaret had disappeared to make arrangements for the departure of her Gulfstream.

Through the towering windows of the swoop roofed terminal the sun was just above the horizon. On the tarmac before him a mobile lounge rolled toward a 747 airliner.

Ward punched in the number. He heard the connection made. His heart pounded as he waited for Anne to pick up. On the fourth ring she did.

"Hi Anne. It's Roger." He fought hard to keep his voice normal.

"Roger! I was going to call you later. As soon as I get Sean tucked in."

Where were the boy's parents? This was a weeknight.

"I'm glad I caught you." Ward hesitated. "I have some news."

"Oh. You sound troubled. What has happened?"

She caught that immediately. She had also known at Penshurst when he was worried, no matter how he tried to hide it.

"Something came up after school today. Something totally unexpected."

"Is there trouble with one of your students?"

"No. I—I have to leave the country for a while. Not long. But for a while."

"I don't understand."

"Something has come up." Man, he'd already said that. "Something that can't wait. It is an emergency of sorts."

"I—you don't want to tell me more than that?""I can't. I mean I am not allowed to."

Silence.

Then she asked, "Are you with the government?"

"What?"

"I didn't quite believe you were just a substitute teacher. You seem so intelligent."

"You could say I am involved in a matter of national security." You sure as hell could say that.

"How long will you be away?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe a month or two. I'm sorry to tell you this so suddenly but I just found out myself."

"Are you dumping me, Roger?" Her voice tightened.

"God, no! I promise, I just found out. I would give anything to stay—and see you more."

"How old are you, Roger?"

Christ, what was this?

"Anne—"

"How old?" Shrillness entered her voice.

He couldn't lie to her, much as he wanted. He had dreaded her eventually asking this question.

"Forty-one."

Silence again. Finally she said, "You look younger."

"Anne, I wish I could stay—"

"You're married, aren't you? The other au pairs said you probably were, and I swore you weren't. You were hoping to shag me, weren't you? That's the only reason you kept coming around."

Oh, man, he really couldn't blame her for this reaction. He had delivered quite a left hook.

"Anne, have I taken advantage of you at all? Even hinted at it?"

"Are you married?"

"No. I don't have a girl friend either. You're the only one I care about."

"Why me? It makes no sense. I'm a nobody, not even that pretty. You could have models."

"You are pretty. You're wonderful. You are all I think of, day and night."

"Will you call me while you're away?"

"I—that won't be possible."

He thought she began to cry, then he heard nothing. A click hadn't sounded on the line so she had probably put her hand over the speaker.

"Anne. Are you there? I'm telling the truth. I care about you. I—I love you. I will be back, I promise you."

"You're a bloody liar."

"Wait for me, Anne. Please."

"They told me not to trust you—not until I knew you better. I thought them jealous, but they were right."

"They're wrong. I have loved you for a long time."

"What are you talking about?" Her voice jumped an octave. "Surely you don't consider three weeks long. You just fancy young women. To prove yourself still young. Why did you have to pick me?"

"Anne, please wait for me."

"I have to say goodbye now." Emotion choked her voice. Then she clicked off.

High above the Atlantic Ocean, Ward looked out into pure blackness. Which matched his mood.

Lady Margaret had advised him to get some sleep. But that was impossible, of course.

He had no choice. Absolutely none. He had to leave the country and Anne along with it. He would see neither again if this lunatic Moustafa was not stopped.

Lady Margaret had called the world of Cardinal Jeffress a "nightmare world". Ward thought it more a stunted version of Western Civilization than something really evil. Its one great virtue was that they had known how to deal with Islam.

"Invade their countries, kill their leaders, convert them to Christianity" was how the acerbic columnist Ann Coulter advised dealing with Islam in this world. In the other world—the world created by Jeffress' manipulation of history—that had been exactly how the Armies of Conversion eliminated this adversary. Since Ward never possessed a high opinion of the religion of Mohammed he had hardly been appalled.

During the Dark Ages Islam had almost taken over the world. Only Byzantium with its Greek fire, and Charles Martel with heavy infantry at Tours, had denied them complete triumph. Moslems overran an incredible extent of territory nonetheless. They had remained a dangerous threat to the West for nearly a thousand years, even advancing to besiege Vienna in the late 1600's.

They were still a threat. Maybe even more than before, for the modern version of Islam had gone mad. When Ward read about the school girls in Saudi Arabia, how the religious police kept them in a burning building rather than let them appear uncovered on the street, he had to acknowledge its insanity. More recent confirmation occurred when ice vendors were killed because their killers said Mohammed never used ice.

Murder and conquest had certainly been committed in the name of Christianity. And the Roman Catholic Church had certainly extorted with indulgences and tithes. But these wrongs had been committed in defiance of the teaching of its founder. With Islam such was done at the urging of its founder.

Ward had held no illusions about Islam before the jets were flown into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. That mass murder merely affirmed his fears. Yet before or after that horrible day he never doubted ultimate victory over militant Islam. His academic colleagues would have scoffed, but Ward believed the book The Godfather contained acute observations.

Don Corleone said a violent, out of control man occasionally appeared on the stage of life. By his savage actions he in effect screamed "Kill me, kill me!" And, said the Don, someone eventually obliged.

The world so far had remained remarkably restrained in face of the Islamic outrages. Restraint would not continue forever, Ward knew. If the Western world lacked the will to destroy them, certainly the Chinese, the Japanese and the Indians would oblige.

Yet it had been Christian Europe alone that kept Islam from complete victory after the first Muslims swept out of Arabia. If Christianity never existed, it was a strong bet the populations of both the New and Old World would today bow toward Mecca.

"Master Ward."

Ward jerked his head from the window to see Margaret Beaufort slipping into the seat beside him. The large seat held her small frame as if she were a child.

"You need to sleep, Roger."

"I won't sleep until this is over. If we lose..."

"Do not entertain the possibility of defeat."

"It can happen. If it does, then I'm not coming back." The world would be unrecognizable. Even if Anne existed in it, he would never find her.

"What about you?" Ward asked. Tudor England would not exist either.

"God will not let Moustafa succeed."

Ward refrained from saying God and Allah were pretty much the same. It was an open question who that son of a bitch really preferred, Jesus or Mohammed.

"I know Moustafa wants to be the Medhi," said Ward. "But can we be absolutely sure he will try to kill Christ? I mean, Jesus is a top prophet in Islam. I think he ranks second or third to Mohammed."

"In the eyes of Moustafa, Jesus is expendable. The Medhi assures the absolute triumph of Islam. Please remember we are not dealing with a rational person."

Yeah, that was for sure.

"He's got five days on us," Ward said. "You shouldn't have wasted one of them coming to fetch me."

"You are youngest of us three. We will need your vigor."

For a situation this critical she probably should have gambled and taken a hundred of her men through the passage—right after she learned Moustafa was loose. First stop this mujahideeni before he killed Christ, then worry about so many knowing of the passage.

But, as always, Margaret Beaufort would do it her way. She had yet to lose.

So it would be Ward, Bray, and Lady Margaret—the only three besides Moustafa who knew location of the passage—to the rescue. Ward could have refused to come, wished Beaufort and Bray the best of luck, and proceeded to use his newly acquired millions. The money would have been the clincher to win Anne.

That would have been the worst decision of his life. He likely would have enjoyed his wealth and Anne less than a month.

Lady Margaret was right, they did need his vigor. A woman of sixty with arthritis and a man of sixty-three yet to recover from his ordeal last fall faced lousy odds in tracking down and stopping a fanatical boy of eighteen. Ward with his relative youth and excellent health gave them a better chance.

Moustafa still had that five day lead. They might whittle it down on the journey from Britannia to Judea, but that depended on the roads and on winds favoring them. Even a one day lead might give Moustafa enough time to find and kill Jesus.

And that would change history as nothing else could.

The absence of Christianity would be decisive, Ward knew. After the fall of Rome, Christianity preserved the core of Western Civilization. It was the only unifying and ideological force available to the West during the Dark Ages. Without this force Europe would have easily fallen to ascendant Islam.

Yes, Ward admitted, Islam had experienced an enlightened moment or two during its middle centuries. But ultimately Islam had contributed little to the advancement of the world. Even the "Arabic" numbers that spurred mathematics—in Europe—arose in India. The religion of Mohammed stultified and ossified. What had Moslems produced of worth in technology, art, philosophy, or governance? Where Islam took hold it destroyed initiative and liberty.

Ward just had to look around at the current lands of Islam. They were the backwaters of the world. They produced little besides oil and hate. Their regimes brutally suppressed their own people, and would like to suppress everyone else. With the impending acquisition of atomic weapons they believed this suppression within their reach.

If Moustafa succeeded the world would endure a universal—and likely eternal—Caliphate. Fatawa and Shari'ah would forever shackle mankind.

Ward saw Lady Margaret wringing her hands. Despite her hope she knew Moustafa held the advantage.

But she persisted with her optimism.

Moustafa would likely have little money, she said. He would have to take a cargo ship from Marseilles after traveling overland through Gaul. She would have the funds—she was taking a money belt full of gems—to buy the fastest ship available.

Even if Moustafa beat them to Palestine, she continued, there was no guarantee he would find Jesus in Nazareth. The Bible had nothing to say about the life of Jesus between age thirteen and thirty. Their estimated arrival in 25 A.D. put Christ around age twenty-eight. Jesus might be in a rabbinical school in Jerusalem or already on the road testing out his parables.

There were additional factors in their favor, she reminded Ward. Moustafa almost certainly didn't know any Latin or Greek. Arabic would help understand the cousin language Aramaic, but she wagered this boy raised in Britain knew little Arabic beyond rote recitation of the Qur'an. The culture would be utterly foreign. He would have difficulty conversing and getting around.

And they had sketches of Moustafa they would show everywhere. They would offer a year's wages for information on his location. They could hire as many people as wanted to hunt for him.

If they reached the Holy Land in time.

"I am still debating sailing directly from Britannia," said Lady Margaret. "It is faster, even if the distance is greater."

"You want to chance the North Atlantic?"

"Days are precious."

He didn't think she really would. A gale could sink them quickly. Gales could rise at any time, as the Spanish Armada and the Normandy Invasion had found out. And this venture was of a whole lot greater consequence than those pivots of history.

"You get a trim galley in Marseilles that can also sail, we'll beat this raghead to Palestine."

"Roger Ward, I am surprised a scholar would use such a pejorative."

Ward readied to qualify his statement, then saw her smiling.

"At least you did not call him a goat-fucker."

That did shock Ward. He had never heard an expletive fall from the lips from this blueblood, even a damn or hell.

"In my heart, I call them worse, Master Ward. They are a pestilence."

"Yes. I have thought so for a long time. But they are very determined."

"God will defeat them. He will not let them kill His son."

Ward said nothing. God would do as He liked, no matter who got hurt down below. Ward had given up expecting good will or good sense from Him long ago.

Margaret rose. "Get some sleep, Roger. Once we land, we must hurry."

He tried. But memory of Anne's choked voice would not let him. Wait for me, Anne, he pleaded. Wait.

Part Two

Lilies of the Field

Spring, 29 A.D.

Chapter IV

Ward squinted fiercely as they approached the harbor. The sun was at its zenith in a hard blue sky, and its reflection off the sea hurt his eyes.

On the deck several of the crew were reefing the mainsail. They pulled lines to hoist and compress the large square beneath the yard. Ward appreciated the speed and safety of the technique. No one had to climb in the teeth of the wind to furl the sail.

The wind indeed had teeth. It had blown briskly the past ten days, causing the mainsail to bulge all the way from Marseilles. As the wind had pushed this smaller but swifter boat past many grain ships, Ward had been greatly heartened. He and Lady Margaret agreed they well might overtake Moustafa.

The galley drifted to a stop. As the narrow boat rolled in the swells, members of the crew hurried below to man oars. Shortly oars were slapping the dark green water and propelling the boat toward Caesarea. They were approaching from the north, in the face of the current, and the going was slow.

To the east, Ward saw an aqueduct that ran along the shore to the edge of the city. Beyond the aqueduct and outside the city walls, he spotted a circular structure, a coliseum no doubt. For a guilty moment Ward imagined himself viewing gladiators in combat. An appalling thought, and they hardly had time for such indulgence.

Caesarea drew closer. The white city gleamed in the strong sunlight. Many score columns lined buildings and roadways. Lady Margaret had said the city, built by Herod the Great forty years ago, was very prosperous and contained the finest of Roman architecture. The Romans had made it their seat of government for Judea.

The galley approached the northern breakwater. Waves crashed against the stone barriers and exploded in foam. A ship ahead of them was going through a gap in the breakwater. Two massive towers framed the gap. Ward could see a large flame burning in the top of one, the light tower.

At stern the helmsman manned the bar attached to two oars that acted as rudder. He steered the vessel toward the towers. Within ten minutes the galley glided through the gap, and suddenly it stopped rolling in the much calmer waters. Ward was glad for that, though he certainly had his sea legs by now.

Dozens of ships lined the colonnaded wharves of the harbor. The ships were of all sizes, though none as big as grain carriers. Those monsters put in at Alexandria. If Moustafa had taken one—they charged passengers the least—the leg from Alexandria to Judea would add substantially to his transit time.

Reginald Bray moved beside Ward. Ward had been right; Bray had not recovered from months behind bars in the alternate world. He retained a pallor that even the steady Mediterranean sun couldn't erase. His formerly iron gray hair was now almost white. Every part of him bespoke age, except his eyes, still alert and ominous.

The snub nosed man spoke quietly to Ward in English. Several times during the voyage crewman had overheard their three passengers conversing in the unknown tongue and had exchanged worried looks. Seamen in all centuries were superstitious. If the boat had run into bad weather, this lot might have thrown them overboard to placate the gods.

"Now it begins," said Bray. His gravely voice was full of foreboding.

This had begun when Jeffress told Moustafa about the passage. Perhaps Bray meant the endgame now began. The end of Moustafa, or the end of everything else.

"It is well Lady Margaret has experience here," said Bray. "That will aid us much."

"Definitely."

They needed all the edge they could get, and her prior visit would certainly provide that. She would know the lay of the land and some of the culture. And she remembered a smattering of Aramaic—the lingua franca of the population of Judea and the Galilee.

Ward had been astounded to learn she had come here twenty years ago. She had waited until they were in Gaul to tell him. After reflection, he decided her journey to this land in 9 A.D. was absolutely in character. For a person of such piety how could she pass up the ultimate pilgrimage to the Holy Land? When the founder of her faith lived?

But it must have been a profound disappointment for her to not set eyes on Jesus of Nazareth. From this port Lady Margaret had headed immediately for the small village in Galilee, and when she arrived in Nazareth the boy Jesus was gone. She stayed in the village a week awaiting his return. She waited in vain.

Lady Margaret had journeyed to Nazareth with an interrupter conversant in both Latin and Aramaic. She and the interrupter actually broke bread with Mary and Joseph—and with the cousins of Jesus. That was a big historical scoop, to learn that Jesus was an only child. From confirmation classes Ward remembered it was an open question whether James, Joses, Simon and Judas were brothers or cousins of Christ. All first cousins, Lady Margaret found.

She also learned the Holy Family was not a happy family. They displayed hospitality to their guests, but it was apparent they struggled to remain civil with each other. In addition Mary expressed anxiety over the absence of their son, eleven years old, while Margaret got the impression Joseph did not care if the boy ever returned.

This was not the first time Jesus had gone missing. Once he had stayed away a full month. Upon each return, he offered no explanation. He always returned emaciated. Which obviously added greatly to his mother's distress.

Margaret wanted badly to stay in Nazareth until the boy came back, but she could not, especially if this absence ran into many more weeks. Back in the England of her time she had plotting to do to assure her son gained the crown. Besides the longer she stayed in Galilee, the more risk she ran of inadvertently altering history.

But she had already done that big time, thought Ward, by not killing Jeffress quicker.

Lady Margaret joined them on the bow. She extended her arm toward a complex that rose above walls behind the wharves. "That is the Praetorium. Where Pilate resides."

They hoped they would find him in Caesarea. Lady Margaret would try to buy his help in finding Moustafa. She worried Pontius Pilate may have lingered in Jerusalem after Passover ended. She said he accompanied troops there during all the major Jewish celebrations.

When they docked Lady Margaret would go to the Praetorium and seek audience with Pilate, while Ward and Bray would show sketches of Moustafa around the wharves. If they did spot Moustafa, they were only to tail him. Margaret and her gems would arrange the assassination.

They heard voices aft and turned to see the captain shouting something to an approaching skiff. In the skiff stood a man in a white tunic who pointed westward. The man, an official obviously, replied harshly and kept pointing. Ward supposed their small ship was being directed to an unfavorable mooring spot.

The captain reluctantly turned the ship. Ten minutes later they docked.

Though neither liked the other, Ward and Bray stuck together as they threaded through the busy wharves. They had to dodge a horde of burly stevedores bearing sacks, huge jars, and chests off and onto boats. Most of the stevedores worked shirtless, even though the temperature was not uncomfortable. The stevedores sweated and stank.

Ward showed a sketch of the bearded Moustafa to anyone not hauling a load. Bray showed a sketch of Moustafa without a beard. Several men paused to study the drawings, but in the end each shook his head. Ward hoped this meant Moustafa had not yet arrived.

Bray expressed similar thoughts.

"We can hire men to check incoming ships," said Ward.

"Aye."

Ward became guardedly optimistic. If they had beaten Moustafa to Caesarea, the port closest to Nazareth, he was theirs. Before the sun set they would have a hundred men on the lookout. And within hours of his stepping down a gangplank Lady Margaret would have him dead.

Afterward they could immediately start for Britannia and the passage. Though they would fight the winds going back to Marseilles, that journey should not take over a month if they used a galley. Ward would demand Margaret pay for extra crew so the ship could row twenty-four hours a day.

He could be back home in six weeks. He would propose to Anne on the spot. Once he convinced her he was now rich, she would readily accept. Joy coursed through him.

It took well over an hour to canvass the wharves. No one recognized the person in the sketches.

Ward and Bray returned to the southern wharves, where they had agreed to meet Lady Margaret. Close by stood a huge temple built of marble. Through the exterior columns Ward could see a huge statue of some Roman god.

An hour dragged by. Ward hoped Lady Margaret hadn't run into trouble with Pilate. From a course in ancient history Ward knew enough to wonder if approaching Pilate was the best course. Contemporary writers accused him of corruption and brutality. He was finally dismissed for his many executions without benefit of trial. Lady Margaret had waved away Ward's concerns.

Lady Margaret was about the most confident person he had known. She believed she could bend anyone to her will. He sure hoped she hadn't miscalculated in this case, for Pilate could just pocket her bribe and toss the three of them in a dungeon. Be a lot less trouble than tying up troops to hunt a person of no importance to him.

"Look!" Bray had put a hand on his shoulder.

Ward turned to see Bray pointing toward the light tower. A large ship with furled sail was being towed into the harbor by two rowboats.

"Moustafa may be aboard," said Bray. He slid his hand toward the dagger at his side.

What did Bray think he was going to do? Jump Moustafa when the much younger and quicker man came ashore?

"Sir Reginald, we're only to tail him."

"We have not yet hired assassins. We may lose him in the crowds of the city, and then all is lost."

Bray's jaw set fiercely. Ward had seen that demeanor before. Good luck to anyone trying to deter him.

Yes, this decrepit Knight of the Garter was determined to knife Moustafa. More likely Moustafa would fend him off, then hightail it. Afterwards Bray—and Ward, his companion on the docks—would be arrested for attempted murder. Lady Margaret would return from Pilate to find double disaster on her hands.

Bray was moving toward an empty spot on the wharves, where the towed ship was headed.

Ward stepped in front of him. "Lady Margaret forbids this."

"I serve the King, not his mother."

"Henry would also forbid. This is a stupid move."

"Step aside or I first put the dirk in your guts."

Spoken like the Bray he had come so to love. Ward decided he would trip the old man, kick him in the stomach, and pocket the weapon.

"Hold!"

From behind them issued the strangled voice of Margaret Beaufort. She stood five paces away. At first Ward thought wrath distorted her hatchet face. Then he noticed the face was sheet white.

"Moustafa is not aboard that ship."

Lady Margaret sounded on the verge of hysteria. Ward had never seen her so close to losing self-control, not even after the attempt to kill Edward Plantagenet put her under a death sentence.

"Is he already in Judea, my lady?" asked Bray.

"He is dead," she croaked.

Then Lady Margaret began to weep.

Ward and Bray exchanged astonished glances. Surely such news should have Margaret Beaufort Tudor rapturous rather than stricken.

For a full five minutes she cried as she ignored further inquiry.

Then her head rose to reveal red eyes, full of anguish. She grabbed their arms.

"Come," she said. "I will tell you what we now face."

Over a slowly eaten meal Lady Margaret recounted her interview with Pontius Pilate. The trio sat underneath the portico of an inn that lay within sight of the wharves. They were close enough to hear the pounding of the surf on the breakwaters.

Pilate had nodded when Margaret showed him the sketch of Moustafa. Two days before one of his legionnaires had stopped this man at one of the gates, he said. The guard noticed a brown stain on a sack the man carried. When confronted the man ran. He would not drop the sack even though it must have slowed him.

When at last tackled, the man tried to commit suicide by slashing his throat. The guard stopped him before a mortal wound was inflicted. When another soldier emptied the sack, a severed head rolled out. It was the head of a bearded man, one with fair complexion and blue green eyes. The beard said the victim was Jewish; the light skin and eyes indicated he was of the Galilee.

The captured man would not talk under torture. As the instruments were applied he would shout only a phrase no one had heard in Latin, Greek, or Aramaic: "Allahu Akbar!" When he was brought before Pilate the man glared at the prefect and repeated the words. He even directed spittle toward Pilate. Pilate ordered him crucified.

Lady Margaret had regained her composure by the time she related this devastating news. She spoke almost dispassionately. But she did sag in her wicker chair. And wetness still rimmed her eyes.

"Pilate smiled when he told how he ordered the scourging of Moustafa prolonged. He said he knew that would shorten the man's suffering on the cross, but he wanted to hear the man who spit at him shriek. He took great satisfaction that the strange words finally ceased and the man begged for mercy."

Nice guy, thought Ward. "How much did you have to pay him?"

"Two diamonds. A carat each"

"I suppose we were fortunate he would see you at all."

"I knew what I was dealing with. I had only to mention precious gems and I was shown to him almost immediately." Margaret snorted. "Pilate is as corpulent as a pig, and he has the greed of one. From the moment I displayed the diamonds he was in my hands."

Ward wondered what Pilate had thought of this woman with the arrowhead eyes that belied her small size. Probably unnerved him, like she did everyone else.

"Pilate was certain it was Moustafa?" asked Ward. "Men with beards aren't always so easy to tell apart."

"Yes. He saw him at a yard's distance."

"He might have lied. In hopes of getting another diamond out of you."

Margaret looked vexed. "I can tell when men lie. Moustafa is dead."

"Where'd they nail up Moustafa? We could take a look, to confirm for ourselves."

Though Ward wondered what would be left. If the man had been on a cross two days, the birds of carrion would have taken plenty of flesh by now.

"Pilate said he died after a day. The body was thrown into the Mediterranean."

"What about the head?"

"Also thrown into the sea."

From his plate Ward took another bite of bass in almond sauce. Surprisingly he still had appetite.

He should not. He should be retching. Perhaps the extent of the catastrophe could not yet be believed, or accepted. He dreaded what he would feel when the numbness wore off.

Bray did look numb. He had said little since Margaret started talking. He was now white faced as Margaret had been on the wharves.

It was impossible to believe. Jesus Christ was dead.

"Then we are finished," said Ward, almost matter of factly. He chewed and swallowed. This dish was excellent. He took a sip of spiced wine.

"Perhaps not," said Margaret.

Bray spoke at last. "The infidel has won."

"He must have spared nothing to get here so fast," said Ward. "He must have sensed our pursuit. We underestimated him." But Ward did not underestimate that twenty centuries of history were turned upside down. And that Anne gone for good. So why wasn't he running around shrieking?

"Aye," said Bray.

"You both accept defeat too easily," said Margaret. The eyes of black stone thrust at them. "Pilate was certain about Moustafa, but he nor anyone else knew the identify of the head."

"You can't expect they would," said Ward. "Jesus was an obscure peasant—at this point at least."

"You said we should confirm for ourselves, Master Ward. That we will. In the village of Nazareth I will see if Christ is alive."

And Ward thought he was in denial. "He is gone, Lady Margaret. And the future is lost." He spoke the words flatly. Again Ward was surprised he could not summon passion.

"Are you are aware how many men in the Galilee bear the name Jesus?" she asked. "It is very common. Moustafa in his haste—yes, he surely feared pursuit—could have killed the wrong man."

"You grasp at straws," said Ward.

"I am carefully evaluating. Unlike you. Even in Nazareth there would be a half dozen men named Jesus. Remember that the brother of Joseph was a Jesus."

"Surely he would have asked for Jesus the carpenter."

"How much Aramaic would Moustafa know? He could have gone about asking 'Jesus?', then murdered the first man in his thirties who nodded."

That was pretty thin. Of course Lady Margaret, all of them, wanted to believe Moustafa had missed his target. But brutal reality said otherwise.

At last emotion stirred and he clenched his fists.

That motherfucker. Beheading Christ! And now the savages of his ilk would take over the world.

Bray also stirred. The white bearded man thumped the table. "God would not let an infidel kill his Son!"

"That is my great hope, Sir Reginald," said Lady Margaret. "Tomorrow you and I go to Nazareth. There I will learn which, if any, Jesus has been killed."

"You don't want me along?" asked Ward.

"No. Villagers in the Galilee are wary of strangers. Especially gentiles, which shaven faces proclaim. They will hopefully remember me, and I can say Sir Reginald is my husband. A second male gentile might lock tongues and we will learn nothing."

The historian in Ward wanted badly to go to Nazareth.

"You can be of use here, Roger. While we are away, you can secure horses and supplies. We may next travel to the Dead Sea. And you can begin to learn some Aramaic."

What the hell was she talking about? Why should he bother to learn the local tongue? And why go to the Dead Sea?

"Christ may not have been in Nazareth when Moustafa arrived," she went on. "Pilate informed me that John the Baptist is currently ministering at the River Jordan just north of the Dead Sea. Christ may be there. If he is alive, the time for his baptism draws near."

That was false hope. Then again, maybe not. Could Christ possibly still live, near the Jordan, far away from the knife of Moustafa? If so, the world was saved.

Ward began to get light headed. This was all too much. None of this could be real. Let him wake up somewhere back in the twenty-first century with a terrible hangover.

He drew a deep breath.

Again the disorientation of being present in the First Century gripped him. He had been to the past before, in medieval England, and he had experienced a similar sense of the surreal. That feeling had fallen away after a couple weeks. This time the feeling persisted.

Perhaps it was that twenty rather than five centuries separated him from his own era. Perhaps it was the stakes were so much higher, the age so much grander, the person sought so much greater.

"The journey to Nazareth will take two days roundtrip," said Margaret. "Allowing for a day's stay, we should be back Wednesday evening. We should know more then about the fate of Christ."

The next day Ward took in the town. They had hurried through Gaul, so he had gotten only a nibble of Roman civilization. Margaret had given him a considerable number of silver denarii, imperial coins she picked up in Lyons.

Ward first priced the horses and supplies, and found he had plenty of coin to spare. He bought a fresh tunic, then took a long soak at a public bathhouse. He tried to converse with other bathers, but most did not know Latin. Greek predominated. Aramaic ran second. He followed the bath with an invigorating massage.

Afterwards he wandered the sun lit streets. The main ones were lined with columns of white marble or purple granite. All roadways were paved and he found several sidewalks containing mosaics. All public and many private buildings boasted marble exteriors. This was one rich city.

He had a light lunch near the forum, then he headed out a gate to the coliseum. Except when he arrived, he found its shape actually a long oval instead of a circle. A man who did speak Latin explained this was the hippodrome, site of chariot races. The man lamented the next races would not occur until the end of the month. The last ones had been great, with nine crashes and four charioteers killed.

Ward did find entertainment late that afternoon at the open air theater outside the southern walls. A crowd of several thousand was on hand. Three tragedies were performed, followed by a bawdy comedy. Ward recognized one of the tragedies as Sophocles'. The actors spoke Greek, but he enjoyed himself anyway.

Back at the inn he feasted on another sumptuous meal, this time steamed mussels accompanied with fermented fish sauce. He had first tasted the foul smelling sauce, quite reluctantly, in Marseilles. Now he wasted no time in downing the delectable if salty liquid.

At a near table sat an older man with two younger women. One of the women, not at all bad looking, boldly regarded Ward.

She wore a sleeveless green tunic against which a pert bosom pushed. Chestnut hair arrayed in ringlets adorned her head. High cheekbones and full lips and fine complexion topped her off.

Her gaze did not waver and Ward looked back as lust stirred. He could probably bed her if he wanted. This was a loose age, at least for the gentiles.

But cheating was cheating, even if the woman he loved was two thousand years distant. He would not bed any other woman before he married Anne or lost her irrevocably.

Gloom fell on him. Irrevocably lost she might be. His desire vanished, and he fled up to his room.

The next day he again walked the streets of Caesarea. This time he did not seek diversion. He had a decision to make.

He could wait for Lady Margaret to return, or he could go down to the docks and catch a boat to Alexandria. He had more than enough money for the journey.

Last night had passed dreadfully as he tossed and turned evaluating the chances of seeing Anne again. The odds weren't good. In all likelihood Moustafa had found his intended target; in all likelihood the head in the sack belonged to Jesus of Nazareth.

He had to face it. If Christ was dead, then Anne never existed. Nor had the modern world. There was nothing to go back for...or to.

The only silver lining in this horror was that he was landed in the first century, when the Roman Empire stood at its zenith. This was the place to be stuck. After the fall of Rome, civilization had arguably not regained such heights until the 1800's.

What he had seen since reaching Gaul amazed him, even if he had read all about it. Mile after mile of paved roads and spanning aqueducts. Towns and cities full of graceful architecture and free of the squalor he had endured in Medieval England. Prosperous, vibrant people bustling everywhere. And best of all, the Pax Romana.

It was in this world he would likely spend the rest of his life. As would Lady Margaret and Bray. But they had her diamonds and he needed to make a living.

After he reached Alexandria, the second city of the Empire, he would try to get a job at the great library. The library held hundreds of thousands of scrolls, supposedly containing all the knowledge of the world.

However he wasn't intending to undertake a career of cataloging and filing scrolls. He had loftier goals. He would duplicate the scrolls, or more accurately, he would mass reproduce their contents. And make himself wealthy.

He would beat some unnamed Roman by three centuries to the codex, or paged book. He would beat Gutenberg by fourteen centuries to the printing press.

He had always taken a keen interest in the technology of the medieval era. He knew in detail how to publish, from constructing a press to making lead type to binding books. He bet he could have an operation up and running within six months.

Ward found himself approaching the harbor. The usual flotilla of boats filled the enclosure. At least a score had to be headed south to Alexandria, only three hundred miles away. He could make arrangements right now.

He stood long moments staring at the boats. The midday sun glinted off the turquoise waters upon which the vessels floated. Again a strong breeze blew from the west. A boat to Alexandria must fight that wind, and also the strong current flowing northward. But a boat would still get there.

Ward did not step forward. He sensed that a step forward betrayed Anne. The premonition was of course folly; her fate did not depend whether or not he went to Alexandria. Her fate depended on whether Moustafa had succeeded.

The premonition intensified.

To Ward's surprise he began pleading to the god he despised. Please let Moustafa have cut off the wrong head. Please let Beaufort and Bray return saying Jesus the carpenter still lived.

He knew God didn't give a damn if Ward saw Anne again, but He surely wanted Christianity to survive. Didn't He? As Bray had asked, would He let an Islamic thug kill His son?

Of course, that might be an open question. Ward the historian knew how mankind had botched the message of Christ. The atrocities committed in His name during the Counter-Reformation were stomach turning. And in the modern era a thoroughly Christianized nation had committed the supreme sin of history, the Holocaust.

Perhaps I should not have sent down My son, God might think. His message and death made no difference. So let them live under Islam, which is more suited to their base nature.

But who gave them that nature? asked Ward.

Silence! said the Lord God.

Ward, who wanted to see Anne again, willed his mind silent. And made not a step closer to the boats.

Lady Margaret and Bray returned to Caesarea on Wednesday as promised. A bearded man accompanied them. However he was not Jesus, but his cousin James.

"Shalom," he said softly when presented to Ward as the sun hovered above the Mediterranean.

Ward knew what that meant and answered in kind to the man of medium build and height. A bushy brown beard obscured the features of his lower face, but Ward noted the man had a full set of teeth. So far in ancient Palestine Ward had seen many more teeth than in medieval England.

Bright hazel eyes that were too close together gazed out on either side of a long, straight nose. The man's complexion was fair. And without pocks, unlike so many faces in the England of 1498.

Ward turned to Margaret and asked, "Does he live?" She did not look as grave as when she departed Caesarea.

"It cannot be said. Come, you and I will talk. Down by the breakwaters, where the surf will shield our voices."

Since they were speaking English, why did she worry about anyone eavesdropping? Habit of this congenital conspirator, he guessed.

Bray took James inside the inn.

"You have the horses and supplies?" Margaret asked as they stepped toward the setting sun.

"Yes. Why is his cousin here?"

"I will explain all. Do you not know we are under the observation of Pilate? Do not turn your head."

Ward did not turn his head. He questioned with his eyes.

"Pilate has never heard an accent like mine," said Margaret. "That had to intrigue him, as did the perfectly cut gems I presented him. And I inquired about John the Baptist, about whom he must be concerned. We were followed to Nazareth, and he probably had you followed here."

Ward hadn't noticed anything. Of course, the last two days his preoccupations would have concealed an elephant tramping behind him.

"Great," he muttered.

"What we are aware of we can deal with. Let us remain quiet until we reach the breakwater."

The sea was calm and only lapped against the great stone blocks of the southern breakwater. The sun cast a fiery ribbon of reflection out to the horizon. As they sat, Ward did allow his eyes to sweep the terrace of the outer wharves. He could detect no eyes on them. But plenty of people strolled the terrace.

"What did you find in Nazareth?" he asked in a low voice.

The lips of Margaret Beaufort drew taut. "That I may have changed history."

"What do you mean? Is Jesus alive or not?"

"Patience. When I was there twenty years ago, his mother was alive. Now she is not. I am certain I am the cause."

"Mary is dead?"

"Jesus had disappeared into the hills before. He always came back. This time he did not. My presence in Nazareth, or even in Palestine, must have in some way caused this. When her son disappeared for good Mary thought him dead. James says she sank ever more into depression. She died within two years."

His head spun as he tried to digest this stunning information.

Margaret went on. "No one in Nazareth has seen Jesus since then. Or heard word of him."

"Then he may be alive."

"Perhaps."

"This is good news, no one in Nazareth seeing him for twenty years. Moustafa would have run into a blind alley."

"You forget the head in the sack."

"It was probably like you suggested, he killed the first Jesus he ran into."

"I want Jesus alive as much as you. But we must be coldly objective."

"The gospels don't have much to say on Jesus between birth and baptism," he said. "His disappearance for two decades could have actually happened. He's likely alive."

"We must go to the Jordan to be certain."

"The Baptist?"

Margaret nodded. "No one fitting Moustafa's description has been in Nazareth the past weeks. I must conclude Moustafa immediately made for the Jordan when he learned John was active. Moustafa would know of John the Baptist from the Qu'ran if he hadn't already read some of the gospels. If he felt us close behind, he may—did—gamble he would get to Jesus first."

"He still could have gotten the wrong man."

"That is why tomorrow we start for Jericho and the Jordan. You will have to get another horse in the morning. For James."

Ward guessed it made sense to bring him along. "Do you think he could recognize Jesus after twenty years? And vice-versa?" A kid's face changed a lot on the way to adulthood.

"James will call to everyone that he seeks his cousin from Nazareth. He tells me they were close. Jesus should come eagerly to him—if alive."

"And there."

"Christ's time is near for the baptism. It must occur before summer, for John will be arrested then."

Once again Ward reflected on the amazing coincidence, that four crossings of the passage had put them at the threshold of Jesus' ministry. Ward would suspect more than coincidence was at play, except this worked against them and for Moustafa. If Moustafa had arrived a year later he could not sabotage history. The Crucifixion and Resurrection would already have occurred.

The sun had slipped into the sea. The western sky above had turned a pale pink.

"How much have you told James?"

"Only that the life of his cousin is in danger. Fortunately he believed me. It helped that he recognized me immediately."

Ward didn't doubt that. Twenty years would not be long enough to forget her forbidding countenance.

"Who did you say was after him?"

Again she waved her hand. "Romans. The details are unimportant."

That was close enough to the truth. If Jesus was alive, and his ministry took hold like recorded, then plenty of people would be after his hide. Romans included.

"It will take three or four days to reach the Jordan," she said. "While on the road I want you and Sir Reginald to learn some Aramaic. My own has come back rapidly and I can teach. When we get to the river I want you able to inquire in at least a rudimentary fashion. Hundreds or even thousands of people may be about. We will need all of us asking for Jesus."

She then fell silent. Ward said nothing either. They stared out into the gathering darkness.

Ward wondered if the darkness of Islam had already seized the world twenty centuries ahead. If Jesus were alive, it hadn't. If not, Ward was Alexandria bound.

Ephraim fought off the pain behind his skull and watched as the two finally left the harbor. He hung well back behind a column. Not that he needed worry about detection; twilight was gone and the moon had not risen.

Twenty years had passed since he last saw that woman. He swore she had not aged a day. He had gotten a good look at her in Nazareth, this woman with the face that could hew wood. He had never seen the white haired man with her, nor the younger, black haired one with whom she now walked.

When she left Nazareth this morning delicious excitement had gripped him. As he followed he often fondled the dagger at his side. For he knew the woman was going to lead him to Jesus ben Joseph. No, to Jesus ben some dog of a Greek.

Jesus had disappeared after this woman came to Nazareth twenty years ago. Ephraim had always felt she was in some way tied to Jesus never returning. Ephraim had prayed he would come across her—or better, Jesus—in his deliveries of olive oil throughout the Galilee.

It had been a welcome sign that she left Nazareth today with the cousin James in tow. That could only mean she was bringing him to Jesus, who probably feared returning to the village of his birth. Fear he should.

When Ephraim saw this black haired man at their inn, he thought Jesus found at last. The man was the right age. The man wore no beard, probably in hopes of passing as a gentile, but it had to be Jesus. Strangely James did not embrace his long lost cousin. Of course that could be part the deception. Yet Ephraim must be sure before plunging the dagger.

When earlier the woman and this man headed toward the harbor, Ephraim had looped around. They took no particular notice as he walked toward them.

His heart had sunk as he passed. This man was not Jesus. The eyes of Jesus were light blue; this man's were gray. Twenty years could change everything else about the body. Eye color remained the same.

As Ephraim now tailed the two through the evening darkness, he asked the same question he had earlier. Where was Jesus?

Pontius Pilate listened to the report. So they had left Caesarea at first light and headed south. It did not surprise him they had bought four horses and two pack mules. A trivial expense for those with diamonds.

Pilate dismissed Marcus. He rose from his desk and began to pace the marble floor. His sandals softly clapped against its polished white surface.

That woman. She had smiled often during their negotiation, but he was not fooled. Nothing gentle resided behind those black eyes. The eyes thrust like spear tips, attempting to cow him.

No one cowed him, except the emperor. This old woman with the face of a wedge had tried mightily and failed. And he had sensed contempt underneath her respectful tone.

After she turned over the diamonds he should have had her arrested. And interrogated. He would see how much contempt remained when his men applied a hot iron. He was tempted to send legionnaires to return her.

But he could grab her anytime. And he had the promise of more diamonds.

That face! Even the countenance of Tiberius did not so chill the blood.

Pilate stopped before the high arched window of his audience chamber. He gazed out onto the deep blue of the Mediterranean, very calm now. He could not hear surf against the breakwaters.

He opened his left hand and regarded the diamonds. He had been examining them when Marcus tapped on the door. Pilate knew he should hide them, but his fascination with the two gems was not ebbing.

Each of the past three afternoons he had impatiently waited for the sun to lower. Then he would dismiss any visitors. The diamonds without flaw would come out, to hold in a shaft of sunlight. The pair would sparkle with fire, and when viewed at a certain angle the colors of a rainbow appeared.

Where had this woman gotten these gems? He had never seen their like. They were perfectly symmetrical, with over twenty faces. The best he had seen previously contained only eight. Those were yellow tinted, while the diamonds of this woman were absolutely clear.

The two diamonds could buy him a grand villa in Campania when he returned to Italy. This position was his main chance to gain wealth, and so far he was faring poorly. In three years he had accumulated less than a talent. He had squeezed hard, and would squeeze harder, but this land of the backward Jews could not match the plump flocks available in an Egypt or Hispania.

The diamonds were worth many talents. The six more she promised next year would make him a very rich man. With them in his possession he could laugh at this wretched land and its stubborn and ignorant inhabitants.

He had requested a much better posting than Judea. Anywhere else, save perhaps the deserts of Numidia. A man did not argue with Tiberius, though.

Pilate hated the inhabitants of this province that was so far from the comforts of Campania. He supposed he did not detest them all; the gentiles and Samaritans he could tolerate. It was the Jews who had given him so many sleepless nights.

They were born seditious. Whether they challenged him openly, like the Zealots, or behind his back like the Sadducees of their supreme council, they all sought to diminish the authority of Rome.

Such a people! Rome had granted them dispensation in religious matters granted no other, and considerable self government. Still they chafed. Pilate could feel their loathing each time he went to Jerusalem.

These Jews were a thankless lot. It had been Pompey that saved them from civil war ninety years ago. It had been Rome that gave them Herod the Great, who built their only decent port at Caesarea and turned their temple at Jerusalem into a wonder. It was Rome that stopped more strife after the death of Herod.

There was so much Pilate did not like about the Jews. The mask-like beards of the men and the almost total covering of their women repelled him. Their dietary laws were ridiculous, as were their many other restrictions. They could not paint nor sculpt a human face. Bathhouses and the theater were forbidden.

They saved their best foolishness for Saturdays. Imagine not being able to start a fire, even in January. Nor could they prepare food. Or tie a knot. Or ride. One sect in the desert even forbade defecation that day.

He could imagine the laughter in Rome over his last dispatch. In it he had described the most insane Saturday rule yet, on how to overcome the prohibition of carrying clothes from a burning house. Their priests ruled if a house caught fire on Saturday, a man could save his garments by putting on many as possible—as the flames licked him.

That was madness, but still amusing. What did not amuse him was their contempt for the rest of mankind. They actually considered all land outside Judea unclean. Unclean! These people who bathed less in a year than did he in a week.

They were known throughout the Empire as The Haters of Mankind. That description was no exaggeration. To the Jews other men were to be avoided, if at all possible. (His blood had boiled upon learning one reason they bathed was to wash away defilement of coming in contact with him).

These Jews believed their worship of one god lifted them above everyone else. Which entitled their naming themselves the Chosen People. These backward bumpkins! They were the least chosen. What had they accomplished in literature, art, architecture and law compared to Rome or Greece?

He would show them who were the supreme people if they dared defy him again. He had tried hard to forget the humiliation they visited on him two years before. The legions carried their standards everywhere in the Empire. Only the Jews took offense that the standards bore the image of the emperor.

He tried to bend to their sensitivities. He ordered the detachment entering Jerusalem to bring in the standards under cover of darkness. Thereafter they were displayed only in the garrison fortress. But the Jews found out anyway.

Three thousand had came to Caesarea and demanded removal of the standards. He was new to the post then, anxious not to provoke a major disturbance. He reasoned and reasoned with the bearded creatures. They would not retreat one inch. Finally his temper broke he ordered them to disperse or face death.

The Jews then threw themselves to the ground outside the Praetorium. They offered their necks to the surrounding soldiers, saying they would rather die than suffer the offending images in Jerusalem. Pilate almost ordered the slaughter. He now wished he had.

Pilate found himself applying a death grip to the windowsill. He could feel his heart racing. He was breathing heavily.

He released his grip. Yes, next time he would not hold back the swords. Weakness only spurred more insolence and disobedience.

Again he soothed himself by examining the magnificent diamonds. Yes, with six more in his possession next spring he could say farewell to this accursed land forever.

Chapter V

They traveled south along the Via Maris. The paved coastal highway was crowded and it was impossible to tell if anyone tailed them. But Ward kept trying, and eventually an exasperated Lady Margaret told him to stop.

He did spot a hawk, circling in the cloudless sky, which seemed to follow them. He hoped that was not an omen—in this era in which omens mattered much.

Ward had not ridden a horse since last autumn, during the fateful expedition with the Northumberland Sabers. After an hour his butt ached. Then discomfort spread to his legs, because he had to grip the horse with his knees. He lamented the lack of stirrups, which would not come into use until centuries later.

Ward knew the tensely sitting Bray was also having a difficult time. But Bray would rather fall on his knife than admit so. James' face did reflect the pounding his rear end was taking. Only Lady Margaret, riding sidesaddle, appeared serene.

Before leaving Caesarea they had donned native garb. Ward was sure he now resembled Lawrence of Arabia. Towel turned into a turban rendered Bray almost comical, while Lady Margaret had gone flamboyant with a red tunic and lavender mantle. James in his drab striped homespun did look authentic.

Ward forgot his pains enough to enjoy the scenery. With the beach and surf on one side, and herds of cattle in lush pastures on the other, the miles passed less tediously. White walled villas and towns were everywhere. The sun in another azure sky brilliantly illuminated everything.

Well past midday they paused in Joppa for a quick meal, then pushed on. Five miles out of Joppa they turned west, taking the road toward Lydda and Jerusalem.

Soon after the turnoff they approached a walled inn. They were all exhausted, and Ward urged they stop for the night. Lady Margaret agreed even though at least two hours of sunlight remained.

They dismounted and led their horses through the gate into a large courtyard. Ward thought he was entering a zoo, for the sights and sounds—and smells—which greeted him were not much different. The courtyard held donkeys, horses, some animals that looked like mountain goats, a few dogs, and a horde of camels. Fresh piles of dung lay everywhere. Men were stepping carefully as they lugged straw and water to their beasts of burden.

The inn master came out and spoke rapidly to Bray, the elder, as he pointed to a bare spot by one of the walls. Bray in turn pointed to Lady Margaret, who produced denarii and thankfully secured them lodging in the rooms that sat atop a series of arched stone stables.

Money also procured a cooked meal. It was just stew and bread, but welcome nonetheless. The quartet filled their starving bellies and then went up to bed.

Despite his fatigue, Ward did not immediately fall asleep in the tiny room he shared with Bray and James. All afternoon something wild tried to birth from his brain. During his life he had experienced this labor often, and it was usually in the evening when delivery occurred.

Many controversial articles on medieval history had resulted. Critics derided them as "crackpot" or "comic book" tracts, but no one termed them dull. Ward in turn derided the critics, telling many to their faces that throughout the ages little men could never abide big ideas.

The idea that birthed now startled even him. He would see if in the cold light of morning he laughed it off as preposterous, or brought it to the attention of Lady Margaret as inspired.

Shortly after leaving the inn, they started into the low hills that led up towards Lydda. Ward had kept his mouth shut at breakfast. He continued to do so as they rode.

On the dusty and rolling road they passed scattered olive groves. Sheep grazed in the groves and in rocky meadows. The grass the animals sought was sparser and less green than along the coastal highway. Margaret said it would all be brown within another month.

Shortly before noon the walls of Lydda came into sight. By now Ward could no longer keep his newly born creature—outrageous as it was—from Margaret Beaufort. If she rejected his proposal, hopefully she would do so without ridicule.

Ward eased his horse beside her and began to speak softly in English. Bray was only yards ahead, but his hearing was lousy. Ward would not be overheard.

Without preamble he made his proposal. She turned and stared at him a long time. Then she merely said, "Interesting."

"If we don't find Jesus," he said, "we may have to consider this course."

"Let me think on it. Though I suspect impersonation of Jesus could not succeed. Even if James agreed, he is known in Nazareth and probably in surrounding villages. As he ministered in the Galilee someone would recognize and expose him."

"We could say they were possessed of Satan. James will be performing miracles, and that would give him legitimacy."

"And you seem to believe James would volunteer for crucifixion. Unless you plan to completely deceive him."

"I—I have considered that. What if we found someone who looks similar to stand in for him on the cross? After this person died, James would be alive to fulfil the Resurrection."

"A stand in?"

"I am thinking out loud, Lady Margaret. Maybe if we paid someone enough, they would do it—for their family or another reason. We are in desperate straits here. Tell me if I am mad or onto a solution."

"I would say we had better find Jesus."

Ward said nothing more.

The next morning they skirted Jerusalem. As they swung north around the city the Temple Mount came into view. Ward nearly unscrewed his neck gaping at the massive complex. In the sunlight its white limestone walls glowed, as did the gilded part of the Temple protruding above the walls. Before they left this land he hoped he could explore the complex.

He got an even more spectacular view of the Temple as they climbed the Mount of Olives, which lay immediately east of Jerusalem. Near the summit, clear of the olive trees, he could look down onto the entire complex. It was huge. The hundreds of people in the courtyards were dots.

"Magnificent, is it not?" Lady Margaret had also halted to gaze in awe.

"Did you go there in 9 A.D.?"

"Yes. Though it was less complete. And construction still continues. Regard it well. The Second Temple has forty years to live."

The reminder jolted him. Yes, it was Rome that destroyed this wonder. Ward remembered the accounts of the Jewish historian Josephus. In a frenzy of violence the Romans slaughtered both fighters and refugees, then set fire to the Temple. The fires raged so intensely that the great limestone blocks exploded.

"Do you know which ground we have just passed over, Roger?"

"The Mount of Olives."

"And?"

"And what?" He was getting tired of her forcing Aramaic on him. He didn't need the same thing concerning the geography of the land.

"Come now. To the lower right is the Garden of Gethsemane. Where Christ was betrayed."

Ward looked, then his skin tingled. A defining historical moment had—or would—or might—take place down the slope. If Jesus did live, the betrayal would occur there this time next year.

They crossed the summit and joined traffic heading eastward. Within an hour they entered the Judean wilderness. Ward had never seen such a desolate land. Sun baked hills and vales nearly devoid of vegetation stretched ahead forever. The undulating landscape of ochre looked like it had stood since the beginning of time.

Ward wondered if they should be riding camels instead. They had watered their horses well, and Margaret said Jericho lay only fifteen miles ahead, but the landscape looked lethal. If a person lost his way a terrible death would result.

The road that wound through the bleached hills dropped rapidly in elevation. The temperature rose as they descended. Ward knew they would reach sea level—and keep dropping. Jericho lay at one of the lowest points on earth.

They had a lot of company on the road. Most of the travelers walked and wore homespun. Margaret pointed out priests and Levites, who were better attired and rode on donkeys. Eventually Ward did see camels, those of a caravan lugging large jars up toward Jerusalem.

Ward heard John the Baptist's name mentioned many times. Occasionally travelers descending would buttonhole those ascending, to inquire about their experiences at the Jordan. Ward could understand little of the animated conversations that followed.

It got hotter. By the time they saw Jericho in the distance, and the Jordan and the Dead Sea beyond, Ward was sweating despite the bone dry air. So were Bray and James. But not Margaret. The crone looked disgustingly comfortable.

Jericho was a jewel of green in the vast dun. Ward saw an abundance of palm trees amid the many white buildings and colonnades. Margaret said this was a wealthy town, used as a winter resort for the well to do of Jerusalem. Ward was joyful to hear the town had public baths and good inns.

The late afternoon heat pounded as they entered Jericho. Air rising from the stone streets shimmered. Ward was covered head to foot with dust. He was parched, sore all over, and wanted a week of recovery in this plush oasis.

Margaret let them rest the evening. The next morning she put them immediately to work. She reminded them to show the sketch of Moustafa only to gentiles. To the Jews a verbal description would have to suffice. They would also ask if anyone had seen or heard of Jesus of Nazareth.

They split up. Ward showed his sketch of Moustafa to each unshaven man encountered, and even some curious Jews took a look. One gentile thought he recognized Moustafa, but could not be sure. After a second look the man shook his head.

Ward was getting a chance to try out his minimal Aramaic. He obviously had trouble with pronunciation; listeners asked for repetition. When they did understand, he at best got only every other word of reply. It was a relief to speak Latin to the occasional Roman.

At noon they met at a central fountain to compare notes. None of the four had found any lead concerning Jesus. But Margaret had come across a man, a Roman official, who definitely recognized Moustafa. Yes, the Roman said, this man had asked about Jesus of Nazareth. She was grim as she related the news.

Ward sagged at her words.

"How long ago?" he asked in English.

"A fortnight," said Margaret.

"How could Moustafa beat us here by that much? He started with only a five day lead."

"He must have trusted in Allah and sailed directly from Britannia," said Margaret. "With good winds he could have come that quickly."

"God is against us," said Bray. He was bowed as if he had taken a blow in the gut.

Margaret stiffened. "Do not presume God, Sir Reginald."

"The infidel has won."

"I said do not presume. This afternoon we still inquire in Jericho, then tomorrow we make for the Jordan. If our Lord is anywhere, He will be among those with the Baptist."

Christ's body may be near the Jordan, thought Ward, but his head is in the sea at Caesarea. Lady Margaret had to know that, despite her defiant words. The search for Jesus was over.

The next morning it was not hard to find John the Baptist. A steady stream of both the hopeful and skeptical headed due east from Jericho. After a journey of four miles over sun scorched flats Ward and his party reached the river.

During the millennia the Jordan River had cut into the flats and its muddy waters were hidden until the four reached an overlooking bluff. And then Ward beheld the Baptist.

Twenty yards distant stood a group of people waist deep in the river. A man with a long beard grabbed another's shoulders and pushed him below the surface, yelled a flurry of words, then brought the gasping subject back up.

Ward stood transfixed. He felt the same awe as when first gazing upon Edward and Richard Plantagenet. No, he felt more. In the brown river stood the man who would launch the career of Jesus Christ. Here hard at work was The Voice Crying in the Wilderness, the prophet who would Make Straight the Path of the Lord.

From Sunday school classes Ward remembered the simple but gripping message of the Baptist: Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand! Repent, and be renewed. Those who do not repent will be thrown into fire.

John looked wild. As advertised he wore a tunic of animal skin, secured by a leather belt. He was emaciated, his beard reached to the waist, and his eyes burned with fearful intensity. His voice boomed as in doom. Ward had no doubt John did subsist on honey and locusts.

On the barren bluffs and on the sparsely vegetated banks perhaps three hundred people milled. The hubbub of conversation was constant, and occasionally excited. Nearby on the bluffs a half dozen superbly dressed men intently watched the proceedings below. Margaret said they were Sadducees, members of the priestly aristocracy. Ward didn't see any Sadducees down below.

Margaret said the Sadducees were affronted that Jews would seek baptism, especially from someone not a priest. The priests believed that baptism was required only for converts to Judaism, to wash away the sin of being pagan. Existing Jews—already the favored of God—need immerse themselves only for ritual purification, such as after touching a corpse or before Passover.

Those who were not priests eagerly descended to the Jordan. One by one they edged closer to John, closer to the waters that would slake thirst on this already hot day. But of course it was spiritual thirst bringing them to this desolate area. The rapture on the faces of the baptized told that.

Ward wished he could warn John. Ward should shout Flee! Otherwise Herod Antipas will soon arrest you. Antipas will imprison you in a desert fortress and next winter have your head on a platter.

"Circulate among the crowd," Margaret instructed. "Ask for Jesus of Nazareth."

In broken Aramaic Ward asked if anyone knew Jesus ben Joseph from the village of Nazareth in the Galilee. Each person said no.

Ward saw James and Bray also getting negative replies. We are just going through the motions, he thought. Margaret knew it, Bray knew it. James knew it too, for the sorrow on his face since noon yesterday said he accepted that his cousin was dead.

Ward bet Lady Margaret wouldn't think his substitution proposal far fetched now. She was a consummate appraiser of dire situations, and she would see they had little alternative. She was likely now convinced James must impersonate his cousin.

No, the difficulty would be in convincing James. That task Ward would leave to her. Lady Margaret was a great persuader. She would need all her skills to turn this man, a devout Jew who prayed toward Jerusalem three times a day, to their cause. She must decide how much to reveal, how much to lie, how much to promise. Persuade she must, for she who had twice saved the Western world must now save it again.

That evening, back in Jericho, Ward and Lady Margaret talked. In the courtyard of their inn they sat side by side under the stars. Coolness had replaced the heat of the day, and a refreshing wind blew down from the westward hills. The wind set the branches of tall date palms outside the inn thrashing.

In the desert air the stars loomed closely. They were spread like luminous grains of sugar on black velvet. So many, thought Ward, so beautiful. No wonder the men of the Middle Ages had considered the night sky the City of God.

Margaret's pained voice brought him back to earth.

"I must conclude Moustafa succeeded. He has killed our Lord."

Your lord, thought Ward. Not mine for a long time.

"I do not understand why God the Father has permitted this," she continued. "Surely He cannot want Islam to triumph."

"Perhaps God is Newtonian," said Ward. "He set the universe in motion, then went fishing and let it run itself. Makes a lot more sense than some angry Jehovah always raining down misfortune on the sinners."

"Damn your blasphemy, Master Ward."

"Whatever His reason—or lack thereof—we have to figure how to approach James. It will be a delicate job."

Margaret shook her head. "He may be the cousin of Jesus, but he is a limited man. He is an introvert and has only average intelligence. Even if we could explain it all to him—and I doubt he could comprehend, few of this age could—he would falter in the role. He would end up a laughing stock."

"I agree he is not ideal. But you seem to have his trust. You could make him aware of what is at stake."

"James can help us. But only in support. We must cast another for the lead."

"I suppose your diamonds could buy someone. But who? And why wouldn't he just run off with the loot when the going got sticky?"

She turned to face him directly. Even in the darkness he could feel the power of her eyes.

"We must find a man to whom diamonds are now worthless," she said. "A man acutely aware what the world must endure if he fails. A man possessing the will, the intelligence, and yes, the arrogance to pull it off."

"Who?"

"You."

Chapter VI

Ward had not heard her correctly. Despite the darkness he could still see the white of her eyes. Eyes which tried to impale his.

"You were correct, Master Ward. We must replace Christ. The suggestion that seemed so outlandish on the road to Jerusalem now makes complete sense. I apologize for so readily dismissing it."

"You're the one not making sense. Me as Christ?"

"You are the only man available that can perform the role. In addition to your suitable persona, you perfectly understand the historical dimension. You know who Christ was, you know his impact upon the world. You fully understand that you must succeed."

Ward reeled. Though he sat comfortably in a high backed chair, the ground threatened to rise and smack his head.

"You're out of your mind," he said.

"Who better, Master Ward? Name him."

"Not me."

"You are a performer. I know your past. You are a superb lecturer. An audience activates rather than intimidates you. You hold those listening spellbound. And you don't mind embarrassing those who disagree with you. Neither did our Lord."

"We can hire someone. One of the actors at Caesarea or elsewhere. Train them and dole out diamonds one at a time, and they will play along till the end."

"Is that what bothers you? The end? We will find a look-alike to hang on the cross. It will be you who appears after the Crucifixion to implement the Resurrection."

Her words chilled him. This was a ruthlessly practical bitch, one that had never turned from necessary killing. Plotted death had put her son on the throne of England.

He longed to say she was full of shit. But she was full of too much cunning.

Ward waved his hand. "We'll talk of this in the morning. But I will almost certainly decline."

"And lose your Anne forever?"

"How do you know about her?"

A foolish question. Of course her agents had reported he was seeing the au pair. But how could Lady Margaret know how frantically he cared for Anne? How could Margaret know love rather than fifty million dollars would motivate him most?

"Tell me who else can bring this off?" she asked. "Who is less of a gamble? Who would want more to succeed? Tell me, Roger."

"We'll talk tomorrow. Now leave me."

"As you wish."

Ward remained alone under the stars for several hours. He remained even though the night air turned from cool to cold. He forced consideration of Margaret's counter proposal from his mind; instead he dwelled on Anne.

They stayed in Jericho three more days. Each day Margaret renewed her assault, and each day Ward wilted a little more. He threw up many objections. She masterfully refuted each one, and countered with a question of her own: who besides him could they really trust? Or more exactly, who could _Ward_ trust?

Could Ward trust a hireling to stay faithful over the course of a year? As the year progressed, would not a hireling sense the increasing danger? If a hireling fled at any point once the ministry of Jesus started, Christianity would not be born.

Even if they found a man who would stay until the end, could Ward trust him to perform reliably day in and day out? This would be an incredibly demanding role. Incompetence or indifference could sap the faith of the disciples, even cause them to fall away, and the disciples were to be the founders of the Church. Without them Christianity also would not rise.

Ward finally succumbed. Bray he trusted, Margaret he trusted, but obviously neither could impersonate Jesus Christ. That left himself as the only person he was certain would not desert nor give less than total effort.

On the morning of the fourth day he told Lady Margaret he would provisionally accept the role. It would all be off if they did not find a look-alike. She nodded, then lamented that he had shaved. He was not to again. He must grow a beard.

The four of them rode back to the Jordan. Even before they reached the bluffs they heard John's voice. The prophet was angry. At the bluffs they saw John shouting up at a group of Sadducees.

Strangely, a smile formed on the lips of Lady Margaret. She shortly explained.

"It is as the Scriptures say. John has called them a brood of vipers. He warns them that the axe of God is coming to fell them, and He will throw them in the fire. They cannot save themselves by claiming they are the sons of Abraham."

Ward saw many of the common people nodding.

Consternation distorted the faces of Sadducees. These were powerful men. But none were disputing John. Most stepped back from the edge of the bluff. Some turned and fled.

One, however, wended his way down. The man had to descend carefully, for he was old. His beard was white as Bray's. Several of the Sadducees called for him to return. He ignored them.

John trod through the water to come face to face with the old man. For several moments the two talked. John's voice had lowered and Ward could not hear the conversation.

Then the elder stepped into the Jordan River. Wearing his costly garments. The Baptist shouted something to the heavens, then submerged the Sadducee. The Sadducee rose beaming from the waters.

"Any idea who that is?" Ward asked Margaret.

"No. But I have a suspicion. I will find out. Now you go down. As we discussed." Ward looked around for Bray. But Sir Reginald was gone. He must already be in position.

Ward hesitated. It would begin here, if he went down.

Oh, how he wished this was all part of a long and improbable dream. One from which he could soon wake. He would get up, go teach a substitute class, and look forward to his next meeting with Anne.

"Go down, Roger. Do your duty."

The hell with you, he wanted to say.

But he was awake and on the ground in the First Century A.D. So he went down. After fifteen minutes in line he reached John.

To John he was just another soul seeking redemption. John did give him a double take, probably due to his lack of a beard. John probably didn't baptize too many gentiles. But he gestured Ward forth.

Up close John looked even more a creature of the wild. His brown beard was a tangled mess, his sun blasted skin resembled leather, and wiry hair covered his forearms and chest. The eyes of the Baptist blazed.

Ward stepped into the sluggish brown water. It was blessedly cool. Then John had hold of his shoulders.

The Baptist yelled something in Aramaic, in the intonation of a question. Ward got the "have you" part and he surmised the rest was "repented your sins?"

Ward answered yes, then he was thrust down. Powerful arms held him under for at least ten seconds. When he emerged he heard another loud voice—but it did not issue from the Baptist.

The voice came from the direction of the opposite bluff. Ward knew the voice well. It belonged to Reginald Bray.

"This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased," the hidden voice had supposedly said. Ward didn't know how well Bray had enunciated the words. Then a dove rose and flew westward.

All eyes sought origination of the voice. But Bray had probably already slipped away.

Bray had spoken well enough. Excited shouts rose along the banks and from the bluffs. Cries of "hosanna" filled the hot air. Ward also thought he heard the prophet Elijah mentioned.

Then the voice of the Baptist thundered something, along the lines that he was not Elijah.

Dripping wet Ward stepped from the water. Eyes were fixed on John instead of him. Not a particularly good sign. Evidently no one thought God had praised the person that had just undergone baptism.

He looked to gauge Margaret's reaction. She was however talking with one of the Sadducees, the old man baptized earlier.

Ward climbed back to the bluff. He saw more people arriving from Jericho, while the recently dunked were heading back. Ward wondered how many John had dipped in the Jordan since beginning his ministry last year. Probably thousands.

Margaret had moved away from the Sadducee. She owned one of the great poker faces of all time, but Ward had been around her enough to tell she was not displeased. She should be displeased. Nobody had come up to Ward after Bray's pronouncement to inquire if he had God's favor.

"Who was the Sadducee?" he asked.

"A member of the high council in Jerusalem, the Sanhedrin. He is Joseph ben David. He will be known to history as Joseph of Arimathea."

The name rang a bell, but Ward couldn't place it.

"He will become a devoted follower of yours," she said.

"We're not there yet, Lady Margaret. This baptism is the easy part. The make or break will occur in Capernaum."

The ministry of Christ really started there, in that town on the Sea of Galilee, with the recruitment of the first disciples.

"Concentrate on the forty days ahead, Master Ward," said Margaret. "That is the make or break. If you prepare well, Capernaum will not be a problem."

He wished he had her confidence.

The woman with the strange face had walked away and Joseph ben David kept his eyes fixed on the prophet.

In the desert air Joseph was drying out quickly. His fine linen mantle was stained from the muddy waters, but he did not mind. A small price pay to escape the fires of Gehenna.

He believed in this prophet before going down to the water, or so he had told himself. He had been desperate to believe. Who would not want to hear that the Kingdom of God was at hand for those who repented?

Joseph was past sixty and he knew he would not make seventy. The tremors that had started in his left hand two years ago now affected the whole arm. This affliction had felled his Uncle Seth, and Joseph knew what awaited him. He would be glad for death when it came.

When younger death was just an abstraction. He did not worry about that distant day, even though entry into the abode of the dead could mean sleeping in the grave forever. Certainly nothing in the Torah promised more than dust to dust.

As he grew older Joseph began to reject that view, though most Sadducees still clung to belief that resurrection would not occur. The rabbinical schools postulated otherwise. Gleaning from Isaiah and Enoch, they gave hope that the righteous could be raised back to life—albeit after likely waiting millennia.

During this wait the saintly would nestle in comfort in the bosom of Abraham. The perfectly wicked would be cast immediately into the Lake of Fire, where they would reside forever.

Like most men, Joseph was neither saintly nor wicked. So he must spend some time in the fires of Gehenna until his sins were purged. Some rabbis held twelve months would suffice, while others said the torment could last until the day of resurrection.

The day of resurrection, when the Lord God would take the saints and those purged by fire into his Kingdom. They would dwell in this new Eden where neither privation nor death existed.

There were prophets and false prophets. Joseph had feared John the latter, though he spoke and looked as if sent from God. John's promise was suspicious, that the Kingdom could arrive while Joseph was still alive. More suspicious, that if he repented God would accept him without having to spend a day in the fire.

Now Joseph believed utterly. The voice of God Himself had rung out to bless John. At the same moment a white dove, a sign of Israel, had soared upward. The Kingdom _was_ at hand.

And therefore this prophet must be Elijah, even if God had not yet revealed that to John. Before could come the Kingdom must come the Messiah, and before the Messiah must come Elijah.

Ward wasn't looking forward to the forty days ahead. After baptism Jesus of Nazareth had remained in the Judean wilderness for forty days of prayer and fasting. There he also endured the temptations of Satan.

Lady Margaret, however, had a different ordeal in mind for Ward. For all four of them, really. They would find a cave in the Judean hills. There James and Margaret would drill Ward and Bray on the Aramaic language until each could converse fluently. James would also instruct on Jewish culture, manners, and religion.

Margaret had said once they were in the cave, no English would be spoken. Latin would be barely tolerated. Immersion in the new tongue and culture was mandatory.

She would permit one exception—a copy of the New Testament she would yield to Ward. He had seen her surreptitiously reading the paperback. That book and the diamonds had been the only items she brought along from the future.

"You are to know the four gospels by heart," she commanded. "We will decide which parts to incorporate. But know each verse."

Caves abounded in the limestone hills west of Jericho, and that afternoon they found a suitable one near a spring. Their horses and pack mules carried enough supplies to get them through the forty days. Instruction began immediately.

The days went swiftly. As they passed, Ward took great satisfaction that he learned at twice the rate of Bray. Sir Reginald possessed brains, no doubt, he served as valued advisor to both Margaret Beaufort and Henry VII. But he wasn't in Ward's class.

Intelligence had never been the problem for Ward. A rapier tongue had. Lady Margaret said it well that he did not mind embarrassing peers who disagreed with him. Really, he had never minded showing up anyone.

In the cave he did not crow his superiority. He needed Bray's good will if this desperate venture was to succeed.

Sir Reginald was certainly the good soldier. This stoic man had flinched when Lady Margaret decreed he would play Judas Iscariot. Bray was pious and that had to cut deeply. He however accepted the necessity of acting as betrayer of Christ; they certainly needed an inside man for that. Iscariot was also the only disciple not of the Galilee, and Bray's strange accent would reinforce that perception.

They would explain the accents of Ward and Lady Margaret with the story that Jesus at age eleven had run away to Antioch. There he found refuge in the Jewish community.

They would say that Margaret—who with strange coincidence would now be known as Mary—and her husband had taken the boy in. Her husband had recently died and Jesus wanted to return to the land of his youth. But Mary and Jesus first went to the Jordan, to receive baptism from the man whose fame had spread even to Syria.

Once in the Galilee, James would vouch that Ward was his cousin Jesus. Margaret had likely paid James a hefty sum to secure his cooperation—cooperation that was cordially given, Ward had to admit.

He liked James. As Lady Margaret said, James was quiet and without pretension. There probably wasn't a mean bone in him. And boy, was he patient. Without irritation James corrected their many flubbed pronunciations of Aramaic. As Ward got more comfortable in the difficult language, he found James was brighter than he first thought. Hardly a genius, but nobody's dolt either.

After three weeks both Ward and Bray understood enough Aramaic so James could begin religious instruction. James had attended synagogue school in Nazareth from age five. Even in such a small village indoctrination in the Jewish faith was comprehensive. It apparently never stopped, really. James said he still attended study groups lead by the rabbi. James was thirty-one.

Judaism was a lawyer's paradise, with so many rules and rulings and opinions. Bray struggled to keep up, and Ward found own his head spinning as he tried to digest the minutiae of the written law of the Torah and the larger oral law. And he had thought the theological treatises of the Middle Ages complicated.

James appreciated his students' predicament. With a sly smile he told them of a gentile who came to the great rabbi Hillel. With tongue in cheek the gentile promised to convert to Judaism if Hillel could teach him the Torah—during the time the gentile was able to stand on one foot. Hillel quickly answered: "What is hateful to you, do it not unto your neighbor; that is the whole of the Torah, all else is commentary." Even Bray chuckled at that.

The Law seemed to regulate personal and business behavior to an almost claustrophobic degree. But it regulated justly. Furthermore the Law required compassion and good works. People were especially urged to aid the sick, the widowed, the orphaned.

Ward had to consider that the Jews constituted the single humane society in the Roman world. Theirs was a small island of decency in a vast sea of cruelty and exploitation. Even Jewish slaves and livestock were afforded dignity.

James had told him the Jews did not actively try to convert gentiles. Many Jews, particularly the Pharisees, considered gentiles little better than filth. Ward felt it a shame the Jews were so insular; their kindly and pragmatic religion had much to offer this era. Too bad they didn't recruit like Christians were going to.

In his spare time Ward read the gospels of Mark, Matthew, Luke and John. Despite his years in Sunday school and his months in confirmation class, he had never read more than verses here and there. Matthew, the first gospel he delved into, hit him hard.

No doubt about it, the Jesus in Matthew was a very angry person. The man from Nazareth had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. In a fit of pique he called Simon Peter, his prime disciple, "Satan". He rejected his relatives, and encouraged others to abandon theirs. He promised woe to everyone who did not embrace him and his teachings. If you sin, be ready to dismember yourself. And you sure better not commit adultery, you of the perverse and faithless generation. Many were to be cast into the fire or thrown into the outer darkness or drowned in the depth of the sea.

Ward reread the gospel to see if he had drawn a mistaken first impression. He had not. Many passages were uplifting and urged mercy and charity, but the general tone of Jesus was unmistakably that of anger, even rage.

The other gospels were not as harsh, but Christ was still out of sorts in them. Woe to those who rejected him. Fire would be their reward.

When Ward told his impressions to Margaret, her eyes narrowed. With caustic voice she said she wasn't seeking critical analysis of the gospels. Just make sure you know them forward and backward. Otherwise keep your opinions to yourself.

Ephraim neared his gaudily clothed target. The conditions were perfect. The great bridge over the Valley of the Cheesemongers was choked with people, many of whom carried offerings for the Festival of Weeks. A din of cheerful babble accompanied them. A din which would surely mute any cry when he thrust in the dagger.

The pace was slow. Ahead Nabal ben Jacob did not display his usual insolence by pushing forward; instead he shuffled like everyone else toward the west gate of the Temple. Nabal was far from home here. He held no power over these people. The crowd might even toss him into the valley if they knew he was a tax collector.

The sweet scent of incense drifted down from the Temple grounds. The massive western wall hid the chaotic proceedings above, but Ephraim had seen it all many times before. The people gave, the priests took.

Nabal bore no offering. Ephraim surmised Nabal planned to buy some grain or doves when he reached the Court of the Gentiles. Perhaps he planned to make a sin offering in addition to one for first fruits. Ha! It would take all and more of Nabal's wealth to expiate his sins.

Ephraim closed within a pace. Beneath his cloak he readied the dagger. A burst of hard laughter ahead that distracted brought out the dagger at hip level. A quick last step, and he let his stride bring home the blade.

Nabal merely grunted. The man, a half head shorter than Ephraim, turned to see what had stung him in the lower back. For an instant Ephraim thought he had missed his mark—as he had in his first kill two months before.

Then Nabal just slid from view. Ephraim shuffled casually on. Behind him someone was asking if the victim—who they had to think merely stumbled—was all right. Shortly louder voices rose. Ephraim walked on and no one stopped him.

He made the west gate safely.

Up in the mobbed Court of the Gentiles—where smoke from burnt offerings harried his eyes—he allowed himself praise. Yes, it had gone much better this time. His prey had gone down within seconds; at Passover the target—an official of Antipas—had screamed long minutes. Ephraim had barely gotten away. And once away, he had disgraced himself by vomiting up his fear.

Today he had not feared. He had actually enjoyed putting in the blade; it was good to kill one so deserving. Nabal had happily squeezed the good people of Nazareth and a dozen other villages. The manner of his end would warn his replacement, even if the killing had happened far away. The next collector would squeeze much more gently.

Ephraim retired to the shade and relative quiet of one of the colonnaded porticos. He watched the tumult in the vast plaza before him. Everyone was so eagerly yielding hard won produce. Yielding to the high priests and Sadducees, who sheared the people as badly as any tax collector.

He regretted not being able to strike again until Succoth in the fall. Ezra had ordered that they could kill only outside the Galilee, and only during the three great festivals that brought hundreds of thousands up to Jerusalem. That way they could put fear in those who trod on the people of Israel without exposing themselves to retribution.

Ephraim stiffened as the first pain crept into his skull. He tried to make himself relax. Sometimes that worked; most often it did not. Shortly the pain doubled and redoubled. He swore, for he knew he had hours of torture ahead.

His hand went to his dagger. He almost wished he could just thrust it into the pain and end this suffering once and for all. But that would only buy him an eternity in the Lake of Fire.

For the thousandth time since childhood he cursed the name of Jesus. This dagger belonged in him.

Ephraim may have lost James and the three who accompanied him—they had slipped out of Jericho before dawn a month ago—but he would find them. And if God were just, they would lead him to that bastard son of Mary bath Joachim. Then Jesus would die and not quickly.

Near the end of the forty days Lady Margaret took Ward aside for a strategy session. They stood just outside the cave entrance. Afternoon shadow shielded them from the merciless June sun. In the distance they could see the lower reaches of the Jordan as it emptied into the dark blue of the Dead Sea.

His eyes were drawn to the southeast, where beyond the Dead Sea bleached mountains rose sharply to the plateau of Moab. Against a vast azure sky the fortress of Machaerus poked above the plateau. There Herod Antipas could have already imprisoned John the Baptist.

"We will follow the gospel of Mark as closely as possible," Margaret said. "Mark has the least hoops for you to jump through. We will include what we can of Matthew and Luke. John will come into play only after you enter Jerusalem."

Margaret had earlier explained some of the history of the gospels. Scholars concluded Mark was the first gospel written—probably before 70 A.D. Analysis of Matthew and Luke indicated they were written using Mark as a reference. Scholars termed these three the "Synoptic" gospels, because they contained so many similarities.

Written last, the gospel of John differed in both scope and chronology. Only John told of turning of water into wine and the raising of Lazarus, and he never mentioned the Sermon on the Mount or the Transfiguration. He also had Jesus travelling to Jerusalem several times, whereas the Synoptics limited him to that final fateful journey.

"John will be a problem," Margaret acknowledged. "We really have no idea who wrote it or how he obtained his material. He is the most flamboyant of the gospel writers, so it would be easy to dismiss much of his account as embellishment or even fiction. Except that archeology has confirmed previously discounted details about Jerusalem."

"You know we can't do some things," said Ward. "Like Christ walking on water." That was mentioned in all four gospels.

"All that matters is that we get it into the record. Get it there we will."

Ward avoided bluntly asking "how". Her fertile and devious mind had probably already solved the problem. Circumventing history was her specialty.

"I worry about the disciples," said Ward. "Unless you plan to accept anyone in the Galilee named Simon, John, Andrew, etc."

"No, we must recruit the actual people—the fishermen, at least. You of course must perform convincingly, but remember that these men will be predisposed to follow you. They are not exceptionally intelligent, and a few miracles and parables should reel them in."

Ward was surprised to hear Lady Margaret talk disparagingly about those who would become the founding saints of her church. He was also surprised that she had associated "embellishment" and "fiction" with the gospels.

"You sound almost cynical, Lady Margaret. I thought you were a true believer in the Scriptures."

"In Christ, yes. How much of the gospels are fact vs fantasy is another matter."

"Yet you still fully believe in the divinity of Jesus?"

"More than ever. Yes, no doubt the gospel writers enhanced what they received orally. But they also recorded true power and glory and holiness of our Lord."

No kidding they enhanced, thought Ward. Any dispassionate eye could see the gospels were advertising copy. Great copy, mesmerizing copy, but designed to sell a product nonetheless.

Ward believed Jesus of Nazareth was a compelling speaker who gathered a following. He probably performed some sleight of hand to convince others he possessed divine power. For a while it worked. He got free food and lodging, a gaggle of devoted babes, and lots of acclamation. But in the end he painted himself into a corner and wound up crucified.

By all logic, it should have ended there. But his tiny group of followers—undeterred by the shame of his execution as a criminal—founded a movement that captured the Roman Empire within three centuries. It was astounding, really. It was also a fluke.

"I accept Jesus as the Son of God, Roger. Have no doubt of that."

How could such a learned and pragmatic woman so blindly believe? He guessed you could take the woman out of the medieval, but not the medieval out of the woman.

"I did believe Jesus was the Christ once," said Ward. But belief had fled in his mid teens. He had put away childish things.

"You will again." She smiled.

"I will say this for Jesus, he tried very hard to humanize God."

"Watch your tongue, Roger."

"We're so used to the God of the New Testament, we forget the Old Testament one was a real bastard."

"I have asked you not to blaspheme."

"Come on, Lady Margaret, in the Old Testament He is a near psychopath."

She flushed. "Master Ward—"

"Consider this. James told us how the people here believe sickness and disability are due to sin. God makes people blind, crippled, mad, or lepers because they offended him. What kind of deity is that?"

"That is their interpretation. We know better."

"Oh, I think they are dead on. The Old Testament guy is the reality; the New Testament guy is wishful thinking."

"Are you trying to provoke me with outrageous and ludicrous statement—the trademark of your failed academic career—or is this what you truly believe?"

He ignored her barb. "I truly believe. I concede men cause crime and war and atrocity, not God. What's on Him are things like smallpox and polio. Things like spina bifida and Downs Syndrome. Things like cells that turn cancerous and kill in the worst possible way. That is the work of a true sadist."

"We—"

"Yeah, I know, we are so limited we can't understand His true purpose. His mercy and goodness are infinite, so there is a satisfactory explanation. He will reveal it to us in His own good time."

She eyed Ward. "Let me warn you. I can tolerate your attacks on God; I know you are a creature of your times, when belief is weak. But never speak so of the Lord in the presence of Sir Reginald. He would kill you."

Ward snorted. "He would try."

"He would, Master Ward. But to the matter at hand. By rights I should hate the Lord more than you. I know you have suffered tragedies. Mine are greater."

That continued to gall Ward, her agents digging up every bit of his past. Maybe last year was within bounds. But she had no right snooping further back, especially concerning family matters. It was his business alone that as a child he lost his father to a car accident, as a teenager his older sister died of cancer, and later his mother became a near zombie.

Maybe her personal losses were worse than his. But in either case, the cruel hand of the Lord God—the Old Man—was evident. As it was everywhere. There was so much God initiated misfortune in the world, the only explanation was that He enjoyed tormenting His creatures.

Ward wondered how much a kick the Old Man got seeing Karen die. That had been a show. Three years of chemotherapy punctuated by two false dawns of temporary remission from ovarian cancer. Hope, despair, hope, then the final despair. She was very brave, but she had to be terrified from start to finish. And it destroyed his mother.

Karen was his big sister, four years older. She was smart, pretty, kind hearted and therefore a prime candidate for the Old Man to liquidate. Let all the bastards continue to roam the land, but take her—and make her suffer mightily in the going. Ward could still hear his bald, hollow eyed sister retching behind the bathroom door.

After the last remission failed, it took her six months to die. Maybe she shouldn't have tried so hard to stay alive. Karen was a fighter, though. Both Ward and his mother had to watch her grow gaunter and gaunter, weaker and weaker, until at last the Old Man pulled the plug. A very fine person was done at age twenty-one.

But the Old Man wasn't finished. He had to break the will of his mother. She had been a real trooper after a drunk driver killed his father. She made a quick transition from stay at home mom to successful real estate agent. All her free hours were devoted to her children. She put up with so much from Ward, a demanding and cantankerous kid. His mother did every bit of her duty.

She was a strong woman. Not strong enough however to weather the slow, torturous, and inevitable demise of her daughter. The chemotherapy drained her as much as it did Karen. After the final month, the deathbed month, his mother was just a shell. She never recovered from the ensuing clinical depression.

She lived with her brother and his family on the West Coast. Ward saw her once a year, but the slumped woman that spoke in a whisper bore no resemblance to the energetic and determined person who raised him. Ward always left Oregon in gloom.

The Lord Giveth, the Lord Taketh Away, Praised be the Name of the Lord. He giveth all right, and He taketh away even better. Ward wondered how the Lord God would like to get cancer and go an inch at a time like Karen.

After his sister died Ward tried hard not to believe in God. It would be so much easier that way. He could accept Karen's horrible death much easier if it were just the DNA to blame. Cells went awry, what with flawed genes and chemical mutagens. No God meant it was just bad luck one of her cells turned murderous. Bad luck, good luck, they just happened.

But he had always sensed the presence of God. Ward knew He was there. At the universities most of his colleagues considered belief in God tantamount to belief in superstition and magic. A person was not truly an intellectual if he or she worshipped a deity. Of course when death threatened a loved one, or even when sweating out a tenure vote, prayer to a deity often resulted. His colleagues then too sensed the presence of God.

The Old Man existed, like it or not. Ward understood part of his problem with God was that he had never dealt well with authority figures. Ward would give respect where respect was due. However the one in authority had to earn that respect, by being fair and responsible and without malice. The Old Man, like so many others in charge, had not earned that respect.

"My only son will soon begin his descent into madness," Margaret said. "His wife Elizabeth, of whom I am very fond, will die in childbirth. My first grandson, a wonderful boy, will die at fifteen. Two other grandchildren will die within days of birth. The only man I romantically loved, Owen Tudor, was taken from me as was my second husband Henry Stafford whom I cherished. Many friends have died from the smallpox you mention. But my faith in the goodness of God has never wavered."

"Some would say you were a fool, then." But Ward said it without rancor. Indeed, she had and would take more blows than he.

"I have never been anyone's fool. Why would I be God's?"

"You are fortunate in your belief of His goodness. I once had it. That's gone forever."

"Do not be so certain."

"I am certain." He sighed. "All I want from this adventure—in which we are drawing to an inside straight—is to keep history intact." And get my Anne back.

"Then perform well."

"So many things can go wrong. At any point."

"Do your job, Sir Reginald and I will do ours, and trust in God to take care of the rest."

"What if I don't convert Simon Peter? He's the one person we must have." The Rock of the Church. "We can't buy him. His devotion must be sincere—and absolute."

"As I said, he is predisposed. We may need luck in other matters, but not there."

She hoped, thought Ward. What if the real Jesus had caught Simon and Andrew on a day when they were ready to shove their jobs as fishermen? They might like their vocation better the day Ward approached them.

"We have been through another 'adventure' together," said Margaret, "however hair-raising. God did not let us fail in the matter of Edward and Richard Plantagenet. Here, where so much more hangs in the balance, His response will be the same."

He repressed a grimace. Only the hair-raising part was guaranteed.

Ward had grown to respect James. James had a good heart, and a subtle intelligence. At night they would often talk privately. This quiet man opened up to him. Ward believed they were becoming friends.

One evening they spoke of his cousin. The voice of James broke as he said how he regretted he would never see Jesus again.

James hung his head. "At least before I had hope he was alive."

"I'm sorry. Margaret said you two were close."

"I have three brothers and three sisters. I love them, but not as I did him."

It had been twenty years. And they were kids then. Jesus must have made quite an impact.

"He became a great man," said Ward. "Maybe the greatest ever. You would have been very proud of him."

"You must now be that man."

God willing, as our dear Muslim friends would say. "I'm sorry about his mother, too."

James winced. "I have never seen anyone in such pain. She cried everyday when it became evident Jesus would not return."

"What about Joseph?" The historian in Ward, and the plain urge to get the inside dirt, led him to poke his nose here.

The man whose eyes were too close together hesitated. These were family matters. Ward, if even if a budding friend, was an outsider.

But James obviously wanted to talk about his cousin, who he missed so much.

"I fear Joseph hated Jesus. He never lamented his disappearance."

"If I may ask, was Mary with child before their marriage? It is so rumored in our records."

"They say she was. But not before the betrothal."

A year usually passed between betrothal and marriage. The gospel of Matthew had Joseph trying to back out during the interim. Supposedly an angel convinced him otherwise. The reality had to be different.

Without prompting James said, "Joseph claimed the child was not his. He was ready to give Joachim, Mary's father, a bill of divorce. But somehow Jacob convinced him to go ahead with the marriage. Some say a reduction of the bride price was involved, but no one ever saw proof."

"Did anyone know who the real father was?"

Ward expected a reply of none of your business, but James answered calmly.

"Some said it was a Greek. Mary often went with her father to market in Sepphoris, a gentile town. That's three miles from Nazareth. She was seen several times talking and laughing with the Greek—who was much younger than Joseph. They said he was quite handsome."

And one thing led to another, thought Ward.

"Mary denied he was the father, they said." James shook his head. "When pressed, she said she didn't know how it happened."

Right, thought Ward. Sex with your betrothed was not encouraged but permissible, but sex outside that made a Jewish woman an outcast. Mary was lucky Joseph didn't boot her.

"They say Joseph loved Mary. I guess that was true. I never saw him mistreat her. But Joseph did not love Jesus. He always talked harshly to him."

Jesus had to be a constant and unavoidable reminder of Mary's cheating. Boy, this was a scoop, to get the lowdown on the Holy Family. Another time and place he would have been on his knees giving thanks. But in the here and now, he empathized with the young Jesus. The rejection by Joseph—no fault of Jesus—must have been tough.

"How did Jesus feel about Joseph?"

"He said he forgave Joseph his meanness. But his eyes said otherwise."

"When did Joseph die?"

"Not long after Mary. He was a broken man once she died."

Man, this was a tear-jerker.

"We will keep alive the name of your cousin," said Ward. "I swear it." Well, they would at least try.

"Jesus could be harsh himself," said James. "He often refused to work, even though he was skilled with the tools. He would go into the hills for days at a time. When asked what he was doing there, he said 'I speak with my real father'."

Ward let out a commiserating groan. "I had no idea it was like that."

"Jesus did not have many friends in Nazareth. I may have been the only one. He made many angry. Of course, they made him angry with taunts of 'bastard'."

Jesus Christ, Ward almost said.

"He was told not to come to synagogue class after his tenth birthday. He was always arguing with the rabbi. He bested the rabbi many times, too. I liked that, and so did some other of the boys."

Banned from synagogue class. Ward remembered when he had been briefly banned from Sunday school class. Ward was twelve and a pretty good wise ass himself. The teacher, a most serious young man, had said God sent Jesus because He so detested sin. The teacher's face contorted as he said, "God cannot bear to look on sin."

"What a wimp," Ward had cackled. Which got him tossed from class.

"Jesus often asked me to run away with him," said James. "He said we could go to one of the great rabbinical teachers in Jerusalem or Alexandria. Beg to become students. They probably would have taken Jesus, he was so smart...but not me."

Ward wondered if the real Jesus had indeed fled Nazareth at an early age, and studied under one of the masters. Until John the Baptist began his siren song at the Jordan.

"I wish I could have met him," said Ward.

"Jesus always looked out for me. I was not a strong boy, they picked on me a lot. He always put himself between me and someone else, no matter how big."

"Jesus actually fought?"

James regarded him as if that was a dumb question. "Many times. He was quick with his hands. After awhile no one his own size ever called him bastard."

Jesus Christ, thought Ward.

"But before he left for good he did stop fighting. A larger boy called his mother a whore. Jesus threw a rock and struck down the boy. The boy did not wake for a month. After that Jesus swore to me he would never hit anyone again. He just walked away the next time someone taunted him."

Ward swallowed. Then he shivered as the ghosts of history swirled about him.

The middle of June—the Hebrew month of Tammuz—they left the cave. They traveled north along the road that paralleled the Jordan. The journey went slowly because of the intense heat, which required they stop each day before noon. Ward swore temperatures exceeded a hundred ten degrees.

He had never seen a river with so many hairpin bends. The farther north they proceeded the more the river valley became choked with vegetation. At points it resembled a jungle. A jungle, bounded by utter desolation.

Despite the scalding heat nearly as many people traveled here as along the coastal Via Maris. Caravans abounded, and they did not stop once the sun reached its zenith. Singly or grouped ordinary people also pressed south, but no longer were these travelers headed to see John. The Baptist had been arrested two weeks before.

In the afternoons Ward rehearsed the initial sermon he would give at the synagogue in Capernaum. James acted as technical advisor. It took six tries before James said Ward would pass as a learned Jew. That didn't help his nerves at all.

Margaret gave him a pep talk. She said he had faced many audiences before, and never faltered. She did not doubt his determination or courage. And what could provide a tougher audience than the one last October, when he had attempted to kill Edward Plantagenet? His nerve had held then and it would hold now.

They would see.

After four days of travel they reached the Sea of Galilee. It was a lake really. The shining blue waters and the many villages around its shore were a welcome sight after the trek through the wastelands to their south. Even though the hills surrounding the lake were now turning mustard brown, two months after the spring rains, Ward could see this was a favored land.

Christ had chosen well to begin his ministry here. In addition to the natural beauty, the area was far from the authority of Judea and the Sadducees who ran it. Capernaum, which had served as Christ's headquarters in the Galilee, sat near the border between the tetrarchies of Antipas and his brother Philip. If the going got too hot in one jurisdiction, Ward and his followers could slip over to the other.

The next day they paused at the Arbel cliffs, on the western shore of the lake. Margaret had scaled the imposing heights—nearly vertical toward the summit—two decades before when, as she said, she was much younger. She and Bray would not attempt it now, but she promised the view was worth the climb. The vistas would also implant a mental map of their primary area of operations.

After an exhausting but exhilarating climb up winding pathways Ward and James reached the top—which Margaret said stood a thousand feet above the lake. With wind blowing through his newly minted beard Ward put hands on hips as he took in the panorama before them.

James pointed out the town of Magdala on the shore directly below, then the Plain of Gennesareth just north of the town. There Jesus had supposedly fed the multitude of five thousand. On the shore beyond the small plain lay the village of Tabgha. Tradition had Jesus delivering the Sermon on the Mount from the slope above the village.

James pointed to the northwest.

"That's Capernaum," he said. "About four miles from Magdala."

Capernaum didn't look anything special, just a bit larger than Tabgha and other villages on the shore. It did have walls. A little west of Capernaum was the mouth of the Jordan River. James said the headwaters of the river rose at the base of Mount Hermon, about thirty-five miles northward. Ward could clearly see the snow capped peak of the mountain.

James' finger moved to the other side of the river. There was the village of Bethsaida, hometown of at least three of the disciples. The gospel of John claimed Simon, his brother Andrew, and Philip were born there; later they moved over to Capernaum. Margaret said the disciples John and James, the sons of Zebedee, may have also hailed from the village.

Ward saw a village a couple miles up the long slope from Capernaum. He asked James its name, though he could guess.

"Chorazin," said James. "Known for the wheat grown about it."

Ward nodded. Yes, that was the third in the trio of villages Christ had cursed near the end of his ministry in the Galilee.

"Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida!" Christ had raged. "If the miracles that were performed in you had been performed in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, it will be more bearable for Tyre and Sidon on the day of judgment than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be lifted up to the skies? No, you will go down to the depths. If the miracles that were performed in you had been performed in Sodom, it would have remained to this day. But I tell you that it will be more bearable for Sodom on the day of judgment than for you."

Thus spake the angry man from Nazareth as he prepared to depart for the end game in Jerusalem. Ward wondered if in ten months he would feel the same. That is, if he didn't botch the whole thing long before.

Chapter VII

In the synagogue at Capernaum Ward did suffer stage fright, but he came through anyway. So did the fellow imposter.

As Ward delivered the sermon—the right of any Jewish adult male—a disheveled man leapt from the congregation and confronted Ward before the reading table. "What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?" he cried. "Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God." In turn Ward threw out his arms and shouted with the same intensity. "Be silent, and come out of him!"

The man hired by Bray, a passing traveler, then dropped and thrashed on the floor. Foam actually formed on his mouth. Ward repeated the command to come out, and the man went limp. Others in the now buzzing congregation helped the man freed of the demon to his feet.

After that it went like clockwork. Earlier as people filed into the synagogue built of black stone Margaret had pointed out two brothers, Simon and Andrew. After services Ward approached the wide eyed men, and shortly secured an invitation to dinner. After dinner they asked Ward and Margaret if they needed lodging for the night. Ward replied in the affirmative.

Margaret had been right, these brothers were predisposed to follow him. As were two friends, James and John the sons of Zebedee. The four fishermen swiftly became devoted, and shamelessly so. Margaret said the hand of God guided them. Ward believed the four were latching onto someone they found exciting.

Excite this walled town of two thousand souls he did. Astoundingly—Margaret said again the hand of God was involved—he "cured" Simon's mother-in-law. When he took hold of her hand she was able to rise from her sick bed. Or more accurately, from her sick mat on a dirt floor. She and Simon credited him with her recovery, but more likely the fever had broken as he entered the house.

Well, the hand of God certainly did not figure in the next cures.

Just outside the town gate people fled as a leper approached crying "Unclean!" Ward however courageously remained. As the man with face of scabs and pus neared, Ward had to gag even though he knew it was all makeup. Ward spit on his fingers, then applied them to the mess on the face. The man cried out and knelt. He buried his face in his ragtag garments—already so caked with grime the addition of the makeup did not show. Cured of leprosy he rose.

James had said Jesus supposedly cured with spit before. Jesus wanted to visit the boy he struck with a rock, the one who lay in a coma. The boy's outraged parents refused. Finally Jesus spit into James' hand and bade he place it on the boy's forehead. After application the boy recovered, but not until a couple days later. Too long for cause and effect.

The stunt with the "leper" was a simple production. The one with the "paralytic" took more choreography. Simon and Andrew and various relatives lived in a walled compound not far from the wharves that always reeked of fish. The compound contained a central courtyard bounded by a covered gallery. As fame of Jesus grew, more and more people crowded into the courtyard each day to hear him teach and to seek cures.

Though the womenfolk of this household didn't complain—at least not to him—Ward knew he was seriously disrupting their routine. The courtyard was where they performed most of their chores. There they ground flour, cooked, wove garments, and tended to goats, chicken and children. But Margaret said not to worry about imposition. Just concentrate on the mission.

So concentrate he did. As Ward spoke from the gallery, he again faced a heavy press of people in the courtyard. Alongside him in the shade sat the privileged of his entourage, which now included two more disciples, Philip and his friend Nathaniel. A couple of local scribes invited by Margaret were also present. Bray, the seventh disciple, was outside the compound with his hirelings.

Shortly four men carrying a paralyzed man on a pallet arrived at the courtyard entrance. They made their way around the back of the crowd to steps that led to the compound roof. They then carried the pallet and its occupant to the gallery cover above where Ward spoke and started to remove tiles. Shortly a hole opened.

Simon and Andrew—not at all privy to the deception—screamed at the lunatics to stop. Ward said let them continue. Though mad as hell, the two disciples kept quiet as the hole widened. Finally the gap was big enough to lower the man and his pallet.

Ward knelt by the withered man—good job by Bray, enlisting such a frail pretender—and said, "Your sins are forgiven." Which instantly roused the scribes, these experts in religious law. They charged Ward with blasphemy; only God alone could forgive sin.

This was almost too easy, Ward thought, as he rose to answer. He stood ramrod straight and raised his deep voice so all in the courtyard could hear.

"Which is easier to say, 'Yours sins are forgiven' or 'Rise, take your pallet and walk'? But know you that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins." Ward turned to the man on the pallet. "I say to you, rise, take up your pallet and go home."

The man made a play of struggling up. Then he departed through the astonished crowd. Even the eyes of the scribes bugged.

In the days afterward Ward cured many, and without resort to subterfuge. He would rub spit on those who ailed and pronounce them on the road to recovery—with the caveat recovery would occur if they had sufficient faith in him. Those who did not get well could only blame themselves.

Soon the crowds were too large to continue ministering from the compound. Ward went down the lake. Simon's boat provided his new pulpit and he was able to administer to throngs nearing five hundred outside the town walls. The land rising behind the shore provided a natural amphitheater for his strong voice. With satisfaction he noted he was performing here as well as he ever had in a lecture hall.

He packed them in, as he delivered what had to be astounding doctrine. Two thousand years ahead these exhortations would still sound extreme. How explosively they had to ring when fresh. It was glorious doctrine, to be sure, but a naive and impractical one doomed to failure. Ward knew his species too well to believe otherwise.

Wondrous words they were nonetheless. Ward spoke them with verve.

"You have heard it said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, do not resist one who is evil. If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also; and if anyone would sue you and take your cloak, let him have your tunic as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to him who begs from you, and do not refuse him who would borrow from you."

Jaws dropped when he so spoke. Then the jaws worked as people on shore jabbered their disbelief. Many must have thought him mad. Don't resist an evildoer? Let someone hit you again? Give your clothes to the son of a bitch who would sue you?

The call to go the extra mile must particularly upset them. He had seen it on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, when a column of legionnaires ordered travelers to carry haversacks. Roman soldiers could force anyone to carry their equipment one mile. Ward remembered the palpable hate of the dragooned.

Roman soldiers were also present in Capernaum, a half century of them. While the Galilee wasn't under direct Roman rule, the garrison at this border town built of black basalt rock enforced collection of a customs tax. Many of the townspeople had likely carried haversacks and more. For Christ to ask that they volunteer for such abuse was beyond belief.

But no one rushed into the glittering waters to pummel Ward. A man who could cure at will got a lot of slack.

The ministry flourished and by the end of July all the disciples were on board except one. They were reserving a space for the look-alike, the man on which Ward would hang the moniker "Thomas", which meant "twin" in Greek.

Ward took his show on the road. By now he had his lines down pat, and excellent performances followed one after another. In towns and villages about the Sea of Galilee, he wowed all audiences. Offers of meals and lodging never failed. Men and women, especially women, contributed money.

Margaret continued to stress the hand of God was on them. Ward refused to buy that, but in the village of Tabgha occurred an incident eerily similar to one described in the gospel of John. John's account however took place in Jerusalem.

By this time he had riled up the Pharisees and scribes, those fastidious guardians of Jewish tradition. They didn't like his claiming the power of forgiveness, associating with lowlifes like tax collectors, or his sloppy observance of the Sabbath.

They decided to trap him into an outright rejection of Mosaic Law. They could then bring him before a religious tribunal.

On a blisteringly hot day in that village, they confronted him with a woman caught in the act of adultery. If they could get him to refuse to condemn the terrified woman—who faced imminent death—they had him. Again it was too easy. Ward had to repress amusement as he thundered Christ's immortal line: "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone!"

The humiliated accusers soon drifted away. How the authority hating man he impersonated must have enjoyed that.

In addition to the disciples others were now following him from town to town. A goodly number were female—his rescue of the adulteress had boosted his standing with the fair sex to even greater heights.

One woman in particular caught his eyes. She was tall, young, richly attired, and very pretty. She regarded Ward with both adoration and awe. He probably stared back too long, for Margaret eased beside him. She spoke lowly and sharply in English.

"You are to keep your hands off her."

Ward stiffened. "What are you talking about? That's the farthest thing from my mind."

"It had better be. She is forbidden to you."

"What—who is she?"

"She is Mary of Magdala, recently widowed."

"Mary Magdalene?"

"Yes." The black eyes drilled. "You will not have sexual relations with her. Not because I am a prude, but because the world cannot chance a child born of you and her. I take that novel as pure fantasy; let us not make it fact."

Ward swallowed and agreed. He hadn't planned to touch this woman anyway, this woman with the inviting hips and lips.

For his heart belonged to another.

Margaret—along with the luxury loving Mary Magdalene—remained in Capernaum the following week when Roger and the disciples journeyed across the border into the Golan. The gospels told of Christ visiting communities on the eastern side of the Sea of Galilee, so she decided they get that out of the way now.

According to the gospel of Matthew one of Christ's most dramatic miracles occurred on those shores, one well neigh impossible to mimic. In substitution Roger, Sir Reginald and James would slip away from the others. After a couple of hours they would return, and James and "Judas" would breathlessly recount what just witnessed.

A man obviously possessed had rushed from the hills to throw himself at the feet of Jesus. The man begged release from his torment. Jesus then asked the name of the demon and the man answered "Legion". A herd of pigs was feeding on the hillside, and Jesus told the multitude of demons to enter the herd. The herd, now possessed, ran into the lake and drowned. The cured man now begged to accompany Jesus. But Jesus told him instead "Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you".

As always, guilt nagged Margaret at this duplicity. She consoled herself that the true Christ actually performed this miracle. If she bore false witness—pray God the Father would not call it that—it was only to redeem the history that vile Moustafa tried to circumvent.

God the Father would definitely not fault her in the matter of Mary Magdalene. Margaret had put her foot down concerning who went across the border. Mary would not accompany "Jesus". Roger now openly ran his eyes over her, and she him. On the other side of the lake an affair would begin. Too many decadent gentile towns existed, where anything went

Surprisingly Roger did not protest when Margaret commanded Mary stay in Capernaum. He said he understood. He concurred that they cloak the decision by prohibiting any of the female cadre—now numbering more than the men—from crossing into the Golan. It was good to see Roger striving to hold his carnal desires at bay. The oval face and fine figure of Mary Magdalene must greatly tempt him.

Margaret was not under any illusions, however, that Roger had conquered that temptation. Roger was not Christ. She would help Roger with his resolve; he and Mary would never find themselves alone.

In August Ward renamed Simon; he now became Peter—which in Greek meant "The Rock". Peter was very pleased. Apparently to the Jews of this era, renaming indicated the person was selected for a divine mission; had not God changed Abram to Abraham and Jacob to Israel?

Ward mused he should have called him The Conduit. This burly man with the head of shaggy hair was assertive and impulsive, full of bluster. Since Ward had chosen him first, Peter considered himself first among the disciples.

Ward encouraged this. For Peter now bore a responsibility he originally did not have. The miracles that were too tricky or could not be performed at all still had to get into the Synoptic gospels. And here the man believing himself Ward's confidant served nicely.

On the road Ward would call to Peter to join him as they walked. Ward would say he wanted to inform Peter of miracles performed prior to arriving in Capernaum. I tell these alone to you Peter, because I value you above the others. Your devotion is greater, your faith stronger. When the time comes, you will pass these accounts to the next generation.

Peter ate it up. He listened raptly to accounts of walking on water, feeding a multitude with a few pieces of bread and fish, and raising a young man from a funeral bier outside Nain. Peter doubted not a word.

Lady Margaret in turn worked on John. She said Jesus did not want the turning of water to wine, his prior trips to Jerusalem, or the raising of Lazarus known. It would only distract from his teaching. But if anything happened to her someone must later write of these miracles. Lady Margaret told John she trusted in him because she sensed God favored him. John also ate up the flattery.

Ward was not impressed with the intelligence of Peter, John, or most of the other disciples. Only James and Matthew the tax collector rated above average in smarts. The rest struggled with the fine points of parables and beatitudes, and it took all of Ward's teaching ability to get them across. He wondered if Jesus had deliberately picked individuals lacking intellectual prowess. Such men would be less likely to dispute his teachings. Or outshine him.

On the positive side Ward could be assured the disciples would pass as gospel to the gospel writers what they saw and what they heard. Their best virtue was that they did not lack faith. Or gullibility, the less kind might say.

Ward shouldn't complain. This whole precarious venture depended on the gullible. The people of the Galilee—rustic and ignorant and downtrodden—wanted so eagerly to believe a charismatic performer possessed divine sanction. Their eagerness made them putty in his hands—as they must have been in Christ's.

And a charismatic performer Ward was. In every village and town he held audiences enraptured, and even some Pharisees succumbed to his silver tongue. People hung on every word of parable and admonition, but it was repetition of the Sermon on the Mount that brought down the house. In each village when he finished the Sermon, hosannas rang out and tears of joy flowed from many eyes.

Pontius Pilate grinned as he read the latest report. It should be he giving diamonds to this mother of Medusa, not the other way around. At the least he should see she received citizenship. Rome was apparently going to owe her much.

He still didn't know the full of her game, and in the beginning he suspected she might try to raise insurrection. He had been ready to kill her immediately. Instead she was offering wine laced with gall. What a wonderful cup of philosophy to hold to the lips of the seditious rabble of the Galilee.

Give the Romans two miles instead of one. Love those who would do you wrong, resist them not an iota. Strike not back at the striker. Give up your possessions eagerly.

He laughed. This woman and her miracle man need fear nothing from him. Nor from Herod Antipas, as Pilate had told that mincing fool to not put a hand on the pair. No, if they faced any danger, it would have to be from the Zealots. This turning the people of the Galilee into sheep could not be to their liking.

Bray turned in disgust to Margaret.

"He thinks he _is_ the Christ."

Margaret looked out at the supremely confident Roger Ward, who again preached from a fishing boat in the Sea of Galilee. A crowd of several hundred sat about the shore. The sun had set behind them, but its golden rays still shone on the towering hills of the Golan that rose above the opposite shore. This evening they were at the village of Ginnesar—or was it another, she wasn't sure. The villages and towns were running together.

This was the best time of day for Ward to engage the multitudes. By now most people had supped and welcomed diversion. The fierce summer heat and humidity had also abated, aided by breezes pushing down from the westward hills.

"That is to our advantage," said Margaret. Master Ward indeed had played the role to perfection. He was better than she expected, and she had expected much.

"A peacock could not preen more," growled Bray.

"Let him preen, Sir Reginald." She opened her arm toward the villagers. "His feathers attract many. And remember, Pilate will pluck those feathers."

Bray nodded grimly. "Aye."

"You said you had a candidate."

"A very good one, I believe. I will let your eye determine if I am right. These beards make it difficult. They hide half the face. I cannot understand why men wear these in such a climate."

They were no doubt damnably hot. Sir Reginald had not gotten used to his. Roger however had, and Margaret must admit it rendered him even more attractive. Another item which worked to their advantage.

"How close is this man in height?"

"A little shorter. The body smaller. But he is the best I have seen so far." His brow furrowed. "Time passes, my lady."

"We still have many months." But Sir Reginald was right. The sooner they secured the "Twin", the better. Roger would begin to get antsy. If they didn't have the look-alike in hand before the winter rains, he might consider bolting.

A wave of laughter rose from the audience. Yes, Roger was absolutely splendid. And yes, the hand of God was with this endeavor.

"We should have Ward approach him," said Bray. "If later we find someone better, we can send this fellow packing."

"Let me have a word with the man first. If I am in favor, then I can introduce him to my son."

She had not said "my son" with tongue in cheek, but Bray grimaced anyway. Only with the greatest reluctance had he accepted the role of Judas Iscariot. He had stated it was blasphemy, even if unavoidable, for Ward to pose as Jesus Christ. Margaret was certain Sir Reginald also considered her portrayal as foster mother of Jesus the same.

Margaret would have to watch her words. Sir Reginald was nearly as vital to this endeavor as Roger. She couldn't afford to alienate him. Bray had loyally served her and Henry, but every man had his limits. In matters of piety Sir Reginald was not one to trifle with.

"Did you get his name?"

"Aye. Jacob ben Jesse. A sandal maker."

"Good." They didn't make much money. They could buy him. But she wagered Roger would so enthrall him that wouldn't be necessary.

"Take us close to him, Sir Reginald."

They worked around the back of the crowd. Midway Bray pointed to a man in a dull brown tunic who was avidly following every word of Ward.

She eased within two paces and inspected him. The man had ruddy hair and hazel eyes. Roger had black hair and gray eyes. But jaw, mouth, nose, brow resembled those of Ward. In fact, they almost matched. Sir Reginald had been too conservative in his opinion.

She turned to Bray and smiled. This Jacob was perfect.

As September began, Ward was on top of the world. His last concern—when would they find the "twin"—had been resolved with the acquisition of Jacob ben Jesse. Jacob had a damn scraggly beard, but there was no denying that he closely resembled the Teacher.

When the time came—a time already playing on his conscience, though it was a half year away—they would trim Jacob's rusty beard and die it black. Jacob was slighter than Ward, but Margaret said the rigors of scourging would obscure the difference. Neither should Ward worry about difference in eye color because Jacob's eyes would be too bloodshot to tell. Her matter of fact tone gave Ward the shivers.

Jacob had immediately accepted Ward's invitation to join the disciples. It apparently didn't matter that he had a wife and four children. Like so many of the other disciples he probably wanted escape from the drudgery of his life, perhaps a meaningless life. Ward provided both escape and meaning.

The other disciples had formed their cliques and Jacob was not readily accepted. They already had enough competition among themselves for Ward's attention. It didn't help Jacob that he looked so much like their leader, and jealously further stirred when Ward renamed him Thomas. Peter, the man who thought his own renaming exclusive, particularly cold shouldered the twelfth disciple.

The other disciples did soften when Ward reminded them about the Golden Rule. Ward would encourage good treatment of Thomas. For the poor man was doomed.

With the pole Ephraim whacked the branches overhead. Beside him his husky uncle did the same. Olives showered onto cloth spread about the gnarled trunk of the tree.

Though just past dawn it was already hot. Sweat had started to flow. But Ephraim did not mind; he wanted to wield the pole. If one imagined that the branches were the enemies of Israel, this was no chore at all.

"You're striking too hard," said Ezra. The graybeard scowled.

"The fruit has to come down."

"You know the trees go one year without harvest. Don't make it two."

Pain stabbed behind his skull and for an instant Ephraim considered turning the pole on his uncle. But only for an instant. He loved and admired Ezra, more than he ever had his father. Ephraim prodded the branches more gently.

The silvery green leaves danced as the poles did their work. More black olives, tinged with white, bounced on the rough linen cloth. Finally only olives on the uppermost branches remained. According to the Law there they would remain so the destitute might gather them.

The two men paused to drink from goatskins, then began putting olives into baskets.

Without preamble Ezra said, "We have decided on the one for Succoth."

Ezra had not lowered his voice and Ephraim glanced around. They were still alone. Uncle Joel and his sons had not arrived. The lazy curs were probably lingering at breakfast, or even in bed.

"Who?"

"The customs collector at Capernaum. It is now certain he will go up to Jerusalem."

Ephraim nodded with satisfaction. He especially hated customs men. Only the Romans surpassed their arrogance and they took one fifth of any olive oil he transported to Caesarea or across to the Golan. It was a shame the short round one at Capernaum had joined the imposter. The new man, though certainly earning his death, would stir no personal animosity.

"Three a year is too few," said Ephraim.

"Patience. The time will come when they die by the hundreds."

Ephraim knew his uncle's call for restraint was not born of cowardice. Far from it. Twenty-three years ago his uncle had fought alongside Judas ben Ezekias when the Romans took direct control of Judea. Ezra had killed many Romans and traitors then, and had escaped the mass crucifixions with which the revolt ended.

Ephraim did not urge a general uprising now. He agreed they needed much preparation for that. Probably years more were required to arm and train. But they could still kill several dozen each year of those who did the bidding of Rome. As long as the killing was done without trace, it would be difficult for Antipas or Pilate to strike back.

"I fear I will be as old as you are now when that time comes," Ephraim said.

"And before that day I may be dead. But this time we must succeed. We must be able to defeat legions, just as Arminius did in Germany. For the time being we limit ourselves to needle pricks."

Ezra had first approached him during last winter. Ephraim had heard rumors that his uncle and surviving compatriots still met and plotted for the Zealot cause. Ezra always denied this.

"Rome cannot be beaten," he would say. "We must accept what is. I do not want to see a forest of crosses again."

During the rains of Tevet Ezra offered him membership in the Zealot party. But he warned that Ephraim would have to prove himself worthy of that membership.

It was no coincidence that Ezra had waited until Ephraim's eldest son, Isaac, had reached the age of manhood before the offer. If Ephraim died trying, Isaac would be old enough to take over family responsibilities.

Ezra said he knew Ephraim passionately hated Rome and its minions. But hate was not enough. He must also show courage and skill. Ezra would train Ephraim in the art of silent killing—and if Ephraim survived he was to eventually teach other men. The Zealots wanted several dozen ready when the time for revolt came. These men were to be called Sicarii—the dagger men.

At last they saw Joel and his three sons entering the grove. The men were laughing heartily as they carried poles and baskets.

Ephraim watched with contempt as they approached. Oh, they could jest well, drink well, beat trees well. But not one of them could do what he had done and was going to do. Even worse, they were content to let matters go on as they were in the Galilee and in Judea. They made a prosperous living with the olives so why risk anything?

Ezra saw his sneer and said to wipe it from his face. "I have told you to mask disdain. We disarm our enemies with smiles. And these are your kin, not enemies."

"They are lazy."

"Yes. But all the olives will come down. In plenty of time before the Feast of Booths."

Ephraim greeted his other uncle and his cousins without rancor, though it remained in his heart. They all moved to another tree and more olives rained.

Talk among the cousins, two of whom were not yet married, quickly fixed on available maidens in Nazareth. Ephraim paid no attention. He had heard it all before.

Then his ears opened as the cousins started to discuss the imposter. Of course only Ephraim knew the man was not really the Jesus who had disappeared from their village so many years ago. He had told no one the truth.

A number from Nazareth had gone down to the Lake these past weeks to see the man who performed miracles and gelded men with his words. Only one person, Sarah, had doubted his identity. She had been one of Jesus' few childhood friends. But James assured her the man indeed was his cousin.

So she too accepted. She, still the prettiest woman in Nazareth and whom Ephraim had once loved.

Last month Ezra had brought Ephraim along to a meeting where Zealots discussed Jesus. Some wanted to kill him. They argued his insane preaching would weaken the will of the people to resist. Love your enemies? Turn the cheek? Antipas and Pilate could not wish for a better ally.

Ezra had urged they leave him alone. And Ephraim, for different reasons, had counseled the same. Ezra said let Antipas be the one to decide whether to murder him, as he would likely do John the Baptist. Let Antipas be the one to enrage the people. This Jesus healed and comforted many.

They agreed to stay their hand, but they would keep close watch. As would Ephraim.

Work in the grove continued and after an hour Ephraim's wife came around the hill that blocked sight of Nazareth. Rachel led a donkey that would take the filled baskets to the oil press, where hopefully Isaac and others now toiled.

He greeted his wife with a nod. Rachel wasn't pretty, but she was a good wife. She had given him two sons, did her duties without complaining, and she had learned to obey him and not nag. If a man could not have the likes of Sarah, then a Rachel must suffice.

Then pain returned as he remembered how the eyes of Sarah would slide up to his forehead when they talked. When he had tried to court her. Up to the white scar where the rock had struck with such force. A rock hurled from the arm of Jesus.

A woman wanted a man without blemish, as did a man want a woman. He did not blame Sarah for the rejection.

The one he blamed still hid. And Ephraim was running out of patience waiting for the imposter to lure forth Jesus.

Part Three

By Bread Alone

Chapter VIII

Cooler weather came in mid September. Scattered rain, the "first rains", fell and a smattering of green returned to the hills surrounding the lake. In the greater Galilee the harvests of dates and figs were complete, and after the solemn Day of Atonement thoughts turned to the most joyous of Jewish festivals—the feast of Succoth.

Ward and the Twelve returned to Capernaum for the festival. There, as in every town and village along the shore, the inhabitants built small huts on their roofs. This was in obedience to God's' command that His people remember when Israel lived in similar dwellings during their forty years in the desert. But Succoth also looked forward. It pointed toward another harvest, when all the world would be converted to Judaism. Many thought this would coincide with the appearance of the Messiah.

That's me, thought Ward.

Some of the followers had starting calling him "Master", instead of "Teacher". Several asked he if were John the Baptist, escaped from the prison fortress. A few asked if he were Elijah, who was to precede the coming of the Messiah. Yet no one, even the most committed of the Twelve, had asked if he were the Anointed One.

No matter. That would come soon enough. Probably some in the land already suspected he was the real deal, but were waiting to see how things progressed. Everyone remembered Judas the Galilean, a deeply spiritual man, who had led a rebellion against the Romans two decades years earlier. During the revolt some claimed he was the Messiah. The revolt had been crushed and two thousand adherents crucified.

In Capernaum Ward joined wholeheartedly in the festivities. People ate meals and slept in the rooftop huts, but did their drinking and celebrating in courtyards. Music from flutes, tambrils, and lyres floated in balmy air late into the night. Singing and dancing, the telling of stories and riddles, and the playing of dice and draughts whiled away the hours of the seven days of the feast.

During Succoth Ward allowed himself to strategize bedding Mary Magdalene. It was just a thought experiment he told himself, he would never actually try to seduce her.

The main difficulty lay in the presence of Bray and James. They shadowed him everywhere and even slept with him. They ostensibly served as bodyguards, but also as de facto chaperons. Ward was certain neither Bray nor Lady Margaret put any trust in Ward concerning Mary.

Wisely so. She who looked even younger than her twenty-two years tempted him big time. He wanted to seal his lips to her full ones, he wanted to lift his hands to her breasts. After that, he wouldn't care about the consequences. And she would yield to him, he was sure.

Ward tried to summon shame. He had sworn fidelity to Anne. And here he was perhaps only an opportunity away from sleeping with another woman. Just what Anne suspected when he said he had to go away.

Christ must have desired Mary. She was very attractive. Perhaps that was why Christ so vehemently denounced illicit sex, because he knew firsthand the powerful grip of lust. Don't even think about it, he had warned. If you don't contemplate, then you won't act.

Well, Christ was perfect. Ward was not.

Ward noticed James sitting by himself, against the courtyard wall. James was following the evening's dancing with a wistful smile. A wineskin lay in his lap. Ward saw pain in the man's eyes.

James was so quiet, many times one forgot he was there. He was almost an apparition. The other disciples didn't quite know what to make of him, but they accorded respect because he was a blood relative of Jesus. James in turn was always pleasant to everyone. But it would make little difference to them if he weren't around.

Ward went over to him.

"Mind if I join you?"

The weak smile flickered. "Please sit...Teacher."

Ward knew James didn't intend irony. James was probably still confused exactly how to treat Ward, the man impersonating his long lost cousin. However much Lady Margaret had revealed to him, it had to be difficult for James to fully grasp the import.

"You look troubled, James."

"I miss him so."

His voice slurred and wine was heavy on his breath. Damp stains splotched the front of his tunic. James was pretty looped.

Ward patted his shoulder. "I know you do. It is all so sad, what happened."

Still, one way or the other Jesus would have died. It was probably better to last see Jesus twenty years ago than to watch him croak next spring on a cross, the most painful and humiliating of Roman executions.

"I wish Jesus were here," said James. "Succoth was our favorite. He was happy then."

"I wish he were too." Then Ward wouldn't have to be.

"I should have killed that man."

"Kill who?"

"That man—Moustafa." His voice was becoming more slurred, and he listed against Ward.

"Yes, we should have."

"Too little."

Yeah, thought Ward, too little, too late. But there was no way to stop that lunatic. Even if we had sailed directly from Britannia, Moustafa would still have beaten us to Jesus.

"I should have killed him. But I was too little."

James went limp against Ward. Ward eased him to the ground. He thought about carrying James inside, but later he might puke all over the floor. The ground was soft out here anyway.

Peter came up to them. Concern was on his face. "Is James not well, Teacher?"

"He is just weary. We will let him sleep."

"Teacher, a woman at the gate asks for you. She has a sick child."

Ward repressed irritation. This was what wearied, being always on call. Always having to act like he could really cure, when the rate of recovery had to be below fifty percent. Yet still they came.

He put on a beneficent smile and rose.

Succoth ended all too soon. At least for the disciples. Ward was sending the Twelve—rather the Ten—on the road. Bray and cousin James would stay with Ward in Capernaum.

They were arrayed before him this damp morning in the cluttered courtyard of Peter and Andrew's compound. They shifted on their feet as light drizzle fell. It was cool, not cold, but Ward could see breath forming before their faces.

Under the gray skies the men looked none too happy. Their faces fell further as he continued.

"Go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans, but go rather to the lost sheep of Israel. And preach as you go, saying, 'The kingdom of heaven is at hand.' Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, cast out demons. As you have received without paying, give without pay. Take no gold, nor silver, nor copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, nor two tunics, nor sandals, nor a staff."

Yes, this was boot camp for them.

"And whatever town or village you enter, find out who is worthy in it, and stay with him until you depart. As you enter the house, salute it. And if the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, withdraw your peace. And if anyone will not receive you or listen to your words, shake the dust from your feet on them as you leave. Truly, I say to you, it shall be more tolerable on the day of judgement for Sodom and Gomorrah than for that town."

Ward saw the disciples eyeing each other. Up until this point Jesus had always led the way. Effortlessly they got to bask in the glory of his feats and fame. Now for an extended period they would be on their own. He was sure they inwardly asked how could they exorcise a demon or cleanse a leper? They would be abject failures and chased out of every village.

His next words turned some of them ashen. "Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Beware of men, for they will deliver you up to councils, and flog you in their synagogues, and you will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake, to bear testimony before them and the Gentiles."

But Thomas of all people was nodding, and a glow had come into his eyes. Oh man, get real. Don't you know what we are going to do to you?

Ward went on with the words from the gospel of Matthew. "When they deliver you up, do not be anxious how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour. For it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you."

The eyes of Thomas were positively afire. Ward paused a moment to gather himself. He could not let any misgiving creep into the climax of his address.

"Brother will deliver up brother to death, and the father his child, and children will rise against parents and have them put to death, and you will be hated by all for my name's sake. But he who endures to the end will be saved. When they persecute you in one town, flee to the next. For truly, I say to you, you will not have gone through all the towns of Israel, before the Son of man comes."

Except for Thomas, the disciples were distressed. What was this talk of being delivered up, getting flogged, being put to death? They hadn't signed on for that.

But the only response came from Peter, and it was not one of objection. The burly, shaggy headed man had only a question.

"When shall we depart, Teacher?"

Ward could see even aggressive, always certain Peter lacked confidence he could carry out the Teacher's orders. Yet all he asked was when do we leave.

Ward's throat caught. For the first time he saw the disciples as men other than gullible freeloaders. For the first time he saw them for what they were. He faced men of abiding faith, who in the face of travail would found the most consequential ideology of history. Men who would indeed endure to the end.

Ward knew Peter would die a martyr, but he hadn't been sure about fate of the others until he asked Margaret. He had earlier found it amusing how she spoke of these men—no other way to put it, they were country bumpkins—with such reverence. It wasn't so funny now as realization sank in that most of these men would end horribly. And devotion to him would be the cause.

Peter would die in Rome at the hand of that monster Nero, supposedly crucified upside down. His brother Andrew would preach in Scythia and also suffer crucifixion. James the son of Zebedee would stay in Palestine and wind up the first disciple killed, by beheading. His brother John would preach in Jerusalem and somehow live to an old age. Philip would also escape execution, but his friend Nathaniel would be flayed alive and beheaded after teaching in India and Armenia. The fate of Matthew the tax collector—who may have written the gospel bearing his name—was not known, nor was that of Simon the Zealot. James the cousin of Jesus would be stoned to death in Jerusalem. Thomas, if he was not to die on the cross in place of Ward, would have been executed in India. Judas the son of James would be martyred in Persia.

Not a pretty picture. Ward was ashamed he had these months looked down his nose at these men. They were all better and braver than he. He would escape to wealth and love in the technological wonderland of the 21st Century, while they would stay behind to spread the gospel, all the while pursued by the grim reaper.

By noon the Ten had left. Ward accompanied them out the town gate, where they took the highway westward. They would split into pairs and disperse after reaching the hills of the Galilee. They were to return before the main rains began in December.

When Ward had read the gospels in the cave in the Judean wilderness, he sarcastically thought Christ sent them on the road to get them out of his hair. Certainly they had worn on Ward these past months. They were always pressing close, always asking questions about the obvious, always jousting for position in the hierarchy of his favor.

Christ may have needed a breather from them, but he was also looking ahead. Christ knew he could be snatched just like John the Baptist. If he were jailed or killed, he would want the disciples to have this experience to fall back on. It was good planning.

And Ward had to consider that Christ knew he would die within a half year. Jesus may have already decided to provoke his death during Nisan, the month of the Passover festival. Knowing that, he absolutely had to send the disciples out so they could learn to spread the gospel in his absence.

Ward watched the founding fathers of the Christian church tread up a slope, then disappear from view.

Joseph ben David tried to keep his left arm concealed within the folds of his cloak. The arm was shaking badly. The others had to notice the twitching beneath the cloth, but everyone was either too polite or embarrassed for him to comment.

Joseph wanted to go back to his apartment at Annas' residence and nap. He had arrived in Jerusalem only yesterday, and the journey from his villa just outside Arimathea had exhausted him. Both days of the journey he had to fight the stinging dust and fierce heat of the Sirocco wind.

Today's meeting of the Sanhedrin had thankfully not lasted long. The council had proclaimed the start of the month of Marchesvan, then decided which cases would be heard tomorrow. Caiaphas closed the session with invitation to the seventy other members to attend a reception at his palace in the evening.

When Caiaphas asked the members of the "lessor" council to remain behind, Joseph had silently groaned. Who knew how long discussion of whatever the High Priest wanted to chew would last. Sometimes the matter was important, sometimes trivial. Joseph ached to recline and sleep away rest of the afternoon.

The nine gathered about Caiaphas, who remained in the President's chair. The high vaulted chamber was now empty save them. Joseph took a seat on the curving stone bench next to his old friend Annas, the friend whose life he had saved long ago during the final purges of King Herod.

Caiaphas nodded toward his father-in-law. "Father Annas wants us to take action against that man we discussed last month. The false prophet in the Galilee."

"I thought he was doing our work for us," said Boaz, "making the Pharisees look ridiculous."

"He still is," said Caiaphas.

Annas snorted. "You must put out a flame before it becomes an inferno." The man with beard as white as Joseph's rose and paced before them. His sandals slapped the squares of the limestone floor. "Yes, now he singes the rabbis and we enjoy it. But he is coming after us, I tell you."

"The years have given Father Annas much wisdom," said Caiaphas. "No one will dispute that. But I feel we should wait."

"But Father, what has he done?" asked Josiah. "It is said he would not harm a fly."

"Harm? His words are javelins." Annas related a recent parable, a parable in which a Samaritan acted nobly while a priest and Levite behaved shamefully. "Yes, we laughed when this Galilean compared the Pharisees to white washed tombs. We laughed when he mocked their foolery concerning food, the Sabbath, dress. I do not laugh now."

Simon scowled. "A Samaritan?"

The eyes of Annas blazed. "Yes. This is a man who dines with tax collectors and whores. He claims God will take them to His bosom before the Pharisees. With this parable he is saying the same about us."

Now Caiaphas rose. The High Priest clasped hands behind his back. Joseph as always noted the contrast between these two men, the two most powerful in Judea after the Romans. Annas standing straight with countenance set grimly, Caiaphas—who had not been Annas' first choice for son-in-law—standing stoop shouldered with face bespeaking benevolence. Annas knew how to intimidate men, Caiaphas knew how to manipulate them. When they worked together even Pilate had difficulty resisting them.

"He is not our problem," said Caiaphas, "as long as he stays in the Galilee. He did not come up for Succoth. I will send word he will be wise to do the same for Passover."

Annas shook his head. "He will defy you."

Caiaphas turned. "Father Joseph, you have remained silent."

Joseph dreaded eyes on him. He pushed his trembling arm further behind his back.

He too was fearful of the Galilean, but for quite different reasons. "I also think we should wait. As I hear it, the man upholds the Law of Moses even more vigorously than we. Consider how he completely rejects divorce. The Pharisees—at least the school of Hillel—will let a man divorce merely if a wife ruins his meal."

Annas again shook his head. "He is a dangerous seducer, Joseph. He cures—obviously by the power of Beelzebul—then boasts this is because he can forgive sin."

Joseph was not going to openly contradict his friend. Others had accused this Jesus of the same blasphemy. But on closer inspection it was obvious the Galilean meant he acted as intermediary for God; God alone forgave. Joseph suspected acting as intermediary was what really riled Annas; that prerogative was claimed by the priesthood.

Annas railed on, citing the slyness of the man. This slippery Jesus sought to weaken the Law of Moses—which the Sanhedrin had responsibility to enforce—by first mocking the Pharisees.

"He wants to supplant us. As did John the Baptist, but the Galilean is much more skillful."

"Then deal with him like John," said Simon.

Caiaphas held up his hand. "Look how much enmity Herod Antipas has gained by jailing the Baptist. We do not need that."

Joseph agreed. The populace already grumbled about the Jerusalem priesthood. In Arimathea as elsewhere many believed their wealth was born of dipping greedy hands into the Temple tax.

"So do nothing? Cower like frightened women?" Annas spit out the words. Only a father-in-law, once High Priest himself, would have dared speak so insolently to Caiaphas. All in the chamber knew the kindly face cloaked a man who could act decisively and ruthlessly.

Caiaphas replied calmly. "We do nothing. I have heard he is already losing followers. He was asked to give a sign that he is a prophet, and he refused. He is increasingly regarded as no more than a magician."

Annas glowered, and Caiaphas gave a crumb to his father-in-law. "I will demand he not come up during Nisan."

"He will."

The High Priest muttered something, then said, "Let us adjourn."

Later, as he rested, Joseph considered that he did indeed fear Jesus of Nazareth. Joseph stood in terror of this man he was beginning to consider the greatest of all the prophets.

He certainly dared not speak his trepidation to any of the Sanhedrin. He barely could acknowledge it himself. For this man of the Galilee demanded terrible payment to keep one from the flames of Gehenna.

The Ten Commandments were reasonable payment. The Law beyond the Commandments demanded more, but a dedicated man could comply. The rulings of the Pharisees—if one were inclined to give them merit—bound a man even more tightly. Still obedience was within reach.

But what Jesus of Nazareth required was nigh impossible. How could a man love his enemy? Joseph could never forgive much less love the few men that had betrayed his trust. And how could anyone ever love Herod misnamed the Great? A man still so hated that the date of his death was celebrated as a festival.

How could a man love those who deliberately did him wrong? And who never made restitution for that wrong? How could a man take to his bosom such as those? Yet this was what this man, from the backward and restive peasantry of the Galilee, asked.

Jesus also made little distinction between Jew and gentile. Joseph suspected the man did not consider Jews the Chosen People, instead believing all men stood equally before God. Perhaps that more than anything was root of Annas' fear and hostility.

All reason screamed this prophet asked too much. That is what the mind shouted. His heart however quietly said Jesus spoke the ultimate truth. Joseph wanted to deny his heart, say such was the ultimate foolishness.

But it was not.

Joseph did not see how he could comply with what Jesus commanded. The perfectly righteous could, he supposed. A merely normal man like himself had little chance. He could strive, yet he must eventually fail.

Jesus promised entry to the Kingdom of God for those who obeyed his Law. Joseph did not think Jesus lied, for who could lie about an entry so difficult to attain? No, the Kingdom waited.

The Kingdom was there for any man, Jew or gentile, worthy of reaching it. That was the glory of this man, and also the terror of him.

Chapter IX

Margaret wanted to tell Mary how ridiculous she looked with that nose ring. The only good part was that the gold ornament clamped rather than inserted into a hole. The young woman was also wearing ankle bracelets and too much makeup, and had painted her finger and toe nails white. No wonder the slur of prostitute had attached to her name.

Mary was holding Roger—and James—spellbound with another tale of her "sufferings". The two had paused from their meal in this opulent dinning room which featured engaged columns, pastoral frescos, and a long window overlooking the Lake.

The four were semi-reclined on a divan around a polished marble table. The meal was excellent, succulent veal and crisply fried fish served along with onion soup, fruits, and white bread. Mary was providing Cypriot wine to wash everything down.

Margaret could certainly appreciate why Mary entranced them. To the men she must be a sumptuous meal in herself. With head cover off lustrous black tresses were fully revealed. A dozen pearls adorned the hair. With mantle off, a fine figure was well defined by a sapphire blue stola of silk that shimmered in the light of oil lamps. A yellow sash around the narrow waist pulled the dress taut.

The young woman had full lips that almost pouted. Her olive complexion was unblemished and her dark eyes had to be pools of enchantment for the men. The musky scent of her perfume—the incredibly expensive nard—also had to enchant the two men.

No wonder Mary had won the heart of one of Magdala's richest two years before. It must have been somewhat of a scandal that the man had been pushing seventy, while Mary had barely left her teens—even if twenty were late for a Jewish woman to marry.

A maidservant came into the dinning room carrying another pitcher of the prized wine from Cyprus. Margaret eyed James but he ignored her as the girl refilled his silver cup. Damn him.

Mary continued. "They have not let me alone to this day. And I did nothing wrong."

Both Roger and James nodded sympathetically.

"You in no way violated the Law," said Roger. "Is that not correct, James?"

"Yes, Teacher. The husband's brother is obligated to marry the widow. But only if she desires it. A woman of age can refuse to marry anyone."

"The Pharisees say I sin. One has even called me perfectly wicked."

Margaret knew what that meant. The adjective did not just ratchet up censure. The wicked had to do their twelve months in Gehenna, while the perfectly wicked were condemned forever to hellfire. It was a terrifying rebuke.

But it was rebuke from only one man, one probably a business partner with the brother. From what Margaret had heard the brother was of modest means. To marry the widow of childless Simon ben Joses meant coming into great wealth.

If Mary had indeed grievously broken the Law, they would have excommunicated her. As Margaret understood it, there were three degrees of sanction. The first two cast a person out for variable periods of time, the third permanently. Anyone suffering the latter was shunned.

Well, they would sanction her if they knew she read from the scrolls in her husband's study. Scrolls containing the works of Greek idolaters like Homer and Herodotus. Strictly forbidden for Jewish male and female alike. Margaret was surprised Mary would reveal such a damning offense to her, a person Mary had known only a month at the time.

Mary had revealed much. After a couple of weeks Mary had taken to Margaret. By then she trusted Jesus, so why not his foster mother? As Margaret learned more about the girl—the woman—she understood. Both of Mary's parents were dead, her only sibling now lived in Alexandria, and the husband who she had come to cherish was gone. She needed someone in which to confide, for guilt racked her.

Her first confession to "Mother Mary" revealed that she was terrified to conceive. Her closest friend had died five years earlier in a horrible childbirth, a breech delivery. Six months later an aunt bled to death after labor.

Mary said she married Simon not for his money, but because she believed he was unable to father a child. No wonder her conscience suffered. That made for a major offense; it was the absolute duty of a Jewish couple to bring numerous children into the world. To willingly avoid offspring meant disgrace.

Simon had been married to his first wife forty years without children blessing them. Everyone blamed the wife. But it was whispered that Simon once had a concubine in Tyre. She did not give birth during the time the adultery lasted.

When Mary was younger the fear of conception had led her to refuse suitor after suitor. The guilt especially pricked because her aging father wanted to see her married while he lived, and to see a grandchild. Her father had died just as she was betrothed to Simon. He had not been pleased, despite the balsam and dye producer's great wealth.

Margaret suspected an additional reason for her uneasy conscience. Mary might say she had not married for money, but she hardly abhorred luxury. This residence in Magdala was a near palace, and when traveling she took along servants and two cartloads of belongings. Merchants in Magdala and other towns welcomed her ecstatically, as she spent denarii by the fistful.

So it was obvious why Mary was drawn to Roger. Other than him being a handsome, charming devil. If one truly repented, Roger promised sins were swept away. The severity of the transgressions did not matter. Even better, what qualified for sin was much reduced.

"I hate the Pharisees," said Mary. She looked directly at Roger.

He nodded gravely. "They are indeed hypocrites."

Margaret remembered how Mary beamed when Roger recited the "Woe to you, scribes and hypocrites" verses from Matthew's gospel. Before Succoth Roger had delivered it with convincing fury in the synagogue at Bethsaida. He was both jeered and cheered.

"They place so many burdens on a person. I do believe they enjoy it."

He smiled. "They do. But as their yoke is heavy, remember mine is light."

She nodded gratefully, and as so many times before, regarded him with adoration.

Margaret almost rose from the cushioned divan. How dare Roger usurp the holy words of Christ to beguile this young woman? Roger was fortunate Sir Reginald was not here.

Roger liked them young, no doubt about it. That maiden in Virginia was nearly the same age as Mary, and he certainly had the same carnal intentions here.

In the strongest terms Margaret would remind Roger he was not to bed Mary. Mary was a confused and impressionable young woman who would succumb to her hero, despite fears of impregnation.

It would not happen!

Lord in heaven, did she not have enough to worry about? Sir Reginald lay upstairs with what she could only hope was no more than a terrible cold. Pray let it not develop into influenza. At his age that could easily kill him. Pneumonia she could battle, but nothing viral. If they lost Sir Reginald...

An alcoholic James, a lust addled Roger, an ill Sir Reginald. Was this campaign spiraling out of control? And they were barely halfway to Nisan.

Ward had seen storm clouds gathering all evening on face of Lady Margaret. An unnerving face even in repose.

When they finished the last course, a dessert of raisin cakes and cheese, midnight was approaching. Ward would have liked to chat more with Mary. Preferably out by the fountains in the courtyard, under the moonlight. But Lady Margaret shooed Mary up to bed.

She went without protest. Ward was semi amused how Mary, obviously spoiled by her late husband and probably by her father, did pretty much what "Mother Mary" suggested. Her own mother had died when she was just seven; Mary seemed eager to gain Lady Margaret as a surrogate.

He did get to go out to the courtyard, where he could see a gibbous moon high in the night sky. The Lake was well illuminated. Unfortunately he had Lady Margaret as his companion. She told bodyguard James to wait by the colonnade that fronted the north wing of the manor.

She took Ward down two terraces to the gurgling fountains. The alabaster statues issuing water gleamed in the moonlight.

"Unless you sheath your lust, I will take you back to Capernaum tomorrow." She hissed the words in English. "And she who swoons over you will remain here."

He was tempted to tell her to fuck off. The wine in him certainly urged that course. He didn't say anything and just stared at her.

"You are not on holiday, Roger. We are still engaged in the most critical mission in history, even if the Apostles are absent and we are temporarily living in splendor."

"I know that."

"Do you? You have to stop thinking with your groin. Mary Magdalene is key to the Resurrection. You must keep any relationship between you a spiritual one."

Ward sighed. Yes, old hatchet face was a hundred percent right.

"I know that. I do. It's just..."

"She is lovely and you haven't had a woman for a long time. Well, Master Ward, if I may not be too vulgar, that is what God gave you a right hand for—in these circumstances."

He almost laughed. Such words from this ultra prim and proper blueblood. Again, she was right.

"Okay. I wasn't going to bed her anyway, however much I'd like to. You may be relieved to know I have never taken advantage of a young woman in my charge."

She looked doubtful.

"Never. I swear."

"Very well, Roger. Now swear the same for Mary."

"I do."

"Thank you. Now we should all turn in."

Ward wasn't ready for that. Even with all the wine in him, he was still stimulated by the evening's meal and company.

Then out of the blue he thought of Thomas.

His face must have fallen for Lady Margaret again told him he must firmly reign his desire.

"It's not that. It's...Thomas."

Now it was her turn to sigh.

"Thomas is a good man," Ward said. "Simple, but decent."

"Tell me another way to do this, Master Ward, and we will do it. Or perhaps you would like to reverse who goes on the cross. You go up and we save Thomas for the Resurrection."

Despite himself Ward shuddered.

"No," he whispered.

"Of course not. Thomas will feel little once the narcotic of gall is given. I will make sure Pilate has him drink it before the scourging. I say again, tell me another way and we will do it. Otherwise he must be sacrificed."

"I agree. I just can't let myself get attached to the man. I feel so sorry for him."

"Yes, he is decent. I will make sure his family is well provided for."

"Please do."

After Lady Margaret departed, Ward stayed at the fountains. James kept by the columns, continuing to pace back and forth. It was obvious he too wanted to hit the hay.

"Just while longer," he called to James. It was a delicious evening, the air a perfect balm.

"Yes, Teacher." James answered with only slight aggravation. Drunkard James might be, but the man certainly did not have a feisty bone in him. Maybe that was part of his problem.

Ward sat in one of the cushioned Grecian chairs on the next terrace down and looked out at the Lake. Surprisingly several score boats floated on the ghostly lit waters. Or not so strangely, since night was when most fisherman worked their trade.

Oh, Mary. She was a delectable young woman. He wondered if she had at all enjoyed sex with her husband, old enough to be her grandfather. Ward knew she would enjoy it with him. Too bad neither of them would experience the ecstasy the other could bestow.

Keep it a spiritual relationship, Lady Margaret had commanded. Well, Ward would let an intellectual one also blossom. He was impressed how well Mary could read in Greek, and that she yearned to learn Latin.

Her husband's library of a couple hundred scrolls contained works in both languages. Mary enjoyed Ward translating from Cicero and Virgil, while Ward delighted as Mary returned the favor as she read from the original Greek of playwrights and philosophers. She impressed Ward even more by reciting pentameters at length from the poetess Sappho.

Mary was a smart cookie. And curious, and also fairly willful. That had to be tough in a society that, as James had explained to Ward, favored meekness and modesty in its females. A woman never upstaged a man. She wasn't supposed to question too much, either.

Ah, Mary...if I didn't know Anne. I might be able to fall for you. You aren't as mature or cheerful as Anne, but you do lure. I—

Something was at his throat. It was metal. A blade.

"Stay still," a voice whispered in Aramaic. The voice did not belong to James.

Ward craned his neck.

"Still!" The blade pressed below his Adam's apple.

A laugh. "A fine guard you have in that wine bibber."

Ward turned just enough to see James slumped beside one column. Oh God, don't let him be dead.

Fear numbed Ward. Was this a thief? Or worse, someone sent by Antipas or the Pharisees to do him in?

"I will ask just once. Where is Jesus?"

Ward felt hot breath in his ear. The man must be kneeling right behind him.

"Who—"

"I know you are not Jesus. I know by your eyes. So tell me quickly. Where is he?"

Ward struggled to think.

"Tell me, you gentile dog. Yes, I saw you at Caesarea. Now tell me—or you will speak no more."

Caesarea? This made no sense. But he had better answer.

He did with a thick tongue. "I don't know where he is. We think he is dead."

"You lie."

"Who are you?"

"One who has waited twenty years for Jesus. You must have done something to him. It was a ruse you asked for him in Jericho and at the Jordan."

God, this man had been following them all along. Was he with Pilate? But what did he mean by waiting for Jesus twenty years?

"It wasn't a ruse. We were desperately looking for Jesus of Nazareth. Or the man who may have killed him."

"The man in your drawing? You gentile pigs. Do you not know what abomination such an image is to us?"

"You saw it?"

"Yes, in Jericho. You showed it to me. That is why you lie. How could you expect anyone to recognize a man now twenty years older? It was trickery. Now tell me what has become of Jesus. Or I slice your throat."

Ward told the man how Jesus had probably died, beheaded last spring by the person in the drawing. The pressure of the blade eased slightly.

Moustafa here twenty years ago? That was impossible.

Then the blade pushed hard again. Ward felt a nick of pain and wondered if blood had been drawn.

"Please..."

"You know what I think? That Jesus is dead, but by the hand of Pilate. He then sent you to be Jesus. So you could trick the men of the Galilee, make them women."

"No—"

"I shall slay you now. I thank you for killing Jesus, but you will no longer castrate the men of Israel."

"Listen! What I am doing will defeat Rome. In three centuries the teachings of Jesus will capture it."

The knife held and Ward wondered how it would feel to have his throat slashed. Supposedly a quick death followed.

"Tell me how the teaching of your cowardice can defeat the legions of Rome."

Ward knew he couldn't explain about Christianity and its growth. That would be unfathomable—or if understood, unacceptable—to this bigoted man. But he better come up with something this guy would swallow.

"I—Jesus—will found a movement that will convert millions in the Empire to Judaism. I know you hate gentiles, but conversion is the key to capturing the Empire. In three centuries the Emperor himself will convert. All other religions will be declared unlawful."

Silence. All Ward could hear was the gurgling of the fountains. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see the prone body of James move a little.

"My friend over there. Please let me help him."

"James is all right. He went down with the first blow of my hand. The wine did the rest."

"You know him?"

"Of course." A sneering laugh. "What have you promised the cousin of Jesus to keep his mouth shut? A caravan of Babylonian beer?"

"Who are you?"

"A man who will let you live. If you keep quiet as I go. Do I have your word?"

Ward sagged in relief. "Yes."

"You and the old woman must be from the latter days."

The latter days. In Jewish eschatology when the Last Judgement loomed. When Israel triumphed.

Whatever you say, sir. "Yes. We come from that time."

"Like the other, I saw her twenty years ago. And like him she has aged not a day. I should have realized. Forgive my intrusion."

Then he was gone as stealthily as he had appeared.

On unsteady legs Ward rose. He started toward James, to aid him.

Then he froze. It was not a spasm of fear that halted him, rather shock.

Shock that the man with the knife spoke the truth, that Ward did not mishear as his mind reeled under press of the knife. Moustafa had indeed been in Judea twenty years ago. That besotted lump over there confirmed it.

At Succoth Ward interpreted James' lament about failing to kill Moustafa as wistful thinking, as an abstract. If Ward had listened better the real meaning would have registered. "I should have killed him. But I was too little." In other words, I was just a kid.

That was why at age eleven Jesus disappeared for good from Nazareth. Because Moustafa did away with him twenty years ago, in 9 A.D., not this past spring.

Ward balled both fists. Oh, how he had been duped. Brutally duped. The retched bitch had lied to him from the start.

His mind screamed betrayal.

Chapter X

As October ran to November Margaret could not believe her—and the world's—good fortune. Roger only improved in his role. The adolescent tendencies that had marred so much of his life—and seemed to be returning in Magdala—had disappeared completely. This was a man who had at last married adult judgement to his high intelligence. The marriage boded well for the climactic months ahead.

Roger did not protest when she urged that they return to Capernaum. Word came in late October that Phillip and Nathaniel had shuffled into town as exhausted and depressed men. Margaret was worried they might be lost to the cause.

Once back in Capernaum Master Ward had swiftly restored their spirits. His kindly and inspiring words, along with rest and good meals, had them again slavish in commitment.

Neither did Roger protest the living arrangements. He would stay at Peter's humble quarters near the fish stinking wharves, while she and Mary lodged in a manor with garden and bathhouse up near the town gate. The girl—the woman—bought the manor outright instead of renting. Mary was going to have to learn to manage money even if she did have plenty of it.

Margaret wondered what Mary would have done if the true Christ had asked she give her all wealth to the poor, as He had the rich man in the Gospel of Matthew. Would this woman who so loved the finer life have been able to pass through the eye of the needle?

Earlier Roger had made noises about remaining at Mary's residence during the winter rains. Margaret had vehemently challenged that, but she had to admit the prospect also tempted her. During the brief fall rains she had gotten a taste of what winter in Capernaum would be like.

At Peter's compound rain had forced most activity inside. That included the milking of goats. Smoky cooking fires had irritated her lungs and eyes. The stone walls built without mortar admitted chilly and damp air that caused her arthritis to flare. The small rooms became doubly noisy and cramped. Mud was tramped everywhere.

At Mary Magdalene's glorious abode of marble and mosaics Margaret had her own room and she slept in a featherbed instead of on a straw pallet. The mansion possessed Roman style central heating, warm baths, and hygienic latrines. She had servants available. She ate varied and tasty meals—feasts really—instead of a monotonous diet of fish, barley bread, and dried dates.

Yes, she was most pleased—and relieved—that Roger chose to forgo these creature comforts. For a ministry that counseled so much self-denial, it was imperative he set the example.

Roger had also adroitly dealt with the surprise visit of Joseph ben David. This member of the Sanhedrin was a wealthy wheat grower, and he was ostensibly traveling from his estates on the Plain of Sharon to Damascus to contract for delivery of grain. Margaret had briefly spoken to him that day on the Jordan when both he and Roger were baptized.

All four gospels identified him as Joseph of Arimathea, the man that provided Jesus with burial in his family tomb after the Crucifixion. Luke declared him "a righteous man". Mark said he was "looking for the kingdom of God". John proclaimed him "a secret disciple of Jesus".

As Margaret and a recovered Sir Reginald looked on Roger amply projected the combination of warmth and wisdom that had become the hallmark of Jesus over the past months. Joseph greeted him with the air of one who wanted to believe Jesus was a prophet or more, but who needed to overcome doubt. Joseph—in polite manner—fairly grilled Roger.

As Roger spoke, Margaret saw light come into the eyes of Joseph. From that moment the man was obviously a committed supporter. Sir Reginald—not one to yield to sentiment—admitted his throat constricted as he witnessed the conversion. Perhaps, he said, the Holy Spirit did occasionally descend upon Roger Ward and render this pretender an instrument of divine will.

Most of the disciples might be away, but people seeking relief from physical and spiritual ills still presented themselves at Peter's compound. Margaret knew Roger had to be tired of the constant demand by now. He however turned no one away, and continued to treat supplicants kindly. Margaret was so proud of him.

She was so pleased she promised him an additional fifty million dollars upon return to the twenty-first century. That would bring his total to one hundred million. Roger had thanked her profusely.

As the sun dove toward the distant Mediterranean the two men crested the summit of another steep hill. Spread in the vale below was a vineyard. In the center of the vineyard stood a stone watchtower. No one was about.

Thomas knew they should press on to the next village. The Teacher would want them to. But he was tired and hungry. And humiliated.

He was grateful that Matthew immediately pointed to the watchtower. "Let's stop there."

Thomas nodded, even though an hour or so of daylight remained. In the vineyard they should find grapes that had escaped the harvest of two months earlier. Or at least raisin-like remnants. The Law required growers to leave some of their crop behind. His belly growled in anticipation.

This morning they had been chased out of a village. Matthew had failed to drive the demon from a raving child. Thomas, who had success the day before, also could not rid the girl of the evil spirit. Thomas asked the villagers to let them try later in the day. That request got only scorn. "After we feed you?" they had sneered.

Then men gripped stones and waved them threateningly. Get out and don't come back. Thomas kept pleading for a second chance, but Matthew pleaded harder that they leave—and leave now. A few stones did fly as they left the village of whitewashed huts.

Thomas limped down the slope. His feet had toughened during the past month, but this road more stone than dirt was the worst yet. It would be so good to reach the vineyard and walk on grassy ground.

He knew the Teacher had forbidden they wear sandals in order to harden his disciples. To spread his teachings would require determined men, and the Twelve had grown soft during his ministry around the Sea of Galilee. There they rarely walked more than five miles a day.

Beside him Matthew also hobbled. His partner for the past month probably suffered more, because he was portly. Though not as portly as when they left Capernaum that gray day.

Thomas was ashamed they walked at the pace of old men. What would the Teacher think? The Teacher had journeyed many more miles than Thomas and never faltered. He always walked with a confident stride. The Teacher was strong, in body as well as spirit. He was the best man Thomas had ever known.

Oh blessed day, when Jesus came to his village. He hated life then. His wife was fat and getting fatter and his children were sniveling brats. He worked hard making sandals, but was barely able to keep his brood clothed and fed. Every day except the Sabbath he had to toil from first light to last. At the end of each day his back and fingers ached. And all he had to look forward to was years more of the same.

That evening near the end of summer he had listened transfixed to this man with the powerful voice. Soothing warmth coursed through Thomas, better than any wine. The Teacher untied the great knot of frustration and hopelessness that had for so long bound him. Even before Jesus finished speaking Thomas knew he would follow this man.

Thomas had been ready to beg on his knees for the Teacher to accept him. But before he could approach Jesus, Judas Iscariot took him aside. The elder said they had been looking far and wide for a man suitable to become the twelfth disciple. Judas could tell Thomas was the one by the holy fervor on his face.

The other disciples had treated him as an intruder until the Teacher set them straight. Judas however had been kindly from the start. As had Mary, the foster mother of Jesus. The Teacher himself never failed to make Thomas feel welcome and often sat him at his side when they supped.

He had been especially honored that the Teacher renamed him Thomas, which meant "Twin" in Greek. Jesus said it was a mark of God's favor that Thomas so resembled him. God's favor on such an ordinary man as he! Thomas vowed to become the most worthy of the disciples; he would do anything for Jesus, even to the point of giving his life.

Thomas and Matthew found the vineyard and watchtower unoccupied. They immediately foraged through the withered vines even though they ached to get off their feet. Matthew lifted his tunic to form a basket, which Thomas could only a quarter fill with dried grapes. Creatures of the wild had beaten them to most of the gleanings.

These lean gatherings would have to do. They managed to get a fire going before light died. Matthew irritated Thomas when he jested—in a bitter tone—he was surprised the Teacher let them carry flints.

"We suffer in every other way. Why should we have fire?"

Thomas narrowed his eyes.

"Alright, alright," said Matthew. "But truthfully, aren't you sick of this? I'll wager you are eager as me to get back to Capernaum."

Thomas sat before the fire with his back against the rough stones of the tower. He slowly chewed a shriveled and nearly tasteless grape. The slower he chewed, the longer he could pretend he was eating something substantial.

"The Teacher knows what he is doing," said Thomas.

"That's not what I asked you."

Before he joined the disciples Thomas would never have shared a meal, or even conversation, with a tax collector. Next to prostitutes, they were the lowest of people. And at least prostitutes gave pleasure. Tax collectors caused only misery.

Thomas had been shocked to find a tax collector among the disciples. Although Matthew quit after becoming a disciple, Thomas had still despised the little round man with the oily tongue.

But the Teacher never ceased saying men must love one another. So Thomas put aside his contempt for Matthew—who, after all, had given up his possessions as well as his trade. If not warmly, Thomas began to greet him without ill will. They started to talk. Slowly they became friends.

Matthew was much smarter than he, Thomas freely admitted. Matthew understood most of the Teacher's sayings. Thomas struggled with them, especially the parables. The Teacher was a very busy man, so Thomas was grateful he could go to Matthew instead for explanations.

There was no one else in the Twelve that Thomas would have wanted to pair with during the past month. He still felt the others were jealous of him. Matthew never gave any sign of that. It was strange that Thomas would come to like and trust a former tax collector above those who had labored in honest trades.

"Well," said Matthew, "aren't you sick of this?"

"We are doing as the Teacher instructed."

Matthew laughed. "If he wants me to stand on my head, I'll do it. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Matthew often made light of the Teacher's sayings. The Teacher occasionally heard him. The Teacher did not rebuke Matthew; he would instead smile wryly. When other disciples asked the Teacher why he tolerated what seemed disrespect, the Teacher said he had no doubt of Matthew's faith. Who else among them had given up so much?

"The Teacher favors you," said Thomas. Thomas said it without rancor.

"No, Thomas. It is you he favors."

"I think only because I look like him. He values how smart you are."

Save Matthew and perhaps Judas none of the Twelve was half as bright as the Teacher. Judas said little, but his eyes were quick and always watching.

Matthew put more dried grapes in his mouth.

"Let's head back tomorrow," he said.

"We can't. We have two more weeks before the rains are due."

"I _will_ stand on my head if we are the first pair to return to Capernaum. I have had enough. Face it, Thomas, we are not the Teacher. We don't have his powers."

"I cured that man yesterday. And there have been others."

"Two others. And both probably because their fevers broke the same day we came to their villages."

"They were cured because I called on the help of the Teacher."

"And the dozen who stayed sick?"

Thomas wanted to snap that at least he had done better than Matthew. But he suspected his friend was right. They would have to ask the Teacher what went wrong.

Night had fallen. Passing clouds obscured the stars and vines rustled in the light breeze. Thankfully the temperature had not dropped much, but it certainly would by midnight. Yes, Capernaum and sleeping in a room under more than one cloak certainly beckoned.

Thomas rested his arms on drawn knees. He was tired, but not ready to go to sleep. He wanted to again raise the question the Twelve had asked since the men came from John the Baptist.

During Succoth two messengers had arrived from the prophet, who was still imprisoned near the Dead Sea. They asked Jesus if the he was the Messiah. Others had asked this before. The Teacher, as was his wont, did not reply directly.

Instead he said to the messengers, "Go back and report to John what you have seen and heard: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor. Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me."

When the disciples repeated the question of the messengers, the Teacher had shushed them. "We have other matters to attend to," he said.

Four times during their journey, Thomas had asked Matthew the question. Matthew, who understood so much about the Teacher, must know something. Each time Matthew said it was too early to tell.

Now Thomas stated rather than asked. "Jesus is the Messiah."

Matthew shook his head. "He is a prophet. Like John."

"John couldn't cure. Jesus can."

"The Teacher is obviously a greater prophet. Look, we have had this discussion before."

"Then why did John send his men to him?"

"John is curious. And uncertain—like me."

Thomas was no longer uncertain. The Teacher had to be the Messiah, God's anointed. Jesus of Nazareth was The One Who Is to Come. The One who would redeem Israel.

"You have seen what he can do."

"If Jesus were the Anointed One, he would so have proclaimed himself. And even that wouldn't necessarily mean anything. I can remember plenty other men in recent years who have claimed the title."

"But none did what he does. And none spoke as he does."

"He is a remarkable man, yes. Our deliverer, probably not. His philosophy hardly lends itself to defeating Rome."

Opinion differed as to whether the Messiah would restore Israel by driving out the Romans or by ridding the land of sinfulness.

Thomas believed the Teacher would do both. Thomas had rededicated his life to the Law of Moses, as had so many others after hearing this man. As for the Romans, it did not trouble Thomas that Jesus forswore the sword. A man with the power to quiet a raging storm or to walk on water or to feed five thousand could easily handle the Romans.

"The Teacher could strike every Roman blind. Or he could do like he did in the Golan, cast the Romans into swine and let them drown in the lake."

Matthew winced. "That is not loving your enemies, Thomas."

His face grew hot, and not from the cracking fire. Thomas liked Matthew, but he hated how the man so easily bested him in any debate.

But of course he should not hate. Especially his one true friend among the Twelve.

As a tax collector Matthew was used to people lying and deceiving. He wanted things proved to him. Well, the Teacher would keep proving and Matthew would see what Thomas now did so clearly. The Messiah had come at last.

Chapter XI

Gentle shaking pulled Mary from a dream in which she and Jesus strode among the scarlet blossoms of pomegranate trees. It took Mary a moment to realize that Mother Mary was at her bedside. She held an oil lamp.

"Mary, wake up." The gentle shaking continued, but the voice was concerned.

Mary struggled to get sleep from her eyes. "What's the matter?"

"Please sit up."

Mary did so. She wakened completely as the lamp revealed severe anxiety on the elderly woman's face.

Instantly she knew something had happened to Jesus. Fright chilled her. "Where is Jesus?"

"He is missing from Peter's. Listen child, did he say anything to you today—or any day—about going off on his own?"

"I..."

"This is no time for secrets, Mary. You must tell me if he has said anything. His life may depend on it."

She was ashamed. She had confided much in Mother Mary, but not this.

"I—I asked his feelings, about if he had ever considered marriage. To me."

"Yes? What did he say?"

Mary was surprised that Mother Mary was not aghast. A woman never raised that question with a man; it was his to ask. But she loved him so and she couldn't wait.

"He said marriage was not for him. But if it were, he would marry me."

That had been a horrible blow, but at least Jesus did not have his eye on another. She had planned to keep trying to win his love.

Her hands went to her face as she realized that might be why Jesus was gone, to get away from her pursuit. He surely sensed her determination.

"Did he ask you for any money?"

"What?"

"Mary, hold nothing back from me."

Mary began to get angry. "The Teacher has never asked anything like that." She knew men wanted her wealth even more than they did her body. But Jesus never hinted at either, though she would have yielded both.

"He asked for nothing. Except a scroll."

"Do you remember its contents?"

"It was about Antioch." The scroll, on a silver spindle, was precious in of itself. But Jesus loved to read. That had been some of their happiest hours at Magdala, their time in the library together.

"I see."

"Do you think he is heading there?"

"Possibly."

"We must stop him. He couldn't have gotten too far—if he is on foot."

Mother Mary rose from beside the bed. "Go back to sleep, child. We will find him."

Mary threw off her covers. "I'm going with you."

"No, child. You will only be in the way. Now return to sleep. It is still the second watch."

"Don't call me child! I'm going." She could never forgive herself if anything happened to Jesus because she couldn't keep her mouth shut.

Mother Mary brought her face close and Mary shrank back. The eyes had become daggers.

"You will stay in this room until dawn. If you try otherwise, I will have James tie you up."

Mary started to cry.

"It is for your own good, child. This I promise. We will bring Jesus back."

In the torch lit courtyard Margaret could see Mary on the balcony of her bedroom. She waved for her to go back inside. The girl ignored Margaret.

"Curse her. James you will stay here and make sure she goes nowhere. And James—no wine passes your lips until we get back. Understood?"

"Yes, Mother Mary."

There was enough light so Margaret could see bloodshot eyes. If Sir Reginald had not roused James the evening's wine would have kept him unconscious until dawn.

Fortunately Sir Reginald at his age had to pass water frequently, or Roger would have stolen the entire night. But Roger knew Sir Reginald's nocturnal habits and would have planned accordingly. He must have thought a couple hours' head start sufficient to make good his flight.

The insanity! What was Roger doing?

When Sir Reginald arrived with word that Roger was missing, she had merely been furious. She was certain she would find him in Mary's bed. She would skin him alive, of course, but the mission could go on.

When she found Mary the sole occupant of her bed, fear replaced the anger. She hoped with all her heart that Roger had slipped out to visit some prostitute. But her stomach said he had fled Capernaum. That was grim indeed, for her visceral responses rarely lied.

But why? Everything was proceeding as to plan. Yes, they had to fear the hand of Antipas, and perhaps some of the rabbis, but nothing happened to the real Jesus while in the Galilee. And Thomas was going to take the fall in Jerusalem.

Beside her Sir Reginald paced and muttered. He blamed himself, though it was obvious Roger had thought this out well. She must therefore fight down her panic and out think Roger.

Sir Reginald stopped his pacing. He spoke in English. "Do you think he could know, my lady?"

"I don't see how."

Sir Reginald turned eyes to James. As did Margaret.

"James," she said, "I pray you have never mentioned Moustafa to Jesus."

"I don't think so." James stepped back.

"You don't think so?" God help him, she would have his whole family slain if he had spilled it.

James took another step back.

"Speak quickly, James. What have you said?"

"I—I can't be sure. It was during Succoth. I was talking to him about Jesus. I think I may have said something about I was too young to kill Moustafa."

Margaret saw Sir Reginald reach toward his dagger. He stayed his hand.

"But I think he misunderstood," said James. "I think he thought I meant now, not then. He had much wine that night too."

"Your drunkenness stops today. You will limit yourself to one cup a meal."

She should have so commanded weeks earlier. That had been of increasing worry, the amount of alcohol the cousin of Jesus consumed. James would stand only behind Peter and Paul in the founding of the Church. A drunkard certainly would not become the James of history—if there was to be that history.

"Go up and see to Mary," she told James. The dejected man left.

In the chill night air she resisted the luxury of breaking into tears like Mary. She gripped her cloak tighter. Tears would be for when all was irrevocably lost.

"Can he have sorted it out on that thin gruel?" asked Sir Reginald.

"I venture he did somehow."

"But even if he did, he has much reason to stay. His lass and the money. His pride would be wounded, but would that drive him to this?"

"It seems so, Sir Reginald." Pride, and she feared something worse. Megalomania.

From the day they landed in Gaul Roger kept expressing his admiration for Rome. And lamenting how the world had taken eighteen centuries to reach a comparable level of civilization. So much wasted time, he said.

She had put it down to a tourist's enthrallment. The Empire was a fascinating place to visit, but the world of the twenty-first century was incomparably advanced. Like all tourists, Roger would long for home after awhile.

But she suspected this tourist now wanted to stay and remake the world in his image. He may have longed for this all along, at least subconsciously. To discover himself so grievously used would yank the longings front and center.

How many weeks now had he plotted to get away? She was humiliated to her core, for he had completely fooled her. She, who believed she could read any man or woman alive.

Well, it was done. Now they had to find him and find him swiftly.

"My lady, he has two or three hours on us. We had best get moving."

"Pray tell which direction, Sir Reginald." She raised her hand. "My apology, I don't mean to be sarcastic. But he could have gone to any point of the compass."

"I say he went south. The town gate has been closed since sunset. If he went over the wall he likely would be limited to foot."

"He could have stationed a horse outside the gates." But yes, that would involve at least one hundred denarii to buy the mount, and more to make sure it was not stolen.

"Fishermen come and go all night, my lady. And they know him well. Many would be glad to give him a ride to the south shore."

She could have kissed Sir Reginald. Why hadn't she thought along those lines? Yes, that made the most sense. The scroll about Antioch, that was to throw them off. Antioch lay to the north. Roger knew they would interrogate Mary.

Damn him.

"Tarichaea?" she asked Sir Reginald. The town lay at the southern end of the Lake.

"This is the only night this week the wind has blown from the north. I think he waited for it."

And once in Tarichaea he would trade the scroll for a horse and provisions. When the gate opened at sunrise, where from there he would go she did not know. He had many choices.

They had to stop him on the morrow. If they did not, he was loose. Even if later they could locate and talk him back, he would be gone for weeks or months. The disciples and other followers would not wait that long. If they believed Jesus gone—fled—they would drift away, disillusioned. It would all collapse.

"To horse, Sir Reginald. We will pay whatever it takes to get them to open the gate. We must make Tarichaea before dawn."

Margaret had seen shocked men before, but never one as much as Roger Ward when he emerged from the arched gate of Tarichaea. Margaret was also taken aback, admittedly less so, to see him perched upon a camel. In less dire circumstances she would have laughed.

On their mounts the three faced each other. The sun was just above the heights of the Golan. Other travelers pushed around them, and several cursed their blockage. She paid them no mind.

"Certain you know how to ride that beast?"

Hate had replaced the shock in Roger's eyes.

"They can outrun horses."

"I know. But can you outrun yourself?"

"Get out of my way, Beaufort. And you Bray, try and stop me and I will break your neck."

"I know we cannot keep you from going," Margaret said. "But let us move out of the way so we might have a word."

"I will give you some words. Where the fuck is Moustafa?"

So he did know. James, James.

Behind Roger a donkey drawn cart was trying to get past. The driver cursed. With a growl the camel lurched and almost unseated Roger.

"Over here, Master Ward. Just a few words."

Roger did move his mount loaded with bulging panniers. The hate did not lessen. "Think you can buy me with more millions? Forget it, you don't have enough."

"When did you know?"

"That doesn't matter."

Margaret hoped it was an omen, the promise of this day's weather. The air was mild, with a few puffy clouds in a pale blue sky and the calm Lake a silver mirror. There was no hint at all of the cold rains soon to come.

Trying to beat those rains were men goading oxen that pulled plows in the fields outside town. Boys followed casting seed.

"Why don't you tell me what you think you know," she said.

Oh, how anger burned on the ruggedly handsome face framed by a trim black beard. Or should she say petulance burned. Roger wasn't going to bolt past them. He would hardly pass up this opportunity to tell her off good.

Punctuated with expletives he showed off his deductive powers. Sort it out Roger had indeed.

"Moustafa crossed the passage last November—right after you had Jeffress killed. You tried to beat him to the Nazareth of 9 A.D., but he beat you. The piece of crap probably killed the boy Jesus in the hills and left his remains for the animals.

"You were in a pickle then, with Christ gone and Islam triumphant. Except that—when you got your sorry ass back to Olde England, you found everything still in place. But Jesus had been killed, so how did you account for Christianity existing at all? The answer had to be that even if Jesus of Nazareth was dead, the time for his ministry had not yet commenced. The verdict of history would be—will be—held in abeyance until next Passover. If the ministry of Christ still occurs—who cares if by a fake—and ends with crucifixion and a believable resurrection then the phenomena of Christianity survives."

Roger bestowed a terrible grin. "Do I misspeak, you soulless bitch?"

"You will not address her so!" Sir Reginald edged his horse closer to Roger.

She waved him quiet. "It is as you say."

"Fucking A. You then came to Virginia. Where on a beautiful spring day in April you gave me that cock and bull about needing to stop an assassination that had already occurred." He laughed bitterly. "It took me awhile to figure out the twenty year difference. You shortened the distance between the stones at the passage, didn't you? I thought it was a foot or two less, but I had last walked the distance eight months earlier and couldn't be sure. That's how you got us here in 29 A.D. instead of 9 A.D."

Margaret realized she was wringing her hands. She stopped.

"Yes," she said, "that is another secret of the passage. I believe only Owen knew it." Blessedly Jeffress must have thought the interval fixed. She would not have been able to defeat him and Moustafa otherwise.

Margaret had to ask, though she doubted the matter of Thomas motivated Roger leaving. Thomas bothered him and would continue to bother him.

"Yes, your pride is battered. But you and I know that will pass. Is what happens to Thomas the true reason you want to quit?"

"No. I mean, he dies one way or the other. On the cross or in India."

"So what is it?" Though she now knew. "One hundred million dollars can buy you and Anne any future you desire."

Another savage laugh. "What if my future consists of making straight for Alexandria? There I will seek a man named Heron, who will invent the first steam engine. You know, that spinning metal ball people of this time will call a toy. I'll partner with Heron to develop a paddle wheel steamship—and become the shipping magnate of the Empire."

She inwardly groaned and tried to keep her face composed.

Roger sneered. "Why don't you come in on the venture? We'll be the talk of the town, from the Pillars of Hercules to the Euphrates. From the Rhine to the Nile."

"Jesus may not be dead," she said. "In fact, he probably is not."

"Don't feed me that! You know he's gone."

"After I found Moustafa was first to Nazareth, I returned to Caesarea. There I was told Moustafa had sailed days before with a boy in tow. Whose description closely matched that of Jesus. I of course hired the fastest boat possible but they reached the passage first. Moustafa could have taken young Jesus anywhere, forward or backward in time."

"That is all bullshit. Why would he let Jesus live? How would he prove himself the Mehdi if he did that?"

"Because—as you know and have said—Jesus is a revered prophet in Islam. He, Moses and Abraham stand only behind Muhammad in their pantheon. Moustafa would remove Jesus from this time so Christianity could not occur, but never kill him. In fact, he is probably tending well to the boy, wherever they are."

"Why not then mount an expedition to recover Jesus?" He thrust his hand about him. "Instead of this?"

"Who knows where Moustafa took him? I suspect they went to the Eleventh Century, when the Moslem world was at its height. But that is only conjecture. Even if we chose the right century it could take decades to find him. Whatever you think of me, this is the right course, the necessary course."

"You conned me good, Beaufort, that I give you. And I thought _I_ was doing the great acting job. You and Bray win the all time award. James too, to some extent."

"It was necessary."

"You are the necessary. That is an old American colloquialism. Perhaps it exists in England."

She knew what it meant. A latrine.

"Let me say this," she said evenly. "You possessed the best qualifications for this job."

"You thought it out well, yes you did. Letting me come up with the idea to substitute someone for Jesus. You couldn't advocate it yourself. Way too suspicious."

"I knew a man of your intelligence and imagination would devise such a remedy. I am not patronizing you. I only state facts."

"Facts are just clothing for your lies."

She sighed. "So here we are, Roger. Now you know. Does it really change anything?"

Ward laughed harshly again. "The best was that first day in Caesarea. You were so convincing about Pilate and the head in the sack. That crying jag, I've never seen one done so well. And a pat on the back to Sir Reginald, the murderous determination with which he wanted to stab Moustafa. Well done, well done."

Margaret did refrain from "it was necessary". But it was. "If you were a neutral observer and knew the stakes involved, would you fault me?"

"I am not a neutral observer."

"Would you fault me?"

"That was good too, initially rejecting my idea we substitute for Jesus. You waited until the perfect time to agree, and then propose me instead of James. By God, you are shrewd."

Let him talk it out. Expel the venom. Then we can get on with this. Nothing has been lost. We are still on track.

"Too shrewd by half, in fact." His anger had subsided. Now he was regarding her coldly.

"What do you mean?" Though she knew what he meant.

"Like I said, Lady Margaret, I am going to walk away. You know I can become the richest and most influential man in the Empire. I will introduce everything, from the printing press to aseptic technique to crop rotation to the telescope to firearms. And on and on. Replacement of Roman numbers with Arabic ones will alone make me a sensation."

"I had to do as I did. If in Virginia I proposed you portray Christ, you would have thought me a complete lunatic."

Ward said nothing. He continued his cold glare.

"Has not my judgement proven correct? You have utterly succeeded in this role."

"This show is done."

"Must the whole world pay for your injured pride? Your duty is with us. You know that. And your Anne."

"Don't talk about her. By now she's probably married someone else. You can tell Mary I will send for her once I am established."

"Yours will be the supreme act of selfishness of all time."

"Oh, no. I will be the genius acclaimed across the ages. I will save the world, and a whole lot better than the twisted religion of Christ."

"Silence!" Bray had his dagger out now. His face was flushed.

"Shut up, old man. I'm talking to the liar bitch, not you."

"Hold!" shouted Margaret. "Both of you."

Onlookers were regarding them warily, this trio contesting in an utterly alien tongue.

"Hear me out, Roger. When in the future men mention the name Jesus they will be speaking of you. For you are now him. As long as you breathe, you can take profound pride in this profound accomplishment."

"What accomplishment? Christianity is warped, anyone can see that. You are aware that Judaism has no concept of original sin. But Christianity puts you in a hole from the start. If fact, there was never a better religion invented to foster guilt. Wealth is bad, sex is bad, fun is bad. The ideal is a cloistered celibate spending the rest of his or her life getting spiritual."

"Roger—"

"Warped. I don't recall the Jews having religious wars or inquisitions. Oh, they debate the hell out of doctrine but nobody burns. Judaism is practical and humane. And once I become the most wealthy and admired man in the Empire, I will recommend to Tiberius that he declare it the state religion."

The gray eyes of Roger Ward were now pinpoints.

She gaped at him, as did Sir Reginald. Dear God, had Roger lost his mind? These were ravings.

"Yeah, I've planned it out. I will become the favorite of Tiberius when I show him how to conquer Germany—and Persia, and anything else—with rifles and cannon. He'll love me too for the massive revenue my financial empire can provide, and how double entry accounting and real digits will keep track of it all. And he will buy into accepting Judaism. He knows the moral rot of Rome. The citizens relish gore and hate work, and they aren't reproducing. Judaism is the perfect antidote. Jews study hard, work hard, play fair, and make lots of babies."

Frantically Margaret sought response.

"Cat have your tongue, Beaufort?"

"It won't work."

"It will. You'll be around to see, as you can't return to an England that will no longer exist."

"I tell you this, Roger. If you are to gain the ear of Tiberius, you better do so within seven years. You must know who follows him."

"Sure. Caligula. But he won't be a problem, since I'll take a page from your book. I'll have him killed. Claudius will succeed Tiberius. A pragmatic, sane guy."

"Nero follows him."

"Same solution."

"You fool. Tiberius will probably be the most dangerous of any. He's half mad with paranoia now. You have read Suetonius, I take it. You know the short life span of those posing even a remote threat. He would see you an enormous threat, with your wealth and weaponry. He would gladly throw you to a moray eel."

For the first time she saw a flicker of doubt, though Roger vigorously shook his head.

"Oh yes, Master Ward. His suspicion and cruelty are first rate."

"Save your breath. I am going."

Sir Reginald let loose with a barrage of invective. Margaret wished she could indulge in the same.

"Roger, as I said, we cannot stop you. Your corpse would hardly improve the situation. But when the anger and hurt and selfishness fade, ponder these words."

It sickened her to know this was the last arrow in her quiver.

"Goodbye, Beaufort." With difficulty Roger turned the camel about. He started away.

She shouted: "'Then the devil took him to a very high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, and he said, All these I will give you, if you fall down and worship me. Then Jesus said, Begone, Satan! For it is written, You shall worship the Lord your God and only him shall you serve. The devil left him, and behold, angels came and ministered to him.'"

The camel trotted off. They watched Roger Ward go.

Halfway to the horizon the camel stopped. They waited as the animal and its rider neither proceeded nor retreated.

Part Four

Place of the Skull

Nisan, 30 A.D.

Chapter XII

Ward sat on the donkey and a cheer went up from the Twelve and the other followers.

Thomas in particular exulted. The man's ecstasy cut Ward to the bone. So soon, by Friday, horrible suffering would replace the ecstasy. The man's reward for his utter devotion and loyalty.

Under the deep blue sky cries of "Hosanna!" rose from his followers. "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!"

Eighty years ago Julius Caesar had crossed the Rubicon River, thereby directly challenging the authorities in Rome. By mounting the donkey this Sunday afternoon, Ward was also challenging the powers that be. The challenge would be unmistakable to the men of the Sanhedrin, for they well knew the words of Zechariah: "Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on an ass." Zechariah also foretold that the deliverer of Israel would descend from the Mount of Olives as he marched on Jerusalem.

They left the village of Bethany and proceeded on the road that led down the Mount of Olives. His followers proceeded him, repeating the cries of "Hosanna". Some went among the olive trees and cut loose branches, which they then spread on the dirt road that angled across the slope.

Thousands of Passover pilgrims had set up camp on the Mount. They left their tents and smoky cooking fires to see what the ruckus on the road was about. Many had apparently heard of Jesus and his works, for they eagerly took up the cries. "Hosanna!" "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" "Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming!" "Hosanna in the highest." So many olive branches were now strewn Ward feared the pilgrims would strip every tree on the Mount.

At the base of the Mount a small stream ran in the Kidron Valley. Ward and the donkey crossed with ease. Above him loomed the eastern wall of the Temple. On the slope before the wall thousands more pilgrims were pointing excitedly toward him. "Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!"

Ward traveled alongside the stream until they reached an imposing stone monument. Four columns fronted the gray structure that was topped by a cone. Ward was surprised to see many of his troupe hurl stones at it.

"The tomb of Absalom," James said in his ear.

Right, thought Ward. The place of his refuge Passover night.

From the stream they turned up toward the Temple. The crowd was roaring now. On the parapet of the eastern wall Ward could see people peering down in amazement. Soldiers were among them, and probably priests as well.

The die was cast, indeed!

The crowds parted, and they had a clear path up the slope to the arched gate cut into the great stone blocks of the wall. Ward waved benignly at those screaming encouragement. Massive expectation hung in the air. Probably everyone expected the rule of Rome to evaporate once he entered the Temple grounds.

At the gate—where Temple guards had fled—Ward dismounted and stepped through the archway. To his left rose an interior staircase. He and the Twelve mounted the switchback staircase, while the resounding cheers from the outside followed them up the steps. Ward's heart began to thump, and not just from the exertion of the considerable climb.

He wondered if a phalanx of Temple guards would be waiting when he and the disciples emerged onto the Court of the Gentiles. The gospels of course said Christ was not challenged this day. But he wasn't Christ; a panicked guard could toss a spear as he emerged.

The gospels had certainly been hit or miss the past two weeks. In Jericho they had not come across the tax collector named Zacchaeus, much less found him in a sycamore tree. In Luke this man had lodged Jesus and the Twelve, then promised to give half his goods to the poor. Nor had a blind beggar named Bartimaeus accosted Ward when they left Jericho, as the gospel of Mark claimed.

In Bethany the gospel of John was both affirmed and disaffirmed. As John wrote, a well to do man named Lazarus lived there along with his sisters Mary and Martha. He invited Ward and the Twelve to lodge with him for the duration of the Passover festival. And last evening, Martha served supper while Mary anointed Ward with costly oil.

Lazarus however had never been raised from the dead. Yes, he had been sick during the winter. At times, as he burned with fever, his sisters did fear he would die. Yet he fully recovered while Ward had been far away in Capernaum and completely unaware of the situation.

So Ward wondered what would await when he stepped onto the Temple grounds for the first time. Margaret was supremely confident that exactly nothing would happen. Easy for her to say. She was not the one walking up these steps.

Ward emerged onto the vast plaza of the Court of the Gentiles. And nothing happened. The multitudes in the plaza had heard the commotion outside, but they didn't link it with another band of pilgrims arriving in the plaza. Although the guards on parapets of the surrounding colonnades did pose tensely, they made no move to come down.

Long shadows extended across the confines of the Court. To his right stood the gold sheathed Temple and the inner courts, where only Jews could enter. The smoke and smell of incense drifted from Temple. The hubbub of pilgrims and tourists taking in the sights continued without pause.

Ward knew the drill. He was just supposed to look around and then, because the day was late, announce they would return to Bethany. He complied. And the air of expectation went out of the Twelve, as it did for the multitudes when he returned outside the Temple walls.

That evening Ward and the Twelve again supped at the comfortable residence of Lazarus and his sisters. After eating he called the Twelve into the paved courtyard for instruction. In Capernaum during the rainy and cold months of winter he had repeated his sermons, sayings, parables and apocalyptic warnings to the Twelve. It was imperative that everything sink in deeply.

The Twelve had their work cut out. The three dozen parables alone were considerable material to faithfully remember. By summer Ward would know how well the disciples had absorbed, when back in the 21st Century he examined the first four books of the New Testament.

Ward had asked Lazarus to limit the amount of wine served so the Twelve would retain clear minds. The day had not been especially tiring—the round trip to Jerusalem from Bethany was only five miles—so fatigue should not distract anyone.

In the silvery light of a nearly full moon he held forth. He first reviewed an apocalyptic spiel from the gospel of Matthew. He spoke ominously of "war and rumors of wars", "many false prophets will arise and lead many astray", "the moon will not give its light, and the stars will fall from heaven". He ended with "Therefore you must be ready, for the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect". Everyone listened soberly.

Ward then retold two parables, "The Ten Bridesmaids" and "The Talents". The parable of the talents had always been one of his favorites. He had infuriated many of his academic colleagues when he recounted it. So many liberal arts professors were socialists or worse, and he was a firm believer in free enterprise. Jesus did often lambaste the rich, but this parable attested that he had nothing against those who honestly made money. In fact, they were required to do so.

He closed the evening with the one of the most unnerving discourses of Christ, one that he the pretender had avoided recounting for a long time. The first telling had cost him appetite and a night's sleep. He believed his last performance was prior to Succoth.

Nonetheless he spiritedly delivered the words; as always he was too much a ham to do otherwise.

"When the Son of man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will place the sheep at his right hand, but the goats on the left.

"Then the King will say to those at his right hand, 'Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.'

"Then the righteous will answer, 'Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give drink? And when did we see thee sick or in prison or visit thee?' And the King will answer, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.'"

Ward had everyone's rapt attention, including his own.

"Then he will say to those at his left hand, 'Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.'

"Then they will also answer, 'Lord, when did we see thee hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee?' Then he will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me.' And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life."

When he concluded, all of the Twelve hung their heads. He bet each of the disciples during life had at times failed to feed, to clothe, to visit, and to welcome.

Ward was certainly delinquent. He rarely visited his own mother. And how many times had he swept past panhandlers—"the least of my brethren"?

He remembered one beggar in particular. Memory of that forlorn face had never left him, however much he tried to cast out the face.

For years the callous act had haunted him, that time in Chicago during his graduate school days. It had been outside an "L" entrance, when a homeless man begged a buck. Even if they reeked of booze, most panhandlers were able bodied. This guy wasn't. Though young, he looked on his last legs. His eyes displayed infinite misery. Ward set his jaw hard as he blew past. The man had looked back sadly, utterly resigned to both the cold world and his fate in it.

In the years since Ward had often wondered about that man. What had become of him? Not that it took much imagination to answer. Ward came up with a hundred excuses why he had not slipped the wretch a dollar, even a quarter. Either given with a smile might have made a difference.

Ward did not sleep well this night either.

At dawn on Monday Ward and Margaret met to coordinate activities for the remainder of the week. They left Bethany and made the short climb to the summit of the Mount of Olives. Behind them, far back in the Judean wilderness, the sun was breaking into a cloudless day. In front of them lay Jerusalem.

To escape notice Ward wore a soiled brown tunic instead of the fresh white one he donned yesterday, and a cloak covered his head. So far none of the people already stirring had recognized him. For security, James and Bray stood ten paces away on either side. They were armed.

The shadow of the Mount still covered the city. But there was plenty of light to see smoke rising from many thousands of cooking fires, both within the city and among the pilgrim camps outside. There was also plenty to smell. Along with the odor of food cooking wafted the stench of both animal and human waste.

Levitical law said excrement was supposed to be buried, but there was no way proper sanitation could be provided for a multitude like this. Margaret said the population of Jerusalem and its environs, normally one hundred thousand, exploded to over a quarter million people at Passover. It was amazing infectious disease did not run rampant during the festival.

Ward and his people were fortunate they had lodging in Bethany and Bethphage. Otherwise they would be fending for themselves in fields and groves like so many others. It was good to know each evening he would have a roof over his head, wine and a hot meal waiting, and a decent latrine available.

Though he could feel the sun on his back, a nip remained in the air. They were at elevation here, over twenty-five hundred feet Margaret had said. The chill invigorated him; that was good, because he—and the great puppeteer beside him—had a big day ahead.

This morning while he "cleansed" the Temple, Margaret would go to see Pontius Pilate, who had just arrived from Caesarea accompanied by two cohorts of troops. During the festival Pilate would take up residence at the Antonia Fortress. From their vantage point Ward could see the Fortress with its four towers snug against the northern wall of the Temple complex. The Temple grounds had about ten times as much area, but the Fortress dominated nonetheless.

He and Margaret spoke quietly in English.

"Aren't you concerned Pilate might cross us?" asked Ward.

"Nay. His greed and the currents of history guarantee his compliance."

"We're asking a lot from him."

"You let me worry about Pilate. You just make certain you execute the cleansing correctly. You can't injure anyone. And keep property damage to a minimum."

Ward was worried that the Temple guards would arrest him on the spot. He would have to make sure he first got the crowd on his side. The spiel about the "den of thieves" should stoke resentment; during the festival money changers and sellers of sacrificial animals blatantly overcharged.

Tuesday Margaret would visit Joseph ben David at his lodgings in the upper city. She had been in communication with Joseph since his visit to Capernaum in the late autumn. As the gospels stated, this member of the Sanhedrin had become a secret follower of Jesus. Margaret would seek assurance that the man known to history as Joseph of Arimathea would make his tomb available if anything happened to Jesus.

That day Ward would return to the Temple grounds and intensify his baiting of the Sadducees. If they weren't already plotting his death, they certainly would afterward. Jesus would repeatedly insult and humiliate them. How they would burn to rid themselves of this insolent rabble rouser from backwater Galilee.

Wednesday Bray would make arrangements to rent an upper room for the Last Supper. He would also meet with men from the Sanhedrin to plan for the seizure of Jesus after the Supper, in the Garden of Gethsemane at the base of the Mount of Olives.

Bray as Judas would lead the Temple police to the Garden. Once there he would plant a kiss on Thomas instead of Ward. At that moment Thomas would be seized, Margaret said. Ward winced.

Margaret caught the wince. "Surely at this late date you are not having second thoughts?"

"No. It's just that he's so trusting—so believing."

Her face actually softened. "I have sympathy too. His faith in Jesus is inspiring. Take solace that he will be the first martyr of the Church."

Lucky Thomas. "You will tell Pilate to give him gall?"

"Yes. Not enough to render him unconscious; he must be able to walk to Golgotha. But he should be out on his feet. I doubt he will feel much."

Golgotha. Such a foreboding name.

"I hope not."

"Please remember, Roger, that his wife and children will be well provided for."

That was supposed to ease their consciences, huh? He wondered if Margaret was troubled at all. To her Thomas was probably just a necessary casualty of war. _Somebody_ had to die on the cross.

On the slopes below activity had picked up. Especially adjacent to the Antonia Fortress. There, to the left of the Pool of Bethesda, he saw hundreds of sheep in pens. Ward could hear bleating even at this distance. People crowded around the pens.

Margaret noticed his gaze and said, "That is the sheep market. The owners will make a fortune selling lambs for the Passover feast. That is part of what you will be railing against today. The gate behind the Pool is called Sheep Gate. That is the gate you and the Twelve will take after the Last Supper. The pens should be empty by then."

"That's good." He didn't want to stumble through a bunch of livestock at night.

"Remember once Judas kisses Thomas, you are to instantly go to the tomb of Absalom. People stay away from it at night, so you should have no company. Wait for Sir Reginald and James to come with horses. You and James will be on your way to the Galilee before midnight."

That would be a great moment, when they exited the Jerusalem area. In the Galilee he would appear first to Mary, then to Peter and other disciples, then depart for Caesarea. In Caesarea he would join up with Bray and Margaret to begin the trip home.

"It is hard to believe we are almost done."

"Do not yet relax, Master Ward. The most critical days are just ahead."

"I know, I know. But we have come so far. I am actually starting to believe in the historical validity of Christ."

"Divine validity."

"Well, I won't argue that with you. But it has been impressive how much has happened as written."

She smiled. "You think me a complete fool to believe in the divinity of Christ. Admit it. I won't be angry."

"You are not a fool." She was many things, but not that.

"I have been thoroughly exposed to the skepticism of your era. I have read the works that pick apart the gospels. Yet I still believe—completely."

"As I said before, I envy you your belief."

"But my belief is irrational?"

"Lady Margaret—"

"Are you familiar with Occam's Razor?"

"Of course." William of Occam was one of his heroes. Occam was an English monk of the Fourteenth Century that helped formulate the scientific method. The Razor was a guide to evaluating competing explanations of a phenomenon. "'All things being equal, the simplest explanation is the best one.'"

"I submit to you, Roger Ward, that the simplest explanation of Jesus is that He was a divine being."

Her eyes regarded him with triumph. Ward refrained from shaking his head. She was still a creature of the Middle Ages and all its superstitions, no matter how much she had studied the modern era.

He sighed. "I wish it were true. It would be so comforting if Jesus _was_ the Messiah and those who believed in Him would find everlasting life. I see why his message was so seductive. For those weary of this world—and I often have been—his promises would have been tonic. But unfortunately they are just inspiring words. Jesus was a man, a brilliant and brave man I now concede, but still flesh and blood."

"Oh ye of little faith." She smiled.

"Please, Lady Margaret. I wouldn't have said this before, but I am honored to have portrayed this man. I used to think him full of himself, out to raise the hackles of the religious establishment and gather all the admirers he could along the way. I used to think he blundered into crucifixion because he didn't know when to stop aggravating the authorities."

"And what think you now—about the Crucifixion?"

Ward bit his lip. "He sought it. I don't know if he really thought he was the Messiah—he was always asking people's opinion on that—but I believe he believed he had a mission sanctioned by God. Which was to put forth that amazing philosophy of unconditional love and mercy, and assure it would be remembered. He trusted his sacrifice on the cross would compel his followers to proclaim his message throughout the Empire. Which they did, God bless them."

"What is the simplest explanation why the apostles carried on? You know they will run when Thomas is seized. They will be too cowardly to show up at Golgotha. Their faith will be shattered because the man they thought so powerful could not prevent an execution reserved for the worst criminals." Lady Margaret was really getting into it now. Her face glowed. "Why then in the years afterward did they so gladly risk their lives to declare that this was the Son of God, come to save all mankind?"

"Maybe it was guilt that spurred them. And I suppose, the power of his teachings."

"Is not the simplest explanation that Jesus appeared to the disciples after the Crucifixion? That the Resurrection was real?"

James and Bray were looking at them impatiently. The two men probably wanted breakfast. Ward was hungry himself.

Ward didn't want to prolong her lecturing. He didn't also want to infuriate her, by saying the truth lay closer to what they were going to pull.

Margaret prolonged. "And I suppose you reject all the miracles Christ performed?"

"I am sure most were like what we witnessed, the power of individual belief at work." The others, like walking on water and raising the dead and the feeding of the multitude, were certainly propaganda. The apostles or the gospel writers invented them to sway listeners and readers. Obviously the attempt to sway had worked.

"Most, you say?"

"Lady Margaret, this is fruitless. I won't convince you and you won't convince me. All that matters now is that we get through the week ahead."

Her eyes remained merry. "True. But let me leave you with one last morsel for thought." She paused patiently.

"Alright. One last morsel."

"At Cana, when Jesus turned water into wine. Only John mentions it."

"So?" He spoke more brusquely than intended.

"That day Jesus was not trying to demonstrate divine power. You will recall his mother came to him when the wine at the wedding party ran out. Jesus initially refused. He even spoke harshly to her. But then he relented, not wanting the wedding host to be embarrassed. Surreptitiously he changed the water to wine. It was a miracle intended to impress no one and a frivolous one at that. I wager that the person who wrote John learned of it only via Mary. I am certain that Jesus thought the less said about the episode the better."

"Well—"

"Think on it, Roger. That is all I ask. Now let us go eat."

Later that morning Ward "cleaned out" the Temple. In actuality he knocked over a few tables and scattered some coins and birdcages. The money changers and dove sellers shrieked like children, but the pilgrims cheered. The Temple guards made no move to intervene even though it was obvious they itched to. Ward then got out.

He spent the remainder of the day back in Bethany. After a light lunch he went for a walk with Mary among the olive trees that bordered the town. Anxiety rent her lovely face.

Twenty yards behind hung Bray and James—as always to guard him, as always to make sure no funny business occurred.

The time for funny business between him and Mary was long past. From the time he discovered Margaret Beaufort's duplicity, he had backed off. From that point on he treated her as a good friend instead of a prospective lover. He never flirted again.

That hadn't stopped her. Right to the day of his aborted escape she hinted ever more strongly at marriage. Of course, that wasn't what nice Jewish girls did. Ward let her down gently as he could, though he was flattered a woman of such quality chose him as a mate.

She persisted. He was sure this indulged young woman had gotten everything desired in life. And every other man wanted her. So to her there was no reason she couldn't have the one man she wanted.

That day he was atop the camel facing Beaufort and Bray he told them he would send for Mary. He wouldn't have. He had been half out of his mind with rage and delusions of grandeur. It was pure pique.

It of course boiled down to a matter of love. He was fond of her, and he still desired the hell out of her. She was better looking than Anne, probably more intelligent, and almost as spirited. But he loved her not.

He would have sent for Anne. Even if he had become the richest and most esteemed person in the Empire. Even if he had his choice, as he would have, among the fairest women of the Empire. He would send for Anne.

After he came back he flatly told Mary a romantic relationship was impossible. He gave her drivel that his life belonged to God the Father. That was why he could and would never marry. His calling did not permit that.

She had cried, but seemed resigned. Mary probably already accepted she could not win his heart. She must have known when it sank in that he had left Capernaum that night without her. To her credit she remained loyal. She did not stop funding the Twelve, and she still followed everywhere Lady Margaret would permit.

Within two weeks Mary would pass from his life forever. He didn't love her, but he would miss her.

"I beg you not to return to Jerusalem," she said. She spoke softly, so Bray and James would not hear. "I saw the hate in the eyes of the priests."

"You know I must."

"But how can God want you dead? How will your work carry on? I do not mean to—I should not say it—but—"

Ward knew what she wanted to say, that she doubted the disciples would be up to the task. Mary was smarter than any of the Twelve, save Bray and maybe Matthew. She must think the disciples just village rubes. So often she nodded knowingly when he spoke, while the disciples would puzzle.

The disciples had certainly puzzled after the winter rains ended. As the almond trees bloomed pale pink in February, Ward had led the Twelve north. In a village not far from towering Mount Hermon he told them for the first time that he would be killed. With the proviso three days after his death he would rise again.

The Twelve had been flabbergasted. They knew he was in danger, that Antipas would not mind him dead, but so far the Master had nimbly avoided arrest. Unlike the recently executed John the Baptist Jesus had been careful to give Antipas no direct offense. And what was this talk of rising three days after dying?

As was written, Peter immediately disputed Jesus. Jesus was too much in the favor of God for God to allow his death. (Had not Peter just days before proclaimed Jesus the Messiah and Jesus accepted the proclamation?) As was written, Ward replied: "Get you hence, Satan! For you are not on the side of God, but men." Peter's jaw about hit the floor.

When a month later they left the wildflower adorned Galilee, Ward again told them of his impending death.

"Behold, we are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written of the Son of Man by the prophets will be accomplished. For he will be delivered to the Gentiles, and will be mocked and shamefully treated and spit upon; they will scourge him and kill him, and on the third day he will rise." Again the disciples reacted with disbelief. The Anointed One could hardly redeem Israel by dying.

Mary however had taken his words at face value. She had sought clarification. Ward clarified and she almost swooned. Then, as now, she pleaded that he not proceed.

Ward waved his hand. "You needn't worry about the disciples. I can leave my work in no more determined hands than those of Peter, James, John, my cousin, the others. They will earnestly spread my good news throughout the Empire and beyond."

She grabbed a fold in his cloak. Her eyes were wide with fright.

"Don't let them kill you."

"I will die, Mary. But as I have promised, I will rise again on the third day."

What would she think of him, he who she still idolized, if she knew the truth? That he would not die at all, but offer up poor Thomas in his place? How she would recoil.

"I—I will sell everything I have and give it to the poor if you don't go into the city. Everything."

Ward stared at her in amazement. He struggled to keep his composure. That she could love him that much. He prayed she would not overly long pine for him.

He took her hands. "No, no, Mary. It is very noble you offer this, but I cannot permit such sacrifice. I will ask that you help the disciples, and give often to those in need."

"Please—"

"What must be, will be. My Father commands my death."

Tears welled. "He is a cruel Father then."

"Mary, you cannot speak so." Though he certainly agreed with her on that point.

"You are the finest man ever brought into this world. You could do so much more good if you live." She moaned in anguish. "I don't understand. It is madness that you have to die."

"You will see me again—I swear it. Then you will understand much."

It was obvious she didn't believe him.

"Mary, I know you will be faithful to the end. I know you will not pull away in the difficult days ahead. And because of your faith, you will be the first to find that I have risen."

In the shadows of the silvery green trees she searched his eyes desperately for truth. She must have found it, for suddenly she stilled. And nodded.

Chapter XIII

With trepidation Thomas waited for the Master to respond. Oh, how he wanted to smite the smirking priests. They thought they had the Master trapped, as they likely did.

Thomas wished he could make one of the giant columns of the portico fall on the priests, and on the eager guards beside them. That was the only way the Master could escape. For if the Master answered as he must, the priests would have him seized.

Out in the Court of the Gentiles people still went about noisily. But here in the deep shadows of the Royal Portico everyone around the Master had grown silent. Everyone breathlessly awaited his reply.

What could the Master say that would not ruin him? If he said that it was lawful to pay taxes to the Romans, the people would no longer trust him. He would be as despised as the Sadducees. If he said it was unlawful—as he must—then the priests would turn him over to the Romans as a rebel.

Thomas would fight the guards. They had spears and swords, he only his fists, but he would battle to the death. As would all the Twelve. In the confusion perhaps the Master could get away.

The Master however showed no fear. He instead displayed that warm, knowing smile that Thomas so loved.

"Why put me to the test?" he asked. "Bring me a silver coin, and let me look at it."

Why did the Master ask for a coin? How could that help him? Thomas made ready to strike.

A priest with a dark beard that reached halfway to his waist handed the Master a denarius. Jesus examined the silver coin, then handed it back.

"Whose likeness and inscription is on it?" he asked.

"Caesar's," said the priest.

The Master spread his arms, then cast his strong voice down the portico. "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's."

The priest blinked. Then his mouth fell open, as did those of the other priests. They stared at one another.

Thomas resisted shouting "Hosanna!" The Master had bested them, shamefully so, these supposedly the most learned men in Judea.

Another priest, his face ugly with anger, stepped before the Master. He tried trick to the Master on a point of the Law. He asked some question Thomas did not fully understand about a man with seven brothers. The man died, and his wife married the first brother. The brother died, and the wife married the next brother. This repeated as each brother in turn died. The Master answered with reasoning Thomas did also not understand, but it was clear he had again confounded the priests.

They put another test to him, asking by what authority he taught and performed miracles. The Master again thwarted them as everyone around cried approval. He then spoke one of his parables that turned the priests livid. Thomas remembered the fury of the scribes in Capernaum the first time the Master told it.

"A man planted a vineyard," said the strong voice of Jesus. "He dug a pit for the wine press, then rented it to tenants and went into another country. Later he sent a servant to get from the tenants some of the fruit of the vineyard. They beat him, and sent him away empty-handed. He sent another, and him they killed; and so with others, some they beat and some they killed. He had still one other, a beloved son; finally he sent him to them, saying, 'They will respect my son.' But those tenants said, 'This is the heir; come, let us kill him, and the inheritance will be ours.' So they killed him, and cast him out of the vineyard. Now what will the owner of the vineyard do?" His smile now gone, Jesus looked with disdain upon the priests. "He will come and destroy the tenants, and give the vineyard to others."

Some people chuckled, and it was obvious they understood the parable. They explained to others and the laughter grew.

Thomas was thankful he remembered Matthew's explanation, even though it had been months before. The vineyard stood for the people of Israel, and the tenants were the priests. Those that the owner—God—sent were the prophets. The son was the Messiah. Israel would be given to the true believers. Thomas smiled as he savored of the fate of the hypocritical priests.

The priests fairly ran from the laughter of the people. Thomas watched them flee toward the Temple.

As they did Thomas—who had good eyes—thought he saw the High Priest on the parapet of the wall which bounded the Temple. The glowering man had to be Caiaphas because he wore a blue headdress and cloak and a vest containing big gemstones. Sunlight glinted off the gemstones, twelve in number representing the tribes of Israel.

Thomas laughed in the direction of Caiaphas and his underlings. What do you think now of our Master, you dogs who lick the feet of the Romans? Jesus the Anointed One will throw you down. Very soon.

Thomas had been disappointed when nothing happened on Sunday when the Master entered Jerusalem. He had hoped the Master would take power then. The time was ripe; Thomas could not understand why the Master would wait longer.

That evening back in Bethany he had talked about it with Matthew. Matthew was also disappointed, but he advised patience. The Master knew what he was doing; hadn't he always? Matthew believed the Master would wait until Passover Day to publicly proclaim himself the Messiah. What better day, when Jews throughout the Empire celebrated deliverance from another enslaving tyrant?

Yes, deliverance was coming. Today was Tuesday, and Passover would begin Thursday evening. By the time the sun rose Friday the sons of Abraham would be free of the Romans and the priests who served them. As in the time of King David Israel would answer to the Lord God alone.

As the week progressed Ward started to hate Thomas. Thomas, whose eyes shone with trust and devotion, Thomas who hung on the Master's every word, and whose brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of those words. Thomas who acted liked an innocent pup, instead of realizing that once his scraggly red beard was trimmed and dyed black he could pass for the man now in obvious danger.

Thomas was dumb as a post. He was unimaginative and slow. Put a question to him and his tongue froze. He wasn't retarded, but subtlety, irony, cunning were all lost on him. It really wouldn't matter much if the world lost this person of limited ability.

Why did the man have to look at him with so much love? Ward wanted to slug him when he did. Ward wanted to scream "You idiot! Don't you know we are going to kill you? In the worst way possible?"

When Thomas died, no one would really miss him. From what Bray had learned of his background, his family life was meaningless. Thomas never spoke of them, while Ward would overhear other disciples saying how much they missed a wife, a son, a daughter. Thomas had no real companions among the disciples except Matthew, and that was probably a case of pity. Everyone tolerated this dull man, but if he vanished no one would fuss.

Thomas was a sheep, and sheep got slaughtered. That was all there was to it. And he must be slaughtered. In the famous words of Margaret Beaufort, _it was necessary_. If someone had to die, Thomas was the smallest price to pay for saving Western Civilization.

Joseph ben David had never seen the High Priest so agitated. Caiaphas was slow to anger. Even when his son had backed out of a favored betrothal, Caiaphas did not rage. The High Priest had studied the Greek philosophers, and like them he believed in calm and rational deliberation.

"How dare he!" he thundered. "How dare he!"

The other men in the fragrant garden at the rear of his palace stepped back from Caiaphas. Even the shade cast by the terebinth trees could not moderate the crimson that boiled on his face.

Yes, thought Joseph, what Jesus had said today was madness. It was as if the man sought death. Jesus must know the provocation of such a prophecy. How could the man announce—supposedly to his disciples, yet in that deep timbre men could hear fifty paces away—that the Temple would be destroyed?

What had become of the Jesus he had visited in Capernaum? That man spoke with wisdom and prudence. Yes, Jesus criticized the Pharisees and scribes, but in instructive manner. And he was very careful to not bait Antipas, the one man in the Galilee with the power to destroy him.

Why did he now act recklessly? Caiaphas had been upset enough when Jesus rode into the city on a donkey, in supposed fulfillment of Zechariah's words. The Romans were already on edge with people mobbing the city. Riots that required bloody suppression had occurred before during festivals; a man claiming he was King of the Jews could certainly trigger more.

Jesus remained fortunate, most fortunate, he had not been arrested after attacking the money changers. Money changers were unloved, but they performed a crucial service. Without them the Temple could not function. Jesus knew that, and he knew that these men who sometimes overcharged must make a living too.

Joseph had listened to Jesus each day at the Temple Mount. By now Joseph must conclude the man from Nazareth was reckless by design. Yesterday was a prime example, when Jesus delivered the parable that so savaged the Sadducees. Jesus had to know that the Sadducees, if also unloved, protected the people from the inequities of direct Roman rule. Unchecked a wolf like Pilate would have eaten the land to the bone.

Yes, Jesus was deliberately seeking confrontation with the powers that could kill him. The man he visited in Capernaum was too rational to think he could prevail against the Sanhedrin—or Pilate. And looking in his eyes here, Joseph believed the man still rational. So why with calculation did Jesus seem to seek his own destruction?

"I told you we should have arrested him the moment he entered Judea," said Annas. "It is we who the Romans will hold responsible if he incites the people to rebellion. They will put us up on crosses along with the others."

Annas undoubtedly exaggerated, but the Romans would indeed punish the Sanhedrin. At the least Caiaphas would lose his position.

"Arrest and stone him," said Boaz. "Truly Beelzebul guides him."

Joseph cleared his throat. "If we do arrest him, we may get the riots we need to prevent."

Caiaphas gave him a hard look, then grudgingly nodded. "Yes, Father Joseph, the matter must be handled with care." Then the eyes of the High Priest slid to the side.

Joseph also let his eyes slide. By arbor entrance to the garden stood one of the disciples of Jesus. It was their elder. The grim man with the short white beard had not been there moments before.

Hope surged through Joseph. Jesus had sent this disciple. What was his name? Yes, Judas; Joseph had also spoken with him at Capernaum. He remembered Judas as a man of the utmost seriousness, one who exuded sagacity.

At the last moment Jesus must have realized he was going to far. Jesus was sending Judas to seek peace with the council. Perhaps the elder carried Jesus' personal apology.

Joseph prayed this was the case. Jesus had so much to offer Judea. Never had Joseph heard such uplifting words. Joseph had respected John the Baptist, but Jesus offered men so much more. Give Jesus time and he truly could make the children of Abraham worthy of the Kingdom of God.

On the morning of the Last Supper Ward awoke in a cold sweat. It was not yet dawn, but he sensed first light approaching. Beside him in the room Bray as always snored.

Ward lay rigidly on his mat. Since adulthood he found he sized up situations best in the early morning, and worst before turning in at night. The difference in evaluation was striking, as if performed by two different people.

With absolute clarity he now knew. He could not deliver Thomas into the hands of the priesthood and Pontius Pilate.

Anne for Thomas, it boiled down to that. Anne in exchange for the terrible death of a completely innocent man. Ward would exceed the heinous sin of King David, who sent Uriah to certain death so he might gain Bathsheba.

Ward could rationalize a hundred different ways, but would fool neither God nor himself. For the rest of his life the scourged and punctured corpse of Thomas would be present.

When he wed Anne, the corpse would sit in the first pew. When Ward and Anne made love, the corpse would lie in their bed. When they celebrated the birth of their first child, the corpse would stand beside the crib. However grand the estate on which the family lived, the corpse would haunt the grounds. Whatever acclaim Ward received, the revenge thirsting corpse would sit silently among the applauding audience. When he lay dying, the corpse—the time for justice come around at last—would smile.

Ward would never escape the corpse.

He heard a cock crowing in the distance. Light was coming. The day was coming. The last full day of Jesus of Nazareth was coming.

He would have to warn Thomas. But he would have to be careful when. It could not be before the Supper. Thomas must be there for that; his absence would sound alarm bells. If Thomas disappeared, Ward would not put it past Margaret and Bray—in their desperation—to have Ward crucified in his place. They would then find someway to fudge the Resurrection.

It was best not to warn Thomas at all. Instead, after the Supper, Ward could send Thomas to deliver a message. Bray would be gone by then, off to betray. Margaret would be with the women in a different house, enjoying their own Passover meal.

After the Supper the plan was to leave the city and go to the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives. Away from the city it would be dark except for the light of campfires and torches; the moon was full but the Mount would shield its light for several hours as it rose in the east.

Ward would not wait until they reached the Mount, or even the Kidron Valley. They were going to leave the city through the Sheep Gate near the Antonia Fortress. Once outside the walls the he and the disciples would skirt the Pool of Bethesda and the sheep pens.

Just as they started their descent into the valley—when the eyes of each man would be riveted to the ground and carefully picking his way, so as not to tumble down the slope—Ward would whisper to Thomas to return to Jerusalem. Return to the house where we had Passover Supper and tell the owner they needed the upper room again tomorrow; Judas will bring payment in the morning. Ward would tell Thomas to spend the night in the room.

Soon after Thomas departed, Ward would make his own escape. He would flee south along the Kidron Valley, then take the road to Bethlehem. He would sleep in the fields outside the town, and hopefully hook up with a caravan heading toward Egypt in the morning. He had about ten denarii on him. He didn't know how much passage that would buy. Maybe he could do odd jobs for the caravan to get him all the way to the Nile.

Bray was not supposed to bring the arresting party to Gethsemane until after midnight. So Ward would have four hours' head start, which was plenty of time to walk the six miles to Bethlehem. Even though Bray could send out search parties, he would know the small chance of finding Ward in the dark. Ward almost took pleasure at thought of Bray's consternation.

But damn it, they could find Thomas before dawn. The other disciples would have seen Thomas heading back into the city, and the house of the Last Supper might be the first place Bray looked. Thomas could still be in Pilate's hands when the sun cracked above the horizon.

Ward would have to take Thomas with him. That would complicate matters; two men on the run would draw more notice than one. Add they looked so much alike, that made fading into the background really difficult.

He had to take Thomas along; the whole point of abandoning the mission now was to keep him alive. And Thomas didn't have to stay out of the clutches of Bray long. Jesus must be crucified on Good Friday. Once the sun set Friday—no, even when it hit midday—the Crucifixion would be blown and Thomas safe.

Bray turned on his side and blessedly the snoring stopped. No more of that bone rattling noise made for another advantage of getting away.

Ward rose to a sitting position. Light continued to creep into the room. His clear thinking continued, though he was not sure he welcomed it.

Thomas might be safe once Friday turned to Saturday, but Ward would not. He could only imagine the fury of Margaret Beaufort. She could care less about his conscience. All she would know was that Ward had ruined, at the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour, what she considered the most necessary salvage job in history.

She would want his head. With Tudor England now gone, with Christianity gone, with all the future twisted beyond recognition, she would turn her life's purpose to the hunting down—and the grisly killing—of Roger Ward. He bet she had diamonds in reserve. The gems would purchase enough men to seek him in every corner of the Empire.

He sighed. That prospect was almost enough to make him reconsider letting Thomas off the hook.

Ward cursed himself. If he wavered now, when the right and wrong was so obvious, what would he do as evening approached? When his moral judgement would approach its nadir for the day? He must resolve now, on the soul of his sister, to not falter after the Supper.

Bray gave a groan, grunted, then he was awake. He turned his head toward Ward.

He spoke in English. "You had best rouse Simon Peter. He will be needing to get to the Temple."

Yes, Peter better go before long. Everybody and his brother would be at the Temple today, having Passover lambs ritually slaughtered. The press of man and animal would be horrendous. Ward was glad to escape it. Rank did indeed have its privileges.

Ward forced himself to meet Bray's eyes dead on. He must all day give no indication of the action he planned.

He uttered his own grunt, then rose to wake Peter.

The Master shocked them all soon after they entered the dimly lit room where they would celebrate Passover. Jesus took off his cloak and tunic, and stood before them clad only in a cloth wrapped around his loins. Then he poured water into a basin and knelt.

Thomas watched dumbfounded as Jesus beckoned Peter and began to wash his feet. Only servants or women washed feet.

Peter stepped back as if stung. "Master, what are you doing?"

"What I am doing," Jesus answered, "you do not know now, but afterward you will understand."

"Master, this is beneath you," said Peter.

The Master scowled. "If I do not wash you, you have not part in me."

Peter reluctantly let the Master clean his feet.

"He who has bathed," Jesus said to Peter, "does not need to wash, except for his feet. You are clean, but not everyone of you." The Master swung his gaze to Judas. "You are not all clean."

Why was the Master so eyeing Judas? Had Judas somehow angered Jesus today?

Thomas then began to worry that the Master meant others beside Judas were unclean in his eyes. But surely Jesus could not think so of Thomas. This morning, as every morning, Jesus had greeted him warmly. He had remained kindly throughout the day. Just minutes before, as dusk settled, Jesus had patted his shoulder.

Jesus then washed the feet of the rest of them. He smiled as he took the feet of Thomas. Thomas was greatly embarrassed to have the Master clean the dust from him. Thomas had never washed the feet of anyone, and would do so only at the point of a sword.

Eventually the Master finished cleaning the feet of the Twelve, dressed, and took his place at the center of the long table. On the table sat a steaming pot of lamb stew along with plates of bitter herbs and unleavened bread and pitchers of wine. The stew smelled good and Thomas' mouth watered.

"Do you know why I have washed your feet?" asked Jesus. "You call me Master; and you are right, for I am. If I, your Master, have washed your feet, then you should be able to wash one another's feet—for I have given you the example. A servant is not greater than his master; nor is he who is sent greater than he who sent him. If you remember these things, you are blessed if you do them."

Thomas found himself nodding. Yes, if the Master could do it, then so could he, however demeaning he might find the task. As the Master so often said, "The first shall be last, and the last first." These were not just fine sounding words for the Master—for the Anointed One—as he had just proved.

Then Jesus shook his head and sighed. "Truly, truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me."

Thomas caught his breath, and wondered if he had heard correctly. Everyone was looking at everyone else.

"Master, who is it?" asked John.

"It is he," said Jesus, "to whom I give this piece of bread." The Master tore loose some matzo and dipped it in the stew. He then handled it across the table to Judas.

Judas dropped the bread. Then he rose.

"What you are going to do," said Jesus, "do quickly."

The old man departed the room.

A hubbub rose among the disciples, but Jesus waved them silent. Thomas could not comprehend what he had just seen. Judas could not really betray, bring harm to the Master. He slept with and guarded Jesus. The Master trusted him with handling the money for the Twelve. The Master was always talking in riddles anyway. This must be his way of showing displeasure over some disagreement.

Thomas now expected Jesus to begin the Passover Seder with the blessing of the first cup of wine. Instead the Master held out his arms and looked toward heaven.

"Now the Son of man is glorified," said Jesus, "and in him God is glorified. Little children, yet a little while I am with you. You will seek me; and as I have said, 'Where I am going you cannot come.' A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

"Master, where are you going?" asked Peter.

Jesus nodded as if satisfied by the question, then said, "Where I am going, you cannot follow me now. But you shall follow afterward."

"Master, why can't I come now?" asked Peter. "Haven't I proved my devotion? I would give my life for you."

"Give your life?" asked Jesus, with an edge to his voice. "Truly I say to you Peter, that tomorrow the cock will not crow until you three times deny that you know me."

Peter shook his big shaggy head. "No, Master, no."

Thomas struggled to understand what the Master meant. Where _was_ he going, and why couldn't they follow? And why say that Peter, or any of them, wouldn't die for him? How could the Master doubt their faith? Hadn't they given up everything to follow him?

Jesus turned to Thomas. "I see you are troubled by what I say, Thomas. Hear this: I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father, but by me."

The Master then went on, talking about many more things Thomas did not understand. Talk of Jesus being in the Father, and the Father being in him. Talk of Jesus as the true vine, and the Father the vinedresser. Talk of the disciples being thrown out of synagogues. Talk of their weeping and lamenting, then their sorrow turning into joy. Talk of how in a little while, they would see Jesus no more, then again in little while, they would see Him again.

The head of Thomas spun. And he had not yet drunk any wine. Later he would have to ask Matthew what the Master meant. Thankfully Matthew was often first to get what Jesus said.

"Do you now believe?" asked Jesus. "The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered like sheep, every man to his home, and you will leave me alone. Yet I am not alone, for the Father is with me. I have said this to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world."

Jesus fell silent and no one else spoke. The only movement in the cramped upper room was the wavering of oil lamp flames. The disciples warily sought each other's eyes. Surely tomorrow the Master would explain all this, as he so often did.

Then Jesus took a disk of bread. He blessed it, broke it into pieces, and gave one to each of them. "This is my body," he said. Then he filled a cup with wine, blessed it and asked they each take a sip. When the cup was returned to him he said, "This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. Truly, I say to you, I shall not drink again of the fruit of the wine until that day when I drink new in the kingdom of God."

They ate and drank their fill. Jesus then announced they must leave. They would depart the city and go to the Mount of Olives. There he would pray to the Father as they kept vigil.

As they walked from the upper room it dawned on Thomas that they not performed a single step of Seder. All his life this night had been one of the high points of the year. He had especially enjoyed when as a child he was allowed to ask "Why is this night different than all other nights?" The thrilling tale of the Exodus would follow.

But _this_ night was different from all other nights, all other nights ever. For tomorrow the Master would be revealed as the Messiah. That must be what the Master had told them this evening.

As they left the house and entered a dark street along which only a few torches burned, Thomas looked for Matthew. He would get Matthew to hang back so he could ask if Matthew agreed about what the Master meant.

But the Master was quickly at his side. "Stay at my shoulder, Thomas. I must speak with you soon." In the dim light Thomas could see that the Master smiled.

His heart leapt. The Master was going to explain everything directly to him! Oh joyous evening. The Master had always favored him with kindness, if not counsel, and perhaps now he would be sharing more of his inner thoughts. Oh, the wonder of it.

Thomas floated over the cobbles as they made their way through the twisting and narrow streets. They encountered few people about. Most everyone was still behind closed doors celebrating the feast. But his feast was going to be so much greater. To finally be in the confidence of the Master. Thomas couldn't help savor Peter's certain resentment, though he knew such was not what the Master taught.

Finally they reached the Sheep Gate. The pens were empty, but the smell of sheep and their dung filled the steadily cooling air. Beyond the pens Thomas could see the dim outline of the Pool of Bethesda, and beyond that campfires of many thousand people. As in the city, most people were inside their shelters eating the Passover meal.

As they skirted the Pool, a man approached them. It was Judas. The Master abruptly stopped.

Thomas was glad to see Judas. Thomas did not want this man who had always treated him well out of favor with the Master. Hopefully now he and the Master would embrace and settle whatever quarrel they had earlier today.

Thomas got his wish. Judas did embrace the Master and kiss his cheek. Thomas smiled.

"No," said the Master as Judas kissed the other cheek. Thomas was disappointed to see Jesus try and free himself from Judas.

Then a swarm of other men, armed men, were all about them. Several grabbed the Master. Thomas flung one to the ground. He was about to attack another, when Judas wrapped his arms about him and whispered in his ear. "Run, Thomas, if you want to live. Run to Bethany."

"Help me, Judas. They're taking the Master."

The Master was shouting in some strange tongue. He was being hustled back toward the city gate.

"Run! Now! There are too many of them."

Even in the dimness Thomas could see Judas was right. Fifty men or more surrounded the Master.

Thomas looked around for the other disciples. He thought he saw Peter off to the side. Peter was holding his arm, as if wounded. Thomas saw none of the other disciples. Then he didn't even see Peter.

Judas whispered once more into his ear. "Run, or be crucified."

Thomas ran.

Chapter XIV

They brought him in just before dawn. Pilate was an early riser, so he did not mind. This was the first time he had set his eyes on the man that he had received reports on for a year now. And a more apprehensive man Pilate had never witnessed. This imposter obviously knew his fate.

Two legionnaires held him. This Jesus—or whoever he really was—did not try to break free, but he certainly twitched as if a whip was smacking his ass.

Pilate walked up to inspect him. His approach stilled the disheveled man. The smell of fear however was heavy about him.

"Leave us," he commanded.

The centurion behind the legionnaires opened his mouth to ask if this was safe, but Pilate regarded him sternly and words did not come out.

The soldiers left the audience chamber. The iron spikes of their sandals clacked on the stone floor as they exited. The centurion closed the big cedar door behind him.

"Come and sit—what should I call you? You can tell me your real name now." He gestured toward a bench before his desk. Pilate sat in a cushioned chair behind the table strewn with scrolls and papyrus.

For a moment the man with the black hair and beard, clad in a fine woolen cloak, did not move. His head tilted as if trying to pick up what had just been said.

Pilate spoke more slowly. "Sit. I was told you understand Latin. Is this not so?"

The man gladly sat. And spoke. Surprisingly his voice did not quaver. "I do, sir. I don't know what else—she, I take it—told you. But I am not an enemy of Rome."

"That I know. Tell me, what is your real name? And where do you come from?"

The man hesitated. Then he said, "Britannia."

Pilate nodded. "That is what she said. By Jupiter, is she not the most fearsome crone you have ever seen? She belongs in Hades."

"Sir, you have never spoken more apt words."

"Why have you pretended you are this man from Nazareth? It makes no sense to me."

"It was under duress, sir."

"You are evading my question. Answer."

"What did she tell you?"

Pilate did not know whether to erupt in anger, or in laughter. The man knew who he was, and the power he possessed.

He chose to chuckle. "She said she paid you a hefty amount. She said this Jesus disappeared as a boy and has not been heard of since. You are to replace him. She said she had a vision of the future, one that required you act as this Jew would have. You are going to tell me the same thing, I suppose."

The man looked about the room. It was an intimidating room, no doubt. All stone and slits for windows and burning torches for light.

"She speaks close to the truth, sir."

"Perhaps. I ask again, what is your real name?"

"Roger Ward."

"That is a most strange one. Then I have not heard many names from Britannia. How much has she paid you?"

"Not a pen—not a denarius yet. She promised me talents of gold."

"Which you will never see."

The man twisted on the bench. He had been getting comfortable under this gentle questioning.

"Sir?"

"You would do better to address me as Prefect."

"My apologies—Prefect—I was not quite sure of the protocol. 'Sir' is usually safe."

"Would you like some wine?"

That totally caught him off guard. Pilate had the man reeling now, wondering whether the prefect was his friend or foe, his savior or the agent of his doom. Pilate felt a tad guilty in the delight he took at the man's predicament. This Roger Ward was no danger to him and meant Rome no harm. But the cat in Pilate had always liked to play with men before finishing them.

"Yes, Prefect. I am quite thirsty."

Imagine you are, thought Pilate. He called for wine and a slave soon appeared bearing a tray with a pitcher and two silver goblets.

Roger Ward took a sip and nodded vigorously. "This is very good."

"From Spain. Much better than the local swill, isn't it?"

"Yes, Prefect. This is a mistake my being here, you know."

"She said you would say that."

"You must sense, sir, that she is a great deceiver. I have honored my part of the arrangement with her. She has not. You cannot trust her."

"I hardly do. But I trust the gems she has given me. They are real and make me fabulously rich. That is all I require. As for your arrangement with the crone, that is not my concern at all."

The man was gulping his wine. He looked longingly at the pitcher and Pilate nodded. The man refilled his goblet and gulped some more. Pilate saw sweat beading on his brow.

"I can make you even richer," said the man. "I have information, ways of doing things, that could make you the wealthiest man in the Empire. I can, Prefect."

Pilate leaned back in his chair. "She said you would say that, too."

"Because she knows I can."

"She said you would destroy me if I release you. I tend to believe her on that point."

"She's a lying—sir, give me a pen and I will show you something that will make you famous throughout the Empire. And this will be just the start of the wonders I can put at your disposal."

"I am going to crucify you, Roger Ward. That is my part of my agreement with her."

The eyes of this man—a good looking man, Pilate had to admit—widened to the point of popping from his head. The sweat had started to track down his face.

"Sir—Prefect—please listen to me." A quaver now did creep into the voice. "I can give you unimaginable power. You can rival the Emperor. You can even overthrow him—if that were your desire."

An iron fist thrust into his gut. For a moment Pilate could not breathe, then he glared at the man. If anyone overheard those words—

The old woman, the mother of Medusa, was right. This man could be very dangerous to him. Pilate repressed a shudder as he thought of Tiberius, who killed anyone even rumored of plotting against him. Tiberius sometimes plied suspects with wine, bound their hands, then bound their penis. This prevented a man from urinating. Eventually the bladder would burst. It was even a worse way of dying than crucifixion.

"I would have preferred not to condemn you, Jesus of Nazareth. I do believe you are a man of peace. You have not uttered one word nor urged one act against Rome. But you have done everything you can to insult the high priests and mock your own religion, and it is they who cry for your blood. For the sake of peace with them, I must grant their request." Of course if the crone had offered the diamonds to free this man, his decision would have gone the other way. Fortunately she did not.

The man was on his feet. But he did not move threateningly towards Pilate. He instead thrust out his palms in supplication.

"I can show you a weapon that can defeat any army. Let me draw it."

"Keep up this prattle and I will change my mind concerning your scourging. I was going to order the _fustigatio_ instead of the _flagellatio_. Do you know the difference?"

"No, Prefect. I—"

"The first is relatively mild, applied with a whip whose thongs are made of parchment. It can be painful, but that is all. The latter is applied with the flagrum, a whip to which we attach lead to the thongs. It is more than painful. It tears skin and muscle right off the bone."

The man sat back down. He shrank within himself. "Please—"

"If you behave I will see that you are supplied with gall at the site of execution. It will make it all seem as a dream. Your pain will be little. After six hours your legs will be broken and you will swiftly die. If I so treated everyone I condemned to the cross, crucifixion would serve as poor deterrent."

"Prefect—"

Pilate clapped sharply. "Centurion!"

The centurion and a squad of soldiers thundered into the room, hands on their sword hilts.

"Take him away for scourging. Treat him as I said."

The centurion saluted. "Yes, Prefect."

Soldiers then hoisted Jesus or Roger Ward or whoever he was to his feet. And took him away.

Pilate was glad this matter was over. For a year it had weighed on his mind, whether the woman with the face of an axe would really deliver the diamonds. She had, six more, all in as fine condition as the original two.

He really didn't understand any of this. But it hardly mattered. The woman knew she must sail from Caesarea within a month. She had kept her promise on everything else, so she likely would on that.

It was so strange, this entire matter of Jesus of Nazareth. He was the least harmful of all the Jewish fanatics. And so many wanted him dead. These Jews were an odd—and vindictive—and dangerous—people. A great storm was brewing in this accursed land, and he wanted to be far away when it broke.

So numb was Ward with fear that he hardly felt the scourging. Nor did he much feel the spit directed to his face or the crown of thorns they jammed on his head. He kept waiting for this nightmare that couldn't and shouldn't be happening to end.

Earlier he had prayed that in the dark Bray had mistaken Ward for Thomas. Thomas had probably run off like all the others, but Bray and Margaret would have scores of people out looking for him. They would find Thomas, then would make the exchange, and Ward would be off secretly to the Galilee.

Except Bray had not mistaken one for the other, had he? "Sorry, Master Ward," he whispered right after the kiss. And away they carried him. First to the mansion of the High Priest, what was his name, Caiaphas? A few questions on whether he believed he was the Messiah—which he vigorously denied—and lots of waiting.

Men in fine dress had kept coming into the airy, ornate room in which he was held. He supposed most were members of the Jewish high council. They had chatted in low voices while looking him over. One he did recognize, Joseph ben David, the Joseph of Arimathea who owned the tomb where Jesus was—would be—buried. The man looked at him with pity. That had really sent the shivers through Ward.

Ward kept telling council members they had made a mistake, that he wasn't really Jesus of Nazareth, that he meant them no harm or disrespect. No one said much in reply. They just seemed to be waiting for night to pass.

As false dawn broke they took him to the Antonia Fortress. They ignored his pleas for release. They gladly handed him over to the Roman authorities.

Through the night, and now into day, Ward had debated if this double cross had been planned all along—or if Margaret and Bray recently changed their minds. Either way, the reason was probably the same. They must have concluded that Thomas, even scourged and with hair dyed black, would not fool onlookers—especially those who had long seen Jesus up close. The women, Mary in particular, would be able to spot the difference.

So Margaret and Bray decided it would be Ward who died on the cross—and Thomas who they would later present as the risen Christ. They could show him to the disciples and only to the disciples, and at distance in dim light. How they would disguise the voice Ward did not know; the voice of Thomas was thinner and more nasal than his own. And the man was shorter and slighter.

Ward had only one hope. Maybe worries about Thomas' voice and stature would cause Margaret to abort the double cross. Maybe she would shortly have Thomas brought here—with instructions to batter his face so that no one tell his identity.

He had clung to that hope during the endless night and this grim morning. Logic said otherwise, that by letting him die Margaret would save one hundred million dollars. More importantly, she would rid the world of one of the few people who knew about the passage. Undoubtedly she had wanted to tidy that loose end after the adventure with Edward and Richard Plantagenet; but she had given a holy oath to spare Ward.

Did not that oath still hold? He had never violated their agreement. And he had faithfully and skillfully played the role of Christ here. She could not, if she possessed any Christian conscience, let him die like this. It would be an incredible sin. She had to know she would burn in the everlasting fire.

That was why Thomas would soon appear. Thomas was already slated for a martyr's death. Thomas could be sacrificed; Ward could not. Yes, he had been willing to save Thomas last evening. Yes, he should feel terrible now wanting Thomas back on the block. But he couldn't help it.

A crowd was entering the central yard of the Antonia Fortress. They were Jews, not Romans. Many were shaking fists and shouting curses. At him. Ward drew back, but was stopped as a couple of soldiers took firm hold.

The crowd advanced at a walk and stopped politely a pace away from a line of spear bearing soldiers. Then the double gates to the yard closed behind the crowd that numbered about a hundred people. From balconies many soldiers were looking down in amusement.

Ward was not so numb to realize that the cursing crowd was staged. These supposedly angry men had to be agents of the Sanhedrin—or more accurately, of Margaret Beaufort. She was going to make sure this Passion Play played fully out. Numbness was now giving way to panic, and he twisted in the grip of the soldiers. One threatened to break his arm if he did not stop.

As if on cue, Pontius Pilate stepped onto the flagstone pavement of the yard. He was now clad in a brilliant white toga containing a purple border. The folds of cloth did a pretty good job of hiding the plumpness of the pink skinned man. Nothing however could hide the cruelty that lurked on his face, cruelty that had pervaded the chamber in which he and Ward spoke an hour ago.

Behind Pilate guards brought out a chained man. The stocky man was menacing even though battered. Purple bruises welted his defiant face, and he stood erectly despite skin reduced to hash on his back.

Pilate gestured and one of the Roman officers yelled for silence. The crowd instantly obeyed. Pilate swept an arm toward Ward, then toward the other prisoner.

"Which do you want me to release?" he asked.

"Barabbas," they screamed.

"Then what shall I do with Jesus?"

Every fist in the crowd thrust up. "Crucify him!"

Ward's knees were giving way. The soldiers redoubled their grip.

"Why, what evil has he done?" asked Pilate, in a near monotone.

"Crucify him! Crucify him!"

Then Pilate turned, and a servant stepped forward with a basin and towel. Pilate dipped in his hands, then dried off the water. He faced the crowd again.

"I am innocent of this man's blood."

The crowd cheered. Then they quieted and parted, so as to form a corridor toward the gate.

Pilate turned to leave and Ward called after him. "I can make you powerful!" A soldier's fist slammed into his abdomen before he could get anything else out.

For several moments Ward knelt on the pavement and dry heaved. Then a length of squared wood banged on the flagstones before him. The wood appeared freshly cut and was about six feet long. It contained a slot cut through the middle. A moment passed before Ward realized this was the crossbeam, to which the arms of a crucifixion victim would be attached. His breath froze.

"Pick it up." Above him the centurion sneered.

Ward shook his head.

The centurion lightly kicked him in the ribs. "Pick it up. Or we will shove it up your ass and you can walk to Golgotha that way."

Ward didn't move. He couldn't move. Thomas would come soon.

The red cloaked centurion squatted beside him, so their faces were even. His head jerked toward the room where Ward had been whipped.

"Want to go back there? This time we cut you to ribbons. And you will still have to carry it."

Ward dry heaved more.

"Act like a man. My boy would show more dignity than you are."

"They're making a mistake," Ward croaked. "I'm not Jesus. I am a man from Britannia." Words tumbled out faster and faster. "The prefect will tell you. And I can make you rich. Richer than you can imagine."

"Get up. Now! Or by the gods, we will flay you and you won't get gall." Another kick to the ribs.

Ward struggled up, and two soldiers brought him fully to his feet. Then the soldiers lifted the beam to his shoulders. He sagged beneath its weight. With the beam in place Ward turned and nearly knocked down one of them.

"Son of a whore! Watch it."

"Quiet, Valerius. We must treat him well. As long as he treats us well, isn't that right—King of the Jews?"

Ward mumbled something.

"Alright. Let's get him moving."

A spear butt prodded Ward forward. The beam was heavy, probably over a hundred pounds. He wondered how a man with a full scourging could have carried it. He waddled forward and several times came close to striking several of the jeering and spitting men in the square. They got out of the way.

Then he was through the Fortress gates and found the curving street ahead lined with denizens of a more somber nature. Concern and sympathy played on the faces of many. Some wept. A number were just observing the show.

People leaned back as he approached in the narrow street. He did bowl over someone who didn't move fast enough. The soldiers laughed and kept prodding him with spear butts.

The sun was up now in the east and Ward saw they were heading west through the city. The beam was getting heavier with each step and digging into his shoulders. But he didn't dare complain.

Then the centurion yelled "Halt!" and abruptly yanked a beefy man from the crowd.

"Take it from him," he commanded the man. Ward swore the man smiled slightly. Another hireling of Margaret Beaufort no doubt, to play Simon of Cyrene. She had paid him and it was now apparent she had paid off the centurion, too. Ward gratefully let the beam clatter to the cobblestone pavement.

Free of the beam, Ward for a moment considered bolting. But soldiers surrounded him and there was nowhere to run anyway. His only hope was that he would see Thomas at Golgotha, and they would somehow make the switch there. Maybe the soldiers would crowd around and obscure everyone else's view as the exchange was made. Maybe Margaret had promised to pay the relatives of Thomas enough so he would do it.

The hireling lifted the crossbeam and they were again moving. People along the street cried the name of Jesus. Ward recognized several, ones that had been at the Temple this week when he preached. He had yet to spot anyone who had come up with him from the Galilee.

Before long he saw the arched gate in the western wall of the city. A few taunts were hurled, but the majority of people still appeared sympathetic. Not enough though to rush the troops and free him.

He passed beneath the portcullis of the gate. Almost immediately he saw the outcrop of dirty white boulders that lay to the left, a portion of which actually did look like a skull, and at his appearance the crowd outside broke into clamor. Poking above the crowd were the tops of three wooden posts. The centurion headed toward the posts.

The soldiers closed tightly about Ward, practically carrying him along with the press of their bodies. Then suddenly the crowd thinned and the posts were only paces away. The squared pieces of lumber rose from rock strewn ground. Wedges helped secure their bottoms. The top of each post was tapered, obviously to receive the slot in a crossbeam.

Ward frantically sought Thomas. He was nowhere to be seen. Then all Ward saw was sky, for a soldier had knocked him down. Ward tried to get up and they knocked him down again. They pulled off his cloak and tunic and he lay naked. The crossbeam was also now on the ground, just above his head.

The soldiers took hold of his arms. He yelled and fought their grip. With two men to each arm it was no use. The soldiers dragged him onto the beam and held his arms fast. Ward stared in horror as another soldier knelt with an iron spike and a mallet.

The tip of the spike jabbed his wrist. He felt a burning prick. Then stunning pain erupted as the man walloped the nail. The pain shot all the way to his armpit. He screamed.

They did the other wrist. He screamed more, all the while certain this was not really happening to him. Where was Thomas?

Four soldiers bent and lifted the crossbeam. Ward was lifted and pain such as he had never experienced radiated through his arms. He was howling now as his feet dragged over rock until they had him up against the center post. On the count of three the soldiers hoisted the beam onto the post.

Quickly the soldiers grabbed his legs. They pressed his right heel against the wood, and the man with the mallet readied another spike. Which he drove through the heel. On the other side of the shaft he then nailed the left heel. The man rose and wiped a bloody hand against Ward's thigh.

The fiery pain overwhelming his arms and feet swiftly rose above mere pain. Excruciation consumed him. He twisted violently in attempt to escape even a fragment of the torment. There was no escape.

He dimly heard the soldiers laughing. "He sounds worse than a stuck pig." "Worse than a woman in breech labor." "No, worse than a wench just violated." On they went.

Then one soldier was on the shoulders of another and he was nailing something above his head. Ward didn't have to ask what it was.

"Gall," he pleaded to the mustached soldier.

"He wants gall," he laughed back to the others.

"You promised. Oh God, please, gall."

"Show some balls, man, maybe we'll give you some. You are carrying on worse than a gaggle of geese."

The man went down. No gall was forth coming.

Shortly two other prisoners arrived. The soldiers tied rather than nailed their arms to the crossbeam. Once up however their heels were nailed to the posts. They also screamed and writhed.

"A bunch of old women today," a soldier laughed.

Ward hung and twisted and tried not to yell too loudly. The agony did not diminish and soon he found himself thirsty. It was also getting hard to breathe. When he pushed up with his legs breathing became easier—at cost of redoubling the fierce pain in his feet.

He at last sought faces in the crowd. He had to squint because the sun was in his eyes. He saw none of the disciples. He didn't see Bray. Or Beaufort. Then he saw Lazarus with his sisters beside him. They looked astounded.

The soldiers held everyone back about ten paces. Catcalls were coming from the crowd. Catcalls already in the gospels he had studied so hard. Again the work of Margaret Beaufort was plain.

"Aha!" said one, "You who would destroy the Temple and build it in three days, save yourself and come down from the cross!"

"He saved others, he cannot save himself," said another. "Let the Anointed One, the King of Israel, come down now from the cross, that we may see and believe."

Amazingly, as it had been written in Mark, the crucified men on either side of him joined in the invective. Ward cried out his despair and both the soldiers and hirelings laughed.

Then he heard a blessedly familiar voice. "Master!" the female voice cried. His head swung the other way to see Mary kneeling and lamenting. Beside her knelt some of the other women who had come up from the Galilee. They were all in great distress.

A surge of hope momentarily dulled the agony consuming his body.

"Mary, go get my mother! She can help me. Please get her."

Puzzlement clouded her face and she imploringly held out hands. Then Ward realized he had addressed her in Latin. He drew breath to repeat the request in Aramaic, but a spear point was at his throat.

"No talking to anyone out there. Orders of the centurion."

"Please. I can get you money. I—"

The point pressed. "Shut up, you fool. I'll break your jaw so you can't speak and you won't get any gall either."

A fresh wave of excruciation swept Ward and he screamed anew. His thirst grew and he begged for water. His despair overwhelmed and he at last lost hope.

Then the pain, though it did not lessen, became more tolerable. The pain became part of his being, as if it had always been there. His vision blurred, focused, then blurred again. He found himself babbling.

Time lost its meaning. But after much time had passed he sensed the sky had darkened. The sun was no longer in his face. Blackish clouds had arrived from somewhere.

After how long he did not know a face appeared before him. It was the centurion, who held a cup before Ward.

"Shout the words," said the man whose cheek bore a wicked scar. "Then you may drink of gall."

Ward stared blankly at him. What words?

"Say them. Or you get nothing."

"Words?"

"Some Aramaic garble. You are supposed to say them at the end."

Ward understood. This was Beaufort's final manipulation. Oh, the soulless bitch. May she burn in Lucifer's fire forever.

The centurion held the cup close. "Say them, and end your suffering."

He was so thirsty. And there was no hope. And he did long to be free of what now seemed eternal torment.

Ward said the words.

"Louder! I barely hear you myself."

"Give me just enough to wet my throat. Please."

The cup pressed to his lips. The centurion allowed just a swallow.

"Now say it!"

Ward longed to spit in his face. But there was no hope; he was going to die. Let this be over.

He drew all the breath he could into his lungs. He expelled the last words of Jesus.

"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" He meant the words, too. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

The centurion held the cup to his mouth until drained.

The gall worked quickly. The pain eased, eased, then vanished. As did the thirst. Then everything vanished as blessed white haze consumed him.

Ephraim watched the head of the imposter slump to his chest. So it was over. The knot of women near the cross keened at a higher pitch.

The sky remained dark, so Ephraim was not sure of the hour. Perhaps the ninth or tenth. The wind was picking up and he began to get chilled.

All week he had watched the imposter challenge the Sadduccees. Ephraim had been foolish enough to think the imposter would succeed in overthrowing them.

Day after day the imposter visited humiliation on the High Priest and his dogs. They did not strike back as the populace cheered him on. Ephraim had become excited. The Sadduccees were more afraid of this miracle man than he dared hope. Ephraim waited for the imposter to walk into the Sanhedrin chamber and proclaim Israel free.

But the man failed to seize the moment. Either the imposter lacked courage, or he really believed in his pap that the meek would conquer the strong, that the last would become the first by talk alone.

The High Priest however did act. And there hung the imposter, whoever he might truly be.

It had all been a lie—a desperate lie—what the imposter said that night at Magdala. The imposter was not going to begin mass conversion of gentiles. Three centuries hence the Emperor was not going to declare Judaism the religion of Rome.

In a way, that was just as well. The faith of Abraham belonged to the Chosen People alone. They did not need idolaters polluting it. What the Chosen needed was to hurl the idolaters from land God bequeathed Moses!

Hate your enemies! Harm those who do you harm! Drive out the Romans as our ancestors did the Philistines and the Greeks. Kill without mercy those who call themselves Jews but do the bidding of the pork eaters. By the sword and by the dagger all those who profaned Israel would perish. His life he again dedicated to that end.

Ephraim turned from the three crosses. Under the bleak sky the keening of the women continued.

Thomas was ashamed he had run. But run he had. After they seized Jesus he fled up the slope and over the ridge to Bethany. There he sought refuge at the house of Lazarus.

Lazarus was shaken to the core to learn Jesus had been arrested. He whitened further as Thomas told of Judas whispering warning of crucifixion. Lazarus said he would go to Jerusalem at dawn to learn how matters had proceeded.

In the morning Thomas made noises about going along, but Lazarus insisted he stay behind closed doors. They may now also want the Twelve, he warned. Lay low here. I will come back soon as I can and tell you if it is safe.

Thomas had not argued very hard. He had seen men crucified before. The screams when they drove in the nails were only the start of the agony. The agony could last days. Some men lived until starvation got them.

Lazarus did not return until dusk. His sisters Martha and Mary accompanied him. Their eyes were red and their heads hung.

"He is dead," Lazarus said simply. He then sagged onto a divan.

Thomas groaned, and that was a mistake, for Martha turned on him. Her eyes were hateful.

"You ran. All of you. You cowards could have saved him."

"Silence!" But the voice of Lazarus could manage no strength.

"We—we had no choice, Martha. We were outnumbered. And they had soldiers with them."

"Then you should have died trying to protect him. We women would have."

That was true. The women would have fought. Thomas had wanted to, but not enough. When Judas whispered crucifixion his legs had never carried him so swiftly. And he had thought himself so devoted.

"I am disgraced. I know it."

"Thomas is right," said Lazarus. "It would have been futile. I probably would have fled myself."

"Cowards!" Then Martha broke into sobbing and left the room.

"They crucified him?" asked Thomas.

"Yes. I got there in time to see him being brought out from the Antonia. Those in the crowd said the Sanhedrin handed him over to Pilate during the night. Pilate then sentenced him to death."

Thomas also sank onto the divan. "Was the Master scourged?"

"Yes. But not as badly as I have seen some. The Romans did put a crown of thorns on him. And above him on the cross they put a board saying 'King of the Jews'."

"Did he suffer much?" That was a stupid question. Of course the Master suffered. Suffering Thomas might have prevented if he and the others had thrown themselves at those coming to arrest Jesus.

"For awhile. But by the mercy of God he lasted only six hours. They did not even have to break his legs."

"That is some comfort."

"Yes."

Mary shook her head. "I can not believe he is gone. He was the most wondrous man I have ever known."

"What happened to his body?"

Lazarus hung his head. "I wanted to claim it. Martha urged me to. But I didn't have the courage. And Mary advised I not do it. Surprisingly a member of the Sanhedrin asked Pilate for the body. I have seen him, but I don't remember the name."

"Joseph ben David," said Mary. "He was there each time Jesus spoke at the Temple. Mary Magdalene says he is a follower, though he must be careful because of his position."

Lazarus sighed. "I suppose he was not the Messiah."

"I do not understand," said Thomas. "Everything said he was." But obviously Jesus was not, for all the Romans in the world could not slay the true Messiah.

"Mary Magdalene told me he would come back," said Mary. "After three days."

"He told us the same." But that was all talk. As was probably so much else of what he said.

Thomas put his hands to his face. So it was over. The joy, the hope, the wonderful feeling of uplift that had come into his life the past months. Now he would have to return to the barren existence he endured before that. Maybe he should have fought and ended everything yesterday.

Shortly Thomas heard blasts of the ram's horn, from the synagogue, signaling the start of the Sabbath. After the third blast Mary and Martha reluctantly roused themselves to light and place candles in wall alcoves. But neither made a move to set the Sabbath table. Thomas didn't care as he had no appetite.

They passed the next day in nearly complete silence. Thomas was more tired than he could remember. Memories of Jesus hammered in his skull. So much of what the man had said made so much sense. His way was the way, the path of righteousness, the path to the Kingdom of God.

But they had killed him, like they had killed John the Baptist. The Sanhedrin and Pilate were the ones who held the true power. Men like John and Jesus and Thomas and Lazarus were just ants beneath their feet.

On Sunday morning Thomas took his leave of Lazarus and Mary. Martha would still not speak to him, and he could not blame her. He would likely never see these kind people again. He would probably never return to Jerusalem again.

He set on the road to Jericho. The road was crowded, as multitudes headed home after the close of Passover. The going was slow. He did not mind the slowness, he was in no hurry to return to the life of a sandal maker. He considered going on past his village—perhaps as the Master so often mentioned in his parables, to a far land. There he could tell others of the words of Jesus.

Mid afternoon he paused at a cistern and drank his fill. Then he pulled off the road, into some shade, and began to at last cry. He missed Jesus so.

People occasionally knelt at his side, to ask if he were ill. He waved them off. He didn't care if he ever moved from this spot. Let his life end here. He would just fast himself to death.

"Thomas?"

His head jerked up. Before him stood Matthew.

"You know the Master is dead?" Matthew asked.

"Yes. Why else would I weep?"

Matthew sat down. "I thought it might be out of shame of running away."

Thomas stiffened. How dare he say that. They had all run. Just as Jesus said, they scattered like sheep.

Matthew put a hand on him. "My shame is greater than yours. I was first to turn away. Over my shoulder I saw you grab one of the priests' men."

"I should have done more."

"And died."

"Yes. I should have died."

"I saw Peter this morning. He too was crying. He said he had denied the Master three times that night. As the Master foretold."

Thomas was not surprised. Those who talked the biggest usually did the least when trouble arose. Peter was all bluster. The "Rock" indeed. Why had Jesus favored him?

"Did any of the Twelve see him on the cross?" asked Thomas.

"John maybe. At any rate, we are all out of Jerusalem now."

"It is terrible we did not go to him as he died and the women did."

"They do not crucify women."

"At least he is properly buried. Did you hear a member of the Sanhedrin took the body and put it in his own tomb? May God reward him."

Matthew shook his head and gave a little laugh. "You remember how the Master told us he would rise from the dead. Well, Mary of Magdala thinks that has happened."

"Why? How?"

"She came running into Bethphage—where Phillip and I were hiding—this morning. She was in hysterics. She said she and James' mother had gone to the tomb at dawn to put more spices and herbs on his body. When she arrived she found the stone before the tomb rolled away. She went in and found a boy inside—dressed in a white robe, she said."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Let me see if I can remember what the boy supposedly told her. Yes—'Do not be amazed. You seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has risen, he is not here. Go tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him, as he told you."

Thomas stared at Matthew a moment, then he too shook his head. Mary had been in love with the Master. It was plain to everyone. Thomas had wondered if the two had lain together. He thought it unlikely, because Jesus and Judas almost always slept in the same room.

And Judas was the one that betrayed him!

"She must have imagined it," said Thomas.

"Yes. I too would like to see the Master again. Here, in the Galilee, anywhere. But that will not happen."

Matthew pulled out a small wineskin and took a sip. "He was quite a man, that Jesus. But now there is nothing." He handed the wineskin to Thomas.

Thomas did not put the skin to his mouth. Whenever he took wine again he would do so in honor of the Master's words: "This is the blood of my covenant, which is poured out for many."

Thomas rose. "We had better get going. If we want to reach Jericho before sunset."

"You're right."

The two shuffled forward, into a future they both dreaded.

Part Five

Suffering Servant

Summer, 2007

Chapter 15

He watched her waddle as she pushed the shopping cart toward her car. It was a giant of a car, a Ford Expedition. An expensive vehicle that he knew she and her husband could barely afford.

As he watched her waddle—the waddle caused by the great protrusion of her belly—Ward momentarily forgot the dull ache in his wrists and heels. Another pain rose to override discomfort caused by mere physical injury. A stab of despair that lacerated gut and heart, one that no amount of OxyContin could subdue.

Ward resisted exiting his car and crossing the parking lot. He would stay where he was, and let the woman with the short auburn hair and creamy cherubic face proceed. Had Jesus not commanded: "Therefore what God did join together, let no man put asunder"?

The day fit his despair. A dirty white sky, thick with haze and humidity, ran to both horizons. The heavy air enveloped like a cloak. Steamy afternoon heat drained both energy and will.

Anne opened the rear of the great SUV and began to lift grocery bags from her cart. Again Ward resisted bolting to the vehicle. His mind screamed that a woman seven months pregnant needed assistance. But she was young and healthy and managed to empty the cart with ease.

He laughed bitterly. Even if she did need help, how would he bolt to her? With the wounds to his feet, he could move no faster than an invalid with a walker.

Love those who have done you harm, he had so authoritatively told the denizens of the Galilee. You must offer your other cheek. And after you get smacked on the second cheek, be sure you do not harbor hate.

He hated Margaret Beaufort. No, hate was too mild a word. He loathed her with an intensity that threatened to curdle his innards. Gladly he would flay her alive.

It was amazing he had not killed her after coming out of the gall induced slumber the next morning. She had been bending over him in a room at an inn on the road north of Jerusalem. Even enfeebled as he was, he could have easily grabbed her thin neck and snapped it.

And what were her first words to him, as savage pain returned to his wrists and heels? Not words of apology, nor words of sympathy. Only that he must rise as they had to get him to the cart. The jolting cart in which he would lie as she and Bray hurried to get him to the Galilee before his brave disciples could return home.

As they drove northward through Samaria, he had alternately assailed her and pleaded for more gall. The gall she readily supplied. But still no apology. Only "Yes, yes, you can curse me. But it was absolutely necessary. You saw how close the women were to the cross. They would have recognized Thomas. You resemble each other, but you are not identical twins."

He had cried out as a sharp jolt thrust pain through the numbing gall. She continued on as if he had only moaned.

"The Marys, Joanna and Salome saw you there, witnessed you 'die', and tomorrow will visit your empty tomb. And when they see you again—alive—in the Galilee, the Resurrection will be confirmed. Your stigmata will proclaim it was you who hung on the cross and God the Father who delivered you."

"Fuck you! Fuck the Father and the Resurrection too." Ward had been certain he was going to die, at the end glad he was going to die.

Bray was outraged, but Margaret quieted him. He has suffered much, she said. She then turned to make eye contact with Ward.

"When you are healed and back in your own time—wealthy and reunited with your beloved—you will you will not so abhor me."

"I will always abhor you."

"That is small price to pay for sparing mankind universal Islam. Replace your hate with joy, Roger Ward, for you have again restored the world."

Gall was overtaking him but before he passed out he sprayed more invective. Among other things he promised he would tie her to a stake, arrange his money around it, then light the bills. All after he drove five inch spikes into _her_ heels and wrists.

His anger abated only slightly when he learned she had brought another item from the future along with the diamonds and the New Testament. He was grateful to swallow the tetracycline tablets; his wounds oozed pus and he feared they would fester. But tetracycline meant she had planned from the start to put him on the cross. Her agents had obviously discovered he was allergic to penicillin.

By the time they reached the Sea of Galilee he had decided he would go through with the final act. He wasn't going to give up Anne, the money, and the future just to spite her. And he could take satisfaction that indeed much sorrow would come shortly into her life.

In the end he performed with the same skill as always. At Magdala he presented himself to Mary, who promptly fainted. In Capernaum he walked in with her at suppertime and about gave heart attacks to Peter and six other disciples. After the shock wore off, they were overjoyed. Ward was especially pleased to see jubilation on the face of Thomas—once he examined Ward's wounds. The man looked like he had been rescued from the dead.

By late April Ward was on a galley with unwanted companions Margaret and Bray. He barely spoke to them during the frustratingly long voyage back to Marseilles. Contrary winds and currents kept them from port until June. It was not until July they reached Britannia.

Back in modern Britain Ward stayed ten days in a hospital for reconstructive surgery, recovery and some physical therapy. The staff wanted him to remain longer, but he demanded release. By early August he was back on American soil. Where he quickly learned that despite his great wealth he had lost the only thing valuable to him.

Ward watched Anne back up the Expedition and drive away. He stilled his hand, which so badly wanted to start the ignition and follow her. Follow to the townhouse she and her husband rented in Burke.

He had suffered on the cross, yes, but it could not compare to the agony of finding her married when he returned to Virginia. The agony quadrupled when Ward saw Anne with her husband, as they walked about their neighborhood hand in hand regarding each other with love. Her expanded belly took the last of his hope.

Until then he had told himself she married because she didn't want to return to England. That was probably the primary goal of au pairs, to find a decent American to marry. The United Kingdom was fast becoming a place from which to flee; high taxes, amorality, rampant crime, overcrowding, militant Islam all provided incentive to get out.

Ward had hired people to investigate Anne's husband. Ward was both disappointed and encouraged to learn that Dennis Lynn had only a high school diploma. Lynn dropped out of community college after a year and now worked as a UPS driver. Ward knew the drivers made decent money, yet surely Anne deserved a higher caliber man.

That man should be Ward. Anne had fancied him and was on the threshold of falling in love before Margaret intervened. Another month of courting would have done it. If marrying a UPS driver didn't bother her, she wouldn't have given a second thought to marrying a substitute teacher. Ward and Anne could have wed last summer. By now it could be his child in her belly, and Anne on the way to their home, where when he arrived this evening they would warmly embrace.

It hurt almost as much as those nails, knowing that as powerfully as they had been drawn to each other, he and Anne had never embraced. They had never kissed. They had never made love, where as Jesus said, the two became one flesh.

Ward was tempted, mightily tempted to put asunder. He was way ahead of Dennis Lynn on all accounts: looks, intelligence, wealth. He could make Anne love him again. He wouldn't win her easily; she was a person of character, but with a full court press he would.

In the stifling interior of his sedan, Ward caught himself. Would he really try to break up this marriage? She was with child, a child by another man, a man he had seen with his own eyes that she loved. God help him. Would he do that?

Ward groaned. He could ponder and plot, but in the end he knew he wouldn't. There were lines in life one just didn't cross. He would never murder or rape to satisfy selfish longing. Neither would he destroy the union of two people who were now one flesh.

He had never been able to make a woman happy anyway; he invoked misery or fury in them all. This guy, even if dumber and poorer, certainly did not have that track record. And Dennis was her own age; Anne deserved to grow old with someone not two decades older. And someone not a cripple.

Ward was not the type to cry. He had always despised men who cried, especially in public. Of course he had bawled on the cross, but surely that was an allowable exception. Conan the Barbarian would have screamed his head off there.

His eyes did wet, but he would not yield further. Accept it, like a man. She was out of his life. For good.

He started the ignition of his shiny new Lexus LS 430.

Ward had rented a suite of offices in Falls Church that had first floor access. The front door was only ten feet from his parking spot. His heels felt incrementally better this morning, as they did every day, but the ten feet still took a full minute to traverse.

But he would not use a cane. He would not act like a cripple, though he might be permanently impaired.

His wrist hurt as inserted the key in the glass door that bore the italicized name The Good Guys LLC. It really hurt as he turned the key. Of course the wrists would hurt less if he did not keep cutting down on the Oxy. But he also would not become an addict.

No one was in yet. He hadn't expected anyone, at six thirty am. He started the coffee pot then shuffled down the long hall, the walls of which bore a dozen large paintings bounded by silver panel frames.

In his office Ward gratefully got off his feet and settled behind his desk. Here too 22 x 28 inch frames lined the walls. Here too prints from the great masters displayed.

On the adjacent wall hung one of Ward's favorites. He could certainly emphasize with the stricken, exhausted figure Antonello de Messina had painted five centuries earlier. _Angels Support the Wounded Body of Christ_ caught it all. To the right of the door hung another gripping scene, that of the _Return of the Prodigal Son_ by Rembrandt. To the left was the caricaturized depiction of that terrible morning in the Antonia Fortress he remembered so well _, The Mocking and Crowning with Thorns_ by Holbein the Elder.

Ward forced a smile. He wondered what each person interviewed during the past weeks thought when shown to his office. The name Good Guys certainly did not suggest a cabal of religious fanatics. He would have really spooked them if upon shaking hands his sleeve rode up to reveal a stigmatic wrist. To prevent that he wore extra long sleeves.

He also made sure he did not come across as a religious nut. He sported a beard, but it was well trimmed. He wore three piece suits. He conducted interviews in a thoroughly business like manner. Yes, he informed the interviewees, twenty-somethings mainly, that the firm existed to do good works in the name of Jesus Christ. But if hired they would be expected only to do their jobs, not become holy rollers. Off the job they could run their personal lives as they saw fit.

The applicants were still wary. A generous starting salary convinced most of the ones he wanted to sign up. The effect their daily deeds had on the recipients had so far kept them onboard.

Ward started his computer. It hurt to use the mouse and keyboard, but he forced himself to click and type. The doctors said he must put wrists and fingers to work or they would lock on him.

He checked his schedule. At eight he would meet with the staff. At nine came Connors the real estate agent, to discuss the property that would house the K-12 academy Ward hoped to found in the District. At eleven Ward would gather the troops for the ride to the King Street plaza in Old Town, where he would preach and The Good Guys would hand out chicken wraps and soda. At two another staff meeting, then at four, if he had any energy left, he would accompany one team of Guys for a Meals on Wheels run.

Ward clicked a folder titled "Soap Box", then opened a document with suggestions for his lunchtime spiels. Yesterday at the Courthouse plaza in Arlington had gone so-so at best. People had of course happily accepted the free sandwiches and sodas, but gave him their ears only a few minutes. The weather had not helped, another sauna-like day.

Some people had listened to him, start to finish. Not that he talked that long. He was limiting his "sermons" to ten minutes. A few people had even listened intently. And afterwards, one hopeful woman had come up for advice.

He guessed he had blown that one. She was in her mid thirties, a pretty brunette who was having trouble with her husband. Now, of all men on the planet, Ward was probably least qualified to give marital advice. He however listened patiently to her list of complaints, and tried to counsel as the fellow he impersonated might have.

Unfortunately she did not want to hear about forgiveness nor forbearance or going the extra mile. What she wanted was for Ward to agree what an insensitive, rotten, selfish cad her husband was. She had given him a scowl as she walked away.

"Hey, Mr. Ward."

Ward jerked at intrusion of the voice. In the doorway stood Brian, one of the first people he had hired. Blond haired Brian had a big grin on his youthful face.

"Thought I would beat you in today. Guess I'll have to keep trying."

Brian held two steaming mugs of coffee. He stepped forward to place one on Ward's desk.

"Thanks," said Ward. He took a sip of the hot brew.

Brian displayed a plethora of gleaming teeth. He had smiled steadily during his interview and at almost all encounters afterward. Brian was a blowhard, like Simon Peter. And like Peter, he was enthusiastic and devoted. Plus he was a whole lot better looking. Poor Peter, the Lord had really hit him hard with the ugly stick.

Ward missed Peter. Simon Peter could be an irritant, but he tried, really tried to follow the strictures of the Teacher. Peter had been so glad to see him alive after the Crucifixion. The big, burly, ox headed man had then wailed his apology for thrice denying him Passover night. Ward had easily forgiven. This rock of the church would not deny again. Peter would remain steadfast through the years, and in the end suffer his own ordeal on a cross.

Brian was oblivious to Ward's musing. "I've got four tickets for the Nationals' game Sunday. Show up noon at my house if you are interested. We'll drive down. And we'll probably eat in Georgetown afterward."

Ward had work to do over the weekend, but he could finish it by Sunday morning. And he didn't want to spend this Sunday afternoon like he had the last one—tailing Anne and her husband as they went about shopping. This tailing her—no, this stalking her—had to end. She was gone. Gone for good, forever and ever.

Suddenly agony welled and threatened to crush his chest. He could hardly breathe. Ward grimaced and hunched over.

Brian's smile vanished as he hurried forward. "Are you alright?"

Ward waved him off. "Some indigestion. Gets me every now and then."

"There's Maalox in the kitchen."

"It's passed." Ward forced himself to sit up straight. "Yes, thanks, I'd like to come. Who are they playing?" Ward was no longer much of a baseball fan, but he had followed the Cubs when a teenager. He could get back into it.

"Think it's the Phillies. I'll check."

"Your wife coming?" Ward liked Nancy; she was a smiler too.

"Yup. She especially wanted you along. She really approves of what you are doing."

"Glad to hear it."

Yes, this would be a pleasant diversion. He would eat, drink, and be merry. He could use that.

Then he winced as pain again attacked, now rising from his heels.

Chapter 16

Early the following Monday Ward rode the Metro downtown. The car was packed with commuters when he got on at the East Falls Church station. He had to stand. He knew this was a possibility so he had taken a full dose of Oxy with breakfast. His heels didn't hurt at all throughout the ride, where he was jammed jowl to jowl with his fellow sinners.

With his wealth he could have hired—no, bought—a limo to bring him into the District for his meeting to negotiate a retainer contract. But he wasn't going to use the wealth to isolate himself from the general public. If he was going to preach to them, he must as much as possible be one of them. Their hassles would be his hassles.

He got off at McPherson Square. He waited for everyone to forge ahead, then he hobbled to the escalator. The Oxy gave him courage to attempt climbing the rising stairs. He made it six steps before warning pain arose. Again he condemned Margaret Beaufort to hell for all time.

The meeting at the law firm went well. It should have gone well considering the money they would make handling legal affairs for The Good Guys. The firm did give him red carpet treatment. A partner and two associates spent all morning with him in the firm's magnificent conference room, then they picked up the lunch tab at an super posh restaurant on L Street.

Two of the three lawyers attending him were Jewish. Before his adventure in the Galilee and Judea that would not have mattered. Without comment he would have accepted Jews in a law firm as par for the course; Jews went into law or medicine.

It bothered him now. Not that he was dealing with people of Jewish origin. It bothered him that he had never appreciated what Judaism really meant. From a year of firsthand experience he now knew.

At the start of the Common Era the Hebrew faith had been the only one that both valued the individual and set high standards for the individual. Sure, there was a lot of picky bullshit in the Torah and Talmud. A lot more important was that Mosaic Law demanded humane treatment for and by everyone, whether high or low born.

Rome was great, but it was cruel. The Greeks were also cruel, as were the Persians and about every other ancient culture except that of the Jews. Judaism demanded both dignity and decency.

Jesus of Nazareth was a Jew to his core. Everything he lived and taught and inspired sprang from that foundation. Without Judaism the Christian West could never have been born. This great civilization, the supreme achievement of all recorded history, owed its life to the noble faith of the Jews.

It was astounding the tribulations Judaism had endured at the hands of the West in the centuries since the death of Jesus Christ. The West so often tried to destroy this honored faith, the birth seed of their own religion. Recently they almost succeeded.

Ward knew many in Europe still wished the Jews would just disappear. He prayed that poison, so incomprehensible and illogical, would never take firm hold in America. It certainly never would in him.

He was proud to work with the Jewish man and woman who would be his point of contact at the law firm.

It was around two in the afternoon when he took the Metro back to Virginia. Blessedly this time he got a seat. The car was half full.

Ward studied the passengers. In the muted yellow and orange interior some read, but most sat staring blankly. Passengers who shared seats acted as if the person beside them did not exist. The rumbling of the train made for the only sound.

A year ago of course he would not have done it. But that was then, and now was now.

When the train left the Foggy Bottom station he stood and moved to the center of the car. He thrust his voice above the rumble. He spoke firmly yet warmly.

"My good men and women, why do we sit in such silence?"

Ward smiled at the multitude of wary faces that turned toward him.

"Would we do so with our own brothers and sisters? Certainly not. So I urge you now, as we are all brothers and sisters in the eyes of our creator, to speak with one another." He swept his hand wide. "If only for a moment, come to know the fellow traveler in life beside you. I promise you will feel better for it."

Smirks played on a few faces, more passengers just averted their eyes, but some actually did look at the person beside them. Several of these exchanged nods or smiles.

Ward spoke directly to the smirkers. "I know you think I am a loon, perhaps I am. Only a man without a full deck would address a car full of strangers as he would friends. But why remain strangers when we could be friends, even if for only a half dozen station stops? It will lighten the burden of your life, I promise."

"Shut up, asshole!"

At the end of the car a ruddy faced man was glaring at him. The man looked about his own age, and he too wore a suit.

Then the train whizzed into the Rosslyn station and a dozen people got out, another dozen filed in. The ruddy faced man remained and kept glaring. A dare, Ward supposed, for him to speak again.

Nobody ever had to offer him a dare twice.

"My fellow strangers, my name is Roger Ward. I have committed my life to Jesus of Nazareth. I have only good will for you, and I ask only you give a moment's good will to those about you on this car. I—"

"I said shut your hole, asshole."

Now Ruddy Face had stood up.

"Peace be with you, my friend." Ward continued to smile, but the coals of anger began to burn.

"I said shut the fuck up."

In the past Ward had always come out swinging if someone thrust the F-word at him. And despite the wounds in his wrists and feet he was tempted to march down the aisle and ask the guy to repeat the phrase. A guy, he decided, who was having a bad day or a bad life and trying to take it out on him.

The other passengers sat frozen. Every pair of eyes said let the two whack jobs go at it if they wanted, I'm sure as hell not intervening.

Ward did not march to the man. Instead he did as Jesus would have done.

He pointed directly at Ruddy Face. "Come out of him, Satan. Come out now!"

"I'm shutting you down." The man started toward him.

Ward continued to point. "Satan, get thee hence!"

The train lurched as it braked to pull into the Courthouse station. The lurch threw Ruddy Face off his feet. He tumbled to smack his head against the side of a seat. As the train halted he sat on the floor dazed.

A hand gripped Ward's arm. "Let's get off here," said a soft voice.

Ward turned to see a short, elderly woman. She pushed his elbow. "Best to let it end now," she pleasantly advised.

He put up no resistance as she guided him off the car. The doors closed and the train pulled away. He saw everyone in the car looking out at him.

Ward shook his head and thanked the woman with the nicely coiffured gray hair for getting him off the train.

"It could have gotten nasty," Ward said.

"He was the nasty one. I think it was very noble what you were attempting there."

"Christ would not have baited him. I did."

"It was wonderful what you said—about how we should talk even if we don't know each other."

"Well, me and that guy were certainly talking."

"Would you have a cup of coffee with me, Roger Ward? If I am not being too forward."

He almost said yes. Then the heaviness of her perfume or bath powder or whatever began to hit. Why did so many older women feel compelled to load up on scent? It repelled rather than attracted. And wisps of white hair ran above her upper lip.

Ward begged off, even though he knew he would suffer the torment of guilt afterward. At least he didn't lie and say he was late for an appointment.

He caught the next train and guilt did wash over him. Twice in the last half hour he had failed badly. First sinking to the level of Ruddy Face, then denying fifteen minutes of companionship to a sweet and likely lonely old lady. It was sure easier to talk the talk than walk the walk.

He arrived back at the office a heavily laden man.

The next day, as he and the troops headed downtown to Farragut Square, he vowed to not pull another such stunt. On the Metro car he had taken advantage of a captive audience. He forced his views on the passengers, when most just wanted peace and quiet after a tiring day.

He had acted with pure arrogance. Crudeness aside, Ruddy Face was more in the right than Ward.

His lunchtime preaching was a different matter. People were not trapped, they could walk away. And they received free food whether they listened or not.

The weather had delivered a respite from the brutal heat and humidity of late August. The skies were crisply blue and the temperature balmy. A delightful breeze blew. A legion of office workers was outside taking advantage.

The suit and dress clad Good Guys set up two folding tables covered with checked cloth. On one table the Guys spread paper plates bearing a variety of fresh sandwiches. These were not peanut butter and jelly slap togethers, but thick combinations of savory bread, veggies, coldcuts and condiments made at a first rate deli in Ballston. The Guys filled the other table with cups of iced tea and soda pop.

His people then circulated throughout the Square, directing the hungry and curious towards the tables and the banner above the tables that read "Ye Who Hath Ears to Hear, Draw Near". The banner also bore symbols of the cross.

As the hungry swarmed, Ward mounted a short step ladder.

"Good day, everyone. Please enjoy your lunch." Ward spoke without the aid of electronic amplification. Those who wanted to listen could stay, and those who didn't could drift away to where street traffic would drown his voice.

A number of people smiled and lifted their sandwiches in thanks. As before at such gatherings some women eyed him with sexual interest.

Ward smiled warmly. "As you may have guessed, I speak today on behalf of Jesus of Nazareth. I had been planning to regale you with a parable. The one about the sower of seeds. I would then follow with a rehashing of the Sermon on the Mount. But I am going to shelve them. Not that I don't value these teachings, but because you have already heard them too much. They were crammed down my throat in Sunday School and later during interminable sermons."

Ward caught some nods in the crowd.

"Neither will I ask that you give all your possessions to the poor, or even a tenth of them. You have studied hard and worked hard to get what you own."

More nods.

"And to get to your place of work, you endure tortuous commutes that would try the soul of anyone."

That brought audible agreement from the crowd.

"Nor will I ask for donations to support my ministry, or for you to join the lads and lasses who make up The Good Guys. Now, that's nuts, you say. Who gives away damn good food and expects nothing in return?"

Right in front of Ward a young man wearing sunglasses laughed. It was a friendly laugh. "Yeah, dude, what's the catch?"

Many others joined in the laugh, but they were also getting a little wary.

"This gentleman is correct. I have a catch. Or rather, a request. I would ask that each of you today or tomorrow do one small kindness. Preferably to someone not a friend or relative. "

People continued to munch on their sandwiches. Ward hoped they were digesting his words along with the food.

"Kindness, even the smallest one, yields a great return. Kindness begets more kindness, enriching both you and the recipient. Try this today or on the morrow and see if I speak falsely."

People mulled, then a chunky black woman spoke up.

"My sister stole my boyfriend. So I'm taking your advice about relatives. No kindness for that bitch."

Ward chuckled along with the others. Then he spread his arms.

"I'm not saying be kind to someone who has treated you wrongly, though that is the ideal. Be kind to someone who needs it—which is really all of us."

"Amen to that," said the black woman.

Ward bantered more with the crowd. Many pledged they would do as he asked. Then Ward asked if now they would like to hear the parable of the sower. He got a resounding yes.

Halfway through the parable he saw a man pointing a TV video camera at him. Beside the man stood an attractive blonde speaking into a microphone.

Chapter 17

The bloated woman came out of nowhere. Ward stood paralyzed by his car as she approached. Then his knees gave way and he had to grab the door handle to remain upright.

"Anne," he whispered.

She waddled right up to him. Her belly was now at the point of bursting. Her face was grave.

If she had been an assassin, he would be dead. He hadn't noticed anything as he pulled into the driveway before his house.

"Anne," he said again.

She stood rigidly in the afternoon sunlight. She wore baggy maternity clothes, clothes that reminded him of the attire of the nobility in the world they had shared two years before.

Her mouth worked but no words came out. Her eyes were very wide and bore into his.

"Anne, I apologize for not getting back in touch. I was away much longer than planned."

Then he noticed she had one hand hidden behind her purse. God, he hoped the hand didn't hold a gun. Could she be that furious with him? He wished thought of an assassin hadn't popped into his head.

The hand, empty, rose to grip the cloth of her blouse. "I remember it all."

Good God, did she mean Penshurst Place? She must with that hysteria in her eyes.

"I remember everything. It was coming back bit by bit before you left. Then it stopped. But I saw you on the news last night. This morning it all came back."

Ward didn't know how to answer. Joy should be exploding in him, but trepidation grew instead.

"Could we go inside?" she asked.

"Yes. Sorry. I didn't mean to leave you standing. You look almost due."

"Another week."

Ward let her into his modest one story house. He apologized for the starkness of the interior. He had put off furnishing beyond the minimal. At least the place was squeaky clean.

He sat with her on a love seat opposite the living room picture window.

"I wanted to be back within a month, Anne. But I absolutely couldn't."

"Why didn't you at least send a message?"

"I absolutely couldn't."

"Did you go back to where we were before? Was that it?"

"It was similar."

She reared on the seat. "What was that place?" She nearly screamed the question. The knuckles of her balled hands showed white

"I—I can't tell you. For your own safety."

Her eyes continued to bug.

"There wasn't any place, was there? You did it at all through hypnosis. That's the only real explanation."

"It was real as you and me sitting here. You were my servant at Penshurst. For three glorious months."

"You're lying."

"It happened. Every bit of it."

She shook her head, more and more vigorously. He expected her to rise and bolt.

Then she stilled. "So it wasn't just chance we ran into each other in the park."

"No. I wasn't sure if you would be alive in—in this world. When I tracked you down I couldn't keep away. I should have, I know. But I was too selfish."

"Did you love me—in the other place?"

Ward stifled a groan. "I did."

"You couldn't have. Or you would have taken me that day."

No need to ask which day.

He had sworn he would never go riding with her, but that day he did. A beautiful morning in early autumn. She had ridden without fear, though she had been on a horse only a few times. They had cantered through the lovely Kent countryside and she had initiated a gallop over a long meadow.

At the end of the gallop she had radiated with her trademark joie de vivre. She was flushed and excited and laughing. He supposed at that moment his infatuation turned to love. From that moment, though he wouldn't admit it at the time, the irrevocable link of his heart with hers was forged.

They walked their horses down to the brook that bisected a long stand of ash trees. The trees and brush hid them from the rest of the world. As they let the sweating horses drink, she had leaned with her back against a tree. Her eyes shone with love—and desire.

Yet he did not close the two paces between them.

"I—I had no right. You knew I was betrothed to Deborah. I fully intended at that point to marry her. I could not take advantage of you."

"Did you love me—at that point?"

God, her eyes were unsparing. Despite the eyes she was as cute as ever. It was a miracle he had kept his hands off her.

"Yes."

"Then you should have taken me."

Ward hung his head. He had faced an impossible dilemma.

"I wanted to. I have never physically desired a woman as much as I did you. But after I took you, what then? You would be unmarried and pregnant, a most difficult situation for a woman in that society. I would have of course looked after you and the child. But you still would have been an outcast."

"Would you have married her once we had slept together? If you truly loved me and just not desired me?"

"It would have been disaster to back out of the marriage. Both Cardinal Jeffress and the King wanted us wed. They would have taken all my estates if I had married a servant girl instead."

"I would have gladly been your mistress."

"I wouldn't have done that to you, Anne."

A tear rolled from her eye. "I loved you so."

"Anne, you were—I was a glamorous figure and enormously wealthy. You were a star struck teenager. Admit it. You were in love with the dashing Earl of Kent rather than the man underneath."

Her mouth flew open to protest, but he cut her off. "Anne, what if I had instead married you? Would you have loved a disgraced man stripped of all his possessions? My best prospect would have been to emigrate to North America. Would you have wanted to be wife to an indentured servant or a subsistence farmer? Would you have loved that man, a man condemned to a life of grinding poverty?"

She didn't hesitate in her answer. "Yes."

Anne was level headed, but she had never known true poverty in either world. Ward had tasted it those months after his return from England. That was plenty.

"Love does not conquer all, Anne. It would have been a life of misery."

"I am not a fool, Roger. I can think for myself in this world or the other place. I liked you from the start—in this world and the other."

"Anne—"

"Let me finish! Yes, you were rich, famous, and handsome. That would turn the head of any woman. But I liked _you_. You were kind and generous to me. You made me laugh. You treated me fairly, and yes, you did not take advantage of me when you so easily could have. I could see all that. And my liking turned to love—for _you_."

Hands of iron were clamping his throat. He almost rather she had spit in his face and proclaimed hatred.

"I—I should have taken you. But I didn't. Does that speak to my being noble—or just a coward? I wasn't willing trade you for an earldom. Though I knew—or came to know—you were the better choice."

"If only you hadn't gone away..."

Did she mean in this world, or the other? Not that it mattered.

"Do you love your husband?" he asked. "It seems you do, the way you look at each other. I couldn't help but finding out about you after I returned."

Another tear rolled. "I do love him. Not in the way I did you, but I do."

"Good."

"He is as kind to me as you were. He is a very fine man." She laughed a little. "He worries himself sick about my pregnancy. I don't know how he'll make it through the delivery."

Ward would have been worried sick too.

They looked forlornly at each other, and Ward realized these moments were the last time they would sit in such proximity. Most likely they would never again set eyes on each other.

He wanted to touch, to kiss her. Perhaps she longed for the same. But this time he really had no right. A touch, a kiss could unravel it all.

Let no man put asunder.

Anne swallowed. "I guess I had better go."

And she went.

The phone rang ten minutes later.

Ward still sat on the misnamed love seat. He still stared out the picture window through which he had watched Anne walk away. He still pined and regretted and sorrowed.

The phone rang and rang until the answering machine came on. He ignored the voice leaving the message until he realized the voice belonged to Margaret Beaufort.

"Roger, I know you are there. My men so tell me."

Ward stared across the barren room to where the phone sat on an end table. For some unfathomable reason he did not feel rage. Indeed, he felt nothing. Inside he was utterly empty.

"Answer, Roger. We must talk."

Ward went to the phone.

"Yes?" He could put no emotion in his voice. No emotion for the person who had put his body and soul through hell.

"I am sorry, Roger. I know you did love her. If I could have prevented her marriage I would have."

"Lady Margaret, haven't you done enough? Please just leave me alone from now on." Indignation did rise. "And stop the surveillance."

"I will. Today, it ends. I had to be assured you would reveal nothing to Anne. About the passage."

"How—don't tell me you bugged my house?"

"I said the surveillance ends today."

"You wretched bitch." Oh, the hate was seeping back.

"We had to maintain it. We suspected Anne would come to you once she recalled the other world. We could not be sure in your passion you would keep the passage secret."

Ward squeezed the phone receiver. "And what if I had told her?"

"We would have performed a lobotomy on both of you. But I was quite sure you would not put her in danger."

"You do serve Satan."

"No, I serve the Lord. As you have since your return."

"I guess a lobotomy would have been a suitable add-on to crucifixion."

"If required."

"I want your promise nothing will happen to Anne."

"She is perfectly safe. I promise."

"Thank you."

"You haven't asked about your own welfare, Roger."

He almost said that didn't matter, with Anne gone. But he would not solicit sympathy from this woman.

"You will do what you will do to me."

"I have made you vastly wealthy. And I vastly commend your use of my bequest."

"Your approval so warms my heart."

"I will warm you further. I had feared you would put your newly found wealth to selfish use. Instead you have done the opposite. Therefore I have brought the total in your account to five hundred million dollars."

He looked at the receiver. Then he took a deep breath. "You're playing with me."

"Not at all. The money is there."

Coldly as he could he said, "You think more money will make me forgive you?"

"I do ask that. But the funds are yours regardless."

Ward wanted to say he would never forgive her. He doubted he ever could, despite the words of Christ he had spoken more and more sincerely over the past year. He would forgive Pontius Pilate before he forgave her.

"The money will go to good use," he finally said.

"Of that I have no doubt. My respect for you grows each day."

"Again, I am heartened."

"I will be gone in nine years, Roger. It comforts me to know that you will live on. Doing good works in the name of the Father and the Son."

"Lady Peg, why don't we break off this conversation? Unless you have further threats for me." Lobotomy, indeed.

Now she was the one who sounded indignant. "I wasn't threatening."

"Oh, weren't you? Okay, I thank you for the half billion and I trust you will keep your word about Anne. And to the best of my ability I will keep doing good works. Let's leave it at that."

A silence. Then she said, "Jesus will show you favor."

"Glad to hear it."

He hung up.

Ward did not brood too long over Anne or Margaret Beaufort, for he had souls to save. The next day he was back on his foot ladder, this time in the red brick plaza above the Bethesda Metro station. Behind him a man-made waterfall sparkled in the noon sunlight as it rushed down a corrugated concrete slope.

This was his largest lunchtime crowd yet. Again the weather was delightful, and almost a hundred people stayed to listen after The Good Guys handed out food and drink. Today Ward urged everyone to return any insult with a compliment. Think of it as a psychological experiment. See what kind of reaction you get.

Ward then told his two favorite parables, The Prodigal Son and The Talents. He closed with a moving rendition of the Sermon on the Mount. The more impressionable in the crowd stared transfixed when he finished. Yes, he still had it.

After most everyone had drifted away and The Good Guys were folding tables and cleaning up litter, a middle-aged woman approached Ward.

"That was very moving," she said.

"Thank you," said Ward. "I am glad you enjoyed it."

He hoped the woman would also drift away, for his feet were throbbing and he wanted to sit down. But she remained rooted before him.

Ward smiled. What did moving words mean if he wasn't able to graciously give this woman a few moments even if he was in discomfort?

"Did you have a question about anything I said?" he asked warmly.

She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "Are you the Messiah?"

"Pardon?"

"Are you our Redeemer?"

Ward finally noticed the Jewish features of the woman. So her outlandish question suddenly didn't seem so outlandish. The Jews still expected the Messiah, and he supposed anyone with some religious charisma might be a candidate.

"No, I'm sorry. I am only a small servant. Though it is flattering you ask."

"I had so hoped you were."

Was this gal a nut case? She didn't look it. She was dressed respectably and her eyes held nothing strange.

He smiled again. "Well, all I can tell you is that I as a Christian believe the Messiah has come, and you as a person of the Jewish faith believe He has not come. But we both know that He will come—again for me, and the first time for you. He is coming."

"Then you are as Isaiah foretold, you prepare the way of the Lord."

Oops, perhaps she was a nut case. "One never knows. Thank you for stopping by."

She did not linger. After she left Ward stifled a chuckle. That was him all right, a voice crying in the wilderness.

The Good Guys had finished packing.

Brian came up to him. His blond hair gleamed brightly in the sunlight. "What did the old lady want?"

Ah, the arrogance and ignorance of youth. The woman wasn't much beyond fifty.

"Just complimenting me."

"You're getting me going. And I haven't been in church since I was little."

Not a problem, thought Ward. Nothing against churches, but it was becoming obvious the Lord's work was best done outside church doors.

Brian inclined his head toward the far side of the plaza, near the Hyatt Hotel. "That kid. I saw him yesterday, too."

Ward turned to see a boy about fifty yards away. The boy, in adolescent uniform of baseball cap on backwards, baggy blue jeans, and T-shirt reaching to his knees, stood with hands in pockets. He looked at them, then looked away. The youth shifted on his feet.

"Did he have that same hangdog look yesterday?"

"Yeah." Brian glanced at his wristwatch. "It's past lunch hour for any school. He's playing hooky—again."

"So drawn to my words of wisdom. Well, I'll go talk to him."

"Want me to tag along? Not that I think he'd try anything, but you can't be too careful these days."

"No." The kid was rail thin. "You go along. I'll meet you by the parking garage."

"Okay. Hope you can help him."

Ward smiled. Three weeks ago Brian wouldn't have said that. The welfare of strangers hadn't mattered much to him. Brian's priority continued to be his family and friends, but the scope of his concern was getting wider.

Ward hobbled toward the ill at ease boy. He did hope he could help. But he probably couldn't give the kid much beyond platitudes and words from the Bible. The world of teenagers was Terra incognita to him. He wasn't a professional counselor, or even a parent.

He put the boy's age at thirteen or fourteen. Dishwater blond hair reached from the cap almost to his shoulders. His pasty complexion bore some pimples, and chin fuzz attempted the start of a goatee. Recessed aqua marine eyes shyly attempted contact.

"Hello, I'm Roger Ward." Ward smiled and extended his hand.

The boy reached awkwardly to grip the hand. The boy bent at the waist and Ward realized he was bowing. Man, thought Ward, I must really have had an effect on this youngster.

The boy spit on Ward's sleeve, then on Ward's shoes. As Ward stood stunned, the teenager did an about face and hurried away.

Ward was too astonished to pursue. Or even shout a curse. The boy quickly disappeared around the front of the hotel.

What the hell? What could he have done to so offend the kid?

Ward pondered. Could the boy have been a student in one of his classes when he taught as a substitute? Maybe. But Ward didn't remember confrontations with any students; he had always won them over. It couldn't be about a bad mark, since any tests he administered were ones created and graded by their regular teacher.

The kid might just be pissed at the world. Ward wished he'd gotten a chance to talk to him.

You can't win them all, he thought, as he turned and walked toward the parking garage.

Ward found himself striding briskly. Without pain. He stopped.

He stepped again. No pain. He stepped more quickly. No pain. He broke into a near jog. No pain whatsoever.

Ward halted. He was breathing heavily, although certainly the exertion had not been that great. He pushed his right heel against the pavement hard as he could. No pain resulted from an action that should leave him reeling in agony.

He noticed absence of pain in another pair of extremities. His wrists did not hurt. He pulled up a sleeve and no longer saw scar or deformity.

On the bricks of the plaza Ward sank to his knees. He was not too proud now to yield to tears. They ran freely.

# Epilogue

On the last day of summer Ward was late for a meeting with a delegation of evangelists at the Marriott Hotel in Rosslyn. To save time he began climbing the long escalator of the Metro Station. He should have been ecstatic that his feet didn't hurt, but he had a new pain to deal with. One in his gut, born of too many people wanting a piece of him.

No doubt about it, he was overextended. On Friday he had a hearing in the District concerning building permits for the academy. This evening and tomorrow he was speaking at charity events. Next week The Good Guys were opening their first soup kitchen, with another planned in October. He was having to hire more staff, worry about more office space, answer ever more correspondence. He was running out of hours in the day.

He should bite the bullet and bring in professional managers. He had not wanted to grow too big and lose hands on control, but it was happening. He supposed that was a positive even if the aggravation led him to fantasize about Tahiti.

Ward emerged from the station into the oppressive stickiness of another hot and hazy day in the D.C. area. Talk about aggravation. Again he wondered again how the Founding Fathers could have picked such a location, swampland no less, for the new nation's capital.

He hurried to a street crossing only to see the light turn red. He muttered. Sweat beaded on his brow as traffic roared across the broad intersection. Man, the humidity was stifling. Dumb ass Founding Fathers.

Other pedestrians stopped at the crossing, including a Hispanic woman carrying a toddler on her hip. Her other arm gripped two plastic bags of groceries. The little brown woman was young, but she slouched with fatigue. Her blouse was sweat soaked.

The light changed. Ward shot ahead. But he stopped after three steps.

What had that man from Nazareth said? If you do it for the least of mine, you have done it for me.

"I'll carry the bags across for you," he said to the woman. He hoped she understood English.

She hesitated a moment, as if fearing Ward might run away with her groceries. Then she gratefully handed them over and they crossed to the other side.

He started to return the bags, then said, "I can carry them to where you are parked."

Again she hesitated.

Ward smiled the smile perfected over the past year. "I only want to help. These bags are heavy."

In broken but understandable English she said she had no car. She was walking back to her apartment. Five blocks away. That was too far for him, she said.

"That's okay." Ward pulled out his cell phone and called the hotel. Please tell the delegation he would be along shortly.

Fifteen minutes later, mission accomplished, he neared the Marriott. He hustled toward the revolving door entrance where several valets in purple uniforms stood. As he neared someone spoke behind him.

A golden throated voice said, "This is one of my sons, with whom I am well pleased."

Ward whirled around. There was no one behind him.

Had he really heard the voice or just imagined it? If the latter, it was worrisome. If the former—

Then he smiled. This was obviously the work of Margaret Beaufort, still trying to mollify him.

Ward hurried on.

He opened the meeting with the delegation with words from Isaiah.

"For behold, I create new heavens and a new earth; and the former things shall not come into mind. Be glad, for I create Jerusalem a rejoicing, and her people a joy. I will rejoice in Jerusalem; no more shall be heard in it the sound of weeping; no more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old man who does not fill out his days.

"They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit, or plant and another eat. They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity; for they shall be the offspring of the blessed of the Lord. Before they call I will answer, while they are not speaking I will hear. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox; and dust shall be the serpent's food. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain, says the Lord."

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