The San Francisco Writers Conference: Selling Pans and Shovels to Gold Rush Dreamers?

   I haven't posted after returning from the San Francisco Writer's Conference until now.  I am still digesting the avalanche of information, discoveries, inspirations and disappointments of that experience.  The more I ruminate over what I came away with the more discouraged I have become.  In fact, the conference broke a steady stream of daily writing that had persisted for several years. I have written very little since San Francisco.
   It is difficult to separate the effects of a concurrent experience that I had in San Francisco where I also visited my mother. She is ninety-five years old and living at home with the help of in-home care. I didn't know until I went to see her in her home that she had been very ill, and had been put on hospice care.  For the first time in my life, she didn't know me.  It was difficult to determine whether it was from being snowed on morphine to treat severe pain from a gigantic infected bedsore, or from a more general cognitive deterioration.
   My preoccupations have thus moved away from my novel and toward my concern for my mother's condition. Maybe I will write a much-needed book about how the health care system deals with aging.  A wake-up call is needed for the aging boomers.
   In any case, I wanted to comment on my absence from this blog.  Yes, I have felt down, and I have focused thus on the disappointing aspects of the conference.
   Since I've brought this up, I may as well mention a few.  First of all, I discovered that there were no agents at the conference who were interested in historical fiction from the first-century era. There was only one interested in historical fiction at all and her interest was limited to, I think, the 19th century or some other specific century.  She promised to refer me to an agent whose name she could not remember if I emailed her and reminded her of our discussion.  I did email her but did not receive a response.
   I had gone wild with the auction prior to the conference and had won coffee dates with four authors and a lunch date with a pair of author-agent-editors, and a year's membership to the Alliance for Independent authors. Three of the authors never contacted me, I never received my membership to the Alliance, one of the professionals for the lunch date couldn't make it and the other didn't like my "voice," based on a reading of the first two pages.
   I did find an editor willing to read my book and give structural recommendations. Her fee would be about five thousand dollars. Another offer came in at about three thousand dollars.
   I would rather they just tell me after two pages if they do not like the book. I contacted Heather Lazzar who Andy Ross also suggested and referred me to but she didn't like my "voice either."
   I found the conference mostly directed to first-time authors not yet published who were hoping to make a living from their writing. The emphasis was on how to be commercially successful as a writer. Most of the mentors were in the early stages of their careers as writers as well, and many, if not most of the agents had failed to make a living as writers themselves. Everyone seemed to be pushing books they'd written on how to push books you've written.
   I'm sure when I'm in a better mood, I will be able to say more flattering things about the SFWC. For now, I feel discouraged with the real world.
   I still like my book, however.  I am just less optimistic that it will ever get read by anyone else.
   I did discover that I'm a "Literary Fiction" writer. That was a cool realization.  It was also not the focus of the conference.
   I also thought of a name for my future publishing company: "Note in a Bottle Publishing."
   If anyone out there finds this note in a bottle and is inclined to offer words of encouragement to me now would be a good time.

Email responding Laurie Fox and Andy Ross About Meeting for Lunch At the 2017 San Francisco Writer's Convention

To: Laurie Fox

CC: Andy Ross

From: H Joseph Horacek, Jr.

https://themerchantofarimathea.blogspot.com/

Twitter:@HJosephHoracek

https://www.facebook.com/hjoseph.horacek

https://www.hjosephhoracek.com/

    Yes, this plan works for me! I have just completed a novel, “The Merchant of Arimathea” a 100,500-word work that might be called literary fiction, historical fiction, Secular Biblical Fiction, or Biographical Fiction. Maybe you can help me figure out how to label it. I am currently searching for an agent and an independent development editor, a platform consultant, and a publicist. I particularly need help in characterizing the genre. I did not write the novel for readers of any particular religious faith (I consider myself to be a “Spiritual Agnostic”) but rather strove to create something that will explore universal truths and that resonate with readers of any faith or lack thereof.  

   I warn you that I am a novice to a world in which you have been deeply immersed for many years. I hope you do not find me embarrassingly green to talk with. I am eager to learn what I need to do and to work hard to put this story out there.

   I did not follow any plan in writing my novel other than to please myself. As I was finishing the first draft of the manuscript, I began looking ahead for guidance in getting it published. While pouring through the 2016 Guide to Literary Agents, I read repeatedly that most agents prefer referrals by other agents, though some mentioned that they sometimes connect with new authors at Writing Conferences. I decided to sign up for this year’s SFWC hoping that would happen for me.

     Allow me to give you some of my background history. I was born in Berkeley at the Alta Bates hospital on Ashby (delivered by Alta Bates herself!) and grew up in the Bay Area. I remember Cody’s Bookstore, but I lived in Berkeley even before the time of Andy Ross (Talk about ancient history!). That was back in the day when the “Symbionese Liberation Army” kidnapped a friend of mine, also a student at Berkeley, who was supposed to cook dinner for my roommate and me that night. I did not realize until I saw her on the television news that Patty was the granddaughter of William Randolph Hearst!

    I hope I am not digressing too much but maybe it will serve to allow free up time to eat lunch. I tend to talk too much that I forget to eat! I suspect you have already diagnosed me, as I understand you were the senior editor for “Changing Lives through Metacognitive Relationships: LD/ADHD and College Success.  Now back to the history lesson.

    After graduating from UC Berkeley in 1974, I moved to NC to attend medical school in Chapel Hill. I trained in General Psychiatry at UNC- Chapel Hill and Child Psychiatry at Duke University in Durham, NC. I then spent several years back at Chapel Hill as a Robert Wood Johnson Clinical Scholar and was on the faculty of the UNC School of Medicine for a couple of Years. I then moved to Charlotte, NC where I practiced clinical Child and Adolescent psychiatry and Neurology for four decades until my recent retirement. During the course of my clinical work, I invented and patented an extended release formulation of clonidine for treating ADHD, and formed a startup Biotech company, “Addrenex” to complete the research needed to gain FDA approval for my drug. Following approval by the FDA, I sold the company to a large pharmaceutical company.

   In preparation for the 2017 SFWC I purchased the entire set of MP3 recordings from the 2016 conference. While listening to the sessions I became painfully aware of how unprepared I am for publication of my novel. I have no agent, and no platform to speak of on the internet. Over the past few weeks I have set up a blog for the book, am in the process of setting up an author website on Word Press, just today set up a twitter account and starting to resuscitate a long neglected Facebook page. I hope to connect with a platform development consultant at the conference this next week. I liked what Linda Lee Had to say in last year’s SFWC session “ New Ways to Promote Yourself Online” I also plan to take advantage of the pitching and consultation sessions available at this year’s conference.

   I have a certain presence on the internet from my first book , a non-fiction book, “ Brainstorms: Understanding and Treating Emotional Storms of ADHD from Childhood through Adulthood” which was published by Jason Aronson in 1998 and 2001. I just now Googled it and got 482 hits for the book and 1,580 hits. This is without any promotion on my part. Though I am not seeking help for this book, I hope you will indulge in telling you a little about it, to give you some of my background history of my experience with a publisher. The Jason Aronson priced the book at $68.00, which disappointed me, as that was way out of the price range of many potential readers. I have seen it listed as high as $125. 00. I was aware that the publisher would set the price but I never dreamed it would be so high.

   I felt a bit discouraged as I had spent 3 ½ years writing it as a labor of love and had sweated over every word of it. I consider still ahead of its. I have no idea how many copies it sold, but the royalties I received were very meager. I had no agent to represent me as in those ancient times authors commonly submitted proposals directly to the publisher. I stopped writing books after that disappointment, though I continued to write them in my mind, which is a habit that goes back as far back as I could remember. I am beginning to discover a vast world of support, resources and community for authors that I never realized existed. Now I am invigorated thinking of all the blogs, fiction, and non-fiction books that I feel encouraged downloading them from my brain while I still have one.

   My first priority is to plot a course that will get my novel out there. I do not know how others might receive it. I am very pleased with it and I hope others will love it too. I would love a talented Fiction development editor to go through it and let me know how to improve it.

   I realized how lucky I am to have won your company for lunch. I hope it makes for an interesting lunch mixing two senior experts in the field with still wet behind the ears author. I know I am looking forward to it!

   I listed the best times for me below. These will allow me to catch all of the sessions at the conference that I am most interested in attending. If these do not work for you, let me know and I will work with you. Meeting with you for lunch is my highest priority!

    I have also inserted the first two pages of my novel below to give you a flavor of my writing style. My main guiding principle was that it should good to my ear when read aloud. It, therefore, might work well as an audio-book. I have thought of recording a few chapters and putting it on my website.

Best Available Times for Lunch

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 15^th

All day

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16th

Between 11:30 am and 2:30 pm

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17^TH

Between 11:00 am until 1:30 pm

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18^TH

Between 11:30 am and 1:30 pm

First Two Pages of The Merchant of Arimathea.

Chapter 1

The old man woke with a start. He was alone. The smell of grain hung heavily in the air, Blurry beams of light pierced the darkness. He tried to move, but something restrained him, making a clinking sound. He looked down at his arms and legs but saw only a blur. He could feel the hard, heavy metal links, however, and knew what they were.

I am locked in chains!

His heart pounded. He was terrified, confused. His mouth was dry, his skin hot. He saw halos surrounding spots of light so bright they were painful to look at. His head throbbed to a loud pounding in his ears. He felt a pain; an urgent need to urinate. He tried to but could not. The chains that bound him rattled from the violent shaking of his body. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what happened. He could remember nothing. Then he felt a familiar movement, a rhythmic rocking.

I am on a boat.

The old man heard the sound of boots descending the stairs into the hull of the ship. Someone was approaching. “Ah, you are awake at last!” a friendly voice spoke. “I heard you mumbling in your sleep. A bad dream, perhaps? I brought you something to eat. It should help you feel better. You have been asleep for at least three or four days with no nourishment! You are obviously alive which means I won the bet!”

              The smell of food turned his stomach. “Water!” his voice croaked.

              “I have some wine, will that do?”

The taste of wine filled his gaping mouth. The moisture revived his speech. “What happened? Where am I? Why am I in chains?”

              “Do you recognize me?” The voice asked.

              “No, the old man answered, “Who are you?”

“I am the captain. I came down to personally check on you and bring you some food. You knew my grandfather, Daniel, very well. Do you remember him?”

“No.”

“You once lied about him to Nicodemus when you were in Jerusalem with Yeshua.”

“I don’t remember. Who are they?”

“Do you remember your name?”

              “No, what is my name?”

              "Wait here and I will send someone more familiar to you.”

              The captain’s footsteps ascended the stairs and in a few moments footsteps descended again, this time lighter, slower, more tentative.

              “Yosef?" A thin, frail, soft voice called out. “Do you recognize me?”

              “I can’t see you or anything.” The old man called to the voice in the darkness, then begged, “Is my name Yosef?”

              “Yes.”

              “Who are you?”

              “I am Miriam.”

              “Do I know you?”

              “Yes, Yosef, we have known each other for a very long time.”

              “What happened? Why am I in chains? Why am I on a boat?”

              “If you don’t remember then you are blessed.”

              “Blessed? Why? Do you know what happened to me?”

              “I am forbidden to speak about it with you until we are both interrogated in Rome by Flavius Josephus.”

              “Do I know him?” Yosef asked.

              “You knew him when he was a small child. You used to call him the Little Pomegranate Kicker!”

He heard a quiet laugh. It sounded familiar … I know that laugh! “Are you my wife?” He asked.

              She laughed again.

He remembered a feeling. Somewhere … some time long ago.

“No, Yosef, we are not married. You never asked me!”

A deep, powerful voice boomed down into the space from the top of the stairs. "Time's up, you must come back up on deck now!"

              “No, not yet! Don’t leave me! Tell me what is going on! Please!”

              He felt a light hand patting his chained arm. “That is the Centurion. I must go now, Yosef.”

              He heard her light footsteps ascending out of the dark, dusty grain bin and she was gone.

The fat wooden goose-shaped vessel waddled westward toward the harbor at Valletta Bay, on the island of Melita. Fully trimmed she sailed as close to the wind as she was able as she leaned far over and strained to maintain her course. Tacking back and forth across a stiff southwesterly breeze she had thus inched her way for weeks across the Mediterranean Sea. The goose came about a final time and slid into the shelter of the harbor. As the crew quickly dropped the mainsail and foresail, she slowed and glided to a stop. A many-oared tugboat intercepted and towed the heavy ship to the wharf until the hull of the great boat gently kissed the weathered sun-bleached planks of the dock. As the crew secured the dock lines, they had accomplished - and survived - another leg of the voyage.

              The captain granted all passengers immediate shore leave. As there had been no sight of land since leaving Crete two weeks before, all were desperate for the sensation of placing their feet on something that was not in perpetual motion.

              The Centurion counted the ragged, dingy survivors as they scurried down the gangplank to shore. The old woman was petite with brown, calloused hands and hair as white as lamb’s fleece. Her face, deeply etched had been sculpted over time from countless smiles and worries. The younger woman, evidently the mother of the five children, had long dark hair that parted in the middle to frame a vigilant face. The oldest child, a girl of perhaps thirteen, was sturdy, her arms appeared strong from labor, her skin darkened from working under the desert sun. The mop of thick curly hair on her head looked unruly. Her eyes, dark like her mother’s, kept a constant watch over her family. She appeared ready to fight anyone who threatened them. The younger children, small and pale, peered about with the eyes of so many frightened fawns after getting their first glimpse of violence and death. Two women, and five children, two boys and three girls … seven. Lastly, the stooped frail frame of ancient man trudged down the plank to the wharf, his long white beard and wisps of hair fluttered in the onshore breeze.  Eight, the Centurion noted. That is all of them. He had no concerns about the prisoners trying to escape on the small island. There is no place for them to go. 

What if Jesus was not God?

What if Jesus was not God,

Not born of a virgin,

Did not have supernatural powers,

Or could rise from the dead?

What if he spent his youth with Druids in Britain,

And Buddhists in India?

What if he lost his wife in childbirth,

Drank too much, struggled with depression?

What if he was like us?

What if we were like him?

This is the story of one of the most influential spiritual leaders of all time

As seen through the eyes of his great-uncle

Who did not believe he was God,

Born of a virgin, or had supernatural powers.

This is also the story of the one,

Who brought him to Britain and India

Helped him to rise from the dead,

And escape to Kashmir.

This is also the story of that man,

The Merchant of Arimathea.

Asking Heather Lazare to be my Development Editor for The Merchant of Arimathea

To: Heather Lazare

hello@heatherlazare.com

From: H Joseph Horacek, Jr.

brainstorms@earthlink.net

Dear Ms. Lazare,

   I listened to an MP3 recording your presentation “Finding and Working with a Freelance Editor,” at the 2016 SFWC and reviewed your outstanding background and credentials. I will be attending the 2017 SFWC next week and hope I will have the opportunity to meet you in person there, though I am sure you will be very busy.

   I am interested in retaining your services as an editor for my recently completed manuscript of my first novel, “The Merchant of Arimathea.”

   Below are the first 20 pages to help you determine if this is a project that you might be interested in “macro-editing.”

The Merchant of Arimathea

Prologue

The angelic creature appeared before him, bathed in blinding light.

              “Who are you?” The old man called out.

“I am Gavri'el.”

Then he was the angel.

“Your prayer has been heard, Elisheba.”

Chapter 1

The old man woke with a start. He was alone. The smell of grain hung heavily in the air, Blurry beams of light pierced the darkness. He tried to move, but something restrained him, making a clinking sound. He looked down at his arms and legs but saw only a blur. He could feel the hard, heavy metal links, however, and knew what they were.

I am locked in chains!

His heart pounded. He was terrified, confused. His mouth was dry, his skin hot. He saw halos surrounding spots of light so bright they were painful to look at. His head throbbed to a loud pounding in his ears. He felt a pain; an urgent need to urinate. He tried to but could not. The chains that bound him rattled from the violent shaking of his body. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what happened. He could remember nothing. Then he felt a familiar movement, a rhythmic rocking.

I am on a boat.

The old man heard the sound of boots descending the stairs into the hull of the ship. Someone was approaching. “Ah, you are awake at last!” a friendly voice spoke. “I heard you mumbling in your sleep. A bad dream, perhaps? I brought you something to eat. It should help you feel better. You have been asleep for at least three or four days with no nourishment! You are obviously alive which means I won the bet!”

              The smell of food turned his stomach. “Water!” his voice croaked.

              “I have some wine, will that do?”

The taste of wine filled his gaping mouth. The moisture revived his speech. “What happened? Where am I? Why am I in chains?”

              “Do you recognize me?” The voice asked.

              “No, the old man answered, “Who are you?”

“I am the captain. I came down to personally check on you and bring you some food. You knew my grandfather, Daniel, very well. Do you remember him?”

“No.”

“You once lied about him to Nicodemus when you were in Jerusalem with Yeshua.”

“I don’t remember. Who are they?”

“Do you remember your name?”

              “No, what is my name?”

              "Wait here and I will send someone more familiar to you.”

              The captain’s footsteps ascended the stairs and in a few moments footsteps descended again, this time lighter, slower, more tentative.

              “Yosef?" A thin, frail, soft voice called out. “Do you recognize me?”

              “I can’t see you or anything.” The old man called to the voice in the darkness, then begged, “Is my name Yosef?”

              “Yes.”

              “Who are you?”

              “I am Miriam.”

              “Do I know you?”

              “Yes, Yosef, we have known each other for a very long time.”

              “What happened? Why am I in chains? Why am I on a boat?”

              “If you don’t remember then you are blessed.”

              “Blessed? Why? Do you know what happened to me?”

              “I am forbidden to speak about it with you until we are both interrogated in Rome by Flavius Josephus.”

              “Do I know him?” Yosef asked.

              “You knew him when he was a small child. You used to call him the Little Pomegranate Kicker!”

He heard a quiet laugh. It sounded familiar … I know that laugh! “Are you my wife?” He asked.

              She laughed again.

He remembered a feeling. Somewhere … some time long ago.

“No, Yosef, we are not married. You never asked me!”

A deep, powerful voice boomed down into the space from the top of the stairs. "Time's up, you must come back up on deck now!"

              “No, not yet! Don’t leave me! Tell me what is going on! Please!”

              He felt a light hand patting his chained arm. “That is the Centurion. I must go now, Yosef.”

              He heard her light footsteps ascending out of the dark, dusty grain bin and she was gone.

The fat wooden goose-shaped vessel waddled westward toward the harbor at Valletta Bay, on the island of Melita. Fully trimmed she sailed as close to the wind as she was able as she leaned far over and strained to maintain her course. Tacking back and forth across a stiff southwesterly breeze she had thus inched her way for weeks across the Mediterranean Sea. The goose came about a final time and slid into the shelter of the harbor. As the crew quickly dropped the mainsail and foresail, she slowed and glided to a stop. A many-oared tugboat intercepted and towed the heavy ship to the wharf until the hull of the great boat gently kissed the weathered sun-bleached planks of the dock. As the crew secured the dock lines, they had accomplished - and survived - another leg of the voyage.

              The captain granted all passengers immediate shore leave. As there had been no sight of land since leaving Crete two weeks before, all were desperate for the sensation of placing their feet on something that was not in perpetual motion.

              The Centurion counted the ragged, dingy survivors as they scurried down the gangplank to shore. The old woman was petite with brown, calloused hands and hair as white as lamb’s fleece. Her face, deeply etched had been sculpted over time from countless smiles and worries. The younger woman, evidently the mother of the five children, had long dark hair that parted in the middle to frame a vigilant face. The oldest child, a girl of perhaps thirteen, was sturdy, her arms appeared strong from labor, her skin darkened from working under the desert sun. The mop of thick curly hair on her head looked unruly. Her eyes, dark like her mother’s, kept a constant watch over her family. She appeared ready to fight anyone who threatened them. The younger children, small and pale, peered about with the eyes of so many frightened fawns after getting their first glimpse of violence and death. Two women, and five children, two boys and three girls … seven. Lastly, the stooped frail frame of ancient man trudged down the plank to the wharf, his long white beard, and wisps of hair fluttered in the onshore breeze. Eight, the Centurion noted. That is all of them. He had no concerns about the prisoners trying to escape on the small island. There is no place for them to go.

              The prisoners were astonished as a group of friendly Melitean Islanders swept them from under the watchful eye of the Centurion and led them to a small, though well-appointed, villa. The cozy estate near the seashore served as a part-time residence for the governor of Melita.

         At first wary of the unexpected hospitality, the prisoners did not long resist the delicious food, hot baths, and new linen clothing so generously offered. For weeks, they had been chained and unwashed. The bread brought on board at Crete had long since turned stale. Now they inhaled the fresh hot food offered like a lungful of long-awaited oxygen.

           Once clean, fed, clothed, and rested, the time came to meet their benefactor. A servant came and fetched only the guests’ patriarch, leaving the rest to their leisure. As the white-bearded old man followed the servant he could not help but wonder if this was how a sacrificial lamb felt while being led to the slaughter; only well fed, clean and content animals were fit for pilgrims to hand over to the temple priests in Jerusalem to serve as burnt offerings to Adonai. Suddenly he remembered. That is all gone now: the sacrificial animals, the temple, the priests, even Jerusalem -- all are no more. There was a war … a terrible war.

              The servant delivered the old man into a large room that looked like it had been the venue for many banquets, meetings, and events of various social or political importance. The chief of the island sat at the head of a large dining table. He wore a long, powder blue silk robe, his face and head were cleanly shaved, his arms outstretched in welcome. He was a stout, cheerful man who had clearly enjoyed many a rich meal in this banquet hall. A small white dog on his lap stood and barked earnestly.

              "No, Issa!” The robed man scolded. The tiny warrior quieted, as her master stuffed her into his sleeve.

‘Issa,' the old man pondered, then another scrap of memory materialized  ... ‘Adonai’s Salvation'…as spoken in India  ... in Hebrew, ‘Yeshua.'

              "Beautiful, isn't she?” Her proud owner doted. "Her family goes back more than five hundred years here. They are the ‘Canis Melitaeus,' also known as the ‘Ancient Dog of Melita.'"

              The dog lover chuckled as he scratched his tiny protector behind her ears. "I am often accused of loving her more than life itself! They are fearless but gentle,” The diminutive canine’s ears flicked up pointedly as if she knew her master was talking about her. He chuckled fondly at her astuteness, then added,” Emperor Claudius had one he named Caradog."

              The old man stood frozen, silently dumbfounded. Another scrap of his past flashed into view. Caradog … the Celtic name of a defeated Silurian King.

              The mysterious Melitean gestured for his guest to sit in a chair at the head of the table. As the old man reluctantly complied, wine and fruit appeared on the table between them.

              "Welcome to our humble little island of Melita!" the smiling host announced, again raising a corpulent arm in welcome. "Here all seafaring visitors are our guests: slaves, masters, prisoners Jailers, sailors, merchants, or soldiers. All have earned our goodwill and respect for enduring the dangers and hardships of crossing the sea to arrive in our midst.

              "I am Publius, the island's governor," he continued, "and your host on behalf of the people of Melita for as long as you stay with us. I understand that you are called Yosef– Yosef of Arimathea – is that correct?"

              Yosef stared silently at his host. He attempted to focus his vision through the opaque cataracts of his ancient gray eyes.

Arimathea … ashes … nothing left. As he tried to fix his sight on the governor's face, all he could make out was a blurred outline. How does he know my name?

              The governor continued, “The young mother, Michal and five children are also of Arimathea. Are they relatives of yours?”

              Yosef remained mute.

              "One of your companions is Miriam of Nazareth. Would, perchance, she be the mother of a certain Yeshua from Nazareth?"

              Yosef sat up as straight as his arthritic spine would allow as a sudden jolt of fear shot through his body. Who is he? How can he know?

              Publius gave a look of sympathetic understanding. "I understand both your surprise and alarm at my interest in you and your band of fellow seafaring prisoners of Rome. Why would I, a Roman Gentile, have any interest in a few Jewish rebels – an old man, an old woman, a young mother, and five small children? The lot of you would hardly pose a risk to a house fly, let alone the Roman Empire!"

              The governor chuckled. He had a gleam in his eyes as if he was about to open a box full of surprises that were far beyond the listener's wildest expectations. "Perhaps if I told you my story, you would understand why I am interested in yours. Please indulge me for a brief while. Soon all will be clear to you."

Yosef did not speak, but sat and offered his wary attention, remaining mute, skeptical, almost panicking; he remembered his companions now: Miriam, Michal, and her children. He now feared for their safety. He did not fear death. I have seen enough of life. He thought. He was old and tired, but the women and children's welfare were his responsibility still, and he had vowed long ago not to rest his bones in the ground until his wards were safe. His Roman guard had kept him apart from the other prisoners; isolated in the dark hold of the ship with the cargo. Still, he had occasionally heard the laughter of the children wafting through holes in the deck over his head, and this had brought him some amount of comfort. What does this opulent Melitean Roman want? Yosef wondered. Of what consequence is our fate to him?

              Publius Looked at Yosef as though he knew his every thought. "I can see it will not be easy for me to earn your trust. To prove my sincerity I am willing to reveal to you an important secret about myself, a secret no one on this island knows, and I wish to keep it that way!” Publius beckoned the frail, stooped old man to come closer. "Your eyes are dim and cloudy. Come closer until you see me clearly."

              Yosef reluctantly obeyed, edging closer until the two old men stood nearly nose-to-nose. He peered with his tired, aged eyes until he was finally able to focus his hazy vision on the face of his host.

              "Now tell me who you see before you," the mysterious governor commanded gently.

              In a blinding instant, it all came back.

              "You are Pilate," Yosef stammered, "Pontius Pilate!"

              Yosef stood paralyzed. Can’t move! His mind raced. Jerusalem... Pilate …. from a balcony…‘It’s time you understood what your masters do for you!’ …… screaming and shouting … people climbing over each other … trying to escape… a girl struck across the face with a club… blood gushing from her broken nose… arms around her… must  protect her… the wounded … begging for help… Yeshua … through the Genna gate ... crucified.

              "Yes, my old friend,” the governor nodded, interrupting the old man’s nightmarish reverie, “but I would be indebted to you if you would not refer to me by that name again. Don't be alarmed,” Publius tried to reassure his dumbfounded guest, "I harbor no ill will towards you or your companions. In truth, I am in more sympathy with your situation than you would ever guess. You see, I am a fugitive from Roman justice myself!”

              Yosef was not reassured. He had an impulse to run out the door and flee. He knew, however, that this would be a futile effort, even if his feeble legs could have carried him somewhere. How is this possible? The ancient prisoner of war pondered this unfathomable situation. He was dizzy from the shock of recognizing the Roman governor of Judea whom Tiberius Caesar had executed some forty years past.

              The former prefect chuckled. “Allow me to explain how I came to be here. It was about three years after I ordered the crucifixion of your great nephew, Yeshua of Nazareth," Publius began, "when Vitellius, the Roman governor of Syria, accused me of using methods that were too severe in handling the suppression of a small Samaritan uprising.

“Vitellius had employed a false prophet to work the Samaritans into a frenzy by convincing them that the Ark of the Covenant was buried in Mount Gerizim. A large group of faithful Samaritans assembled there at a village named Tirathana. Before the crowd could ascend the mountain, Vitellus’s men butchered them. He then reported that I had given the order, and my men had butchered them. This was a bold-faced lie! That lie was my downfall. Vitellius sent me to Rome to explain my alleged “actions,” regarding this incident to Tiberius. As Tiberius greatly favored Vitellius, my prospects for a long life were not good. I expected Tiberius to extend to me the courtesy of allowing me to fall on my sword, and thus to die with the honor that befitted a Roman soldier and officer.

              “On the way to Rome, the ship stopped here just as yours now has. This remote, isolated island struck me as a carefree place too small for Rome to bother with, and it seemed to enjoy a rather independent yet prosperous economy. I thought at the time that I would never pass up an opportunity to live in such a place.

              “By the time I arrived in Rome to face the wrath of Emperor Tiberius, he had conveniently died, leaving me at a loss for anyone to judge me. I seized the opportunity to escape and return here to live a new life under a new name.”

          Yosef’s mind was back in Jerusalem begging Pilate to stop the crucifixion. “I will give you anything you wish; I will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams." Pilate scoffing, "I am already rich beyond my wildest dreams, and it would do me little good to be richer if I ended up executed, too!”

              Publius continued the account to explain his unlikely appearance on the island of Melita. “I still had some connections in Rome who graciously helped me to obtain a position as the Governor of the Island of Melita under a new identity. As a province of Sicily, Melita is only indirectly subject to Roman rule, answering only to the government of the praetor of Sicily, an elected magistrate of that island. My family connections, together with a sizable sum of coin to Sicily's praetor gained me the title of the Romans' ‘Chief Man on the Island of Melita!’ Here I have lived since – a quiet and productive life of self-imposed exile.”

              Yosef was not listening to Publius. “May I at least have the body, before it gets dark and the start of the Feast of Unleavened Bread? I am his next of kin. I have the duty and right to bury him. My petition for Yeshua’s body is legal under Torah and Roman law.”

              Publius finished his story, in spite of the compromised attention of his audience. “There have been ample business opportunities available to me. The inhabitants of Melita are famous for their skill in manufacturing a kind of fine linen from the cotton grown on the island, such as you and your party are now wearing. These ‘Vectis Melitase’ are in high demand in Rome. I have accumulated a sizable fortune taxing the exchange of these and other commodities traded here.”

              Yosef was placing the body of his great nephew in his own tomb. Early morning...a sharp rapping on the front door...Caiaphas and the Temple guards... “Yosef of Arimathea, you are charged with stealing the body of the crucified Yeshua of Nazareth from your tomb during the night.”

              Publius rambled on, seemingly oblivious to his guest’s state of shock. Yosef no longer listened to Governor Publius. He was lost in memories now flooding his consciousness with vivid details.

“You’ll have to admit we shared some good times in the old days,” Publius sighed nostalgically. "I haven't forgotten the entertainment that you provided to visiting dignitaries, mostly paid from your purse. Your vintage of wine from Arimathea was legendary! Remember the party we threw for the Magi of Babylon?" The governor chuckled, his belly jiggling as he wiped the tears from his eyes. His demeanor suddenly took on a serious tone. “I may be able to be of assistance to you and your companions,” Publius offered. “Would I be correct in assuming you would prefer not to reach your final destination, that is, the court of Rome?”

              Yosef of Arimathea suddenly startled. He was back in Melita staring at Publius. The old man remained mute, still astonished by the impossibility of encountering the one who had condemned his great nephew to death. So many years ago...now here on this tiny, remote island? I thought Pilate was dead! His failing eyesight did not permit him to scrutinize his unlikely benefactor by looking deeply into his eyes as he spoke.

              “In return for this assistance,” Publius added, “I ask only one favor from my old friend, the Nobilis Decurion. I want you to tell me whether your great nephew, Yeshua, was alive or dead when you recovered him from the crucifixion that I ordered, and laid him in your family tomb and what happened afterward."

              Yosef inhaled slowly, deeply, and exhaled a long slow sigh. “To address your questions would require telling a long story, that I am not sure I remember."

              "Tell it," Publius insisted, "We will see what you remember. I am almost as old as you are. I am sure you appreciate the preoccupation of old men such as we are with making sense out of the story of our lives. At the time, I paid little attention to what I thought was just another odd Jewish fanatic from Nazareth. I have since become aware that a larger story that has now become an important part of history captured me in its net. I have no purpose in asking this other than to know where my life story fits into the history of those times. I want to know what is true. What to believe."

              Yosef thought of the words of Miriam on the boat. If you do not remember, then you are blessed. He did not want to be blessed; he wanted to remember. "I don’t know if I can tell you what you want to know,” Yosef declared. “I cannot say for you what is true or what to believe. I can try to remember what I saw, and you can decide for yourself. To tell you the story you wish to hear, I would have to begin some years before the crucifixion."

              Publius leaned back in his chair as if he was prepared to listen however long it was necessary. "Begin as early as you wish. I will owe you a great debt for this favor."

              Yosef again took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The last person he would have guessed would be his audience was the former prefect of Judea who now called himself Publius. He would not tell it to strike a bargain for Publius’ help. He would tell it because he needed to.

Chapter 2

              I should begin many years ago, with a funeral. It was several weeks after the death and burial of Yosef bar Jacob that I finally was able to arrive in Nazareth and visit his burial site. By the time I arrived, the family was in the midst of mourning. I came as soon as I received word, but the journey from Jerusalem took the better part of a week, and custom dictated burial of the body immediately. I missed the funeral and was not able to participate in the procession. I also missed the common meal of condolence.

              The wife of the deceased was my niece, Miriam, the daughter of my brother, Joachim. As her next of kin, I was responsible for her welfare as well as that of her children.

              Yosef’s death had been sudden and unexpected. The word I received was that he died from an accident involving a scaffold while working on a large new mosaic for a wealthy homebuilder in Sepphoris.

***

“Yes, Sepphoris is a beautiful city!” Publius interrupted. “As you know I used to live only thirty miles from Sepphoris, on the coast at Caesarea. I remember often hearing it referred to then as The Jewel of the Galilee. Once Herod Antipas decided to make it his capital, Sepphoris grew quickly as he poured obscene amounts of money rebuilding the city in that modern, lavish Greco-Roman style. But client Rulers needed to build things so everyone would know who the ruler was!" Publius shook his head sadly. “It was my job, then, to keep the people, who were so shamelessly taxed to pay for such extravagances, from rebelling!” He shrugged. “Well, at least rebuilding Sepphoris kept Yosef employed.”

              "Yes," Yosef retorted. "Rebuilding Sepphoris kept Yosef employed so he could earn money to pay his taxes to fund rebuilding Sepphoris!"

              Publius shrugged again. “Welcome to the modern world, the Pax Romana, the “Roman Peace.” That is how it works!"

              Yosef appeared as if he was about to reply, then paused, as if thinking better of it and returned to the telling of his story.

***

              Yosef had often worked in Sepphoris, as it was only a five-mile walk from the Nazarene Essene encampment loosely referred to as, “Nazareth.” He was in much demand in Sepphoris for his crafts of carpentry, masonry, and the creation of large mosaics.

              I had been in Jerusalem when the news of Yosef's death arrived, having only recently returned there from a year at sea trading tin from Britannia and silks from India and the Far East. It had been a long and arduous, but highly profitable, excursion. When I learned of Yosef's tragic demise, I excused myself from my duties at the Sanhedrin and came with four hired guards and six horses. It had not been easy to employ professional guards on short notice, and I had to pay a premium price. Traveling alone along bandit-infested roads, however, was not an option. It was thus two weeks after the funeral that I was finally able to pay my respects to the family, and to offer what help I could. I arrived with my guards on a Friday afternoon, the day of preparation for the Sabbath.

My niece, Miriam, greeted me with her seven children, spaced roughly two years apart in age. The eldest was Yeshua, a young man of thirteen. His younger brothers were Jacob, age ten, Jude, six, Simeon, three, and the youngest was Yose, age two. His sisters, also younger, were Marta, age eight and Rut, age four.

              The family talked all at once trying to piece together the details of the tragedy. The resulting story was that it was because of the falling of a scaffold while he was at work on a mosaic that Yosef was critically injured. A messenger from Sepphoris stopped at the small workshop that Yosef had built next to the house. He found Yeshua there working on a yoke. When he informed Yeshua that his father had been critically injured when the scaffold fell, they came together to the house to break the news to Miriam.

              "I wanted to go to Yosef immediately,” Yeshua complained, “But mother made me stay home to take care for the younger children until she could return. She took Jacob with her to Sepphoris.”

             “No one knew at first how seriously Yosef was injured, “Miriam reported, “but by the time Jacob and I arrived Yosef had died. We brought his body back to Nazareth. The next day, we laid him to rest with his fathers."

              Yosef’s brother Clopas spoke up. “In spite of all of the efforts of my family and the neighbors to comfort Miriam and the children they remain overcome with grief!”

              "Yosef is gone." Miriam lamented. "He was a good husband and father. We will all miss him. He died before we could speak to him or hear his farewell blessing." Miriam became tearful. "He had only one injury, a small wound on his chest no bigger than a scratch as if something sharp had punctured his chest. There was nothing else, not even a bruise. I don’t understand how he could die from such a small wound!” She buried her face in her hands and wept.

              I gently touched the shoulder of my bereaved niece. She took her hands from her face and looked up at me with the eyes of a helpless and bewildered child. "Miriam," I murmured. "May I speak to you privately?"

              “Yes, of course.” She said. The room emptied until we were alone and she closed the door. We spoke only briefly. After we had completed our private discussion, Miriam walked to the door, opened it and called, "Yeshua, please come in here!" As he came into the room, he gave us a curious look. He seemed to know well the tone of his mother's voice and the look on her face when she was about to make a major announcement.

              "Yeshua, your great-uncle is now your father. Obey him as you did Yosef.” Miriam’s voice was firm. “Tomorrow afternoon you may take your Sabbath walk with him to show him the tomb.”

              “The next afternoon, after returning with the family from the small synagogue in Nazareth, I followed Yeshua as he silently led the way up the path to the tomb: a winding, dusty, narrow footpath that snaked up to limestone ridges. These rose steeply around the secluded encampment like the edge of a shell.

              I left my bodyguards at the house to tend to the horses. We would not need them as long as we remained in Nazareth. They would again be on duty when we left Nazareth to travel again via the bandit-infested highways back to Jerusalem.

Yosef had carved the family tomb himself from the limestone so plentiful in the slopes of the hill that rose some five hundred feet above the Nazarene encampment. In the grave, Yosef's body lay on a stone slab, washed, anointed with oils and perfumes, and wrapped in white linen. The corpse would rest there for several years until only a skeleton remained. A second funeral would lay the bones in a small stone box in the tomb. There they would stay, to wait for the company of other family members as future funeral processions eventually carried them up the same narrow winding path to the limestone hilltop.

              After visiting the tomb, we sat in silence outside and gazed across the landscape that sprawled beneath us. The encampment of Nazareth lay in one of the most beautiful places in the Galilee. You could not see any of this view of the surrounding country from the settlement, as it was in a basin; but when you climbed to the edge of this bowl, you could see thirty miles in three directions.          

              I tried to think of something to say to break the silence. “I can see the road that I arrived on yesterday afternoon,” I offered, as I pointed towards the foot of the hill.

              “Yes, the Via Maris, the ‘Way of the Sea,’ Yeshua added. “ It is one of the major Roman roads in Judea and the Galilee. To the north, it connects Damascus with the Mediterranean seaports. To the south, it follows the coast all the way to Egypt.”

              I was sure Yeshua knew I was familiar with this major Roman highway, but he seemed to be trying to make conversation. I tried to keep the conversation going. “One thing you have to give the Romans credit for, they build a good road.”

              A look of contempt darkened Yeshua’s countenance. “Yes, with our money! They tax us at forty percent. That is why Yosef had to start working in carpentry and mosaics - to earn extra money to pay the taxes. Otherwise, they would have taken our land. It’s not possible to keep the land and feed a family when they take forty percent of everything you grow.”

              “He must have been gone a lot working,” I surmised.

"Yes, he was." Life in Galilee is difficult. Many families have lost their land because they were unable to pay the taxes. There is a lot of starvation here. Most families lose half of their children before they reach five years of age. Yosef promised me, ‘We will not lose our land, nor even one of our children!' He worked hard to provide for our family and counted on me to take his place when he had to be away working. When I got older, he started taking me with him and teaching me his trade. By then Jacob was old enough to take over helping mother with the younger children. On the Sabbath, Yosef and I always took a walk together, just the two of us. That is when we had our talks. He would try his best to answer the questions that I had saved for him during the week. He taught me a lot of history sitting right here. You can see where a lot of it happened. To the north, you can see the plateaus on which the tribes of Zebulun and Naphtali lived, and the mountains of Lebanon, and that's Mount Hermon over there."

              The mountain he indicated spanned the border between Syria and Lebanon. Towering above them all, it raised its glistening white snowy peak in majestic splendor three thousand feet above the lower slopes.

              Yeshua pointed out the coast of Tyre, the famous Phoenician seaport destroyed by Alexander the Great, and beyond the coast, the blue waters of the Mediterranean to the West. “That’s where Elijah competed with and exposed the priests of Baal.” He said, indicating the long ridge of Mount Carmel running down to the sea.

              Every inch of the landscape that stretched before us was abundant with history. To the south, there was Megiddo and the whole Plain of Esdraelon, the site of many of the most historic battles of Israel. There was also Tabor and the hills of Gilboa where King Saul committed suicide when the Philistines defeated the Israelites. Mount Ebal and the land of Shechem lay in the background with the uplands of Gilead and Samaria. To the east, one could look across the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan Valley to the mountainous regions beyond.

              Yeshua pointed to the horizon, shielding his eyes with his hand against the setting sun. “To the West, you can just make out the sailing ships on the Mediterranean. You can only see them at this time of day when the sun is going down.”

              “Yeshua,” I began slowly and deliberately, trying to choose my words carefully. "You will be returning with me to Jerusalem. Now that Yosef is no longer with us, I will be taking care of you. Your mother tells me that you have always loved to visit Jerusalem for Passover. Now you will be able to live in this beautiful and most holy city, and you will not have to walk for a week anymore to see the temple. You will be living just a stone’s throw away from it!” Yeshua was silent.

              "I'm sure you know that your mother spent several years of her childhood living in the Temple compound. She loved her experiences and the excellent education she received there. I understand you are quite the scholar for one of your age. In Jerusalem, you will find more students with whom to debate the scriptures than in this little country encampment of farmers."

              Yeshua silently traced a circle in the dirt between his feet with a small stick. He would not defy his elder, but I could see he was not happy about this announcement.

              After a moment, I tried to speak for him. “I’m sure that you are worried about your mother and your brothers and sisters. They will be all right. I will see that they have whatever they need, and your father’s brother Clopas will keep an eye on them. It is best that they remain here in Nazareth to look after the crops.”

              I reached out and placed my hand gently on Yeshua’s shoulder. "I’m sure your cousin Yochanan will be excited to see you. You and Yochanan are practically the same age, and I know you are good friends,” I offered.

              “Yochanan has been living with the Essenes in the desert near Ein Gedi since Uncle Zechariah died,” Yeshua answered as if to remind me.

              “Well, we’ll just have to go into the desert where he lives and pay him a visit.” I stood up and tried to sound cheerful. “The sun has set. Let's head back to your house. We will leave in the morning for Jerusalem. I must be back soon to tend to some urgent business. There is a caravan that passed by on its way to Jerusalem yesterday that we can catch up with.”

              Yeshua dropped the stick in the dust. "I have to be about my Abba’s business. I must discuss this with my mother.” The lad rose from where he had been sitting and led the way along the narrow path snaking down the ridge into the pear shaped basin that nestled the tiny secluded collection of dwellings.

              That evening we ate a simple Sabbath meal of grain, olives, and grapes. We also enjoyed wine made from deep blue grapes grown on trellises on the southern facing slopes. The jars for storing the wine were Galilean-made, milled from local chalk-like soft limestone.

              During dinner, Yeshua tried to discuss with his mother my intention to take him with me to Jerusalem, but she had little to say about it. I could see that he sensed a struggle inside of her. Yeshua’s thoughts were easy to read on his face, which always seemed to express his every thought and emotion. I knew he could sense that his mother wanted him to leave quickly. He also was aware of her great difficulty in letting him go, the holding back of a flood of tears. Yeshua seemed to know his mother well enough to detect that there were important things she had not told him, and about which he must not ask.

              I was sure Yeshua felt he was abandoning his mother and his family. With Yosef often gone in Sepphoris working, Yeshua, as the oldest of the seven children, had provided critical assistance to his mother in helping her care for his younger children siblings. During the time he grew up, his mother was usually pregnant and nursing infants. Yeshua was ten years old when the last child, Yose, was born. Yosef had to work hard to keep his growing family fed. Miriam could not travel with all those youngsters. She had to stay home with Yeshua assisting her when Yosef was away working. Yeshua was not sure Jacob was ready to take over these responsibilities yet.

          In any case, the issue was not open for discussion. Before Yeshua knew it, it was early Sunday morning and I was calling him out of bed and telling him to saddle up.

Chapter 3

              We left at first light. It was still dark and chilly outside, and the moon illuminated the hillside as we finished packing our provisions and saddling the horses. Miriam gave Yeshua a reassuring smile as he mounted his steed. “You look so handsome and grown up riding such a big animal!” she exclaimed proudly as she handed her son a packed lunch to eat while we rode. “Don’t forget to eat!” she urged.

           “I didn’t get to say goodbye to everyone.” Yeshua apologized to his mother. “Will you say goodbye for me, especially to Jude and Marta?” Miriam nodded. Tears filled her eyes in spite of her best efforts to hold them back. “And tell Jacob for me that he is now the man of the house until I return.” Miriam again nodded her promise to do so as we left her standing in the dim morning light in front of the small rock and mud house that until two weeks before had sheltered her husband and all of her children for the last time.

              Yeshua had never ridden a horse before, but he had ridden his share of donkeys and seemed to take to the transition with little difficulty. From Nazareth to the Via Maris was about six miles. The hired guards escorted us with two preceding and two bringing up the rear. We proceeded down the hill in single file by way of a small, winding footpath.

The guards looked formidable. Each guard wore a bronze helmet that flashed in the moonlight. Hinged cheek plates, also of bronze, were tied together snugly under the chin. Arrow-deflecting segments of metal joined by bronze hinges protected the torso. On the right side, a long sword in a scabbard hung from a belt flung over the shoulder. A short dagger belted to the left hip, and a long lance in the left hand completed the weaponry. Armed for fighting from horseback, their weapons had a long reach. Any attacking bandit approaching on foot would be easy prey.

              This narrow path had made trading dangerous and impractical for the secluded encampment near the top of the Nazareth ridge, far from the reach of trade caravans. Life was thus predominantly local. Travel was dangerous. People moved about little. When they did go to the city for festivals or markets, family members or friends accompanied them with clubs and staffs. Some Galileans might make the lengthy pilgrimage to Jerusalem by traveling with large caravans that had hired guards. Our aim was to connect with such a train before dark.

              We had not been traveling for more than an hour when the path threaded through a shallow rocky ravine that was so narrow you could almost reach out and touch both sides at the same time. The dawn was just breaking, turning the sky from a deep blue to a light pink. About midway through the crevasse, we encountered a man lying face down on the path who appeared to be dead.

              “Keep a watchful eye,” I warned. “He could have been murdered by bandits!” Before I could stop him, Yeshua was off his horse and at the man's side, crouching down to see if he could be of assistance.

              “Yeshua, leave him be!” I shouted. “It could be a trap!”

              Before I could get all of the words out of my mouth, bandits leaped from the rocks above onto the mounted guards, pulling them to the ground. Once on the ground, the guard’s long swords and lances were worthless. The assailants slew all four guards before a single one of them could unsheathe his dagger. Their blood drained quickly and joined as one trickle that snaked its way down the path, quickly disappearing as the limestone dust eagerly drank it. The "dead" man got up, cackling over how we had fallen for his trick.

              I had pulled my sword but to no avail. The bandit put his knife to Yeshua’s throat and commanded that I drop my sword to the ground. I complied, and my blade clattered as it hit the stony path.

              A dozen bandits mounted on horseback surrounded us. They dismounted and quickly stripped the slaughtered guards of their armor and weapons.

              The leader of the bandits rode up, looked us over, and, mocking us, proclaimed,   "Well, what have we here? We have a well-dressed man and six beautiful horses! Now, what amount of treasure would warrant such a heavily armed escort? Looks like today's our day, boys!"

              By this, he meant it was their time to take back the monies they felt had been robbed from them by the Romans. Farming families just barely subsisted growing the food they needed. The heavy taxes caused many to lose their land and thus their livelihood. Some turned to itinerant trade work, others to fishing, some to begging, and still others, to banditry. Parents sold daughters into slavery to pay tax debts, and women became prostitutes or begged. Once a family lost its land, they almost never got it back.

              "Are you a tax collector?" The leader asked with a sneer. Jews hated tax collectors not only for collecting the resented taxes but also because they usually forced the collection of even larger amounts than due so that they could pocket the difference. The taxpayer had no recourse as the Roman soldiers enforced collection of taxes. Jews considered other Jews who became tax collectors for Rome to be the worst kind of traitors.

              “I am just a humble merchant who is bringing my nephew with me back to Jerusalem from Nazareth due to the recent death of his father. Your presence here justifies the need for guards to assure our safety. We have no money. We just want to travel to Jerusalem safely.”

The head bandit laughed. “I hope you did not pay too much for your armed escort. They did you little good!”

              “Please allow us to pass in peace,” I begged. “The boy has suffered enough with the death of his father not two weeks ago.”

              “You say this boy is from Nazareth?” The bandit turned to Yeshua. “What is your name, boy?”

              Yeshua was mute with fear.

              “His name is Yeshua!” I offered.

              “Let the boy speak for himself!” The bandit insisted, holding up a hand to silence me.

              “Never let others speak for you, boy. Now, again, what is your name?”

              “Yeshua.” He answered his voice barely audible, his face pale.

              The bandit moved his mount closer and peered down at the lad, his eyes narrowed with interest.

              “Was your father Yosef bar Jacob?”

              Yeshua nodded silently.

              “And your mother is Miriam bat Joachim?”

              “She is.”

              “Adonai, forgive us!” The leader exclaimed as he dismounted and dropped to the earth and bowed with humble respect to Yeshua. All of the bandits followed his example.

              The angry and challenging manner of the band of thieves evaporated. Suddenly humble and gracious, they admonished me for traveling without an adequate escort.

              “You should know better than to be traveling alone in these parts,” the leader scolded me. “There are many bandits and other desperate people about who would kill you just for your horses. You must not put the boy at such risk. He is our greatest hope. You must always assure his safety. Four guards, even professional ones are not enough security, as you have seen today. I must insist that we escort you safely to a caravan that is not far ahead on its way to Jerusalem. You must join this procession if you are to be safe. Always travel with a large and well-armed group.”

              I did not comment that this had been our plan before the bandits molested us.

              The head robber addressed Yeshua. ”Your father was a brave man and died well. Please accept our heartfelt condolences.”

              Yeshua gave me a look of complete shock and bewilderment.

              It was close to sundown before we caught up to the caravan. We had known for some time that we were getting close. The odor of sweaty men and animals and various excretions that the convoy left lingering in the air became stronger; the piles of dung on the road fresher. The tail end of the train finally came into view in the dim of the evening twilight.

              The leader of the bandits raised his arm and pointed. "There it is!" The thieves came to a halt.

              We could easily see why the villains would come no closer to the caravan. A sizable number of fierce-looking guards armed with spears and swords, maces, bows, and arrows accompanied the procession of several hundred donkeys, camels, and pedestrians.

              “Now, please excuse us as we bid you farewell.” The head bandit said as the mob quickly spun around. “May Adonai be with you!” He exclaimed.

              The bandits disappeared back into the landscape as quickly as they had first appeared, taking with them the four of our horses that the killed guards had ridden.

              Yeshua appeared visibly shaken. Death was not new in his experience, but I doubted he had ever seen anyone murdered before. I could see that the killing of our guards and the sudden change in the attitude of the bandits had Yeshua profoundly affected and confused. He remained silent, his face still pale from fear and shock. I knew I needed to have a talk with him and soon.

              After we had taken a place in the procession, we spent the remainder of the day's light passing mile after mile of olive trees, planted in groves along the road. Our first day's journey concluded with the caravan's nightly routine, the setting up of the night's encampment. As night came upon us, donkeys and camels were unloaded, tents pitched, carpets spread, fires lit, guards set, and beasts fed and watered from a nearby stream.

              Soon many campfires blazed, and after a meal, groups of travelers huddled around the fires hugging their warmth and entertained each other with conversation, debate, news, and details of elaborate adventures that provided unending amusement for the weary travelers. The first night Yeshua recited the story of Abraham to the group that surrounded our fire. A diligent student, Yeshua had committed the Torah to memory. He found an interested audience, since many in the caravan were of Hebrew descent but incompletely schooled in the Torah as well as much of their Hebrew heritage. Most could not read or write and had heard at best bits and pieces of stories handed down orally around similar campfires.

              After a time, as the fires burned low and the groups of sleepy travelers disbanded into their tents for their night’s rest, I found myself alone with Yeshua by a dwindling fire.

Chapter 4

              “Uncle,” Yeshua began as he poked the fire with a stick, “What did the bandits mean when they said I was their greatest hope and that Yosef died bravely?”

              It is time to have that talk, I told myself. "Yeshua," I began delicately, trying to frame in my mind how I might explain complex and difficult things to this young man. "I must tell you some things that you need to know and to understand. They are things no one should ask a young man of your age to grasp. I know you have advanced knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. Your mother and father taught you well, and you have committed the Torah to memory. This scholarship is commendable. There is still much you must learn that is not in the scriptures, however. If you wish to keep your mother and your brothers and sisters alive and safe, you will listen carefully to what I have to tell you. You must also swear never to tell anyone any of the things I will say to you, now and in the future."

              “Essenes don’t make oaths,” Yeshua reminded me. “Everyone knows Essenes are trustworthy.”

              “Of course,” I apologized. You are an Essene like your father Yosef was. You will have to tell me more about that sometime. First, however, I need to explain some things to you.”

              I paused, clearing my throat, at a loss for words. “Perhaps I should start by telling you a brief story.”

              Yeshua stared at me, aware of my obvious discomfort. I pressed on. "When you were about seven years old, a new Roman governor came to Judaea named Coponius. As soon as he arrived, he tried to levy additional taxes. This incited a massive rebellion led by a Galilean named Yehudah of Gamala. He proclaimed that this taxation was no better than slavery and urged the nation to refuse to register for the tax.”

              “My earthly abba, Yosef, had an uncle who was called Yehudah the Galilean from Gamala.” Yeshua interrupted, “We used to visit him and his brother Hezekiah and Yosef's father, Jacob, in Bethlehem each year when we went to the Passover festival in Jerusalem. Hezekiah had a son, also named Yehudah, who was Yosef's cousin. When I was about eight or nine, we stopped visiting Yosef's relatives."

              “Do you know why you stopped visiting them, Yeshua?” I asked.

              “When I asked my mother she told me to ask Yosef. When I asked Yosef, he did not want to talk about it. I remember they used to call them Jacob the Patriarch, Yehudah, the Galilean from Gamala, Hezekiah the Zealot and his son Yehudah the Zealot. ”

              “Did you know what a Zealot was, Yeshua?”

              “Not exactly,” Yeshua answered. “Yosef said it was someone who was not afraid to die and would serve no master except Adonai. Isn’t that true of most Jews, Uncle?”

        "Well, it's more complicated than that, Yeshua. The Zealots believe they should take military action to drive the Romans out of their country. In addition, they consider anyone who does not agree with them to be their enemy. They attack and kill any Jew that they consider cooperating with the Roman occupation."

              “What happened to them?” Yeshua asked, already appearing to have guessed the answer to his question.

              “King Herod the Great, the Roman client king, brutally crushed the revolts led by the Zealots and executed all four of those relatives of yours. That is why you stopped visiting them.”

              “Why were they executed?” Yeshua asked.

              “For their rebellion, but more so because they were Davidian princes - descendants of King David - and thus potential heirs to the throne of King David – just as you are.

“The Romans allowed Herod to crown himself as the King of the Jews but the Jews would not accept him as their king because he was not a descendant of King David, or even really a Jew, for that matter. Herod had an Arabian mother, and the Jews commonly hold that one can only be a Jew when one was born from a Jewish mother. Herod hunted and killed any descendants of David that he could find to prevent the nation from rebelling and trying to replace him with a Davidian King. Do you know that King Herod the Great tried to kill you too when you were just a few years old, and your parents had to flee with you to Egypt to save your life?”

              Yeshua looked surprised. “I knew we lived in Lake Moreots Essene Community in Egypt and stayed with Yosef’s relatives there. They never told me it was because someone was trying to kill me!”

              “I’m sure they didn’t want to frighten you,” I said. ”After Herod’s death, you returned with your parents from Egypt. It was still too dangerous to live in Judea, as Herod gave the rule of Judea to one of his sons Archelaus in his will. An immediate uprising ensued, and Archelaus killed thousands of Jews as a result. Instead of returning to Judea your family decided to go back to the Galilee, where another of Herod's sons, Antipas, ruled and who they hoped he would be less dangerous. There in the obscure Nazarene encampment of Nazareth, your family could live a quiet and safer life. Your parents still took great care to keep your identity a secret especially from the High Priest in Jerusalem and Herod's sons."

"But they shouldn't have worried about me," Yeshua said. "I don’t want to be a king or a high priest. I just want to serve Abba and be obedient to his will."

           “May I ask you something, Yeshua?”

“Of course,” Yeshua consented.

              “As you recall,” I began. “When your family traveled to Jerusalem for Passover earlier this year, just after you turned thirteen years old and became a Son of the Law, you went as an adult Jewish male to worship in the temple at Jerusalem. It was after a day’s journey on the way back to Nazareth that your parents realized that you were not with the caravan. They returned to Jerusalem looking for you. It took three days of searching before they finally found you in the temple engaged in an intense discussion of the Torah in the presence of the esteemed elders, rabbis, and priests. They were all impressed with the depth of your knowledge and understanding of the scriptures. Do you remember your reply to Yosef and Miriam when they told you how worried they were when they could not find you for three days?”

              Yeshua nodded, “I told them that they should have known I would be about my heavenly abba’s business in his house.”

              I nodded, in agreement, to what I had heard. “Yeshua, what did you mean when you said you would be about your Abba’s business?”

              “My earthly abba Yosef taught me prophecies from the scriptures to guide me in this,” Yeshua answered. “For example, it is written in the book of Isaiah:

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our Lord, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion — to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.¹

        

              "Yeshua," I tried to explain, "Isaiah was giving hope to the Jews during the Babylonian exile that Adonai would deliver them from bondage and restore their former kingdom. Isaiah spoke those words six-hundred years ago and was referring to the Persian King Cyrus as the one anointed by Adonai.”

              "That's true," Yeshua, agreed, "But Yosef said it has two meanings. The second meaning is that it predicted what would happen six-hundred years in the future when someone would help bring relief from suffering and help people to be closer to Abba. He told me that I would grow up to be such a person. All Jews should be such a person, not just me. I will not help people by controlling the money of the Temple, as a High Priest does or by making war as a king does. Those things are not important. What is important is to obey Abba and teach by example how to help people to return to Abba before The End of Days.”

              “Did Yosef mention anything about your being a prince of David and growing up to become the King of Israel?

              “He said something about this when I was very young but he stopped saying that about the time we stopped visiting his family. After that he just said I would bring comfort and hope to people and set a good example for others to follow.”

“Maybe after his relatives got killed for being Davidic princes he wanted to avoid encouraging you to pursue the Davidic throne.”

“He still told me that I had a special mission as I would bring good news to the poor and bind up the broken hearted as Isaiah foretold.”

              “So you believe this scripture speaks to you, that Adonai calls you to this mission of bringing comfort to people in the present age?”

              Yeshua nodded.

              “Yeshua, what you speak of has far-reaching implications for you which I don’t believe you fully understand yet. Are you sure that this scripture refers to you, personally?”

              Again, Yeshua nodded.

"Perhaps it does. Even so, after the demonstration of your scholarship at the Temple and your announcement that you were the one Adonai chose to fulfill this mission, or as you put it, to be ‘about your heavenly Abba's business,' the secret of your identity was disclosed. Regardless of how you see yourself and your mission, you were viewed by many others from your birth as the long anticipated Davidic prince, the rightful heir to the throne of King David, the baby that King Herod the Great feared and sought to kill, but failed to find when you escaped to Egypt."

“Yosef taught me about such a person that the Pharisees and Essenes expect to come in the future. He will be from the House of David that Adonai will choose to help him redeem Israel from captivity, return the exiled Jewish people to the Land of Israel, restore King David’s throne and the Temple in Jerusalem. He said that would be another person, not me. This king will help lead the Jewish people and the entire world to Abba. This will usher in an age of justice and peace in which nations will recognize that Abba is the only true god. Abba will resurrect the dead and create a new heaven and earth. He said the Essenes called this “The End of Days,” and there would be a battle between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness that would destroy all of the evil in the world.”

“What did your mother say about this, Yeshua?”

“My mother was raised as a Sadducee and hadn’t been taught much about the End of Days and the final battle between good and evil until she was taught by some Essenes just before she went to serve in the temple as a temple virgin. I don’t think she agreed with the Essenes but she never argued with Yosef about their differences.”

“As a Sadducee she must have been taught to not expect the expected redeeming of David’s throne.”

“Yes, but she married an Essene and her cousin Elisheba shared many beliefs with the Essenes. She taught my mother to await a future Davidian king, one the call “The Anointed One.”

“Did she believe you were to become that king?”

“That is what Elisheba told her. My mother just said that she believed Abba has a special mission for me to carry out that was the reason that I was placed on this earth. She said that Abba would reveal his will to me for this in his own time and that it was just between Abba and me. She warned me to be careful about what others might say about it.”

“Yeshua,” I said, “Many people believe that you will become this long awaited King. That is why Herod tried to kill you.

              “But King Herod is dead now,” Yeshua reminded me, “and his son Antipas doesn’t know about me.”

              “He does now,” I corrected, “but Herod Antipas is not who you need to fear most now, Yeshua.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice to a whisper. “It is the priests of the temple in Jerusalem, and especially the High Priest, Annas, who want you dead.”

              “Why?” Yeshua repeated.

              “They want you dead because, as a descendant of Aaron, you are also the rightful heir to the office of High Priest after your cousin, Yochanan. Quirinius, the Roman governor of Syria, appointed Annas as High Priest because Annas offered Quirinius the highest bribe. Just as Herod the Great had, no rightful claim to be the King, Annas also lacks a rightful claim on the office of the High Priest. As the Jewish nation never accepted them, they fear Israel will rise up against them and support anyone with a legitimate claim to the throne, or the office of High Priest. You can make both claims, Yeshua.”

              “This is not about who can make a rightful claim to power, Uncle. Only Abba has the real authority and power of righteousness and life. He gives these to whom he deems worthy to serve Him. Serving Abba is not about trying to murder rivals, it’s about being obedient to Abba’s will and to teach this to others by example.”

              “That’s not the way many other people see it, Yeshua. I must explain something to you, and you must understand me. After your family’s return home to Nazareth, my position on the Sanhedrin allowed me to monitor the repercussions of your memorable visit to the Temple. The High Priest, Annas, realized that you could be not only the King, but also the High Priest. He saw you as a great threat to his power and wealth. Annas dispatched assassins to execute you like your father’s father Jacob, his uncles, Yehudah of Gamala and Hezekiah the Zealot and your father’s cousin, Yehudah the Zealot. King Herod was not who sent the assassins this time. It was Annas. Yeshua, your father Yosef, did not die from a building accident in Sepphoris. He died defending your life.”

              Yeshua sat without moving – stunned by the realization of the true cause of his earthly father’s death. I pressed on.

            “When I learned from a contact in Jerusalem that assassins were on their way to Nazareth to kill you, I sent a warning ahead to Yosef, but there was not enough time to flee. Yosef and a group of other men ambushed the would-be assassins and killed them to the last man. Your father, Yosef, died in that fight. The reason that it was necessary for you to leave Nazareth immediately was that, as long as you were there, your life, and the life of your whole family was in great danger. As we speak, Annas and his inner circle of the Temple elite must be wondering why there has been no word back from the assassins. It is just a matter of time before Annas sends another larger and more determined group to Nazareth. If they were to catch you there, it would put you and your family in great peril. Now that you are no longer there your family will hopefully be left in peace."

            Yeshua remained silent.

          "This was the real reason why you had to leave immediately and come with me." I continued. "I will smuggle you aboard one of my trading ships that even now readies to weigh anchor at the port of Yafo and set sail for Albion, a land far to the north at the edge of the known world. In a few weeks, we will be far beyond the reach of anyone wishing to do you harm."

              I tried to brighten my tone. “Think of this as a great opportunity for adventure, for seeing the world! As you accompany me on my trading voyages, I will teach you how to become a wealthy and influential merchant. The best way to protect your family from the rich and powerful is to become even richer and more powerful than they are. I have powerful friends all the way up to Caesar in Rome and the High Priest and Governors of Judea and the Galilee. I hold a seat of honor on the Sanhedrin, the Seat of David. I possess a passport that allows me to travel anywhere in the world, and a fleet of ships to take me there.

              "You must keep out of sight until we are well at sea and far from the Galilee and Judea. I have seen to it that your mother and family are well looked after. When the time is right for you to return safely, you may rejoin them."

              Yeshua’s face was grim. “Who were the men who helped Yosef fight the assassins?”

              “You met them today, Yeshua. They were the bandits. Two of those men, Jacob and Simeon, were sons of Yosef’s cousin Yehudah of Gamala. Their manners changed when the realized they were robbing the future King of Israel, the one who Adonai will choose and anoint to throw out the Romans from their promised land!”

              "I didn't recognize them," Yeshua said. "They were older than me, and I didn't play with them when we visited in Bethlehem. I mostly played with their dog."

              "Well, they didn’t recognize you either at first, Yeshua," I replied. "But it didn’t take them long to realize who you are! You see, you are part of a vast history and extended family that has been at war with Rome and internal Jewish corruption for a long time. No matter what Yosef taught you or how you see yourself, you must understand how others see you. You carry the hope of many people for a new and better life under the rule of Adonai. Unfortunately, if you listen to these people you will end up dead, just like Yosef’s relatives. Our first priority right now is to make sure you stay alive. The rest we will figure out in time.”

              “Was Yosef a ... bandit?”

              "No, he wasn't a bandit. Had he been, he might not have died. He was not an experienced fighter like them. It was probably for this reason that he was the only member of his band killed that night. He was strong, brave and ferocious, and skilled in the use of all sorts of knives and other tools that he used in his daily work as a builder. He had no experience, however, in using the blade for the killing of other men. He was no match for a group of professional killers. He did have friends and more than one relative in his extended family who were so-called ‘bandits, ' and he had appealed to them for help. They don't consider themselves to be bandits, actually, but ‘Freedom Fighters,’ resisting the Roman occupation of their promised land and oppressing their people.”

              “If they weren’t bandits why did they steal our horses?” Yeshua asked.

              “Well, most freedom fighters become partly bandits too,” I tried to explain. “It’s a hazard of the occupation.”

              Yeshua, frowned, not sure, he was satisfied with this explanation.

              “The long tradition in your father’s family of resisting Roman occupation, the corrupt Temple priestly elite, and Roman puppet Kings,” I continued, “has long been shared by the Galilee in general.

              Yeshua listened intently – a look of concern on his young face.

“Unfortunately, the methods used by the Zealots have always ended with the same result…being killed by the Romans or their puppets. You must not make the same mistakes as they did, Yeshua. You must be smarter than they were. I will teach you how to own the Romans, temple priests and puppet kings. It is suicide to take them on directly by force. A smarter strategy is to own them, to outsmart them through commerce. That is where the real earthly power lies. Money is not only what feeds politics but also the aristocratic Temple priesthood in Jerusalem. It is a sad but true reality.”

              "Does my mother know about these things?" Yeshua asked.

              "Yes, Yeshua, I had to tell her. It was the only way she would have let you go with me."

              Yeshua looked wounded. "Why would Abba allow such a thing to happen to Yosef and my family?"

              "I don't know," I answered honestly. "That is the sort of question we all find ourselves asking from time to time. Job found himself wondering the same thing many times in his life."

              Yeshua nodded solemnly, staring at the ground, remembering this story from the ancient Hebrew Scriptures.

         “Job remained faithful to Abba and did not curse him, no matter what suffering Satan visited upon him.” Yeshua recounted the ancient story.

              “But the story of Job does not answer the question of why Adonai allows Satan to do these things," I commented.

              “No, it doesn’t” Yeshua agreed. “But Yosef taught me that Abba will defeat Satan in the “End of Days. He said that until then the wicked will continue to be rewarded with wealth and power and the righteous will be poor and suffer.”

              “I am an obedient Sadducee whom Adonai has entrusted with wealth and power." I pointed out. "I am not given these by Satan but entrusted with them by Adonai so that I may have the means to glorify and serve Him. I serve him now as I protect you from the forces of darkness that seek to take your life.”

              Yeshua sat in silent contemplation.

              “So what do you say?” I asked. “Shall we sail to Albion?”

              "I will go with you and learn what you have to teach me," He agreed. "But when the time is right, I will resume being about Abba's business, by helping to bring comfort to the sons of Adam and help them to return to a closer relationship with Abba before the End of Days and the rule of Abba on earth."

           “If and when that time comes, you can count on me to help you do just that!” I assured. “We will stop only briefly in Jerusalem before passing on to the port at Yafo and board one of my ships that will be waiting for us. Tell no one of our plans or our destinations. Your family does not know where we are going. It is much safer for them to know nothing."

              We bedded down for the night on beds of fur with lamb’s wool blankets. Silence fell upon the camp, and scarcely a sound broke the stillness.

              It seemed like we had just gotten to sleep when, an hour or so before sunrise, a cacophony of sounds assaulted our ears. Laden beasts groaned as their drivers lashed more weight onto their backs. The neighing of horses, braying of asses, stamping, kicking, and squealing of mules all added to the orchestral babel.

              When the captain stepped forth, everyone followed. Bells tinkled, banners flew, spears flashed, turbans nodded, and children laughed. The shrill rousing ululations of hundreds of women assured that no one was still sleeping. All the while, men begged for the blessing of Adonai as the dawn of another day flashed across the sky.

              We had caught up with the caravan in the Jezreel Valley. The crossing of this fertile swath of land would be the easiest part of our journey. The vast region provided convenient passage for international travelers and was a principal thoroughfare from the Mediterranean Sea to the Jordan River and Egypt. The fertile alluvial soil made this the country's breadbasket. It also made it the largest source of tax revenue.  

              The caravan moved slowly and stopped frequently. Whenever we came upon a city or sizable village, drums, trumpets, horns, tambourines, and loud cries announced our arrival. Aggressive self-promotion was a timeless attribute of these nomadic merchants. They brought news from distant places as well as goods to trade and were thus heartily welcomed. At the same time, local beggars and prostitutes who were just as tenacious and persistent in plying their trades inundated the caravan. It could take over a week for this caravan to amble the ninety-mile distance to Jerusalem. Still, it was worth the security it provided, and we had no other option than to take a position in the train. Most of the travelers in the column were on their way to Egypt from Mesopotamia. For such a long journey, the caravan used donkeys and camels to transport goods, young children, women, the elderly, and the infirm. Most others walked. We were among the privileged few who rode on horseback.

              It had been a month since the Passover, and several weeks since Yosef bar Jacob’s death. It was now mid-May. The heat was intensifying, and the rain would soon cease for the next five months. The grass had begun to wither, the flowers to fade away in the lowlands, and the harvesting of the golden wheat had begun. The spring fruits were ready, the green almonds, apricots, plums, and the vines were in blossom. The greenery would linger a few weeks longer in the highlands. By June, the highlands too, for the most part, would become barren and parched.

              "I know every nook and crag of this road to Jerusalem," Yeshua bragged, "including the history of the regions it traverses. My family walked this road many times on pilgrimages to all kinds of festivals. If we could only manage one trip in a year, we would never miss the feast of Passover. We always traveled together with the Essenes and other families from Nazareth and tried to arrive in Jerusalem a week before Passover. The Essene pilgrims all dressed in white and carried weapons, forming a caravan large enough that we did not fear bandits as we walked the roads over the hills and valleys between Nazareth and Jerusalem."

              Yeshua made no further reference to bandits or our encounter with them. As we passed through the valley, he spotted pink-backed pelican and yellow-billed storks. When we passed a reservoir of water, he told us where the white-headed and marbled ducks congregated in the winter and where to find the red-footed falcons in the fall. He talked eagerly about where the spotted honey buzzards could be located, especially in the first half of September, as well as various spotted eagles and Levant sparrow hawks. He talked on and on but seemed to avoid mentioning our deadly encounter that morning as we descended the hill from Nazareth.

              The caravan’s march continued until the sun reached an altitude that made it too hot to proceed. We then heard the captain’s whistle signal the midday halt. The spot chosen was shady, where a grove of olive trees offered the prospect of protection from the searing solar heat. A deep well provided fresh water for the entire caravan and their beasts. There was no time to pitch any tents. Everyone sat or lay on the ground in the densest shade that could be found, and rested, chatted, took some slight refreshment, or indulged in a short nap.

              Before long, we heard the signal to resume the march. Then the conditions were less pleasant. The sun burned overhead; the air glowed and quivered as if the land were an oven. Our bodies were weary, our limbs were heavy, and our mouths were parched and full of dust. The hours dragged on until the sun at last declined, lost its fiery heat, and suddenly set, bringing the night with its bite of bitter cold.

              We stopped for the day at the foot of the Ascent of Gur that we would climb the next morning as we made our way into the hilly terrain of Samaria.

              At the second night's encampment, the group encouraged Yeshua to continue his storytelling from the Torah. That evening, by the fire, he told the story of Moses leading the Jews out of slavery in Egypt to the Promised Land. As we huddled close to the fire, the stars shone in the vast sky above us, and the still cold darkness enveloped us. I imagined that we were there with Moses, wandering through the wilderness.