I must have edited Chapter 1 a thousand times, but I think it starts the story off too slowly so I amputated the whole chapter. I think it has a better, faster-paced start now. Below is the new beginning of the story. What do you think?
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 afraid, 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 feet descending 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.”
“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 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 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. Two women, and five children, two boys and three girls … seven. Lastly, the stooped frame of the old man trudged down the plank to the wharf. 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 took 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 Yafo 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 long dining table wearing a long, sky-blue silk robe, his face, and head 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, Vitellius’s men butchered them. He then reported that I had given the order, and it was my men who 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 don’t 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.
