First Post and First Two Chapters

   Ok, I decided to dive in finally, without knowing a thing about blogging.  I borrowed a book about how to blog but never got around to reading it, so I'm starting out at point zero and letting things find their own way.
   That's how I started writing my first work of fiction, The Merchant of Arimathea, and the method seems to have served me well so far.
   Now, however, I'm ready for some help in finishing this novel and wish to get some feedback.
   I will try and figure out how to post a few chapters to start things off.
   I will try a cut and paste of the first two chapters.  Here goes:

  

The Merchant of Arimathea

H Joseph Horacek, Jr

Pre-Publication Manuscript

For Editing

January 8, 2017

Copyright 2017

All rights reserved

Part I

The Great Nephew

Chapters 1 - 21

Part II

The Great Mission

Chapters 22 - 30

Part III

The Wars

Chapters 31 - 38

Preface

Many of the names of persons and places in the story are expressed in Aramaic or the original native language of their time and place. Below are the Aramaic and later Greek, Latin, or English versions of the names of main characters and places.

Aramaic, Hebrew,                Greek, Latin,

Latin or English                    or English

Translation                            Translation

Yosef                                       Joseph

Josephus                                  Joseph

Miriam                                                Mary

Yeshua                                    Jesus

Jacob                                       James

Simeon                                    Simon

Yochanan                                John

Zechariah                                Zacharias

Elisheba                                  Elizabeth

Yehudah                                  Judas

Marta                                      Martha

Rut                                          Ruth

Clopas                                     Cleopas

Gavri'el                                   Gabriel

Eleazor                                    Lazarus

Mattityahu                              Matthew

Paulos                                     Paul

Adonai                                    Lord, in place of YHWH, the name of God

Yosef bar Jacob                      Joseph son of Jacob

Iyshay                                     Jesse

Britannia                                 Britain

Albion                                     Britain

Abba                                       Father

Yafo                                        Jaffa

Melita                                     Malta

Arimathea                               Ramathaim-Zophim

Yavrucha                                Mandrake

Massilia                                  Marseille

Gaul                                        France

Ictis                                         St Michael’s Mount

Hispania                                  Spain

Belerium                                 Land’s End, Cornwall

Camulodunum                        Colchester

Parthia                                     Iran and Pakistan

Sinae                                       China

Isle of Glass                            Glastonbury

Sea of Atlantis                        Atlantic Ocean

Straits of Hercules                  Straits of Gibraltar

We end our years, as a story told.

Psalms 90:9

Prologue

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

            Who are you?” The old man called out, but his voice made no sound.

I am Gavri'el.

He heard the words spoken from inside of his mind.

Then he was the angel.

Your prayer has been heard, Elisheba.

Part I

The Great Nephew

Chapter 1

A quiet desolation swept over an isolated rock mesa on the Southeastern edge of the Judean desert. The eighteen-acre mesa supported a well-defended palatial citadel. The vast wasteland fifteen hundred feet below seemed to stretch forever in every direction. To the east, the Dead Sea melted into a hazy blue-gray sky; to the west, the horizon glowed orange under the setting sun.

The old man stood atop the fortress wall. His gaze drifted from the horizon into the canyon below. At the base of the mesa, a fever of activity broke the mesmerizing stillness. Even his ancient clouded eyes could make no mistake about what they saw. Deep in the canyon two-thousand slaves strained against thick taught ropes threaded through massive wooden pulleys. On the other ends of the cables, a fifty-ton Roman siege tower creaked and groaned as it inched up a nine-hundred-foot-tall newly-built ramp of rock and earth on its way to a point on the wall just beneath where the old man stood. Seven weeks of backbreaking toil building the ramp was finally culminating that day with whips cracking, slaves moaning, and mounting exhaustion. As the sun approached the horizon, the tower made its final approach to contact the massive defensive wall.

A hundred sweaty, sunburnt Legionnaires moved as one body to grab hold of a huge ramming post suspended within the tower. The soldiers pulled back, then pushed, pulled, pushed. The bronze ram's head adorning the front of the post swung forward with each push to impact the twelve-foot-thick, eighteen-foot-high wall of stone. Each impact sent a percussive thunder rumbling through the canyons. Each blow added an almost imperceptible increment of movement to the enormous, seemingly immovable blocks. The ram pounded all night, then all day, all night.

It was nearly dawn. Pink-tinged feathered clouds appeared in a blood-streaked sky as the first stone fell from the wall. The soldiers manning the ram whooped and shouted, then doubled their efforts. At the base of the ramp, the Tenth Roman Legion made ready for the assault. As the blazing sun breached the horizon, the wall gave way. Five thousand voices of the Legion rose together in a single roar as the first soldiers poured into the compound ready for a fierce battle. Instead, they found an eerie silence and not a soul in sight. In the middle of the empty plaza, the charcoaled remains of an enormous bonfire smoldered, its embers still glowing red. Nothing moved except the wind. Each gust stirred the embers, firing them up until they roared and cracked like dry bones. Overhead black ravens slowly circled in the blue morning sky.

The Legion stood at attention as the commander, Flavius Silva, entered the compound through the breach in the wall. Even dressed in full battle armor, he was a slender, even slightly gaunt man in his thirties, clean-shaven with closely cropped sandy hair and blue-grey eyes. Silva cast a puzzled look at the vacant plaza. He walked slowly across the compound flanked by his lieutenants. They came upon a row of storage buildings that the rebels had converted into living quarters. He slowly pushed a door open and led the way inside, his eyes seeing only darkness as he left the sunlight outside. A sweet, metallic scent pervaded the small compartment, an odor the veteran warrior knew too well. A soldier brought a flaming torch from outside. The flames cast a yellow flickering light into the living space revealing a mother, father, and six children lying on the plaster floor, their throats cut, each soaking in a pool of their congealing blood. The soldier holding the torch gagged.

Taking the small, lifeless hand of a child in his, the commander frowned … Still warm…. could not be dead for more than a few hours. He took the torch from the gagging soldier and held it high. Clean… their finest clothes…hair neatly groomed. For a brief moment, his face betrayed a sad countenance. He then stood, turned abruptly, and handing the torch back to the soldier, strode outside back into the brilliant sunlight. “I want a thorough search of this fortress immediately and a count of the living and the dead,” he commanded.

            A systematic search of the fortress found nearly a thousand bodies, all dressed in their best, with their families, every throat slit in the same way, every corpse drained of its blood onto the floor. Apparently, the nine-hundred-and-seventy Jewish rebels that had defended the fortress for the previous four years had all perished in the same way.

            The soldiers continued to scour the compound for any signs of life. They found none until a soldier opened the door to a large water storage cistern. Peering down the stairs into the dark wet space, he called out, "Is anyone in there?" To his surprise, he heard a quiet gasp and a splash of water. "Come out now or remain forever in your grave!" He threatened. "We are locking this door!"

            Obeying the soldier’s command, the captives clambered up the rock steps and out of the cistern. The brilliant sunlight blinded them as they emerged from the cold subterranean darkness of the storage tank. Huddling together, dripping wet, and trembling, the Rebels looked as fierce as half-drowned kittens. The soldier counted seven survivors: two women, one of advanced age, the second younger, and five children, two boys and three girls.

            The soldiers herded the small band of survivors onto the plaza where Commander Silva stood waiting to interrogate them. Not much to show for seven weeks of a siege! He grumbled to himself as he eyed the totality of the, “Prisoners of War,” that was all he return he could claim from his long siege of the mighty citadel. The old woman was petite with brown, calloused hands and hair as white as lamb’s fleece. Her face, deeply etched as the canyons below, 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 soldiers just laughed at her bravado and responded with lewd invitations. The younger children, small and pale, peered from beneath a woolen blanket with the eyes of so many frightened fawns just getting their first glimpse of violence and death.

            “Bring me something to write with and something to write upon!” Silva shouted to no one in particular. Several soldiers ran about searching the compound but came up empty handed.

“There is not a stick of furniture, parchment or ink to be found anywhere in the fortress, Sir!” A Centurion apologized, “It appears that the rebels burned everything of potential use or value. The Romans had observed the glow and smoke of a great fire throughout the previous night, and had wondered what could have been burning so continuously.

“Well, then, get me something from the camp!” Silva complained, “Or do you expect me to stand here all day!” The Commander had an impatient weariness evident in his voice. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

At length a soldier ran up the ramp, out of breath and carrying a small writing table and bench. Silva then sat down with a sigh, and gestured to bring the prisoners to him as preparing to make a list of their names for the record.

            "What is your name? Who or what killed your people?" Silva asked each one, but they all answered his questions with only blank stares.

            A legion physician examined the captives. “These people appear to be in various states of confusion, Sir. When they recover from this condition, they can be questioned more productively.”

            Silva tossed the empty list on the table. “Prepare the prisoners for transport to Rome for a thorough interrogation.” He knew the official historian of the Jewish-Roman wars, Flavius Josephus, would certainly want a detailed explanation as to why the siege found the nine hundred and seventy rebel defenders of Masada so mysteriously dead.

            The seven unnamed prisoners squeezed into a small ox-drawn wagon with two large solid wooden wheels. Six guards prepared to accompany the cart down the steep siege ramp to the road below.

            Silva ordered the immediate incineration of all rebel corpses. As the dead were stacked and readied for the flaming pyre, a soldier noted a stirring among the bodies. The soldier produced the still stuporous ancient white-bearded man.

"Commander Silva!" A Centurion cried out. "We found this one still alive in a pile to be burned. We almost burned him alive!"

           “What is his name?” The commander asked as he prepared to write the name of the thin, frail man.

           “He cannot give us any information, sir, not even his name. He is unconscious, just barely alive. I don’t think he’s going to make it. What do you want us to do with him?”

           “Stop that cart!” Silva barked.

           “Halt!” the Centurion repeated in a loud shout. The cart, which had just begun its departure, jolted to a stop.

          "Throw the old man in with the other prisoners," Silva ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Let Rome sort out who he is if he lives." The soldiers added the limp, still unconscious old man to the already full cart.

           “Go with them,” Silva commanded the Centurion. “I’m putting you in charge of getting them to Rome. They are your responsibility. Make sure they get there alive and able to explain who they are, what happened here, and why it happened!”

            The ox and cart, with its prisoners, Centurion, and six guards, proceeded to descend the ramp and depart the mountain stronghold. The cart jostled its passengers as it bumped and lurched along the rocky dirt footpath that was the road to the seaport of Yafo. The Rome-bound travelers followed the narrow beaten path overland from Masada up the eighty-seven mile, four-thousand-foot ascent to Hebron. Another eighteen miles brought them to the charred ruins of what had been Jerusalem until three years before when the Tenth Legion laid siege to the city and destroyed everything, leaving not one stone standing upon another. Even the Temple, the "Holy of Holies," Adonai’s dwelling place on earth was no more. The conquerors had even dug up all of its charred foundations. The prisoners stared blankly as if in disbelief as they passed near the devastation that had been their holy city, the fulcrum of their political, economic lives, the heart, and soul of the nation of Adonai’s chosen people.

           Jerusalem now showed no trace of its former grandeur. It was as if it had never existed. The only structure left intact was the massive fortress Antonia that garrisoned the five-thousand soldiers of Rome’s Tenth Legion. Commander Titus had spared this structure with its twenty-three acre stone foundation and left it to dwell alone, to tower over the complete devastation as a monument to Rome’s conquest. The Jewish-Roman war was now over. Rome had won. The Jews had lost. “The Redeemer King,” “The Chosen One,” “The Anointed One, the Messiah,” who would to lead them to victory had not appeared. No one spoke as the cart bumped and jolted the final descent westward to the Judean coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Even when they stopped to repair one of the cart's wheels that had fallen off, the passengers sat speechlessly, covered like a blanket with a silent, melancholy despair.

They finally arrived at Yafo. There they waited on a dock to board a one hundred and forty-foot merchant vessel that sat low in the water, laden with two hundred tons of Egyptian grain. The grain was bound for the Roman market; the prisoners for interrogation in the Roman court.

The old man had not yet revived from his death-like slumber and lay next to the other prisoners who, like him, were chained to the dock.

           While they waited, the Centurion went about requisitioning the necessary supplies for the voyage. He assembled tents, bedding, and mattresses. The soldiers hauled all this to a dockside inn for storage. The Centurion deferred the purchase of a supply of food until the last minute before departure, as it would stay fresh for only about a week. As the time of departure drew near, the soldiers loaded the supplies, and the party boarded. The captain assigned each passenger a position on the deck to pitch a tent at night. The tents were to protect them from rain and ocean spray. If the wind became severe, however, everyone would get wet.

            The departure time was subject to certain conditions. Not only did the wind and weather have to be favorable, but the ship’s captain also had to heed any warning “signs.” Ominous dreams, in which the dreamer saw muddy water, a house key, or an anchor, would delay the sailing. If anyone happened to dream of a goat before boarding, that would be bad; a black goat portended almost certain disaster. Wild boars were worse than goats, but not as bad as bulls. If a bull gored the dreamer in a nightmare, a shipwreck would be inevitable. When the captain was finally able to rule all of these dangers out, the crew weighed the anchor and the ship set sail.

Chapter 2

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 Pomegranate Picker!”

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 a 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. His head 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.