I try to imagine what it must have been like, that Passover Sabbath 2000 years ago, how His disciples must have felt; how His Mother must have felt. There was no Sader that Friday night, as the Sabbath began. Rather, John, Joseph of Arimathea, Mary His mother, and Mary Magdalene, along with a few others, spent the early evening taking the Teacher’s body down from the cross, carrying Him to a place of death and preparing Him for burial.
When the hour arrived, according to the law, they ceased their work and left Him , their preparations incomplete. They returned to the upper room where they joined the others in hiding.
He was dead, a fact that was undeniable.
No one spoke above a whisper, but they huddled together in fear for their lives, wondering what would come next.
In my upcoming novel, the fourth and final book of the Gray Empire series, whose working title is, “Holy Blood,” I paint the scene in this way:
A fist hammered the door, three brutal strikes that shook dust from the lintel and rattled the bar in its iron brackets. The kind of blows only a Roman gauntlet could deliver.
There was a collective gasp, and several of the women cried out as the room collapsed into the terrified silence that follows a scream.
Peter’s eyes found John across the flickering half-light. Neither man breathed.
The hammering came again, harder, each blow a sentence of death against the thick oak planks.
Then a voice, commanding, accustomed to obedience, cut through the wood: “Open up! It is I, Longinus, Exactor Mortis. Give me entry. I must speak with you!”
Peter rose. His legs carried him toward the door the way a condemned man mounts the scaffold, one deliberate step after another, each one a small act of will. He gripped the bar, lifted it, and barely cleared the slot before the door exploded inward.
A centurion filled the doorway. He shouldered past Peter, checking the narrow street behind him before hauling the door shut and slamming the bar home. Then he stood motionless, blinking against the dim constellation of candle flames, letting the faces in the room resolve from shadow.
He did not recognize the broad-shouldered fisherman beside him. But his gaze caught John, huddled near the wall with the older woman whose grief at the cross had been so raw it unnerved him. He spoke quietly, almost gently.
“I seek Joseph. The one who secured the Teacher’s body from Pilate.”
Joseph’s breath hitched. He knew this man. The officer who had commanded the execution squad. The one who received Pilate’s order and handed the body over without protest. The one who had gripped the opposite end of the crossbeam as they eased it down, his knuckles white with the weight of it. The one who stood back afterward, face streaked with the Lord’s blood and said what none of them had dared hope a Roman would ever say: Truly this man was the Son of God.
Joseph stood before him now, his voice came thin and dry.
“I am Joseph.”
Recognition softened the hard lines of the centurion’s face, but only for a moment.
“I have come to warn you. The high priest has loosed the temple guards. They are searching the city for you now. You must flee before they find this place.”
The blood drained from Joseph’s face.
Longinus swept his gaze across the room. “Is there one here called Lazarus?”
Lazarus glanced left and right as though the name might belong to someone else. Then, slowly, he rose.
“I am Lazarus.”
“They want you as well.” Longinus let the words land before he continued. “They want you dead, and they want the Teacher’s body.” He turned back to Joseph. “They will put you to the question until you tell them where He lies.”
“But —” Joseph’s mouth worked, but no argument formed.
“You must both leave the city tonight. Go into hiding.”
“Where?” Joseph spread his hands. “I have lived here all my life. I sit on the ruling council. Where would I —”
Lazarus said nothing. He stood as if struck, his face blank with shock.
Peter stepped forward, his jaw tight. “Why? Why are they so desperate for the body of our Lord? They’ve already killed Him. He’s dead.”
The last word cracked like a stone flung against a wall, bitter, furious, final. Peter braced himself for a backhand, or worse.
Instead, a single tear caught the candlelight at the corner of the centurion’s eye.
Into the silence, Mary Magdalene rose to her feet.
“I know why.” Her voice carried a strange, steady authority that stilled every whisper in the room. “Because the Lord told them He would rise from death in three days.” She paused, and something fierce kindled behind her eyes. “They are afraid of Him.”
No one spoke. The candle flames swayed in a draft no one felt, and around the room, faces changed, lips parting, brows lifting, as one by one the disciples began to remember what He had promised them.
Mary turned to Lazarus, her voice gentle now, practical.
“You can go to my parents in Magdala. They will never think to look for you there.”
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