By Jacques Brown | Category :: Story

The room was small and dilapidated. The furniture was old and rough. It looked not at all like the place where they had their fine supper last night, and he had been humiliated by accidentally dipping his hands into the bowl at the same time as the master. How was he to know? He had been caught unawares. Now he was alone in the room and all the others had gone out to the gardens where he was to join them later.

The room was small and dark and dusty. He sat on a rough hewn chair with his elbows propped up on the table, and his head resting in his arms. His long dark hair was spread out over his handsome face as he bent his head forward and thought. He was battling with a small moral principle of right-and-wrong somewhere deep in his mind and his thoughts.

The man seemed to have become arrogant and filled with self-importance since he first met him all those years ago. Then they had been good friends, now he was known as ‘the master’ and ‘the teacher’. This peeved him. Extremely. Then there was the matter of Maria Magdalena, and all that had happened between the three of them all those years ago. He thought of her a while, and smiled a bitter smile to himself in the darkness of the gloomy room.

Why was it that he hated the man so as of late? Why was it so? Why was it so? He wondered as he turned a wooden he cup in his hands on the rough surface of the table. Miracle-schmiracle, he thought to himself. And Peter followed him around everywhere like a puppy; it made him sick. Stuff this all-for-one, and one-for-all story.

Chiapas had offered him a handsome sum through an agent. "Tell me more," he had said to the man. He was surely tempted. Very tempted. He needed the money because he had in mind purchasing a spot of land near Galilee, where he wanted to put up a home. The money would come in handy to bring this dream to fruition. Then there was the fact that he had developed a sudden dislike of the man.

He got up suddenly and walked to the door. He opened it and walked out to the dusty street outside. It was milling with morning traffic and pedestrians. His cloak was of-white and tread-bare as it clung to his thin body. He walked down the street lost deep in thought and turned the corner, then following the road that led to the temple and the market.

Doves played on the side walk, and scooted from beneath his feet as he walked on down the lane…

By Jacques Brown | Aug 11, 2016 | Category > Story > Historical Fiction | Comments | Views 708


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