This story was originally published in the May 2025 edition of History Through Fiction.

An eastern wind blew hot sand through the market, and the various traders pulled canvas covers over the entrances to their shops. It was a typically muted day in Nazareth, a small village nestled in the hills of northern Galilee.

Yeshua stood near the edge of the market, his face wrapped in a shawl. His white hair was tied back with a small piece of rope, and he leaned on his staff as he soaked in the low clamor of men bartering and shekels changing hands.

He usually avoided the marketplace on Fridays; it was busiest the day before the Sabbath, and he was rarely able to enjoy the hum of the market without being beset by visitors. However, the hot season brought fewer travelers, and he appreciated the anonymity whenever he could get it.

The market was set up just south of the synagogue where Yeshua had given his first sermon decades earlier. He didn’t preach there anymore; his acceptance was still a hotly debated topic among the temple priests. Most of the devout who came to see Yeshua pitched their tents outside his house, waiting intently to hear him deliver a message before attending synagogue in the evening, where they would fill the collection plates. This unwritten arrangement created a precarious peace between Yeshua and the temple rabbis, a coexistence of differing theologies.

Yeshua never bought anything in the market. His needs were few, and he knew that any purchase would be scrutinized. Favoring one shop over another would cause all manner of controversy. People brought him what he needed, though he never asked. Declining gifts was perceived as rejecting that person’s righteousness, so Yeshua always accepted and redistributed what he didn’t need to Galilee’s poor.

He saw an excited group of pilgrims skirting the market, and he stepped quietly into a wine tent. The tent vendor started toward him, but stopped when he saw the face under the shawl, bowing his head in reverence as he returned to his stool. The shopkeeper knew him, of course; everyone in Nazareth did, though they respected him enough to give him his space unless they were called on. Yeshua was still fiercely lionized by many, even if he didn’t draw the same following he once did.

His mind wandered back to almost forty years earlier, when he was a prisoner in Jerusalem during the Passover festival. He considered how different things might have been if he had been the one executed on the hill that day­­—perhaps his legacy would be more substantial if God had not removed the cup from him when it looked like death was inevitable. In a way it would have made things easier, a fitting conclusion to all he preached.

Before things became divided.

Before his disciples went their own way.

When the crowd was given the choice between Yeshua and the despised bandit Barabbas, God spared him. They crucified Barabbas on Calvary with the thieves while Yeshua was allowed to walk right out the city gates.

His apostles saw him being spared as an incontrovertible sign from Yahweh, the defining moment when Yeshua would raise an army to defeat the Roman occupation, fulfilling the prophecies of their ancestors. They expected him to relocate to Jerusalem, ignite a redemptive movement, and bring to fruition the work started by the Zealots for the Jewish people.

When Yeshua refused, all but one of his closest disciples left to marshal the rebellion. They were long dead, each ruthlessly executed by the empire. Yeshua would have given his life for any one of them, even after everything that transpired.

Yeshua had always emphasized in his teachings that his ambitions were not political. Swords and spears would never achieve his goals; he came to soften men’s hearts, not coarsen them. But some men needed sharp edges, and he had made peace with that long ago.

On a wooden stand by the entrance were bottles of water labeled ‘miracle wine,’ sold as either a tongue-in-cheek gift or a religious souvenir, depending on the patron’s level of piety. Yeshua picked one up and turned it over in his hands, sighing deeply as he gently laid it back on the table.                                                                                                                                         

Yeshua nodded his thanks to the shopkeeper, who avoided his gaze, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He left the wine tent and discreetly approached the back of the market, where a hooded man was waiting with a donkey.

“Judas, my brother,” Yeshua said, taking the rein with his free hand. He paused before mounting the donkey.

“Do you still believe I am who I say I am?”

Judas leaned over and kissed his master’s cheek.

“Yes, Lord. Of course I do.”