Prologue
Hermione, the daughter of Philip the Evangelist, quietly knocked on the old disciple’s cedar door in the middle of the night, looking around warily to make sure no one had followed her through the moon-lit streets of Hierapolis. The door slowly creaked open, and a bearded man peered out into the darkness, straining with failing eyes to see the shadowy figure at his door.
“Greetings. Who’s there? I have no money, pilgrim, but I have bread and life that I can share with you, if you are in need,” he proclaimed honestly and happily.
The woman reached out and touched his forearm. “Aristion, it’s me—Hermione.”
Hearing her name, Aristion beamed and hugged her joyfully. “Oh, sister! It’s been too long. Come in—come in,” he replied, pulling her inside the old house.
He led her to the ancient oak table that filled the room, and the two sat down. Aristion lit two oil lamps and placed them nearby, smiling as he saw Hermione’s familiar face illuminated like an angel.
Hermione ran her hands lightly over the table and said, “I can’t believe you still have the Master’s Table. It’s—it’s so beautiful. I feel like He’s sitting here with us.”
Aristion took her hand and squeezed it lovingly. “He is here, Hermione. He’s never left us, just as He promised.”
Noticing the tears in her eyes, he asked, “What’s brought you here, daughter? What’s wrong?” Hermione began to tremble as she wept, fighting to regain her composure. Aristion patted her shoulder comfortingly while he waited for her to speak.
Taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes, Hermione replied, “It’s Papias. They executed him, Pater.”
Aristion slumped back, his heart burning in anguish over the death of his beloved brother in the faith. “He warned us this would happen,” the old man said softly, his voice trembling. “The darkness loathes the light,” he added, pulling a bigger lamp over to the center of the table.
“The Romans took Polycarp as well,” she said, crying again. “Why won’t they leave us alone? He was just a sweet, old man—they both were,” she lamented, her body shaking in sorrow.
Aristion stood up and grabbed a blanket from the bed in the corner, wrapping it around Hermione’s shoulders. “Do not despair, sister,” he said, sitting down. “Yeshua foretold this, didn’t He? And what did brother John say about it in his gospel?”
Hermione replied knowingly, “Jesus said, ‘If they persecuted Me, they will persecute you as well.’”
“Correct. And we are not the first. Your father, Stephen, James, Peter, Paul, Matthew, Thomas—they were all slain because they loved God—Jesus—more than the world. But it’s not over. In fact, it’s just beginning. So have faith. We’ve been redeemed. We will all be restored to life when He comes again,” Aristion said, sliding the candles together.
“I still believe,” Hermione responded, pulling out a bundle of books from underneath her cloak. “Papias gave these to me the night before he was arrested and told me to take them to you, Aristion.”
He leaned forward and reverently touched the stack of books. “All five? They’re all here?” he said, his eyes wide in wonder and his hands trembling in excitement as he held the precious papyrus codices bound in leather.
“Yes. Papias wanted you to keep them—and to protect them—since you were so instrumental in their composition and compilation,” Hermione said, a contented smile returning to her face. She pushed the stack over to Aristion and asked, “How long has it been since you heard their testimonies, old friend?”
Aristion opened the biggest book and smiled sweetly, reading the Beloved Disciple’s unrecorded discourse on some miracles not mentioned in his gospel or in the three other accounts. His heart pounded as he found the apostle’s description of Jesus healing the foot of an unnamed young man bleeding out from an axe wound, remembering the sharp pain and gushing blood in his foot disappearing in an instant under the touch of the Healer’s hand, even though seventy years had passed. Running his fingers along the other testimonies, he noticed the age spots on the back of his hand and replied, “So long ago that my hands had no wrinkles, young daughter of Eve.”
Hermione giggled but then gasped as they both stopped and listened guardedly when they heard soldiers marching in the distance. Without a word, Aristion scooped up the five-volume collection and darted over to a nearby inner wall of the house under construction. He quickly wrapped the books in linen and then carefully placed them deep inside a hole in the wall before sealing it up with several blocks and rocks, tossing dry dirt against the opening to camouflage its presence.
Aristion returned to the Master’s Table, sitting down with a sigh. After a moment of contemplation, he brought out some bread and wine from a cabinet behind him to share with Hermione. “Just in case we get called home tonight,” he whispered, pouring them both a cup of wine and breaking the bread in half to share, praying the soldiers’ footsteps would pass them by for just another day, God-willing. Preparing their hearts for the sacraments, they both yearned to have the Good Shepherd sitting among them once again and wondered how long they would have to wait before seeing Him at last.
Lifting up the cup and the bread to God, the old man recited the Scripture passage, “Take this and share it among yourselves—” almost singing the verses as he remembered the Apostle John doing when he was still just a boy and the wolves had not yet begun to paw at their doors.