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The morning of the Sabbath, the ground shook the twelve of us from slumber inside the crowded village hut. The Publican slapped the Zealot awake—the old man content to snore away the hours believing his life safe in God’s hands—and received a scolding for his troubles. The Zealot may have gone on lecturing the Publican if plaster hadn’t begun falling from the ceiling, covering us in a gritty white powder we hacked from our lungs. The wood beams holding up the roof bent like a bow. Clay pots tumbled from the shelves, shattered on the tampered earth, and spilt grains and honey into a messy stew. They would have split the Twin’s head if his brother the Skeptic had not pulled him away from danger. The Twin cried, “The Messiah hath awakened.” Ignoring his brother’s cries, the Skeptic
