In Capernaum, Jesus and his students dried kif, a herb that had become a source of income and healing. Their success allowed them to improve their living conditions while attracting both locals and legionnaires seeking relief from pain. The kif helped followers internalize Jesus' teachings, although he felt helpless toward desperate lepers who only foresaw death. Reflecting on this, Jesus considered leprosy a symbol of life’s inescapable suffering, recognizing that, like life, there is no cure for death. Although rumors spread about his miraculous ability to heal, he believed that any such acts were merely manifestations of faith and not his own power. The world's transient nature loomed, with memories and histories fading over time. Despite this, he appreciated Matthew’s efforts to document their journey, even if they were embellished, highlighting the need for some form of permanence amidst life’s inevitable decay.

Amid relentless rain and solitude, I found solace in a simple granary, a palace to my restless soul. My disciples dispersed, leaving Judas by my side as we lived in quiet indulgence. Overwhelmed by deep reflections, I sought escape on the Sea of Galilee, but instead faced my despair, loneliness, and unresolved guilt towards my loving stepfather, Joseph. My journey culminated in an otherworldly vision: Anubis, majestic and divine, held my boat, surrounded by souls of the departed. Invited to join their eternal procession, I hesitated, moved by the weight of life's unresolved truths. Suddenly, an anchor of hope—Judas' light—saved me from surrender. I returned to shore, humbled by my inner struggles, carrying within both the pain of rejection and the yearning for redemption.

That evening by the campfire by the lake, we gathered as usual, sharing stories and food. Simon had baked lentil rolls, and we spoke of equal love. A youth named Jonah, who had faced ridicule and bullying in Hippo for his attraction to men, sought refuge with us after hearing I was more understanding than others. He longed for acceptance as a man despite society's scorn. When he asked me to cure him of his feelings, I replied that his desires were part of his life. I comforted him with understanding, and Philippus took a liking to him, lavishing him with attention. However, Matthew expressed concern about the potential repercussions if others in the city learned of this bond. I encouraged imagination and empathy, reminding them that understanding and compassion are essential in our journey together amidst a world filled with judgment.

In Capernaum, I led a quiet life, yet rumors about me attracted many seeking healing and solace. People traveled from distant lands, driven by desperation or hope, often bringing their ailments and a desire for relief. My medical knowledge allowed me to assist some, but many came burdened by their own selfish motivations. I encountered a dying Ethiopian man who believed he descended from royalty but could not be saved, and a young man with progeria who defied the odds of illness but could not escape the inevitability of aging. I felt a heavy guilt for the lives I extended, wondering if suffering was part of divine punishment. Each day, I treated the elderly and the sick, using herbs, poultices, and remedies I crafted. Despite my efforts, I grappled with the understanding of human fragility and the relentless march towards decay and death, underpinning a profound philosophical reality of existence.

In the early morning, I awoke in an old fishing net, troubled by a dream in which I transformed from a proud lion into a mere desert cat, insignificant and trapped. As dawn broke, I took in the serene lake and deserted shore, reflecting on the burdens of sleep that left me vulnerable to tormenting thoughts. The day's quiet moments felt like a reprieve from the dark abyss of night. I considered visiting the local paint factory owner, seeking to assist him while enjoying a meal. The lakeside buzzed with life—women baked bread, artisans crafted goods, and men prayed. Though the day brought the promise of work, not everyone welcomed it with joy; some remained ensnared by sorrow. As the sun rose and a fine ship sailed across the lake, I recognized it as belonging to Moshe, a reminder of the complexities of life and the burdens we carry.

As Jesus, the Lion of Judah, I roamed the desert, driven by hunger and instinct. I navigated a world of both prey and repulsive humans, their strange rituals and noises filling the air with complacency. My days were spent hunting, surviving on the life force of other creatures, and contemplating the meaning of existence, a concept often obscured by the annoying presence of mankind.

I, a ruler in this domain, faced constant challenges to my authority. Encounters with spiders and jumping mice tested my patience, while the scent of rival lions and nomad fires kept me vigilant. One day, a dark cloud warned me of a snake, leading to a fierce battle. Despite the danger, I prevailed, devouring my enemy and reaffirming my dominance.

However, my triumph was short-lived. Drawn by the scent of fresh meat, I was ambushed by humans. Caught in their net, I realized the hunter had become the hunted. Their laughter echoed my defeat, leaving me ensnared and at their mercy, far from the free ruler I once was.

As I emerged from the water, I was greeted by Ochia, an aged Essene elder, whose presence exuded a blend of wisdom and weariness. The Essenes, long settled near the Dead Sea, have cultivated a verdant oasis in the desert but live in isolation, eschewing women and worldly pleasures in pursuit of asceticism. They sought my counsel due to a pressing disaster, turning to me for guidance despite their reluctance to engage with the outside world. We shared a humble meal in Capernaum, where I felt a yearning to inspire those around me. Ochia described their community's commitment to living silently and contemplatively, believing that their renunciation of worldly life promised eternal reward. Their dedication to healing and growth intertwined with a deep-seated apathy toward life itself, prompting me to reflect on the essence of existence and desire for connection among those who seem so disconnected.

In this narrative, Jesus reflects on his legacy and the whimsical idea of a temple dedicated to him after his death, envisioning a striking hexagonal structure on a mountain with a scenic view of the sea. As he walks with his disciples to Chorazin, he recalls the burden of those seeking healing. They leave Capernaum quietly to escape the sick and needy, feeling the weight of their desperation. Jesus considers how societal divisions create a disconnect between the healthy and the sick, expressing disdain for a money-lender's demands. Anticipating that spiritual authorities may seek him for his teachings, he finds solace in the hope that reaching Chorazin may offer him sanctuary. His thoughts express a blend of humor, melancholy, and a longing for understanding amid the ongoing struggles with the expectations placed upon him.

In my new home in Chorazin, long lines formed as the sick and needy sought my help. I treated ailments and provided comfort but avoided administering justice to maintain good relations with authorities. Charging for my services, particularly to wealthier clients, allowed me to fend off those seeking frivolous advice. My treatments ranged from dental extractions to blessings and herbal remedies, often with hefty fees attached. I found it effective to heal the mentally ill through kindness and engagement rather than confinement. My interactions with distressed women sometimes crossed boundaries, but I ensured discretion. Noticing the complexities of relationships, I acknowledged that imperfection in marriage made connections more vibrant. Ultimately, my work thrived on the belief that health could be bought, offering immediate relief from suffering without waiting for divine intervention.

As Jesus, a woman from Sepphoris sought my help, pregnant with a misplaced child threatening her life. Orthodox physicians offered only prayers, but she came to me. I explained her plight, and she agreed to the procedure.

With my disciples assisting, I prepared her and used my skills, honed by drawings from Surgeon Aprim, to carefully remove the fetus, a dangerous task where one wrong move could bring death. Despite the woman's screams, I persisted, driven by a commitment to life. I discarded the extracted flight into the month.

I saw a new beginning in the woman, now relieved. I refused payment, forbidding my students to speak of this act to protect our place in Chorazin. Her rescue was a triumph, one life saved for another, but it went against beliefs and laws.

In a reflective narrative, Jesus recalls his experiences in Chorazin, where he faced the limitations of his ability to heal. He encounters a man with a leg deformity and offers practical advice rather than miracles, pondering the nature of divine intervention. A blind man, brought by his desperate mother, seeks healing through music, yet Jesus recognizes his condition is beyond physical repair. Despite the mother's pleas, Jesus emphasizes the significance of their bond over the need for sight, suggesting that her son’s situation may provide unexpected blessings. Ultimately, both the blind man and his mother leave disheartened, their hopes unmet as Jesus grapples with the complexities of faith and the human condition.

In a reflective moment, Jesus recounts his solitude in a small boat on the Sea of Galilee, where he finds joy in reading classical poetry. He immerses himself in the works of great poets, feeling connected to their struggles for artistic freedom. As he gazes into the depths of the sea, he perceives it as a lens revealing past and present poets vying for his attention. Amidst this, he overhears discussions among figures from different eras debating ecclesiastical appointments and the evolving nature of the Church. Their conversations reveal tensions between tradition and modernity, with humorous jabs at each other’s positions. As the narrative unfolds, it highlights the complexities of faith, culture, and the human experience, all while Jesus remains a keen observer of the dialogues surrounding him.

In this narrative, Jesus reflects on the many who sought him in vain, highlighting the confusion caused by impostors adopting his name across different regions. He describes a moment of fear upon returning to Chorazin, believing he was to be arrested, only to realize the approaching crowd consisted of foreigners. Among them is Tachmina, a priestess of Ahura Mazda, who offers to share her deity's "light" with him. Intrigued yet cautious, Jesus engages her in conversation, questioning the superiority of Ahura Mazda over his own God. Tachmina cites Zarathustra as a key prophet of her faith, to which Jesus responds playfully by claiming his own prophetic role. The encounter unfolds as a blend of curiosity, charm, and philosophical exchange, leaving Jesus both entertained and aware of the complexities of belief and identity.

In this reflective account, Jesus narrates his experiences in Chorazin, where he faced increasing suspicion and hostility from the townspeople after helping the wife of a stonemason. After the stonemason accused him of causing his child's death, Jesus sought refuge, fearing retaliation. Despite his good intentions and the healing remedies he provided, local leaders, led by the chief rabbi, began to turn against him, citing false accusations and traditional scriptural beliefs. Unburdened by bloodshed and having avoided zealous confrontations, Jesus believed he wasn’t in danger. Though he once visited the synagogue—finding it grand, particularly the rabbi’s ornate seat—his presence grew unwelcome. He found solace on the lake, studying nature and reading philosophical texts, pondering the deeper workings of the world, yet longing for the writings of renowned scholar Celsus, which remained out of reach in Rome.

As I journeyed through Galilee, I experienced profound connections with the people, healing the sick and sharing messages of empowerment. Many approached me seeking blessings for various aspects of their lives, and I encouraged them to listen to their inner desires rather than adhere to outdated traditions. I proclaimed that each person harbors the divine within, urging them to embrace love and liberation. Despite opposition from local authorities, I was uplifted by the support of the crowd, who marked my path with palm branches and garments. My presence revitalized the temple, turning it from a lifeless space into a place of hope and healing. I became a friend to the downtrodden, fostering a sense of community and compassion. My teachings resonated deeply, challenging death and despair, as I offered a vision of life filled with purpose and joy. I recognized the need for authentic connection and the pursuit of wisdom among all people.

As we journeyed to Jerusalem, we visited Lazarus in Bethania at Magdalene's request. Lazarus had once sheltered her and helped her gain her freedom, which stirred a hint of jealousy in me. Upon arrival, we found Lazarus had recently died, and his wife, Martha, was grieving deeply. I attempted to offer her hope, proclaiming, “Your husband will rise again!” but she dismissed my words, overwhelmed by her loss. Despite the stench of decay from Lazarus's body, I felt compelled to see him. As I assessed his lifeless form, it resembled a sacrificial offering that had gone unaccepted. I knew that my strength and knowledge were crucial for what I planned next. I eventually convinced Martha to leave the room, preparing to perform a miracle that would challenge the very laws of life and death.

In this reflective narrative, Jesus recounts the aftermath of raising Lazarus from the dead, which stirred both excitement and alarm among the Sanhedrin. Despite the miraculous act, the high priest Caiaphas and the Sadducees held onto their power through ritualistic practices, struggling to understand the deeper meaning of faith. Jesus envisions a transformed Jerusalem, free from oppression and enriched with knowledge, where the death penalty is abolished, and the needy are supported. Journeying toward Jerusalem with his disciples, he senses their fear amid a crowd that murmurs discontent. To calm his nerves, he stops at a tavern for wine, hoping to find clarity before confronting the Sanhedrin. This moment reflects his commitment to change and the hope of creating a new kingdom, despite his awareness of the challenges ahead. The narrative balances his extraordinary vision with the harsh realities of the political landscape.

As I entered Jerusalem, I regretted rejecting Caiaphas' proposal. Protests had erupted and were violently quashed by the prefect's forces, leading to the execution of those deemed threats to the Sanhedrin, including misguided prophets and even innocent travelers. Among the condemned was a man named Jesus of Nazareth. My mother, a woman resembling an unthreatening goddess, wandered the city but slipped through the grasp of authorities. Overcome by fear, I sought refuge in the home of a merchant, where we gathered one last evening. Despite the merriment around us, my heart sank. I urged my friend Matthew to join us in the moment instead of laboring over his writings, emphasizing that I belonged to history now. As tensions lingered, Magdalena’s dance broke the air’s heaviness, yet I felt a profound connection to the precarious fate that awaited us all.

I was proud of my wings and tail, my powerful legs and my strong beak. The body of a bird, of course, is more perfect than the equally colossal and clumsy body of a man, capable only of walking, jumping and cutting down trees, but in doing so, it is man (by some oil-dumb plan!) who is better able to subject the world to his rule.

It hadn't rained in ages, and there was very little water at the bottom of the com. I jumped in, turned my head so that the water naturally ran into my beak and drank to the fullest.

In the early morning hours before dawn, Jesus awakens quietly while his disciples sleep. He notes that he has some money hidden away and contemplates taking the purse from Matthew, but chooses not to disturb him. As he steps outside into the chilly streets of Jerusalem, he dons his hood to conceal his identity. Navigating the city, he is careful to avoid attention from the Roman patrols. However, he is soon confronted by a Roman tessarius and his legionnaires who suspect him of past misdeeds. Attempting to maintain his safety, Jesus claims to be a pilgrim in search of accommodation. The tessarius, recognizing Jesus’s signet ring, demands it. To avoid arrest, Jesus offers the ring as a gift, successfully persuading the commander, Kaeso, to let him go by claiming he is an informant. Grateful for his release, Jesus continues on his path, relieved to avoid capture.