Little by little the girl’s cheeks began to redden, her chest swelled, she was permeated by a sweet tingling which passed from her hand to her heart, and from her heart to the very soles of her feet. Her entrails rustled and stirred like the leaves of a poplar caught in a gentle breeze. Jesus felt the girl’s hand beat like a heart and return to life in his grasp. Only then did he open his mouth and speak.

“Rise, my daughter!” he gently commanded.

The girl moved peacefully, as though recovering from numbness; stretched herself, as if waking up; then, propping her hand against the bed, lifted her body-and with one jump was in her father’s arms. Thomas’s swivel eyes popped out of his head. He extended his hand and touched the girl, apparently wishing to make sure she was real. The disciples were astonished and frightened. The crowd, which had swarmed around, bellowed for an instant and then, terrified, became immediately mute. Nothing was heard but the girl’s refreshing laughter as she hugged and kissed her father.

Judas approached the master, his face angry and evil.

“You dissipate your strength on unbelievers. You help our enemies. Is this the end of the world you’ve brought us? Are these the flames?”

But Jesus, hovering far away in dark skies, did not hear him. He had been frightened more than anyone else at the sight of the girl jumping out of her bed. The disciples, unable to contain their joy, formed a circle and danced around him. So-they had done well to abandon everything and join him. He was the real thing: he performed miracles. Thomas placed a scale in his mind and weighed. On one tray he put his wares, on the other the kingdom of heaven. The trays oscillated for some time and finally stood still. The kingdom of heaven was the heavier. Yes, it was an excellent risk: I give five, I might get a thousand. Forward, then, in God’s name!

He approached the master. “Rabbi,” he said, “for your precious sake I’ll portion out my wares to the poor. Please don’t forget it tomorrow when the kingdom of heaven arrives. I’m sacrificing everything to come with you, for today I saw and touched the truth.”

But Jesus was still far away. He heard but did not answer.

“I’m going to keep only my horn,” continued the former merchant, “so that I can blow it to assemble the people. We’re selling new wares, immortal ones-and free!”

The centurion, holding his daughter in his arms, came up to Jesus. “Man of God,” he said, “you revived my daughter. What favor can I do for you?”

“I freed your daughter from the chains of Satan,” Jesus answered. “You, centurion, free those three rebels from the chains of Rome.”

Rufus bowed his head and sighed. “I cannot,” he murmured sadly, “truly, I cannot. I took an oath to the Roman Emperor, just as you took an oath to the God you worship. Is it right to betray our oath? Ask me any other favor you desire. I’m leaving for Jerusalem the day after tomorrow, and I want to do this favor for you before I go.”

“Centurion,” Jesus replied, “one day we shall meet in holy Jerusalem at a difficult hour. I shall ask the favor of you at that time. Until then, be patient.”

He placed his hand on the girl’s blond hair and kept it there for a long time. He closed his eyes, felt the warmth of the head, the softness of the hair, the sweetness of womanhood.

“My child,” he said at last, opening his eyes, “I am going to tell you something which I don’t want you to forget. Take your father by the hand and lead him to the true road.”

“Which is the true road, man of God?” the girl asked.

“Love.”

The centurion gave orders. Food and drink were brought, tables set.

“Be my guests,” he said to Jesus and the disciples. “Tonight you shall eat and drink in this house, for I celebrate my child’s resurrection. I have not been happy for years. Today my heart is filled to overflowing with joy. Welcome!”

He leaned over to Jesus. “I owe a great debt of gratitude to the God you worship,” he said. “Give him to me so that I can send him to Rome along with the other gods.”

“He will get there on his own,” Jesus answered, and he went out to the yard in order to breathe.

Night fell. The stars began to mount the sky. Below in the tiny village the lamps were lighted and the eyes of the people gleamed. This evening their everyday talk rose one degree higher than usual, for they sensed that God, like a kind lion, had entered their village.

The tables were set. Jesus sat down among his disciples and divided the bread but did not speak. Within him, his soul still anxiously flapped ‘its wings as though it had just escaped an immense danger or completed a great and unexpected exploit. The disciples around him did not speak either, but their hearts bounded for joy. All these ends of the world and kingdoms of heaven were not dreams and mere excitement, they were the truth; and the dark-complexioned, barefooted youth next to them who ate, spoke, laughed and slept like other men was truly the apostle of God.

When the meal ended and all the others lay down to sleep, Matthew knelt below the lamp, drew out the virgin notebook from under his shirt, took his quill from behind his ear, leaned over the blank pages and remained meditating for a long time. How should he begin? Where should he begin? God had placed him next to this holy man in order that he might faithfully record the words he said and the miracles he performed, so that they would not perish and that future generations might learn about them and choose, in their turn, the road of salvation. Surely, that was the duty God had entrusted to him. He knew how to read and write; therefore he had a heavy responsibility: to catch with his pen all that was about to perish and, by placing it on paper, to make it immortal. Let the disciples detest him, let them not want to frequent his presence because once he was a publican. He would show them now that the repentant sinner is better than the man who has never sinned.

He plunged his quill into the bronze inkwell and heard a rustling of wings to his right. An angel seemed to come to his ear and dictate. With a sure, rapid hand he started to write: “The Book of the Generation of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham. Abraham begot…”

He wrote and wrote until the east began to glow bluish-white and the first cock was heard to crow.

They departed, with Thomas and his horn in the lead. He sounded it, and the village awoke. “Farewell,” he shouted, “see you soon in the kingdom of heaven.” Jesus came from behind with the disciples and the mob of ragamuffins and cripples from Nazareth, who still followed him, augmented now by new ones from Cana. They were waiting. He can’t possibly forget us, they said to themselves. The blessed hour will come when he’ll turn toward us too, and rid us of hunger and disease… Today Judas remained at the end of the procession. He had found a set of large traveling bags and he halted before each door and spoke to the housewives in a half-beseeching, half-threatening voice. “On our side, we work for you, poor things, so you can be saved. On your side, you can help us-keep us from starving to death. You must know that even saints have to eat to get strength to save mankind. Some bread, cheese, raisins, dates, a handful of olives: no matter what it is, God writes it down and repays you in the next world. You give one split olive and he’ll repay you with a whole orchard.”

And if any housewife dallied in opening her larder, he shouted at her, “Why so tight-fisted, lady? Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or even tonight, the heavens will open, fire will fall and of all your goods nothing will be spared except what you give to us. If you’re saved, you miserable creature, you’ll owe it to the bread and olives and bottle of oil you gave me!”

The frightened women opened their larders, and by the time Judas reached the edge of the village his sacks were overflowing with alms.