The look in Amariah’s eyes was cold, harsh, demanding. “Don’t you believe in the prophets?  Am I mistaken?  I thought the man who rebuilt the Temple of Solomon understood the prophesies of Samuel, Moses, and Elijah.”

Herod narrowed his eyes.  “It is said these important travelers went straight to a shepherd’s hut.  Precious gifts, the likes of which are seldom seen in Judea, were offered to this child.  Now, these actions might lead one to be suspicious, but I formed no conclusions until I discovered more about the parents.”  He leaned over to whisper to Thaddius as if afraid there were spies hidden in his own court.  “Do you know who these people are?”

I, Josephus, a Jew by birth, a Roman by circumstance, set my hand to record the events of his life.  I fear history will not reflect the struggles of the true Messiah, Jesus, the Nazarene.

It is with a trembling hand I record memories of Jesus’ life and the circumstances surrounding his death.  He posed a threat to the power and livelihood of the priests in the Sanhedrin and the pious old fools, the Pharisees.  Both served Rome, as did I.

The stage was set for all that transpired in the three short years of his mission.  The message he brought was like no other, misunderstood by most, even his devoted disciples.