Author's Note: This story came about because I found myself wondering where Simon Peter was the six hours Jesus was on the cross. The Bible is silent concerning Peter from when he weeps after the rooster crows to when he goes to the tomb with John. Although I have been careful to keep this story within the Biblical canon, I have also taken artistic liberties as I imagined Peter's experiences. I also chose to use Hebrew or Greek names for the people in the story to add a little bit more realism, referring to characters by the names they could have called each other. I would also like to credit the TV series, The Chosen, which inspired me to think more deeply about the people who were chosen by Jesus in the first place.

"You were with Yehoshua, too, weren't you?"

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

-o-o-o-

"This man was with Yehoshua."

"I swear, I don't know this man."

-o-o-o-

"You must have followed him. Your accent is Galilean."

"I said I don't know the man!"

-o-o-o-

And immediately a rooster crowed.

-o-o-o-

Kepha remembered what Yehoshua had said:

"Before a rooster crows, you will deny me three times."

And he went out and wept bitterly.

-o-o-o-

Panting breaths pierced the stillness of the olive grove as a man felt blindly along. He'd fled without torch or lantern, letting his feet carry him without thought. He hadn't expected to leave the city or end up back in the Garden of all places. He stopped running when his hands fell on rough bark. He slumped down, leaning a shoulder against a tree's trunk, and closed his eyes.

Whispering wind rustled the trees and their branches ducked and swayed, creaking like the planks of a fishing boat on the Galilean Sea. He'd sailed the Sea once, back when he was simply Shimon, a fisherman of Capernaum. He recalled times when the early morning fog hovered over the waters and the heavy velvet dark blotted out the stars. A man could lose himself on such a sea, forget he even existed.

But he was not on the sea and this was not Galilee.

Shimon drew in another ragged breath. He'd been in this garden only a short time ago. His rabbi had sought solitude. Such a thing wasn't unusual except for the hour, so late at night and so soon after the Passover meal. That was why Shimon had been so tired. No matter how much he tried, the headiness of the wine and the satisfaction of a full belly dulled his senses. If he had known what was to come, everything would have been different. If he'd anticipated the arrival of the traitor, all this would have stopped before it began.

Can't you even stay awake one hour?

Shimon squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He couldn't stay awake, not until his rabbi shook his shoulder right before they were set upon. The rest of the moment was a blur—a crowd come to arrest the rabbi, a brief explosion of action, his sword in his hand, a slave's ear sliced away, and his rabbi's stern rebuke.

Put the sword away! Would you keep me from drinking this cup?

Symbols, parables, a lesson even then, as his master had restored the ear Shimon had sheared off.

"What cup?" Shimon whispered. "What cup, rabbi?"

Certainly not this cup. Not a cup where one of their own, one of the close twelve, kissed their rabbi to turn him in. A liar and scoundrel! Shimon dug his fingers into the dirt at his side, balling his hands into fists, and his eyes snapped open. Yehudah, the bastard betrayer! He'd crush the breath out of the man with his bare hands, watch his eyes bulge with retribution. He'd do what he should have when they came for Yehoshua, instead of running away.

Running away…

Shimon wheeled round, punching into the trunk, cracking his knuckles against its stinging bark. His hands tremored as pain shot through him, and he crumpled, clutching his fists to his breast, bowing over his knees, his forehead touching the earth.

"Not this cup," he begged. Traitor. Betrayer. But it hadn't been just Yehudah. It had been him, too, three times over. Three denials. His denials.

Words he'd proclaimed at the Passover feast mocked him, seeming to echo through the rustling olive grove—I swear I won't fall away. Even if all the others do, I won't. I'm with you to the end.

"Rabbi!" Shimon wailed into the dirt, "I'm sorry. So sorry. Forgive me. Please. Adonai, Elohim! Stop this and I'll do anything. Anything. One more chance, please. Bring him back. I'll do it r-right this time. I'll...I'll…"

He gave up words when his throat choked with tears.

Dawn had risen red when Shimon stumbled back through the city gate and up and down lanes until he reached the high priest's house. The gate was shut and all was quiet. Last night, Yohanan had made a way for him to pass inside; today he was alone. He knocked at the wooden door before he caught sight of his soiled hand. He furiously rubbed with his sleeve at the smudges on his hands and the tear stains on his cheeks.

"Who are you?"

Shimon looked up, but his sight fell beyond the servant, through the crack in the door. The brazier that had been lit the night before was now filled with ashes. He'd warmed himself right there along with others who gossiped about the Galilean rabbi from Nazareth. He'd faced eyes lit by the flames that challenged him to admit his association with the teacher claiming to be Messiah. He'd denied that Messiah with his own voice.

"Speak."

Shimon wrenched his gaze to the servant at the door. He cleared his throat. "I was here last night. With Yohanan. A teacher was brought here for…"

"He's not here anymore."

"Could you tell me where…"

"Not here." The door slammed shut.

Shimon wandered. The city awoke, its morning stillness shattered by the cacophony of people and animals and merchants plying their trades. He knew he should go back to the house they'd been so generously offered for Passover, but he tarried. He'd have to face the rest of the rabbi's disciples, if they'd even gone back. Maybe the house was being watched and wasn't even safe.

Yohanan, though. Yohanan would have waited for their rabbi after he was questioned. Maybe the rabbi had already been released. Surely they couldn't truly find fault with him? He may have preached some things that weren't exactly kosher, but didn't every man who had ever claimed to be Messiah? Then again, none had ever taught with the authority that Yehoshua had, and none that he knew had ever claimed to be the divine son of Adonai. To their religious leaders, Yehoshua was the worst of blasphemers.

Shimon paused in front of a Gentile woman's stall. His rabbi had to be back at the house. Adonai wouldn't deny his own son. Legions of angels could defend him, would defend him. He might not even be in the city anymore. Yohanan was wise enough. He'd advise flight from the city to their rabbi, leaving for a time until cooler heads prevailed.

"Dates?"

Shimon shook his head out of his reverie and turned to the merchant woman holding out a handful of dried fruit. "No. No. I'm fine." He strode on.

He'd go back to the house, wait down the street, scope out any activity. If it was safe, he'd go inside and then… He didn't dare consider what they'd do to him. What they'd say to him. How his rabbi would look at him, disappointment and hurt chastising from his eyes.

He came to the end of the street called Iron and stretched his neck to peer over those passing back and forth carrying out their business. No soldiers present. That was a good sign.

"Kepha?"

Shimon whirled round. "Ta'oma!" The disciple always distinctive by his red striped coat and stoic eyes appeared haunted, worried. Shimon's stomach churned.

"You're the last to return except Yohanan," Ta'oma said, shifting back and forth nervously on his feet.

To return. Right. He hadn't been the only one to flee. They all had. Every single one.

"They're in the upper room?" Shimon asked.

"Some." Ta'oma wrung his hands. Something was wrong.

"What aren't you saying?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

Ta'oma moved closer to him. "Don't do something you shouldn't."

"What didn't I hear?"

"There's nothing to be done. It can't be stopped."

Shimon reached out and gripped the man's shoulder, pulling him close and meeting his eyes. "Tell me what I don't know, Ta'oma."

"The rabbi… They took him to Herodes and to Pilatos and then…"

"What?" Shimon shook the man to prompt a quick response.

"He's condemned. They're crucifying him."

Shimon's aching legs pounded dust as he dove through cramped streets, weaving past gossiping loiterers. He felt for the short sword at his side as he clipped the shoulder of a man leaning over to retrieve a dropped waterskin, ignoring the cursing that followed. His blade was still concealed under his cloak. His rabbi hadn't let him fight in the garden, but he would now, no matter what command was issued. The most holy man alive on earth could not be allowed to die.

Shimon knew where they would take the rabbi. The Romans threatened everyone with their cruelty, making public display of those deemed seditious. But Yehoshua hadn't spoken out against Rome. His reforms had been religious, not political. What did the Romans care if a Jewish holy man preached against his own religion's priests? He wasn't like Yohanan the Baptizer who'd challenged Herodes Antipas and by default, Rome.

The Sanhedrin. They must have pulled strings. The rabbi had spoken against their unrighteous acts many times, but instead of hearing and seeing, they hated him, apparently enough to manipulate Roman crucifixion into their revenge.

Shimon skidded to a halt when the street ahead clogged with people.

"Let me through!" he cried, pushing between two men. He earned a cuff on the shoulder and a rough shove that toppled him into a warm body. When he pushed up onto his elbows, he found a beggar man staring at him.

"Such a sight you all are, eh? So eager to see the Romans," the beggar spat on the ground with disdain, "grind us underneath their booted heels." The scraggly, bearded man pulled at Shimon, helping him sit up. "What's the hurry to watch men slowly die?"

Shimon grasped the beggar's arm. "Men? They brought men by?"

The beggar cocked his head. "Three men."

"Three?" Then there was hope! Ta'oma had been misinformed! Shimon's heart soared.

"Three. Two insurgents. Brave men that fight against Rome's stench." The beggar spat again.

"And the third?" Shimon tightened his grasp, and the beggar winced, then shook Shimon's hand off.

"Supposed to have been Barabba. Least that's what I heard."

Shimon gripped the man by both shoulders, eliciting a grunt. "Who was it instead?"

"Hard to tell. Only got a glimpse of him. No one cared to say when I asked. Just kept pushing along like they couldn't wait to see him nailed up. Romans were paying special attention to him, though. They were making someone else carry the beam when he couldn't anymore."

Shimon rose to his feet. It couldn't be his rabbi. Yehoshua was strong in body, wise in mind, God's divine son.

"By the by, got any alms to spare?"

Shimon absently shook his head.

"Should have stuck around the temple," the beggar grumbled. "More Passover travelers bargaining generosity for Adonai's favor."

Shimon stalked back into the crowd, pressing his hand to the sword under his cloak. His heart pattered like thundering horse hooves. This time he picked his way through strategically, taking advantage of gaps and sliding through the mass, a bit like a fish jostling for leadership of a large shoal. Shimon sucked in a breath as a vivid memory popped into his mind.

He'd fished all night with his brother, Andraus, and their friends, Ya'aqov and Yohanan. They'd caught nothing. And then in the morning, a man had appeared teaching on the shore, the one claiming to be the Messiah, who Andraus had introduced him to only a few days before and who had named him Kepha. Shimon had scoffed internally even though he humored Andraus' "true" Messiah. How many self-proclaiming Messiahs had come and gone since his birth?

That morning on the Sea, Andraus' Messiah audaciously commanded him to let down the nets once more. Commanded him, a fisherman all his life, and this man a craftsman from Nazareth of all places. It was foolishness, and he might not have done it except Andraus nudged him hard in the back. When the nets went in, he'd haughtily rolled his eyes at the "Messiah." Then the boat had jerked hard, tipped halfway over on its port side, and for a long time his hands were full retrieving the nets with the help of his brother and friends. Later on, it had taken old Zebadiah, Ya'aqov and Yohanan's father, the better part of an hour to count that catch of fish.

Shimon rubbed at his forehead. The arch of the gate ahead was in view. He was almost outside the wall, almost to the spot favored by the Romans for crucifixion. Humble words from three years ago echoed back to him: I'm a sinful man. Get away from me! Andraus' Messiah had ignored his plea, reaching to pull him to his feet with a smile. Come with me and fish men.

He'd followed without hesitation. How could he not after witnessing such a miracle?

"Why me?" Shimon whispered under his breath. "You must have known I'd abandon you." He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

The murmuring crowd jostled Shimon along, through the city gate. The sun blazed, preventing sight. Shimon shielded his eyes with a hand, searching. He glimpsed structured T-shapes through voids in the crowd to his left—crosses—and...

"Abba! Abba!"

Blood froze in Shimon's veins. The cry was primal, the roar of a wounded lion bereft of his power. He knew the voice, though it had never sounded so loud. His hand trembled against the sword under his cloak.

Shimon was bumped aside and for a brief moment, his line of sight was clear. "R-rabbi," he whispered. The divine son of Yahweh hung from the cross in the middle, chest heaving in deep, gasping waves. Dark blood streaked his brow, hands, and feet. His face was swollen, both eyes blackened, cheeks bruised. Gashes torn along his ribs testified to endurance of a Roman scourge, lashes so long in length the barbs had wrapped around to his front.

Yehoshua coughed harshly, raising his head, and their eyes had barely met when the crowd shuffled once more, veiling the grisly execution.

Shimon couldn't breathe. His hand was stuck to his side, crushing the sword under his cloak into his hip bone. He turned and shoved his way back through the crowd, passing the gate. He escaped into a side alley and stumbled along until his legs lost all strength. Then he clutched at his middle, bent over, and splattered bile into a trash heap.

"Shimon? Shimon."

Shimon gasped, yanked out of chaotic dreams swirling with elusive fears. He flung up a hand but someone caught it in a firm, familiar grip. "Andraus?"

His brother let out a relieved breath. "Ta'oma told me he saw you, but I couldn't find you. I looked everywhere. I thought the Romans could have gotten you, too."

"They didn't get me. Obviously," Shimon mumbled, massaging his temples with his fingers. His head throbbed and his ears buzzed.

"You still have your sword?"

"Yes."

"I was afraid you'd use it."

"I should have." Shimon drew in a long breath.

"You came all the way here. Did you go outside the gate? Did you see…" Andraus didn't finish his question, but the implication was clear.

Shimon closed his eyes then snapped them back open, shaken by the image of the rabbi he'd followed for three years nailed to a Roman cross. He nodded. Andraus' chin had begun to quiver and his Adam's apple bobbed like it always did when his brother tried to cover deep emotion. He clasped Andraus' hand and pulled him down to his side.

Shimon glanced up at the sky. "The sun's shining again."

Andraus cleared his throat. "Yes."

"It went dark."

"You were here…when it did?" Andraus stuttered, his voice wavering.

Shimon didn't answer. He'd remained in the alley, crawling away from the trash heap and curling into himself. He wasn't sure how much time passed before he fell into a dark sleep, the night before and the events of the morning taking their toll. He'd woken only once to find the day shadowed. He would have assumed it evening except for the conversation of two passers-by marveling at darkness in the middle of the day.

"It was like Adonai couldn't watch." Andraus covered his eyes with his hands.

I couldn't either, Shimon confessed to himself. He'd left Yehoshua alone in his darkest hour, left him to face mockers and haters and wicked men who enjoyed taunting those condemned to death.

Can't you stay awake even one hour? his own voice accused, repeating Yehoshua's words. No. He couldn't stay awake even when Yehoshua was dying.

Shimon pushed up onto his feet and staggered back down the alley. He heard Andraus scrambling after him.

"Where are you going?"

"To him."

"Shimon." Andraus grasped at his sleeve. "Wait."

Shimon whirled round. "We abandoned him! All of us to a man vowed we'd never leave him and we did! I'm going to him!" He ripped his sleeve out of Andraus' grip and dashed out of the alley, headed for the gate. Andraus' slapping sandals hurried behind.

"Shimon, you don't understand!"

Shimon surged ahead. He'd always outrun his brother even when they were children. The crowd had disappeared. Apparently, the people had gorged themselves enough on Rome's bloodlust. Shimon sprinted easily through the gate and down the road. He stuck his hand in his robe, wrapping it round the hilt of the short sword. No one would get between him and his rabbi this time, not even Roman executioners. The crosses appeared before him… Shimon faltered to a stop. They were empty.

Andraus' footfalls halted behind him. "He's dead, Shimon," his brother rasped through shallow pants. "He's dead."

Shimon's gaze ran over the cross in the middle, each of the beams stained red, particularly where the hands and feet had been nailed. His heart thudded, driving hot blood through his veins. The buzzing in his ears doubled. "Who took his body?" he forced out.

"Yohanan said Yosef of Arimathea." Andraus' lips must have been trembling. It sounded like he could barely speak.

"Yohanan? How did he know?"

"He was here."

"When?"

"The whole time." Andraus stepped up to his side, placing a tender hand on his shoulder. "Shimon, come back with me. There's nothing we can do anymore. They might come for us, too. I have to know you're safe."

Shimon's chest heaved, rising and falling in a swift cadence. Andraus was the one who had dragged the rogue rabbi called Yehoshua into his life in the first place. "No."

"Yes. We'll go back to the house and…"

Shimon stepped away from his brother and rounded on him. "Your Messiah wasn't a Messiah at all," he spat.

"Shimon…"

"Why did you even introduce me to him? Why did we leave Galilee?"

"You know what I thought," Andraus hissed, eyes glazing over with tears.

"What you thought?" Shimon sneered. "Well think now, brother. We gave our lives away for nothing. We could have stayed home and netted fish like we were supposed to."

Shimon ignored the hurt in his brother's eyes when Andraus held up both palms in a placating gesture. "You're angry and upset. I understand. Come with me and we'll talk."

"Stay away from me." Shimon moved around his brother. Andraus touched him once again on the shoulder as he passed and Shimon swung round. "I said leave me alone!"

"This isn't the way to handle this," Andraus insisted, frustrated. "Don't run away again."

The chaos of the Garden flashed through Shimon's mind, the chastising command of his rabbi and his own sudden flight, stumbling pell-mell through the other disciples, scared witless when he wasn't allowed to fight. He lashed out at Andraus, shoving him backwards. His brother grappled with him, locking onto his left arm. Shimon balled up his hand and sent it careening into Andraus' chin without a second thought, knocking him sprawling into the dust. Shimon stepped back and raised both fists as Andraus braced himself on his palms and lifted his head, meeting Shimon's enraged glare with wide eyed shock.

"Don't look for me, or so help me," Shimon threatened, "you'll never get up again."

Shimon turned on his heel and raced back towards the city.