“Who are you looking for?” I asked a soldier carrying a torch.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” he said.
“I am Jesus.”
Lanterns and torches appeared. Peter saw and heard the soldiers and snatching a sword from one of the guards he slashed a man’s ear. I rebuked him and cared for the guard, an Arabian named Malchus, who was singularly afraid of me, afraid of the garden, his task.
“We shouldn’t have come...you were praying...this is the garden where you come to pray,” Malchus said.
“Is Judas with you?” I asked.
“He has gone... I’m captain here...you must come with us. We have been commanded to take you to the high priest, Ananias.”
“You take me with swords and shields—like a thief. I taught in the temple... I prayed daily for you...”
Malchus, his face in torchlight, mumbled in Arabian and turned away.
“Leave him alone...get out of here,” Peter shouted; I saw the guards struggle with him.