We happened to be born close to one another and I knew him well. So I thought until I finally realised I could never know him as well as he knew me, seemingly since always, though by then he had become known to one and all.

We grew up together, shared our childhood in that little village which became synonymous with him and everyone forgot I had ever lived there. I am glad they did. There is nothing good to remember about me, is there?

From the beginning he was, somehow, apart from the rest of us, even as we played together. People whispered, and at times quite loudly too, about his mother and father. Some would hint that my friend was not really the son of the carpenter; that his mother was not as innocent as her virginal look and gentle demeanour suggested.

My parents in particular, it grieves me to admit, were among those who looked askance, down too, you might say, upon his. And on him as well. My father was of circumstance more humble than that of my friend's. He, at least, was his own master and owned a donkey too, scraggy and bewildered though it always looked.

My father had to scrape a meagre living doing the odd day's work in some field or running errands, and that, you will surely appreciate, was not very remunerative, either way.

Our little village had only some scrap of good land around it with few crops and only scattered olive trees to tend. And in that tiny space of the village there were not many errands to take on. My father, I still remember vividly, always spoke darkly of my friend's father.

"He might have asked me to accompany him on the way to the Census," he would say. "I had to go too, didn't I? Our wives might have shared his donkey's back, and I could have repaid him with an odd job or two when we got back. But no, he did not offer. My wife, no less heavy with child than his, had to trudge all the way across that desert on foot."

"Can't you tell why?" my mother would chip in, her tone dripping sarcasm. "He did not want anyone to discover his secret, that's why. He was too ashamed to have anyone close to them as her time approached. Though, it was she, really, who ought to have been! Never mind that cock-and-bull tale they came back with about meeting three kings, and what not."

"At least our son knows exactly who his father is, don't you, boy?" my father would huff. "Though you seem incapable of growing any backbone." And he would hit me between the shoulders as was his wont.

I was used to my mother's sourness and my father's vile temper. But I never truly understood why my parents harboured such anger, especially once the years had flown by and my friend and I were already ten.

They weren't happy, either, that we would play together, me and my friend. My father would often use it as an excuse for another beating, and my mother to sneer at me as much as he.

"We can hold our head high," they would say, "even if we are poorer than they. What business have you to mingle with that scum?"

Bitter though they were, poverty mattered to me more than it seemed to do to them, for they did nothing about it. A thought gnawed in me without let-up as I grew up, insisting that it was not right that I was so deprived. Deprived of what, you might ask - wasn't poverty a way of life? And, true enough, all of us in the village were more or less in the same boat.

But no, not quite. I seemed to be the only one without the smallest coin to buy a delicacy that old Elizabeth would bake now and then. Which is what started me off on my particular remedy, really.

I am ashamed to admit it, but my first go was at a blind beggar, over where he sat at the edge of the village. I pushed him over, dipped my hand in his begging bowl and ran away with the only coin in it, even as he cursed me over and over, tried to come after me and crashed into the dust after he had lurched a few steps.

I timed my swoop well, when no one was around. Hearing his wailing, some people ran over to the edge of the village to see why the old blind man was making such a din. But I was a good distance away by then, looking as innocent and surprised as the rest. And I had been careful not to utter a word as I robbed the beggar, so that he would not recognise me or even know he had been attacked by a child. Nobody knew it was me.

He did, though. My friend, who had been away with his father for the day, looked me in the eye when we met the following morning. And my eyes dropped under his silent, eloquent gaze. He did not say anything at all and, to my relief, in the end he smiled. I was so glad he did that I did not realise there was sadness in his smile.

"Come," he said gently. He took my arm and led me, unresisting, to the edge of the village where the blind beggar sat.

My friend looked at me straight in the eye again and his smile was now an urging that reached into my heart. "We should love others no less than we love ourselves," he said.

Without a word I dug the coin out of the depth of my pocket where I held it. I unwrapped the bit of cloth I had hidden it in and, hesitating for no more than a fraction of a sharp breath, dropped the coin in the beggar's bowl, even as my friend's smiling eyes held mine.

Hearing the tinkle, the beggar started and half-growled, as if recognising the hand that caused it. Then he cocked his head to one side - mine - and turned to that of my friend. And a tear rolled down his cheek.

"Thank you, Master," he said, his unseeing eyes still turned towards my friend, who was smiling at him.

And I stared at them both in wonder.

Later, though he still did not admonish me, my friend told me had I only asked, surely I would receive.

I did not answer him. I wanted to tell him that, much as I did ask, I never received anything, did I? But I kept the thought to myself, not wishing to trample the knowledge that my friend, at least, understood and did not condemn me.

He never did that, though my thieving inclination was never far away from the surface, even if I never ever took advantage of the blind again, nor the crippled. I remained feeling as deprived as ever, but I did come to realise that it was not those who were as poor as I who were the reason for my deprivation.

I expressed that realisation clearly enough when he and I were 14 and Roman soldiers stationed close to our village began coming over to indulge at the local tavern. They became a target I could not resist. One evening I went to help the tavern keeper who, I heard my father tell my mother, was having quite a job passing them food and drink till they had their fill. The landlord made it clear he was not asking for my services nor would he pay me anything for them. I told him that was all right, I wanted to learn, that was all.

I was extra attentive to keep the soldiers' wine cups filled and when they drank themselves into oblivion, I sat about to make my pickings.

I did not even have time to start. My friend appeared as if from nowhere. He shook his head at me.

"Do not take from Caesar's men that which is not yours," he said.

"But Caesar takes from us, as if our plight were not bad enough!" I cried, having heard my father curse frequently because even our famished family had to pay tithes.

My friend shook his head again and led me away. "Let Caesar have his due," he told me. "I told you, God will give you yours if only you would have faith and ask."

Clearly, though I asked often and hard enough, I did not really have faith, for I never received anything other than kicks and blows from my father and screams of abuse from my mother, who never ceased to remind me that I was worthless and would come to a bad end. I did not tell my friend much of what I went through, but he seemed to know.

"Be patient," he told me one day. "Better be meek and turn the other cheek, than to feel anger and reta-liate."

I loved and respected my friend, but I confess I did at times feel he was odd, not quite all there though he was so different from the rest of us child-ren in the village. None of us had the courage to raise our eyes to the elders, let alone discourse with them as he did one day in the Temple.

I certainly was not up to that. My talents lay in another direction and not before long I made off from my parents' hovel and left the village to explore where I could best exploit them. I did not tell my friend that I was leaving. I knew he would not approve of my plans.

I did not see him through all those years after I left, though in time I began to hear a lot about him. Then I saw him twice in close succession.

The first time was in a Temple. I heard that he was in town and, though I did not dare approach him, not after what I had become, I followed him around, keeping my distance. I did not feel it was my place to go after him into the Temple when he went there. But when I heard a hubbub and his voice thundering above it I rushed inside the sacred house in case he needed help. I stopped in my tracks.

He was furious still, yelling to a cowed bunch of money-lenders some incomprehensible words about his father's house, and then overturning the moneylenders' tables, sending their piles of coins tumbling all over the floor.

I did not waste precious time figuring out what on earth the little place where his carpenter father used to labour had to do with the Temple. I simply darted forward among the scurrying moneylenders to make some easy pickings off the floor, for once, rather than risk my neck burgling houses and assaulting travellers on the highway.

I filled a fist with coins before I rose to look around me, to check out the lay of the land out of force of habit. I found his eyes fixed on me, even as he shook his head slowly. Can you believe it? - I simply dropped the money, turned and ran away, not bearing to feel the reproach he must have been about to express, angry as he was then.

The second time I met him was a few hours ago, though word had long been about in the jail of what was going on, everyone throwing in their interpretation of how mad could anyone be to claim, right in the face of the representative of Imperial Caesar, that he was the King of Kings.

I met him as I was hauled up on the cross planted to the right of his own. I stared at him in bewilderment that he, too, could come to such an end as mine. What could he have done, my gentle friend, to deserve that? Were the moneylenders powerful enough to exact such terrible revenge? There had to be an explanation that, in my stupidity, I could not even begin to understand.

I also looked at my friend in shame. For, while even I could at least tell that in his case there had to be some travesty of justice, I knew I was only getting, finally, my just desserts.

"Forgive me," I whispered, "I did not heed your advice. I did not have faith. I have sinned."

He smiled at me. There, on the cross, with thorns pressed into his head and blood clotting on it, my friend smiled at me.

"I know," he said. "I understand. I know what drove you to it."

"I am sorry," I mumbled.

"The frail will always sin," he said, "but they have to be strong as well as humble to repent."

"I do repent," I said.

"I know," he replied. "Tonight you will be with me in my Father's house."

And this time I knew what he meant. And my tears washed away the pain in my heart.

"What about me?" broke in a hoarse cry from the man on the cross to my friend's left.

Startled but scolding myself because I had ignored him, I spoke up. "My sins were greater than his," I said to my friend. "I had you to guide me, it was my fault I lost the way. He had no one. I led him into my errors. We were caught stealing together."

My friend smiled sadly. "So many lose the way," he sighed. "I pray my Father to use this day to help them find it."

"I do not know who or where your father is. But you're here - help me!" cried my fellow thief. "Why should I be lost for ever?"

"Those who turn my way to seek help can never be lost," said my friend.

And I knew that whatever an unforgiving world thought of us and would say thereafter, he was welcoming my friend to His Father's house as well.

Rome, December 3.

Sign up to our free newsletters

Get the best updates straight to your inbox:
Please select at least one mailing list.

You can unsubscribe at any time by clicking the link in the footer of our emails. We use Mailchimp as our marketing platform. By subscribing, you acknowledge that your information will be transferred to Mailchimp for processing.