Jerusalem was dying of thirst. Nakdimon ben Gorion, one of the wealthiest men in the city, made a desperate deal. He borrowed twelve great cisterns' worth of water from a Roman Hegemon — an occupying official — on a single condition: if Nakdimon did not return the twelve cisterns full of water by the end of a specified day, he would owe the Roman twelve talents of silver.
The day arrived. The cisterns were dry. The sky was clear. The Roman stood at the gate waiting for his silver, smiling. Nakdimon went into the Temple courtyard, wrapped himself in his prayer shawl, and prayed.
Clouds gathered. Rain began to fall. The cisterns filled one after another. Nakdimon returned to the Hegemon just as the last drop of water settled. But the Roman was ready for this too. "The sun has already set," he said. "The day is over. You are late. Pay me."
Nakdimon went back into the Temple and prayed again. The clouds broke apart. The sun reappeared, climbed back into the western sky, and shone as if it were still midafternoon. The Hegemon stood in the street, caught between a Roman calendar and a Jewish sun, and paid nothing.
Ta'anit 20a and Gaster's Exempla (1924), No. 85, explain his name. Nakdimon comes from the root nkd — to shine through, to pierce. The sun had broken through for him. His name was the miracle carved into his identity for the rest of his life.
A city can be saved by clouds. A deadline can be saved by a sun that refuses to stay set.