The silken curtains were thrown aside and Saul entered with the slave woman, and instantly Felix was upon him, grasping his arms and shaking him and uttering both maledictions and pleas together. Saul laid his hand on the Roman’s shoulder and said loudly, “Let us be calm, lord. I have heard that the Lady Drusilla had been stricken in the night, and I came at once.” He put aside Felix and approached the bed and the two physicians watched him come with affronted expressions. “The Lady Drusilla has suspired,” said the Egyptian.
“I am no physician,” said Saul, and touched his forehead briefly with his hand in token of respect. He then stood and gazed down at Drusilla, whose women had arranged her limbs and covered her body and closed her eyes. Saul was saddened. He had been the recipient of many kindnesses from this lady of his Tribe and blood. She had sent delicacies from her own kitchen and dainties she had prepared herself to hearten his spirit and to let him know that he was not entirely abandoned, and she had had numerous conversations with him since her first visit and always she had listened with respect.
Now she was dead, and suddenly. He took her cooling hand in his, as if she were alive and he wished to comfort her. The heavy flesh lay in his fingers, and he opened his mouth to recite the prayers for the dead. The bereaved husband stood behind him, clutching his shoulders, but Saul did not feel the pressure.
Then Saul heard distinctly and loudly in his inner ear, “Bid the woman rise,” and he knew that beloved Voice, and his whole body trembled. He said, and all heard him, “Yes, Lord, I obey.”
His lips felt suddenly cold and numb and there were flashes of light before his eyes, and he was weakened as if his blood had drained from him to this woman. He held her hand tightly and said, and all could hear him, “Arise, Drusilla, and waken to the day, in the Name of Christ Jesus Who has power to raise from the dead!”
The physicians heard this incredulously, and they turned to each other at once, and the Greek whispered, “He is mad!” The Egyptian made a sound of both derision and disgust. But the Procurator gazed at his wife, and the slave women bent from the waist and stared at the woman on the bed, whose hand was held by this strange Jew.
Moment passed into moment, and there was a deathly silence in the chamber. Then Drusilla murmured a deep and distressful sigh and stirred a little. The physicians came at once to her bedside and their eyes widened and the Egyptian seized his beard in his hand, and the Greek turned very pale.
Then Drusilla, sighing more and more, slowly opened her eyes and her broad gray lips turned a faint rose and the fullness of her eyes lifted and they were bright and clear again. The Roman cried aloud with joy and rushed to his wife and half lifted her in his arms, but she looked only at Saul with a mournful look, and did not heed her husband’s kisses and caresses and joyful words.
“Forgive me,” said Saul. “I was bidden to recall you by One who is the wisest of the wise.”
Tears swelled into her eyes. She pushed aside her tangled black hair, then she looked at her husband and took his head in her arms and held it to her breast, like a mother. Then she gave her attention to Saul again.
“You must do as you must do,” she said, “but I would that I had not returned.”
“Yes,” said Saul, and bowed his head and grieved with her that she had been restored to the world. “But you returned, as a witness.”
The physicians brushed by him and could not believe that this woman who had been dead was now alive, and that she spoke in sturdy accents, she who had been able to utter only groans all through the night, and the Egyptian touched her brow and it was cool, and the Greek felt her pulse and it was bounding with health. Confounded, they fell back, and the Egyptian said to Saul, “She was not truly dead.”
“I am not a physician,” he repeated, and smiled faintly. “But you declared she was dead, and I have seen the dead too many times to be deceived,” and he thought of his nephew, Amos, who had died and had been restored, and how he, Saul, had said the same words that they had said. “She was restored that she might be a witness to Him Who conquered death and sin and redeemed our souls.”
“I know that I had passed the way all men must pass,” said Drusilla, “but what I saw and with whom I spoke it is forbidden for me to speak.” She leaned her plump cheek, now ruddy with health, on the top of her husband’s head and she closed her eyes and tears seeped between her short black lashes.
Saul left the chamber and none went with him and as he walked his strength returned and he was no longer trembling.
That evening, before Saul put on his prayer shawl and his phylacteries, he was visited by Felix and Drusilla, and the Roman led his wife by the hand, fearful of releasing her. But when he saw Saul he dropped the hand of his wife and fell on Saul’s neck and embraced him. He exclaimed, “Ask anything I am able to give you, Paul of Tarsus, and it shall be yours! For you brought to me my wife who is dearer to me than all other creatures and dearer than treasure!”
“I did not do it,” said Saul. “Only God can restore the dead, and He bade me raise up the Lady Drusilla as a witness to Him.”
“I will sacrifice two milk-white oxen to Him, with golden collars about their necks and gold rings in their nostrils!” cried the Roman. “I will go to the temple of Zeus to do this at dawn, for your God is greater than Zeus, and more merciful.”
“He does not desire such sacrifices,” said Saul, “but only a humble and a contrite heart. He desires only your love, lord.”
Drusilla bowed her head over her clasped hands and said to Saul, “Teach us of Him, Who is the Messias of God and became Man for our sakes.”
And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance and judgment to come, Felix trembled— (Acts 24:25)
Chapter 53
MONTH drifted into month and the seasons changed. Saul was no longer confined to his house and his garden but could walk over the small town and go down to the harbor and watch the sea and the ships. He baptized Drusilla, but Felix was another matter. He was half convinced that the physicians were correct, and that his wife had not truly died but had been unconscious. Moreover, he was a Roman and though Saul had informed him that multitudes of Romans were now Christians Felix could not bring himself to accept their faith. He felt that in some way it would be an insult to Rome and his soldierly forebears who had honored the old gods. And he was hearing more and more turbulent stories of the Christians, which angered him. He did not wish to issue edicts and punishments against them, as Ananias urged in numerous letters, for he did not desire to offend Saul and sadden him. He came often to hear Saul converse of the Messias but faith did not touch his skeptical soul. He had a rational explanation for everything and did not refrain from advancing those explanations. Sometimes he wondered why Saul—if he did indeed possess miraculous powers—did not grow white pinions and rise into the heavens and be free, and far away from Caesarea and his enemies, instead of remaining as a prisoner waiting judgment from Rome.
One day he asked Saul concerning this matter, and Saul smiled. “If the Messias willed it, I should, indeed, rise like a stork and fly from this place. But He has not willed it, and I have not questioned. He has mysterious ways, and I await His plans. I was weary and old and tired and ill, when I was brought to Caesarea, but as each day passes and I see the waters and I walk to the harbors and through the city I sleep like an infant and enjoy my meals and have calm and tranquillity about me and time for meditation; my soul and my body are strengthened and it is as if youth had been granted to me again. I am like one waiting the call to the Great Games.”
Felix went away and pondered on the matter. This was a very strange God, indeed, Who did not endow His worshipers with wealth and honors and beautiful women and power, as did the Roman gods when they chose to favor some mortal. Rather, He gave them pain and ignominy and humiliations and did not deliver them from their enemies. The old gods understood that life was reasonable and favors were exchanged for favors, and that is how it should be. Saul’s descriptions of spiritual joys and peace of soul on
ly made Felix impatient. He could not accept and was frank concerning it. “Your faith does not touch my spirit,” he said to Saul. “I hear with these ears but my mind is closed to it.”
Saul said, “It is possible that the Lady Drusilla, who has many virtues and loves the Messias, will lead you into His Presence as she would lead a child.” At this, Felix laughed. “The religion of you Jews is very gloomy,” he said, “nor does your Heaven entice me. I prefer my little slave girls and what is beyond the grave is of no moment.”
As month melted into month and moons waxed and waned, Saul lost a measure of his tranquillity, for it seemed to him that he had spent too many years, as a youth and a man and now an old man, waiting. The harvest was heavy and the laborers were few. He received letters from the churches, and they were full of joy, and converts were confessing Christ Jesus in multitudes, and every faithful hand and voice was needed. “And I languish here!” Saul would exclaim aloud, fuming. He was full of health and vitality now, and his limbs were strong with energy—yet it was as if he had been forgotten.
He went to the synagogue in Caesarea, a small one but like a perfect jewel, and many were the Christians worshiping among their fellow Jews, and many were Gentiles. The rabbi, on seeing him and recognizing him, came to him and pleaded that Saul not speak in the synagogue. “We live in peace with the Romans,” he said, “and you have the reputation of—I implore your pardon!—an intemperate man who arouses controversies and dissensions.”
“My reputation maligns me,” said Saul. “I come in peace and love, and not with wild intentions. Nevertheless, I will do as you ask, and will not speak until you bid me.”
The Christians surrounded him on the streets outside the synagogue, and he was gentle and tender with them, and he healed many. But, remembering the anxiety of the old rabbi, who trembled for his people, he did not address the congregation inside, as the Law permitted. And he was always conscious of the two Roman soldiers who followed him when he entered the little city, and he did not want reports reaching Felix that his trust in his prisoner had been violated and that Saul had caused quarrelings in the synagogue and on the streets. For many were the things said in the synagogue by the Christians which were in error, but Saul waited until they were about him beyond the doors and there corrected them, in a low voice of authority. The older Jews of the congregation resented the presence of the Gentile Christians among them in the synagogue but their sons and their daughters pleaded for tolerance, for did not these Gentiles study the Torah zealously in order to understand Yeshua the Nazarene more fully? The rabbi said, “We have come on strange days,” and fearfully reminded his people that Rome had commanded that the Jews do no more proselyting. “Yet the Nazarene Jews refuse to obey this edict, and this will be woe for us.”
One day Felix charged into the atrium of Saul’s house, and called for him irritably. The active little man sprawled in a chair, irascibly inspected a bowl of fruit, chose one and morosely chewed it. When Saul came in from the garden, where he had been picking the golden dates, Felix burst out: “You have been here nearly two years, and there is no word from Rome concerning you!”
Saul bowed and said, “I am sorry, noble Felix, that my enforced stay with you is unwelcome.”
Felix uttered a filthy word, and chose another fig, inspected it with black suspicion then threw it on the white marble floor. “How you twist my words, Paul! As far as it concerns me, and the Lady Drusilla, you may remain here forever, for your company is fascinating. It is that High Priest, Ananias! Three days never pass without a letter from him concerning your abominable Christians—and you. And most especially, you. As Rome, he declares, is evidently not interested in you or your fate, and will let you rot before hearing your case, and officials imply that they cannot understand the charges against you, and King Agrippa, himself, is bored at the mention of your name, why do I not deliver you up to his merciful justice? I could release you at once, but it would be like releasing a net of tigers, in the opinion of Ananias, though I confess I find you a peaceable man enough.”
“As your soldiers report,” said Saul, smiling. Felix laughed loudly, and nodded. “It is so,” he said. He glared at the fruit again. “Well? What am I to do with you? Will you promise me that if I release you—to escape that damnable priest’s importunities—that you will leave Israel at once and relieve her of the delight of your presence forever?”
Saul said in a low voice, “I have seen the Messias in a vision and He has commanded me to go to Rome, to witness concerning Him.”
“Excellent!” said Felix. “Go at once!”
“I have not received the summons,” said Saul. “He will tell me when I must go.”
“He has probably forgotten you, like Rome,” said the cynical Procurator.
“There is another matter,” said Saul. “You have forgotten King Agrippa, who is indebted to Ananias. If I should—disappear—Ananias will wail to Agrippa and Agrippa will scream to Rome, and I understand that the Emperor looks on him kindly—”
“If that is so, why does not Agrippa, himself, in the name of Rome, seize you and deliver you to Ananias, with a command from the Emperor?”
“Agrippa is also a Roman as well as a Jew, and he reveres Roman law, and would not deliver a Roman to the loving mercies of Ananias.”
Felix became very gloomy. “I must tell you that I fear for your life,” he said.
“My boys who follow you are not only my spies; they are to protect you. Or did you not know that?”
“No.”
Felix suddenly shouted, his active face turning almost purple, “If I loved you less, and if I did not believe in my heart that you restored my wife to me, I should have you quietly poisoned or strangled and your body buried in my gardens or thrown into the sea, to relieve me of the embarrassment of your presence!”
“Ananias would be very distressed,” said Saul, and laughed. “He would not be content with my murder, or my disappearance. He wishes to witness my death.”
“So, you will remain here, and I shall continue to listen to Ananias lamentations.” He studied Saul thoughtfully. “I have an inspiration. I will have Ananias, himself, poisoned or strangled.”
Saul was incredulous and then he saw that Felix was serious. He said, “Few love Ananias, except the Sadducees, and the Sadducees are very powerful now in Israel, and they have access to King Agrippa at any time. Ananias is a Sadducee, and therefore is a false shepherd, for he does not believe in the very words of God, Himself, blessed be His Name, concerning the resurrection of the dead and the life of the soul. You tempt me as a man, noble Felix, you, of a certainty, tempt me! But we are forbidden to murder, though you may scorn that, considering Ananias. The people loath the High Priest, yet his murder—would arouse all of Israel, for the High Priest represents Israel to the people no matter how contemptible he is and worthy of death. And the Sadducees would be enraged, and they are not stupid men. They would denounce you to Agrippa.”
“How you have complicated my life!” said Felix. “You are a veritable dilemma to me.”
Saul said, “I have a cousin in Rome, and I have thought of appealing to him, but I am loathe to do this for fear of embarrassing him also, for that with which I am charged does not come under his jurisdiction.”
Felix was immediately interested. “A banker? A stockbroker? A rich man?” He licked his lips and thought of a ransom. It could be done delicately, and money was not to be despised and he had treated Saul well, and it could be accomplished with good will on the part of all.
Saul could read his thoughts, and he smiled indulgently. He said, “Alas, he is none of these, though he is a rich man and of a noble name in Rome. Did not Captain Lysias tell you?”
“The captain uses as few words as possible and only those directly concerned with the subject.” Felix sat up in his chair. “Who is this famous cousin of yours?”
“He is a general in the Praetorian Guards, under the command of Tigellinus—”
At that hated name, Felix shu
ddered and it was not for a moment that it forced itself into his mind that Saul had mentioned a cousin in the famed Praetorian Guards. Then he shouted, “His name, his name!”
“Titus Milo Platonius.”
Felix sprang to his feet and stared at Saul. His small dark face became sallow as he lost color. “Titus Milo Platonius!” he repeated, almost in a whisper. “He is your cousin?”
Saul was puzzled by Felix’s changed expression, which he could not read.
“Of a certainty, yes. We are of the same blood. He was born in Israel, and his father was a famed soldier.”
Felix slowly seated himself again, but he did not take his restless black eyes from the other man’s face. He appeared to be greatly shaken. Then in that whisper he said, “Aulus Platonius was the dearest friend of my father’s.” He looked sharply away from Saul. It was almost as if he were hiding his face, and Saul was suddenly alarmed and approached him closer, and his heart suffered a premonitory sickness.
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