“And he wasn’t a holy man?”
“That was the thing. Sometimes He claimed to be. But people kept saying, ‘Isn’t this the carpenter’s son from Nazareth? Don’t we know Him? Who does He think He is?’”
20
THE SLAVE
ANTIPATRIS
THE LORD HAD HARD lessons to teach me, and not all came in threats on my life, being chased out of cities, or even feeling I had been the cause of the deaths of others, including the people at Yanbu and then Nicodemus. I yearned to be victorious for Christ, a conqueror—more than a conqueror. Not just because I had always been a competitor; I believe my heart was pure in this. As a bondservant of Jesus I longed for Him to instill within me the conviction that it was not I who lived, but Christ, so that anytime I proclaimed His truth, His gospel, His message, His story, no one could dispute or deny or reject it.
Yet that is just what this courier driver did! I told the story of Jesus and my own testimony to show how the risen Christ could redeem the darkest of hearts, could bring life from death. It wasn’t as if the man did not find me credible. He didn’t even seem to suspect an ulterior motive. He acknowledged I was not trying to sell him anything. It was simply that at the end of it all, when I explained to him the way of salvation—that if he believed on the Lord Jesus Christ he would be saved from his sins and become a new creation—he was not interested!
How could this be? I begged, I pleaded, I argued, I cajoled, I wept, I explained again! Finally I realized I had gone too far, had inserted myself too wholly in the equation, told him he should forget about me, about my personality, my character, my insistence. But he said that wasn’t it at all.
He was even smiling in the light of dawn when he said, “I believe you have found something, someone, who completes your life, friend. It works for you. I’m happy for you. Good for you, and I say it again, good for you.”
“You don’t want to be saved?”
“No, thank you. But I am grateful to you for telling me about this. All about it. About this man. Very interesting. Very inspirational. Good for you.”
“But it’s for you too! It’s for everyone.”
“So you’ve said. But no, it’s not. It’s not for me.”
At last he convinced me. To go any further would offend him. For the last hour of the ride I tried to think of anything more I could say. Finally I thanked him for listening and asked if I could pose just one more question. He sighed and nodded.
“What would it take to persuade you that what I spoke to you of is for you?”
He shrugged. “I suppose if I were to have the experience you did, I would have little choice, wouldn’t I? Just like you?”
“But sir, no one had told me about Jesus the way I have told you about Him. It’s not a matter of—”
He held up a hand. “All due respect, my friend, but you have talked about this all night, and you just wanted to ask one more question. I have grown weary of it and am through talking about it, if you don’t mind. Now I’ll thank you just to go with me to where we lodge, and if you can’t agree to abandon this subject for the next leg of the trip, I’ll be happy to refund that portion of your fare and ask you to make other arrangements.”
“Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
Weary as I was, I found sleep elusive. I’m not one who surrenders easily, but I sensed the Lord teaching me that not all my efforts, regardless how well meaning, would prove successful. It was exasperating, sour medicine, but I determined not to let it impede my efforts. My assignment was clear. Success was not the goal; obedience was.
As I lay staring at the ceiling, I also began crafting a plan for the next day. In the event, unlikely though it might be, that I might be known by sight to any of the Roman military personnel, I decided to make my first order of business changing my appearance. With so many men stationed in two locations so close together, there had to be a tonsorial service somewhere—if not here, certainly at Caesarea.
Late in the morning the driver informed me that his courier work for the relay station required about two hours before slaves would load cargo onto his wagon and he would be ready to leave for the port at Caesarea. That gave me time to explore and ask questions as a curious Roman citizen on his way back to his homeland. That’s when I discovered that yes, all manner of services were provided for the troops in Caesarea—including barbers—and also that many generals were headquartered there.
Was it possible I would get my first clue to where my almost-family might be, before setting sail to reunite with my parents, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, and nieces after so many years? I longed to see them but had no idea whether they had an inkling of what had become of me. Certainly I would have heard by now if anything had happened to either of my parents. Shoshanna surely would have let me know before I fled to Arabia—unless she heard I had become a follower of Jesus. Had that reached as far as Tarsus, Taryn and Corydon might be the closest thing to a family I had left in the world.
Waiting has never been my strength, and I resorted to what I knew would be my practice during the long voyage home: I prayed. I prayed for my driver. I prayed for my family—both my families. I prayed for the brethren in Jerusalem, for Barnabas’ aunt and cousin, for Nicodemus’ family, and for Gamaliel.
What I really wanted was to be preaching. If not all would come to a saving knowledge of the Savior, I would preach to as many as would listen so that any who heard me might come. I prayed for smooth sailing so I could get to Tarsus soon enough to learn what God had for me there. Peter had taught me that when nothing had been arranged, I could preach on street corners or in any public place. People would gather just to see who the crazy man was who had started shouting.
Pray for your enemies.
Thank You, Lord.
I prayed for Nathanael, for the Sanhedrin, even for the high priest.
Pray for your enemies.
I prayed for them again and added the Hellenists and the Roman troops who attacked Yanbu, even for General Balbus.
Pray for your enemy.
Whom am I neglecting, Lord?
Pray for your enemy.
I pondered. Aah, yes. Thank You, Jesus. I prayed for Nadav.
Pray for your enemy again.
I prayed for Nadav again.
And again.
I did.
And again.
I am Your servant, Lord. Your will is my command. How many times?
As oft as I bring him to mind.
As You will, Master. Strangely, this did not become a chore, not monotonous. Praying for Nadav seemed in some way a privilege. And the Lord continued bringing him to mind until the courier found me.
“When the slaves finish loading the wagon, we’ll get under way,” he said. Six thin but heavily muscled, barefoot men wearing only loincloths, their skin reddish-brown from the sun, quickly filed past me in a tight line. They hoisted heavy wood boxes on their shoulders and kept their eyes straight ahead, peering out from deep eye sockets above protruding cheekbones. They situated the cargo in the wagon just so and jogged back for more, sweat dripping.
I carefully set my bag behind the driver’s bench and was reaching for the strut to pull myself up into the passenger seat when I noticed him, second from the last returning to the wagon with another heavy box. He had to have lost twenty pounds since I had seen him, but it was definitely he.
“Nadav!” I hissed, and he turned with a start, the box slipping from his bony shoulder and leaving a gash. The man behind him deftly slipped around him.
Nadav’s eyes filled, and he stared at me as if I were a ghost. “Balbus used me,” he moaned. “Forgive me!”
“Used you how?”
“Sold my children as slaves. Took Anna.”
“Where’s—”
An overseer rushed up and savagely whipped Nadav, leaving welts on his neck and forehead. “Get that box aboard and get back there for more!”
As Nadav loaded the box, I said, “I’m a Roman citizen and I have need of him for a mo
ment!”
“Make it fast. He’s on this detail!”
I motioned Nadav to follow me inside.
“Kill me, Paul! All those people! All that blood on my hands! Put me out of my misery!”
“Stop! Pray God will forgive you!”
“He’s abandoned me, as He should! How can He ever forgive me? How can you?”
“Nadav! Help me find the others! Where are your children?”
“They sell for more than adults. Balbus made Anna a concubine and sold the children to a trader in the south. I couldn’t find them if I were freed today!”
“Where is she?”
“With him in Caesarea, where Taryn and Corydon are.”
“Taryn—”
“He divorced his wife and married her, but he also has a harem of concubines. It’s awful for all of them.”
“How do you know this?”
“Government slaves are transferred back and forth. People talk.”
The door burst open. “Hurry and get him back out here!”
“Go!” I whispered. “I’m praying for you, and I’ll do what I can. I’ll try to get to Anna and tell her I saw you.”
“Tell her I’m well, Paul. Don’t tell her I won’t last long here, that they’re starving us. And if you can ever find it in your heart—”
“Nadav, we’re still brothers in Christ.”
Outside he was whipped again on his way to the cargo stack. He lifted a box to his good shoulder as the overseer followed close and seemed to examine the bleeding wound on the other. Any hope that this might afford Nadav some reprieve was crushed when the man stopped and appeared to calculate the distance, then unleashed the whip so the tip cracked directly into the open flesh.
Nadav dropped to his knees with a shriek as the man blankly turned away, as if he had swatted a fly.
The cargo pile had shrunk to a single row of boxes, and the courier’s wagon was already laden to where the horses would labor all the way to the coast. The driver was up in his seat and signaled me aboard with a nod, but I was so repulsed I could barely move. The inhumanity I had witnessed was, in truth, nothing compared to the atrocities I’d seen in Yanbu. But it all flowed from the same steaming pot of putrid poison that made up the Roman Empire.
At its beginning the realm may have seemed a grand design for the common good, and though I had never believed in a plurality of gods, for all I knew the original philosophers and thinkers were well intentioned. But with their conquests had come a reach and a power that resulted in a toxic elitism, a bloated entitlement scheme that seemed to necessitate supporting itself, despite its no longer working for the people.
“I’m cracking these reins when the last box is loaded, friend,” the courier called out, “whether you’re aboard or not.”
I nodded, still finding it hard to move. Nadav retrieved the box that had tumbled when he fell and shuffled to the end of the line, sliding it onto the wagon and going back for another, appearing desperate not to endure one more lash. I fought every urge within me to attack the overseer myself, reminding myself of everything I would lose in the process—my freedom, my calling, any chance to see Taryn, let alone rescue her or Corydon. And it would surely mean the end of Nadav.
As the slaves heaved the last of the boxes onto their shoulders and the courier tightened his hands on the leads to the horses, I mounted the wagon. All the while, my mind was on the Empire and what it had meant to me as a child in Tarsus as compared to when I was a student in Jerusalem and then an employee of the Sanhedrin.
I slouched on the bench, but I turned to face Nadav as the wagon slowly began to move and the slaves were herded away. I tried to communicate with my eyes that he should stay strong and courageous and know that God had not abandoned him, that He would forgive him, and that he should never stop praying for his family.
In his eyes I saw only hopelessness.
As a child I had heard pride in my father’s voice when he informed me we were Roman citizens besides being Jews, and not just Jews but Pharisees. Oh, it was good also to be Greek and of Tarsus. It’s no wonder I became so full of myself. But when I became a rabbinical student I learned what a complication it was to live under the rule of a foreign power.
Then strangely, those of us associated with the Sanhedrin despised and resented the Romans and yet used them for our own purposes when the need arose. Indeed, we used them to do the dirty work when the Miracle Worker from Galilee began stirring crowds. And when we wanted to eliminate Stephen. And we tried to use them against Peter and John.
When I became a believer, I became an enemy of both my own people and the Romans, but the massacre in Yanbu and what Nadav had just told me made me face the truth: regardless how expansive, impressive, powerful, intellectual, or mythological the Empire appeared, it could not, must not be allowed to continue.
I did not know what would lead to its demise or how long it would take to finish it, but end it must. I prayed it would be a spiritual end, for then perhaps I could have a hand in it. God had not called me to be a military leader. I would not likely ever carry a weapon or defeat an army. Neither would I fight this battle in the great halls of justice or academia, though I would have loved to debate the great minds of the Empire. If only God would allow the future of Rome to hinge on the efficacy of its spiritual foundations, I might be granted the opportunity to play some role in its downfall.
As the great cart loaded with boxes full of military equipment precariously shifted side to side, I held tight, closed my eyes, and prayed silently for the Empire’s end.
When I opened my eyes the early afternoon sun made me squint. “General Balbus,” I intoned casually.
The driver grunted.
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Who hasn’t?” he said.
“I hadn’t until recently.”
“Decimus Calidius Balbus,” he said. “Ahala.”
“Pardon me?”
“His nickname. It means ‘armpit.’ And it fits.”
“How’s that?”
“I have to explain it? You seem like such a smart man. I haven’t met him, but I gather he’s not pleasant. Decorated. Feared. But a hothead, some say.”
“Decorated for what?”
“Volunteers for the unsavory assignments. Leads his troops long distances over rough terrain to carry out unpleasant tasks. He doesn’t demand a popular battle in a major city that results in a parade with music and banners and dancing maidens. He’d just as soon drive his men for days to pillage an entire town, then return with the severed heads of his foes to present to his superiors.”
“Charming.”
“Ahala.”
“Long live Rome,” I said.
The man shrugged. “I just deliver the packages.”
“You’ve never seen this General Decimus—?”
“Decimus Calidius Balbus. And don’t care if I ever do.”
“I’d like to get a look at him,” I said.
“Truly?”
“I would.”
“What would it be worth to you?”
“You could make this happen?”
“A couple of the boxes behind you are for Balbus. They are delivered by an actarius, but you give me a couple of drachmas, I give one to him, and he’ll be happy to tell you where General Armpit lives. Whether or not the general is there, I keep the money.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
“Give me the coins and I’ll show you the man to talk to at the unloading station two hours after we arrive.”
Twenty miles and fours hours later we arrived in Caesarea, the salt breezes off the Mediterranean reminding me of more than twenty years before when my father and I sailed from there to Tarsus to bring back Mother and Shoshanna so I could attend rabbinical school under Gamaliel.
But now, unable to erase the images of the emaciated Nadav from my mind, I was consumed with finding Taryn. Like Nadav and Anna, she and Corydon were paying the price for his awful betrayal. How could he ever forgive himsel
f? Had he really thought the general would honor him for being a traitor?
I don’t know if I would want to survive, had my actions gotten my wife used by a tyrant and our children sold into slavery. How could he ever face her or expect her to forgive him? I no longer knew how to pray for Nadav, that he live or die. I prayed he felt God’s peace, but knowing the depth of my own guilt and shame, I found it hard to imagine.
The courier pointed out the man he was confident would trade places with me and tell me where to deliver my packages later.
I walked to the harbor of the city of more than one hundred thousand people, learned that the next ship to Tarsus left late the next morning, and booked my passage. I decided to get my hair cut in town rather than at the military outpost, for if I was recognized by anyone, it would most likely be by someone in authority. Half an hour later my purse was a few shekels lighter and my head and face were bare.
The voyage to Tarsus would be more than three hundred miles, giving me time to grow back my beard and what little hair I had, or not even my own family would recognize me. Already enough about my character and personality would shock them. What would Rabbi Daniel and the people of the synagogue who had known me since childhood think of me now?
21
FREEDOM
CAESAREA
THE WALK TO WHERE the Roman Tenth Legion was stationed brought the familiar quiver that always preceded the unknown. I prayed God would allow me not only to see Taryn but also get a chance to talk to her. Ideally, I wanted to rescue her, spirit her away to Tarsus, and marry her. I knew in my heart God could do anything.
What would it take to extricate a woman, who amounted to a spoil of war, from a general in the army of the Empire that rules a quarter of the people on earth? My beloved and her son and I would become fugitives, marked for death. It was a risk I was willing to take.
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