Sons of Encouragement

by Francine Rivers

Blessing? This man remembered his face from one encounter. What if others, enemies, also recognized him as Peter’s scribe? His presence might endanger these brothers and sisters.

  Lord, will all we’ve worked for be destroyed in a bloodbath?

  Urbanus leaned closer. “Do not look so troubled, my friend. Puteoli is a busy city. Everyone has an eye to business and little else. People come; people go.” He repeated the directions, slowly this time. “I would show you the way myself, but I cannot entrust my booth to others. They’re all thieves . . . just as I once was.” He laughed again and slapped Silas on the shoulder. “Go. I will see you later.” He called to a group of women passing by. “Come! See what good olives I have! The best in the empire!”

  Urbanus did not lie. Two dates and a fig took the sharp edge of hunger away, and they did taste better than anything Silas had eaten in Rome. He kept the rest in the pouch tied to his belt.

  The day was hot, and Silas felt sweat trickle down his back as he walked. Merchants’ booths gave way to streets lined with tenements. Shoulders aching, he shifted his pack. Over the years, he had carried far heavier loads than this, but the weight of the scrolls seemed to increase with every step.

  A servant opened the door when he knocked. The Ethiopian’s inscrutable gaze took Silas in from dusty head to sandaled feet.

  “I am looking for the house of Epanetus.”

  “This is the house of Epanetus. Who may I tell my master is come?”

  “A friend of Theophilus.”

  The servant opened the door wider. “I am Macombo. Come. Enter in.” He closed the door firmly behind Silas. “Wait here.” He strode away.

  It was the house of a rich man. Pillared corridors and frescoed walls. An open court with a white marble statue of a woman pouring water from an urn. The sound of the water made Silas realize his thirst. He swallowed hard and longed to shrug the pack from his shoulders and sit.

  Footsteps approached—the hurried slap of sandals. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode across the courtyard. His short-cropped hair was gray, his features strongly carved. “I am Epanetus.”

  “Urbanus sent me.”

  “Which Urbanus would that be?”

  Caution was to be expected. “From the agora.” Silas opened his pouch and took out a handful of plump dates.

  Epanetus laughed. “Ah, yes. ‘The best dates and figs in all the empire.’” He extended his hands. “You are welcome here.”

  Silas received the greeting, knowing his own response was somewhat less enthusiastic.

  “Come.” Epanetus gave a quiet order to Macombo and then led Silas across the court, through an archway, and into another area of the house. Several people sat in a large room. Silas recognized one of them.

  Patrobas came swiftly to his feet. “Silas!” Grinning broadly, he came to embrace him. “We feared you were lost to us.” He drew back and kept one hand firmly on Silas’s arm as he addressed the others. “God has answered our prayers.”

  They surrounded him. The heartfelt greetings broke down Silas’s last defenses. Shoulders sagging, he bowed his head and wept.

  No one spoke for a moment, and then they all spoke at once.

  “Pour him a little wine.”

  “You’re exhausted.”

  “Sit. Have something to eat.”

  “Macombo, set the tray here.”

  Patrobas frowned and guided Silas. “Rest here.”

  When someone took hold of his pack, Silas instinctively gripped it tighter. “No!”

  “You are safe here,” Epanetus said. “Consider my home yours.”

  Silas felt ashamed. “I must safeguard these scrolls.”

  “Put the pack here beside you,” Patrobas said. “No one will touch it unless you give permission.”

  Exhausted, Silas sat. He saw nothing but love and compassion in the faces surrounding him. A woman looked up at him, eyes welling with tears. Her concern pierced him. “Letters.” He managed to shrug the pack from his shoulders and set it down beside him. “Copies of those Paul sent to the Corinthians. And Peter’s.” His voice broke. Covering his face, he tried to regain control and couldn’t. His shoulders shook with his sobs.

  Someone squeezed his shoulder. They wept with him, their love leaving no room for embarrassment.

  “Our friend is with the Lord.” Patrobas’s voice was thick with grief.

  “Yes. No one can harm him or his wife now.”

  “They stand in the Lord’s presence as we speak.”

  As I long to be, Silas wanted to cry out. Oh, to see Jesus’ face again! To have an end of trials, an end to fear, an end to the attack of doubt when he least expected it. I am losing the battle inside myself, Lord.

  “We must hold firm to that which we know is true.”

  Paul’s words, spoken so long ago. They had been sitting in a dungeon, darkness surrounding them, their bodies laced with pain from a brutal whipping. “Hold fast,” he had said.

  “I’m trying,” Silas moaned.

  “What is he saying?”

  Silas mumbled into his hands. “Jesus died for our sins and was raised from the grave on the third day. . . .” But all he could see was the Lord on the cross, Paul beheaded, Peter crucified. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  “He’s ill.”

  “Shhhh . . .”

  “Silas.” A firm hand this time, a Roman hand. A tray laden with food was set before him. Epanetus and Patrobas encouraged him to eat. Silas took bread in trembling hands and tore it. This is My body. . . . He held the two halves, shaking. “Do I dare eat of it?”

  Whispers of concern.

  Epanetus poured wine into a cup and held it out to him. “Drink.” Silas stared at the red fluid. This is My blood. . . . He remembered Jesus on the cross, blood and water pouring from the spear wound in His side. He remembered Peter hanging upside down.

  Pain gripped his chest. His heart raced faster and faster. The room grew dark.

  “Silas!”

  He heard the roaring of the Roman mob. Hands grabbed hold of him. So be it, Lord. If I die, there will be an end of suffering. And rest. Please, Lord. Let me rest.

  “Silas . . .” A woman’s voice this time. Close. He felt her breath on his face. “Don’t leave us. . . .”

  Voices above and around him, and then no sound at all.

  Silas roused, confused. A clay lamp burned on a stand. Someone came close. A cool hand rested on his brow. Silas groaned and closed his eyes. His throat squeezed tight and hot.

  A strong arm slid beneath him and raised him. “Drink.” Macombo held a cup to Silas’s lips.

  Something warm and sweetened with honey.

  “A little more. It will help you sleep.”

  Silas remembered and struggled to rise. “Where are they? Where . . . ? The letters!”

  “Here.” Macombo lifted the pack.

  Silas took it and clutched it close, sighing as he lay back on the bed.

  “No one will take anything from you, Silas.”

  Voices came and went, along with dreams. Paul spoke to him across a campfire. Luke dressed his wounds. They sang as they followed the Roman road. He awakened to footsteps and fell asleep again. Paul paced, agitated, and Silas shook his head. “If you will but rest, my friend, and pray, the words will come.”

  Voices again, familiar now. Macombo and Epanetus.

  “To whom does he speak?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Silas . . .”

  He opened his eyes. A woman stood with the sunlight at her back. When she came close, he frowned. “I don’t know you.”

  “I’m Diana. You’ve been sleeping a long time.”

  “Diana . . .” He tried to remember. He had seen her face, but where?

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll just sit with you awhile.”

  “How is he?” Epanetus spoke from somewhere close.

  “He has no fever.”

  “Pain?”

  “His dreams trouble him.”
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br />   Time passed; how much, Silas didn’t know or care. He awakened again to voices in the corridor outside the room.

  “It’s not just exhaustion that makes him sleep so long. It’s grief.”

  “Give him time. He will find his strength in the Lord.”

  Murmuring and then Macombo’s voice. “He seems little interested in food or drink.”

  “I heard him speak in Corinth,” said Urbanus, the pirate merchant who sold the best dates in the empire. “He was magnificent. Think of the honor the Lord has bestowed on us by sending him here. Silas saw Jesus in the flesh.”

  “And saw Him crucified.” Patrobas spoke with quiet firmness.

  “And risen! We’ve only heard about the Lord. We never saw Him face-to-face. We never ate with Him or walked with Him. . . .”

  Silas put his arm over his eyes.

  “Let him rest a little longer before you try to wake him. It’s only been three days, and he’s endured more than any of us. . . .”

  Three days! No matter how much Silas might long to escape the sorrow of this world, he could not will himself to heaven. He reached down. The pack of precious scrolls lay beside him. His body ached as he sat up. He rubbed his face. His joints and muscles screamed as he stood. He rolled his shoulders and stretched slowly. Raising his hands in habitual praise, he prayed. “This is a day that You have made, Lord, and I will rejoice in it.” He might not feel like it, but he would do so in obedience. Grudging obedience.

  Dogged, determined, he picked up the pack and followed the sound of retreating voices. He stood in the archway of a large room. Men and women of all ages sat together, enjoying a meal. Silas stayed in the shadowed corridor, studying them. He saw meat on a fine pottery platter, and fruit being passed in a simple, woven basket. Everyone had brought something to share.

  A love feast.

  Silas remembered the gatherings in Jerusalem, the first year after Jesus ascended, the excitement, the joy, the openhanded charity between brothers and sisters.

  Jerusalem! How he longed to go home to those halcyon days.

  But even if he could go back to Judea, he knew nothing would be the same. Persecution had driven the followers of Jesus to other cities and provinces, leaving behind Jewish factions that constantly warred with one another. One day, Rome would make peace for them, with the army, the way Rome always made peace. If only they would listen!

  Jesus had warned of Jerusalem’s destruction. John had told Luke what Jesus said, and Luke had written it all down in the history he was collecting. The good doctor had been hard at work on it during the years Silas had known him, when they both traveled with Paul. A kind man, educated, inquisitive. A gifted physician. Paul would have died several times if not for Luke’s ministrations. And I along with him.

  Had Luke escaped from Rome? Had he gone back to Corinth or Ephesus?

  Timothy’s most recent letter said John was living in Ephesus. Mary, Jesus’ mother, lived with him. Her sons, James and Jude, who became believers when they saw the risen Christ, had joined the apostles on the council in Jerusalem.

  “Silas!”

  Startled from his reverie, Silas saw Epanetus cross the room. “Come. Join us.” Patrobas rose, as did several others.

  Epanetus led Silas to a place of honor. Diana rose and prepared a plate of food for him. She smiled into his eyes when he thanked her. A young man sitting beside her whispered in her ear. “Not now, Curiatus,” she replied.

  Everyone talked at once, until Epanetus laughed and raised his hands. “Quiet, everyone! Give Silas time to eat before we attack him with questions.”

  They talked among themselves again, but Silas felt their glances. He gave silent thanks to God for what was placed before him. Pork, and judging by the quality, from a pig fattened in oak forests. A Roman delicacy, and unclean by Mosaic law. He took some fruit instead. Even now, after years of being freed from the Mosaic law, he had difficulty eating pork.

  Others arrived—a family with several children, a young couple, two older men . . . The room filled. And each wanted to meet him, to clasp his hand.

  Silas felt alone in the midst of them, trapped inside himself, captive to thoughts that buzzed like angry bees. He longed for solitude, and knew how ungrateful it would be to rise and leave them now. And where could he go other than that silent room with its rich surroundings that reminded him of things he had worked so hard to forget?

  Everyone had finished eating, and he lost his appetite. He saw their expectation, felt their hunger to hear him speak.

  The boy spoke first. “You knew the Lord Jesus, didn’t you?” He ignored his mother’s hand on his arm. “Would you tell us about Him?”

  And then the others began. “Tell us everything, Silas.”

  “What was He like?”

  “How did He look?”

  “What did you feel when you were in His presence?”

  “And the apostles? You knew them all, didn’t you? What were they like?” The boy again, all eyes and pleading. “Will you teach us as you’ve taught others?”

  Hadn’t he preached hundreds of times in dozens of towns from Jerusalem to Antioch to Thessalonica? Hadn’t he told the story of Jesus crucified and risen to small crowds and large, some praising God, others mocking and hostile? Hadn’t he worked with Timothy in teaching the Corinthians? He had traveled thousands of miles alongside Paul, establishing churches in city after city.

  Yet, here among these friendly, hospitable brothers and sisters, he could think of nothing to say.

  Silas looked from one face to another, trying to sort his thoughts, trying to think where to start, when all he could see in his mind’s eye was Peter hanging upside down, his blood forming a growing pool beneath him.

  Everyone was looking at him, waiting, eager.

  “I fear . . .” His voice broke. He felt as though someone had clamped strong hands around his throat. He swallowed convulsively and waited until the sensation passed. “I fear I endanger you.” He spoke the truth, but doubted it commended him. “Paul is beheaded; Peter crucified. The apostles are scattered, most martyred. No one can replace these great witnesses of God. No one can speak the message of Christ as effectively as they have.”

  “You spoke effectively in Corinth,” Urbanus said. “Your every word pierced my heart.”

  “The Holy Spirit pierces you, not I. And that was a long time ago, when I was younger and stronger than I am today.” Stronger in body; stronger in faith. His eyes blurred with tears. “A few days ago in Rome, I watched a dear friend die a horrible death because he carried the testimony of God. I don’t think I can go on. . . .”

  “You were Peter’s secretary,” Patrobas said.

  Leading words. They wanted to draw him out into the open.

  “Yes, and my presence brings danger to all of you.”

  “A danger we welcome, Silas.” The others murmured agreement with Epanetus’s firm declaration.

  “Please. Teach us.” The boy spoke again.

  He was not much younger than Timothy had been the first time Silas met him. Diana looked at him with her beautiful dark eyes, so full of compassion. His heart squeezed at the sight. What could he say to make them understand what he didn’t understand himself? Oh, Lord, I can’t talk about crucifixion. I can’t talk about the cross . . . not Yours or Peter’s.

  He shook his head, eyes downcast. “I regret, I cannot think clearly enough to teach.” He fumbled with the pack beside him. “But I’ve brought letters.” Exact copies he had made from originals. He looked at Epanetus, desperate, appealing to him as host. “Perhaps someone here can read the letters.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Smiling, Epanetus rose.

  Silas took one out and, with shaking hand, presented it to the Roman.

  Epanetus read one of Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. When he finished, he held the scroll for a moment before carefully rolling it and giving it back to Silas. “We have yearned for such meat as this.”

  Silas carefully tucked the scroll away
.

  “Can we read another?” Curiatus had moved closer.

  “Pick one.”

  Patrobas read one of Peter’s letters. Silas had made many copies of it and sent them to many of the churches he had helped Paul start.

  “Peter makes it clear you were a great help to him, Silas.”

  Silas was touched by Diana’s praise, and wary because of his feelings. “The words are Peter’s.”

  “Beautifully written in Greek,” Patrobas pointed out. “Hardly Peter’s native language.”

  What could he say without sounding boastful? Yes, he had helped Peter refine his thoughts and put them into proper Greek. Peter had been a fisherman, working to put food on his family’s table. While Peter had toiled over his nets, Silas had sat in comfort, yoked to an exacting rabbi who demanded every word of the Torah be memorized. God had chosen Peter as one of His twelve companions. And Peter had chosen Silas to be his secretary. By God’s grace and mercy, Silas had accompanied Peter and his wife on their journey to Rome. He would be forever humbled and thankful for the years he spent with them.

  Though Aramaic was the common language of Judea, Silas could speak and write Hebrew and Greek as well as Latin. He spoke Egyptian enough to get by in conversation. Every day, he thanked God that he had been allowed to use what gifts he had to serve the Lord’s servants.

  “What was it like to walk with Jesus?”

  The boy again. Insatiable youth. So much like Timothy. “I did not travel with Him, nor was I among those He chose.”

  “But you knew Him.”

  “I knew of Him. Twice, I met Him and spoke with Him. I know Him now as Savior and Lord, just as you do. He abides in me, and I in Him through the Holy Spirit.” He put his hand against his chest. Lord, Lord, would I have the faith of Peter to endure if I were nailed to a cross?

  “Are you all right, Silas? Are you in pain again?”

  He shook his head. He was in no physical danger. Not here. Not now.

  “How many of the twelve disciples did you know?”

  “What were they like?”

  So many questions—the same ones he’d answered countless times before in casual gatherings from Antioch to Rome.

  “He knew them all,” Patrobas said into the silence. “He sat on the Jerusalem council.”