by Angela Hunt
As if burdened by Luke’s praise, Paul pressed his hands together and bowed his head. Luke stilled his tongue, allowing the old man a minute to think and pray. He knew he was asking a lot of a condemned prisoner, but if the matter were not important, he would not have brought it up.
“It must not be my story alone,” Paul said, keeping his head lowered. “You would have to interview many others. And the book would not be complete without Peter’s account, so how will you interview him?”
“I spoke with Peter several times.” Luke smiled. “Before his crucifixion.”
They stood in a quiet so thick, the only sound was the soft whistle of Paul’s breathing. Then the older man resolutely lifted his head. “You could write it here?”
“I am sure I could. I would smuggle in the tools necessary for the task.”
“You could write it in the time we have remaining?” Paul asked.
Luke nodded. “I believe I could get the information I need in twelve days. I will take notes when I visit. Later, I will go back and transcribe them. From my notes I’ll write the book. Priscilla and Aquila have literate friends—they can make copies.”
Paul tugged at his beard for a moment. “Rome has changed since the last time we were together. If you were caught trespassing here, you could be condemned to die. You are not a Roman citizen, so you would not be granted a trial.”
“I am already a conspirator and trespasser, and one of my closest friends has been condemned to die.” Luke crossed his arms. “I would not be afraid to join him.”
Paul drew a deep breath, then clapped Luke on the shoulder. “So be it. You are a fine writer, my friend. If the Lord gives us strength, let us write another book.”
Paul sat on one side of the circle of light and studied his friend’s countenance. Tonight Luke had brought nothing with him save his medical supplies, but the physician had a quick mind and a good memory. So if they spoke of things that might prove helpful to followers of the Way, Luke would remember.
“I pray for the new believers every day,” Paul said, bending one leg as he struggled to get comfortable. “Not all of them will be faithful until death.”
Luke lifted a brow. “Surely if they are taught—”
“We cannot forget Christ’s parable of the sower,” Paul interrupted. “A farmer went out to spread some seed. As he was scattering it, some seeds fell by the road, and the birds came and ate them up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground, where they didn’t have much soil. They sprang up immediately because the soil wasn’t deep. But when the sun came up, they were scorched; and because they had no roots, they withered away. Other seeds fell among the thorns, and the thorns choked them out. But others fell on good soil and produced fruit. They yielded a crop—some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty.”
He leaned forward to search Luke’s eyes. “Consider the people of Rome. Many Romans have heard the good news, but they discarded the truth of the gospel as soon as they heard it. Others received the good news and marveled at it, but when faced with a new challenge, they preferred to return to their old lives.”
“None of those people are at Aquila’s house,” Luke said. “Those in Aquila’s group have risked their lives for Christ. They have surrendered their homes and left friends and relatives behind.”
“Still,” Paul said, holding up a finger, “there are some in Aquila’s group who will be like the seeds that fell among the thorns. They look like good seeds, they may talk like good seeds, but when the world entices them, they will fall away.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “How do you know this story? Did you speak to one of the twelve?”
With a shiver of vivid recollection, Paul looked up. “I did not receive this knowledge from any human, nor was I taught it. It came through a revelation of Yeshua the Messiah.”
Luke closed his eyes and nodded, and Paul could see that his friend was committing the words to memory. As a youth, Luke had received a classical Greek education where he had been taught to turn words into images, which were more easily remembered. Many times Paul had remarked on Luke’s excellent memory, but Luke had simply shrugged and said he was using his “memory palace”—a mental trick that had always served him well.
“Yes, we will write this book,” Paul continued, girding himself with resolve, “for those who will persevere until the end. They are the ones who will bear fruit.”
Wiping sweat from his brow, Mauritius Gallis, one of two prefects of the Praetorian Guard, strode through the crowds along the Aurelian Way and cursed every step he took. He should not be living so far from the heart of the city. Just before the great fire, he and his wife, Irenica, had taken possession of a lovely villa on Palatine Hill, his reward for twenty years of faithful service. But on that hot night in July, they had fled the raging flames with their only daughter, Caelia. Along with dozens of other noble citizens, they now found themselves living in substandard and inordinately expensive temporary housing.
But what could he do about it? Nero had taken over Palatine Hill for his construction project, and the Domus Aurea, or Golden House, had been under construction ever since.
Just that morning he had heard about a particular dining chamber in Nero’s new pleasure palace. An ingenious mechanism, cranked by slaves, made the domed ceiling revolve like the heavens. While the painted ceiling turned, another apparatus sprayed perfume and dropped rose petals onto the diners below.
How was that novelty supposed to make up for Mauritius’s losses? His wife had lost her home, and Mauritius had lost his happy wife.
Irenica had not been at all happy in the new house, but when had she ever been truly content? She had been unhappy when Mauritius joined the Praetorians and had to live with his cohort in the Castra Praetoria, where the guardians of Rome were housed. She had not been happy when he was promoted to tribune, earning the right to live with his wife. She had not even been happy when he informed her that he had become one of the two prefects of the Praetorian Guard—the highest rank a Praetorian could achieve.
He could recall only two occasions when she had been perfectly happy—at the birth of their daughter, and the day he carried her across the threshold of the house on Palatine Hill.
His brow furrowed at the thought of ten-year-old Caelia. Last night she had not seemed herself. She usually greeted him with great enthusiasm, a flower in her hand or a drawing she had sketched, but last night he had been greeted with an odd silence. After a quick search he found Caelia in her room, her handmaid by her side. She was napping, but her eyelids rose at his touch and she managed a sleepy smile.
“Father,” she murmured, not lifting her head. “I hope you had a good day.”
Troubled, he looked at the slave. “How long has she been asleep?”
The slave bowed her head. “All afternoon, Dominus.”
“Has she a fever?”
The slave shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Biting back a curse, Mauritius had pressed his hand to his daughter’s forehead. Caelia’s skin felt slightly warm but not hot, so surely she was fine. All children suffered from slight illnesses, he reminded himself. The morrow would find her refreshed and in good health.
With hope in his heart, he entered his house and stopped before the doorman. As the old slave took his cloak, Mauritius glanced into the atrium. “Have you seen Caelia this afternoon?”
The old man shook his head.
“And Domina?”
The slave pointed into the house. “Inside.”
Mauritius glanced into the empty atrium, then strode to his daughter’s room. The handmaid was gone, but Irenica sat in the bedside chair. Caelia lay on her bed. The rosy blush that usually graced her cheek had vanished.
“Caelia?” he asked, hoping she would open her eyes. She did not.
Irenica stood. “She has not eaten anything all day,” she said, coming forward to grip Mauritius’s arm. “I have sent for a physician, but he has not arrived.”
“This will prove to be nothing,” Mauritius said, even as his
heart told him otherwise.
“This is not nothing,” Irenica insisted, a note of alarm entering her voice. “She does not move. I have been by her side ever since she did not rise this morning. I have talked to her, pled with her, begged her to open her eyes and eat something . . .”
Mauritius glanced at his daughter’s motionless form, then gripped his wife’s shoulder. “You should eat something. Step outside and get some fresh air.”
“But what if she wakes and calls for me? She grows worse.”
“The gods would not allow that. This morning I burned a sacrifice of incense at the lararium. I said my prayers, so the gods will hear and heal her.”
“And if they do not?”
“I have done my duty—I made a sacrifice.”
“Is that all you can do?” she snapped.
Mauritius caught her hand, which she jerked out of his grip before turning and walking out of the room.
Mauritius sighed and knelt by his daughter’s bedside. “You must get better now, Caelia,” he said, speaking with quiet, desperate firmness. “I have done what the paterfamilias should do.” He took her hand and rubbed it, willing health and motion back into the overheated flesh.
She did not stir.
“Tell me,” Paul said, his eyes lighting up. “What news have you heard of Barnabas? I miss my old friend.”
Luke grimaced. “I wish I had news. In truth, I have not heard much about him.”
Paul groaned in disappointment. “I hope he is well. I think of him . . . often.” A small smile played at the corner of his lined mouth. “He was always such an encourager, especially to me.”
“Tell me more about him.” Luke leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “I have not had the opportunity to spend much time with the man.”
A faint smile touched Paul’s mouth with ruefulness. “Three years after I saw the Lord, I went to Jerusalem to meet the other believers. But none of the others would see me—they ran whenever they heard I was in the area. Barnabas wasn’t afraid, however. Instead, he sought me out, listened to the story of my encounter with Christ, and then he took me to see the other disciples.” Paul chuckled. “For once, I didn’t have to say anything. Barnabas remembered every word. He told the others about how I had seen the Lord on the road to Damascus. He told them about my going to the desert and how I had been speaking boldly about Yeshua in the synagogues. Because the words came from Barnabas, the other brothers listened.”
“He was part of the crowd at Pentecost, yes?”
Paul nodded. “He was a righteous man even before he heard the gospel message. When he realized the Temple funds would no longer support orphans and widows who had become believers in Yeshua, he sold some property and gave the money to the deacons so they could distribute it among the poor.”
Luke frowned. “Didn’t he save your scrawny neck once?”
Paul laughed. “You don’t need to remind me. It is true—I was arguing with the Hellenes in the synagogue, and they began plotting to kill me. So the brothers sent me home, back to Tarsus. But I took the gospel with me and never stopped talking about Yeshua.”
Luke nodded as he looked around the dungeon, taking in the filth, the dirty rope, the overturned bucket in the corner. How could Paul laugh in a place like this? God might have already performed a miracle by keeping Paul sane and coherent after so much time in this pit.
“Barnabas found me again—in Tarsus.” Paul looked up from beneath craggy brows. “I didn’t expect him, yet I thanked God he came.”
“Was that the first time you labored together?”
“Yes, the brothers in Jerusalem sent him to Antioch to check on the growing community there. So we reunited, and Barnabas stayed to work with us. One night while we were serving the Lord, the Ruach ha-Kodesh said, ‘Set apart for me Barnabas and Sha’ul for the work to which I have called them.’ So the brothers prayed and laid hands on us, and then the community sent us out. Led by the Ruach ha-Kodesh, we went down to Seleucia, and from there we sailed to Cyprus. When we arrived at Salamis, we preached in the synagogues. John Mark, Barnabas’s young cousin, was with us.”
Frowning, Luke pressed a finger to his lips. “It’s clear you love and respect Barnabas, but still you had a falling out. Otherwise I would never have become your traveling companion.”
Paul lifted a brow at him, and even though he was only a shadow of what he once had been, Luke saw raw power in his reproachful expression. He and Paul had never had a serious disagreement, and Luke couldn’t help feeling grateful.
“We had two disagreements,” Paul said, iron in his voice now. “The first was over young John Mark. The young man abandoned us on our missionary journey, leaving us shorthanded. When we made arrangements to revisit the churches we had founded on our first trip, Barnabas wanted to bring John Mark with us. I disagreed—I did not want quitters on our team.” Paul gave Luke a brief, distracted glance. “I was sure the lad would quit again, but Barnabas thought John Mark should be given a chance to redeem himself. So Barnabas and I parted ways.”
“A shame,” Luke said, keeping his voice low. “The young man did redeem himself.”
“He did,” Paul admitted. “Perhaps I should have been more merciful. And yet God brought good out of my stubbornness. By traveling in two different directions, Barnabas and I doubled our ministry.”
“You said you disagreed with Barnabas twice,” Luke said. “Were you wrong the second time, as well?”
“Definitely not.” Paul paused to take a breath, then continued on. “We were in Antioch, where Barnabas and I had experienced complete freedom in our worship and fellowship with the Gentile believers. We were truly one in the Spirit—we prayed, worshiped, and ate together. All went well until a group of Jewish Christians from Jerusalem came to visit. That group, born under the Law, came to me and said there should be no table fellowship between Jews and Gentiles. That pressure was enough to make Peter leave the Gentiles’ table and eat only with the Jews—as if circumcision somehow made them holier than other believers.”
“I doubt that’s what he was thinking.”
“Perhaps not, but that’s how it appeared to the Gentile brothers.” Paul turned, seeming to study Luke’s face. “You’re Greek—surely your culture understands the significance of table fellowship. It is reserved for those who are your closest friends and companions. That’s why the rabbis could not accept Yeshua—He ate with drunkards and sinners.”
“He loved them.” Luke said the words aloud, more for his benefit than Paul’s. For some reason the thought had never occurred to him: Christ ate with sinners to show His love for them.
The realization made Peter’s action all the more shameful. By refusing to eat with Gentile believers, he must have appeared to despise them.
“Even Barnabas.” Paul peered into the darkness, as if he could see the past in its depths. “Even he was carried away with their hypocrisy. I had to oppose Peter publicly, for he was clearly in the wrong. Barnabas realized it, of course, because he understood that a person is set right not by deeds based on Torah but through putting one’s trust in Messiah Yeshua. If righteousness comes through Torah, then Messiah died for no reason! I died to the Law so that I could live for God.”
“It must have been difficult,” Luke said, thinking aloud. “So many times you apostles spoke for a holy, perfect God, but you are imperfect. Mere humans. Yet you were striving to be the hands, feet, and voice of Christ himself.”
A half smile crossed Paul’s face. “‘Who will rescue me from this body of death?’” He chuckled. “Do you remember that from my letter to the Roman community?”
Luke nodded. “I remember Tertius writing that as you dictated.”
“I was thinking of the Roman punishment—surely one of the worst ever devised. The man sentenced to death is chained hand, foot, and torso to a corpse, and he must drag it around wherever he goes. Eventually, the decaying body infects the living one, and the healthy man is overcome and dies.” A grimace flitted across Pau
l’s features. “I was trying to explain how the fleshly nature remains part of us even as we struggle to live and walk by the Spirit. To listen to Him, to obey Him. But sometimes we listen to the flesh, and that road leads to death.”
“What happened . . . after?” Luke asked. “After you corrected Peter and Barnabas.”
Paul’s smile faded. “‘Whoever avoids correction despises himself, but whoever heeds reproof acquires understanding.’” His shoulders relaxed as he shifted his position. “They listened, and they learned.”
“I’m confused.” Luke held out his hands. “You derided the Jews for following the Law against eating with Gentiles, but later, when the Jews in Jerusalem told you to take a vow, you purified yourself and shaved your head.”
Paul blew out a breath. “The community at Jerusalem welcomed me, but they also warned me that other Jews had heard I was teaching our people to forsake Moses, not to circumcise their children, and not to follow any of the customs. They suggested that I take a vow with four other men simply to demonstrate that I had not abandoned the teachings of Moses. So I did.”
Luke stared. “But hadn’t you died to the Law? Isn’t that what you said just a moment ago?”
With a sigh, Paul closed his eyes. “I don’t blame you for being confused. For though I am free from all men, I have made myself a slave to all so that I might win over more of them. To the Jewish people I identified as a Jew so that I might win over the Jewish people. To those under Torah I became like one under Torah—though not being under Torah myself—so that I might win over those under Torah. To those outside Torah—though not being outside God’s Torah but in Messiah’s Torah myself—so that I might win over those outside Torah.” He opened one eye. “Does that make sense?”
Luke nodded slowly. “I think so.”
“Good.” Paul smiled. “Because I don’t think I could say all that again.”
Chapter
Four
The Tenth Day of Junius
“You must be exhausted.” Priscilla stepped aside as Luke entered the house and dropped his bag onto the table. “How fares our friend?”