by Angela Hunt
Luke trudged over the narrow street, where blackened ruins rose at his right hand. The sleepless nights were bearing down on him with an irresistibly warm weight. Though his feet moved methodically, steadily, he was certain he could lean up against a wall and fall asleep . . .
A sudden sound snapped him back to alertness. As adrenaline spurted through his veins, he glanced around. What had made that noise?
Few people traveled in this part of the city, especially at this late hour, and thus far the route had proved safe. Nero had rebuilt the most important parts of the city—those near the Roman Forum and the palaces of Caligula and Tiberius. But out here, past the market and the Circus Maximus, blackened stones could still be found, along with the occasional human skull.
He spotted a knot of Praetorians in the road ahead, but if he abruptly turned aside, he might arouse their suspicion. Better to keep his head down and his guard up while he went on his way. If any of the Praetorians followed, he would double back and lead them to the market or some neglected spot near the Tiber. He might even follow the example of the Jews’ King David and feign madness, anything to keep them from knowing who he was and where he was going—
“Halt there.”
Luke’s heart rose to his throat when one of the guards pulled away and turned to face him.
He stopped, planting his feet where he stood. “Sir?”
The guard came forward, his eyes narrowing in the moonlight. “What is your business in this part of the city?”
Luke closed his eyes to murmur a frantic prayer.
“What’s that? What are you doing?”
Luke looked up. “I am a physician. I have a permit that allows me to visit a man in the prison who is ill. I have just left that place.”
“Why does a physician see patients at night?”
“Because Prefect Mauritius Gallis commanded me to come after dark. He didn’t want . . .”
Realizing too late that he might have said too much, Luke produced the senator’s letter from his robe and held it before the guard’s eyes. The man squinted, then jerked it from Luke’s hand to examine it more closely.
Luke pressed his lips together. He had no wish to get Arctos Peleus in trouble, but neither did he desire to be imprisoned. He held his breath as the soldier looked over the document. Then one of the other Praetorians shouted, “Over there! Hurry!”
Three guards took off running down the road. The man with Luke thrust the document at Luke’s chest, muttered “Get off the street,” and took off after his companions.
When the Praetorians had disappeared into the darkness, Luke leaned against a crumbling pillar and bowed his head. Thank you, Lord Jesus. Once his racing pulse had quieted, he pulled himself upright and lengthened his stride, hurrying toward Aquila’s home . . . and safety.
Chapter
Eight
The Fourteenth Day of Junius
An hour after returning to Aquila’s, Luke sat at a broad table in the house, sorting through stacks of scribbled papyrus sheets. Aquila and Priscilla also sat at the table, pens in hand, ready to write as soon as Luke began stringing the words together.
Time was running short. Only seven days remained before Paul’s execution, and Luke felt as though he had scarcely begun to write.
At the far end of the table, Octavia and Eubulus were reading what he had written thus far. Occasionally they murmured in appreciation, and more than once Luke looked up to see pleasure on their faces.
“This book will encourage many in the faith,” Eubulus said, smiling at Luke.
Luke nodded. “I pray it will.”
“I don’t know how you keep going,” Priscilla added. “You have not slept since returning from the prison. You must rest, Luke. Promise me you will sleep this afternoon—”
Luke was about to answer, but the sounds of commotion caught his attention. He stood and moved to the balcony in time to see Cassius enter the courtyard with a burden in his arms—the precious body of young Tarquin.
Priscilla, who had risen along with Luke, pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry.
“We found him!” Cassius shouted, waking those who were still sleeping in the makeshift tents. “They threw him away like trash.”
Luke felt his gorge rise as Cassius climbed the balcony stairs. Aquila quickly gathered Luke’s notes while Priscilla grabbed a blanket to wrap the body.
“Put him here.” Priscilla spread the blanket on the table. “Do not worry, Cassius; we will give him a proper burial.”
Aquila retreated, as did most of the men, but Octavia remained. The ritual of washing the dead traditionally fell to women, because according to the Law, whoever handled or touched a dead body would be unclean for seven days. Paul had tried to explain that such religious laws did not apply to Gentile believers, as most of the Romans were, but Jews found it difficult to disregard practices that had been part of their lives since childhood.
Using a wet cloth, Priscilla tenderly sponged mud from the boy’s pale face and pushed wet hair from his forehead.
“This,” Cassius fumed, “this is what trusting God gets you!”
The furious young man did not wait for a reply. Instead, he spun around and ran back down the stairs. Luke looked at Aquila, who met his gaze with a somber expression. Luke knew what the man was thinking. We must leave soon.
With a firm step, Aquila took his wife’s arm. “Take care of the lad,” he said, “while Luke and I go down to speak with the others.”
Leaving the women to their unhappy task, Luke followed Aquila to the courtyard. Everyone was awake now, and many of the refugees appeared terrified. Women clung to their children, men stood with arms crossed and eyes defiant, and several of the children were crying. What had Cassius been thinking when he ignited such a scene?
“You saw my cousin’s body!” Cassius said, pointing to the balcony where the women were preparing the boy for burial. “We must retaliate for this brutal act. Nero’s guards killed Tarquin, and he was only a child!”
Aquila stepped forward to address the gathering. “Many of us are leaving the city in only seven days,” he said calmly. “We must remain strong during the time we have left.”
“So are we like diseased dogs?” Cassius asked. “We do nothing to defend ourselves while we are chased, hunted down, and killed?”
Priscilla went to the balcony railing and looked down on the impassioned young man. “We understand your anger, Cassius,” she said, her voice ringing above the group. “Tarquin was like a son to us. We should never have sent him out. This is our fault.”
“Why do you blame yourselves and not the ones who murdered him?” Cassius looked around the garden. “Who else have they taken? Your husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, children?” He pointed at Octavia. “That woman came to you covered in the blood of her baby. Would you tell her it was her fault?”
Aquila placed his hand on Cassius’s shoulder. “And what would you do about it, brother?”
“We should do to the Romans what they have done to us.” Cassius jerked out of Aquila’s grasp. “We should murder them under cover of darkness. We should set fires and burn them in their homes while they sleep!”
Luke rubbed his finger across his lips, recognizing the irony. Cassius was advocating the same sort of savagery the Romans already blamed on Christians. The result had been more unrest, and no wonder. Violence always begat violence.
“Cassius,” Aquila said, a sorrowful note in his voice, “you speak as if you have never heard the words of Christ.”
“You never walked with Christ,” Cassius said, “so how can you know He would not say these things in the face of an evil such as Nero?”
Arguments began to erupt as impassioned voices supported Cassius or Aquila. The noise grew louder until soon their neighbors might overhear—
“Quiet!” Luke waited, his hand lifted, until the noise faded to silence. “Be still. For your own sakes, keep quiet. None of us here have walked with Christ. But Paul has followed Him lon
ger than any of us.”
The silence deepened.
“I have watched Paul be beaten,” Luke continued, “stoned, and flogged, and never once did he raise a finger against his oppressors. Not once.” He waited for his words to sink in, then gentled his voice. “Let peace be with you, my friends, for though we live in the world, we do not wage war like the world. Paul would say that violence must be met with love.”
Several heads dipped in agreement, and Luke sensed a clear shift in the mood of the group.
But not everyone had been convinced by his admonition. Cassius and his friends still wore their hatred on their faces for the entire world to see.
Luke sighed and turned away. He was carrying a good deal of anger himself, but as an older and wiser man, he had learned to hide it well.
Mauritius sat at the foot of his daughter’s bed and glared at the Roman doctor. Across from the doctor, Irenica waited with her hands clasped, her face a mask of fear and distress.
“I’m sorry. She is not improving,” the doctor said.
Mauritius gripped his knees. “Whatever the cost, I will pay it. If you have some medicine that will help, regardless of the price—”
The doctor shook his head. “It is not a matter of cost, Prefect. It is a matter of diagnosis. I have never seen anything like this illness.”
Mauritius pressed further. “Please, we will do anything. She . . . she is our only child.”
The doctor stroked his chin, then blew out a breath. “There is a certain balm from the East. It may be helpful, but it is not inexpensive.”
“Procure it,” Mauritius said. “I will be happy to pay.”
“Very well.” The doctor nodded and slipped out of the room, Irenica trailing in his wake.
Mauritius rested his chin on his hands and studied his daughter’s sallow complexion. How long had she been ill? He closed his eyes and counted—six days. Occasionally, Irenica managed to get a little water down her throat, but Mauritius could not forget the dictum he frequently drilled into the minds of new recruits: a man could survive three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. Caelia was breathing, thanks be to the gods, yet she was not taking in much water, and she was not eating.
Soon her body would begin to relinquish its hold on life. Until then, he would sit and watch death bear down upon her with slow and solemn steadiness . . . all while knowing he could do nothing to stop it.
Luke settled on the floor next to Paul. His friend had been awake when Luke descended into the pit, and surely that meant his outlook was improving. On the other hand, if Paul was feeling more optimistic, Luke hated to be the bearer of bad news.
“How are my friends?” Paul asked, interest flickering in his eyes. “Are Aquila and Priscilla still planning to leave Rome?”
Luke drew a breath. “At the moment, things are a little . . . unsettled.” He hesitated. “There was a young Roman boy in the community. Two nights ago he was killed by the Praetorians. He was much loved, and Priscilla adored him like a son.”
Paul let out a sigh. “I am sorry to hear it.”
Luke paused as his mind replayed the painful scene at Aquila’s home when Cassius carried Tarquin’s body into the garden. “Most of Aquila’s people trust the Way, but Tarquin had a cousin who appears to be dividing the group. A growing number of young men want to retaliate. They seek revenge.”
Paul propped his hand on his bent knee. “We cannot repay evil for evil. Evil can only be overcome with good.”
“They are young in the faith and have not yet learned that truth. Considering all they have been through, can you fault their response?”
As the older man’s penetrating gaze raked Luke’s face, the physician knew his soul was being scrutinized, as well. “How did you answer them?” Paul finally asked.
Frustrated, Luke stood and began pacing in the gloom. “How was I supposed to answer them? Render unto Nero what is Nero’s? Yet you would have me say that love is the only way.”
“After all you have witnessed, you still don’t believe it?”
“Believe in what, love? I believe in love, yes, but this . . . this isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. This is a world in the suffocating grip of evil. It is Nero’s insane Circus. It is a passionate hatred. I hear the screams of people—good people, believing people—as they are tortured and murdered. Blood stains the streets of Rome, the blood of children. Widows and orphans starve to death. Babies born with the slightest defect are discarded or left for wild dogs to tear apart. This world doesn’t know a thing about love.”
“So we should give up on it? Think, Luke—did Christ give up on us? Our world could be cruel, too. We were sinners like these Romans, yet Christ loved us enough to die for us. He had all the power and authority of God at His command, but He forfeited His rights to become one of us, to suffer like us and show us the way. Violence was not His way. Love is His answer, for love is the only currency that will pay the heavy debt of sin.”
“But this world spits in the face of love!” Luke shouted, then recoiled from the anger in his voice, which bounced around the walls of the domed chamber and seemed to grow louder with every echo.
He had never raised his voice in anger around Paul, but neither had he faced such perplexing questions before. Not until now.
He returned to Paul and sat across from him, his head lowered. “Forgive me.”
Paul gave him a sympathetic smile. “The answer for the Roman people—for all people—is love. Because love suffers long. Love is kind. Love does not envy. Love does not dishonor. Love does not seek its own way. Love is not easily angered. Love does not delight in evil. Love rejoices in truth. Love protects, trusts, hopes, and endures all things.”
Paul’s words echoed in the cavernous space, too, drowning out the residual echo of Luke’s shout and cocooning them in the peace and quietude of love.
“Love conquers all,” Paul added. “Now do you understand?”
Luke nodded. “I think I do.”
“You didn’t write it down.”
“I don’t need to. You have already done so.”
A wry smile played at the corner of Paul’s mouth. “Forgive an old man his forgetfulness and trust me in this, Luke. I have followed a path that rejects love, and I have seen what that path does to the innocent. I have felt what it does to a person’s heart, and I know it does not bring peace. Or joy.”
“I am familiar with the path you have walked,” Luke said. “And though you were misguided, you were not Nero.”
“Was I so different?” Paul shook his head. “My righteousness was worthless because I offered it with pride, not love.” He drew a deep breath. “Like the blind, we grope along walls, trying to feel our way forward. We look for light in darkness, for brightness while we step along in deep shadows. We look for justice from unjust men, for deliverance from those who cannot deliver us. We look for perfection in imperfect situations.”
“And yet you believed you were acting out of a love for God,” Luke said.
“Do not attempt to excuse my sin. Yes, I thought my intentions were pure, but my love was blind because I only knew about the Law. I was stubborn, set in my self-righteous determination.” He focused on some vague point in the darkness, a look of unutterable distance in his eyes. “If water flows down a mountain, what besides a miracle can cause it to flow back up?”
Luke folded his arms around his knees. “Damascus was your miracle.”
“Yes.” Paul seemed to recollect himself as he smiled. “It was.”
“But it was not so for others. The Jews did not welcome you into the city.”
Paul nodded slowly. “They would have welcomed me if I had remained true to my purpose—if I had rounded up the believers and taken them back to Jerusalem to stand before the ruling kohanim. But I who had been the chief of sinners and the blindest of the blind could finally see that Yeshua is the Messiah. So they plotted to kill me.”
“I’m sensing a theme here,” Luke said, jot
ting a note on his papyrus. “A great number of people wanted you dead.”
Paul snorted. “They had killed Yeshua and Stephen, so perhaps they were overconfident. What they didn’t account for was God himself, who raised Yeshua from the dead and used Stephen’s death to scatter the believers throughout Judea. Even if they had succeeded in silencing me, I knew God would use my death for good. But I also knew they wouldn’t kill me—because God wasn’t finished with me.” The line of Paul’s mouth clamped shut for a brief moment, and his gaunt throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Though He may be finished with me now.”
Luke lifted his pen and held it before Paul’s eyes. “Look. See this? See this pen?”
Paul looked up and nodded.
“God isn’t finished with you, Paul. Not yet. I do not want to hear you say that again.” He lowered the pen, dipped it in the ink, and peered up at his friend. “Tell me more about Damascus. How did you escape the plot?”
Paul gave a shrug of his shoulders. “They stationed spies at the city gates. Someone heard about the spies and reported it to Ananias, who then told me. He didn’t know what to do, but Judah’s wife—yes, I was still staying with them—said she had a large basket she used for sheep shearing. Since I’ve never been a very big man, the plan made sense.”
“How so?”
Paul smiled weakly. “One night the believers wrapped me up and took me to the top of the city wall. While the spies watched the gates, they lowered me over the wall in Judah’s wife’s basket. I itched for a week afterward—all that wool—but I was able to get away from Damascus and journey to Jerusalem.”
“That sounds like a good stopping point.” Luke yawned. “I would stay longer, but I would be of no use to you.” He gathered his materials and stood. “I must leave you now. I’ll come again tomorrow night and will be well rested.”
Paul lifted his hand in a mock salute. “Until then, brother. Sleep well.”
“You too.” Luke hesitated in the column of light, wishing he could take Paul with him. This horrible confinement hardly seemed fair. After all, if Paul was guilty of treason, then so was he.