Paul, Apostle of Christ

by Angela Hunt

  But God had a sovereign plan for each of them, and Luke would not contest it.

  Sha’ul stares at Stephen’s bloodied face. The cloudy eyes seem to look right through him, and the lips, though motionless, appear eager to accuse him of betrayal, treachery, and murder.

  The scene shifts. Sha’ul sees a younger version of himself at a wooden table, an open Torah scroll before him, his young wife grinding grain across the room. She hums a melody as Sha’ul runs his finger over the handwritten text, but his youthful face twists in horror when he realizes his finger is smearing the handwritten text with blood. Blood on his hands! Stephen’s blood!

  The scene evaporates, leaving him outside a small house in Jerusalem. He walks at the head of a contingent of Levites who serve as Temple guards. He steps aside as they pound on the home’s wooden door while Sha’ul clenches a signed writ. He has been given permission by no less a body than the Great Sanhedrin to find and imprison any who claim to be part of the dangerous sect spreading blasphemy in Israel. Men, women, and children have fallen under the influence of the Way, and even though the false messiah is dead, his influence continues to grow.

  “Open up!” one of the Temple guards cries. “In the name of the high priest!”

  The guard’s forceful kick slams the door open, but instead of encountering the man of the house, a woman and two children stand trembling in the doorway. One guard grabs the woman, another catches the boy, but the little girl ducks and runs away. Sha’ul whirls and follows her, finally finding the child beneath an overturned basket. He lifts the basket and jerks the girl to her feet, steeling his heart against the pleading expression in her brown eyes.

  The scene changes again. This time Sha’ul stands on the well-traveled road to Damascus, a major trading center since the time of Abraham. A crowd is approaching. Without looking to the left or right, they stride forward in the blinding light—men, women, children. As before, their faces follow him no matter what he does, and their eyes remain filled with lethal calm.

  Paul cannot escape their stares.

  What do they want from him?

  He looks away as a serpent of anxiety wraps around his chest and twists in his gut. He turns his back on the crowd and tries to think of other things—Jerusalem, his dead wife, the glory of the Temple. He shouts the names of God, evoking the power in the names—“’El Elyon! ’El Ro’i! Yahweh-Rohi, deliver me!” He turns, convinced he has managed to banish these somber specters, but when he looks down the road again, they remain in place. They stand perfectly still in the road, blocking his way, the light in their eyes reflecting the tide of fear in his own.

  Paul swallows hard as the voices begin to buzz. Then he sees the little girl at the front of the group, her wide brown eyes focused on him. He stares back, guilt avalanching over him, as her eyes darken . . . and the scene shifts once more.

  Chapter

  Nine

  The Fifteenth Day of Junius

  Mauritius crossed the threshold of the Temple of Jupiter and approached the priest at the entrance. After paying the required number of sesterces, he went into the temple and knelt before the lararium. He lifted his toga to cover his head.

  “Father Janus, in offering this incense to you I pray good prayers, so that you may be propitious to me and my child, to my house and to my household.”

  Next he poured wine into a shallow dish, the patera. “Father Jupiter, this cup of wine is given to you in honor of my family for the sacred feast. For the sake of this thing may you be honored by this feast offering.”

  He sat back on his heels and waited for the priest to bring out the sacrificial victim. As he waited, he looked around and realized he had not visited the temple in months. He had been too busy and life was too regular, blessedly uneventful. But desperate circumstances called for desperate measures, so for Caelia’s sake he had promised Irenica that he would make a blood sacrifice to Jupiter.

  She had been sick for seven days, and every day Irenica struggled to get water past their daughter’s lips.

  A moment later he heard the clip clop of hooves on marble. He turned and saw the priest leading a castrated bull. The animal had been washed and adorned with ribbons and strips of scarlet wool. The creature’s horns were gilded, and his back was covered with a richly decorated blanket.

  The priest stopped in the center of the room and bowed toward Mauritius. He stood on shaky legs, then picked up the bowl on the lararium. It was filled with mola salsa, roasted wheat flour mixed with salt.

  Mauritius stepped over to the animal and sprinkled the creature’s back with the mola salsa. When he had finished, he looked at the priest, who lifted a reproachful brow and nodded toward the wine on the lararium.

  Mauritius winced in guilt. He had not made a blood sacrifice in so long that he had nearly forgotten the ritual. He went back to the lararium, picked up the patera, and poured wine on the animal’s forehead. He then picked up the ceremonial knife and ran it lightly over the animal’s back.

  Mauritius moved back and folded his hands. What happened next would be crucial—the animal must show that it was a willing sacrifice by lowering its head. Any sign of panic or rebellion would be a bad omen, and Mauritius’s prayers would not be answered.

  The priest tugged downward on the rope at the animal’s neck. The bovine lowered his head, greatly relieving Mauritius, and the priest was quick to draw a sharp blade across the animal’s throat.

  Blood spattered, and for an instant Mauritius wondered if the cut had been deep enough, but then the animal staggered and went down. Blood continued to flow, pooling around the great beast. Another priest entered to help complete the sacrifice.

  Breathing in the metallic scent of blood, Mauritius pressed his lips together and prayed that the ritual would soon be over. The second priest helped the first turn the bovine onto its back. Another slice opened its belly. With the help of his assistant, the first priest examined the entrails: liver, lungs, peritoneum, and heart.

  Mauritius shifted his weight, hoping the gods would not show their displeasure by fouling his sacrifice. But when the examination was done, the first priest looked at him and nodded.

  Mauritius went back to the lararium and knelt. “Jupiter Dapalis, may you be honored by this feast offering, and may you remember my household and my sick daughter.”

  The bloodstained priest gestured toward the banquet hall, where Mauritius would be allowed to eat some of the sacrifice. Instead, he lifted his hand, thanked the priest, and walked out of the temple.

  Luke gazed upward, aware that the torchlight above was fading. The guard in the upper chamber must have fallen asleep.

  He dipped his pen in a puddle of ink, then looked at Paul. “Everything in your life changed after Damascus, yet you went immediately into the desert and spent three years in Arabia. Of all places, why did you go there?”

  Paul closed his eyes and smiled. “Peter and the others spent three years learning from Christ. I wanted to do the same thing. I had to learn how to pray, how to speak, and how to love.”

  “Were you out there looking for some sort of John the Baptist?”

  Paul snorted softly. “In a way, perhaps. But I had the Holy Spirit as my teacher. Out in the desert, Yeshua showed me how much I would suffer in His name. Just as John did. Just as Peter did.”

  “You were not discouraged during this time. Why?”

  “How could I be discouraged? I was a slave to Christ, and since He wanted me to stay, I stayed. I needed to learn, and where better to do that than the desert where there are no distractions? HaShem trained Moses in the desert. David learned to trust HaShem while he dwelt in desert caves. While I was in the desert, Christ revealed himself to me. I had no contact with any of the disciples until after I returned to Jerusalem.”

  Luke lowered his pen and dared to broach a subject that had long intrigued him. “You once wrote of visiting the third heaven. What did you mean by that?”

  “The first heaven is the sky,” Paul said.

&nb
sp; “And the second?”

  “The second heaven is where the sun, moon, and stars dwell. The first and second heavens are visible. They are not part of the unseen world.”

  “The third heaven—is it not visible?”

  Paul shook his head. “Yeshua came down to us from the third heaven,” he answered, his voice so quiet that Luke strained to hear the words. “It is where God lives with the holy angels.”

  An anticipatory shiver rippled up Luke’s spine. “So it is an actual place, then.”

  Paul nodded. “It is a real place above the earth, above the sky, above the heavens. It is the place where God rules over His creation and our lives. It is the home of departed saints. But it is not part of the visible world.”

  Luke blinked, then fumbled to find his pen in the darkness. He had to take complete notes of what he was hearing. “While you were there,” he said, still fumbling, “did you travel in your body, or did only your soul visit that place?”

  Paul gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know. I only know I was caught up to the third heaven, but whether in the body or outside the body I don’t know. God does, however. I was caught up to Paradise and heard words too sacred to tell, which a man is not permitted to utter.”

  “Paradise.” Luke let the word hang in the silence for a moment. “Jesus spoke of Paradise. While He hung on the cross, He promised the thief next to Him that they would be together in Paradise that same day.”

  “The tree of life is there, in the midst of the angels.” Paul’s face had a look of deep concentration. Whatever he had seen, he was seeing it again. “It is a place of such beauty . . . words cannot begin to express its loveliness. When I returned to earth, my surroundings seemed”—his mouth twitched—“faded.” He turned toward Luke, his eyes softening. “In six days I may visit that place again.”

  Luke frowned. “Do you doubt it? You, who have encouraged so many others, cannot be doubting the promises of Jesus now.”

  “I don’t doubt Him,” Paul whispered. “I doubt myself. Because I know nothing good exists in me, and I can boast only of my weakness. I have served Christ, but I have never forgotten how completely undeserving I am.”

  Luke lifted his small oil lamp and saw how his friend was exhausted. Moving quietly, he gathered up his notes. He had just picked up his bag when a shadow swallowed up the fading light from above.

  “Prisoner!” a guard barked. “On your feet! The Greek, too!”

  Irritable and exhausted, Mauritius narrowed his gaze at the two dirty men before him. He had come to the prison after leaving the temple, thinking a few hours away from home might help clear his mind. But he had found the Greek with his prisoner again.

  How many times did a physician need to visit a dying man?

  He crossed his arms and stared at the two men. Paul of Tarsus looked to be in terrible condition, despite his physician’s help. The Greek appeared exhausted and filthy, as well. And they both smelled of death and decay.

  Mauritius studied the crooked outline of Paul’s back. He gestured toward the bench in the room. “Would you like to sit?”

  Paul shifted his weight. “I will stand.”

  “I noticed the shape of your spine,” Mauritius said. “Yours is the posture of a man who has been repeatedly flogged. They say the spine bends and does not heal properly.” He turned to the physician. “Am I correct?”

  The Greek nodded stiffly.

  Determined not to let his personal frustration affect his encounter with this prisoner, Mauritius made another effort to be pleasant. “I am sure you are aware of the responsibility I bear for the detainment of the prisoners here in this place.”

  Paul tilted his head. “I am well aware that to lose a prisoner means death for the man in charge.”

  Mauritius dipped his chin in a curt nod. “Then you understand my current concern.”

  The Greek looked confused, but Paul understood. “You think we are plotting an escape?”

  “A man found guilty of arson and murder meets in secret with a Greek. Perhaps you are not only plotting an escape, but an uprising.”

  The Greek laughed. “An uprising? For what purpose?”

  Mauritius was undeterred. With a smile, he said, “Vengeance. The followers of your cult are being beaten, raped, and killed. One might understand why you would seek vengeance upon those who carry out the emperor’s orders.”

  The physician went silent, giving credence to Mauritius’s words.

  Paul of Tarsus lowered his head. “We are not planning an uprising. It is for the Lord’s sake that we face death all day, that we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”

  “Even sheep will revolt if whipped hard enough.”

  A flash of fire lit the prisoner’s eyes. “Prefect, do you think I have come to Rome against my will? That I am in this cell by accident? I am not.”

  Caught by surprise, Mauritius stared at the man. No one wanted to remain in that horrid dungeon. For some, execution was a welcome relief. Had Paul of Tarsus completely lost his senses?

  No, surely not. The man seemed sharp enough when he spoke to his friend.

  “I care very little about the circumstances that brought you here,” Mauritius went on. “At the moment I am concerned with the documents being generated in my prison. You will turn these over to me at once. I will read them, and depending on what I find, I will determine what should be done about them.” He looked at Severus, who stood yawning by the door. “Consider the Greek a threat until proven otherwise. Take the writings from his bag and leave them with me. Since he seems to enjoy visiting so much, lower him back into the cell with the preacher from Tarsus. When the sun rises, he will not leave but will remain with his friend.”

  Mauritius rose and thumped his desk. “I will speak to you further once I have had a chance to read what you’ve written.”

  Chapter

  Ten

  The Sixteenth Day of Junius

  Aquila woke when his wife shook his shoulder. “Luke did not come home last night.” Priscilla peered out the window and wrung her hands. “I went up to see if he wanted something to break his fast, but he wasn’t there and his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

  Wide awake now, Aquila sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “He could have been detained.”

  She pressed a hand to her chest. “The Praetorians could be flogging him as we speak. Or he could be floating in the river like Tarquin—”

  Aquila lifted his head at the sound of loud voices in the courtyard. Throwing on his tunic, he left his bed and ran to the balcony, where one look down revealed that the day had begun with another misadventure. Cassius and his young friends stood in the center of the garden, and one of them had a sword strapped to his side.

  Aquila hurried down the stairs. “Have you lost your minds?” he called. “Keep your voices down!”

  Cassius whirled to face him. “We have just gotten word—Luke has been imprisoned with Paul. He has been charged with conspiracy.”

  Fear blew down the back of Aquila’s neck. “Conspiracy—of what sort?”

  “Does it matter?” Cassius said. “Because he is a Christian, he could have been imprisoned for no reason at all. We must put a stop to this madness.”

  Aquila brought his hands to his temples as his head began to pound. Too much was happening, and all too quickly. He needed help, but most of these people were new Christians and too frightened to provide much assistance.

  One of the older men spoke up. “Cassius speaks of revolt! He would risk our lives and the lives of those in my family. He dares to put us at risk before we have a chance to get safely out of Rome.”

  Cassius turned on him. “Coward! This is the moment to act.”

  “And do what?” The men turned when Octavia spoke, her hand at her throat. “What would you do, spill more blood on the streets of Rome? We have to wait only five more days, brothers and sisters. In five days most of us will be leaving the city.”

  “You are all cowards.” Cassius step
ped forward and met Aquila’s gaze without flinching. “I have gathered brave men who are willing to storm the prison and free Luke and Paul.”

  “To what end, Cassius?” Aquila asked.

  “We will have justice!” Cassius beat his fist in the empty air. “Think how foolish Nero will feel when he hears he has lost the man accused of burning Rome.”

  “But it won’t happen like that,” Octavia said, her voice rising above the rumbling of the men. “If you are caught, they will come here and take all of us. They will even take our children.”

  “Like they took Tarquin?” Cassius stepped onto a stone bench where he could command the gathering. “Listen to me! We can align ourselves with the powerful anti-Nero families to overthrow the emperor. We can bring peace to Rome when we rule.”

  Octavia shook her head. “Christ asked us to care for the world, not rule it. This world is not our home. The kingdom you are imagining will not be the kingdom of heaven. How could it be when it would be ruled by imperfect men?”

  As the arguing grew louder, Aquila trudged upstairs to the balcony, gripped the railing, and called for silence. When the hubbub finally quieted, he took a deep breath and leaned toward them. “Listen closely, brothers and sisters. You may leave the city or you may stay, but if any of you take up arms, you have no place in this community. You should leave now.”

  “Oh!”

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Priscilla watching from the bedroom doorway, her face streaked with tears. “I have heard everything,” she said, moving toward him. “And I understand your position. We cannot advocate violence, but what can we do about Luke?”

  Aquila sighed heavily. “He is a foreigner. He has no rights in Rome.”

  “Perhaps all is not hopeless,” Priscilla said. “I know some influential women. I will speak to them—perhaps one of them can ask her husband to help.”

  Aquila squeezed her arm. “Be careful. We have very little time, and we should do nothing that puts the others in danger. You know Luke would gladly forfeit his own life to get these people to safety.”