I, Saul

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Business or pleasure?” the customs agent said, studying his face and his passport photo.

  “Business. American tour guide meeting with—.”

  “I can see where you are from, sir,” she said, smiling.

  “My bad.Visiting a colleague.”

  “Where?”

  “Napoli and then probably back here in the city.”

  “I see you’re leaving your return open.”

  He shrugged. “I do love this place.”

  “Welcome to Italy, Dr. Knox.”

  The temperature in Rome would be thirty degrees lower than Dallas by noon. Augie hadn’t imagined enjoying 72 degrees again for months, but the cloudless sunny day was idyllic.

  Onboard the train Augie texted Sofia. “Tell him my ETA is 11:15.”

  She responded, “OK. Praying.”

  Augie’s phone bore nearly two hundred downloaded books for just such a time as this. But try as he might, he couldn’t find a thing that held his interest. Nothing could take his mind off whatever jam Roger was in.

  In all the years Augie had known Roger Michaels, he had never seen the man rattled. Unflappable, Marie Knox had called him. On tours, schedules changed without warning. Bureaucratic delays were common. You never knew when to grease a palm or stare down an implied request for a bribe. Worse, the members of the tours themselves often proved difficult. Some were impossible to please. Others shadowed you, eager to ingratiate themselves.

  Roger seemed to respect people of faith. Jewish by birth, he didn’t practice that religion either. He didn’t call himself an agnostic, let alone an atheist, “more of a deist.” He was deferential to the many Christians drawn to Augie’s tours. Few people detected—without probing—that Roger was irreligious. He easily quoted from both the Old and New Testaments. Only if someone directly asked would he allow that he was “still on the path, searching, but not in the market for more input, if you don’t mind.”

  People all over the world who liked, admired, respected, yes, loved Roger Michaels were praying for his soul. Augie often teased him, “You’re surrounded. You have no hope.”

  If Roger’s life was truly in danger, would he be more receptive? Or less?

  Disguise. What might that look like? Augie thought he’d recognize him regardless. Roger was short, solid, and anything but fat. At about five eight and two hundred pounds, still he was agile and quick. He almost always wore tan hiking boots with one-inch soles, laced all the way up and double tied, revealing two inches of white sock. Unless he was at a site that required long pants, he wore khaki cargo shorts. Outlined in one bulging pocket were a half dozen or so granola bars, and in the other his phone and a passel of pens.

  He wore flannel lumberjack shirts that had been crudely tailored into short sleeves, topped by a thin, breathable vest laden with guidebooks, maps, and more pens. Though he was fair-skinned, Roger’s massive arms were dark from the sun, sporting downy bleached hair. His watch could be mistaken for a small Buick.

  He often wore a floppy fisherman’s-style cap over longish hair that had gone from blond to gray in the years Augie had known him. Same with the full beard that started just below Roger’s sun-reddened cheeks.

  The most popular guide in Israel, largely because of his stentorian voice, Roger was good humored but never silly. His pale-blue eyes danced and he loved to weave stories. Augie could not remember even a hint of frustration clouding the man’s face. He seemed to always be smiling, radiating confidence without conceit. He had been such a mentor to Augie, especially early in their relationship, which was why Augie considered Roger his best friend today.

  As the train neared Napoli, Augie found himself fighting dread. He hated the idea of his mentor and best friend being worried about anything—let alone terrified.

  The Malta cruise meeting had come on Augie’s second solo trip. His father had finally fully ceded the work to him, and he and Roger spent an hour sketching out the six-day excursion. Roger had invited Augie to stay at his Rome apartment, but business had taken Roger to Napoli, so they met there at one of Roger’s favorite haunts.

  The South African had an affinity for local eateries. The Portauovo, a tiny square box decorated largely with rough-hewn wood, boasted a dozen tables and served breakfast twenty-four hours a day. It lay tucked between shops and bigger restaurants across the street from Piazza Giuseppe Garibaldi station, one floor down from Napoli Centrale, where Roger’s train would pull in.

  Roger had quizzed Augie about the name of the place the first time they ate there. Augie wracked his brain for the little Italian he knew. “Egg something?”

  “Very good. The Egg Cup. I recommend the—.”

  “Eggs?”

  Roger had roared. Augie could never bring the man’s face to mind without imagining a toothy grin surrounded by that massive beard.

  NAPLES, 11:30 A.M.

  Finally disembarking, Augie had to remind himself which escalator to take. When the Portauovo came into view, Augie looked for the very table in the back corner where they had met the first time. It was the only empty table as lunchtime approached and waiting customers spilled into the street. They had to wonder why a table sat empty with so many in line. But a tiny tented card read Riservati.

  Augie slipped to the front of the line in the face of scowls. The host frowned at him until Augie nodded toward the reserved table. “Knox,” he whispered.

  “Si. Seguimi.”

  Augie followed him and as soon as he sat down his phone chirped. “1 minute,” Roger had texted. “no big greeting, K?”

  When Roger approached, only his body was familiar, if not quite as broad. He wore navy Crocs, no socks, dress slacks, no belt, a tuxedo shirt, cuffs rolled up. The beard was gone, revealing a pasty, babyish face that contrasted with his rosy forehead and newly bony cheekbones. A beret covered his head, but when Roger doffed it at Augie’s astonished look, he revealed a shaved head.

  It felt strange not to bear hug the man, but Augie had to squint even to be sure it was the same person he’d known so long. Gone was the smile, the twinkle. And in place of the usual broad-shouldered posture, Roger sat slumped, folded in on himself. His eyes darted and his fingers twitched. Besides scared, Roger Michaels looked embarrassed.

  “Sorry about my look,” he said simply.

  “You do what you’ve got to do, Rog. Now what’s going on?” A waiter appeared and pointed to the menu chalked on the wall. “Nothing for me,” Roger said.

  “Nonsense,” Augie said. “We both want the three-egg omelet and a large orange juice.”

  “I can’t eat,” Roger said as the waiter left.

  “Force yourself. You look gaunt. Now give ….”

  Michaels looked around, leaned forward, and whispered, his voice shaky. “Augie, I’ve been entrusted with the greatest find in history.”

  “What, the Dead Sea Scr—?”

  “Bigger.” Roger wrenched around again, staring.

  “Who are you afraid of?”

  “I can’t trust anyone. This is so huge, Augie. Have you ever known me to exaggerate?” “Never.”

  “I’m talking about the most important document since the New Testament. You’ll have to see it to believe it. Sometimes I wish I’d never laid eyes on it.”

  20

  On to Jerusalem

  FIRST-CENTURY ROME

  “Tell me, Luke,” Paul said the next night, “have you made any changes in the manuscript, any suggestions?”

  “Not a jot or a tittle yet. The story has captivated me.”

  “When you get to the latter years, you will find that my mind was not as sharp and my pen much shakier. I will need your help making sense of all of it and putting it into a form where people can read it. Keep it among the brethren and my family.”

  When Luke embraced Paul for his usual farewell, he felt an urgency in the old man’s grip he hadn’t noticed for weeks. Was he afraid the end was near? Luke found Primus most interested in Paul’s health. “I confess, Doctor, I wish he would
pass in his sleep. I don’t want to see his execution any more than you do.”

  Later, as he ascended to his guest room, Luke wondered whether

  Primus and his wife treated him so kindly only because he had treated Primus’ mother. They had to know the risk of harboring a Christian. If and when Nero wanted him, he would not be hard to find.

  He sat wearily before the parchments, and at the haunting, lonely call of the night watchman announcing nine o’clock, Luke decided he would allow himself three more hours of escape into Paul’s narrative from fifty-five years before.

  The next morning at breakfast I found myself looking forward to David being found out by his father. Only now do I realize that it was then that I began to see my role as a model of one who not only knew the law, but also abided by it.

  Father had taught me to look adults in the eye, shake hands firmly, and speak clearly. I bade thanks and farewell to Samuel and his wife, waved at the other children, and stuck my hand out to David. He hesitated, but I think he realized his father was watching and finally offered a limp hand.

  “Samuel, if I may have a private word,” Father said, “Saul, please wait down there at the crossroad.”

  I tugged my horse under a tree and twisted to look back at Father and Samuel engaged in serious conversation. Samuel suddenly grew rigid, and now only Father was talking.

  Samuel called out for David as Father mounted up, and the boy glared at me as he slowly approached his father. I returned his gaze, unafraid. I had nothing to be ashamed of. He did. And it felt good to be God’s instrument in bringing him to justice.

  21

  Carabinieri

  NAPOLI, ITALY

  SATURDAY, MAY 10, 12:05 P.M.

  “Switch seats with me,” Roger Michaels said. “I don’t want to be surprised.”

  “By whom?” Augie said, rising.

  “See the carabinieri station over my shoulder, across the street?”

  “You’re afraid of the police?”

  “I told you, I can’t trust anyone.”

  He settled with his back to the wall of the Portauovo, pulled his beret down over his eyes, and rested his chin in his hand. Augie would not have recognized him, so he couldn’t imagine anyone else would.

  When the waiter brought their omelets, Roger left his silverware wrapped in a paper napkin as if to follow through on his insistence that he couldn’t eat. “Say a blessing if you want,” he said. “You will anyway.”

  As Augie bowed his head, a boldness chilled him. It was as if God Himself had given him utterance. He reached to cover Roger’s hand, stunned anew at his friend’s shuddering. “Father,” Augie whispered, “we are grateful for this food. Bless it to our bodies. And would You use whatever Roger is going through to draw him to Yourself? I pray in the name of Your Son and my Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  Augie unrolled Roger’s napkin and slid his silver to him. “You’re going to eat, Rog. I’m here to help, and I can’t have you running on empty.”

  Roger sighed with a catch in his throat. “Oh, Augie,” he said, sounding as weary as Augie had ever heard him, “you remember Klaudios?”

  “Giordano? Of course. The Vatican guide with the—.”

  “Limp. Yes. He’s dead.”

  “What?” Augie said, mouth full and struggling to swallow. “How?”

  “Murdered. I didn’t think they’d do it. They needed him to get to me. How are they supposed to get to me without him giving me up?”

  It was all Augie could do to breathe. “Roger, you’ve got to back up. What are you talking about?”

  “I owe him my life,” Roger said, eyes filling. “He was even more in my face about his faith than you were. You know how Catholics can be.”

  “I’m lost, Rog. What are you into?”

  Roger covered his eyes, appearing to doze. Finally he slid his hands away. “You know they’ve been working on Mamertime.”

  “The prison, sure. Shoring up the foundation or something?”

  Roger nodded. “It’s been a mess over there, tourists coming all this way, disappointed not to get a look at Paul and Peter’s dungeon.”

  “Right.”

  “The plan was to leave the tufa rock walls just as they are to stay as close to authentic as possible. It took ‘em weeks to brace those so they could replace the two rows of blocks below floor level.” “Makes sense.”

  “Well, Klaudios made friends with the workers over there, even a couple of the supervisors. You know him—wanted to be the first to know when the place would be open to his groups again.”

  “That’s him.”

  “So apparently one day there’s a big to-do at the site and Klaudios happens to be there jawing with the supervisor. The engineers had seen some sagging, I think, and they guessed the foundation was deteriorating somehow.”

  Augie wanted to leap across the table and grab Roger, demanding he get to the point. “So what caused the commotion?”

  “Turns out the engineers might have been wrong about the foundation. The stones were cold but they were dry and appeared in decent shape.”

  Roger paused to take a bite, and suddenly he was shoveling in eggs and cheese like it was his last meal. He kept peeking over Augie’s shoulder.

  Finally the big man took a long swig of his orange juice and said, “Thanks. This was a good idea. I needed that.”

  “Roger, I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t get on with the story.”

  “The supervisor shuts down the work late in the afternoon—” “When was this?”

  Roger shook his head. “I can hardly remember when my life ended. A little less than three weeks maybe? Anyway, down deep behind one of the stone blocks a worker finds something wrapped in a kind of primitive burlap. The cloth was in pretty rough shape, but it had protected whatever it was wrapped around, and that felt intact.”

  “He didn’t unwrap it ….”

  “No!” Roger said. “Valued his job.”

  “So somebody called the Art Squad ….”

  “’Course,” Roger said, “even though nobody knew what might be in there. Could have been garbage, but the supervisor had to follow the rules. Whoever he called at the Carabinieri Art Squad told him to secure the site and said they would send someone in the morning to check it out.”

  “Routine.”

  Roger nodded. “But ol’ Giordano was curious.”

  “Never knew a guy with more questions,” Augie said. “Everything interested Klaudios.”

  “So when everybody’s gone but a couple of guys from the crew who are supposed to watch the place, he—.”

  “They assigned laborers for security?”

  “They didn’t know it was anything important, Augie. Probably figured it wasn’t, like nine times out of ten these so-called finds turn out to be meaningless. So Klaudios tells the guys he’s going to nose around inside before he goes back to the Vatican, and they probably don’t think a thing about it. Why would they? He’s on the Vatican payroll. They know him, he’s been friendly with their supervisor, so they don’t care. Pretty soon he comes climbing out of there and tells ’em he’s going to go get his stuff but that he’d like to spend a little more time in there before he goes home. Asks them if they want anything and comes back half an hour later with snacks and his big old satchel over his shoulder. While they’re enjoying what he brought ‘em, he’s back in the dungeon.”

  “You’re not saying he stole an artifact.”

  “Augie, you may be the only person on God’s green earth who wouldn’t have, and I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “But that’s a major crime! Doesn’t he have a family?”

  “He’s got kids in college.”

  “What’d he find, Rog, and how’d you get mixed up in it?”

  “Can we walk and talk? I feel like I’m sitting under a spotlight here.”

  “This place was your idea, Rog.”

  “Not all my ideas are brilliant. Like letting Klaudios rope me into this.”

&nb
sp; Augie paid the bill and followed Roger across the street and into the underground station. “We taking the train back to your place?” Augie said.

  “My apartment is where they’re going to kill me. I haven’t been there for days. Anyway, I drove. You can ride back with me. I’ve booked you into a place less than half a mile away from my neighborhood.”

  “Who wants to kill you, Roger?”

  “Guy from the Art Squad. He’d use a Tombaroli hit man.”

  A tomb raider? “All right,” Augie said. He dragged Roger to a bench in a secluded alcove and made him sit. “So what did Klaudios haul out of there?”

  “You ready?”

  “Enough to beat it out of you if I have to.”

  “Only the memoir of St. Paul the Apostle.”

  22

  City of David

  FIRST-CENTURY DAMASCUS

  Father’s plan was that we travel a little more than thirty miles that first day, stopping about halfway for a light meal and to water and feed the horses. Merciless as the sun had been, we soon entered what seemed an oven so bright and hot that we could barely go on. Our animals stumbled and stutter-stepped and I turned to see Father looking as alarmed as I.

  We lived in an arid country, and we knew it would grow worse in this direction, but could anyone travel in such conditions? Father said we needed to press ahead. Later I would remember those last few miles to the rest area as the longest, most labored, torturous part of the whole journey. At the watering station we met travelers coming the other way who offered no accounts of unusual heat. And people who arrived from the same direction we had come didn’t appear to have suffered as we had. The torture of that leg of the trip seemed to have been put exclusively in our way. I could not understand it.