by Jay Parini
“You’re a gull in the wind,” I said.
“I so dislike metaphors.”
“But you’re a writer, Luke. Metaphor is your trade.”
He shook his head, knowing he would avoid metaphor as often as he could. It was, he suggested, “a natural inconvenience, at times useful, often a terrible excess.”
“Not so terrible,” I said.
My dear Luke wrote well, I must say, with a grace of precision, often improving upon my dictation. His Greek recalled for me the style of Herodotus, that historian who had mastered (or created) a stylish form of Ionic Greek. He wrote with such fluency and poise, and his life of our Lord—should he actually complete it—would surely attract a following. I saw a luminous scroll opening in one vivid dream, and I knew it was Luke’s.
When I mentioned this, he said, “Paul, you are seeing things.”
“It’s what I do,” I answered.
We sailed happily for two days, putting in at Sidon, a familiar port, where Julius agreed I could wander ashore without a guard. We had a lively circle of the Way there, led by Seth, a feisty, clever rabbi who had studied under Gamaliel in my time. Our visit coincided with the First Day, so we shared the sacred meal with these good people. As ever, they invited me to read from the scroll and speak. It was largely a Jewish group, and I marked this, saying that God would save the whole of Israel in due course.
“Not all of them,” shouted Seth.
“All of them,” I repeated. “Do you think God will let anyone go? He has fashioned us, flesh and bone, for his pleasure, to expend his love. Love binds us, and Jesus perfected his faith in the love of God. Never doubt this, my friends.”
In the prison in Caesarea, I had realized in a swoop of understanding that God would never let us go, not a single one. We do not let a child go, however wayward that child. We are all of us the prodigal children of our Creator. He will not prefer this one over that one. In the fullness of days, each soul unites with the whole, finding a center in God. I knew this perfectly now, as if for the first time, and understood why our Lord had not taken me away in Jerusalem.
I had further work to do.
But Seth scoffed at me, continuing to object, saying that Adam had ruined everything. We had been cast out, landing somewhere east of Eden, aliens under heaven. Humanity was flawed, stained by our forefather’s seminal act of disobedience.
I refused to let him have the final say in this because he was wrong. “In Adam we die, each of us,” I explained. “But in the Christ we blossom into new life.” I recalled what I had written to the Roman circle. “How shall we compare the gift of God in Jesus to the sin of one man, Adam?” I asked those who gathered in Sidon the same question. “Death reigned for a while, yes, because of one man, Adam, who represents our sinful aspect. We step over the line repeatedly, according to our nature. But consider the abundant provisions of God, who in his son models forgiveness and makes us whole!”
I wished I could stay longer with my brothers and sisters in Sidon, as their responses to what I said encouraged me, and even Seth appeared to relent, but I had promised to return to the ship. And Rome called.
* * *
Sailing close to the wind, we headed northwest, with the shoreline in view, its brown undulating hills and evergreen forests, the sheer sides of cliffs, the inlets of white, rocky shingle. Sheep and goats dotted the hillsides, and I saw the lonely stone huts of shepherds and wondered about these isolated lives. The margins between land and sea always provoked deep thoughts in me, calling me to the boundaries of flesh and spirit.
In years past, I had taken comfort in the company of shepherds, and slightly envied their still and present lives, their absorption into a landscape, with its familiar contours and profound silences, how they adjusted to the passing seasons, the alternating rhythms of day and night. I wondered if, in the next world, I would meet these shepherds again. Would I even know them when we met? Would I know my friends, my family? Or did we become pure spirit in the end, removed from our petty past lives?
I put these questions to Aristarchus, who stood beside me on the deck, and he answered after a pause. “I share these questions. My life is all questions, but this is what God has allowed us—questions, not answers.” Then he added: “But such wonderful questions!”
I kissed him on the forehead, delighted by this response. I had, perhaps, tried too hard to supply answers, when questions sufficed. The simplicity of dear Aristarchus moved me now. And I realized how much I could learn from his straightforward approach to complicated matters.
The winds picked up, gusting and baffling our pilot, who tacked to port and starboard with unusual skill as we came off the coast of Cyprus toward Lycia, beating past Pamphylia into the harbor at Myra one afternoon as the sky streaked with black-and-vermillion clouds and a dull thunder rattled over the city. This port was well placed for grain ships from Alexandria, and the docks spilled over with sailors who spoke with strangled Egyptian accents.
Julius explained that we would continue to Rome on a larger vessel, an Alexandrian ship bound for Italy, its hold packed with massive sacks of grain from the latest harvest. Since the time of the Republic, Roman politicians had ensured that grain was available in the capital, even free for the neediest, as hungry citizens were dangerous citizens. Expediency fueled their compassion. Now the captain told me that Nero, who required the love of his people (not just their obedience), had allotted six or seven bushels a month to each family in Rome: a generous allotment that bought their support if not their love. In response, wily and avaricious Alexandrian merchants had built their fleets, creating wide floating cargo transports that had little maneuverability in heavy seas but had proven reliable enough.
I had seen these vessels before, but only in the distance; the size of them up close startled me. Their cargo as well as their ballast and double planking for stability weighed them down, and they rode the waves like giant turtles. They carried a substantial crew and assorted passengers, and often shifted prisoners from one dismal location to another for a small sum, which the Romans happily paid. We had more than two hundred and fifty men on board this particular vessel, seventy of them—like me—in custody. The rest were divided between Roman troops and the Egyptian crew. Our pilot, I was told, was “almost a Phoenician,” meaning that his navigational skills could be trusted, though I had heard this before and doubted its truth.
This information inspired Luke, who offered us a quietly learned dissertation on Phoenician history and their legendary seamanship and journeying to the farthest rims of the earth, recalling that “they gave to the world the gift of alphabetic writing.”
It was indeed a gift, and one that Luke, in particular, delighted in. The patience he had shown in Caesarea, writing and rewriting my letters to the Way, amazed me in retrospect. I could not easily have taken another man’s words and put them down as faithfully, not without altering something at every turn. I tended to revise my own thoughts even before I had them, aware that God himself guided this impulse toward perfection.
“She is remarkable,” said young Aristarchus, surveying our ship from dockside. He asked about its exact measurements and capabilities, and one of the crew supplied the details. “A sturdy vessel,” he said.
It was so. The prow rose to a mythic bird’s head and beak, and the stern swept its tail broadly. It boasted one tall cedar mast with a smaller one up front, some yards from the bow. A pilot’s cabin squatted on the aft deck, with a desk inside where he could consult charts or escape from a stiff icy wind to collect his thoughts. They told us to sleep below, in rows like sacks of grain, but we would resist this confinement, asking to sleep up top if possible, as surely the hold would reek of fear, rat droppings and human excrement, ancient layers of piss and sweat, and the usual creeping sea damp that infested all vessels belowdecks where there was inevitably seepage between the strakes.
Julius, bless him, un
derstood our wishes. “I don’t think anyone will protest,” he said, “and if they do, refer them to me. In fact, I’ll speak with the captain right away.” He would sleep in one of the cabins reserved for officers, in an actual bunk with blankets.
As dark fell on our first night out, I slumped against a starboard-side bulwark in a rough wool shroud, with Luke and Aristarchus beside me. We had some bread and cheese, and a handful of figs and nuts—almost a feast, although I worried that the quantity of food would dwindle before we set foot ashore again. Aristarchus lay back, humming, with his face to the heavens, lost in his own music. I felt an unexpected surge of affection for him and was glad, after all, that he had joined us.
The sea swelled as we set off, with a peppery mist in the air, not quite rain but its harbinger. We mounted each wave to its peak and slid down the other side—an undulating sweep that sickened my companions. (Aristarchus heaved over the rail and felt better afterward. Or, at least, he bravely chose to say that he felt “much improved.”) The water hissed and curled around the hull.
As I knew from past journeys by sea, the cloudy sky posed a dilemma for the pilot. Without a clear view of the pole star, finding our way to Sicily could not be easy. Sailors, for the most part, relied on point-to-point navigation, keeping as near as possible to the shore, moving from landmark to landmark. But this was not always possible, especially with these deep-hulled ships, which sailed close to any coast at their peril.
I made a point to befriend Dymas, the pilot, a furrow-browed and laconic Alexandrian who inspired confidence by his manner. He eyed me with respect, in part—or so I imagined—because a centurion had been assigned as my personal guard. He had not seen that before. Prisoners on these ships were generally treated as livestock, though with less care for their comfort and safety.
“You must be important, sir,” Dymas said.
“An illusion.”
“Either an assassin or a politician,” he said.
“Or both.”
I could have been specific about the actual charges against me but didn’t actually wish to sink in his estimate. Temple violations would not impress him. And my elevated status as a prisoner of some consequence might prove useful in circumstances I could not yet envision. As ever, I simply liked being close to the pilot because the craft of navigation interested me.
Early the next morning we drew into Cnidus, a harbor village on the long, rocky spike of a peninsula that pushed out between Rhodes and Kos. We planned to lay over there, counting on a westerly breeze, but it proved impossible to anchor, with an easterly blow fouling our approach. The harbor glimmered in the distance, tantalizing and yet beyond our reach. I recalled stopping there many years ago and walking into their temple, which was dedicated to Aphrodite, and then strolling beyond the village boundaries to a sloping necropolis, where tombs called out to our vulnerability.
I advised our pilot to seek the leeward side of Crete, and he agreed. It was the best we could manage, under the circumstances, as we plunged into cold rain that stung like nettles. The sea frothed, white-capped, chaotic. Driftwood passed beside us, scattering its white bones on the water, and I took this as an omen, knowing the tides and winds worked against us and would push us off course. The captain stood alone on the foredeck, pensive. He spread his legs to brace himself, holding to the rail. The fraught look on his face struck me, and I knew he feared the worst. In winter, most prudential seamen refused to venture abroad, heeding the so-called mare clausum—an unwritten code that forbade travel by sea during the worst season.
We rounded the escarpment of Cape Salmone under a black sky, then made for the coast, keeping land in view as we hauled against a driving northeasterly. Somehow, for two days, we managed to lay near Fair Havens, a relatively quiet bay, with the sun occasionally beaming through a part in the cloudscape. I suggested to the captain and Dymas that we should consider spending the winter here. The wind would only grow stronger, less predictable by the day, and it blew the wrong way. At our current pace, we would never make Sicily before the depth of winter overwhelmed us, and the consequences could be dire.
The captain listened to me politely but said that Fair Havens would never suit us, as it had few resources, such as food or shelter. It was, he maintained without sufficient evidence, “the equivalent of a mirage.” He suggested we continue in the direction of Phenice, “a better harbor, with an abundant village. Perhaps a couple of days’ journey,” the captain said, “if the weather cooperates.”
The pilot glanced at me, and I understood what his look meant. The captain had no deep knowledge of these parts, or he was counting on optimism to lift us over the worst.
“A typhoon is coming,” I said.
“Is this man a prophet?” the captain asked, winking at Julius.
Julius rejected the notion of wintering in Fair Havens. “Phenice, I think, might be preferable,” he said. “It’s a question of supplies. We have a lot of men aboard.”
The captain agreed, and so we headed into the first flush of a storm. Within the hour, black waves splashed over the gunwales and sopped the deck, which rolled fiercely, while the sails cracked and sputtered. The crew scattered in various directions, doing their best to follow the captain’s helter-skelter commands, which alarmed me. I wished I could help, but there was nothing for it. I would have to watch this catastrophe unfold without the authority or even the knowledge to be useful.
I huddled with the pilot, who insisted I should advise him. The captain was too frightened or befuddled to object, so I pressed beside Dymas with the charts—an old Phoenician map, which was spread out before me as we skidded along the island’s southern coast, sailing as close to the wind as we could get, though we drifted erratically and gained almost no purchase on our course.
At last a steady blow came behind us, and we moved forward, rounding what I assumed was Cape Matala, whereupon the sky emptied itself. Gushers of wind blew us off course, and our pilot had little control of our direction. We had only a brief respite one afternoon, sailing in the shelter of Clauda, a tiny treeless island that looked woefully alone. In that pause, the captain insisted that his men bail the longboat, which had been following in tow. He had mere survival on his mind now, and we took the usual precaution of frapping, which meant pulling cables around the ship and using a windlass to tighten them. This made good sense, as I could easily imagine our ship bursting apart in hurricane winds without this wrapping. I suggested that we strike sail, too, since we had no hope of keeping our course, but the pilot knew our captain would never assent.
The prisoners and soldiers belowdecks were ordered to bring up the grain sacks and toss them overboard, a sign of our mounting desperation. I saw amphorae filled with wine rolling overboard, sucked into foamy whirlpools. Crates followed, so heavy it took a dozen men to upend one of them into the deep. Any number of grain sacks followed, our most precious cargo.
The clamor of the wind subsided for a few hours, and hope briefly caught fire when the sun blinked between clouds, scalloping the sea with sharp blades of light.
“We’ll be fine,” the captain said, more to himself than to anyone beside him. It occurred to me that human beings cannot for long abide the thought of their own demise. They cast doubts overboard, making false assumptions.
Soon the rain picked up, as I knew it must, driving hard from the east, pricking our faces with a fine, cold, horizontal drizzle. Before long, the storm had caught its breath and blew up, snapping the sails. I imagined us being blown off course into the invisible sandbanks off Tripoli, the well-known graveyard of countless ships over many centuries. We would be driven onto what Ion once called “the hard black rocks of dreams, whereupon we die.”
Then the worst began as zigzag lightning struck the mast with a bold crack that startled us all. It toppled to the deck, striking a young sailor and killing him at once. Even with our aft paddles deep in the water, we had little purchase, t
he wind spinning us in circles until we suffered a complete loss of control. We drifted toward the nearby shore, where I could hear the loud seethe and pluck of the surf as it smashed upon what I guessed was a line of hidden rocks.
Our doom lay there. I knew that perfectly well, as a vision of our fate had flashed before me. I knelt on the deck and lifted my arms to heaven. “Thy will be done!” I prayed loudly.
Following orders, the crew heaved our four anchors overboard: a final effort to stay ourselves. But they attached to nothing, the depth of the seas being unknown; on the other hand, our landward skid was slow, as the winds had no consistent direction. The rigging whined a miserable song that returned again and again to its sad single theme: our demise.
Then we suddenly caught, hovering above what must have been a sandbar, one or two of the anchors holding. I doubted we could stop our fatal drift for long, but optimism rose, and I saw a couple of the sailors cheering.
“We can wait this out,” the captain said to Julius.
His inexperience poked like bone through skin. But I said nothing. Reality would assert itself, and soon.
Waiting doesn’t begin to describe the days that followed, empty days without sun, moon, or stars. Time could not find itself and stood to one side, breathless. The dull glow of daylight hung for several hours before, once again, the dark enveloped us, with a stillness that belied our peril.
“Where are we?” the captain asked the pilot.
It is never a good thing to hear a captain say this.
“West of Crete somewhere,” Dymas said, catching my eye.
Truth could be found in that statement, but it hardly meant anything. We had no idea where in the world we lay. Or if we had somehow sailed beyond this world altogether.