The Scribe

by Francine Rivers

  Paul rose, too, face flushed, eyes blazing.

  “The Holy Spirit was right when he said to your ancestors, ‘The hearts of these people are hardened, and their ears cannot hear, and they have closed their eyes. . . .’”

  They bristled.

  He calmed, but still spoke bold truth with no hint of compromise. “I want you to know that this salvation from God has also been offered to the Gentiles, and they will accept it.”

  They left. From the beginning, the Scriptures proclaimed Jesus Lord over all the earth. All those who turned to Him would be accepted. God told our father Abraham that he would be a blessing to others, that all the families of the earth would be blessed through him. The Messiah would come through the Jews.

  If only they would receive Him . . .

  I often weep for my people. I pray they will turn their hearts back to God. And I will continue to pray for that as long as I have breath.

  Of course, Paul continued to receive and teach in the house we rented for him. He welcomed all who came to visit, spoke the truth and won many to Christ, including Julius, who was eventually reassigned to another post, we knew not where. We prayed for him daily, that the Lord would protect him. A fire started, and a large section of Rome burned. Roman guards came with orders to move Paul to the emperor’s dungeon. We knew the end was near.

  Nero reigned like a petulant child, ordering the death of anyone he suspected of plotting against him. He had his own mother, Agrippina, executed; though I saw this as a just ending for a woman as wicked as King Ahab’s wife, Jezebel, who led so many astray by idol worship. She made her murdered husband, Claudius, into a god, and herself his high priestess, though the cult fast became a joke in Rome once she was dead.

  Seneca and Burrus are dead, and with them any hope of justice. Nero now listens to the counsel of Tigellinus, who has revived the treason law. Many Roman nobles have been executed on suspicion of conspiracy against the emperor. No one is safe. Even Octavia, Nero’s cast-aside wife of noble blood, has been executed, while his new empress, Poppaea, fans his growing vanity.

  The proverb holds true: “When evil sits upon the throne, good people hide.”

  Only Christians have the assurance of heaven.

  The emperor cast blame on the Christians for the fire because Paul and Peter prophesied the judgment will come with fire in the end. Some say Nero ordered it himself, to clear the way for his plans to rebuild Rome and call it Neropolis. Only God knows who did it and why, but we suffer for it. We are hunted down. We are bound to arena columns, doused with pitch, and set on fire to serve as torches for Nero’s games.

  We suffer the loss of those we love.

  Paul is beheaded. I have the coat he sent to me, a cherished gift from the Jerusalem council.

  Peter and his wife are crucified.

  Hundreds are in hiding, meeting in caves and holding fast to their faith in darkness.

  Luke left Rome.

  This world is not my home. Each day I live in it, I struggle. I remind myself that the battle is won, the victory is secure, and my life safe in the hands of Jesus, who will bring me home to heaven. And still, every day is a struggle to hold fast to that which I know to be true.

  Oh, how I long for the day when Christ will call me home and this war within me will be over!

  But I know this now in this quiet room in Puteoli: the Lord has left me here for a purpose. I must go on. I must run the race Paul spoke of so often. My friend reached the finish line and wears the laurel wreath. I imagine him now, sitting in the stadium of heaven, cheering me on.

  For Peter, life was a voyage, the Holy Spirit propelling him across the sea. The Lord has brought him and his wife to safe harbor.

  Those I loved most dearly are not lost, only beyond my sight.

  I cannot give up!

  I cannot fail!

  I must go on!

  * * *

  SEVEN

  * * *

  Silas put his reed pen aside and carefully cut the papyrus scroll so that none was wasted. He rolled the unused portion and tucked it into his pack. He blew on the last few letters he had written. They dried quickly. Removing the weights, he let his memories roll closed. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, he rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his face. The task Epanetus and the others had given him was finished.

  Copies of Peter’s letters had been sent to faithful friends in the five provinces of Asia, one to each elder trained by Paul. He had also made copies of Paul’s letter to Roman Christians, giving one to Patrobas. “Take this north to John Mark. If he has left Rome, give the letter to Ampliatus. He will guard it with his life.”

  He made another copy for Epanetus. It would help him teach those under his care.

  He had made copies of the letter Paul had asked him to write to all Hebrew Christians everywhere. He had fasted and prayed before writing it. The Lord revealed to him how the commandments, the rituals, and the prophets presented God’s promises and showed the path to forgiveness and salvation through Jesus Christ, the long-awaited Messiah. He knew well the struggle of the old faith and the new life in Christ, for he had lived it. He poured his heart into the letter, wanting all Jews to know Jesus was superior to angels, leaders, and priests. The old covenant was fulfilled in Christ, and the new had given them freedom in Christ. The sanctuary was no longer the Temple in Jerusalem, for the Lord now dwelled within the heart of everyone who accepted Him as Savior and Lord. Christ, the perfect sacrifice, had set them free. The letter commanded brothers and sisters to hold fast to their new faith, encourage one another, and look forward to Christ’s return. And it gave them instructions on how to live godly lives.

  Paul had read the letter and given him a satisfied smile. “Well written, my friend!”

  High praise, indeed, from a man Silas greatly admired. But he could take no credit. “The Lord gave me the words.”

  “Of that, Silas, I have no doubt.”

  How Silas missed talking to Paul about the Word of the Lord. He missed Paul’s passion, his dedication, his perseverance. He had been honored to watch Paul grow more humble over time, and had seen him near the end so filled with love and compassion that it spilled from him as it had from Christ. Paul’s touch healed many; his words rang with truth. God, in His infinite wisdom, had chosen an enemy and made him into a most intimate friend.

  Silas laid out the scrolls before him. His life’s work. He would not part with any of them, but would continue to guard the original letters Paul had dictated, and those he had helped Peter write, along with the one he had written but left unsigned. He weighed Paul’s letter to the Romans in one hand while holding several smaller scrolls in the other, smiling at the difference. Paul, the scholar, could not say anything in less than a few hours, while Peter, the fisherman, could speak the wisdom of the ages in a few minutes. Both had confounded the greatest minds in the empire, for the wisdom of this world is foolishness to God.

  Anguish and joy welled up in him. Clutching the scrolls against his chest, Silas bowed his head, tears of gratitude flowing down his cheeks. “Oh, Lord, that You would allow me such privilege . . .”

  How few had been given the opportunity to travel with one, let alone two great men of God. The Lord had placed Silas at Paul’s side when he had gone out to spread the Good News to the Greeks, and then, beside Peter when he made the long journey to Rome. He had served as secretary to each. He had walked thousands of miles with Paul, and sailed with Peter. He had seen both men perform miracles. He had helped them establish churches. They had been his friends.

  “. . . that You would use me, the least deserving . . .”

  I chose you. I formed your inner parts and knit you together in your mother’s womb. You are Mine.

  “May it always be so, Lord. Search me and know my heart. Test me and know my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends You, and lead me along the path of everlasting life.”

  He carefully arranged the scrolls so that none would be damaged when carried.
He left one on the table. He would read it tonight when everyone met.

  He felt a great burden lift from him. He had been cloistered far too long. It was time to go for a walk outside the walls of Epanetus’s fortress home.

  Macombo stood in the courtyard, holding a pitcher.

  “Tell Epanetus the task is finished.”

  Macombo straightened from watering a plant. “You look better than I’ve seen you.”

  “Yes.” Faith restored, he felt healed of affliction. “I’m going outside to see Puteoli. It’s about time, isn’t it?” He laughed. “I’ll be back before the meeting.”

  Silas wandered the streets all afternoon. He talked with strangers and lingered at the port. The sea air brought a flood of memories.

  “Silas?”

  His heart took a fillip at the familiar voice. He turned, pulse racing. “Diana.” She had a basket of fish on her hip. He looked for Curiatus. “Your son is not with you?” He never saw them apart.

  “He’s working. Over there. He’s a diver.” She pointed. “You can see him on the dock between those two ships.”

  Men shouted and Curiatus dove into the water. He came up next to a box floating near a ship and began securing a rope around it.

  “He’s a strong swimmer.”

  She had moved closer to him and looked up at him. “I’ve never seen you down here.”

  He felt lost in her gaze. “I haven’t been outside the house since I arrived on Epanetus’s doorstep.” Embarrassed, he gave a soft laugh and looked away. Had he been staring? “I’ve been wandering since early this afternoon.” He was an old fool. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  Her face lit up. “You’ve finished, haven’t you?”

  He nodded because he couldn’t trust his voice. It would soon be time to leave. He’d never see her again. Why should that hurt so much? He hardly knew her. He had not allowed himself to get too close to anyone in Puteoli, least of all this beautiful widow.

  “There’s so much I want to know about you, Silas.” She blushed and gave an embarrassed laugh. “I mean, we all want to hear your story.” She turned as Curiatus shouted for the box to be raised. “My son has pressed you since first you arrived.”

  “He helped renew my faith, Diana.” He should not have said her name.

  “We all saw how you were suffering when you came to us.”

  “We all suffer.”

  “Some more than others. I never met Paul or Peter. I’ve never met anyone who walked with Jesus. Only you.”

  Silas winced inwardly. The old regret rose. “I didn’t walk with Him. Not the way you mean. Only once and for a few miles along the road, after He arose.” He could not look at her for fear of the disappointment he might see in her beautiful, dark eyes. “I must go back.” He smiled over her head. “I wouldn’t want Epanetus to think I’ve run away again.”

  Macombo answered the door at the first knock. “Thank God! Come. Epanetus is pacing.”

  “There you are!” The Roman strode through the courtyard. “You’ve been gone long enough to reach Pompeii!” He said nothing about Diana.

  “I left the scrolls.”

  “And finished the one everyone has been waiting to hear. I saw it.” Epanetus’s concern seemed unusually grave.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Things have changed.” Nero had widened the search for Christians. Some of the most honorable senators were dead now for no other reason than they were born of noble blood, executed by Tigellinus, the Sicilian upstart exiled by Emperor Caligula. “Tigellinus feeds Nero’s vanity as well as his fears. If anyone falls asleep during one of Nero’s performances, his life is forfeit! We can be thankful for one thing: an emperor who takes no time to rule his kingdom will not rule long.”

  Andronicus, Junia, Rufus, and his dear mother, who had all been so kind to Paul, had been martyred. “They are with the Lord now,” Silas said.

  “I would like to see the death of those who killed them!” Epanetus said fiercely.

  Silas realized with some surprise that he felt no such hatred. “I do not wish death on any man unsaved.”

  Epanetus turned. “Even Nero?”

  “Even him.”

  Epanetus considered him for a moment. “Julius told me Paul had great respect and affection for you. Paul told him you were a man of great intellect and compassion, a friend to him in all circumstances.”

  Silas felt the prick of tears at such words. “How did you come to know Paul’s guard?”

  “We served together in Judea before I fled.”

  “Fled?”

  “Let’s just say I made it out of Judea by the skin of my teeth and still keep an eye over my shoulder.” He glanced around. “This house doesn’t belong to me.”

  Silas resisted the desire to know more. “Where is Julius now?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Patrobas couldn’t find him.”

  Silas feared he knew what that meant. “Are you in danger?”

  “Not from Rome. Not yet, at least.” The Roman relaxed somewhat, and beckoned. “Come. Have something to eat before the others arrive. You’ll never have a chance otherwise.”

  “I must thank you for all you’ve done for me,” Silas said, following him.

  Epanetus snorted. “I feared I chained you to your desk.”

  “The task steadied me. When I came to your doorstep . . .” He shook his head. “I had little hope.”

  “I’ve known men whose minds broke with less provocation than you have had, my friend. All you needed was rest and time to remember.”

  Silas read the scroll that evening, from beginning to end. When he rolled it closed, he knew there were many things he had left unsaid, things more important for them to know than about his life.

  Had he made himself look good by writing only the best about himself? He knew he had. Diana sat close at his feet, Curiatus beside her. Those in Jerusalem had known everything about him. These two who had come to mean so much knew nothing.

  “You said nothing of your family, Silas.”

  “No, I didn’t. Perhaps it’s time I do.” He had not included the shameful truth of the kind of man he had been when first he met Jesus. His heart quaked as he looked into Diana’s eyes. “There are things I must tell you.” He pulled his eyes away from her, addressing everyone. “Things I have neglected to say. I’ve tried to forget, or atone for, perhaps. . . .” He stumbled over words. “I . . .” He kept his eyes averted from her face and from Curiatus.

  “My mother died when I was very young, my father when I was twenty-two. I was an only son, and inherited all the accumulated wealth of my father and his father and his father before him. From the time I could walk, I was treated as a prince, and given every advantage money could buy: education, every comfort, position. We had houses in Jerusalem and in Caesarea. With all due respect, Epanetus, I grew up in a grander house than this, with servants to answer every whim.”

  He had not felt so nervous even when speaking before the Lyconians.

  “Whenever my father traveled, which was often, he took me with him. I had an aptitude for languages and business, and he encouraged me, giving me responsibility at a young age.” He wrung the scroll in his hands. “I was taught that we were better than others, and believed it because of the way we were treated wherever we went. Our wealth was evidence of God’s favor, and everyone acknowledged it. Even Jesus’ disciples thought wealth meant God’s favor until Jesus told them otherwise. It is no guarantee.”

  He looked around the room. Lord, forgive me. I allowed them to hold me in high esteem.

  Diana took the scroll from him. “I’ll hold this while you speak, lest you ruin it.”

  He swallowed hard. “I had heard about Jesus and the miracles He did, and believed Him to be a prophet of God. I wanted to meet Him. So I donned my finest robes, mounted my best mule, called for my bodyguard and servants to see to my safety and comfort, and went out to meet Him.”

  He had never felt such sil
ence.

  “I wondered at His disciples, for they were the sort of men my father had taught me to avoid. Laborers, uneducated, or at least not educated to the extent I had been.” People like these looking at him now. “One was reputed to be a tax collector. I stayed on the outer edge of the crowd because I did not want to brush my robe against any of them; I thought they would make me unclean.”

  He shook his head, tears filling his eyes. “Such was my pride when I went out to meet the Lord.” A moment passed before he could speak. “I was too far away to hear everything Jesus said, and listened hardly at all. I was too busy thinking about what I would say and how to say it when I got close enough to Him to speak.”

  Silas closed his eyes. “He saw me coming toward Him and said something to the others. They made room for me to approach. I paid no attention to them. I’d been treated with that kind of respect all my life. People always made room for me.”

  His voice roughened. “I went up to Jesus. I called Him ‘Teacher.’ To honor Him, you see. Maybe even to flatter Him. And then I asked . . .” He had to swallow before he could speak. “I asked, ‘What good deed must I do to have eternal life?’”

  He felt a gentle touch on his foot. Diana looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Such was my pride, you see. I had given money to the poor every time I entered the Temple. I had always tithed as the Law required. One day, I would rise as a ruler among God’s people. Because of wealth . . . I thought I was so good Jesus would have to say, ‘Nothing more is required of you, Silas. The Lord is well pleased with you.’ Words of praise! That’s what I had heard all my life. That’s what I expected, fool that I was. I wanted God’s assurance before witnesses that I had a right to live forever.”

  He let out his breath slowly. “Jesus looked at me with such love. ‘If you want to receive eternal life,’ He said, ‘keep the commandments.’

  “‘Which ones?’ I asked Him, thinking one was more important than another, and Jesus listed them. ‘You must not murder. You must not commit adultery. You must not steal. You must not testify falsely. Honor your father and mother. Love your neighbor as yourself.’