by Angela Hunt
“There you go, complaining again.” Luke forced a note of teasing into his voice, then thought better of it. This was a time for sincerity, for complete honesty. “I trust Christ will not abandon you,” he added. “Even in this horrible hole.”
Paul nodded. “He is here. He is all I have. But He does not reveal His purpose for me in this place. And I can’t—I struggle to accept that I am meant to waste away until the end.”
“Perhaps this is a final trial. A test of your faith.”
“Perhaps.” Paul looked away. “If so, it will be a short test. My execution date has been set. I will die at sunrise on the twenty-first day of Junius, morning of the summer solstice. Thirteen days from now.”
Luke stared, momentarily speechless in his surprise.
Paul did not give him time to react. “Tell me some good news,” he said. “Give me something to hold on to during the time I have left.”
Luke could think of nothing but the staggering news he’d just heard, but then he remembered. “There is good news from Crete and Ephesus. Titus and Timothy have silenced the false teachers and straightened out the believers’ doctrine.”
A smile gathered up the wrinkles of Paul’s ancient mouth. “Good. And what news have you of this city?”
“Rome?” Luke blew out a breath. “Nero’s city is stained with the blood of our brothers and sisters. Aquila and Priscilla are facing a difficult decision—they must decide whether to stay or flee persecution. They wanted me to ask you for wisdom.”
Paul lifted his head. “What does Linus advise? He is the leader of the community here.”
“They’ve lost all contact with him. He’s taken many of the community into hiding.”
“He is still alive?”
“We pray he is.”
Luke let the silence stretch, then stepped into the darkness and sat next to Paul. “There is much for us to discuss, but the community with Aquila and Priscilla needs answers now. What would you advise them to do?”
Paul’s chest heaved as he sighed. “What wisdom can I give, Luke? I would have gone right; Christ sent me left. I would have gone left; Christ pushed me right. I have many regrets and have made many mistakes, but everything I have done, I have done for Christ. He has used even my bumbling for His glory.”
Leaning forward, Luke rested an arm on his bent knee and considered the apostle’s reply. He would share Paul’s response with Priscilla and Aquila, although he had a feeling Paul’s answer was not exactly what they wanted to hear.
“You know,” Luke said, after an interval of companionable silence, “there is a man in Rome—a former slave, in fact—who teaches that an orator cannot be effective unless he has a pleasing physical appearance.”
Paul lifted a brow, tipped his head back, and laughed—the first laughter that had passed his lips in weeks. “Then I,” he said, when he could breathe again, “must be a complete failure, for I am physically unimpressive.”
Luke shook his head, politely waving the matter aside, but Paul would not let it go. “Tell me what this man says. Has he written it out?”
“Probably. I heard him speaking outside the Forum.”
“Then please tell me what he said. I have had so little entertainment down here.”
Luke sighed. “All right. His name is Epictetus, and his argument is this. Suppose a consumptive comes forward, thin and pale, to testify to a certain matter. Epictetus says his argument will not carry the same weight as a man who testified in good health, with a pleasing appearance. ‘One must show,’ Epictetus says, ‘that by the state of his body, he is a good and excellent man. But a Cynic who excites pity is regarded as a beggar, and everyone takes offense at him.’”
Paul chuckled. “I hope you didn’t mention this Epictetus to comfort me. If what he says is true, I should never speak in public again.”
“What he says is not true,” Luke insisted, “but as a physician, I found his argument interesting. If a man is sick, certainly he should do his best to seek healing. If he cannot follow that simple wisdom, perhaps he is not worth listening to.”
“Thank you, my dear physician.” Paul stretched out on his back, pillowing his head on his hands. “I haven’t felt such merriment in weeks.”
“Humph,” Luke answered, and Paul smiled, grateful for the companionship.
But as he closed his eyes, pretending to nap, the spark of humor that had lightened his heart faded. He had never been a typically handsome man—he was a head shorter than most, with crooked legs and a hooked nose. His beard had always been sparse, and after shaving his head in Cenchrea in order to satisfy a vow, the hair never fully returned to cover his head.
He had been jesting when he said he should never speak in public again. But now, in the darkness of his prison, he realized that barring a miracle, he would never speak in public again. He would never again stand before a crowd or a household or a synagogue to share the news about Yeshua the Christ. Not because he didn’t have the body of an excellent orator, but because he would never leave this prison.
An odd and unexpected twinge of disappointment made him wince.
After meeting the Messiah, all he wanted to do was spread the word about how wrong he’d been. Since coming to Rome, all he wanted to do was finish well. Finish the long and difficult race, cross the line with his chest thrust out and his face flushed with exertion.
But how could he do that in this pit? How could he finish his long run with this ruined shell of a body in a place where he saw and influenced no one?
How, Yeshua? He listened for an answer, but all he heard was Luke’s strong and steady breathing.
Luke and Paul talked through the night—through the darkness that enveloped them after the torch burned out in the chamber above, then through the gray light of dawn when the first rays of a new day streamed through the opening above the dungeon. Luke noticed that Paul’s eyes closed in weariness when Eubulus’s gruff voice broke the silence: “Physician! Time for you to go.”
Luke was about to say farewell, but the apostle had fallen asleep. Grateful that his friend was able to rest in such a horrible place, Luke rose from the sticky floor and caught the rope that spilled through the opening. “I’m ready.”
The guard hauled Luke up with surprising ease, then helped him free his sandaled foot from the loop. “All done?” Eubulus asked.
Luke shook his head. “Not nearly. If the Lord wills, I will be back tonight.”
As the Praetorian gave him an incredulous look, Luke pulled on his cloak and moved toward the sunlight, grateful to begin a new day.
Chapter
Three
The Ninth Day of Junius
“Unless the Lord intervenes,” Luke told Aquila and Priscilla over breakfast, “we will lose Paul at sunrise on the summer solstice. Nero has set the date.”
“So soon?” Priscilla’s face rippled with anguish, and Aquila’s went blank with shock.
“Is—is—” Aquila stammered—“is there nothing we can do?”
Luke sighed. “Not unless you have power over the emperor.”
“We can pray,” Priscilla said. “Paul would want us to pray, and we will do that.” She shifted her gaze to Luke. “How should we pray? What are his greatest needs?”
“He is physically shattered,” Luke said, “but the cantankerous old soul remains full of conviction. His faith is strong.”
Priscilla passed a bowl of grapes to her guest. “That is welcome news. I have been praying the solitude of that dreadful place would not crush him.”
“He is definitely not crushed,” Luke said. “But he does seem to struggle with the knowledge that his work is coming to an end. He has been serving Christ for so long . . . he does not know how to stop.”
“For more than thirty years, preaching is all he’s known.” Aquila looked at his wife. “And tent making. Remember how he used to work alongside us in Corinth? We’d spread out a camel-hair panel and see who could first attach an entire row of loops. Priscilla and I would sew like m
ad, our fingers flying, but Paul would stop and talk about Yeshua to anyone who gathered around to watch our little race. In the end, Priscilla usually won, though no one cared because they were so fascinated by what Paul had to say.”
“He won many hearts that way,” Priscilla said, giving Luke a calm smile. “Including ours. That’s how Aquila and I knew it was God’s will that we leave Rome and move to Corinth.”
“In the beginning I thought we left because Claudius had ordered all Jews to depart,” Aquila said. “Yet God was behind the emperor’s decree. If he had not forced the Jews out of Rome, we might never have met our brother and teacher Paul.”
“Speaking of leaving”—Priscilla sought Luke’s eyes—“did Paul offer any wisdom on the matter of what we should do?”
Luke drew a breath. “He would urge you to discern for yourselves where Christ is calling you next.”
“No specific instructions?” Aquila asked. “No clear answer?”
Luke shook his head. “He only offered the example of his own life. ‘I would have gone left,’ he said, ‘but Christ pushed me right.’”
Aquila and Priscilla glanced at each other, and Priscilla squeezed her husband’s hand. “I suppose we were hoping for an easy answer,” Priscilla said, “but as in all important decisions, it appears we must pray, wait upon the Lord, and listen for His direction for ourselves.”
She had scarcely finished speaking when a clamor at the courtyard gate drew their attention. Aquila rose immediately and strode quickly down the stairs, Priscilla following close behind him. Luke hurried to the balcony railing, wanting to be ready in case they needed his help.
A knot of people had surrounded a figure at the entrance; a moment later the people separated enough for Luke to see a woman, her eyes red-rimmed and wild, her body slumped over, and her tunic bloody and torn.
Priscilla had gone pale at the sight. “Octavia! What has happened?”
“I found her,” a man answered, his own tunic spotted with blood. “She was wandering the streets like this.”
The distressed woman collapsed onto a bench as Priscilla rushed to her side. Obeying his instincts, Luke ran down the stairs and knelt in front of the woman as he searched for injuries. “Tell me—where are you hurt?”
Wide-eyed, the woman looked frantically around the gathering before settling on Priscilla’s face. “Oh,” she said, her voice a mere whimper, “Priscilla . . . please help them.”
“Octavia,” Priscilla said with a firm tone, “you must tell us what happened and where you are hurt.”
Octavia covered her eyes and moaned. “My baby . . . my little boy. They broke down the door. We should have come here. I told my husband we should have come here—”
“You are bleeding,” Priscilla said.
Octavia shook her head. “No. It’s my baby’s blood. They pulled him out of my arms and sliced my boy open, then handed him back to me. My husband tried to stop them, but they ran him through with a sword. Then they laughed as they left, and I couldn’t stop my baby’s bleeding. So much blood, everywhere. Everywhere . . .”
Octavia’s anguished words dissolved into sobbing. Priscilla sat on the bench and wrapped her arms tightly around the woman. She looked up at Luke and locked eyes with him. So much pain, her expression seemed to say. All at the hands of the Romans.
Luke turned his attention back to the distraught woman, lest Priscilla see the growing frustration that had to be evident on his face. Why was God allowing His children to suffer like this? He looked around and saw other mothers holding tight to their youngsters, fathers standing close to their wives, their shoulders taking on the heavy weight of responsibility. This poor woman was a bloody, living reminder of Rome’s persecution, and the worried people in this courtyard would not sleep tonight.
“Priscilla.” Luke gentled his voice. “We should take Octavia inside and get her cleaned up. We should keep her out of sight until she has calmed down. Perhaps one of the other women can help?”
Priscilla turned to the young man who had brought Octavia through the gate. “Caleb, can you bring us a basin of water and a fresh cloth? And please have your sister meet me in the house right away.”
Caleb hurried off while Luke lifted Octavia and carried her up the stairs.
Luke knelt behind Paul, a bowl of ground herbs in his hand. Working as gently as possible, with two fingers he deftly spread the ointment into the wounds on the apostle’s back.
“I wish you could have been there,” he said, squinting to see in the dim light. “They were all watching that poor woman. She was covered in the blood of her husband and baby, both of whom had just been slaughtered by the Praetorians. Everyone in the courtyard stood in shock, their faces twisted with fear. They are terrified, Paul. They have faced much tribulation, but they have never witnessed anything like this.”
Paul lifted his head from his bent knees. “Christ promised us difficult times. He said we would be handed over to those who would persecute us for His sake.”
Luke lowered the ointment and moved to sit in front of Paul, then studied the bent old man. Though years of trials had disfigured Paul’s body, and struggles and deprivations had placed their stamps on his face, his eyes still shone with faith and power and steadfastness. “You know you will die in twelve days, but still you are confident of the truth and mercy of Christ and His promise of eternal life.”
The corners of Paul’s mouth lifted. “I know the One in whom I have believed . . . and I remain assured that departing this life will lead to joy and peace everlasting.”
“You are strong in the faith, but I do not see that same conviction in the others staying at Aquila’s home. Those men, women, and children—they are not as mature. Many of them are spiritual babies yet.”
Paul’s mouth moved just enough to bristle the silver whiskers on his cheek. “I cannot fix their faith.”
“No, but you can inspire it. Look at how your letters have inspired people in other communities.”
Paul lifted a brow. “You want me to write another letter? These fingers”—he raised his gnarled hands—“can barely hold a pen.”
Luke stood and held up Paul’s tunic. “Enough complaining. You need to rise up and move. Walking will get your blood flowing, which will help your wounds heal.”
“Where are we walking?” Paul asked, groaning as he pushed himself off the floor. “Shall we go down to the river? Or perhaps we should visit our friends Aquila and Priscilla.”
“Would that we could.” Luke helped Paul to his feet, then draped a robe around his bare shoulders. “Remember when we were sailing around Crete and ran into that storm? I’d never seen such a violent squall.”
“You’d never seen a great many things.” Paul took two shuffling steps, stopped, and looked longingly at the circle of light cast on the floor. “Can’t we discuss that journey over there?”
“There’s no room to walk over there,” Luke replied. He took Paul’s arm and urged him forward. “As I recall, I was standing on the deck, hanging on to a rope while the crew tried to pass ropes under the ship to hold it together. I didn’t think those winds and the rain would ever let up, but you seemed to pay the storm no mind. And then after a full day of howling wind and raging waves, you stood and said an angel of God had appeared to you, so no one should worry. None of the two hundred seventy-six men aboard the ship would die.”
“They were all carrying on so,” Paul muttered. “Pretending to drop anchors from the bow while they conspired to leave the ship.”
“Nonetheless, you convinced them to stay aboard. When you thanked God for the bread and began to eat as if nothing was wrong, I’m sure many of them thought you were mad. After fourteen days of being driven across the Adriatic, maybe they could be forgiven their doubts.”
Paul grunted.
“But those men listened to you. When we drew near the shore and some of them were ready to jump overboard to escape being dashed against the rocks, you warned them that unless they stayed with the ship, t
hey would not be saved. Again they listened. Why?” He paused and studied Paul’s face. “Because their strength had failed in the midst of that terrible storm, but yours did not. They witnessed your unshakable faith in the face of death. They saw that you did not doubt but instead were immovable. All two hundred seventy-six of those sailors lived because you demonstrated for them an unwavering trust in Christ’s promises.”
Paul bowed his head. “Are we finished? Can we sit for a while?”
“Not yet.” Luke urged Paul forward. “Let’s walk a little farther. Keep the blood flowing.”
After they had taken a few more steps, Luke adopted a friendlier tone. “The Way is growing, Paul. The communities are filled with men, women, and children who have never met you. They will never meet you. They will need a written account of your journeys and the apostles’ acts after Christ’s ascension.”
“Hummmph.”
Paul’s response was not exactly enthusiastic, but Luke pressed on. “You know I wrote my first book for Theophilus—I wanted him to understand with certainty the important things he had been taught. Well, Theophilus also needs to know how the Holy Spirit worked through the other apostles among the Jews, and through you among the Gentiles.”
Paul halted. “You risk people looking to me instead of Christ.”
Luke shook his head. “It is your strong assurance of the Messiah’s teachings that opens the door to belief in the Lord Jesus. I myself never met Him in the flesh, but the day I heard you preaching in Troas, I saw Christ in you. You are a looking brass; you reflect the Savior.”
“You give me too much credit, my friend.”
“I believed in Christ that day,” Luke continued, “and I left my family, my friends, and my patients behind because I saw the same unshakable faith the soldiers and sailors saw on that sinking ship.”
