by Angela Hunt
“Is he dead?” he asked, his thoughts suddenly veering toward his daughter. This child looked to be about the same age as Caelia . . .
“Probably.” The first guard prodded the body with his foot. “I’d say he is.”
Mauritius blinked, and suddenly it was not an unnamed orphan lying at his feet, it was Caelia. He saw her brown hair caked with sand and grit, her eyes swollen and bloody, her face marked with fist-sized bruises. He saw her thin arm bent at an impossible angle, her legs splayed on the paving stones, and her hands frozen in a paralysis of fear.
No. Not her. This was not her; it was a street urchin, not his child.
“What did he say?” Mauritius asked, his voice gruff.
The first guard frowned. “We told you, he wouldn’t say anything—”
“His name, you fool. What was it?”
The first guard lifted a brow and looked at the others, and one of them finally answered, “Tarquin. He said his name was Tarquin.”
Not Caelia. Not his child.
“You’re right—the name means nothing.” Mauritius turned his back on the body and looked at the first guard. “You know the rules. Get rid of the body at once. Rome’s citizens are never pleased to see trash in the streets.”
Chapter
Seven
The Thirteenth Day of Junius
Though the rising sun had filled the villa with honey-thick sunshine, Luke sat at Aquila’s table and struggled to accept the unwelcome truth. Daybreak had also brought a report from the street, and the news had filled Aquila’s pleasant house with the dullness of despair. While some in the community might be able to move swiftly from sorrow to acceptance, Luke could not.
Grief welled up within him, black and cold. They might never have known what happened to Tarquin if Octavia had not seen the Praetorians tossing a child’s body into the Tiber. While she was not certain of the dead child’s identity, nonetheless she had hurried back to Aquila’s to report her fears.
When Tarquin had not returned by midmorning, Luke knew they had no choice but to accept the bitter reality of what happened.
“What have we done?” Priscilla cried, pressing her face against Aquila’s chest. “He was so young, and I sent him out—”
“I did too,” Luke said and buried his face in his hands. “I should have gone myself.”
“He wanted to go.” Aquila’s voice was hoarse with grief. “And he is not the first child to die. He will not be the last either, because there are many who believe in Yeshua. He called them, and they came happily to Him. They still do.”
“‘Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them,’” Priscilla quoted, the words dissolving into a whisper, “‘for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’”
Luke turned away, unable to bear the reminder. Yes, he knew Christ loved the children, and yes, he knew Tarquin was with his Savior now. But Luke would never be able to think of the boy without visualizing the Roman brutality that had stolen his young life. As a doctor, he understood the fragility of a small body and how little violence was required to snuff the life out of it.
Roman barbarity and the Praetorian Guard had taken Tarquin. And in light of that realization, Luke struggled to find compassion for anything Roman.
Paul found himself staring again at Stephen’s bloody face. The lifeless eyes filled his field of vision and transformed, becoming the eyes of the little girl he had pulled from beneath a basket and handed over to the Temple guards. Their zeal, which he had encouraged, burned so brightly that one of the guards struck the child with the flat side of his sword, a blow that sent her mother into hysterics. Then the guards turned to her screaming father and silenced him with a well-placed thrust of the blade.
He had not been given permission to kill the blasphemers, but only to arrest them. However, none of the men with him would object to the act.
“Paul?” A voice called across the years and across the miles. “Paul, are you sleeping?”
Awareness hit him like a blow to the gut. His eyes flew open when he recognized the voice: Luke had come to see him. Again.
Like a welcome angel, Luke knelt next to him and gently touched his shoulder. “Are you all right? You cried out.”
“Did I?” Paul exhaled a pent-up breath and allowed Luke to help him sit up. “The devil sneaks around in this darkness, taunting me day and night and on all sides. I feel crushed by the sins of my past.”
He squeezed Luke’s supportive hand, then released it and stared into the darkness. “I am haunted by images of children I persecuted and images of myself as a child. I see that well-intentioned young boy and long to warn him about the path he is about to take . . . But what is done is done. We cannot go back, can we?”
“No. We cannot go back,” Luke agreed. “Still, has God not promised us to work all things for the good?”
Paul did not answer. “All these years I have been troubled by one particular vision. I see people, and I know they are people I persecuted. They are waiting for me. The devil, a torturous muse, whispers that they have found no peace, they have found no joy. They are waiting to confront me for my egregious sins against them.”
Luke sat in front of Paul. “Do you recognize any of these people?”
Paul shook his head. “I persecuted so many, I cannot remember their names or faces. Yet I do remember one little girl and her parents. All three died before they could stand trial. Others in Jerusalem I took from their homes and handed over to the Sanhedrin. Some we killed in outlying villages. All of them followers of Christ, the true Messiah. All of them my brothers and sisters.”
He lowered his head as a tear trickled down his cheek. “I did not expect to struggle like this at the end. I wish you could find me in a joyous mood, celebrating my imminent meeting with Christ, but . . . I am not yet done with this life. Some matters remain unresolved.”
Luke seemed to hesitate before rising to his feet and standing next to Paul. “Come. You need to keep moving. It is not good for you to remain in one position for so long a time.”
Sighing, Paul allowed Luke to help him up. He followed as Luke led him around the oppressive dungeon.
“Do you remember Philippi,” Luke asked, “after you cast out the demonic spirit from the slave girl? Her owners had you brought before the magistrates.”
Paul chuffed. “How could I forget?”
“Stretch your back a bit—elongating the muscle will help you remain flexible.” Once Paul had followed Luke’s instructions, the physician took his arm and guided him again. “I watched as the guards stripped you and Silas naked in front of the crowd. You were beaten and flogged to the point where I was concerned for your life. You were covered in blood from head to foot. I made it to your side but could do nothing to help as they dragged you both off to prison. You turned to me, though you did not cry out in pain, nor did you beg for mercy. You did not shout threats at those who had mistreated you. You simply said, ‘God will make this good.’”
Luke stepped behind Paul, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and lifted him until the sharp crack of a joint echoed in the domed chamber. “There.”
Paul slumped forward as Luke released him, turning to behold his friend’s face in the light.
“Trust your own words, my friend. God will make this good.”
Paul rubbed his hands together. “Thank you. Now.” He summoned up a smile. “Are we ready to work?”
“We are.” Luke moved to his bag and pulled out fresh sheets of papyrus. “Where did we last stop?”
“We were in Ephesus,” Paul reminded him, settling on the floor. “In the home of the tentmakers.”
Sha’ul stood before the kohen gadol, or high priest, and several elders of the Temple. The high priest, brother-in-law to Caiaphas, before whom Yeshua had stood judgment, looked at Sha’ul with approval gleaming in his dark eyes.
“Sha’ul, you are to be commended for your swift justice toward this cult of the Nazarene. We have approved of your efforts and your vi
gilance toward guarding the Law.”
Sha’ul bowed his head, glorying in the moment.
“However,” the high priest continued, “we feel the time has come for us to let these things alone.”
Sha’ul stiffened. “What has changed? Why would you withdraw your approval?”
Theophilus glanced at the other priests, then returned his attention to Sha’ul. “We have sided with your actions over Gamaliel’s tolerance, but we are now certain the message has been disseminated. Most of the so-called Christians have fled Jerusalem. Those who remain no longer preach in public.”
Sha’ul blinked in astonishment. “Are you all blind? They are working to promulgate their heresy right under your noses!”
One of the elders leaned forward. “Do not forget whom you are addressing, Sha’ul of Tarsus. Do not forget you are addressing the anointed high priest.”
Sha’ul brushed the warning aside. For the past several years the high priest had not been appointed by HaShem, but by Rome, and he could not understand why he should honor a Roman puppet. “I am a true descendant of Israel, circumcised on the eighth day, a representative of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of the Hebrews. If anyone doubts my love for the Law, let him speak now.”
He paused and scanned the assembly. No one spoke a word.
“Hear me now, then, all of you. Damascus has become a refuge for followers of the Way. You all know the man Ananias, a devout observer of the Law, well respected by all the Jews living in Damascus. Or at least he used to be. I have heard reliable reports that he has since become a disciple of the Way.”
The elders looked at each other, confusion clouding their faces.
“Damascus lies in the center of the caravan trade routes to Syria, Mesopotamia, Anatolia, Persia, and Arabia,” Sha’ul continued. “You must understand that if this sect is allowed to flourish outside Jerusalem, their heresy will spread like wildfire. Imagine a day when Christ is more venerated than the holy Temple in Jerusalem!”
The high priest shifted in his seat, glancing uneasily at the elders around him. Then he glared at Sha’ul. “What would you have us do?”
Sha’ul bowed. “Write letters introducing me to the leaders in the synagogues of Damascus. Let them know that if I find any men or women belonging to the Way, I will bring them back to Jerusalem as prisoners. I will travel to Damascus with your letters, and together we can end this abominable cult that desecrates all that the children of Israel hold sacred. Send a clear message to these blasphemers—let them know they will be held accountable for speaking against the Holy God of Abraham and Israel!”
One by one, the elders began to nod in agreement.
Invigorated by the urgency of his mission, Sha’ul traveled the road to Damascus with a stalking, purposeful intent in his gait. The barren landscape basked in morning sunshine that hinted of a sweltering day to come. But Sha’ul welcomed the heat. He even welcomed the pedestrians and donkey carts on the road—even the occasional camel that trotted by and scattered the pedestrians like flies.
Romans traveled the road, too, in chariots and on horseback, and yet Sha’ul paid them no mind. He had a singular, holy purpose: to take custody of the man called Ananias and make an example of him in Jerusalem. When Ananias stood trial before the Sanhedrin, he would undoubtedly be found guilty. Another member of the Way would be stoned outside the city gates, and others would think twice before listening to members of that dangerous cult.
The well-watered hills of Damascus had just come into view when Paul quickened his pace. He charged ahead, leaving his companions behind, but then a light from above flashed around him, a light so bright he could see nothing.
Falling to the ground, he lifted his head from the scree-covered road and heard a voice: “Sha’ul! Sha’ul! Why are you persecuting me?”
Sha’ul blinked, but his eyes refused to function. “Who are you, Lord?”
He had been expecting to hear the voice of Moses or Elijah or Enoch, so the answer left him speechless. “I am Yeshua, whom you are persecuting. Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told all that you have been appointed to do.”
Sha’ul looked behind him, expecting to see his traveling companions, yet he saw nothing but white, a striking absence of color or darkness.
“What happened?” one of his servants asked. “Are you all right?”
Sha’ul reached out and found the man, then clung to his arm. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” the man answered. “We heard someone speaking to you, but saw nothing.”
“Help me up,” Sha’ul said. “And get me into the city.”
For the next several hours, Sha’ul experienced a whirlwind of perplexing emotions. He knew what he had heard—the voice of Yeshua—and also what He had said, that Sha’ul had been persecuting Him.
The truth had stung like a wasp. He thought he was persecuting followers of a mere man, not the Lord. Not someone who could strike him blind and speak in a voice that rumbled like thunder and pierced the heart and soul of a man . . .
When his thoughts reluctantly shifted away from the supernatural, he realized his friends were leading him into the house of a man called Judah. Once inside, someone led him to a bed and bade him lie down.
“Here, a cold compress for your eyes.” A woman—probably Judah’s wife—laid a wet cloth across his eyelids. “Let me get you something to drink.”
“Probably heatstroke,” one of his servants said. “Keep him cool and he will be fine.”
“Did you see anyone with him?” the woman asked.
“No,” his servant answered. “But ever since he fell, he has been muttering that Yeshua is the Christ, the Messiah.”
Had he been saying that? It had to be true, although he was not aware that he had been speaking.
For three days Sha’ul lay on a bed in a stranger’s house and refused to eat, drink, or answer questions. His sensibilities were thoroughly rattled, and he fully expected to discover that he had either lost his senses or finally found them. He prayed silently as he waited, and God answered with a vision: Sha’ul saw Ananias come into his room and lay his hands on him, restoring his sight.
On the morning of his third day of blindness, Sha’ul got out of bed, changed out of his dusty tunic, and had his servant wash his hands and feet. Thus prepared, he sat at a table and waited.
At about the fourth hour, Judah and his wife stepped into the room. “Sha’ul,” Judah said, “can you hear me?”
Sha’ul spoke for the first time in three days. “Has he come?”
“I have,” an unfamiliar voice said.
“Ananias?”
“You know who I am?”
A cry of relief broke from Sha’ul’s lips. “The Lord showed me a vision—I saw you coming to me.”
Ananias received the news silently. The creak of a chair told Sha’ul that the man was sitting across from him. “They tell me you have lost your mind and gone mute and deaf. That you haven’t eaten or had anything to drink for three days.”
Sha’ul waited.
“I know who you are,” Ananias continued. “Your actions against those who follow Christ have been well reported. I know you have come here on the authority of the ruling priests to arrest all those who call on the Lord’s name. I also know about the harm you have done.”
“I am a wretched man,” Sha’ul admitted, drowning in waves of guilt. “I deserve death.”
“Yes,” Ananias responded. “We all do. And yet Christ has set us free.”
Free? Free from what?
Your guilt.
The truth crashed into his consciousness like the surf crashing against a stony cliff. For three days Sha’ul could think of nothing but how wrong, how proud, and how arrogant he had been—seeking the approval of his peers and the Law instead of favor from God. But Yeshua offered freedom . . . the freedom that comes with forgiveness.
The hardness of Sha’ul’s soul dissolved at the realization of Christ’s mercy. Tears flowed from his eyes, rollin
g over his cheeks and dampening his beard.
Ananias moved closer, and Sha’ul felt work-worn hands touch his face and cover his eyes. “Brother Sha’ul, Yeshua—the One who appeared to you on the road by which you were traveling—has sent me so that you might regain your sight and be filled with the Ruach ha-Kodesh. Brother Sha’ul, receive your sight!”
Immediately, something like fish scales fell from Sha’ul’s eyes. The world appeared again, bright and beautiful. Blinking in astonishment, he beheld the kind man before him. “Thank you.” He clasped Ananias’s hands in his own. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
“I did not want to come,” the old man said, shaking his head, “but the Lord said to me, ‘Go, for Sha’ul is a choice instrument to carry my name before nations and kings and Bnei-Yisrael. For I will show him how much he must suffer for my name’s sake.’”
The old man studied him with a curious intensity. “The God of our fathers handpicked you to know His will—to see the Righteous One and to hear an utterance from His mouth. For you will be a witness for Him to all people of what you have seen and heard. Now, why are you waiting? Get up and be immersed, wash away your sins, calling on His name.”
Shock whipped Sha’ul’s breath away. “I am ready,” he said, clutching Ananias’s hand. “Tell me, is there something I should do to show my commitment? Some sign?”
Ananias took Sha’ul’s arm and led him down to the Abana River, which watered the ancient city of Damascus. As Sha’ul’s servant and his amazed traveling companions watched, Ananias baptized Sha’ul in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Filled with a jubilation he could not contain, Sha’ul came out of the water and dried himself. Shaking off his former purpose as easily as he shook water from his hair, Sha’ul went in search of the nearest synagogue, where he stood to address the gathering and proclaim the Truth: “Yeshua is Ben-Elohim! He is the Son of God!”
