by Angela Hunt
She nodded and brushed wetness from her face. “I know. But I cannot help but worry. About Luke, Paul, and . . . Cassius.”
“I worry about him, too.” Aquila looked toward the garden again where he could see Cassius speaking with his friends. “I was greatly encouraged when Octavia stood firm in the middle of the argument. Though she has lost everything, she still spoke of the peace of Christ. Cassius, on the other hand . . . I’m not sure he has ever known it.”
A tear trickled down Priscilla’s cheek as she looked into the courtyard. Aquila reached out to wipe it away.
“I am sorry,” she said, her voice breaking, “but I cannot stop thinking about Tarquin. That poor boy. We sent him out there, never dreaming the Praetorians would harm a child.”
Aquila set his jaw. “I should have taken the letter myself.”
“I could have gone.”
“No.” Aquila caught her hand. “We have lost so many, Priscilla. I cannot bear the thought of losing any more. Not when we are so close to leaving. I know you are torn, but you must realize we are not leaving the community. We are simply going to serve elsewhere.” He forced a smile. “We’ll be like Paul, spreading the good news of Christ no matter where we go.”
When Priscilla turned to face him, he was startled by the depth of sadness on her face. “What is wrong, dear one?”
Fresh tears sprung to her eyes. “I pray you will be able to forgive me.”
“For what?”
“Because . . . I hate to say it, but I think God may be calling us to walk different paths.”
Aquila tipped his head back, as surprised as if she had slapped him.
Leave Priscilla?
Aquila stumbled onto the street, desperate to be away from the house. The courtyard was too busy, the house too crowded for him to think clearly. People kept asking him to solve their problems, but none of them had considered that he might be dealing with a problem of his own.
Leave Rome without Priscilla?
Impossible. They were married, and what God had joined together, no man should break apart. They were one flesh, one heart, and, until recently, one mind.
So what had happened?
He thrust his hands behind his back and stalked down the street, his mind a hundred miles away from his surroundings. He had been ambivalent at first, uncertain of whether they should go or stay, but then Eubulus had been arrested and Caleb burned alive. How could he keep his community—most of them young believers—safe in such a city? How could he safeguard and nurture their faith when that faith was threatened with violence every day?
Even Christ had hoped to find a way out when He faced death on the cross. He had suffered through torturous hours in Gethsemane, but Aquila’s people had been suffering for months . . .
He had to lead them to safety; he saw that clearly. The Spirit of God had given him a sense of certainty and determination. He was a shepherd, responsible for the sheep in his courtyard. He was also responsible for Priscilla.
If he did not love her so much, he could call her into the privacy of their bedchamber and inform her that she would have to go with him. By God’s design, the man was the head of the home. Even the pagan Romans understood that much.
But Christ had opened Aquila’s eyes to a new understanding. Men and women were equal in Christ, and men were not to command their wives but to love them. To serve them, to sacrifice for them just as Christ sacrificed His life for His sheep.
“For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall be one flesh,” Paul had explained. “This is a great mystery—but I am talking about Messiah and His community. In any case, let each of you love his own wife as himself, and let the wife respect her husband.”
Would he be loving Priscilla as Christ intended if he forced her to obey his wish? Priscilla wouldn’t think so. Paul wouldn’t think so, either.
Aquila stopped on a street corner and studied a woman buying fruit at a market stand. She took great care in choosing the best for her family, just as he had to choose the best path for his community.
The answer was clear—they had to go. But if Priscilla felt God wanted her to stay, who was he to argue? Paul taught that wives should obey their husbands, but he also taught that in Christ there was neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female. They were all one in Christ Jesus.
But they were also one in marriage.
Aquila turned on the ball of his foot and went back the way he had come, moving forward with long, purposeful strides. He turned down the alley that led to his gate, then stepped inside and ran up the stairs. He found Priscilla in the kitchen, spun her around, and kissed her with the passion of a starving man.
“I know you,” he said, finally releasing her. “I love you, and I know your heart aches for the Roman people. If you feel God is calling you to remain here, I will not force you to go with me. I will give you my permission and my blessing to remain, but God is calling me to get these people to safety. I will obey Him . . . though I cannot imagine living in a house if you are not in it.”
Priscilla nodded, looking at her husband through tear-clotted lashes, then slid her arms around his neck and pulled him close.
Luke had struggled with the reversal of his days and nights since beginning his work with Paul. He found it hard to sleep in the daytime, and difficult to overcome his weariness when they talked at night.
But after spending nearly twenty-four hours in Paul’s dingy cell, he realized his struggles were nothing compared to what his friend had endured. Time seemed to stand still in the underground dungeon, for the light from above rarely changed except to disappear completely on those occasions when the guard neglected to relight a torch.
“The natural tendency of the body is to sleep at night,” he said, musing aloud as he tried to get comfortable on the stone floor. “But in this place the meager light is almost constant. This confuses the body, which doesn’t know whether to wake or sleep, although the inclination tends toward drowsiness.”
“The light is blue during the day, like now,” Paul mumbled from where he lay with his head pillowed on his arms. “And golden at night. In time, you’ll be able to tell the difference.”
Luke glanced over at his friend. “You are awake?”
“How could I sleep with your babbling?” Paul sat up, pinched the bridge of his nose, and peered through the column of light. “Luke—it is you, right?”
“Of course it’s me. Who else would keep you company down here?”
With a snort, Paul moved closer to the light.
“May I suggest something?” Luke asked.
Paul extended his hand. “Be my guest.”
“If we sit back to back in the circle of light, it may be that the sun will provide some physical benefit. Something about sunlight seems to bring healing and comfort,” Luke added, sliding into position. “I have found that invalids who are little exposed to sunlight soon grow pale and waste away.”
“Perhaps that’s why Yeshua said He is the light of the world.”
“Good point, my friend.” Luke felt Paul’s spine press against his back. “Now, isn’t this more comfortable than a stone wall?” He felt the older man give a slight nod of his head, followed by a sigh.
If Luke could provide some support for his friend, this unexpected detention would be worth it. Of course, being here without his papers would not help him finish his writing. Perhaps God did not intend for the book to be finished. Perhaps God had brought them together only to support each other during this troublesome time . . .
“I must admit,” Paul said, “solitude has its virtues, but companionship is infinitely better.”
“Indeed.” Luke turned his head. “But I must say that I preferred visiting you at that charming villa the governor rented the last time you were imprisoned in Rome. The Palatine area was much better situated.”
Paul chuckled. “Do you ever miss traveling?”
“You cannot be serious,” Luke replied. �
��Why would I miss clouds of dust, sand between my toes, and horrible sunburn? Oh, and there is nothing quite like the aroma of camel dung in the morning.”
“Are you saying you wish we had never met?”
Luke gave a light snort. “You know, I had a great life before I met you. I was an educated physician, reasonably wealthy, respected and sought after by women.”
They both laughed.
“Yes,” Luke said a moment later. “Sometimes I do miss it. The open road seeps into your blood, does it not?”
“I have always wanted to ask,” Paul said, shifting his weight. “What made you become a physician in the first place?”
“I suppose I’ve always wanted to help people. But even more than that, I enjoy interviewing them.” Luke shrugged. “That’s what a physician does, you know. You talk with the patient, learn about his life, hear about his symptoms, and then try to ease his pain. Sometimes I think the most important thing a doctor does is listen.”
Paul made a soft sound of agreement. “You are a good listener, and I have always been grateful for you. Your unwavering commitment kept me going on many of those cold, miserable nights in the wilderness. With you across the fire, it was easier to ignore my rumbling belly.” He laughed again. “Not to mention the added benefit of those awful songs you used to sing in the middle of the night.”
Luke grunted. “They were songs from my childhood. I’ve told you time and time again that singing helps me relax so I can go to sleep.”
“The songs didn’t bother me so much. Your singing, on the other hand—you sounded like Timothy’s grandmother.”
“I didn’t know she was a singer, too.”
“I’m not sure which was worse, Luke, your singing or Peter’s snoring. I won’t miss that.”
“Like a herd of cattle tumbling down a mountain, wasn’t it?”
They laughed at the memory, and then Paul’s voice grew wistful. “Those days with you were truly wearisome, yet I do miss them. The journeys we shared together. I praise God for putting you in my life, brother. I’m not sure where I would be without you.”
“You would most certainly be dead,” Luke said with a grin. “If the malaria had not killed you, the blood loss from the stoning would have. Patching you up has been my full-time vocation.” He shook his head. “I thought you were finished on Malta. The look on your face when that viper jumped out of the brush—”
“I thought I was finished.”
“Then you tossed the thing into the fire like it was nothing. No one could believe what they were seeing.”
“I had to keep up appearances, even if I was about to keel over into the fire myself.”
“And those islanders jumping up and down, screaming at each other when you didn’t die from snakebite.”
“I don’t know if it was a miracle or if I ran into the stupidest snake on earth. Maybe he forgot to inject the venom when he bit me.”
Paul laughed, and as the rich sound of his laughter bounced and echoed off the curved walls, Luke felt as though they had been joined by dozens of beloved friends. Nothing comforted like the sound of a friend’s laughter.
Paul’s elbow bit into Luke’s ribs. “Are you going to write about that snake?”
“As soon as the Romans return my papers.”
Mauritius slid his cup of ale to the side, making room for the scribbled pages they had taken from the physician’s bag. Publius had already gone through them, and Mauritius was eager to hear his report.
Publius smoothed out the last sheet of papyrus, then set it atop the stack. “I’m done.”
“Anything incriminating?”
His friend shook his head. “It is all quite boring, really, and as messy as Zeus’s toenails. But from what I can decipher, it’s about a man who travels around giving lengthy speeches. The only exciting bit is about the stoning of a Jewish fellow.”
Mauritius frowned. “As I told you. There’s nothing about the fire.”
“Unfortunate, isn’t it?” Publius lifted a brow, clearly hoping for some sign of gratitude for his effort, but Mauritius remained stone-faced.
Publius folded his hands. “Forget the documents. Perhaps we can find some other sort of incriminating evidence. For instance, I have heard outrageous rumors about this man. They call him a sorcerer of the dark arts, a charmer of snakes and demons, a man who can heal with the touch of his cloak. I’ve even heard that the man has raised himself from the dead.”
Mauritius lifted his head, his interest piqued. “Paul of Tarsus is a healer?”
“According to some. But my point is this: you don’t make a man your leader because he trips and falls in the road and then travels around a bit and says some things. There must be more to the story . . . and we have only to find it.” He rested his chin on his hand for a moment, then snapped his head back. “What if you could get him to confess to burning Rome?”
Mauritius blinked. “What would he possibly add to what he has already stated at his trial?”
Publius shrugged. “A man on trial will say anything to save his life. But now he has been convicted and will be executed in, what, five days? No man wants to exit the world without boasting of his glorious deeds. Appeal to his arrogance. Appeal to his desire to leave a legacy of greatness.”
Mauritius reached for his cup. “You may be right. Let us drink to it.”
And they did.
Chapter
Eleven
The Seventeenth Day of Junius
The garden usually soothed Mauritius’s troubled spirits, but the dawning of a new day had brought a malignant mass of dark clouds that hovered over the city. Surely a bad omen. He sat on a carved bench beneath a dying tree that stretched skeletal arms toward the somber sky. Irenica had begged him to hire a man to remove the tree, and he had been too busy to heed her request. Now he wished he had. The garden was his only escape from the combined weight of his wife’s and daughter’s distress, and yet today it brought no comfort or peace.
Shortly after rising, he had sent a slave with a message for Severus: he was to remove Paul of Tarsus from his dungeon, see that he was washed clean, and bring him to this garden so they could talk in more congenial surroundings. But looking at the dark skies overhead, Mauritius realized his garden would not provide the atmosphere for which he had hoped. Still, anything would be an improvement over the prison.
When Severus and the prisoner finally arrived, Mauritius noted that Paul wore a clean tunic, though an old one, and for the first time in weeks he could see the man’s skin without a covering layer of grime. The man’s beard had been trimmed, his iron fetters replaced with simple rope. No one who saw him would realize they were seeing the infamous Paul of Tarsus, but instead would assume that an old slave was being led from the auction house to his new master.
Mauritius stood as the prisoner entered his garden, not out of respect but because he wanted to stretch his legs. He gestured to the garden path. “Will you walk with me?”
Paul followed, barely keeping up due to his halting, uneven steps.
Mauritius slowed his pace to match Paul’s. “I usually come out here,” he began, locking his hands behind him, “to find some measure of peace. You cannot see over these garden walls. You cannot see what has become of this great city.”
He glanced at the prisoner, expecting a reply, but Paul remained silent.
“I have asked you here because I wanted to tell you something,” he continued, shifting his gaze to the pathway. “I misjudged you, Paul of Tarsus. You are more a soldier than a revolutionary. You are a man with much blood on his hands.”
Paul lifted his head. “You will get no argument from me, but you speak of sins from a past life. By God’s grace my sins have been washed away.”
“The sin of destroying Rome in the great fire? The sin of murder? Your God could ‘wash away’ sins as heinous as these?”
“My sins were wicked indeed—I murdered Christians. I would have killed them all, if I were able. But the blood of Christ can wash a
ny man clean, so long as he is willing to repent.”
Mauritius snapped his mouth shut, stunned by the man’s bluntness. He waited to see if the prisoner would say anything else. After a brief silence, he moved on and pointed to the stack of pages on the bench where he’d been sitting. “I read your friend’s writings. I realize the pages contain only rough notes, but the themes are clear: sin, grace, and mercy. Yet these philosophical scribblings tell me nothing of why these Christians look to you as their leader, or why Nero has singled you out as the chief enemy of Rome.”
The corner of Paul’s mouth twisted. “I think you already know we were not responsible for the fire.”
“Why then would Nero bring such an accusation against you? Rumors about your powers abound in the city streets. Perhaps Nero sees these supernatural powers as a threat?”
Paul shook his head. “I have no powers.”
“Are you saying the stories are not true?”
“I do not know which stories you have heard, but many of them are true. It is God who works with great power through His faithful ones. His followers have been known to work miracles in His name.”
“What sort of miracles?”
“Extraordinary signs and wonders,” Paul said. “Handkerchiefs and aprons that touched me have been taken to the sick and their illnesses cured. Evil spirits have departed from the possessed. In Troas, God used me to restore a dead man to life again after he fell from a third-story window.”
“And raising yourself from the dead—this is the same type of miracle?”
Paul took a wincing breath. “If I had ever been dead, I assure you I would not be standing here.”
Mauritius set that fact aside for later reference. “You have healed people, yet you don’t brag about your powers.”
“In all my life, I have never said such things to brag. I boast only about my weaknesses so that Christ’s power will rest on me.”
“Very few men admit weakness. Certainly none boast of it.”
