by Angela Hunt
Without ceremony, Mauritius escorted Luke through the villa and into his daughter’s sickroom. Irenica paced on the opposite side of the chamber, but she froze in place when she saw who Mauritius had brought with him. The physician was dirty, his clothing soiled beyond help, and he brought with him a stench that filled the entire villa. Mauritius was used to such things, but Irenica had never inhaled anything more unpleasant than sour milk.
“Who is this?” she asked, her eyes blazing with alarm.
Mauritius ignored her question and turned to the Christian. “Can you help my daughter?”
The Greek did not turn to consider the patient. Instead, he stared at Mauritius, his eyes narrowing. Mauritius could not be sure, but he felt as though he were being weighed and measured, and the physician’s decision would somehow depend upon his worthiness.
By all the gods, his daughter was doomed. If this Greek required an apology or recompense, if he demanded his freedom or that of his friend Paul . . .
But the Greek said nothing. He simply nodded, then moved to the sickbed. He knelt on the floor and lifted a corner of Caelia’s shirt. “This is not good.” He pointed to the swelling and bruising on her side. “This is evidence of bleeding under the skin. Quickly, get me a sharp blade.”
Irenica gasped.
“Now!” Luke shot a glance over his shoulder at Mauritius. “Do not waste time.”
Mauritius pulled a dagger from his belt and held it, handle out, in the empty space between himself and his prisoner. He could not look at Irenica’s face. What would prevent this man from murdering their daughter? Any other condemned criminal would happily take the opportunity to repay a Roman for the pain and suffering they had endured.
Luke placed his hands into a bowl of water and then shook the droplets off. He turned back to Mauritius and met his gaze, and in that moment Mauritius felt the physician silently acknowledge all that had passed between them. “I have already forgiven you for what you have done,” the Greek said, his voice low as he held out his hand. “Your daughter’s chest is filling with blood. If I do not drain it, she will die.”
Mauritius stared at the blade, then placed it in Luke’s flat palm. What choice did he have?
He watched, his heart in his throat, as Luke dipped the blade in water. He then sliced into his daughter’s chest. “I need a pen and papyrus,” he said, his voice calmer.
Irenica hurried away to fetch the items. As Mauritius watched blood flow from the incision, Luke leaned forward to catch his eye. “Do you trust me?”
“Do I have any choice?”
A small smile lifted the corner of Luke’s mouth. After Irenica hurried back into the room, Luke took the papyrus and jotted words on it, then gave it to Mauritius. “You will find Aquila and Priscilla at this house. Tell them I sent you for these things and they must be brought to me immediately.”
“Are you sure—?” Mauritius began.
Luke cut him off. “I’ve seen this illness only once before, on the isle of Rhodes. There is much to do if we are going to save your daughter’s life.”
As blood continued to flow onto the mattress, the Greek stood and washed his hands again. “You are trusting me with your daughter’s life, and I am trusting you with the lives of those you will find at that villa. Now”—he turned to Irenica—“I will need more clean water and linens. As soon as you can get them.”
Mauritius nodded and hurried out of the house.
Luke heard the slam of the front door and sank to the floor by the girl’s bedside. The girl’s mother lingered across the room, probably repelled by the foul odor.
“I apologize for my appearance,” Luke said, gently wiping the incision area with a folded piece of wet linen. “I have not had an opportunity to bathe in many days.”
“Um, do not, uh . . .” The woman spread her hands, unable to find the words. Luke suppressed a smile. He could not blame her for being stunned by his abrupt appearance. He would be socially unacceptable in the eyes of women like the prefect’s wife, and his reputation had probably preceded him. If the prefect had told her anything about the men in Nero’s prison, she probably thought him the worst sort of miscreant, a threat to civilized people everywhere.
“I, uh, want to thank you for coming,” she said, doing her best to fill the awkward silence. “I’m sure you were occupied when Mauritius interrupted.”
“I was not so busy,” Luke said, bending to peer at his patient’s mottled complexion. “Could you bring the lamp closer, please? Or if the smell bothers you, we could place the lamp on a table.”
She picked up the oil lamp and brought it to him. “It is no trouble. It is the least I can do to—oh!” She brought her free hand to her nose, then gingerly set the lamp on the table near Luke’s side. “There.”
“Thank you.” He could see more clearly in the light, and already the girl’s skin was looking less bruised.
“I need to see to something . . . in the atrium,” the woman said, her hand still at her nose. “If you don’t mind, I will leave you for a while.”
“Enjoy the fresh air,” Luke said, his attention on his patient. “Breathe some for me, will you?”
He pressed the linen over the incision, applying pressure to the cut. The excess blood had drained away, and now he had to stop the bleeding. When the blood began to coagulate, he would stitch the wound. But not yet. He would do so after the supplies arrived.
He looked at his bloodstained fingers. Why had God brought him to this place, to this moment? He had always imagined that he studied medicine in order to care for Paul, missionary to the Gentiles. Now, as they neared the end of their lives, he supposed that God wanted him to focus on writing his second book, to leave behind a trustworthy record of how the Way began.
But so much had happened, and time was short. And here he was, using his medical skills again, and on a patient he had not wanted to see. If his flesh had won the battle, he would have remained with his brothers and sisters at the Circus, leaving the Praetorian prefect to deal with the consequences of his own actions.
But he could not let his flesh win, because as Paul often said, they were slaves to Christ. And a slave does not question his master; he obeys.
And what did Christ ask of him? Here, as always, to love.
So he came, reeking of refuse and grime, splashing blood on a noblewoman’s tile floor. Tomorrow they would have to empty out this bedchamber and burn incense to clear the air.
But the girl would get well, and the mother would be grateful. As to the prefect . . . only God knew what He had planned for Mauritius.
Mauritius finally found the house he sought on the other side of town, past the Circus and south of the marketplace. Frustrated at the distance and the late hour, he pounded on the door. “Open up! Luke, the physician, has sent me to speak to Aquila and Priscilla. I have come alone!”
He was about to curse himself for daring to hope the door might actually open to him, but after a moment he heard the bolt slide back. The door opened, and there stood Eubulus, the guard who had disappeared from a Praetorian prison cart.
Blinking in astonishment, Mauritius numbly offered the note as proof of his purpose. “Luke has sent me to see Aquila.”
The burly guard’s brows nearly rose to his hairline, but then he stepped aside and allowed Mauritius to enter the courtyard.
He found himself in a garden that might have once been beautiful. But the hedges were broken and spindly, and the trees bent under the weight of hammocks. Makeshift tents cluttered the open spaces, pots cluttered the fountain, and embers glowed in what must have been cookeries. Instead of offering peace and solitude, this garden obviously offered sanctuary and a hiding place for dozens of Christians.
Mauritius scanned the crowd but recognized no one. “I seek—I have come to ask a favor of a man called Aquila.”
The men and women in the garden stared at him. Then an arm lifted and pointed to the upper story of the house. Mauritius flew up the stone steps and walked through an open door
way into a room where two women and three men sat around a table. Apparently he had interrupted some sort of meeting.
All of them gaped when they recognized the Praetorian sword at his side. One woman’s eyes widened in a flicker of shock.
“Luke sent me,” Mauritius said, holding up the note in Luke’s handwriting. “I need your help.”
The woman stood, the corners of her mouth tight. “Luke is alive?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her lips moving in apparent prayer.
“Please.” Mauritius set the papyrus on the table. “My daughter, Caelia, is ill. Luke is with her, but he needs these things right away.”
The woman opened her eyes. “Tell me what you need.”
Mauritius snatched up the note and began to read aloud.
When the Roman left, Aquila, Priscilla, and Eubulus huddled by the courtyard gate.
“Do we leave now?” Aquila asked. “Eubulus, perhaps you should. He knows where you are, and he will likely send guards to arrest you again.”
“I can pack food and blankets,” Priscilla said, ticking off items with her fingers. “We have already packed supplies for several others, so we can send you with one of those bags. We’ll find someone else to guide the people to the aqueducts.”
“I think we should wait.”
Aquila looked up, startled by the big guard’s calm tone. “But the risk, especially for you—”
“The prefect is not thinking about me now.” A wide smile lit the guard’s face. “The man is not unreasonable, and at this moment he is doing something he has never done before. He is trusting a Christian. Why don’t we trust him in return?”
Aquila looked at Priscilla, who looked at Eubulus, then shook her head. “We are leaving in two days,” she said, her voice a feminine ripple in the evening air. “Why don’t we trust the Lord to handle the prefect?”
Aquila wasn’t so certain he shared her confidence, but he squeezed her arm and nodded nonetheless. “Agreed,” he said. “We will leave in two days’ time.”
Back inside his daughter’s bedchamber, Mauritius waited in the shadows, out of the physician’s way as Luke took care of his daughter. Irenica stood at Mauritius’s side, clinging to his arm and watching the Greek work.
One thing was clear, and Mauritius would never forget it: Paul of Tarsus was right. The Greek was a skilled physician, and he had saved their daughter’s life when no one else could.
Chapter
Fourteen
The Twentieth Day of Junius
Lying on the floor of his prison cell, Paul stared toward the light of a new day and thought about Luke. Of all the men he had ever known—his fellow Jews, apostles, disciples, and kinsmen—Luke had been the most steadfast, the most loyal, and the most temperate. If any man was an embodiment of brotherly love, Luke was.
And unless God willed otherwise, in a few hours Luke would die in the oval arena of the Circus Maximus while the Romans cheered.
“Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they are doing.”
Paul imagined the scene. Luke had never been an exuberant man, never given to wild emotion in joy or sorrow. He tended to keep his feelings inside, sharing them only with people he trusted.
But he would be a rock for the others who would die with him. He would share his heart and his convictions with compassion, and he would give them the courage to face death with honor.
He has done the same for me.
Paul closed his eyes, his heart swelling with emotions no human words could express. The Spirit dwelling inside him groaned, but though he battled loneliness, dread, and fear, Paul would not ask for another hour. He would endure one more day and night, and on the morrow he would rise to face His Savior.
Would he face anyone else?
His recurrent dream had haunted him again last night. He had walked the dusty road to Damascus, and at the hill where he had once been struck down, he had seen a crowd waiting. He knew the faces—Stephen was there, and Nicodemus, and the family he had captured in Jerusalem and sent to prison. Even the little girl.
Paul opened his eyes, preferring the sunlight to the shadowlands. He would spend his remaining hours praising HaShem who was ’El Elyon, God Most High; ’El Shaddai, God all-sufficient; ’El ’Olam, the Everlasting One; ’El Ro’i, the all-seeing One; and Yahweh, the God who is and shall be.
“You are Yahweh-Tseba’oth, the God with armies to serve you; Yahweh-Nissi, my banner; Yahweh-Rapha, my healer; Yahweh-Rohi, the God who is my Shepherd; Yahweh-Jireh, the God who is my Provider; Yahweh-Tsadaq, the Righteous God; and Yahweh-Shalom, the God who is peace and who brings peace.”
Inexplicably, he thought of Prefect Mauritius Gallis, who would be one of the last people Paul would see with mortal eyes. The prefect did not know peace, nor would he, because even if his daughter improved, he would still have to face Nero and life in this unholy city. The gods of Rome held no power; they were illusions spun by the evil one in order to blind people to the Truth.
“Here we are, Adonai”—Paul felt a smile curve his lips—“in the heart of a city that worships more gods than the average man can count, and yet none of their gods are like you. None of their gods is righteous, not one has the power to heal, and not one has armies to do his bidding. Only you, Adonai, are exalted in all the earth.”
Tomorrow he would see his last sunrise, and then he would lay his head down and close his eyes, ready to return to the third heaven where Yeshua waited for all who trusted Him.
“‘So from the west they will fear the Name of Adonai,’” Paul said, reciting a passage from the prophet Isaiah, “‘and His glory from the rising of the sun.
“‘For He will come like a rushing stream driven along by the Ruach Adonai.
“‘But a Redeemer will come to Zion, and to those in Jacob who turn from transgression.
“‘As for Me, this is My covenant with them,’ says Adonai: ‘My Ruach who is on you, and My words that I have put in your mouth, shall not depart from your mouth, or from the mouth of your offspring, or from the mouth of your children’s offspring,’ says Adonai, ‘from now on and forever.’”
Mauritius bolted upright, as wide awake as if Nero had called his name. He blinked, then remembered where he was: on a dining couch in the atrium where he had gone once it was clear Caelia was improving.
He ran his hands through his hair, trying to throw off the lingering effects of sleep. The sun had already risen, but his servant had not yet come to wake him, so the morning was still young. He had time to check on Caelia.
He rose and went to his daughter’s bedchamber. Caelia was sleeping, but naturally so, curled on her side and not in the flat pose of death. Irenica slept on a pallet on the floor, and even in repose her face appeared drawn and weary. But now, thank the gods, the situation in their home would improve.
Finally, Mauritius looked at the Greek. He slept, too, sprawled out in a chair far too small for his long, lean form. His head was tipped back, and from his open mouth came the sounds of snoring. His hands hung at his sides, his legs stretched across the floor, and Mauritius did not have the heart to wake him.
The man had done what no other physician could do. Mauritius had watched in silent awe as the Greek released the pooling blood beneath his daughter’s skin. Then he had sewn up the incision with needle and thread, his stitches as neat as an army surgeon’s. Afterward he gave Caelia a tea made of herbs obtained from the villa filled with Christians . . .
Mauritius closed his eyes, refusing to consider them further. He was not a perfect man by any means, but he was not so dishonorable as to violate a good man’s trust.
He thrust his hands behind his back when the Greek stirred. Mauritius waited until Luke opened his eyes, and then he managed a small smile. “A good day to you.”
Luke sat up quickly and leaned forward to examine his patient. “She sleeps still?”
“She is resting,” Mauritius said, nodding in approval. “She has not looked
so peaceful in days.”
The Greek blew out a breath and relaxed. “Good. I am glad . . . I could be of service.” He lifted his hands, which were markedly clean compared to the rest of his body, and sighed. “Your daughter should be back to her normal self within the week.”
Mauritius dipped his head. “We are grateful.”
Luke smiled weakly. “If that is all, I suppose I should be on my way.”
“Wait.” Mauritius drew a deep breath. “I would like you to remain here for a while yet. I will have my servants draw you a bath and give you clean clothing. But before you go, I would ask you to meet someone in my garden.”
“That is kind of you.” Luke bowed his head. “And now I am grateful.”
Mauritius moved to the hallway and clapped his hands for a slave. An instant later, someone appeared.
“Follow this man,” Mauritius told Luke, ignoring the slave’s incredulous look, “and enjoy the bath. You should be in no hurry to leave us, for you are welcome here today.”
In the underground holding area of the Circus Maximus, sunlight slanted through the windows and touched the sleeping faces of those imprisoned in the animal cages. Children stirred from their mothers’ laps, and men looked toward the light and realized that unless God chose to work a miracle, the day of their death had dawned.
From far away, an eerie sound cut through the early morning silence—a shrill cry, followed by a guttural roar. One of the children turned to Miriam, his mother. “What is that sound, Mama?”
She pushed his curly hair from his eyes and tried to smile. “I think,” she said, keeping her tone light, “it is a big cat from the jungle. I saw one once, in a triumphal parade.” She looked across the cage, caught her husband’s eye, and smiled. “We will walk in a triumphal parade, too, when we leave this place to meet Jesus.”
Other children began to wake and stir. Miriam greeted each of them and bade them keep quiet. “No sense in waking the others,” she whispered. “Let them sleep for now.”
