Man of God
Page 4
“Well, I’m not offering a reward! The coffer is all but empty.”
Petronius could believe that. Not only had Caligula depleted the once swollen Treasury with profligate living, he had often been seen standing on the roof of the Julia Basilica with a shovel, and scooping gold to rain down on the rabble in the streets below. No one knew exactly why, except that it obviously amused him to see the mad scramble for coins…during which some people were invariably crushed to death.
He answered, “That will not be necessary, my Lord.”
Caligula’s gaze went back toward the window and lifted to the moon, as though drawn there by some enchantment. His voice grew soft again. “I want a description of him on the walls of all the barracks. And of the woman he’s with.” He paused, and almost whispered, “The best and greatest. The army called him that, you know. But now, that title belongs to me.”
The captain, unlike the horse, refrained from snorting.
* * *
Walking a few miles from his house, Paulus joined one of the crews assigned to the emperor’s ambitious building project—a new aqueduct. He had seen the drawings; it would march majestically from the Caelian Hill to its source of water, far outside the city. The groundwork had been done, winding among the mansions on the hill and stretching northeast from the center of town. The pillars supporting the arches and channels of the aqueduct would rise to a certain level, then other phases of its construction would begin. It would probably take years to finish.
As he arrived, hundreds of hired laborers and slaves congregated around an area surrounded by great piles of earth and clay. Large wagons, some full of sand and others of wood sat ready to be dumped, and huge stone blocks waited to be lifted into place.
He’d been using one of his old family names, Antonius, when he was among other people; it was, as a matter of fact, part of his full name, since it wasn’t unusual for Romans to have five or six. He didn’t like using what appeared to be subterfuge, but didn’t seem to have a choice; his own name was too well known, and every day the circle of people with whom he came into contact grew wider. He was dressed in a plain brown tunic belted at the waist—no differently than anyone else, but as usual everyone noticed his approach—his height, his looks, an old air of command he could never seem to lose, always caught the attention of others nearby. It was assumed he was a freed slave, for why else would he be here, performing manual labor with commoners and other slaves?
Paulus listened to the foreman giving orders and set to work shoveling a pile of sand into carts. He glanced over at the man nearest him, who was mixing buckets of mortar. “Good morning, Secundus.”
The man, with dark hair receding from his forehead, paused to look over his shoulder. “Antonius.”
“I was wondering—have you thought over what I told you about the Nazarene?”
“Thought it over,” said the man. “Hard to believe.”
“Hard not to,” Paulus answered, “all things considered.”
Others were listening but Paulus didn’t mind. It wasn’t the same here as it was in Jerusalem—yet. The religious and political rulers in Jerusalem had put Jesus to death, and now they sought to imprison and sometimes even kill anyone who had the audacity to confess their belief in him, or attempt to tell others about him. They had crucified Jesus after a travesty of a trial; they had explained away the fact that his body had disappeared from its tomb the third day after his burial by saying those guarding the tomb had fallen asleep and his disciples had stolen the body. They had denied any possibility of a resurrection, and anyone who called him “God” was guilty of blasphemy.
Rome, on the other hand, had always been tolerant of other religions…as long as they didn’t interfere with Rome’s. There were gods and goddesses too numerous to count, so what was one more? But the time was coming…Paulus knew that as soon as there were enough believers in Rome, and it became known that they refused to worship other gods, there would be trouble. Though Augustus and Tiberius had allowed themselves to be worshiped, Caligula was the first emperor to pronounce himself a god; he had built a temple and erected a statue of himself within it, which he ordered to be dressed daily in duplication of whatever he chose to wear that morning. And he’d had the heads knocked off the statues of other gods and replaced them with replicas of his own head. What would he do, when believers in Jesus refused to worship him? Paulus didn’t want to think about it.
“You there—Antonius.” The foreman approached them briskly.
“Yes, sir?” Paulus looked at the man who had hired him.
“The contractor wants to see you as soon as he arrives, probably about mid-morning.”
“What about?”
“How should I know? Get to work and stop talking so much. Saw you talking half the day yesterday. Both of you.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man hurried off to solve a dispute between two other workmen.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble, Secundus,” Paulus said, in a low voice. “But if there’s anything you want to know, we can talk when we leave here.”
Secundus nodded, and turned his attention to his task. Paulus continued shoveling sand, wondering if he should be concerned about the summons. Others looked at him curiously. He began to feel as though he’d been singled out, somehow, and it made him uneasy. He was reasonably certain the guard at the gate had reported seeing him the other night, so that meant whatever authorities might be looking for him were aware that he was in Rome. Fortunately Rome had over a million inhabitants, so he wouldn’t be easy to find. Nor did he feel God urging him to leave…he’d always known before when it was time to depart from a town or city, and journey to another.
He had the distinct feeling he would never leave Rome.
The contractor, Martinus, arrived with his retinue of engineers and expert stonemasons; they all went into a small wooden building that would serve as an office while this section of the aqueduct was being constructed. Paulus put down the shovel and wiped sweat out of his eyes. As he walked toward the building, everyone except Martinus came out and began inspecting the work that had been done yesterday.
Paulus knocked on the door and heard the contractor call for him to enter. Martinus stood before a long table over which were spread numerous maps and drawings.
“Antonius. Come here.” The man was all business, having no time for personal exchanges. He was of average height, with gray hair and faded blue eyes that were always reddened and tired looking.
“As you know, the Roman government has hired me to oversee the supply and building of this portion of the aqueduct. There has been disagreement among the engineers about certain calculations. Your foreman has good things to say about you, that you have given him sound advice on occasion and seem to be very knowledgeable.”
Paulus answered hesitantly, “Thank you, sir. I studied engineering in my youth.”
“Just as I thought. You know how to use the instruments, how to measure angles. You know that the grade of the channels must be perfect.”
“Yes.” Paulus was having a tremendous sinking feeling.
“I want you to look at these figures. Then we will all confer together and decide who is right and who is wrong. At that time I will probably hire you as one of my engineers.”
His mind raced ahead to all the ramifications of what the contractor proposed. Meetings with other engineers, with men of great skill and learning, with government officials…and he, Paulus, had once been prefect of the city! Surely he would come face to face with someone who had known him in those days. As a common worker he was secluded, never going near the professional men…although he could examine their faces from a distance to assure himself they were unknown to him.
How foolish he’d been to offer his opinions—pure vanity and pride!
Paulus bowed slightly. “I am honored, sir. I would be glad to serve you by looking at the calculations that have been made, but my opinion will matter little. I am not as skilled as you believe.”
“Again, sir, you overestimate me. I chose another way of life and have little experience with engineering. It was only by chance that I discovered this error, and I’m still not certain that my advice was adequate.”
“So—you are refusing the position?”
“I am not worthy of such responsibility. I would prefer to remain where I am.”
The faded blue eyes bore into his, and the wrinkles around them deepened. “Either you are a very humble man, or you’re hiding from something.”
The sinking sensation was getting stronger, but Paulus forced a smile. “If I needed to hide, sir, it wouldn’t be here. I enjoy my freedom, and I’ve never liked politics. Any skilled worker on a project of this magnitude will be responsible to others, including politicians, on many different matters. These seem to me sufficient reasons to decline such a generous offer, for which I do thank you.”
Martinus was silent for a long, suspenseful moment. “Very well. I don’t have much use for politicians myself—I suppose they’re not all dishonest and power-hungry, but—” He gave an eloquent shrug. “I would appreciate it if you would look at these drawings.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I may put you in charge of overseeing the conduits and pipes as they are sent to us. I want a man I can trust to make sure they are of the finest quality. Someone who isn’t being—paid off, shall we say, to turn a blind eye to any defects. And clay pipes rather than lead, as you suggested to the foreman.”
Not wanting to press the matter further, Paulus gave a slight bow to show his assent. The contractor seemed satisfied, and left the building as Paulus sat down to examine the drawings and calculations.
Vanity and pride, he thought, disgusted with himself. He would have to pray about that.
* * *
Alysia looked over the wax tablet in her hands, satisfied that they had covered the main topics for the day. She sat in a chair in the spacious hallway of her house and smiled at her students, who sat on cushions against the cool stucco walls. The shutters to the windows were open, letting in the westerly breeze that swept through the city each evening.
Her life in Athens, before her father’s arrest and her own enslavement, had been a sheltered and privileged one. She had been well educated in grammar, philosophy, history, literature, and even mathematics. Her students were the children of those men and women brought to the faith by Paulus and herself; their parents, for various reasons, had taken them out of the Roman schools. She taught each of these subjects, but instead of Greek philosophy and literature she taught from the Hebrew Scriptures—the books of Moses, the psalms of David, the prophets. This was knowledge she had recently acquired, having read and studied intensely while she lived in Bethany, after she had come to know Jesus of Nazareth.
Mary, younger than she but full of spiritual insight, had been her teacher. She’d also recently begun lessons in Aramaic—to parents as well as their children—so that they would be able to communicate with believers who were Jewish. Even though most people spoke Greek these days, there were many foreigners who didn’t—especially the women.
Two of the children besides Rachel were eight years of age; they were twins, a boy and a girl. Two other boys were both nine, one girl was ten, and her sister was eleven. Most of them were quiet and well behaved—occasionally she did have trouble with the two nine-year-old boys.
“The next time we have a meeting with your parents,” she said, laying aside the tablet, “you will recite the verses you’ve memorized. Are you ready?”
They nodded eagerly—all but one of the boys. She noted a slightly sullen look on his face.
Someone knocked on the door. The parents were arriving; soon the children were gone, and Rachel began straightening the hallway and putting up cushions. Alysia went into the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. Paulus was rarely late because he knew that it worried her, but when the meal was ready and he still hadn’t appeared, she had to struggle to hide her anxiety. Rachel was not fooled, however, and after eating her supper she took out her pages of verses to memorize and pretended to read them… she already knew them perfectly.
Alysia went to one of the front windows and looked out. The dirt lane in front of the house ended in a slope beyond which she couldn’t see, but just then Paulus’ tall figure came into view, and she slipped out the door to go and meet him. He smiled as she approached and wrapped his arm around her. They walked for a moment, as the lowering sun cast shadows from the surrounding trees across their path.
“You were worried,” he said. “I’m sorry, Alysia.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“I met Camillus on the way home.” Paulus stopped and put both hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “I hate to ask it of you…they have lost a child. His wife needs you, Alysia. Will you go and see her tomorrow?”
She looked at him steadily, both pain and compassion flooding her heart. She nodded, and he put both arms around her, holding her strongly against him. She closed her eyes, and remembered…
CHAPTER IV
They still had Asbolos then, and the dark gray horse streaked through the still, black night as though borne on wings. Alysia sat in front of Paulus, with two-year-old Rachel clutched in her arms, and Paulus’ arms a shield around them both. He held the reins tightly in his hands, but the warhorse was well trained and needed little guidance. Not far behind pounded the hoof beats of their pursuers.
There had been no time for planning. Their belongings had been stuffed into a bag and tied to the saddle, leaving behind the cart and donkey that had carried them from Palestine to the cities of Antioch and Tarsus and now Perga. They’d been there for several weeks, but that particular day Paulus had been speaking to a group of men near the Temple of Leto, the “queen” goddess of Perga, and someone had taken offense at his words. The man reported Paulus to the local authorities, and his description had been recognized. One of the city officials was a believer; he went, in the dead of night, to warn Paulus that Roman soldiers were starting toward his rented house, and were surrounding the entire block.
Asbolos’ feet flew through the wide, deserted streets, and even the porticos lining them gave no reflection of light from the moonless sky. The walls and towers encircling the city would allow no escape; Paulus headed for the sea. He prayed that there would be at least one boat readied for sailing down the Cestrus River to the port some five miles away, but even though it was near dawn the small boats were still tied down and there was no one on the wharf. No time to do anything but hide.
Storage houses and sheds lined the riverbank, all closed with padlocks and chains. Paulus guided the horse swiftly here and there, examining the buildings. He saw a loose plank of wood at the back of one of the low sheds. The clattering of hooves came closer. In an instant he dismounted, snatched the bag from the saddle and pulled Alysia and their daughter down beside him. Stroking his horse’s neck, he said softly, “Go, Asbolos,” and struck him on the rump. The horse turned obediently and fled in the opposite direction.
When the soldiers appeared the three of them were inside the shed, with the wood planking pulled into place. They listened as the soldiers paused only briefly; then, obviously hearing the sound of Paulus’ horse running in the distance, they continued in pursuit.
Rachel, who had behaved remarkably well throughout the wild ride, began to cry at the disappearance of their beloved horse. Alysia lifted her eyes to Paulus’ and whispered, “Asbolos.”
“He’s a fine and costly animal—they’ll take good care of him. And, I hope, won’t catch him for a while. You must keep her quiet, Alysia.”
Paulus knew he could grieve later over the loss of his horse; he also knew the soldiers would come back here once they failed to f
ind him elsewhere. He pulled the loose board off the shed and stepped out. The surest escape would be by boat, but it all depended on how soon the captains arrived, and how quickly one could be persuaded to take them immediately to the port, where the larger ships were docked. He even briefly considered “borrowing” a boat—he could leave it at the port and its owner would eventually find it. But he saw no way he could manage the boat by himself…the sails, the steering, navigating a river whose currents and obstacles were unknown to him—at least not in the small amount of time they had. He had no choice but to wait for the captain and their crews…or head back where they had come from.
A reddish glow crept over the horizon. The boats rocked at the pier and the sound of waves lapping at the wood met his ears. He turned back toward the city, where now the red tiled roofs and white stone were visible. Now he could hear wagon wheels, and sandals slapping against pavement. At once he went back, took Alysia’s hand, and pulled her through the opening. She still held Rachel in her arms. Where had he put the bag with their clothes? He saw it in a corner and grabbed it. He carefully pressed the loose plank into place, so it wouldn’t draw attention to the shed and alert anyone to a possible hiding place.
“Come with me. We’ll wait at the pier—and God forgive me if I have to make up a story.” Gently he placed his hand over her slightly rounded abdomen. She was five months with child.
“How are you?” he asked, his brows drawn with worry.
She nodded and managed a smile as they walked toward the landing. She didn’t really know how she felt at the moment; she only knew she was scared out of her wits, and that they were still in danger. How much simpler it would be, if her concern were only for herself and Paulus! But she was always in a quandary over her daughter, and now her unborn child. She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that God could take care of them, but her mother’s heart couldn’t quite let go, and she agonized over the thought of something happening to them.