Fire and Sword (36 page)

Chronicles of the Host

The men had given up hope of controlling their ship. Their only goal was staying alive. They had even thrown away the precious cargo that the owner had so meticulously seen carried on board piece by piece in Alexandria. Paul had long ago determined that to die and be with the Lord was an advantage, so he was prepared when the time came. More than prepared. In fact, death was by now preferable to the incessant battering that the ship was enduring.

“Paul! Paul!”

Paul looked up, his eyes bleary from the wind and rain. A man stood there. Tall and imposing. The figure startled Paul.

“Do not be afraid, Paul. You must stand trial before Caesar; and God has graciously given you the lives of all who sail with you.”

As quickly as he appeared and spoke, the messenger disappeared. Paul rubbed his eyes and looked again—but the figure was gone. Paul looked up into the swirling blackness and gave thanks to God. They were going to make it after all!

Serus and Gabriel watched as Paul assembled the crew and told them that he had some important news for them. Gabriel nodded in approval.

“Well done, Serus,” he said. “Not even this opposition was able to stop the Lord’s message to Paul.” They looked at the apostle as he spoke. “And now he’ll get to Rome.”

“Yes, but to what end?” Serus asked. “I feel as if I have helped Paul out of one storm and into another.”

Gaius, the ship’s owner, came out on the deck with the others. He had largely kept to his quarters throughout the crisis, but decided he better hear what Paul had to say. For all he knew, this man—who had predicted this disaster—might bring charges against him and incite a mutiny. He told the centurion as much, but the man paid him no attention.

“Men, you should have taken my advice not to sail from Crete; then you would have spared yourselves this damage and loss,” Paul said.

Several sailors looked toward Gaius, who swallowed uncomfortably. “It isn’t my fault,” he said. “I left the decision up to the captain.”

“You urged him on,” accused a voice.

“It’s your fault we are going to die!” said another.

“Wait!” said Paul. “Keep up your courage! Not one of you will be lost.”

“Another message from your God?” someone asked.

“Don’t mock his God,” said an old man. “He was right the first time.”

Paul ignored the comments and continued. “Nobody will die. But we must lose this ship.”

“My ship?”

“Last night an angel of the God I serve stood beside me and said, ‘Do not be afraid, Paul.’ He told me that all of you would live because I am to appear before Caesar in Rome. So keep up your courage, men, for I have faith in God that it will happen just as he told me.”

“But my ship?” asked Gaius. “I’ve already lost my cargo.”

“Your ship will run aground somewhere, Gaius.”

“Better the ship be destroyed than us,” a man said.

“But…” Gaius protested.

“Quiet!” said the centurion. “Pray to Paul’s God that He doesn’t decide to send you down with this ship for your ungrateful attitude.”

“Land! I see land!”

The sailors rushed to see the first sign of land in two weeks. The coastline was unrecognizable, but it didn’t matter. The exhausted men found their strength returning with their hope, as the ship drew closer and closer to the unknown island. The men took depth soundings and decided that, given the rapidly shallowing water, they had best run the ship aground.

The grinding noise of the ship, coupled with the sudden lurch, told the men that they finally had hit land. The sailors scrambled about the deck, soldiers looked out for prisoners, and the captain barked orders to the crew. But Paul looked at the land, still a good distance away. They had not run aground; they had hit a sandbar.

“She’s breaking up!” Lucus yelled.

“Make for shore!” The men jumped into the frothing water, swimming toward shore or finding whatever piece of wood or rigging that might carry them toward land. The storm was beginning to subside, but the waves were still violent and thrashed the men against the rocks with tremendous force. Within the hour, the men were sprawled up and down the sandy beach. Paul looked up in time to see Luke wading ashore. Then he fell asleep, relishing the steadiness of land after days on a stormy sea.

“They made it!” Rugio shrieked. “They made it after all!”

“Shall we attack them on the beach?” Nathan asked.

“No. I have to think.”

The storm was dying down as the angels working with Rugio dispersed. The humans had actually made it to the beach—all of them. How could this be? The storm was the greatest Rugio had ever created. Lucifer would not be happy with the report. Still, Paul did not make it to Rome. He was shipwrecked. Perhaps that would placate Lucifer. But somehow, Rugio knew that it would not.

“What will you tell Lucifer?” Nathan asked.

“Nothing yet,” Rugio said, looking at the island that had been the salvation of the men on board the ship. “Not until I kill Paul personally.”

The men gathered around along the beach. Lucus, a man who was well acquainted with most of the islands along the trade routes, was completely baffled. Two weeks in a storm had caused them to be taken so far out of their way that they might be anywhere. The owner, having regained his footing and therefore his nerve, was angrily asking how they would get off this “accursed place.” The centurion, ever the soldier, ordered his troops to maintain the prisoners lest any get an idea to make a break for the trees.

“Where do you think we are?” Luke asked.

Paul picked up a smooth rock. “Not in Rome,” he said smiling. “But we’ll get there. It is my destiny.”

“I wonder if there are any cities in this place?” Luke said, scanning the rocky hills. “With food …”

“Hey look! Over there!” came a shout.

The men saw some figures approaching them from the forested area. They were strange-looking men, but did not appear threatening. The centurion ordered his men to stand ready just in case. The men came within 20 feet and stopped. One of the men stepped out and began speaking in a tongue nobody seemed to know. The captain called back to one of his men.

“Ahmose,” he called. “Come here. That sounds like your talk.”

Ahmose, a Tunisian, listened to the men speak again. He smiled.

“Yes, I know that dialect,” he said. “We must be near Africa.” He spent a couple of minutes talking to the man. He explained what had happened, and after a few minutes the man turned to leave. The only word Paul picked out that sounded familiar was the name
Publius
.

“They said this place is called Malta,” Ahmose said. “And their leader is named Publius. He has a villa just over there. We are invited there this evening.”