I, Saul (6 page)

“I'm guessing she forgave you.”

“In an instant. But there were still scars, and that destroyed me. She didn't deserve that. He did.”

“So what
was
your punishment?” “It couldn't have been more perfect.”

“Do tell.”

It had not been a request. No, Luke had been issued a macabre order from a man one could not deny. You might counter Paul, argue with him, challenge him, even show disdain for his opinions. But in the end the sheer power of his will prevailed.

And so the physician, drained as he was, had returned to the home of Primus Paternius Panthera. Now he sat in the dark, massaging his own temples and trying in vain to will himself to sleep.

Finally Luke stood and moved to the chunky wooden stool before a table little larger than a sheet of writing parchment. He quietly lit an earthenware lamp the size of his palm. As the flame flickered to life, he bent to review one of the last paragraphs of a letter he and his condemned friend had fashioned that night.

“Luke,” Paul had said, “tell Timothy the others have deserted me and that only you remain.”

“It isn't as if they have deserted you—.”

“Of course they have! Don't make me try to pen this myself.”

Luke had shrugged and called for Panthera, who lay over the hole in the ceiling. Luke whispered that he needed parchment and a quill and ink. “Will that arouse suspicion?”

“I'll tell the others you need it to record what you've found in your visit to the patient.”

Luke spent the next hour scribbling fast as Paul dictated a letter to Timothy. The paragraph in question came just before Paul closed:

There it was again.
Above all the parchments.
Luke and Paul had been in many desperate situations, but Luke had never seen a look like the one in Paul's eyes when he spoke of his memoir. It was one thing for him to face his own execution, and, knowing him, Luke assumed Paul would wish that other church leaders would also risk martyrdom for Christ. But that would have to be their choice. He made clear to Luke that their fates must not be determined by something found in his parchments by the wrong eyes.

But even if Timothy or Mark were able to come to Rome, and
even if they bore the treasured parchments, would they be allowed to see Paul? Perhaps Panthera could make it happen. But who knew how long it would take them to get to Rome? And what was Paul to do for a cloak in the meantime? During the day the dungeon was hot as a kiln, but at night, Luke knew Paul shivered as he tried to sleep.

At dawn the next day the doctor checked on his landlord's mother. The old woman had seemed to rest and was grateful for a fresh application of ointments, but Luke was a long way from predicting a positive outcome.

He sat briefly with his hosts and their children and enjoyed a breakfast of bread, cheese, and nuts. His sleepless night assaulted Luke all morning as he carried his leather satchel to centers for the suffering, assisting military
medicusi, clinicusi,
and
capsariori,
attempting to alleviate pain and make comfortable those beyond repair.

At noon, when much of the rest of the city partook of a light meal before taking long naps, Luke headed straight back to his pallet and slept so soundly that when he awoke he feared he had let too much of the day get away from him. Hurrying back to his work—with the small lamp deep in a pocket—Luke bought a handful of carrots and onions from an open-air market and ate quickly on the street.

As the afternoon faded, he found himself actually looking forward to seeing his friend, even though he would have to again steel himself against the repulsive surroundings. Along the way he found bargains on bread, cucumbers, apples, and figs that had sat in the sun all day.

He and Panthera conspired to avoid each other at the prison. The guard would merely wave him through the gate, and soon enough the others would think nothing of his daily comings and goings.

That early evening Paul was eager for the food Luke brought and quickly began to gorge. The prisoner groaned and slowly slid to one end of the stone bench. “Come, sit.”

Luke joined his friend, the lamp in his lap. “You stink, you know.”

Paul tossed his head back and laughed, putting a hand over his mouth to keep the food in. Then he grinned at Luke. “Do I?” he said, plainly exaggerating. “Every few days they strip me and douse me with two buckets of water, leaving me to dry myself with my own clothes. And yet still I offend? How can this be? Tell me, is it worse up close?”

It warmed Luke to see his friend's smile, which seemed to melt years from the weathered face. He draped an arm around Paul's narrow shoulders and fought tears as the man laid his bald head on Luke's chest. How often he'd seen Paul's glee over the years, after a day of arduous travel, contentious meetings, threats, abuse. Paul had a fierce look too, a resolve that shone in his eyes. And yet somehow, as they shared a room lent by some local believer—not infrequently a stall in someone's barn—Luke would catch Paul's beatific smile in the moonlight as he prayed before drifting off.

Luke wished he himself could find such contentment in his work, or at least in his hope for the future. God knew Paul had little to be smiling about. But the same compassion Luke had always felt for the afflicted also sobered him. Oh, he shared Paul's ultimate hope. But he feared his own sense of satisfaction would manifest itself only in paradise. There he could smile.

Here Paul sat in humiliation and despair, facing circumstances that would break a lesser man. Yet he longed to preach. And he could be amused. Luke found it beyond comprehension.

“Do you have more fruit?”

“An apple, but you must pace yourself, friend.”

“When have I ever done that? This is my only real meal of the day. Let me enjoy it.”

Luke stood and moved away, fetching the apple from his pocket and
tossing it to Paul. He caught it deftly in one hand and took a tentative bite, Luke noticing that he was favoring fragile teeth. Paul sniffed the fruit. “It already bears the aroma of this place.”

“Nonsense,” Luke said. “I can smell its sweetness from here.”

Paul sighed. “I don't know what I'd do without you. Until you arrived, I feared I would die of hunger. If it weren't for you and Onesiphorus ….”

“I'm looking for a cloak for you.”

“Hmm? Oh, even if Timothy and Mark come—or if they only send my things—I'll not wear my cloak. I'll use it only for sleeping and protect its hem from the floor, keep it dry. The mere thought of it cheers me.”

“And yet you want those dangerous parchments above all. What will you do with those? Use them as a pillow?”

Paul devoured the apple—core, seeds, stem, and all. He pretended to pat his belly, but even in the low light Luke could see that there was scant to pat. “That feast will allow me to sleep tonight.”

“The parchments, Paul. Aren't they better off in Troas, away from the eyes of the Empire? What do you want with them?”

“I am never hungrier than just before you arrive. It's as if my belly knows you're com—.”

“Paul! You offend by ignoring me! You can't have me write Timothy, requesting your belongings and putting such stress on the parchments, without expecting me to ask why.”

“You make me grateful I never married.”

“Grateful? I know better than that. You told me so yourself.”

“Mm. But would a wife nag as much as you do?”

“Not for long if you treated her with as much disdain as you do your friend.”

“I have anything but disdain for you, Luke.”

“Prove it.”

Another sigh. “You will not leave it alone, though I clearly don't wish to discuss it.”

“In the letter I'm to send to Timothy, you were clear the parchments were most important to you.”

Paul sighed. “When the parchments arrive, you will need to assist me with them.”

“I am to read to you?”

“You are to help me write.”

“You say they contain your memoir and that you name names?”

Paul nodded. “It's my story. For years, as I have had occasion, I have chronicled my experiences. I find it most encouraging to peruse these, to remind myself from whence I came and also of the Lord's faithfulness.”

“How is it that I have been unaware of this?”

“Keeping it from you was no small task. I stole private moments, when my eyes were stronger, my pen steadier. I plan to share them with you now only because I am unable to complete them myself. They are for only me, my family, and the brethren. But I will not rest until they are back under my control.”

“Surely you can't risk having them here in the prison, so close to the authorities.”

“True. I must entrust them to you when we are not working on them.”

“And where am I to store them?”

“I cannot worry about that. I trust you. You know the danger of their falling into the wrong hands. But I do want them completed. And the account of my end can be written only by you.”

Fatigue attacked Luke again. He stood in the horrific enclosure, the dim, flickering lamp illuminating the pathetic figure on the stone bench. “You know I will do anything you ask, Paul. But can you put yourself in
my place? Can you imagine the pain of describing your demise?”

“Luke! We will work on it together in advance! It will be an account of the first step of my journey to where I have always longed to go. You need not emphasize the details. Everyone knows how we Romans execute our evildoers. Are you praying I will be spared? Would you have me exist like this, or to be present with my Lord?”

“I have learned not to argue with you.”

“And yet you continue!” Paul said, smiling. “Ah, I enjoy the sport. Arguing with you is far better than a pleasant conversation with anyone else.”

Luke jumped at a loud voice from above. “Time to go, Doctor!”

“Have I at least made you curious about my parchments?” Paul said.

“As much as you, I now long to see them above all.”

Paul laughed. “Enough to cause you to get my letter to Timothy on its way with dispatch?”

“I am not dawdling, friend. You always want your letters just so.”

“Indeed. But the sooner it gets to Timothy, the sooner we will see him. Of all the things I want here, the parchments and my friends are paramount. But need I say it again? You must—.”

“No, you need not. It is my burden and I feel the weight of it. Keeping you alive so you may die is an awful obligation.”

“So that I may die in a manner befitting Christ, Luke. You should long for that as much as I do.”

Luke doused the light as Paul stood and whispered urgently, “Come to me and let me pray.”

The physician approached him gingerly in the pitch dark and felt Paul gather him in. Despite the stench, what a privilege to pray with this man! “Father,” Paul began, “I pray in the matchless name of Your Son and my Savior, Jesus the Christ. I praise You that I have been appointed
for the defense of the gospel, and I rejoice in the preaching of Christ and Him crucified.You know it is my earnest expectation and my hope that in nothing I shall be ashamed, but with all boldness, as always, so now also Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death. And now I thank You for my dear brother and pray You will grant him health and strength and courage and power. And may the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with him until we meet again.”