I, Saul (8 page)

Roger had been there when Augie first met Sofia, and also years later when they had fallen in love. Roger had always carried himself as a studied expert, confident without being cocky, passionate about his life's work.

Now he was in trouble, terrified and desperate for Augie's help.

Refreshed by a night of sound sleep, Luke rose early, checked on his patient, then confided in Panthera that he would be gone all day to the port at Ostia, delivering a letter on Paul's behalf.

“Why not just send it by carriage?”

“I've heard delivery is spotty with the fire and the restrictions on the route. I won't rest until I know it's at the port.”

“How is my mother?” the guard said.

“She is stable, and I will leave instructions on how to best tend to her burns. I hope to visit Paul this evening if I don't have trouble getting back.”

Panthera squinted. “Let me send you with a document that will clear the way.”

Luke settled in at the desk in his room to check every word of Paul's letter to Timothy. How thrilling was the testimony to his young protégé in the faith about his present circumstance. Even though the church in Rome had disappeared completely underground under persecution from Nero and many had indeed deserted Paul, still he averred, “I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep what I have committed to Him until that Day.”

How Paul loved to talk about the great and terrible day of the Lord when he would face Christ Himself at the judgment seat.

Luke agonized over the old evangelist's tone at the end, pleading with Timothy to come before winter and to bring Mark, because Paul felt all but Luke had abandoned him.

It was true, sadly. The Christians in Rome, both Jew and Gentile, had been terrorized by the emperor, and now Nero had further stirred the pot with mass arrests and proclamations against what he called the Christian cult. He bragged of having snared Paul, the biggest prize of all. Then came horrific eyewitness accounts that the emperor was using the bodies of Christian martyrs as torches to light garden parties at his palace. Little wonder that when Paul had been arrested at Troas and hauled off to the Roman dungeon, none of his formerly loyal friends admitted even knowing him. His letter mentioned Onesiphorus but not the gift that had come to Luke through Paul. Early in his greeting to Timothy and the others at Ephesus, he'd had Luke write:

How Onesiphorus had encouraged Paul! Somehow this man had found Paul and talked his way into seeing him several days in a row. Naturally it helped that Onesiphorus was a timber, iron, and marble merchant, often accompanying huge shipments from Ephesus to Roman ports. Onesiphorus had a history of extending affection and tangible support to Paul. He not only served as one of the elders of the Ephesian church, but he also personally attended to the evangelist whenever he visited. And Timothy had confided in Paul that much of the monetary support the church had been able to offer was due to Onesiphorus' largesse.

Luke patted the bag deep in his pocket, filled with enough aureus coins to feed Paul for longer than he was expected to live. Rarely had he seen anyone so devoted to Paul as Onesiphorus. His selfless service to the evangelist, not just here, but whenever Paul visited Ephesus, so encouraged Paul. Luke prayed the Lord would bless Onesiphorus for that.

Finally satisfied that the letter would meet Paul's exacting standards, Luke sealed, addressed, and carefully packaged it. Getting to the small port sixteen miles away took the better part of the morning. He found his way to the land route—a narrow but solid road originally built for the Roman military—crowded with caravans weighed down with goods. For a coin he was allowed to let his old legs dangle from the edge of a wagon driven by a slave and his pregnant wife.

When they finally arrived just before noon, Luke said, “I pray the love of the risen Christ be with you on the rest of your journey.”

The woman quickly looked away, but her husband bristled and turned back. “What did you say?”

“You didn't hear my blessing?”

“I heard it. I'm just astonished you would say that aloud when the emperor is putting your kind to death every day.”

“Let me tell you something, friend. I will not deny Christ. I am not ashamed.”

“Then you are a fool. Don't be talking like that in Rome. And don't call me friend. Life is hard enough as it is.”

“My blessing stands.”

“Please!” And with that the man hurried back to his perch on the wagon.

Luke prayed silently for the couple as the wagon slowly made its way down to the docks. He headed past the great warehouses and down a side street to a long, narrow, one-story stone building. The front was occupied by a small office, while light horse-drawn carriages and two-wheeled carts hauled by oxen accessed the back. The
cursus publicus
served Rome by loading the light carriages with government documents and the slower carts with the mass of mail for the general populace.

Luke presented the letter to Timothy with the proper fare and asked whether there was any correspondence for him. “I live in Rome.”

“You know better than that, sir. All the mail for the capital is sorted there. Give us a few days.”

“I don't suppose I could ride back with one of your carriages?”

“Not if I want to keep my station. Old man like you bounces out onto the roadway, and how do I explain it?”

“One of the slow wagons then?”

“We're not a transportation enterprise, sir. Anyway, you could walk back faster. We load those conveyances to their limit. Just stand at the side of the road looking forlorn. You'll find travelers sympathetic.”

As it happened, Luke waited less than an hour in the blistering sun
before he was picked up by a slow-moving camel caravan bearing spices and dried fruits. The aroma alone made the trek pleasant, the tangy and bitter spices mixing with the sweetness of the fruit. Luke had never been comfortable swaying atop a camel, especially as the second rider, but the driver shared his sun shield and eventually suggested that Luke climb down and ride in the wagon next to a plump old woman.

She did not appear to appreciate the company, nor did she seem open to conversation. She dozed for most of the trip, but when she roused, Luke asked if the pleasant aroma was fig cakes. That made her smile. Supporting herself with a thick hand on the side of the jostling cart, she rummaged deep into the inventory and produced a fistful of dried, sticky fruit. She spent several minutes pressing and forming it with her palms. Finally, clearly pleased with her handiwork, she presented it to Luke and then found the ingredients for another. When he reached for a coin, she waved him off and pointed to her mouth, as if suggesting he try it.

Luke silently thanked God for the provision and prayed for protection against whatever might have been on the woman's weathered hands. The fruit seemed to burst into liquid in his mouth. Luke closed his eyes, hoping she could see his rapturous expression. When he opened his eyes, she was beaming.

The caravan left Luke miles from Panthera's house and farther from the prison, and he had missed his midday nap. Wanting to reach Paul no later than sundown, he set off walking toward the
carcer.
Much of the route was uphill, and Luke felt every step.

He arrived at the prison later than he wished, and torches had already been lit at the entrance. The air had cooled, and as Luke stood drawing his cloak tighter, Primus quickly approached, bare arms apparently insulated with enough muscle to protect him.

“Something for you tonight, friend,” Luke said, slipping the man a chunk of cheese.

Primus sniffed it. “One of my favorites, and the perfect addition to my dinner. I feel unwarranted honor.”

“I'm so pleased.”

Primus leaned close and whispered. “You are, aren't you?”

“Pleased? Yes! I want you to enjoy it. I'm grateful ….”

“Indeed, it seems so. Anything else I can do for you, Doctor?”

“There might be something in a few weeks. Inconspicuous passage inside for two other friends. I don't know whether either or both will be able to get here, but if they do ….”

“I shall do my best for you, sir. Just give me fair notice.”

Augie wished he was already aboard the flight to Rome. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Roger.

As he hurried into the hospital that had housed his father for more than a year, he wondered what the difference would be with Dad in a coma, as opposed to the way he'd been for months—virtually unable to speak and certainly not interested in seeing his son. How many evenings had Augie sat with his mother, trying to draw out the old man?

Dr. Knox had been moved to the intensive care unit, so perhaps this was more serious than Augie had thought. What would his mother think of his leaving the country, even for only a few days?

The room in ICU bore the sign: “Edsel Knox, ThD. NO VISITORS.”

That was nothing new. Difficult as it had been for Dr. Knox to make himself understood following his stroke, he made clear he wanted to see no one but his wife. After a year of pleading with him to make exceptions, Marie finally gave up. But neither did she obey his demand to keep Augie away. His heart ached for her now as she emerged, eyes red.

“I've been praying all day,” she said as he gathered her in his arms. “Come see him.”

Machines hummed and hissed, and Augie breathed in the ubiquitous odors of disinfectant and alcohol. There was barely room for a second chair, but Augie pulled one over and sat. Edsel Knox looked much the way he had when he was conscious—perhaps a little more gaunt and drawn. At least now there was a reason he couldn't meet Augie's gaze. If this did portend the end, would Augie be able to grieve a man who had never seemed to do more than tolerate him?