I, Saul, Page 2

  “I wish.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Dr. Knox, we have seen an alarming downturn in admissions, and the administration is predicting a fall enrollment that puts us at less than breakeven, even with massive budget cuts. We’re all being asked to accept twenty percent reductions in pay.”

  Augie slumped. “I was hoping to get married this fall, Les. I can barely afford the payments on my little house as it is.”

  “This is across the board, Dr. Knox. The president, the deans, the chairs, all of us. Some departments are actually losing personnel. Maintenance will be cut in half, and we’ll all be expected to help out.”

  Arlington had been staggering along on a shoestring for decades, but this was dire. “Tell me the truth, Dr. Moore. Is this the beginning of the end? Should I entertain the offers I’ve gotten from Dallas over the years?”

  “Oh, no! The trustees wish us to weather this storm, redouble our efforts to market our distinctives, and then more than make up for the pay cuts as soon as we’re able. Besides, the way your father bad-mouthed Dallas and Southwestern his whole career, you wouldn’t dream of insulting him by going to either, would you?”

  “He bad-mouthed everything and everybody, Les.You know that.”

  “Not a pleasant man. No offense.”

  Augie shrugged. “You worked for him. I lived with him.”

  “Do you know, I have heard not one word from your father since the day I was asked to temporarily assume his role? No counsel, no guidelines, no encouragement, nothing. I assumed he was angry that you had not been appointed—.”

  That made Augie laugh. “He still sees me as a high school kid! Forget all my degrees. Anyway, I wouldn’t want his job, or yours. It’s not me.”

  “How well I know. I mean, I’m just saying, you’re not the typical prof, let alone department chair.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  Augie couldn’t win. Despite having been at the top of his classes in college and seminary, his having been a high school jock and continuing to shoot hoops, play touch football, and follow pro sports made him an outsider among real academics. Too many times he had been asked if he was merely a seminary prof because that was what his father wanted for him.

  Dr. Moore slid the new employment agreement across the desk.

  “Sorry, Les, but this one I’m going to have to think and pray about.”

  The interim chair seemed to freeze. “Don’t take too long. If they aren’t sure they can count on you for the fall, they’ll want to consider the many out-of-work professors who would be thrilled, in the current economy, to accept.”

  “Yeah, that would help. Stock the faculty with young assistant pastors.”

  “May I hear from you by the end of the day?”

  “Probably not, but you’ll be the first to know what I decide.”

  Back in his own office, Augie popped the chip out of his cell phone and put it in a separate pocket. He called his mother from his desk phone to assure her he would see her at the hospital late in the afternoon, then called Biff to tell him he would try to stop by DTS on his way.

  “What’s the big emergency?” Biff said.

  “Roger Michaels has himself in some kind of trouble.”

  “Tell me when you get here.”

  During his 11:00 a.m. final Augie was summoned to the administrative offices for an emergency call. On the way he stopped by to see if Les would stand in for him again, but his office was dark. The final would just have to be unsupervised for a few minutes.

  “Do you know who’s calling?” he said to the girl who had fetched him. If it was his mother …

  “Someone from Greece.”

  He finally reached the phone and discovered it was Sofia. “Thought you wanted me to call later, babe.You all right?”

  “Roger is frantic to reach you.”

  “I know. He—.”

  “He gave me a new number and needs you to call right now, but not from your cell.” She read it to him.

  “Any idea what’s going on, Sof?” Augie said as he scribbled. “This is not like him.”

  “No idea, but, Augie, he sounded petrified.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him either.”

  “You can tell me what it’s about later, but you’d better call him right away.”

  Augie rushed to his office and dialed the number in Rome. It rang six times before Roger picked up. “Augie?”

  “Yes! What’s—.”

  “Listen carefully. I’ve got just seconds. I need you in Rome as soon as you can get here.”

  “Rog, what’s happening? This is the absolute worst time for me to—.”

  “Give Sofia your new cell number and text me your ETA. I’ll give you a new number where you can call me from Fiumicino as soon as you get in.”

  “I don’t know when I could get there, Rog. I’ve got—.”

  “Augie! You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t life or death.”

  2

  “Above all …”

  FIRST-CENTURY ROME

  “You must not let me die before my execution.”

  Memories of that ghastly exhortation from his most beloved friend robbed the elderly physician of sleep. He rolled delicately to his side to keep the wooden pallet from squeaking and waking the family who had risked everything to take him in. Hidden in a tiny chamber on the second floor of their humble, crowded house, he found his breathing rhythmic and deep.

  Exhausted from the voyage and the nearly four-day race to the besieged capital, not to mention the most horrific evening of his years as a doctor, he knew there would be no rest this stifling night.

  Eyes wide open in the darkness, Luke pulled aside the thin, scratchy blanket and sat up, swinging his feet onto the floor. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he heard the skimpy curtain billow behind him. The humid wind carried acrid smoke smelling of charred wood. He could still hear screams and shouts from blocks away in the wee hours.

  Luke’s desperate chase across the Mediterranean in search of his lifelong friend—arrested in Troas and hauled off to Rome for sentencing (yet again)—had brought him to the strangely putrid city of Puteoli early in the morning three days previous. Frantic to find land passage to Rome 170 miles to the northwest, Luke had barely begun inquiring of traveling merchants and caravans when he heard the awful news.

  Rome was ablaze.

  The port was alive with rumor and gossip, but authorities made it clear that only urgently needed supplies and emergency personnel would be allowed on the long stone road to the capital. Word was that the city-wide conflagration had erupted just a few days before, during the hottest night of the year. Already called Nero’s Fire, the inferno had raged through the great seat of the Roman Empire, obliterating three of the fourteen districts and decimating seven more.

  Refugees from the city poured into Puteoli, lugging what little they could carry and telling blank-eyed stories of the devastation and of streets lined with stacks of countless blackened bodies pulled from the rubble. So far, all efforts to fight the fire had failed, and it continued to ravage the city.

  As a slave long ago freed from Syrian Antioch and now a Roman citizen, Luke had eluded the Empire’s seizure of Christians, the cult on which the emperor blamed the arson. Many refugees—and not just Christians— claimed Nero was deflecting suspicion from himself. Theories abounded as to why the narcissistic young ruler would torch his own realm, the most popular being that he merely wanted to start over and rebuild Rome to his liking. How else to explain bands of rampaging arsonists torching strategic neighborhoods all over the city at the same time?

  What of the prisons? As it was, Luke’s friend had been condemned to beheading, but could he already be gone in an even more excruciating manner? No one seemed to know, and Luke wasn’t sure which bleak dungeon held the man anyway.

  Luke laboriously swung his heavy sack onto a bony shoulder and hurried to the centurions blocking the road, allowing through only a fraction of those clamoring to
get to Rome. “I am a Roman citizen and a physician!” he called out. “I have surgical tools and medicines!”

  “Prove it!” a guard said, and Luke set the sack down and began to open it. “No! Your citizenship! Prove that!”

  Luke dug deep into a specially sewn pocket and presented his professio, two small, hinged wooden diptychs bearing his inscribed Roman name (Lucanus) and identification. The guard studied it and pointed him to a two-wheeled contrivance pulled by two horses, with a place for a driver, four passengers, and a small cargo hold. “They’re leaving right now, old man! Go!”

  Luke rushed to the carriage, where the others helped him situate his bag and pulled him aboard. The driver whipped the horses and they hurtled over the stone pavement, bouncing and jostling for hours. They stopped only at government outposts to change horses, eat, relieve themselves, and have the driver slather the axles with animal fat.

  Late each night they stayed in a shabby inn and were off again before dawn, pulling into Rome around noon three days later. Spent and aching, Luke could barely take his eyes off the orange-and-black whirlwinds of flame and smoke roiling over the whole of the capital. A citizen breathlessly told the driver, “We thought it had ended! Six days of this, and then it quit. But the monster reignited last night and now it’s worse than ever.”

  When Luke tried to pay, the driver said, “You’re here on behalf of the Empire, Doctor. May the gods be with you.”

  As soon as Luke identified himself to local authorities, he was pressed into service.The vigiles, who served Rome as both firefighters and watchmen of the night—many of whom had lost coworkers in the catastrophe—directed him to a makeshift ward in an alley just four blocks from the inferno and assigned him the worst cases. Everywhere needy victims lay or staggered about.

  The tragedy had the military scrambling to maintain pax Romana, but the peace of Rome was turning to rubble by the moment. As day turned to night and Luke plodded on, he asked every man in uniform where he might find a friend sentenced to prison. At long last, about an hour before midnight, a massive man in uniform overheard him. “Who are you asking after, Doctor?”

  When Luke told him, “Paul of Tarsus,” the Roman narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. “Follow me to the alley.”

  In the darkness with only the shadows of flames dancing on the walls, the man asked to see his professio, then shook Luke’s hand and introduced himself as Primus Paternius Panthera, gate guard at the dungeon. “What do you want with our most notorious prisoner? Are you one of them, as he is?”

  Luke hesitated. This could mean the end of his freedom. “I have never denied my loyalties, and I won’t begin now. Yes, he is my friend.”

  “You would be wise not to make that known.”

  “I just did, and to someone able to make me suffer for it.”

  “I admire your forthrightness, Lucanus. But you must know your friend is no longer allowed visitors. One was allowed in for several days some weeks ago, but ….”

  “I know nothing of Paul since his midnight arrest in Troas. He was hauled to a ship with only the clothes on his back. The last time he was imprisoned in Rome, he was treated with respect, and—.”

  “Do not mistake that sentence for this one, Doctor. Then he was bound but allowed much freedom, including many visitors. This time he sits chained in the main dungeon, in utter darkness day and night. And the ones who visited him last time appear to have abandoned him.”

  “So it is hopeless to think I would be allowed—.”

  “Nothing is hopeless, sir. Some things can be accommodated with careful thinking.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Only that I may have a proposition for you.”

  “I have no means—.”

  “I’m not talking about that, Doctor. Where are you staying?” “Nowhere yet. I have been busy since I arrived.”

  “You look like you could use a good meal and a bed.”

  “I could indeed.”

  “And you wish to see your friend …” Luke nodded. What was the man trying to say?

  “Lucanus, my mother was severely burned in the fire. Two other doctors say she is beyond hope and that the best I can do for her is to take her to my home and let her die there. My wife and children are with her now, but of course all employees of the Empire remain on duty. Is there anything you can do for her?”

  “I would have to see her.”

  “I would reward any consideration.”

  “I will do what I can.”

  The guard went with Luke to fetch his belongings, then they trudged through the streets, often changing course to avoid the worst of the fire. Luke prayed silently that God would somehow spare the man’s mother. Whatever it took for Luke to gain favor with Primus Paternius Panthera had to be to Paul’s benefit.

  In the tiny home Luke found the delirious elderly woman burned over more than half her body, including her face and neck. He immediately slathered her with ointments and creams, knowing these would bring only minor relief.

  “Do you mind if I pray for her?” he said.

  “I have quit praying,” Panthera said. “I don’t know that I even believe in the gods anymore.”

  “I would pray to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” Luke said.

  “I don’t suppose it could hurt.”

  Luke knelt beside the woman’s bed and lifted his face. “God, the Father of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I pray Your hand of healing on this woman. Bless her with Your presence and Your touch. I ask this in the name of Your Son. Amen.”

  The woman immediately quieted and fell asleep. Her face lost its grimace, and she lay so still and quiet that Luke leaned in and listened to be sure she was still alive.

  “Is she all right, Lucanus?” the guard said as his wife tiptoed in behind him.

  “This is the first time she’s been quiet for hours,” his wife said. “The children have been weeping and covering their ears.”

  “She will live?” Panthera said.

  “I cannot promise. But we have hope. Rest is the best thing for her now. And I will do everything I can.”

  The guard whispered to his wife, she nodded, and he led Luke upstairs to the minute chamber where he would sleep. “I am grateful,” Luke said. “But does this not endanger you?”

  “To have taken in a physician for my ailing mother? I don’t see how, unless someone finds out who you are. Now, my wife is cooking you a meal. Then I can take you to see your friend this very night.”

  Luke nearly wept with gratitude. He ate ravenously, asked if he could pocket some leftovers for Paul, then ventured out again with Panthera. They ascended the northeastern slope of Capitoline Hill—eerily lit by the fire in the distance—toward the carcer. “That is one bleak-looking building, sir.”

  Panthera nodded. “The largest and most desolate prison in the city.”

  Luke said silently, Lord, grant me strength and peace so that I may encourage Paul. The overnight gate guard looked puzzled but nodded to Panthera as he hurried past with Luke in tow and whispered, “A physician.” Inside, the guard grabbed a torch from the wall and took Luke past the cells of commoners, where he was assaulted with smells not even the convicted should have to endure. Most prisoners lay moaning in their own filth, and Luke squinted through the flicker of the torch at their cavernous eyes and sunken cheeks.

  “Have these men eaten?”

  Panthera shrugged. “Twice a day a bowl of thin gruel, about half what is fed to slaves. They’re not allowed visitors, let alone care.”

  Luke’s heart ached for these wretched men, but when he hesitated at a pitiful cry, Panthera gently elbowed him along. In the front corner of the last crowded cell, three bodies lay atop one another, awaiting removal. Panthera whispered that they had been there four days.

  By the time Luke reached a landing that bore a man-sized hole in the floor, his heart had quickened and his breath came short. He had to fight to keep the stink from nauseating him.

  Guards encircling th
e hole reminded Panthera that the prisoner below was not allowed visitors. “He’s allowed a visit from a doctor once a day,” Primus said. “You know the emperor wants this one healthy enough to execute as a prime example.”

  Panthera demonstrated to Luke how to lower himself into the dungeon. “When the prisoner was put in here, he was unable to grab the lip in time to break his fall. He twisted an ankle when he hit the stone floor.”

  “How far down is it?”

  “Just six feet, but in the darkness he had no idea.” Panthera turned to one of the other guards. “Once I’m down, hand me this torch.”

  “He’s not allowed light either. You know that.”

  “Is the physician to examine him in darkness? Just do what I say!”

  Panthera bent at the waist and laid both palms on the rim of the far edge of the hole. He supported himself on his hands as he hopped into the opening and dangled until his feet reached the floor. Luke did the same, but not as nimbly, and his cloak tangled as he descended.

  He found Paul sleeping on a small rock bench, tethered to the wall by his ankle. The floor was cold and damp, and the torch illuminated the horrid chamber, consisting of two-foot-square tufa limestone block walls, oozing an oily slime. The ceiling hung less than a foot above Luke’s head.

  His beloved friend lay on his side facing the wall, and Luke nodded to the guard to hold the torch so he could examine the ankle where the ridiculously heavy manacle was attached to a chain made of massive links, each wider than Paul’s foot. Luke hefted the four-foot iron leash and guessed the contraption weighed at least fifteen pounds. The ankle remained swollen, likely from lack of exercise and the weight of the apparatus. Perspiration had caused the manacle to rust, which had worn Paul’s skin raw. Luke fished out an ointment he spread on the affected spot, which roused the prisoner.

  “My friend,” Paul rasped. “You have come. Bless you.”

  Luke clasped Paul’s hand, pressing their palms together and interlocking their thumbs so he could help Paul sit up. Panthera settled the torch into a holder on the wall that had apparently rarely been used. “I’ll give you some time,” the big man said, reaching to grasp the lip of the hole and deftly pulling himself up.