The Scribe (20 page)

“Paul wasn’t!”

“No, but Paul was Jesus’ chosen instrument to take His message to the Gentiles and to kings as well as the people of Israel. And the Lord confirmed that calling when He spoke to Ananias, and when He revealed it to me.”

“Jesus called you, too, Silas. You are also a prophet of God!”

“He called me to give up that which I held dearer than God, to give it back to the One who gave it in the first place. The Lord spoke to me so that I might encourage Paul and Peter in the work He had given them. Jesus called you, too. He called Urbanus, Patrobas, Diana, Curiatus. He will call thousands of others. But what I wrote was not inspired by the Holy Spirit, my friend. It was nothing more than rambling recollections from a man in need of renewed strength. You and I and all the rest will not write anything that will stand the test of time as will words inspired by the Holy Spirit. God will use men like Paul for that, and Peter, and others.”

Epanetus’s face was still flushed. “The church needs its history, and you’ve just burned it!”

Silas gave a soft laugh. “Epanetus, my friend, I’m just a secretary. I write the words of others, and, at times, help them improve what they must say. I helped Paul because his vision was impaired. I helped Peter because he could not write Greek or Latin.” He shook his head. “Only once did I write a letter, and only because I was commanded to do so. And the Holy Spirit gave me the words. Paul confirmed them.”

“Believers want to hear everything that happened from the time of Jesus’ birth to His ascension.”

“And God will call someone to write it! But I am not a historian, Epanetus.”

God knew who it would be. The Jerusalem council had discussed the matter often. Perhaps it would be Luke, the physician. He had spoken to those who knew Jesus, and he had been constantly writing notes. He had spent days with Mary, the mother of Jesus, while in Ephesus, and with John, the one Jesus treated like His younger brother. Luke had lived and traveled with Paul far longer than Silas had, and he was a learned man, dedicated to truth. Or perhaps John Mark would finish what he had set out to do the first time he had returned to Jerusalem.

Silas nodded confidently. “God will call the right man to record the facts.”

Epanetus watched the scroll blacken and shrink. “All your work in ashes.”

Not all. There were the letters of Paul and Peter. “It is better to burn the whole of my life than allow one word, one sentence, to mislead those who are like infants in Christ. Read the letters I’m leaving with you, Epanetus. Christ is in them. He breathed every word into Paul’s ear and Peter’s.”

“I have no choice now.”

“No. Thank God.” Silas felt impelled to warn him. “You must be careful what you accept as the Word of the Lord, Epanetus. There are many who would create their own version of what happened. Just as I did with that scroll. You must measure whatever you receive against the letters I’m leaving with you. Stories can become legends, and legends myths. Do not be fooled! Jesus Christ is God the Son. He is the way, the truth, and the life. Do not depart from Him.”

Epanetus frowned. “You’re leaving.”

“It’s time.”

“Where will you go?”

“North, perhaps.”

“To Rome? You’ll be dead in a week!”

“I don’t know where God will send me, Epanetus. He hasn’t told me yet. Only that I must go.” He gave a soft laugh. “When a man spends so much time looking back, it’s difficult to know what lies ahead.”

It was late, and both were tired. They said good night to each other, heading to their chambers.

Epanetus stopped in the corridor. “Someone asked me if you ever married. If you had children. In Jerusalem, perhaps.”

“I never had time.”

“Were you ever so inclined?”

“Did I ever love anyone, you mean? No. Were plans ever made for me to have a wife? Yes. My father had a wife in mind for me, a girl half my age and of good family. Her father was almost as rich as mine. My father’s death ended any thought of marriage in my mind. I was too busy holding the inheritance he and my ancestors had accumulated. Besides, she was very young.” He smiled and shrugged. “She married and had children. She and her husband became Christians during Pentecost.”

They had lost everything when the persecution began, and he had bought a house for them in Antioch. There had been times when he had wondered what his life might have been had he married her.

“You look wistful.”

Silas looked up at him. “Perhaps. A little. We all thought Jesus would return in a few weeks or months. A year or two at the most.”

“You miss not having a family.”

“Sometimes. But I could not have done what I did if I’d had a wife and children. And I wouldn’t have missed the years I spent traveling with Paul and working with Timothy.”

“You traveled with Peter. He had a wife.”

“We come as we’re called, Epanetus. Peter had a family when Jesus called him as a disciple. I admit when I traveled with Peter and his wife, I often yearned for what they had. It was not in God’s plan for me.”

“There’s still time.”

Silas thought of Diana and heat flooded his face. He shook his head.

Epanetus gave him an enigmatic smile. “A man is never too old to marry, Silas.”

“Because he
can
doesn’t mean he
should
.”

Epanetus nodded thoughtfully. “She would have to be a special woman, I would imagine.”

“I can think of several who would make
you
a suitable wife.”

Epanetus laughed. He slapped Silas on the back. “Good night, Silas.”

Silas awakened to Curiatus’s voice in the corridor. “But I have to see him!”

“He’s still asleep.” Macombo spoke in a hushed voice.

“The sun is barely up.” Epanetus spoke from farther away. “Why are you here so early?”

“Silas is leaving.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mother told me. She said she dreamed he was on a ship and he was sailing away.”

Silas heard the anguish in the boy’s voice and rose from his bed. “I’m here, Curiatus. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
Yet.
“It was just a dream.” And it had touched some chord inside him and made him tremble.

The boy came to him. “When are you going?”

He looked at Epanetus and Macombo, and down into Curiatus’s distressed eyes. “Soon.”

“How soon?”

“In three days,” Epanetus said and looked sternly at Silas. “No sooner than that.”

“I’m going with you.”

Epanetus stepped forward. “Is that the way you ask—?”

Silas raised his hand. “I don’t know where I’m going, Curiatus.”

“You’ll go where God sends you, and I want to go along! Please, Silas, take me with you! Teach me as you and Paul taught Timothy! Circumcise me if you have to! I want to serve the Lord!”

Silas felt his throat tighten. The thought of going out alone was what had held him back so long, but should he take this boy with him? “Timothy was older than you when he left his mother and grandmother.”

“A year makes no difference.”

“A year made a great deal of difference to John Mark.”

“I’m old enough to know when God is calling me!”

Silas smiled ruefully. “And how can one argue with that?” Could he take the word of a passionate boy?

Curiatus looked crestfallen. “You don’t believe me.”

David had been anointed as king when he was just a boy. Silas put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I need to pray about it, Curiatus. I can’t say one way or the other until I know what God wants.”

“He’s told you to go.”

“Yes, but not where.”

“He sent disciples out two by two. You went with Paul. You went with Peter. Let me go with you!”

“And what about your mother, Curiatus. Who will take care of her?”

“Timothy had a mother. She let him go!”

There was no use arguing with the boy. “If God has called you to come with me, Curiatus, He will confirm it by telling me.” What would Diana say about giving up her son when she might never see him again?

Curiatus stepped closer. “I know God will tell you. I know He will.”

“Can we go back to bed now?” Epanetus spoke drily. “At least until the sun comes up?”

Silas fasted all day, but had no answer. He fasted a second day and prayed.

Epanetus found him sitting in the back of the garden. “Curiatus came again. Do you have an answer for him yet?”

“God’s been silent on the matter.”

“Maybe that means you can decide either way, though there seems no doubt in Curiatus’s mind what God wants him to do.”

“John Mark went out too soon.”

“Timothy was younger and never looked back.”

“I thought everything was settled.”

“Ah yes; just pick up your pack of scrolls and walk away.”

Silas cast him a dark look. Why did the Roman take such perverse pleasure in taunting him?

Epanetus grinned. “I suppose the decision is even harder when you can’t have one without the other.”

Silas glared at him, heart pounding. “That’s the answer, then.” He felt a check in his spirit, but ignored it. “If the boy isn’t ready to leave his mother, I dare not take him with me.”

Epanetus groaned in annoyance. “That’s not what I said. And even if it was, there is a solution! You could—”

Silas stood abruptly. “I don’t know where God will lead me, or whether I will ever come back this way again.” He stepped past Epanetus and headed for the house. “When I leave, I will go alone.” Why did he feel no relief in saying it?

“You’re running scared again!” Epanetus called after him.

Silas kept walking.

Epanetus shouted this time. “Take Diana with you!”

Heat poured into Silas’s face. He turned. “Lower your voice.”

“Ah, that imperious tone. I’ve heard it often from Roman nobles. I wanted you to hear!”

“I can’t take a woman! Her reputation would be ruined and my testimony meaningless!”

Epanetus snorted. “I’m not suggesting you make her your concubine.
Marry her!
”

Silas thought of Peter bound and helpless, crying out to his wife as Nero’s soldiers tortured her,
“Remember the Lord! Remember the Lord!”

Silas’s throat tightened in anguish. “God forgive you for suggesting it!” His voice broke.

Epanetus’s face filled with compassion. “Silas, I’ve seen the way you look at her, and the way she looks—”

“I’d rather kill myself now than see a woman I love tortured and martyred in front of me.”

“I see,” he said slowly. “But I ask you: all the while you’ve fasted and prayed, were you asking God what He wants you to do next, or pleading with Him to agree with what you’ve already decided?”

When Silas told Curiatus of his decision, the boy wept. “I’m sorry.” Silas could barely get the words out for the dryness of his throat. “Maybe in a few years . . .”

“You’ll leave Italy and never return.”

“It’s best if I go alone.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You’re not a man, Curiatus.”

“I’m as much a man as Timothy was when you took him with you.”

“That was different.”

“How was it different?”

Silas begged God for a way to explain, but no words came. Curiatus waited, eyes pleading. Silas spread his hands, unable to say anything more.

The boy searched his face. “You just don’t want me to go with you. That’s it, isn’t it?”