Empire's End (28 page)

I nodded blankly as he climbed into the seat between Barnabas and me, and Peter and James each put a foot inside the back wheels and hung onto the roof as Barnabas started off again. The horse labored with the weight of five men.

The man between us pulled from deep in a pocket of his mantle a leather pouch with a drawstring, teased it open, and began counting out coins. “Do you have a place to carry these, Paul?” he called out over the din of the rattling carriage.

I opened my bag.

“This will pay your fare to Antipatris, one night's lodging there, a ride to Caesarea, a few nights' lodging there in case there's not a ship to Tarsus for a few days. Then—”

“Tarsus? That's my hometown!”

“We know. Your fare is here, too, plus enough to cover a few days of uncertainty. Then you will have to depend on the believers there, or family, or find work. Any questions?”

Any questions?

This was happening too fast. I didn't even know this man, and God had clearly used him to save me from the Hellenists. And I was going—home. To my family for the first time in nearly four years.

Had there been no change in my circumstances since the last time I'd seen Father and Mother, my sister Shoshanna, and her husband and their four little ones, they would be angry with me just for the lack of contact. But if they knew one speck of what had become of me, I expected they had wholly disowned me.

“May I know your name, sir?”

“It's not important. I am one of the brethren here. Any questions about Tarsus?”

“What am I to do there?”

“That is a question for Peter.”

I craned my neck and looked out at the fisherman, dangling off the back of the rig, the hem of his tunic in his hand to keep it from getting caught in the wheel. “We'll talk when we stop!” he called out.

That came twenty minutes later when Barnabas had driven us far outside Jerusalem to the start of the descent that led to the port city. Everyone clambered out or off and we stood at the side of the trade route. Peter took charge and told us to watch for some transport that could get me to Antipatris, the city on the border between Samaria and Judea. Most
providential to me, it was also the site of a Roman military operation. But then Caesarea was the headquarters of Roman rule and home to the Roman Tenth Legion.

There had to be a way I could find information about Taryn from one of those two places.

Peter said, “We are going to bless you and pray for you and wish you Godspeed. Then I have some news for you. Finally, after I have found you a ride and have negotiated a price, the rest of us will return to Jerusalem and commend you to the remainder of the brethren, in the event our paths cross again someday.”

“News?”

“All things in order,” he said.

He and James and Barnabas and the unnamed brother encircled and laid hands on me and Peter raised his face toward heaven. “Father, bless our friend and your servant with safety, with health, with courage, and with his every need in Christ Jesus. Give him Your words to say to people You want to hear them, and may his path be straight and smooth. Amen.”

The others added their amens, and I said, “Thank you all. Now I need to know what I am to do in Tarsus.”

Peter said, “Paul, when the Lord sent you to Jerusalem, I wasn't sure I even wanted to meet with you. I didn't know if I could trust you or expose my friends to the dangers you posed. When you proved yourself worthy, you put yourself under my authority. I did not ask for that, but I accepted it as from the Lord. But now that you are leaving, you are also leaving my authority. We believe God would have us send you away with the provisions we have offered, but beyond that, you are again under His direction.”

“But you laughed at me, ridiculed me when I suggested I go alone.
And now you're sending me by myself—”

“Hear me, Paul.
I'm
not sending you anywhere. I do not feel I am shirking my responsibility when I say this is God's doing. He called you. He taught you. He trained you. He told you to come here for fifteen days, and you did. All I am doing is turning you back over to Him. What are you to do in Tarsus? Whatever He tells you to do.”

I hung my head and nodded. I confess I wanted it to be easier, or at least clearer. But I could not argue with Peter's logic. And the Lord had been sufficient up to now. I knew He would lead me. “You said you had news.”

“Yes, Paul. Nicodemus has been murdered.”

Barnabas steadied me as my knees nearly gave out. “How? Where? By whom?”

“Between the Temple and his home. It was made to appear to be a band of robbers. He was a wealthy man, as you know, but it was also known he never carried great amounts of cash. Frankly, we have feared this for a long time. The council has hated him since some learned he'd had a clandestine meeting with Jesus without Sanhedrin approval.”

“Everywhere I go I bring such things about,” I whispered.

“If showing yourself at the Temple Mount instigated this,” James said, “I share as much of the blame as you. I urged you to go.”

“Neither of you is the cause,” Peter said. “It was inevitable. Nicodemus was a courageous man to have returned to the Sanhedrin after the crucifixion.”

“You were next, Paul,” Barnabas said.

“Why do we pose such a threat?”

It was a question without an answer.

From the horizon above us a slow-moving cart shambled into view.
Peter flagged down the driver, who proved to be transporting military messages and equipment to both locations I needed to reach. He negotiated a price for which he would take me to the Plain of Sharon, where Antipatris lay, and also on to Caesarea the next day. Moments later, after a tearful farewell, I climbed next to the driver and found myself surprisingly weary. Grief has a way of causing that.

“We won't pull in till around dawn,” the man said, “but I'm grateful for the company because night is not the safest time to travel. But I'm not a talker, in case you're wondering.”

“Are you a listener?”

“Not a willing one.”

“But you've been paid, so for almost forty miles you don't have much choice, do you?”

“No, I don't suppose I do.”

“Let me tell you about a carpenter from Nazareth who was crucified and came back from the dead.”

“Back from the dead? This supposed to be a true story?

“Actually it is.”

“You know this man?”

“Yes, I do. I talked to Him today.”

“And you believe he was really dead and now he's alive?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I'm not saying I'll believe it, but I'll listen.”

I set my bag behind me. “I was working for the vice chief justice of the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem a few years ago when we began hearing about a man, a carpenter from Nazareth, who was becoming popular among the people. It wasn't just because of what He was saying, although it was interesting and often paradoxical—we'd dealt with that kind of
thing before—but this one was performing signs and wonders, even miracles.”

“And he wasn't a holy man?”

“That was the thing. Sometimes He claimed to be. But people kept saying, ‘Isn't this the carpenter's son from Nazareth? Don't we know Him? Who does He think He is?'”

ANTIPATRIS

T
HE
L
ORD HAD HARD
lessons to teach me, and not all came in threats on my life, being chased out of cities, or even feeling I had been the cause of the deaths of others, including the people at Yanbu and then Nicodemus. I yearned to be victorious for Christ, a conqueror—more than a conqueror. Not just because I had always been a competitor; I believe my heart was pure in this. As a bondservant of Jesus I longed for Him to instill within me the conviction that it was not I who lived, but Christ, so that anytime I proclaimed His truth, His gospel, His message, His story, no one could dispute or deny or reject it.

Yet that is just what this courier driver did! I told the story of Jesus and my own testimony to show how the risen Christ could redeem the darkest of hearts, could bring life from death. It wasn't as if the man did not find me credible. He didn't even seem to suspect an ulterior motive.
He acknowledged I was not trying to sell him anything. It was simply that at the end of it all, when I explained to him the way of salvation—that if he believed on the Lord Jesus Christ he would be saved from his sins and become a new creation—he was not interested!

How could this be? I begged, I pleaded, I argued, I cajoled, I wept, I explained again! Finally I realized I had gone too far, had inserted myself too wholly in the equation, told him he should forget about me, about my personality, my character, my insistence. But he said that wasn't it at all.

He was even smiling in the light of dawn when he said, “I believe you have found something, someone, who completes your life, friend. It works for you. I'm happy for you. Good for you, and I say it again, good for you.”

“You don't want to be saved?”

“No, thank you. But I am grateful to you for telling me about this. All about it. About this man. Very interesting. Very inspirational. Good for you.”

“But it's for you too! It's for everyone.”

“So you've said. But no, it's not. It's not for me.”

At last he convinced me. To go any further would offend him. For the last hour of the ride I tried to think of anything more I could say. Finally I thanked him for listening and asked if I could pose just one more question. He sighed and nodded.

“What would it take to persuade you that what I spoke to you of
is
for you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose if I were to have the experience you did, I would have little choice, wouldn't I? Just like you?”

“But sir, no one had told me about Jesus the way I have told you about Him. It's not a matter of—”

He held up a hand. “All due respect, my friend, but you have talked
about this all night, and you just wanted to ask one more question. I have grown weary of it and am through talking about it, if you don't mind. Now I'll thank you just to go with me to where we lodge, and if you can't agree to abandon this subject for the next leg of the trip, I'll be happy to refund that portion of your fare and ask you to make other arrangements.”

“Forgive me. I'm sorry.”

Weary as I was, I found sleep elusive. I'm not one who surrenders easily, but I sensed the Lord teaching me that not all my efforts, regardless how well meaning, would prove successful. It was exasperating, sour medicine, but I determined not to let it impede my efforts. My assignment was clear. Success was not the goal; obedience was.

As I lay staring at the ceiling, I also began crafting a plan for the next day. In the event, unlikely though it might be, that I might be known by sight to any of the Roman military personnel, I decided to make my first order of business changing my appearance. With so many men stationed in two locations so close together, there had to be a tonsorial service somewhere—if not here, certainly at Caesarea.

Late in the morning the driver informed me that his courier work for the relay station required about two hours before slaves would load cargo onto his wagon and he would be ready to leave for the port at Caesarea. That gave me time to explore and ask questions as a curious Roman citizen on his way back to his homeland. That's when I discovered that yes, all manner of services were provided for the troops in Caesarea—including barbers—and also that many generals were headquartered there.

Was it possible I would get my first clue to where my almost-family might be, before setting sail to reunite with my parents, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, and nieces after so many years? I longed to see them but had no idea whether they had an inkling of what had become of me.
Certainly I would have heard by now if anything had happened to either of my parents. Shoshanna surely would have let me know before I fled to Arabia—unless she heard I had become a follower of Jesus. Had that reached as far as Tarsus, Taryn and Corydon might be the closest thing to a family I had left in the world.

Waiting has never been my strength, and I resorted to what I knew would be my practice during the long voyage home: I prayed. I prayed for my driver. I prayed for my family—both my families. I prayed for the brethren in Jerusalem, for Barnabas' aunt and cousin, for Nicodemus' family, and for Gamaliel.

What I really wanted was to be preaching. If not all would come to a saving knowledge of the Savior, I would preach to as many as would listen so that any who heard me might come. I prayed for smooth sailing so I could get to Tarsus soon enough to learn what God had for me there. Peter had taught me that when nothing had been arranged, I could preach on street corners or in any public place. People would gather just to see who the crazy man was who had started shouting.

Pray for your enemies
.

Thank You, Lord
.

I prayed for Nathanael, for the Sanhedrin, even for the high priest.

Pray for your enemies
.

I prayed for them again and added the Hellenists and the Roman troops who attacked Yanbu, even for General Balbus.

Pray for your enemy
.

Whom am I neglecting, Lord?

Pray for your enemy
.

I pondered. Aah, yes.
Thank You, Jesus
. I prayed for Nadav.

Pray for your enemy again
.

I prayed for Nadav again.

And again
.

I did.

And again
.

I am Your servant, Lord. Your will is my command. How many times?

As oft as I bring him to mind
.

As You will, Master
. Strangely, this did not become a chore, not monotonous. Praying for Nadav seemed in some way a privilege. And the Lord continued bringing him to mind until the courier found me.