Before Winter: Chapter 30

Thirty: Words and Actions

“What…” Timothy had no time to say more than the single word before the breath was knocked out of him again as the back of his head made contact with the wood of the mast, against which Alexander pressed him. Tears sprang into his eyes at the pain, much to his chagrin. Refusing to blink, he kept staring at Alexander. The man’s glaring eyes were difficult to avoid, in fact, since they were only a few inches from his face. Still, he had not said a word as he stood there, breathing hard between clenched teeth.

What was Alexander doing here? How did he get on this ship? He tried to voice the question, but his voice trembled, and all that came out was, “What...how?” It was a mere squeak, and Timothy was disgusted with himself. He opened his mouth to ask again, willing his tongue to cooperate, but Alexander was already speaking, the words pouring out in a low hissing tone, with all the pent-up frustration of the last five years.

“You know I gave up everything. Everything. My livelihood, my family, the respect of my friends. Forsake everything and follow Christ. That’s what you Christians said, and then as soon as I disagreed with you, you threw me out of the church.”

“But you were teaching falsehood!” Timothy cried.

“Who said so?” Alexander demanded. “You did! Why should you be the only one who knows? I heard Paul preach before you.”

“Let…GO of me.” Timothy grunted, trying to pry Alexander’s fingers apart. “What are you doing on this ship, anyway?” He had his voice under control now, though he was annoyed by the ridiculous situation, and his own initial reaction. He had no reason to fear the coppersmith, he told himself.

“I signed on as an extra hand when the ship stopped for water yesterday.” The answer was sullen, but Alexander did step back a little, and loosed his grip on Timothy.

“I thought you went to Philippi, after throwing us out of Troas.” Timothy tried to glare at Alexander as he threw the accusation at him, but he had to tilt his chin up to look in his eyes, and the coppersmith was not intimidated.

Frowning, he ignored the remark. “I have to see Paul, and talk to him. You continually refuse to listen to me, and you even turned Mark against me. I wish those thugs in Troas had killed you, not just thrown you out. They would have, too, if I’d told them to do it.”

“They came close enough.” Timothy’s mouth hardened into a line. “Why did you act that way in Troas? It makes no sense!” He asked aloud the question that he had turned over in his mind many times, but he hardly expected Alexander to answer.  

“It was your own fault. I meant to go with you to Rome, but I saw on board the ship from Cyprus that you would only set him against me too, so I needed to delay you at Troas, get ahead of you, tell my story to Paul first.” The wind, which had died down for a few minutes, rose again in a howl around them, and Alexander raised his voice to a shout to be heard above it.

“But the letters the believers received, warning them against us?”

“I wrote them on board the ship. It was a simple matter to send them into the harbor on a boat, while we waited for the tide. Sailors will do any task if you pay them well enough. But then there was no ship leaving the harbor for Rome, and while I waited, you got in contact with the Christians after all.”  

“And then we got beat up?” Timothy pressed.

“Certain portions of the population were already upset at the Christians, waiting for an opportunity to harass them. A hint was all they needed.” Alexander sounded half proud, half ashamed of what he had done.

“If you were trying to reach Paul before us, then why not take the ship we had reserved passage on, and go straight to Rome from Troas?” Timothy frowned in confusion.

“The captain refused to take me without you two, since you were the ones who paid the fare. He accused me of theft, so I had to find a different way to Rome.”

“But why did you tell that sailor you were going to Philippi?” Timothy asked.

“What, were you spying on me? Unlike you, I have to travel on my own resources.” Alexander growled. “As it turned out, the only ship that needed an extra hand was sailing to the southern coast of Greece.”

“Fine.” Timothy took a deep breath. At least the man was no longer shaking him back and forth by the tunic. He seemed to have calmed down as they talked. The altercation had absorbed his attention, almost making him forget the storm that still raged around them, but now he raised a hand to wipe away the water that was running down his face, and realized that the rain had let up a little.

He was hesitating, unsure what to say, and considered trying to move away, or asking Alexander if he knew where the captain was.

“So you will take me to Paul?” Alexander asked. His tone changed from surly to pleading, an old trick of his, to persuade people.

“What?” Timothy’s attention was jerked back. “No. Out of the question.” He shook his head emphatically.

“There is nothing else I can say then.” Alexander turned away, his shoulders slumped in resignation, stretching out one hand to balance himself as the ship listed to one side.

Relaxing, Timothy let his head drop. His neck was sore from tilting back for so long, and he reached up to rub it. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still blowing hard.

Without warning, someone slammed into him, knocking him down flat. Both arms were twisted behind his back, held in a grip of iron. Timothy groaned. How could the man keep deceiving him, when he already knew what a good actor he was? Alexander yanked him to his feet and pushed him forward, until his stomach was pressed against the gunwale of the ship, with his head over the edge, looking down at the wild tossing waves. A wall of water rolled toward the ship, and Timothy closed his eyes, turning his head as the wave smacked into the ship, drenching his head and shoulders.

In silence, he waited for Alexander to make a move. For the first time during the storm, his stomach twisted uneasily, as he stared down at the confused mass of the sea.

“Only one of us will be on this ship when it reaches Rome.”

“You can’t!” Timothy gasped.

“What?” Alexander taunted him. All reasonableness was gone from his voice now.

“Paul will never listen to you if you kill me.”

Alexander laughed. “I am not going to kill you. You were unfortunately washed overboard during a storm.”

“You are insane!” Alexander had been lying to him, of course. This whole encounter was premeditated. Perhaps he had even been on the ship all the way from Philippi, just waiting for his chance.

The side of the ship against which they were leaning was sliding closer and closer to the water, and Timothy struggled, feeling that he was falling out of the boat into the sea. He saw a wave coming, and instinctively jerked back, the back of his head connecting with Alexander’s face. In surprise, the man’s grip slipped a little, just as the wave struck them with great force, sending them both sprawling across the deck.

Blue-green water swirled around Timothy, and panic gripped him. He thrashed around, and his legs struck against the hard wood of the ship. His sense of reality was distorted, and it was not until his head broke out of the water that he realized he was still on board the ship. The wave had completely engulfed the deck, breaking Alexander’s hold on him, and as the water ebbed, he saw that he had been swept to the opposite side of the vessel. The coppersmith was gone.

A cry rent the air, rising above the tumult of the storm, and Timothy stumbled toward the sound.

“Man overboard!” A shout went up along the larboard side, and Timothy leaned over the rail to peer into the sea. For a moment there was no sign of life in the chaotic water. Then a dark head broke the surface, several yards away. The sea was carrying Alexander behind the ship, and he would soon drift out of their reach.

God can always save him. The words Mark had spoken on the day they first met sounded in his head as clearly as if Mark had been standing next to him. He stood frozen, watching Alexander’s thrashing arms with an odd sense of being far above the ship, looking down on himself and all the sailors, helpless to act.  

God can always save him, unless he is dead. His mind completed the sentence unbidden, a horrible thought. A shudder passed over him, breaking him out of his trance. Turning, he shouted to the nearest seaman, “A rope! Quick, man, get me a rope.” He began tearing off his tunic. No, Lord. That is not me. That is not how I think.

The line of rough fiber was thrust into his hands, and he fumbled, trying to tie a knot around his waist. Surer hands grasped his intent, and reached in to aid him. In a few seconds it was done, and he turned back to the sea, searching for that black shape against the waves. There. He was further away now, but the rope would reach.

“Swim!” Timothy yelled, though Alexander could not hear him over the storm. He jumped. Cold water hit his body, forcing out a choked gasp. Fighting his way back to the surface of the water, he looked for Alexander again. When he caught sight of him, sinking under a wave, he struck out with all his might. The rope dragged through the water behind him. Alexander realized what was going on now, and tried to swim toward him, but he could make no headway against the pull of the sea.

Only a few yards separated them, when the rope went taut, jerking Timothy to a halt. The unexpected stop made him lose his stability for a moment, and he was pulled underwater. When he came up, spluttering, Timothy looked back to the boat. The sailors were leaning as far as they could, holding the end fast.  

“Come on!” Timothy called to Alexander. He stretched out his hands as far as he could.

The coppersmith was watching the waves, waiting for his chance. He lunged forward, fingers touching Timothy’s before they slipped off and he was swept back by another wave. Once more he surged forward, and this time Timothy’s hands closed around his wrists. He could not feel his fingers, they were so numb with cold, but he clung to Alexander, pulling him toward himself. The man grasped his shoulders, and Timothy waved to the sailors. The rope tugged them back to the ship in rough jolts, and Timothy was too exhausted to keep his head above the water.

At last they came up alongside, bumping against the hull. Another line was let down, and Alexander clambered aboard, while Timothy hung half in the water. His arms trembled as he climbed, and his palms were rubbed raw where they slid against the slick, water-logged rope. When he reached the deck, he collapsed, bruised and scraped, shivering with cold.

With his last ounce of strength, he lifted his head, and saw Alexander stretched out on the deck, unconscious. Then his head fell to the deck again. Strong arms lifted him bodily, and carried him down into darkness. He was laid down on his own bed, and a dry blanket was pulled over him. The ship still swayed crazily in the storm, but he was too tired to care. His eyes drifted closed. A violent shiver shook his whole body, knocking his teeth together. He slept.

Before Winter: Chapter 29

Twenty-Nine: A Meeting in a Storm

The full force of the storm hit the ship just before the sun went down. Seas that had been serene a few hours before, under a breathless sky, were now whipped into a frenzy by the rushing wind, and the wooden craft rolled back and forth crazily. Timothy, sitting on the bunk in his cabin, was jerked from one side to the other. In the darkness, he heard his pen, which he had forgotten to tuck back into his belt, drop off the little writing table and roll away into a corner.

Bracing himself against the wall, he could hear the timbers of the ship creaking and groaning under the pressure. The first gust of wind passed almost as soon as it had come, and there was a momentary lull. On deck, sailors’ feet pounded back and forth, and confused shouts filtered down into the hold. All the cargo had been lashed down already, in preparation for the storm, and the sails had been tied up tight. Timothy felt the vessel shift in answer to the helmsman, who swung her around a little to point her bow into the wind.

Another blast shook the craft, and a patter of falling rain added to the commotion. For Timothy down below decks, the constant roar of the wind and the erratic motion of the ship tossing in the waves blended into an unending nightmare. He could see nothing, and the noise was amplified by the timbers surrounding him. Though he knew that the ship was riding her anchor, it felt as if they were running before the storm so that he expected every moment the shock of the hull striking against the rocky coastline of Greece.

At last he could endure it no more. Without a clear idea of what he was doing, he staggered to his feet, intent on a need to see what was happening. A wave slapped against the side of the ship, and he was thrown against the table. Clutching at the edges, he hung on with both hands as the craft listed far over. The bolts that held the table to the floor kept it steady, and its sturdy wood supported his weight. Slowly, the ship righted itself, and Timothy took the opportunity to throw himself at the door, fumbling for the latch. As the vessel rolled back to the other side, Timothy slid into the passage leading to the hatch.

When his hands grasped the top rung of the ladder leading to the deck, he paused for a moment before lifting the hatch, breathing heavily. He did not realize that he was resting his weight on his bad leg until it sent a reproachful twinge of pain through his body. It had not been giving him much trouble lately, but now he quickly shifted to his other leg.

Reaching up above his head, he slid back the bolt that held the hatch closed, and pushed it back until it thudded against the deck. Rain poured down on his shoulders, beating against the top of his head. Blinking, he looked up into the sky. The remaining daylight was faint, and dark grey clouds roiled above the ship, stretching as far as he could see. As he gazed, a bolt of lightning split the sky, starkly illuminating his surroundings. He was blinded for a moment, and held on to the ladder helplessly as the answering clap of thunder burst on his ears. In the flash of light, he caught a glimpse of figures, clinging to the ropes and railings of the ship, but none of the sailors took any notice of him.

He got his arms onto the slippery wood of the deck, and clambered up. On all fours, he spread out his hands to keep his balance as the ship continued to pitch. A wave slammed against the boat, filling the air with spray. Timothy scrambled to his feet, and glanced around for the captain, or the mate. With his legs spread wide, he could barely stay upright, and he staggered forward, grabbing at a rope that dangled from the mast to keep from falling back down.

Wiping his sopping wet hair out of his eyes, he squinted through the rain towards the bow. The captain was nowhere to be seen, but he thought he could make out the form of the mate, standing by the helm.

“Here, leave go of that rope, will you?” The bellowing in his ear accompanied an indignant sailor, shaking his shoulder. As Timothy turned, the man peered into his face. “And what are you doing up here, anyway? No place for a passenger, this isn’t.”

“I want to speak to the captain.” Timothy shouted above the roar of the wind. He released the rope, since the sailor continued to tug on his arm.

Whether the man heard him, Timothy could not tell. He only yelled, “Get below, you fool!” before turning back to his business.

Back bent as he struggled against the wind, Timothy inched his way to the bow, grabbing at every spar as he came to it, and pulling himself along. Cold salt water swirled around his ankles, as wave after wave burst over the side of the ship and rushed along the deck before receding to make way for the next.

The water streaming down his face nearly blinded him, and no matter how much he blinked, he could not clear his vision. A dark shape loomed directly in front of him, but before he could react, he slammed right into a sailor.

The man was broad and burly, just as soaked as Timothy himself was. Leaning back, Timothy was about to gasp out an apology when he saw the man’s face. At the same moment, a huge arm reached out and seized Timothy’s tunic, holding him in place. He stared up into the glaring countenance of Alexander.

Before Winter: Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight: In Port

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the second day of the tenth month.

We have stopped at the last port on the Grecian coast, to bring more fresh water on board. We will be lying here for only a few hours before raising the anchor and setting sail once more, but all the sailors went on shore, just the same. The ship is strangely quiet without them. I believe I am the only man on the ship except the mate and the second watch, and they grumble at being left on board, missing the fun! Half the crew are at the wharf, loading barrels of water onto our boats in the hot sun, and I suspect they would be glad to trade places with those here.

The weather is still good, though the wind has been fitful today. The sailing master tells me that it will likely die down altogether tomorrow.

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the third day of the tenth month.

The sunrise this morning was beautiful. I have seldom seen such streaks of colour. Deep orange and red blending together in a cloudless sky. It is mid-day now, and hot for this time of year. As predicted, we lost our wind, and I can hear the sailors muttering over the fact as they pass through the hold. Except for going up on deck to watch the sunrise, I have kept to my cabin today. The crew came on board drunk yesterday, and they have not been very sober since.

We got out of the harbor right enough, but then the wind died down, and we have been becalmed here, still in sight of land, for twelve hours. I gather that it is this circumstance which chiefly makes the men nervous, since they fear that a storm may drive us onto the rocks of the coast. I must admit, I am worried as well. This heavy calm wears on me.

Same day, in the evening.

A sudden change in the light drove me on deck, to see what was going on. Dark clouds are gathered to the south, and we are in for a storm indeed. I feel the fear of the sailors running through the very timbers of the ship. They have let down a sea anchor, in an attempt to keep from running aground. The mate warns me to have no light in my cabin, and it is too gloomy to see without one, so I must write no more this day. I pray that we may survive the night, and see another dawn.

Before Winter: Chapter 27

Twenty-Seven: Sea-travel

Timothy found the harbor without difficulty, and his captain acquaintance was easy to spot. He handed over the balance of his passage fee, and was taken aboard the ship.

The crew seemed a rowdy bunch, with several of the hands being raw recruits, and the confusion of getting underway was even greater than usual. Timothy went straight to his own cabin and stayed there. He kept to himself for the first several days of the voyage. At mealtimes, he dined with the captain and ship officers in the big cabin, but he avoided the deck, where the sailors played their rough games and swore at one another.

They were carrying a cargo of grain to sell in Rome, where it would fetch a good price during the winter. The captain had delayed buying the shipment, waiting for the harvest season, when prices had dropped, but it meant a higher risk in transporting, as the weather changed.

For the first week of sailing, a fair wind held, speeding them along the water, and the captain was in high spirits at dinner, boasting that his gamble had paid off.

“The gods favour me, for I always give them their due honor. That’s the secret to safe sailing, lad.” He clapped Timothy on the shoulder, winking at him.

Sitting on the other side of Timothy was the sailing-master, an old seaman, who shook his head at this assertion, the corners of his mouth turned down mournfully.

“You don’t think so, Julius?” The captain demanded, fired up by this silent disapproval.

“I don’t say one way, or the other,” the seaman responded slowly, “only, we have weeks of sailing yet before we make a safe harbor.”

“And clear weather all the way! You’ll see, my cautious friend.” The captain laughed, and tossed back his glass, draining its contents. Boisterously, he called for more wine, and Timothy made use of the distraction to slip out of his place and escape from the room.

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the twenty-ninth day of the ninth month.

I may as well continue the account Mark started of our journey. So many things have happened in the last three weeks, I had no time to record them, but now I am once again on board a ship, I have little to occupy myself, and it serves to pass the time.

We have been at sea for seven days now, and so far our wind has held. The crew seems unsettled, they do not like sailing so late in the year, but the captain keeps them a little drunk most of the time, and they fulfill their duties well enough. I stay out of their way as much as possible, but I have heard their talk, and it appears that the real test of our voyage will come when we change course in a few days.

Setting down his pen, Timothy glanced up from the parchment to the map that hung on the wall of his cabin. It was faded and weather-stained, a sailor’s rough approximation of the Mediterranean Sea. With his eyes, he followed the course they would be taking.

Thus far, they had been sailing down the coast of Greece, threading their way between islands, and the south wind had been to their advantage. Soon, Timothy knew, they would be turning to the west, to go around the bottom of Greece, before heading across the Mediterranean to Italy. Why this fact was of such concern, he was not sure, but the general unease made him restless all the same.

With a sigh, he continued the account, setting down all that had happened since Mark had fallen so ill, and he had been too busy to write. Night fell as he worked, and he had to get up and go up on deck to ask for a lantern. When he returned with one, after some searching, he bent to his task once more. By the flickering light he recorded how he had met the captain, the generosity of the Philippian Christians, and finally boarding the ship. There was little to relate about the voyage, and he was soon finished.

Exhausted, he leaned back, clenching and unclenching his hand to ease the tense muscles. It was a relief to have it all written down, and he felt ready to sleep at last. Leaning over, he extinguished the lantern and lay down in his bunk.

Top Ten Villains Tag

This tag is from Rebekah, as is the custom. As is not the custom, I am actually doing it. As is also the custom, I will break all the rules. I am only doing the top five because Sarah and Rebekah already covered most of the ones I could think of, and I am not tagging anyone because Rebekah already tagged all bloggers everywhere. So, without further ado:

Villain No. 5: BALOO THE BEAR from "The Jungle Book"

How did that square get in there? Come on, the guy is constantly thwarting Bagheera's methods of getting Mowgli to safety. After banging Mowlgi's head about, almost crushing him with a huge rock, getting him to prick himself with the prickly pears and instilling an ethical code of laziness and mediocrity (do nothing and stuff will come to you anyway) in the kid, he lets the monkeys take him, and then bypasses Bagheera's plan of quietly nabbing Mowgli from the end of the procession for one that gets Baloo in the limelight, but does no practical good, in fact, mayhem ensues fairly soon after. Worse, though, far worse in my opinion, than Baloo's attempts to keep Mowgli from safety, are his attempts to shake Bagheera's own resolve and responsible nature.
Baloo represents the fact that sometimes the most powerful enemies of a responsible life are the distractions. YouTube. Facebook. Personality tests. Tags (oh, wait...). Get with the beat, indeed. Get with the program. Stop it with that silly beat business. This is going to take brains not brawn.

Villain No. 4: MASTER OOGWAY from "Kung Fu Panda"

Amused by Shifu's uptight nature, dedication and emotional commitment he pours into the perfection of himself and the training of his students and aware of the deep respect Shifu regards him with, he sees, from his position of power over Shifu's psychology, how far he can push him. I admit that sometimes this may turn out for Shifu's overall good, but only on accident. Really Shifu's benefit or pain or both at once is inconsequential to Oogway. Oogway is the Master, and he likes to keep himself and Shifu aware of this through constantly messing with his brain: not giving him success when he most needs a shot in the arm (instead giving him tasks he can't handle), leaving him alone right when he needs him, and constantly talking like a Chinese proverb that contradicts itself (you know the kind: so vague that you have to defocus your mind to get them to make any sense). Oogway is a petty but powerful villain because his superiority and spirituality is in Shifu's head, so while it is not real, it is that much more impossible for Shifu to get away from it.

Villain No. 3: OLAF from "Frozen"

This guy is pure evil. Nobody is this happy for reals, and definitely not a snowman. Only the coldest of hearts would inflict such warm hugs intentionally. From his delinquent grin, to his ability to disembody his head (or anything else, actually) any time he feels like it, to the very fact that he is a living snowman in the first place, Olaf is the creepiest villain in my list. Who, in the first Frozen movie (which is the only one I have watched, by the way), really has a motive for keeping the whole land as always winter and never Christmas? This guy has more motive than a Baroque fugue —he would melt otherwise. Also, adorable people are rarely trustworthy. Take the bunny in Hoodwinked, for instance, who, incidentally, is voiced by the same person, which definitely should have tipped us off. Also, toddlers in general. Tell them not to touch something and they will nod seriously, then touch and probably break it the moment you turn your back, even if they had not thought of doing it before you mentioned it. Turn around and they will act cute and innocent, but underneath the facade they are plotting your next demise.

Villain No. 2: GOLDILOCKS from "Goldilocks and the Three Bears"

Goldilocks trespasses onto the poor bears' property, which, as we all know, means she should have been prosecuted, whatever that means. She probably also stepped on the pansies in their garden and left finger prints on the sliding-glass door, which, if it is not a criminal offense, should be, especially the sliding glass door part. Do you know how long it takes to get the spray nozzle to work on the glass cleaner, find a paper towel on the roll that will do something helpful, un-smear the damage the rest of the paper towels did to the window, only to discover that it was the other side of the glass that had the finger prints?
Secondly, Goldilocks steals one bite from Mama bear, one bite from Papa bear, and the whole bowl from little bear. Theft is a criminal offense, guys. Goldilocks should be in jail. Then she goes and breaks little bear's chair. This is damaging the personal property of the owners of a house she has broken into. Not cool, kids. Let us all learn from Goldilocks' error and stay in our own houses and eat our own porridge and sit in our own chairs. Finally, she goes and lays in their beds. Now, I don't know about you, but I do not want a stranger sleeping in my bed, ever, but especially not one that had just eaten porridge and probably not washed her hands. So Goldilocks gets No. 2 on my list, not because she was a scheming mastermind who was planning on destroying the whole earth, but because she was a downright uncourteous nuisance to the poor bears who were just trying to get in a little exercise before breakfast. It's reprehensible. I mean, really.

Villain No. 1 PIPPIN from "The Lord of the Rings"

Constantly doing small "thoughtless" things to set the whole group back, Pippin manages to get Gandalf killed by knocking a dwarf skeleton down a shaft and alerting the whole community at Minas Tirith, not a small feat for a small hobbit, but perhaps not so surprising if you realize it was done on purpose. This also clears up why Pippin also looks into that palantir. He is reporting what he has found out and his progress to headquarters. But, you say, he was a big part in getting the Ents to take over Saruman's tower. Do you really think that Sauron was going to co-reign with Saruman? Saruman had to go, and what better way of doing it than have a different enemy take your enemy down? Then one will be taken care of completely, and whichever one wins will be weaker than they would have otherwise. Pippin an honest fool? More like a dishonest genius, if you ask me.

Which villain are you?

Before Winter: Chapter 26

Twenty-Six: On to Rome

Had it been a dream? When Timothy opened his eyes in the morning, his first thought, glancing at the cot where Mark lay silent and motionless, was to doubt the reality of the memory.

Whether Mark had actually woken up or not, he knew that the words he remembered hearing were true. He could not wait for Mark to get better, and he refused to endanger his friend’s life again, by letting him travel before he was ready.

Do your utmost to come before winter.

The words Paul had written were engraved in his mind, urging him not to tarry. It was nearing the season when sailing would be impossible, and Timothy feared he would have troubling finding a ship to take him all the way to Rome this late in the year. He had already wasted enough time, hopelessly chasing after Alexander.

Depression settled on him, as he thought of Paul’s other instructions. He was not bringing Mark after all, the books and parchments had been lost, and Alexander the Coppersmith had outwitted them despite Paul’s warning.

The anger he had once felt when he thought of the man was gone, replaced by a dogged certainty that no matter what, he would never trust him. Mark had advised him to give Alexander a second chance, and that had ended in disaster. It could not be undone now, but he had learned his lesson, he told himself grimly.

He could hear the old physician moving around in the back room, where he lived and slept. Sunshine streamed into the room, and Timothy guessed it must be mid-morning. A pang of hunger reminded him that he had not eaten the night before. Stretching, he got up. He would go to Euodice’s house and get something to eat, before explaining his reasons for continuing his journey.

“You cannot leave again already!” Euodice regarded him as she would a small and especially stubborn child.

Timothy hid a smile as he responded to the indignant woman. “I must get to Paul.”

“The storms are dangerous and frequent at this time of year, it is nearly the tenth month.” Arms folded, she glared at him.

Refusing to be intimidated, Timothy said mildly, “That is why I will depart as soon as possible.”

She continued trying to persuade him for the rest of the morning, but at last, seeing him immovable, she grudgingly admitted that there was, indeed, a ship departing from the port city in a few days time.

“Everyone knows that the captain is a fool to try it. Half of his crew refused to go, and he has been all over the city trying to hire new men.”

“Excellent.” Timothy stood up. “Where can I find this fool?”

As he left the house to search for the captain, Euodice thrust a bag of silver coins into his hand. “A gift from the Christians of Philippi,” she murmured, “to pay for your passage to Rome. Give our regards to Paul, and tell him we still pray for him.”

“I will.” Timothy grasped her hand. “Please, convey my gratitude to the other believers. God be with you, sister Euodice.”

Timothy discovered the captain at last, as he was coming out of the amphitheater, where he had been watching a gladiatorial combat. In the jostle and commotion of the crowds pouring out of the theater into the street, he could not make the man understand his business at first.

“What’s that? Speak up, lad!” he responded, cupping his hand behind his ear, each time Timothy tried to explain his errand.

In exasperation, Timothy grabbed his elbow, and pulled him along until they came to a wine shop, where they could get away from the noises of the street.

Again, he repeated his request to be taken to Rome, waving the bag of coins in front of the grizzled captain’s face. This time, the message seemed to penetrate.

“You want to take passage on my ship to Rome, do you?” The captain roared jovially.

“Yes, when does it sail?”

“Eh? I’m a bit deaf.”

“WHEN does the ship SAIL?” Timothy shouted into the man’s ear.

The owner of the shop glared at him from the back, and Timothy tried to look apologetic. The captain was oblivious.

“Ah, we’ll be leaving in a couple days, just as soon as we finish sacrificing to the gods, and get back to the harbor.”

After a bit more shouting back and forth, it was agreed that they would meet again at the port of Neapolis, in two days time, at noon, and that Timothy would pay half the price of his passage in advance. To mollify the wine merchant, Timothy ordered a glass of wine for the captain, and they parted the best of friends.  

Before Winter: Chapter 25

Twenty-Five: On a Mule-cart

“We have heard something of what happened in Troas here in Philippi.”

They were clattering along the road in a wooden wagon, driven by Euodice’s husband, and Timothy sat in the back with another Philippian Christian, named Clement. John Mark lay flat in the bed of the cart, surrounded by rolls of blankets to keep him from being jostled too much. It had only taken them a day and a half to reach the shepherd’s cottage where Timothy had left Mark, and they were now returning to Philippi, though their speed was reduced by the need to carry Mark as gently as possible.

It was Clement who had spoken, his voice raised over the rattle of the cart wheels, and he glanced curiously at Timothy as he waited for his response.

“What did you hear?” Timothy shaded his eyes against the sun as he turned to Clement.

“Nothing very definite. Just that there was a street brawl of some kind, and by the time the Christians realized that you had been attacked and began to search for you, you were gone.”

“There is no more to tell. How did the household of Carpas fare? I had feared that once they disposed of us, the troublemakers would turn their attention there.” He considered telling the part Alexander had played in their difficulties, but it seemed pointless. By now he was convinced that he had imagined the figure of the coppersmith at the gates of Philippi. The impression had been so vague and fleeting, even if he had seen someone there, it could have been a sailor from the port of Neapolis, or some manual laborer.

His internal reasoning with himself had distracted his attention, so that he missed the beginning of Clement’s reply. “…nothing else, beyond the fact that Carpas was executed on the appointed day.”

“These are troubling times.” Timothy sighed, and shook his head. “At least, as you told me, Philippi has not been directly affected yet.”

“No,” Clement agreed, “as long as we keep quiet, the authorities have left us alone.”

At mid-day, they stopped to eat, and then continued their journey until darkness fell, having covered almost a third of the distance back to Philippi. To sleep, they spread out their blankets in and around the wagon, and Clement led the mule a little distance off, tethering him to a tree so that he could graze. The silence of night settled over the camp, broken only by an occasional snort from the mule, rustling and thumping when he pawed at the ground. Timothy dozed lightly, waking up more than once to hear Mark muttering and moaning in his sleep, and sometimes thrashing around.

They reached the city without incident, but Mark had been getting steadily worse, the infection spreading angry red streaks up his arm, and his delirium growing louder and more violent. Driving straight through the gate to the physician’s house, they jumped down from the wagon and carried Mark to the door.

In response to their knocking and cries, a stooped old man cracked the door open, and peered at them out of the dim interior. When he saw Mark, tied down to his stretcher and straining to break free, eyes shut, and damp hair clinging to his forehead, a spark of interest ignited in his bleary eyes, and he shuffled out to take a closer look.

“Please, my friend broke his arm a few weeks ago, and it is infected.” Timothy could not tell if the old man was even listening to him; he continued to circle around Mark in fascination.

“We need medicine, and clean bandages,” Clement urged the physician.

“Not at all, not at all.” The old man’s voice was high and wavering, but the way he examined the arm seemed competent enough. Abruptly, he stepped away from Mark, and ordered, “Bring him inside, bring him in.” Without waiting for a response, he hurried back into the room. The three Christians followed, carrying the sick man.

“Set him on the table, set him down.” The strange hunched over figure swept bottles, pots, and scrolls down to one end, clearing a place for Mark to be laid.

“What are you doing?” Timothy asked, frustrated by his lack of explanations, and the way he kept repeating everything he said twice.

“Medicine no good, not at all!” He seemed gleeful of the fact. “Have to take it off, right away or he will die-ee.” He held out the last word, relishing it, his high-pitched voice cracking in the middle.

“Wait,” Timothy glanced helplessly at the other two men, “You intend to cut his arm off, just like that?”

“Yes, yes.” The wizened physician chortled, almost dancing as he collected his instruments, and dropped them into a pot of boiling water that hung over the fire. From the shelves above his head, he took down a dark brown jug, and poured some thick liquid into a cup. “Hold him down, and pour that down his throat.” This time, he did not repeat himself, as he handed the cup to Timothy, who took it over to John Mark.

Clement was holding Mark’s arms still, and Timothy pried open his mouth, and tipped the viscous stuff in.

“I certainly hope this fellow knows what he is doing,” Clement muttered.

The physician approached the table again, a glittering knife blade in his hand, and unwrapped the cloth from around Mark’s wound.

As the shining metal came down toward Mark’s arm, Timothy was overwhelmed with a wave of nausea. He felt his throat constrict, and he realized he had to get out of the room. “Sorry,” he gasped, as he pushed past Euodice’s husband, still standing in the doorway.

He fell to his knees outside, and closed his eyes, willing himself not to vomit. Part of himself was exasperated at his own queasiness, as he sank down, leaning his back against the side of the house. He had seen the wound before, when he was changing the bandages, and it had not affected him. The knife had not even touched Mark, yet he felt sick. His stomach churned again, and he quickly put the thought out of his mind, focusing instead on breathing. In and out.

Then Mark yelled. It made him start so badly he almost lost his balance and went sprawling on the ground. After that initial sound though, the house beside him was silent, except for the creaking of floorboards, as the surgeon changed his position. For a moment, Timothy imagined that he could even hear the scraping of metal against bone. He shuddered, and forced the picture out of his thoughts.

He stayed there, ears straining for sounds that he was afraid of hearing, for over an hour. All he could do, to keep his mind off what was going on inside, was pray.

Father,

Make the physician’s hands skillful. Let John Mark live.

The shadows lengthened, and the mule stamped at the ground, impatient at the long wait. In the end, Clement came out, blinking the perspiration out of his eyes.

Catching sight of Timothy, he nodded. “He’s done.”

“Mark?”

“Seems to be sleeping, or passed out.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Timothy ran a shaking hand through his hair. Steeling himself, he stepped back into the house.

Mark lay still, though he had been moved off of the table onto a small cot against the inside wall. His shoulder was well wrapped, and his face was pale, but he seemed to be breathing more easily and evenly.

The old physician looked up from a bucket of water, which he was vigorously sluicing over his hands and arms.

“Will he be alright now?” Timothy asked, without taking his eyes off his immobile friend.

“Should be, should be.” Now that the operation was past, the man reverted to his way of repeating himself.

“We are to leave him here for the time being, rather than moving him again.” Clement’s voice came from behind Timothy, and he turned to see that the man had come back inside. “The physician assures me that he will wake up in a few hours.”

“How long before he can travel?”

“I don’t know, Timothy.”

“Well,” Timothy drew in a deep breath, trying to shake off his lingering worry about Mark, “you two should go to your homes, and get some rest. We’ve been pushing ourselves hard the last several days.”

“What about you?” Euodice’s husband asked. “I thought you were staying with us.”

“I am, but I want to stay here with Mark tonight.”

“Alright then.” Clement nodded, and waved in farewell before stepping out onto the street. Through the open door, Timothy could hear him speaking soothingly to the mule, and the creaking of the cart as it moved away.

With a sigh, he sat down. There were three beds altogether, and he picked the one closest to Mark. He tilted his head back, resting it against the wall, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he realized he must have fallen asleep. His body was numb from being in one position for so long.

He began to lie down, when his attention was caught by a movement from the bed where Mark lay.

“Timothy.” Mark’s voice was a faint whisper, husky from disuse.

Timothy leaned over to see Mark’s face better. “You are awake!” Joy seeped through the hushed words.

“Timothy,” Mark said again, “go to Rome. Tell Paul…I will come when I can.” He took a deep breath before continuing weakly, “Timothy?”

“I am right here.” He grasped Mark’s hand and pressed it.

“Not your fault I fell. Don’t...blame yourself.” The effort had exhausted him, and he shut his eyes once more.

Just like Mark, he thought, to worry about him as soon as he regained consciousness. Smiling, Timothy lay back down on his own cot, those few words echoing through his head, until at last he fell asleep.

Before Winter: Chapter 24

Twenty-Four: Philippi

Timothy stopped just outside the gate of the city, doubled over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had been traveling as fast as he could for two days focused on getting to Philippi as soon as possible, and when the walls came in sight, had broken into a staggering run, only pulling up when he reached the gate.

It was mid-day, and the bustling metropolis was teeming with action. A steady stream of people from the region around the city were flowing in and out of the gate, intent on their own affairs. They took no notice of Timothy, but he watched them eagerly. This was a city he knew, and he was sure that he could find one of his friends.

The tinkling of a bell drew his attention, and his eyes followed two women trying to get a small herd of goats through the gate. One of them looked familiar. He was watching them, trying to decide if he recognized her, when he caught sight of a well-known figure, the one for which he had been searching, but had stopped expecting to find. A shock coursed through him, and he started forward with a cry. As he moved, fuzzy blackness constricted his line of sight, narrowing it to a point. He felt the ground spinning beneath him for a moment, before he dropped in a faint.

As he awoke, he became gradually aware of gentle, murmuring voices. A cool cloth wiped his brow. Opening his eyes, for a moment he could distinguish nothing in the dim light, except that he was lying inside, on a bed. His head felt heavy, and his empty stomach twisted. Where was he? Then he remembered.

“Alexander!” With the exclamation, he sat up with a jerk, but sank back again as a wave of darkness rolled across his vision. Blinking and breathing deeply, he managed to stay conscious, as someone hurried to his side. Had he really seen the coppersmith at the gate? Perhaps it was only a figment of his imagination, brought on by the heat and thirst. As the thoughts jumbled through his mind, he saw the form of a woman bending over him. She slipped her arm beneath his shoulders, propping him up at an angle, and held a cup to his lips.

“Now,” a firm voice said, “what are you doing, Timothy, and why are you not taking care of yourself?”

The words brought back his memory of the last few days in a rush. He had no time to worry about Alexander, Mark was his most urgent concern. It was his obsession with the coppersmith that had led to Mark re-injuring his arm in the first place.

He focused on the face above him. It was the woman he had thought he recognized at the city gate. “Euodice.” He sat up, slowly this time, with his eyes closed to keep from feeling dizzy. “I have to go back…I came for help.” he stammered.

“Go back where?” Euodice demanded. “Timothy, you are not making any sense.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He took a deep breath, and gathered his thoughts. “My companion, John Mark. He is sick, and I had to leave him a couple days ago on the road. We had some trouble in Troas.”

“You are sick yourself, Timothy. You cannot handle another two days of travel.”

“Please.” Timothy whispered. “I am afraid he will die if he does not get help soon.”

Euodice considered him, hands on her hips. “Very well, I will send a boy to find my husband and one of the brethren, and they will go back with you to bring him here. But mind!” she lifted a warning finger at him, “I take no responsibility for the consequences.”

“Thank you.” Timothy smiled weakly at her threatening attitude.

“Hmm. You just rest until they get here.”

Timothy was glad enough to obey without protest. He lay back and closed his eyes.