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.