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.