Do Your Utmost: Chapter 16

Sixteen: Inside the House

The door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into total darkness for a moment.

“Come through here.” A soft feminine voice spoke, its owner invisible in the gloom. Another door opened, and the room became dimly illuminated with a flickering orange light. All of them stepped into the next room, and in the firelight Timothy saw their hostess for the first time. She was tall, and the dark hair that framed her face was streaked with grey. Her eyes were calm, as she gazed at her visitors, but the lines of her face showed the strain she had been under for the last months.

“These are the men who came seeking your husband.” Philip’s voice was still low, as if it was hard to break the silence that had shrouded their journey thus far.

The woman turned to Timothy and Mark. “Greetings. The Lord Jesus Christ be with you. I wish my husband could be here to meet you, but since he cannot be, I welcome you on his behalf.”

“Thank you.” It was Mark who spoke up. “We were grieved to learn of the trouble your family has had.”

“It is always a possible consequence of following Christ.” She turned to Timothy. “I have heard from the other believers your reason for coming. We were honored when the apostle Paul left some of his valuable books and writings with us, and were anxious that they should not fall into the wrong hands.”

“I understand,” Timothy responded.

The woman moved to a long wooden chest that stood against the far wall and lifted the lid. First, she pulled out a heavy bundle of thick cloth and handed it to Timothy. Paul’s winter traveling cloak. Shaking it out, Timothy folded it over his left arm where it hung, impeding his movement, but keeping his hands free to receive the smaller package that Carpas’s wife was now holding out to him.

Through the linen covering, he could feel the outline of scrolls inside, as well as some smaller sheets of parchment that had been left flat. He turned, and moved closer to the light of the fire, shifting the weight of Paul’s cloak so that he could use one hand to remove the outer casing of cloth from the parchment.

Mark leaned over, picking up one of the scrolls and unrolling it. Tilting it toward the light, he glanced over the words. “The Psalms of David,” he murmured.

Timothy was looking at one of the loose pieces of parchment. “This is Paul’s writing. A letter to someone, but I cannot tell whom.” He looked up. “Is this a second copy that he kept? Or did he decide not to send it for some reason?”

There was no way to know the answer to such questions. Mark replaced the Psalms scroll, and re-tucked the linen around the parchments. Timothy had brought his pouch to put the package in, so that it would be less noticeable as they walked back to their own rooms, and he slipped the awkward bundle into it and re-settled the strap over his shoulder.

“Thank you for your help,” he turned to Carpas’s wife, “and for keeping these safe for Paul all this time. I hope that our presence has not put your family in any further danger.”

“Before we leave, let us pray for you.” Mark offered.

They all bowed their heads, and first Mark, then Timothy prayed aloud for Carpas and his family, asking for the Lord’s protection and deliverance. After they finished praying, they shook hands in farewell, and turned to retrace their steps.

In a minute they were back in the courtyard, and then out in the street. Behind them, the gate creaked shut. It was much darker outside now, and they stood still for a moment before turning back toward the harbor, and their lodging.

“Atheists!” The silence was shattered by a yell from the window of the house opposite. “Atheists!” Jerking his head up, Timothy saw the open shutters, and caught a glimpse of a face before it was withdrawn. For an instant, there was no response to the shout, then other windows began to open, and people were calling out.

“Where?”

“Be quiet!”

“What’s going on?”

“Atheists!” the cry came again, from multiple points now. A group of men rounded the corner, headed right at them. It was no chaotic mob, not yet. Timothy even thought for a split second that the men had some purpose that had nothing to do with them.

He was still standing there, frozen, when Mark grabbed his arm and pulled him sideways, down a narrow lane. Stumbling, he lost his balance and fell against a wall. Mark was yanking him along by main force. “Come on, we have to get out of here!”

At last, Timothy snapped into action. He pushed himself away from the wall, and started running. A few flickering torches appeared behind them, and the band of men caught sight of them. “No atheists in Troas!” One of them cried, as they rushed after Timothy and Mark’s retreating figures.

A rock crashed against the side of a house as they ran past, bouncing and rolling back into the street. Mark grunted in pain, and Timothy felt him jerk forward as a second missile hit him in the shoulder. Glancing behind him, Timothy saw that the angry men were still closing in on them. Intent on their pursuers, rather than the path ahead, he ran full tilt into a pair of men who rushed at him from a side street.

One of them grabbed his arms, and he struggled to get free, twisting his wrists and trying to pull them out of the big thug’s grasp. Mark saw what had happened, and came running back to help.

“Watch out!” Timothy saw the second man lifting a black bar above his head and cried out to John Mark. He turned, but it was too late to dodge the blow, and it came cracking down on his head with a sickening hollow thud. Mark’s body went limp, and he flopped to the ground without a noise.

“No!” Timothy yelled. Again he tried to break free, but the grip on his arms only tightened as his captor breathed heavily into the back of his head, the smell of sweat and sour wine causing Timothy’s stomach to turn.

“We don’t take to your kind in Troas,” growled the second ruffian, whacking Timothy across the face with the back of his hand. Blinking, Timothy gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and the man laughed. Blood oozed from his nose, dripping over his mouth and down his chin.

All the rough men who had been chasing them had come up to them now, forming a ring around Timothy. Someone shouted, “Get them out of the city!”

“We serve the gods! Death to atheists!”

“Please…” Timothy started to reason with them, but the same man who had hit him before shut his mouth with a fist. Timothy spat out blood and bits of his teeth.

With torches waving high, the whole party started for the outskirts of the city howling in boisterous drunkenness, dragging Timothy and the unconscious Mark along with them. When they reached the gates, four men took Mark, one for each arm and leg, and swung him back and forth, chanting, before hurling him through the gate. Timothy could not watch him land, since an arm around his neck kept his head in one position, tilted upward against the chest of his captor, but he heard his body hit the ground. Then they were pulling at him.

As he swayed back and forth, his limbs stretched until he was afraid he would be wrenched into pieces, Timothy prayed fervently.  God, help! He was sailing through the air, flailing his arms as he tried to protect his head. Landing on his stomach, the air went out of his lungs. His mouth was filled with dirt, and he was gasping for breath. A boot nudged his shoulder, then roughly heaved him over onto his back and kicked him in the stomach.

Searing pain shot through his chest, and he doubled over, retching. The boot kicked him again, and he jerked his body away. The back of his head struck something hard jutting out of the ground, and he was swallowed in blackness.