Do Your Utmost: Chapter 18

Eighteen: Standing Up

Timothy awoke again in the grey light before dawn. He was stiff and sore, but his head was much clearer now as he stretched, ascertaining the extent of the damage done to his body. A swollen knee prevented him from bending or straightening his left leg, but when he probed the area with his fingers, he decided it was not broken. If he bent or twisted, a sharp pain in his chest made him suspect that a couple of his ribs were broken, but as long as he moved slowly and carefully, it was only the bruised muscles that protested.

Turning his attention to Mark, Timothy tried to figure out what was wrong with his arm. He pushed his friend over onto his stomach, and tried gingerly to move it into a more natural position. Even though he was unconscious still, Mark’s face contorted in a spasm of pain. Now the arm was lying straight at Mark’s side, and Timothy felt along it until he found the spot where there was a ridge of bone sticking up out of place. It had not broken through the skin, but the area around it was bumpy and discolored.

Timothy knew the bone would have to be put back in place, and it was better to do so while Mark was insensible. With another heave, he got Mark onto his back, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and gripped the arm on each side of the break. In theory, he knew what to do, having watched Luke set many bones over the years, but it had been a long time since he had traveled with Luke, and he had never had to perform the operation himself. There was not time to hesitate, however.

Clenching his jaw, he wrenched Mark’s lower arm, feeling the bone shift beneath his hands. As he had seen Luke do, he ran his thumb along the area, to see if the bone was in its proper place. There was no longer a lump, at least. Pressing into the skin, he felt for any irregularities. Beyond the swelling, he could find nothing. It would have to do. He tore a strip of cloth off the sleeve of Mark’s tunic, and bound it first around the arm in a wide band, and then across Mark’s chest, tying it down to keep the limb immobile.  

Besides the arm, and an ugly knot on the back of Mark’s head, which Timothy guessed had been caused by the heavy bar that had first knocked him out, Timothy saw that Mark was in about the same condition he was—badly mauled on the surface, but no deep injury. He was concerned by the head wound, especially since Mark had not woken up yet, but the first thing was to get away from the city walls, before it was light enough for the inhabitants to see them.

There was a grove of trees a few hundred yards to their right, which Timothy knew he could get to, but he was uncertain whether he could drag Mark that far with his bad leg. If he had something to put him on, and pull him along behind him…for the first time since running into that evil-eyed thug the night before, Timothy remembered Paul’s cloak and books. Instinctively he clapped his hand to his side, where he had been carrying the parchments, but he already knew that they were gone. His gaze swept around the area, hoping the pouch had fallen off when he was thrown through the air.

There was something on the ground, close to where he had landed. Not thinking about his wounds, he pushed himself to his feet, and limped over to the spot, hardly registering the pain in his leg when he put his weight on it. Stooping down, he picked up the cloak. No pouch, no scrolls. His shoulders sagged in disappointment. Not only had he lost Paul’s precious copies of the Scriptures, but also the letters, which might be impossible to replace. All that lay on the ground under the cloak was his own scroll from Paul, which had somehow stayed tucked into his belt all through the fracas, not falling out until he hit the ground. It was bloodstained and covered in dirt, but he picked it up, mechanically.

As he went back to where John Mark was lying, each step was fiery agony, even as he half-hopped, to spare his leg. Tearing up more strips of cloth from his tunic, Timothy wrapped them around his chest as well as he could, pulling the knots tight across his ribs. He spread the cloak out on the ground, and rolled Mark onto it, careful not to bump his arm. Wrapping the corners of the cloak around his friend, he tugged him across the rough and broken ground toward the trees. Despite the make-shift brace, each heave on the cloak was painful, as his muscles contracted against his cracked ribs.

By almost lying on the ground, holding onto the cloak with one hand, and using the other with his good leg to push himself backward, he covered the distance at last. Letting go of his burden, he fell back, panting and exhausted.

Mark moaned, and turned his head, his eyeballs rolling around behind their lids. It was the first sound Timothy had heard him make, and he turned, praying that his friend would wake up finally.

“Mark!” He shook the other man’s good shoulder as he spoke his name in a low tone.

Mark’s eyelids fluttered open, and he gazed at Timothy’s face with unfocused eyes. “Where am I?” His voice was raspy and slow. “Timothy? What happened?”

“Ah, praise the name of our Savior!” Timothy smiled down at him, forgetting his own pain disappointment for a moment. “You were hit on the head,” he told Mark, “and thrown out of Troas by a mob.”

With a shaking hand, Mark reached up to touch the back of his head. “I…remember,” he managed to gasp. “Why did they not kill us?”

Timothy shrugged, then winced as his battered muscles protested against the movement. “Just lie still for now. We are in bad enough shape as it is.”

Nodding, Mark closed his eyes again.

Timothy considered their situation. The Christians of Troas no doubt believed them to be dead, since they would have heard and possibly seen the angry crowd. He did not want to re-enter the city—it would be dangerous for him, as well as for any brethren he tried to contact—yet how could they continue their journey to Rome with no money, and no food or water? Thinking of water made him realize that his mouth was parched, his tongue dry and swollen. There was sure to be a well near the gate, but he had nothing in which to carry water.

A leaf? He glanced at the trees around him. The leaves were too small, and he had no knife to cut a strip of bark. He thought of his leather pouch, which had disappeared. The cloth of his cloak was no use, the water would run right through. He felt his belt, though he knew it was too thin, and his fingers touched the letter from Paul. He pulled it out and looked at it. The animal skin had been scraped very thin, but if he doubled it, and folded the corners up…he bit his lip, hating the thought of ruining the manuscript. Still, they needed water more than anything else right now. It was worth a try.