Sacred Scrolls; Chapter 43

 

Sacred Scrolls; Chapter 43

© 2021 by Amber Wright

TAKEN

They were ready. The horses and carts were packed with beautiful blankets, skeins of wool, sheep rugs, salted sheep meat and balls of thread dyed with brilliant colors. Junia felt the cool air blow into her hair as she tightened her veil, the morning sun smiling gently upon her as the little caravan started in the direction of Sardis.

Sardis, the capital of Lydia, lay some short miles from the port of the Hermes River. Their ride would not be too long, she was told.

“What a beautiful day!” Junia swung her feet over the rear of the cart and stretched her toes from her sandals. “The sun is shining and my heart is happy. What more could I ask for?”

“Maybe a handsome face for you,” Julia smiled, “would answer that question.”

“Actually, I might follow Saint Paul’s steps—literally.”

Julia gave her a questioning look.

“He never married,” Tiria explained to Julia and gave Junia a playful slap. “Aw, hush up! You too will find a handsome face.” She leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, “He might even be behind you.”

Junia glanced back out of curiosity. At that moment Simon, the oldest shepherd son, was staring at her with slightly knitted brows from his brown steed. She hissed into Tiria’s ear, “Do that again and you’re going to be sorry!”

Tiria giggled.

Junia felt her face flush, giving Tiria a half-glare.

But Tarsus was giggling as well. “Adher’fi,” the blanket-maker patted her shoulder with a teasing smile. “Sister!”

“Excuse me,” Junia cleared her throat, “but I believe we have business to do today. No silliness, thank you.”

The girls quieted.

Junia fell into thought. By noon they would reach Sardis. Her heart quickened. It had been a long, long time since she had been in a large city. Last time it had been Ephesus.

~

“One blanket left to sell,” Junia smiled at Tarsus. The girl looked radiant. “And then we go back home.”

Could she ever truly call that cave her home? It felt more like an inn than a house with all those little huts spread inside it. But it was a nice, happy inn.

“And such good prices.” Tarsus gave a happy sigh. “It’s worth all the backaches now that—”

“Quick!” Philippi hissed to them as she and Julia stopped beside them. “We have to leave—now!”

“But I still have this blanket to sell,” Tarsus frowned.

“The others are waiting for us,” Philippi glanced around cautiously before dropping her voice into a sheer whisper. “They’ve taken Polycarp.”

Junia's breath froze. Last time she had seen him, Polycarp was selling sheep meat with the shepherd brothers. Or had he been selling sheep rugs with Abraham, the shepherds’ father? Now he was… Her numb lips formed the word, “Why?”

“He was preaching in the street,” Julia’s eyes were wide with fear.

“We have to go,” Philippi’s voice was strained, “now.”

The girls began to follow Philippi as Tarsus picked up the remaining blanket from the wooden crate where she had sold her other blankets.

“For sell?” an old woman smiled brightly into Tarsus’ face, stretching out her handful of Roman coins.

“Yes.” Tarsus took the coins without counting them and handed the old woman the last wool blanket. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” the old woman hobbled off, clutching the blanket.

They met the others in an alleyway where Tiria looked the picture of tragedy. Her staring eyes kept blinking sharply around, her hands kept rearranging her veil and she bit onto her thumb in a distracted way. She looked thoroughly frightened and heartbroken. Junia felt sorry for her.

“It will be alright,” Junia whispered to Tiria as she climbed into the cart beside her.

This time the cart was empty and there was plenty of room for her feet. But this time, the cart would also jolt more over the ruts and their hearts were heavier than the loaded cart could ever be. Polycarp was taken. Who would be next?

“We must ride slowly through town,” Abraham was quietly telling the drivers. “Then we ride hard, understand?”

Junia flexed her back. The ride back to the cave would be an achy one, she feared. Already, her shoulders were tight. She breathed a quick prayer, God, keep us under the shadow of Your wing. Please? Thank You, amen. They bumped along in the empty cart slowly and met the others on horseback who were waiting outside of the city gates. She heard a loud sniff and looked up. Tiria’s eyes were growing dark pink as she sniffled away.

“Tiria, everything will be alright.” Junia tried to smile but felt a lump in her own throat. Kind Polycarp was captured, in the hands of the Romans, and was probably going to be killed. Her voice cracked, “Have faith.”

“But what if they kill him?”

Junia chewed down onto the side of her mouth, sad beyond words. Everything seemed to pile on them all at once. Her insides quickened nervously, making a silent groan. Would they always be in hiding like this? Deep inside the mountains, a cave-dweller? How she longed to live in the free air once again like she had used to.

~

“He is awake,” Marcus told Elder John beside the cot where the limp Roman lay. “He is blessed to be alive.”

“What happened?” the Roman asked.

“There was an earthquake last night,” Demetrius spared him the gory details. “A pile of rocks fell on you. We had to dig you out. Thought you were dead.”

In reality, the Roman had looked like a mashed human with all the cuts that tore his skin. They had dressed his wounds the best they could. Now he looked like a corpse with all of his bandages, laying on the cot as if it were his bier.

The door to the hut opened and bright afternoon light streamed in.

A guard with a red uniform left a bowl of thin soup beside the cot and barked out an order. “Eat, Dyonysius, and then report to your commander afterwards!”

Dyonysius tried to salute but his hand fell weakly to his side. “Yes, sir.”

The guard left.

Marcus picked up the bowl with a forced-looking cheerful grin. “Mealtime, compliments of the cook of Patmos.”

“Grotesque,” Dyonysius sputtered, frowning at the spoon which dripped a slimy green substance. “What’s that?”

“Just some spinach, I believe.” Marcus dumped the spoon’s contents into Dyonysius’ mouth. “Healthy, they say.”

“Where’s my wine?” Dyonysius made a gagging noise. “This is horrible!”

“I’m afraid you’re called to guard duty after you eat,” Demetrius reminded him. “No wine. It’s not good for your thinking.”

Dyonysius’ eyes slumped and he pinched his nose with a growl. “Alright, let’s have it over with!”

Demetrius watched him slurp his soup down, the broth dripping down his hairless chin. He blinked back to the reality of civilized life. “Dyonysius, would you get me a razor?”

“To slit your wrists?”

“To shave. I feel too old with all this fuzz.”

“You'll have to shave with me watching you,” Dyonysius slurped away. “Too many suicides in the mines—and murders. And then—less workers, less guards.”

“Agreed.” Now Demetrius could go to sleep without itchy hair on his face poking him every time he turned on his cot.

~

“New assignment, Dyonysius.”

Surely I’m not going to be branded with those— Dyonysius sputtered inside, those insurrectionists? His conscience prickled. How could he still call them insurrectionists after they had saved his life and cared for him as they had? He put on his most polite face for the commander, “Sir?”

“You will leave Patmos in two weeks.” The commander smiled thinly, “But may I remind you, prisoners will be prisoners.”

Dyonysius felt the blood drain from his forehead. He'd almost forgotten. Guards tougher than himself had been murdered by prisoners—when they were found alone, when they were trekking through the dark as he had been doing recently. He moved his idle gaze from the fruit-laden table back to the commander, and forced his words into a calm. “Sir, where do I go?”

His commander popped a few raisins into his mouth. “Smyrna. You will patrol the port for illegal goods and persons.” His voice slipped into a rusty edge, “And you had better do your job! Dismissed.”

Dyonysius saluted and stumbled out from the room. He had two more weeks. Only two! If only I could find out what they are doing, those three prisoners—if only to satisfy my curiosity! But is fourteen days enough? He glanced up at the clear blue sky. If I was a praying man, I’d pray right now—for the answer to the mystery. He walked on, feeling a little dizzy with emotions. Happy—because he was being transferred. Sad—if he would leave an unsolved mystery behind him. Confused—at himself for finding those Christian prisoners fascinating. Sick—because his head still felt throbbing, aching, knotted with pain with bandages stuck to him all over practically. Especially the knee wound. He felt as stiff as a god of stone now.

He lifted his eyes to the blue sky again. If I was a praying man, I’d ask You Who Lives in the skies to help. But I’m sure You have more important things on Your mind so I won’t bother. His thoughtful frown turned into a scowl, Besides, I’m not supposed to believe in God. All my family doesn’t, so why should I? He stopped and a little voice nagged him, Aren’t tough enough, are you? Then why are you talking to Him now? Are you afraid? Weak? Defeated? He clenched his jaws, mentally wiping his thoughts back. He was not afraid, nor weak, nor defeated. He was being transferred, a dream he had secretly hidden since the day he had arrived on Patmos.

Seven years ago, he'd been eighteen—young, eager and pleased to be chosen for work outside of his native Italy. But now, he was not returning to his homeland. He was going to the nearby portal city of Smyrna, Lydia. Rough territory. He took a deep breath, nettled from that little voice that had nagged him. He was not afraid. He bristled himself with these words, Never fear the unknown. Let the unknown fear you!

~

“O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted,” Junius Gaius read from the Sacred Scrolls, “behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colors… All thy children shall be taught of the LORD, and great shall be the peace of thy children.”

In righteousness shalt thou be established, Junia listened to the words of Isaiah, carefully taking in each word. To remember later on, to be comforted by and to have the words of wisdom to say to those who needed a helping hand or cheering up. And for Tiria who was unusually solemn that week. Yes, the girl who was always happy wore a frown. The girl who was always teasing never laughed. The girl who always talked was silent. Junia felt her spit thicken. What had become of Polycarp?

Kind Polycarp…he never thought about himself. He always thought of others. Against his safety, he had preached the Gospel openly to give others a chance to be free. To live. To have a hope that no man could take away. And then in the past three months that he had been with them, he had been a constant help to everybody—including making that delicious milk-and-banana drink. My God, she felt her throat constrict and a plea rose from deep within, find Polycarp, wherever he is. Her plea gripped inside her into a scream, Help him!

~

“Where are the others?” the Roman yelled, raising his whip.

Silence echoed from the lips of the prisoner. The Roman thwacked his whip onto Polycarp’s bare back, ripping his flesh in little parts. He felt a fine patchwork of blood emerge, giving him a sticky feeling.

“What is your name?” the Roman stopped suddenly, tactfully.

“What is that to you?” Polycarp licked his swollen lips now bleeding from the impact of being whipped tied tightly to the post.

His heart pounded and his mind raced. Oh God, please tell me the others are safe! I cannot live with myself if they are not. Please God. Please? He felt his scream rise within him alongside the pain. He stared upwards, silence settling across his lips once more. Inside, his words became a blur but his heart was clear. He cried for help for his friends. Let death seal his lips into the grave, he would not betray them. They would still go on, sharing the Gospel to the ends of the earth, freeing the prisoners from the bondage of sin, opening blinded eyes to the truth of Jesus Christ. They would still go on. He had preached and had been a hand-printer of the Sacred Scrolls with Elder John and the brethren in Ephesus. He had fought the fight, finished the…

Crrrck. The whip slapped him back into the present. His knees buckled but his lips stayed shut. No earthly pain would weaken his purpose. He would stay true.

~

Junia sat up in her cot, hearing the noise again. Was that Tiria crying? She cringed. Tiria was not a crying girl. So how could she console her? It was impossible, or nearly so. She softly padded across the cool floor towards Tiria’s cot and the muffled noise grew louder. She saw Tarsus’ eyes blink open when she passed her.

Junia touched Tiria’s shoulder, and waited a few seconds.

Tiria rolled to face her, her voice croaking. “Yes?”

Junia sat on the floor beside her. “It’s hard to know…to see the future. It’s hard waiting.”

She pressed her thumb against her nose. Why did Demetrius’ face have to flash before her just now? Dark, bold, handsome—like no sculptor could produce, and his voice so sweet, kind, thoughtful. Her lips trembled and she slumped over her drawn up knees, uncomforted by the words she was going to say to Tiria.

She felt Tiria put her arm around her, and then the crying doubled. Through her tears, she heard Tarsus muttering from her cot. “If loving somebody buries your mind into your heart, I’ll pass.”

Junia cried harder.

A Few Greek Words:

Fil'os: friend

Meh'tehr: mother

Pah'tehr: father

Adher'fi: sister

Adher'fos: brother