father’s, and was very thankful that his uncle had preserved these few possessions for him.
Much of the basket contained threadbare clothing, along with one pair of sandals. There were the tools of his trade as a scribe, the quill and wood pens wrapped carefully in a soft leather pouch, and tied with a leather strap. Several scrolls were nestled in a wooden box. Antonius removed them and started to read.
The first was a letter Achalichus had started to write to his wife, Antonius’ mother, who was in Israel, still in their village. While he was writing the letter, it appeared that he received word that she had died, and the letter changed from a missive about his journeys with Paul to a sad and bittersweet goodbye to his beloved. He had not seen her in four years, but he still held love in his heart, and it brought tears to Antonius’ eyes to read the heartfelt goodbye. Neither Antonius nor Achalichus knew if she had accepted Yeshua as the Messiah… and that familiar ache returned as he read the letter.
The second was an inventory of sorts, listing what supplies had been purchased, and for what cost, for one of the missionary journeys. He didn’t see a reason his father had saved this scroll, other than as a reminder of those heady days of joys and persecution with Paul and Barnabas and Timothy. He smiled to think of them, traveling and making converts wherever they went. It must have been an amazing time.
He wondered at the third letter, as it was dictated by Paul himself, to the Church in Jerusalem. Apparently it had never been delivered, a victim of the persecutions no doubt. Written in Paul’s clear voice, it was merely a congratulations on the appointment of Peter as their bishop. It was unfortunate that the letter had not arrived to encourage the people, as they were always sorely in need.
He rolled the scroll back up and opened the last one in the box, which was a sad reminder of the mental deterioration his father had undergone. It was written in the handwriting of a child, random words and symbols, with no meaning whatsoever.
Keeping the other three scrolls in the box, Antonius threw the last one in the fire. That was not how he wanted to remember his father, and not how he wanted his children to know him. He packed the basket back up, hefted it to his shoulder, and went out to the courtyard to join his cousins as they worked on their boat. He set it near the door, and put his cloak on it. Soon he would go home to Sicilia, but for now, he would enjoy his family.
Rome
AD 264
Camillus burst into the bishop’s apartments, sweating and out of breath. He had walked as swiftly as he was able through the market crowd, fearing the dreadful temper of the man who was second only to the new Pope. In fact, the mood of Bishop Iraneaus had been made considerably worse by the election of Dionysius as the Bishop of Rome three months before. A man of power and grasping aspiration, Iraneaus had coveted the appointment for himself. After, that is, Emperor Valerian had been executed and the new emperor, Gallienus, had issued his “edict of tolerance.” Increasing Rome’s treasury was probably the motive for such permissiveness rather than religious generosity, but it had ended the persecution nonetheless.
“You are late,” Iraneaus said, looking at the priest down his patrician nose. Camillus bowed and nodded his apology.
“Yes, your grace. I apologize.” He kept his eyes focused on a cracked marble tile at his feet. A full minute passed, and the young man could feel the bishop’s eyes on him.
“And have you no reason for this?” Iraneaus finally asked impatiently.
“It was a personal matter, sir. My brother had need of me, and his home is some distance from the city. It will not happen again.”
“Indeed,” Iraneaus said as he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. He tidied his already obsessively neat writing desk, putting a quill and parchment to the side. “We have much to do today, and now
Much of the basket contained threadbare clothing, along with one pair of sandals. There were the tools of his trade as a scribe, the quill and wood pens wrapped carefully in a soft leather pouch, and tied with a leather strap. Several scrolls were nestled in a wooden box. Antonius removed them and started to read.
The first was a letter Achalichus had started to write to his wife, Antonius’ mother, who was in Israel, still in their village. While he was writing the letter, it appeared that he received word that she had died, and the letter changed from a missive about his journeys with Paul to a sad and bittersweet goodbye to his beloved. He had not seen her in four years, but he still held love in his heart, and it brought tears to Antonius’ eyes to read the heartfelt goodbye. Neither Antonius nor Achalichus knew if she had accepted Yeshua as the Messiah… and that familiar ache returned as he read the letter.
The second was an inventory of sorts, listing what supplies had been purchased, and for what cost, for one of the missionary journeys. He didn’t see a reason his father had saved this scroll, other than as a reminder of those heady days of joys and persecution with Paul and Barnabas and Timothy. He smiled to think of them, traveling and making converts wherever they went. It must have been an amazing time.
He wondered at the third letter, as it was dictated by Paul himself, to the Church in Jerusalem. Apparently it had never been delivered, a victim of the persecutions no doubt. Written in Paul’s clear voice, it was merely a congratulations on the appointment of Peter as their bishop. It was unfortunate that the letter had not arrived to encourage the people, as they were always sorely in need.
He rolled the scroll back up and opened the last one in the box, which was a sad reminder of the mental deterioration his father had undergone. It was written in the handwriting of a child, random words and symbols, with no meaning whatsoever.
Keeping the other three scrolls in the box, Antonius threw the last one in the fire. That was not how he wanted to remember his father, and not how he wanted his children to know him. He packed the basket back up, hefted it to his shoulder, and went out to the courtyard to join his cousins as they worked on their boat. He set it near the door, and put his cloak on it. Soon he would go home to Sicilia, but for now, he would enjoy his family.
Rome
AD 264
Camillus burst into the bishop’s apartments, sweating and out of breath. He had walked as swiftly as he was able through the market crowd, fearing the dreadful temper of the man who was second only to the new Pope. In fact, the mood of Bishop Iraneaus had been made considerably worse by the election of Dionysius as the Bishop of Rome three months before. A man of power and grasping aspiration, Iraneaus had coveted the appointment for himself. After, that is, Emperor Valerian had been executed and the new emperor, Gallienus, had issued his “edict of tolerance.” Increasing Rome’s treasury was probably the motive for such permissiveness rather than religious generosity, but it had ended the persecution nonetheless.
“You are late,” Iraneaus said, looking at the priest down his patrician nose. Camillus bowed and nodded his apology.
“Yes, your grace. I apologize.” He kept his eyes focused on a cracked marble tile at his feet. A full minute passed, and the young man could feel the bishop’s eyes on him.
“And have you no reason for this?” Iraneaus finally asked impatiently.
“It was a personal matter, sir. My brother had need of me, and his home is some distance from the city. It will not happen again.”
“Indeed,” Iraneaus said as he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. He tidied his already obsessively neat writing desk, putting a quill and parchment to the side. “We have much to do today, and now
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