The Scribe Read Online Free

saying?”
    Silas mumbled into his hands. “Jesus died for our sins and was raised from the grave on the third day. . . .” But all he could see was the Lord on the cross, Paul beheaded, Peter crucified. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
    “He’s ill.”
    “Shhhh . . .”
    “Silas.” A firm hand this time, a Roman hand. A tray laden with food was set before him. Epanetus and Patrobas encouraged him to eat. Silas took bread in trembling hands and tore it. This is My body. . . . He held the two halves, shaking. “Do I dare eat of it?”
    Whispers of concern.
    Epanetus poured wine into a cup and held it out to him. “Drink.” Silas stared at the red fluid. This is My blood. . . . He remembered Jesus on the cross, blood and water pouring from the spear wound in His side. He remembered Peter hanging upside down.
    Pain gripped his chest. His heart raced faster and faster. The room grew dark.
    “Silas!”
    He heard the roaring of the Roman mob. Hands grabbed hold of him. So be it, Lord. If I die, there will be an end of suffering. And rest. Please, Lord. Let me rest.
    “Silas . . .” A woman’s voice this time. Close. He felt her breath on his face. “Don’t leave us. . . .”
    Voices above and around him, and then no sound at all.

    Silas roused, confused. A clay lamp burned on a stand. Someone came close. A cool hand rested on his brow. Silas groaned and closed his eyes. His throat squeezed tight and hot.
    A strong arm slid beneath him and raised him. “Drink.” Macombo held a cup to Silas’s lips.
    Something warm and sweetened with honey.
    “A little more. It will help you sleep.”
    Silas remembered and struggled to rise. “Where are they? Where . . . ? The letters!”
    “Here.” Macombo lifted the pack.
    Silas took it and clutched it close, sighing as he lay back on the bed.
    “No one will take anything from you, Silas.”
    Voices came and went, along with dreams. Paul spoke to him across a campfire. Luke dressed his wounds. They sang as they followed the Roman road. He awakened to footsteps and fell asleep again. Paul paced, agitated, and Silas shook his head. “If you will but rest, my friend, and pray, the words will come.”
    Voices again, familiar now. Macombo and Epanetus.
    “To whom does he speak?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Silas . . .”
    He opened his eyes. A woman stood with the sunlight at her back. When she came close, he frowned. “I don’t know you.”
    “I’m Diana. You’ve been sleeping a long time.”
    “Diana . . .” He tried to remember. He had seen her face, but where?
    She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll just sit with you awhile.”
    “How is he?” Epanetus spoke from somewhere close.
    “He has no fever.”
    “Pain?”
    “His dreams trouble him.”
    Time passed; how much, Silas didn’t know or care. He awakened again to voices in the corridor outside the room.
    “It’s not just exhaustion that makes him sleep so long. It’s grief.”
    “Give him time. He will find his strength in the Lord.”
    Murmuring and then Macombo’s voice. “He seems little interested in food or drink.”
    “I heard him speak in Corinth,” said Urbanus, the pirate merchant who sold the best dates in the empire. “He was magnificent. Think of the honor the Lord has bestowed on us by sending him here. Silas saw Jesus in the flesh.”
    “And saw Him crucified.” Patrobas spoke with quiet firmness.
    “And risen! We’ve only heard about the Lord. We never saw Him face-to-face. We never ate with Him or walked with Him. . . .”
    Silas put his arm over his eyes.
    “Let him rest a little longer before you try to wake him. It’s only been three days, and he’s endured more than any of us. . . .”
    Three days! No matter how much Silas might long to escape the sorrow of this world, he could not will himself to heaven. He reached down. The pack of precious scrolls lay beside him. His body ached as he sat up. He rubbed his face. His joints and