The Scribe Read Online Free Page B

Thessalonica? Hadn’t he told the story of Jesus crucified and risen to small crowds and large, some praising God, others mocking and hostile? Hadn’t he worked with Timothy in teaching the Corinthians? He had traveled thousands of miles alongside Paul, establishing churches in city after city.
    Yet, here among these friendly, hospitable brothers and sisters, he could think of nothing to say.
    Silas looked from one face to another, trying to sort his thoughts, trying to think where to start, when all he could see in his mind’s eye was Peter hanging upside down, his blood forming a growing pool beneath him.
    Everyone was looking at him, waiting, eager.
    “I fear . . .” His voice broke. He felt as though someone had clamped strong hands around his throat. He swallowed convulsively and waited until the sensation passed. “I fear I endanger you.” He spoke the truth, but doubted it commended him. “Paul is beheaded; Peter crucified. The apostles are scattered, most martyred. No one can replace these great witnesses of God. No one can speak the message of Christ as effectively as they have.”
    “You spoke effectively in Corinth,” Urbanus said. “Your every word pierced my heart.”
    “The Holy Spirit pierces you, not I. And that was a long time ago, when I was younger and stronger than I am today.” Stronger in body; stronger in faith. His eyes blurred with tears. “A few days ago in Rome, I watched a dear friend die a horrible death because he carried the testimony of God. I don’t think I can go on. . . .”
    “You were Peter’s secretary,” Patrobas said.
    Leading words. They wanted to draw him out into the open.
    “Yes, and my presence brings danger to all of you.”
    “A danger we welcome, Silas.” The others murmured agreement with Epanetus’s firm declaration.
    “Please. Teach us.” The boy spoke again.
    He was not much younger than Timothy had been the first time Silas met him. Diana looked at him with her beautiful dark eyes, so full of compassion. His heart squeezed at the sight. What could he say to make them understand what he didn’t understand himself? Oh, Lord, I can’t talk about crucifixion. I can’t talk about the cross . . . not Yours or Peter’s.
    He shook his head, eyes downcast. “I regret, I cannot think clearly enough to teach.” He fumbled with the pack beside him. “But I’ve brought letters.” Exact copies he had made from originals. He looked at Epanetus, desperate, appealing to him as host. “Perhaps someone here can read the letters.”
    “Yes. Of course.” Smiling, Epanetus rose.
    Silas took one out and, with shaking hand, presented it to the Roman.
    Epanetus read one of Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. When he finished, he held the scroll for a moment before carefully rolling it and giving it back to Silas. “We have yearned for such meat as this.”
    Silas carefully tucked the scroll away.
    “Can we read another?” Curiatus had moved closer.
    “Pick one.”
    Patrobas read one of Peter’s letters. Silas had made many copies of it and sent them to many of the churches he had helped Paul start.
    “Peter makes it clear you were a great help to him, Silas.”
    Silas was touched by Diana’s praise, and wary because of his feelings. “The words are Peter’s.”
    “Beautifully written in Greek,” Patrobas pointed out. “Hardly Peter’s native language.”
    What could he say without sounding boastful? Yes, he had helped Peter refine his thoughts and put them into proper Greek. Peter had been a fisherman, working to put food on his family’s table. While Peter had toiled over his nets, Silas had sat in comfort, yoked to an exacting rabbi who demanded every word of the Torah be memorized. God had chosen Peter as one of His twelve companions. And Peter had chosen Silas to be his secretary. By God’s grace and mercy, Silas had accompanied Peter and his wife on their journey to Rome. He would be forever humbled and thankful for the years he spent