DAMASCUS TO ARABIA
“THAT’S HIM!”
“Halt!”
“That horse belongs to the Sanhedrin!”
“Stop him!”
But on my simple command, the stallion instantly returned to the magnificent form I’d remembered. He thundered away from the wall and onto the well-worn path, causing sojourners into the city to scatter. He deftly pivoted around those who heard his pounding hooves too late and would have otherwise been trampled.
The shouting, clanging guards faded quickly. I peeked back to see they had resorted to their own mounts, but by the time they reached top speed, Theo had hopelessly outdistanced them. I would love to think I was steering my charger to this prodigious feat, but no doubt he barely felt my death grip on his mane or my bony, bowed knees in his sides.
I was hardly steering. I was hanging on for my life.
And he wasn’t mine anyway, was he? I had indeed stolen a horse that belonged to the Sanhedrin. I would have to make that right. But how? I didn’t even know where I would find my next meal. Strangely, in the excitement, my hunger had subsided. And unless I was mistaken, the horse felt full size and full strength beneath me. Had someone been exercising him? I would have guessed he’d lost up to two dozen pounds when first I’d seen him. What had put him back on his feed?
Theo had reached a speed as fast as I had ever ridden him in a saddle, and without one I would not have expected even to stay astride. But he had also settled into such a strong rhythm that I felt one with him, rocking with his pace and feeling none of the discomfort I expected from his bristly coat.
Clear of pursuers and encountering no one else coming toward Damascus, I eased my grip on Theo’s mane and expected his gait to slow. But no. He rushed on. We had been at full gallop for little more than twenty minutes when we neared Kaukab, about twelve miles south. This was the stretch where my Lord Christ had confronted me and my horse had thrown me and landed on his side.
Surely this memory would slow him. But either Theo didn’t recognize the spot or didn’t care, for he surged on. It was as if he had a mind of his own, a destination only he knew, and I would find out when we got there. We flew past Kaukab and soon left the road and angled southeast, hurtling over rougher, rockier terrain without slowing.
This could not be good. Was Theo spooked? Would he sprint until he collapsed? Then where would I be—in the middle of nowhere with no resources and a spent horse? I gently tugged him to the right, trying to urge him back toward the road of the trade route, where I knew we would eventually come to a place I could rest and water him.
But he ignored my prods and stayed his own course. What was I to do when I needed to eat or relieve myself? He could hold out much longer than I, so it made no sense to wait until he flagged. Without money I would have to find berries or a way to trap small game or locate a body of water where I could devise a way to catch fish.
Half an hour later, as Theo dashed on through the night, I wondered if I would have to leap off. He showed no signs of slowing, and when I reached to feel for foamy sweat on his flanks, I detected none. How was this possible? I soon realized that I felt none of the effects of the exertion either. I should have been pouring sweat as well. My muscles should have ached, my heart should have been pounding, my breath short, my fingers cramped, my knees and elbows worn raw.
Yet I felt fresh, strong, rested, as if I had enjoyed a long night’s sleep. My only ordeal had been vexation, worry over what to do next. I had agonized over how I would stop, where I would stop, where I would eat, what I would eat, where I would rest, how I would water and feed the horse, how I would keep him on course, but on what course? I had no idea where I was going.
And yet Theo seemed to know. He didn’t slow, showed no hesitation.
Suddenly I felt as if God Himself were telling me I should relax and trust my horse. Tearing over rough terrain at top speed bareback, I had not come close to being thrown. I had been vigilant, eyes alert, squinting into the night. Now I leaned forward and rested my cheek on the back of my hand in his mane and let his fast, steady rhythm soothe me.
An hour later I realized I had been actually dozing as we flew past a way station on the trade route and men called out.
“Slow down!”
“You’ll kill that horse!”
“You all right, man?”
I waved and settled back in. Theo sprinted on without effort, so seemingly unaware I was even astride him that I was able to stop worrying about my safety or where he was taking me. Clearly this was of God. He had a plan. Escape had been my aim. Hours into this miraculous flight I was devoid of concern and only looked forward to whatever destination He had in mind.
It struck me that I had actually slept, unaware of how long, and had not suffered from the chill of the black night. Theo’s gait never waned, even when I felt the softening of the earth, breathed in moist air, and realized he was kicking sand in high plumes behind us. He had set his nose on a direct route about twenty feet from the edge of the Red Sea, heading due south.
When the western horizon to my right began to lighten to the faintest pastels, I comprehended that the magnificent animal had been at this for more than ten hours. How long would he go? How far might he take me in the light and heat of the day? Still I felt no discomfort, no hunger, no call of nature, no fatigue. Whatever God was doing, He had imbued us both with ceaseless power.
A dozen Roman cavalrymen, swords drawn and standard flapping, surged from a thicket of trees about forty yards to my left. They galloped directly into my path and stopped in a line, anchored at the middle by a taut, wiry, gray-haired man, the reins of a white stallion in one fist and the other raised over his head.
“Halt in the name of the emperor!” he thundered. “Saul of Tarsus?”
Hopelessly outnumbered, I yanked Theo’s mane to stop him and trusted God to protect me. But my horse was having none of this! He slowed not a whit but flew between the man and his number two as I yelled, “Whoa! Whoa!”
“I am General Decimus Calidius Bal—after him!”
Now I was torn. A Roman citizen, I fully intended to obey a general who knew my name, yet my horse had already proven to be under the authority of the creator God. His response to my commands was to sprint, and I was tempted to urge him on.
Clearly, this general’s horses were also thoroughbreds, as his garrison quickly drew alongside Theo.
“Are you Saul of Tarsus?” he called out.
There was no point in pretending otherwise. “I am!”
“I am General Decimus Calidius Balbus, ordering you to halt in the name of the emperor!”
Again I pulled on Theo’s mane and shouted, “Whoa!” And again my horse ignored me.
I smiled apologetically at the general and shrugged. He did not appear amused. “Stop that horse or you’ll both suffer the consequences!”
I went through the motions again, to no avail.
The general drew his sword and swung mightily at my neck. I ducked, and the blade caught Theo just below his left ear, drawing blood, making him skid to a stop, wheel around, and rear, front hooves flailing at the general, whose own horse whinnied and shied while the others surrounded us.
“You’re under arrest!” General Balbus shouted, and I resisted the urge to respond, It doesn’t appear so.
Theo continued to thrash until he spied an opening in the circle of armed horsemen and dashed away again, the Romans in pursuit. I merely hung on, shrugging at General Balbus’ threats as he and his men stayed a few feet off Theo’s heels for nearly twenty more minutes. I reached to feel the wound above the patch of drying blood only to find no opening in the skin. I caressed the coarse hide and the blood flaked away.
As had been the case since we’d left Damascus, Theo never slowed. Occasionally I peeked back at Roman horses foaming with sweat, mouths agape and gasping. Gradually the soldiers fell off the pace, drifting farther and farther back, the general’s voice growing fainter, though his threats sounded no less passionate. Theo edged closer to the water where he kicked up wet sand and gentle waves covered our tracks.
When I no longer heard hoofbeats behind us, I looked to find that Balbus and his men had dismounted and huddled in a circle. But the general did not appear the type who would give up the chase for long.
With Theo still rolling on, all I could do was thank God and leave the endpoint and the outcome to Him. When my fear subsided I was content to reflect. Not so many days before I had been what my new friend Ananias had so eloquently called “dead in trespasses and sins,” so deeply entrenched that not only did I not see them as such, I also thoroughly believed in my own righteousness. It had taken a miracle to blot out the old and make all things new. I had gone from a life of fully believing I was serving God by tormenting and even killing people who believed Jesus was the Messiah to being converted by Christ Himself. I had traveled to Damascus as one person, arrived there as someone else entirely, and now fled to I knew not where to become I knew not what.
If this stunned people who knew me only by reputation, imagine what it was like for me to have planned to barge into temples to harass believers in Jesus, only to arrive there and proclaim that He was indeed the Messiah.
Would I ever be able to return home? If I was cursed in Damascus, I was anathema in Jerusalem. I longed to meet the original disciples of Jesus, to sit at their feet, hear their stories, learn from them, serve with them. But would they believe I’d become their brother? Would I get the chance the convince them? All I wanted was the privilege of trying.
Clearly, that was not where God was sending me now. And also clearly, I would not be without opposition.