Chapter 2

 

Nicky sat up abruptly, his breath caught in his throat, a sheen of sweat over his olive skin. He listened for a moment to the sounds emanating from the outside. Birds chirped in trees rustled by the wind. The waves of the Great Sea crashed against the sandy beach a half mile away. And distantly, he could hear the sounds of the market as merchants and customers haggled over prices. His room was set nearest the door to the family home, though in truth he could have had any room he’d wished but for the one in which his parents slept. Despite countless prayers, his parents had never been able to grant him any siblings, which meant the domus they lived in remained largely empty, except for those times when Mother or Father would open their home to strangers, travelers seeking lodging, or the occasional itinerant preacher.

But no guests inhabited their domus of late. Except for the plague. That was the only company they kept these days.

Nicky swung his legs over the side of the bed and listened more carefully. It was still early, but something had woken him. Quiet as a shadow, he rose and shuffled to the door, then opened it slowly and peered into the room.

A solitary figure sat in the atrium, the pale light from the compluvium reflecting off the man’s bald head. Even from where Nicky stood, he could tell the man was praying. It wasn’t so surprising. Many people came and prayed at the domus these days. Begging God for mercy. For healing. For answers. Sometimes, they thought they heard from the Lord. Most times, their prayers went unanswered, almost as if unheard. Still, they kept praying, as this man did now.

Nicky watched him a moment, leaning against the portal, his hands resting on the smooth surface of the column.

No, not praying. Weeping.

Nicky slipped into the atrium and cautiously approached. As he came around the side, he recognized him. “Uncle?”

His uncle lifted his head, smiling sadly back at him. “Nicky. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Nicky swallowed. “Uncle, what’s wrong? Why do you weep so?”

His uncle nodded toward his parents’ room. “Your father and mother—” he began.

“Has God healed them?”

His uncle flinched. “He’s called them home.”

Nicky frowned. “No. That cannot be.” His uncle smiled sadly. “But—we prayed. We asked God for healing. We—” Uncle Nicholas reached out for him, clutching at his hand. Nicky pulled back. “No! They’re not dead! They’re not!”

He flew past the man, ignoring his calls, and raced to the door to his parent’s bedroom. He grabbed the latch, and his hand froze there, as if it had a mind of its own.

Did he really want to see what lay on the other side of this door?

His uncle came up behind him, gently laid his hands on Nicky’s shoulders. “Don’t see this, Nicky,” he whispered, and then let go.

Nicky’s hand trembled. His vision blurred with tears. He wanted to ask ‘Why,’ but already knew the question was pointless. The Lord in His indefinable wisdom and mercy had decreed it so, and who was he to question the will of God?

“H-how?” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “How did they—”

“In their sleep. Holding hands!”

Nicky turned and flung himself into his uncle’s arms, letting his grief wash out his eyes and run down his cheeks, wracking his body with sobs. The two of them stayed there a while, clinging to one another.

And clinging to faith.

 

***

“What will you do?”

Nicky dried his eyes with the back of his hand, and pulled away to look at his uncle. The question unnerved him. What shall I do?

His father’s servants were in the bedroom now, gently washing and wrapping their bodies for burial, ever mindful of the death that stalked them in doing so. Already, a steady stream of mourners had come to pay their respects, and Nicky had dutifully stood by as they swept by him, their faces and words blending into one another till he could no longer tell them apart. The priest of Patara had scheduled the funeral for the next day, apologizing profusely for the delay, but there were so many other families who’d lost loved ones to the plague. Uncle Nicholas had taken care of everything, conferring with Epiphanius, the steward of his father’s house, and sparing Nicky many of the unpleasant details. But now he stood before Nicky, and the question he asked had nothing to do with the funeral.

Uncle Nicholas must have taken Nicky’s silence for confusion. “All that Theo and Nona worked so hard for is now yours. His ships. The house. The money.”

“I want none of it,” Nicky whispered, finding his voice. “I’d give it all away if I could have them back again.”

“As would I, were it mine to give. But that is not for us to say or decide. What we must do is decide what to do with what is left to us.”

“And what should I do?” He searched his uncle’s eyes.

“It is not my decision. Seek the Lord. Ask Him what you should do.”

“I would rather have your counsel. The Lord has not seen fit to answer my prayers of late.”

“Nicky,” Uncle chided, “do not add to their tragedy by wavering in unbelief now. Theo and Nona raised you better than this.”

“I want to believe.” His lip trembled, though no new tears would come. He’d cried himself dry. “But how can I in the face of this?”

“It is a severe test of faith, to lose your parents when you are so young. And those whom the Lord chastens so severely, He does so out of His great love. And those whom He loves so greatly, He also intends for great things.”

“So your counsel is that I should do great things for God?”

The hint of a sad smile flickered on his uncle’s lips. “No. My counsel is that God intends to do great things through you. Yield yourself to Him. Give yourself wholly unto the work of the kingdom, and in such a way you will honor your father and mother with riches that are far greater than any they’ve left you in this world.”

Nicky let his arms fall. He turned and surveyed the house, taking in the rich ochre of the columns supporting the roof, the verdant greens of the frescoes on the walls. The scenes depicted the pastures behind the domus, where his father’s field hands—no, where his field hands—worked the fields, growing food for his family and for the poor of Patara. What would become of them now? Could he, Nicky, really carry on his father’s legacy?

A new thought entered his mind, then. If all God wanted was his father’s legacy to continue as it was, then would not the Lord have been better served by keeping his father alive and at his task? He shook his head. No, if what Uncle Nicholas said was true, then God intended more for Nicky than this.

Long before he could walk or understand, his parents had dedicated him to God. Perhaps the Lord intended to claim his soul now.

A sense of peace filled him then, and he knew now that he was right. “Uncle,” he said, “I would come and live with you at the monastery. I would become a devoted brother as you are. But my parent’s generosity and kindness cannot be left to wither and die. Too many in this community have depended on them.”

“The poor—” his uncle began.

“Not just the poor,” he interrupted, “but those in my father’s employ as well. Whole livelihoods are built upon my father’s prosperity beyond his simple generosity. My father always taught me the wealthy bear great responsibility. They not only open their hand and give generously to the poor, but they also support those in their employ, and even the community and the magistrates depend upon their wealth for taxes.” He heaved a breath. “I cannot simply walk away from that responsibility.”

Uncle nodded. “A conundrum.”

Nicky blinked. It wasn’t a conundrum. Not really. His eyes flickered upward, catching Uncle’s patient gaze. “Would you be so kind as to call Epiphanius to come see me at his earliest convenience?”

 

***

Epiphanius came to him in the atrium later that evening, apologizing for the delay. Nicky waved it off. “It is no matter. Did you bring what I asked?”

Epiphanius readily handed over several scrolls. “The deeds and record of your father’s accounts, including the list of those who still owe him money.”

He unfurled the scrolls, laying them out on the low table so Nicky could see. Nicky glanced up at the sky, visible through the compluvium, and wished the man had come sooner. The sun was setting, and banded streaks of gold and magenta were fading into slate blue. It’d be too dark to see in less than an hour.

“Let’s start with debts,” Nicky said. “How much harm would come to the household if these remain unpaid?”

“Harm, sir?”

Nicky almost flinched. Epiphanius had never called him by his formal title. He only used that for Nicky’s father. He cleared his. “Would we be unable to pay wages, or buy food or other supplies?”

Epiphanius cocked his head a moment, then shook it firmly. “No. We could absorb the loss.”

“Good. Cancel them.”

“Sir?”

“The debts. Cancel them all. No one should owe a debt to a dead man. It is impossible to repay.”

“As you say, sir.” Epiphanius began making the notations.

“And now the fields, and the house. Are they sufficient? Can they sustain the current outlays without the ships?”

“I don’t quite understand—”

“I want to know whether or not the ships must be used to support the household, or if instead there is sufficient income from our fields to sustain our staff.”

“It would suffice.”

“Excellent. Last question: is there someone among our staff that you trust? Someone with ability, who could do as you do?”

Epiphanius’s jaw slackened, as if he’d forgotten how to use it.

Nicky folded his hands and rested them on his knees. “I mean to relieve you of your position.”

Epiphanius’s face lost color. “Sir, your father was always satisfied with my service.”

“Indeed. He spoke highly of you. Said he knew of none better, in fact. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“H-have I disappointed you? Offended you in some way?”

“Quite the contrary.” Nicky reached across and took the man’s hand, conscious of the callouses and strength Epiphanius bore. Still, the man’s hand trembled in his grasp. Nicky suspected he was skirting the edge of cruelty. “You have always been dear to my parents and to me. Therefore you are no longer steward of my father’s house.” He reached his other hand down and offered Epiphanius the deed. “You are now its owner.”

Epiphanius put his hand over his heart, the look of shock on his face utterly priceless. Nicky couldn’t resist a smile. The steward shook his head. “Nicky, you cannot give me this.”

“I can and I have. I only ask that you retain everyone in their current employ, for at least a year, and then conduct the business of this house as you will. You are a rich man, now. Remember the poor.”

“But what about you?”

“I will be joining my uncle at New Zion, and when I am ready, taking vows. My father and mother have done a great and mighty thing, caring for the people of this town. I entrust that work now to your care, in hopes you will carry on the tradition.”

“Gladly. Most gladly I shall!” he exclaimed. Nicky nodded and gathered the remaining papers together. Epiphanius caught his hand. “And what of your father’s ships?”

“I have my own plans for them. I will see you at the funeral on the morrow, and then I shall take my leave of you.”

“You will always be welcome here.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think I shall be coming back.”

 

***

That evening, Nicky shut the door to his room and set the oil lamp he carried on a small table. The first task was done. Tomorrow would be the funeral, and then he would finish divesting himself of his father’s wealth.

Well, he amended, setting the scrolls on the table beside the lamp, of his father’s ships, at least.

He unfurled the ledger of his father’s accounts, staring at the figure written in the last place, in Epiphanius’s careful scrawl. The sum was substantial, even after Epiphanius had adjusted the tally to account for the forgiven debts. He wondered if Uriah the banker even had such a sum on hand. The Jew lent money out at interest to those in need, and paid less interest than he received to those who, like Nicky’s father, entrusted their money to his care. Nicky recalled that his mother often expressed distaste for the whole business, but Theophanes insisted that usury wasn’t as bad as it was made out to be, and that the Jew provided a valuable service to the community.

Nicky could only imagine the difficulty that would ensue if he cashed in his father’s note all at once. Doubtless Uriah would feel compelled to call in his other debts to shore up his depleted accounts, and that would create hardship for those least able to afford it.

No, the wise thing to do was proceed slowly, perhaps by thirds or even fourths, withdrawing the money in stages so as to give the banker time to recoup his losses without rupturing the delicate balance of credit.

He rolled up the scroll and put it away, and was about to blow out the lamp when his gaze fell upon the tiny wooden ship his father had carved for him when Nicky was only six. It was a gift to remind Nicky of the strength of the vessels that carried Theophanes on those rare occasions when he went to sea himself, so that Nicky wouldn’t worry. He’d always treasured this toy above all other things.

He picked it up now, gently running his finger over the tiny lines of the carefully whittled gunwales and the slender mast in the center. If only a ship like this had been able to carry his father and mother through the sickness. He put it down quickly. It slipped off the table and fell to the floor, where the mast broke off.

Nicky felt his heart clutch, and he bent down, carefully picking the pieces off the floor. Perhaps he could repair it…

An angry snarl curled his lip. It was just a stupid toy! Of what use was it? He hurled it out the window. It sailed over the sill and vanished into the brush on the other side.

The words of Saint Paul flickered in his mind then, and he spoke them aloud. “When I was a child. I spoke as a child, thought like a child, reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I did away with childish things.”

His parents were dead. And now so was the child Nicky used to be. Toys were useless and benefited no one. He had more pressing matters to address.

A heaviness pressed down upon him, and he crawled onto his mat and blew out his lamp.

Sleep was a long time coming.

 

***

I held up my hand, impatient to interrupt but regretting it all the same. “I’m sorry. I just have a quick question, if I may.”

The Abbot’s eyes crinkled, and he gave me a bemused smile. He pulled back into his chair and folded his hands, waiting.

“It’s about the timeline.” Really, it was about a lot of things he’d said, but the timing of all this concerned me at present. I’d never heard of Patara and wondered where it was, and why life there sounded so idyllic, so Greek, and, well, ancient.

“And what about the timeline?” The Abbot seemed to know what troubled me, but was waiting for me to say so.

I cleared my throat. “How old are you?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“On how you reckon time. Or when you choose to start counting.”

“Most people start from the day of their birth.”

“Not to be impertinent, but again, I could ask which one. You could mean to ask when I was born from my mother, or more importantly, when I was born from my Father.”

I sighed. The allusion wasn’t lost on me. Not completely anyway. I had done enough time in Sunday School to recognize the idea of being ‘born again.’ What concerned me then was the fact that this man was choosing to be so evasive.

It could only mean one thing: he didn’t want talk about it. At least, not yet anyway. I could press the issue, and risk being shown the door. Or I could let him share what he would in his own time.

I’m experienced enough as a reporter to know the answer to that question, and restraining my over-developed curiosity is a critical job skill—almost as critical as the curiosity itself.

“Fine then. I withdraw the question.”

“I did ask you to refrain from asking.”

“So you did. My apologies. Please, continue.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but we were interrupted by a moan from the bed. Brother Oleg opened his eyes. Nick immediately turned and gave him his full attention, checking his temperature with the back of his hand and taking his pulse.

“Welcome back,” Nick said.

“Yah? Did I die?”

“No,” he laughed softly. “Not yet anyway.”

Oleg nodded. “I thought I would remember if I had.”

“I’m sure you would.”

Oleg’s eyes flickered to me, then back again. “Who’s this?”

“The reporter you asked for. His name is Davis.”

“Brett Davis.” I offered him my hand. “Uptown Free Press.”

Oleg’s hand moved slowly to take my own, but his mind seemed as sharp as ever. He glared reprovingly at the Abbot. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“I thought you should sleep.”

“Yah, you rascal!” He shook my hand. “How much have I missed?”

“Not much,” I said. “The Abbot was telling me about his childhood.”

“Hasn’t he gotten to the story of the three maidens?”

I eyed the Abbot, wondering who the three maidens were and how they might figure into his tale. Certain automatic suspicions seemed curiously out of place at the moment.

“Hush now,” the Abbot chided. “You’ll spoil it.”

“Well then? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.” Brother Oleg winked at me. “This is my favorite part.”