The driver held loosely to the reins as the sweating mule moved wagon, driver, passenger and box, down the jarring waterfront where a ship was being laded. Recently, the ship had sailed from Alexandria, and after a circuitous voyage of more than two thousand miles, would thence return. Or, at least, that was the intention of its owner, and the obligation of its captain. But these leagues were yet ahead of its prow, and who is to know the future or, who is to know what lurks in the mists of the deep?

A dock worker, his full, red beard matted with dried spittle, approached the wagon; his body thick, hands like a troll, covered with hair, two fingers missing along with several yellow teeth, one was eye closed. "Oove ye 'orse over 'ere," he commanded, dropping his consonants, and pointing what remained of his fingers to a spot on the wharf. A large hawser hung from the wooden beam of a crane, an iron hook attached to its business end. As the wagon pulled into position, the dock-walloper yanked the heavy hawser to suspend directly over the box, now strapped with ropes in order to lift it. He slipped the hook into the O-ring and turned to the crane operator, giving a universal, thumbs-up sign.

"Careful how you handle that box!" cried the old gentleman. "It contains precious, fragile cargo."

"Min' yer own earwax, yer ol' mule-fart!" replied the dockman, "an I'll min' mine!" The copper box swung up and over the gunwale of the ship, and down into the blackness of the hold. The old man looked concerned, but turned and made his way up the gangplank.

"Yes," muttered the object of the dockmans scorn. A mule-fart? thought he. More like a fly-fart in a gale. Such is the consequence of my life. He had no justifiable reason to take such a view of himself. He was a man of honor and integrity. In fact, he had done much in his life for which to take satisfaction, and much for which to feel pride. Yet, he was continually nagged by the notion that he was unworthy. He was met at the gunwale by the ship's clerk who examined his credentials, checking them against the ship's manifest, and who advised him of his assigned berth.

After stowing his gear, the elderly gentleman wandered out again on deck. It was a beautiful day on a substantial ship, perhaps 230 feet long and 75 feet from beam to beam. White clouds scudded through bright blue skies. She was constructed of mortised plankings, cedar and other woods, using treenails (a wooden dowel pin that swells when wet) to fasten them together, and pitch for caulking the seams, in the manner of superb Egyptian artisanship. Two masts, a large one set just forward of amidships, and another smaller set aft of the foc'sle, a single canvas on each mast. Above her prow, curved the sleek neck of a white swan, crafted to the very image of the real thing pushing through serene waters, perhaps a talisman to conjure a promise of smooth sailing. Together, there were ample quarters for almost 300 souls, including the rowers below decks, and 30 tons of cargo. Most of that, it seemed, was great stores of wheat.

He stood at the rail, adjusting his robes, when a disturbance occurred on the quay. Three soldiers and a centurion, by the look of him, were escorting a man toward the gangplank. There was a crowd, shouting and surging around the man. Some seemed to favor him, others in angry opposition. The old man narrowed his eyes. A vague awareness of recognition came over him. Looking deeper into the crowd, he recognized a second person. The first was the celebrated evangelist, Paul, formerly known as Saul of Tarsus, and the other was Lucian, the physician. Although he was not shackled or in chains, Paul was clearly in the custody of the Roman centurion. They were surrounded by a mob of thirty or forty men, shouting and shoving. The soldiers had their hands full.

The centurion strode up the gangway and addressed the ships clerk at the rail, "I am Julian, centurion to Caesar." The clerk dipped his head in respect. "I bring with me Saul of Tarsus, also known as Paul, a leader of the Christian sect. He is my prisoner and I escort him to Rome for audience with Caesar."

"Prisoner?" inquired the clerk, somewhat frightened. "Why is he not in irons?"

"This prisoner is no flight risk, nor is he a threat to anyone. He is but an expounder of annoying words." The centurion seemed impatient with the clerks question. "He will cause no trouble aboard ship. Here are my credentials for passage." He handed the clerk his documents. Again, the clerk examined his manifest.

"It says here that the prisoner is to be manacled and quartered in the brig."

"He will not be manacled while in my custody," said the centurion flatly. "Nor will he be quartered in the ships gaol. He remains with me, in my sight at all times."

"You will be mindful, sir, that the Captain of this vessel will make such decisions."

The centurion smiled sardonically. "Then you will summon him here." The clerk appeared unsettled and confused. "Now!" Then the ship's man found the good sense to know that he had heard the voice of authority.

Still, he hesitated, "I must . . ."

"Move!"

The clerk disappeared toward the aft cabin. In a moment he returned with a burly looking fellow, full-bearded and with the epaulets of captaincy on his shoulders. He took one look at the centurion and cried, "Julian! What in the name of the fires of hell are you doing aboard my vessel?" The captain was grinning as though he had encountered a long, lost friend. Which, indeed, he had.

As he adjusted his robes, he could not help but notice how threadbare they had become, how gray from repeated washings. Thoughts came at random. He thought of the events which had led him to this hour, this place. He had spent the last fifteen years of his life writing about it or, was it sixteen? He couldnt remember. It had started one day when he reminisced, enjoying a few memories of his time with the Master. He remembered that it was evening and growing dark outside, that he had lit a few candles, retrieved some blank parchment, dipped his quill and begun to write. So long ago, it seemed, and the memories he penned? Even longer.

Now, as the ship's prow pointed southwest, sails filled with wind, and as the quay receded in the distance, his mind returned to this amazing coincidence of being on the same ship with the man called Paul. He believed, that with God, there were no "coincidences." This inevitable encounter had to be divinely arranged. He wondered where it would go? A step at a time . . . We'll see . . . The horizon beckoned, winds soft, almost non-existent; an occasional luff in the sails, the ship creaked gently, the splash of its prow a comforting sound.

The day passed uneventfully. The next day, the day after that and the day after that. Sight of land was lost, but at the imperceptible rate the ship sailed, it couldn't be far off to starboard. Myra, the point of embarkation, had disappeared days ago. The ship continued to loll about in almost calm waters. Sails, ruffling. Seabirds hanging motionless in the air. Sweating men straining against oars dipping rhythmically, biting the sea. Lethargically, the ship loitered through the waters.

At length, a breeze picked up, sails filled and the white swan dipped her breast into dancing whitecaps. Headway began. But then the wind shifted. The ship jibed. The wind shifted. The ship tacked. The wind shifted yet again. Waves, confused by the changing wind, crashed into one another. The ship lurched and wallowed. Strong winds, navigable, but strong, began to blow. Unrelenting, they shifted yet again, and again after that. Going was difficult, perhaps, impossible. Ship, passengers and cargo were getting nowhere. After days of seeming floundering, the island of Crete was sighted in the distance. Tiller angled for land, oarsmen commanded to pull, and at length, the ship put in at Good Harbor, which served the town of Lacea.

Almost everyone disembarked, glad and grateful to get their feet accustomed once again to solid ground. The elderly passenger stayed aboard ship. "Come, old fellow!" said one of the departing crew to him, "Come, and let us rest from this infernal sea. Come, and break a skin of good wine."

"You go, sir. Enjoy yourself. I stay aboard ship until I reach my destination."

"And where might that be?"

"Alexandria, Egypt."

"Alexandria! By way of Italy? This ship sails for Rome, old friend. You will be sick of her by then. You should be sick of her now!"

"I have cargo," replied the old man. "I do not wish to leave it." Mumbling to himself about the shrunken world of the elderly, the crewman made his way down the gangplank to the quay.

He did, indeed, ask himself why he had chosen such a circuitous route to his destination, instead of the more direct route across the Great Sea. It was hard to determine a good reason. He loved life on board ship and often wondered why he did not choose a life at sea. But, with favorable winds, this voyage should only take a little over two weeks of actual sailing, not counting time in ports of call. He looked forward to the journey and the smell of sea and salt.

And then he thought of what he had done. He often wondered how God valued what he had done. It was the culmination of his entire life, especially those four years with his Lord and friend. Now, it was all recorded. These scrolls and the time he had invested in them meant more to him in terms of the purpose of his life, than anything else he had done. It was, he believed, God's intention and purpose for his existence.

Now, for their preservation, he was taking them to the great library at Alexandria, Egypt. Of course, he knew that the library had burned thanks to the carelessness of Julius Caesar over a hundred years ago. Caesar had deliberately set fire to his own ships in an attempt to thwart the treachery of Mark Antony, one of his own generals. The fire from one of the ships docked too close to the library, accidentally setting the great repository of ancient literature afire. Countless documents had been destroyed, but not all. Many priceless scrolls were saved and stored in a Temple known as the Serapeum where scholars continued to labor among the cherished texts. It was among these that he thought to place his own. This is the place they should live, thought he. Here, in this daughter library, they will be preserved until someday, perhaps, someday . . .

Owing to the season, (the autumn equinox had passed), they anticipated treacherous seas. Wintering on the sea was not a pleasant prospect. There was much discussion among the crew as to whether to winter in the harbor or continue on. The prisoner, Paul, who was not being treated like a prisoner, weighed in on the issue: "Cast out to sea, and the ship is doomed. We will all perish, every mother's son of us." This made us all feel better.

The ship's captain rolled his eyes and looked at the man of God with the tolerance one gives a child who believes he can command the waves on the beach. "What do you think?" asked the centurion of the captain. "I think I prefer the opinion of a sea-faring professional, than that of a religious philosopher."

"He is right about one thing," said the captain. "The going will be rough. Still, I have never seen the storm that could best me and my crew, not to speak of my ship. She's Egyptian. She can deal with any Euroclydon this sea can offer. The swan will guide us. We sail at daybreak!"

Religious philosopher? The thought provoked disdain in the old man's mind. This man Paul is more than a religious philosopher. He may be the 13th apostle! Or, so some think.

"May I intrude on your thoughts?" The question interrupted his reverie as he had been watching the swelling waves, watching the seabirds hover, watching the clouds scudding darker and darker. He turned to see who had spoken.

You!

"I may be a prisoner, sir, but I will not harm you. It is for what I preach that I am in the custody of Rome. I am not a robber, thief, or a murderer--at least not anymore," he thought quietly.

He calmed himself after the initial shock that the apostle had spoken to him. "I know you to be none of these things, sir. I know who you are."

"Have we met? You do seem familiar."

"We have not met. At least not formally. I was present when you were introduced to the apostles in Antioch. We barely made eye-contact."

"Yes! You were there! I remember seeing you. You were . . . we both were younger then." The old man smiled at the apostle's observation.

"I am older than you might think, Paul of the Epiphany. I know how you have served the Lord all these years. I know you bear his scars; scars I am ashamed to say, I have not borne."

"The disfigurement and scabs I bear, dear friend, are but badges of honor in my service to Jesus Christ. And your shame is unfounded, sir. Though I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus, that you have none is no sign that you are one whit of less importance to him, or God forbid, that you are loved less."

"I long most to be his servant; no matter the cost, no matter the consequence."

"Paul of the Epiphany?" responded the apostle with a smile. "So you know of my experience on the highway to Damascus." It was a statement, not a question. "Then, indeed, you were there when I met the twelve. You know of James, the Lord's brother. You know of Peter, John and the others."

"Yes, I not only know of them, brother, I know them all personally and intimately. Or, at least, I thought I did." His eyes turned down and away.

"I take it then, that you are a follower of The Way."

"If that is what you wish to call it, yes."

"What would you call it?"

The old man seemed lost in thought for a moment. Pensive. Observing, evaluating the undulating horizon as if it had something to say. "I am a follower of Jesus of Nazareth, sir. He is my King, my Lord, my Savior and my God. He was, he is my friend, my brother, my kinsman."

"Then we have much of which to speak."

"Perhaps, sir, but not now." The old man rose from his seat, leaned on his staff which he used to steady himself and began to move away. "These bones are old, stiff and sore. The brain I carry in my head is tired. It needs rest." And with that Paul the apostle was left to wonder.

Beneath the baggage, and buried under other assorted passenger paraphernalia, the copper-encased box rested. Three feet square, the box was completely encased with copper, a durable, but malleable metal. There was a lid, or a cover, which separated from the main body of the box about eight inches down from the top, the seam being filled with molten tin and allowed to harden. In order to open the box, the tin had to be melted again with an iron, heated to red-hot. The flashpoint of the wood beneath the seam, had only to be slightly lower than the tin. This was an excellent method of sealing the wood beneath a coating of copper. It would allow no entry of insect, rodent or pest, or humidity, or even briny water. It was, indeed, effectively sealed.

Inside the box, packed in washed sand, there stood fixed a large, impressively adorned urn, its lid tightly sealed with resin. And inside the urn, wrapped in dry cloths, was the old man's treasure of memories, more important to him than his own life.

Sails fill again with whistling wind. Whitecaps send ocean spray into the air. Taste the salt on your lips. There are fewer trailing seagulls. Swells in the water become larger. Troughs deeper. Clouds darker. There is a serious, almost ominous tension among the crew. The captain is often seen observing the weather, a look of concern, if not worry, on his face. Were you standing near him, you would strain to hear him say, perhaps sense him thinking, "Euroclydon."

A knock on the door of his cabin. The apostle looked at the opaque passageway. "Come," said he. The door opened and the old man entered the small room that served as quarters for the apostle's voyage. Paul smiled. It was good to have a brother believer with him. Perhaps they could talk. Perhaps they could pray together. Without waiting to be invited, the old man sat down at the table, his gaze looking deep into the eyes of the famous prisoner.

"Why do you do it?"

"Why do I do what?" responded Paul, a bit nonplussed at the old man's directness.

"Why do you go about organizing believers? Why bishops and elders? Why do you place men in authority among the sheep? Are they not all sheep? And do flocks of sheep have bishops among them?" Paul's eyebrows lifted. The questions did not seem accusatory. The old gentleman seemed truly curious. Still, Paul felt his emotions shift. The questions elicited a measure of discomfort. The ship lurched.

"Flocks of sheep need a shepherd," replied Paul.

"True, but the shepherd is not a sheep. Did not Jesus declare himself to be the Shepherd?" The older man was not done. "And why men with short hair, and women with long hair? What possible relevance can the length of one's hair have to one's relationship with God? And, why, if, in the beginning, God created man and woman to become one flesh, do you relegate marriage to a secondary, or an inferior way of life? And why, after accusing Peter of dissembling, did you do the same thing with our brother, Timothy?

"You appear to know me better than I know you." The apostle's brow furrowed. "You have read my writings. Then you must know, I am not a perfect man. I am not our Lord Jesus."

"Apparently."

"I am the chief of sinners."

"No, brother Paul, you are not. You are no more or less a sinner than any of us." The apostle did not know whether to be indignant and defensive, or to face these issues squarely, or to feel comforted.

"Since you know me so well," Paul's tone tainted not without an edge of sarcasm, "please advise me of what I really am."

His visitor did not hesitate. "You are likely the most brilliant and spiritually sensitive follower of Jesus Christ among us. You have seen things, whether in body or in spirit, that no one else has seen. You are one of God's chosen servants. You bear in your body the marks, the cost of following our Lord. I deeply admire you, respect you, and brother, though we are just beginning to know one another, I feel deep affection and love for you."

"Then why do you question my teachings?"

"Are my questions not legitimate? Are you not a man? By your own words you confess to being a sinner like the rest of us. Do not sinners sin?"

"I sin. I sin indeed. Every day, it seems, I deal with sins I cannot shake. But if you have read my letters, then you know that I trust in his grace and forgiveness. I believe his strength is made perfect in my weakness." The wind outside the cabin shrieked through the rigging. The ship heaved and rolled. Shouts outside, interrupted and truncated by things crashing, shattering, splintering on deck.

"I do know that, dear friend. I also trust in his grace and forgiveness. Like you, I have also written words of him, and I often struggle with the likelihood that I have written things prompted by my own biases, than prompted by the Spirit of God."

At this, the apostle smiled. "Then, with all my heart, I embrace you, old friend." Paul's eyes seemed as if they were about to fill with tears, as if finding at last a brother who understood both his writings, and himself. "It has just occurred to me, I do not yet know your name."

"I am Joseph, son of Sabbas. My friends call me Justus."