Authors: Tim Lahaye 7 Jerry B. Jenkins
Luke's Story (2 page)
“Oh, yes, sir, I know. No one else I know, in my station I mean, is able to learn and to read and—if I may say—to be involved in so much that goes on around here.”
Theophilus leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “There are those who ’s mother had always had a lightness in her step, despite that her eyes bore a weary sadness. Neither of his parents had ever mentioned it, but the old physician had confided to Loukon that his mother had borne three children besides himself, none of whom had survived.
“Two preceded you, Luke,” the old man said, as he was teaching Loukon about childbirth. “Born dead. The other lived about a week and died when you were a year old. Some women are just not destined to bear many living children. In the case of your mother, it was for the best.”
“For the best? Why?”
“They were all female offspring.”
Loukon nodded. He would have enjoyed having a brother, even a sister. When he interacted with the young maidens on the property, he sometimes imagined them as sisters. Other times he imagined them as potential wives, of course. But the doctor was right: it was probably just as well his sisters had not lived. The world was no place for a woman.
The joke around the place was that slaves had slaves too—their wives. While Loukon’s mother was most industrious and seemed to take pride in managing the tiny household—besides her all-day work in Theophilus’s gardens—her husband made all the decisions. Loukon had heard her counsel him and discuss things with him, and perhaps at times he listened to her and even deferred to her. Yet always the last word was his.
“I’m sorry,” the physician said. “I assumed you knew. Please, let’s keep this between us.”
Loukon nodded, afraid to ask if any of his sisters had merely been left to die. The more he learned, the more capricious seemed the nature of such decisions. Husbands were expected to pick up and hold a newborn as a ritual of accepting it into the family. Even slave husbands often merely looked at a newborn daughter and walked away, in essence sentencing her to death. If she was not welcomed by him, she was to be left outside, exposed to the elements, often to become prey. Mothers wailed, siblings sobbed, fathers bore the brunt of their anger, yet still men ruled their homes without question and held sway over life and death.
Something deep within Loukon rebelled at this, though he could not imagine a thing he could do about it. He’d heard of deformed male babies and perfectly whole female babies left in the streets of Antioch. Might he someday organize other compassionate people and rescue these, raising them to be productive members of society? Oh, there were already those who scooped up these unfortunates and invested in them, feeding and clothing and housing them, even teaching them the rudiments of work. But they became mere chattel, tradable commodities.
Loukon hated nights like this when his mind remained engaged and he argued within himself about the inequities of the world. If he did not get his full complement of rest, study became difficult the next day. But what was he to do with the war within himself? On the one hand he was praised for being compassionate and told that this was one of the hallmarks of the physician. On the other, he was expected to merely accept that women and most slaves—except those fortunate enough to belong to the rs head of the family and expected to exercise his authority. As a slave, it was only behind these doors that he enjoyed such a role, so Loukon could hardly blame him.
But lately his mother had plainly slowed. Her color had changed. Loukon feared it was more than fatigue or even melancholy over being one of few women her age with only one child. And yet his father had not seemed to notice.
Loukon wished he could talk with her, ask her about herself, see if she would discuss the memories of her losses. But he had pledged to the old physician that he would not break his confidence.
Loukon knew he must sleep. He must. His tutors had been very encouraging and had passed along to the master more reports of his academic excellence. Something deep within him told him that this was no time to be presumptuous, to assume that he was going to be automatically accepted at university. He wanted to continue to learn, to maintain rigorous study habits. But that required rest, and getting his mind to slow and drift was not easy.
He crept outside and moseyed among the slaves’ quarters. The night was cool and the sky clear. As Loukon studied the expanse of stars he somehow understood how some could believe in a creator God. His intellect told him that the idea of monotheism was far-fetched, but was it not possible that a supreme being was behind all this and existed far beyond the stars?
As the lad returned to his bed, just when he believed he was getting drowsy, he heard coughing from his parents’ room. Then a sigh, and a moan. To Loukon’s amazement, the sounds of distress were coming not from his mother, but from his father. Soon he heard him rise and rush from the house, vomiting. When Loukon rose to see if he could help, he met his mother at the door. She was bearing a lamp.
“I will tend him,” she said. “Get your rest.”
“Give him some of the soothing root extract,” Loukon said. “But not too much.”
“I could use some too,” she said.
“Truly? How long has your stomach been sour?”
“Since this morning. Both of us.”
“Has anyone else complained?”
She nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me if others were suffering. Many seemed slower today. But few said anything.”
Loukon’s father dragged back in, scowling. “I’m fine,” he said. “Perhaps just something I ate.”
“Luke thinks we should take some—”
“I said I’m fine. Suit yourself if you need something, but I need quiet. The night is now short.”
As his father scuffed back to bed, Loukon’s mother found the extract. “Just a sip,” Loukon told her, “and take some with you. Father may need it after all.”
Within half an hour Loukon heard both of them moaning, then hour preserving you, along with the rest of us. Do not make me order you to come. Simply comply.”
“You would make me?”
“I would.”
Loukon wanted to lash out, to spit that the master was proving he was anything but the Greek ideal of the perfect man. What would happen if he simply returned to his parents’ hovel? Would it be the end of his status with the master, the end of his dream and his future?
An adult slave moved near him and whispered, “Do what he says, son. He could have you put to death.”
Theophilus? Never.
Legally, yes, it was his prerogative to do as he pleased with his own slaves, but Loukon could not imagine he had ever acted upon it.
Legally, yes, it was his prerogative to do as he pleased with his own slaves, but Loukon could not imagine he had ever acted upon it.
The adviser returned and whispered to the master.
“Oh, no,” Theophilus said. “We must go. Loukon, gather your papyrus. Anything else you need, we will provide at the seashore.”
“Wait! What is happening? Are my parents all right?”
“They are grave, son, but the physician himself has fallen ill.”
“Then I
must
stay! I cannot go! Who else will look after the people?”
must
stay! I cannot go! Who else will look after the people?”
“You would be supervising a mass burial, Luke. Now I must insist that you ride with us.”
“I want to stay.”
“Enough,” Theophilus said, not unkindly. “I have spoken. You will thank me one day. Now get your things and do not delay.”
Loukon knew he had no options. At least gathering up his stuff would take him home, if only briefly. He could peek in on his parents. He ran to the row of slave quarters, aware of more people writhing, much wailing and groaning.
“Do not come near me!” the physician called out as Loukon looked in while gathering his schoolwork. He grabbed an extra tunic, but it was all he could do to not get near his doctor/mentor. The man looked terrible, slumped on the bench next to the bed where Loukon’s parents lay, now deathly pale and motionless.
“I want to stay and help,” Loukon said. “But the master—”
“Do as he says, Luke,” the physician said. “Nothing can be done for any of us. We will all be gone by tomorrow at this time.”
“I must say goodbye to them,” Loukon said. “How can I leave without—”
“Luke, hear me. I do not expect them to survive, but I do anticipate that they will regain consciousness before their final crisis. I will tell them whatever you wish.”
“Forgive me, doctor, but you are older and frail="3">Loukon immediately sat and began to scratch with a quill at a small roll of papyrus. He was desperate to communicate love and gratitude and assurances that he would make them proud. A lump invaded his throat and his eyes filled. Meanwhile a messenger appeared in the doorway with word that the master demanded his immediate presence at the gate.
With tears streaming, Loukon reached the message in to the physician, who was looking worse by the minute. Loukon’s last view of his parents was of them lying side by side. And still.
His father and mother, like the rest of the adult slaves, could not read. Who but the dying physician himself could be entrusted with reading his message to them?
“SIT WITH ME, LUKE,” Theophilus said. The lad hesitated, but the master patted the seat and he reluctantly climbed in and plopped down. “You don’t have to speak. I know you’re angry with me, and grieving. I pledge we will memorialize all we have lost, your parents and my physician primarily. Trust me, while you will find it difficult to believe, this is also an ordeal for me. I do not want to leave any more than you do, but when you realize you have been spared for a reason, we’ll look back on this as the right thing.”
Loukon sat shaking his head. “Logic tells me you are right, but I cannot stand the thought that I am so powerless to help. And that I have abandoned my parents on their deathbed, something neither would ever have done to me.”
“If the worst happens, son, and you will allow me, I would be honored to serve as your surrogate father.”
Loukon knew Theophilus meant well, but that was the last thing he wanted to hear. The man was strangely clumsy in his attempts to encourage and console. Loukon decided to remain silent and deal with his master only as events dictated. He just hoped he would not be expected to jump right into his studies as soon as they settled in at the seaside retreat.
Loukon attempted to keep his mind off the impending tragedy of his losses by trying to anticipate the compound he had never seen. He had heard other slaves tell of the place, all wishing they could be assigned there permanently. But visits to the Mediterranean by the master and his family were rare, and the privilege of accompanying them was passed around.
It was little consolation to the distressed young scholar that he would be at a beautiful spot when the awful news reached him.
“You must not allow this to make you fall behind in your academic pursuits, Luke,” Theophilus said.
The poor man was trying so hard. Loukon again wanted to lash back at him, to tell him he would be entirely unable to concentrate on anything for some time.
Despite all, when—late in the day—Theophilus’s home away from home finally came into view, Loukon was stunned. The setting sun shone off the sea, and the beautiful landscaping made the setting idyllic. The property was much smaller than the Daphne estate, but the house was every bit as large.
Loukon was grateful for something to do and immediately inserted himself into the cadre of slaves unloading the family’s goods and moving them into the house. It made no sense, h xp1aves telle knew, but he told himself that if he kept busy, that would somehow keep bad tidings at bay.
Such hope was dashed within an hour when a courier, who had to have left Daphne not long after the family did, arrived with a report. Several crowded around the master, hoping to hear when he did. But Theophilus took the man into a private room, emerging moments later, looking sad.
“Luke,” he said, and the boy found himself deeply grateful to be summoned. He followed the master into the room. “Would you care to sit?”
“No, thank you.”
The master looked as if he wanted to touch Loukon, but the boy was glad he refrained. He simply wanted the news and to then be left alone.
“We have lost eleven already, Luke. Your mother, the physician, and Lippio are among them.” He reached for papyrus on a desktop. “A list of the others.”
Loukon was surprised he was able to find his voice. “My father remains?”
Theophilus nodded. “But there is little hope. I was not aware Lippio had even been affected, were you?”
It seemed a strange question in light of Loukon’s having just been informed of his mother’s death. He shook his head.
“Would you like some time for yourself?”
He nodded, and Theophilus excused him to his quarters. Loukon felt guilty as soon as he entered and sat on the bed, his meager belongings piled in a corner. No slave quarters for him here; these were the nicest accommodations he had ever enjoyed. His parents had never even seen such a comfortable place, let alone been allowed to use it.
Loukon lay on his stomach and hid his face in his hands. He was full of questions. Was his father conscious, aware he had lost his wife? Had either been read Loukon’s farewell? Was his father suffering? It was not unlikely he was gone already.
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