GOING TO SEA
My father made a habit of going down to the council meetings at whatever time of day they were held and in whatever weather. He took his civic responsibilities very seriously and hated missing the debates, even though he rarely actually contributed much to the discussion. It was one winter a year or two later that the boulé convened in the afternoon and their session continued until after dark. It was cold that season and a heavy snow had fallen early on the highlands either side of the Xanthos Valley. The winter wind whistled off the mountain peaks gripping Patara with a chilly and lashing rain which made everyone who didn’t need to go out to stay huddled indoors over their fires.
My father was hurrying back after the meeting through the sleet which was driving across the agora, our city market place, when he lost his footing on the slippery paving stones and fell heavily on his side. He must have cracked his head too because when the night watchmen found him he was barely conscious. They recognised him and managed to get a stretcher party to bring him back to our house where we put him straight to bed. He was shivering uncontrollably and uttering low groans indicating he was in pain. We piled sheep skins on the bed in
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an attempt to warm him up and our maid Irene called for a doctor who gave my father a sleeping draught. After that he fell into a fitful sleep and we took it in turns to sit with him through the night. At first his breathing was fairly regular but as dawn broke it became laboured.
When he eventually opened his eyes he looked so piteous in the winter light slanting through the window and he clearly had a fever. He was racked with spasmodic bouts of coughing which caused him to convulse with pain and these fits had worsened by the afternoon. The doctor looked in again in the early evening and stayed with him for some time. When he came out to Irene and me waiting in the next room his face looked grave.
“I’m afraid your father is not at all well Nicholas,” he intoned. “He’s quite a grand age and his constitution has been getting steadily weaker as the years have gone by. He took a very nasty knock yesterday; I fear he’s broken some ribs. He has blood in his spittle from what I suspect is internal bleeding. There’s not much I can do except alleviate the pain and I’ve given him another strong sleeping draught. I think you should prepare yourself for the worst.”
Alas he was all too right. Irene and I watched my father go downhill over the next couple of days, slowly losing consciousness in what was a spreading infection. So it was on
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the evening of the third day that he gradually slipped away from us and by midnight gave up the ghost and died. He had looked so ill just before the final crisis, but after he had passed away he appeared strangely peaceful. The pained expressions on his face and his deeply furrowed forehead gave way to a serene quietness. We had few relatives to inform, just a couple of cousins in one of the outlying villages, so over the next twenty-four hours we made plans to bury him.
Irene was a tower of strength to me at this time and although she must have been equally upset that her master had left us, she kept her composure and arranged all the funerary rituals as well as the actual interment. It was late one afternoon the following week that she suggested she would like to take me to meet a friend of hers. Wrapping up against the biting wind, we walked down to the market place and up into the part of the city which overlooks the sea, the quarter which I didn’t know very well where the better-off citizens had their villas. Walking along one of the uppermost streets we came to the gate of what looked to be the residence of a wealthy family. Irene tugged the bell pull and after a minute or two a powerfully built young man came down to see who was there. He peered through the metal railings before smiling and unlocking the gate to let us in.
He led us through the front door of the villa and ushered us into the vestibule. Beyond this was a large internal pillared atrium, made up of a four-sided veranda surrounding a garden
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where there were shrubs encircling a shallow pool with a small fountain playing. The man indicated we should pass into one of the side rooms of the villa and wait. The room was surprisingly simply decorated and furnished, as I looked around for any signs of who might be the owner. A couple of oil lamps on stands which had recently been lit in the room gave off a soft glow as we waited, but for what or for whom I had no notion. Irene squeezed my hand and smiled comfortingly.
After a few minutes an august gentleman with a flowing beard and dressed in an expensive white toga came into the room. He went over to Irene and kissed her on both cheeks before he turned to me and said, “So this is your master’s son, Irene? A fine looking man I must say. Welcome to our home Nicholas. I make you indeed welcome in God’s name. Please, take a seat and let’s talk a moment.”
We sat opposite him as he composed himself.
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s demise, Nicholas. Aquila was a fine citizen and he certainly did his duty to this city of ours. My only regret is that I didn’t know him better. But he was not one of our number, you see and I’m sure you’ll understand that we do have to keep ourselves fairly discreet.”
I wondered to what he was alluding, until I noticed on the blank wall behind him there was a small wooden device with the Greek letters Xhi Rho intertwined and realised it was a
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Christian symbol, the first two letters of the name ‘Christos.’ This was a Christian household and this dignified gentleman was obviously someone of considerable importance in their sect.
“Irene,” he suggested, “shall we pray now?” Putting his hands together and bowing his head, he waited a moment and then in the stillness of that room he asked God’s blessings upon us all.
“Lord Jesus,” he began, “have mercy upon us gathered here and we ask a blessing on Aquila, the dear departed. May his immortal soul find eternal peace. And we pray especially for ourselves and for this our brother Nicholas whom Irene has brought here today. May God’s love protect and keep him and may he find his calling in this tempestuous world of ours.”
Then raising his hand in benediction, he continued, “May the love of God and the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ bless us all and may he keep us in his eye in our hour of need. May we go out into the world in peace, rendering to no one evil for evil, but let us hold fast to those things that are good. Amen.”
With that he stood and drawing Irene to him kissed her again and came over to me and kissed me too.
“May God’s blessing be upon you wherever you go, Nicholas.”
And after a moment, he indicated we should leave. Outside once more, the gate shut behind us and we walked quietly
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down the street and back to the centre of the city. Irene didn’t say a word about what had just happened and it wasn’t until we got back to our own house that I plucked up courage.
“Who was that gentleman, Irene?” I asked.
“That was Nicodemus, one of the elders in our church in Patara. I hope I did the right thing taking you to meet him. He is a wonderful inspiration to us. You see, I have been a Christian for some years now and we generally meet in Nicodemus’ villa for our eucharist. That’s the meal we share to commemorate the death of our Lord Jesus Christ, who was crucified by the Romans over two hundred years ago and who died to save us all. We are small in number, but we are growing every day.”
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