Tychicus- The Courier (Preview)

The Courier is the story of a young man searching for his place in life. He is curious, adventurous, daring, and…unsettled. Like most young people throughout time, he wants badly to be on his own, finding his own way. The young man’s name is Tychicus, a biblical character mentioned only five times in Scripture. He traveled as one of the Apostle Paul’s companions through part of his third missionary journey, on to Jerusalem where Paul was imprisoned for two years, and then to Rome, where Paul continued confinement under house arrest. He eventually became one of Paul’s couriers, carrying some of his letters to churches in Asia Minor, letters which eventually became part of the New Testament we read in our Bibles today.

My story follows the journeys of Paul, and sees Tychicus involved in many of Paul’s affairs along the way. It is not, however, a story of Paul, nor of all his many companions and acquaintances. I have used some, but not all, of the characters named in the Bible, plus I have created others that are completely fictional. You can read more on this in the notes I have placed following the story. The Courier is a story of a young man coming of age and embarking on his own journey in life. I liked Tychicus as a character because of his good reputation as a follower of Christ and helper to Paul, and because he is little known. I was able to place the setting of the story within a historical context, yet be free to mold a semi-fictional character. To be sure, this story is fiction, yet is set within real first-century history. Later post-biblical history shows Tychicus as a leader in the developing church through its persecution years. He purportedly served as bishop in more than one first-century church, and then as Bishop of Chalcedon, a suburb of what would one day be named Constantinople, and then later, Istanbul. Constantinople played a significant role in the formation of the Christian church, both Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox. I like to think Tychicus had a role in making a way for the centuries ahead that would help shape the future of all time.

Tychicus played such a significant role that the Catholic Church venerated him as a saint. His feast day is April 29, which just happens to be my birthday. Another good reason to choose him as the main character of my first novel! Perhaps, if God wills, I will write a sequel to The Courier, taking Tychicus through the persecution years of the developing New Testament church. This possibility gives reason to the opening of my story, the Prologue. It places Tychicus at the beginning of the second story (perhaps titled The Bishop), and then flashes back to where it all began. Please enjoy.  

 

PROLOGUE

Late 1st Century A.D.

My name means fortuitous, and, though I’m not so sure it always has been descriptive of my life, today it seems to be. To have the opportunity to serve my Lord in such a noble capacity is beyond all I have imagined or deserved. Bishop of Chalcedon…who would have thought?

Andrew is here. He walked personally with our Lord, you know. As one of the original twelve, he has seen much in the fascinating but sometimes devastating years that have ensued. He is here to pass the blessing to me and to install me as Bishop of this outpost on the very edge of hedonism.

From the corner of my eye, I see him standing tall upon the dais. He certainly carries a presence about him that seems to indicate a God-given right to officiate in such matters. His age alone dictates respect. His dress is stately—a long, flowing robe woven of the finest wool, a silken sash appearing as if it were fit for the blessed Moses himself, fine leather sandals with new laces, and a head-piece that seems to announce the very presence of glory.

Andrew’s beard is white now, deserved both by his age and his wisdom. He has let it grow of late and it only adds to his stately presence. I’m glad he could come, so many others could not. Some are in hiding, hoping to avoid the various sects and governments who would persecute them. Some, less fortunate, waste away in prisons or pits. And some even less fortunate than these—or more fortunate, if you think about it—exist in this world only as corpses or bones buried beneath the earth. Andrew risked his life and the lives of countless others to make his presence here.

Some who could not attend stand out like missing jewels from an ornate crown. Peter, who stood boldly before Nero and faced execution as a result, is absent, of course. His death only served to strengthen and embolden those of us who remained. We have all missed him terribly, but his spirit goes before us and we continue on in that spirit.

Timothy and Titus are both engaged in capacities that preclude their travel, but others such as Gaius and Apollos have followed Peter into martyrdom. They were my friends and my heart aches because of their loss. So many who have graced my life are no longer in this world. Thankfully, our Lord assured us of a grand reunion one day, so I know my grief to be only temporary.

But, though many of those so precious to me over the years cannot be here, there are others who gather with me in praise and celebration and they cause my heart to sing. Near the front of the assembly, I see Diomedes and Aristarchus, my mentors and friends, standing side by side. They have been like fathers to me for most of my life. They are old now, and our roles have reversed in many ways, but they remain at my side and I depend heavily upon them.

Toward the rear, and nearly beyond my ability to see from where I am situated before the crowd, stands Onesimus, another who has walked beside me over the years. We first met in the confusing flurry of a riot in Ephesus when we were both just lads. Onesimus was a slave at that time, a runaway slave at that, and I became instrumental in his regaining his freedom. I have leaned on Onesimus so much over the years, and he on me. I don’t know what one of us would have done without the other. I am grateful to God that he is here today.

The brightest face among those gathered on this auspicious occasion belongs to my wife, Triantifilia, or Tria to me. She stands only feet away looking up at me with an angelic face bright with joy and pride, and a particular look she has for me that says ‘Don’t be thinking too much of yourself, now!’ What a beautiful woman she is, both inside and out. Her name means Beautiful Rose, which fits her very well. She is God’s greatest worldly gift to me and I treasure her like no other. She has always believed in me, and I tell the truth when I say there have been times that I would have fallen were it not for her. Even as I struggled with the idea of assuming this bishopric, she refused to allow me to focus on my insecurities, continually calling attention to the strength she knew God had placed within me. Of a certainty, she is a voice of wisdom, and I know better than to ignore her insights regarding my affairs.

Others stand before me in the ornate courtyard in which we are gathered—John Mark, Epaphras, Hector, and others who have been instrumental players in my story. And what a story it is. I stand amazed at the fullness of my life and the experiences I have had as a follower and ambassador for my Christ. It all seems like a dream now, a vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless. It all began with my anxious wait to meet a man named Paul…

PART 1

EPHESUS

54-57 A.D.

 

CHAPTER 1

You would never have known it was winter. The landscape seemed a painted carpet of green and the air offered the feeling of a spring yet to come. It was glorious, actually. Who alive would not marvel at the splendor of some Almighty’s hand on such a day?

I stood on a desolate Roman road just outside the Magnesian Gate that marked the upper entrance into our city, Ephesus. I couldn’t see a soul in any direction, and I was beginning to lose hope. Since the rising of the sun I had stood watch, anticipating the event, wondering what he would be like, itching inside for a glimpse of the famous man who held and disturbed his listeners’ emotions like a jagged boulder troubles a gentle stream. Would he come as they said he would? Would he notice me, or would he ride by without a glance? Was he really a prophet of the Jewish god as the old man in the village so assuredly informed me? Would he ever arrive?

His name was Paul, Paul of Tarsus. A small man it was said, in stature at least. But small as he might have been in stature, he was a giant of a man in character, stamina, and influence, or so it was claimed. I had heard it told that his voice alone could cause a throng a thousand strong to pause in awe and to stretch their ears toward his voice like an old woman straining to hear the latest gossip coming from the house next door. I had trouble picturing all of that in my mind, and I waited impatiently to see things for myself.

My name is Tychicus, which means “Fortunate One,” a moniker that symbolized my father’s hope for good fortune in my life. At the time this story began, I felt I had yet to see that fortune, the kind I was looking for anyway. I was one season shy of sixteen years, the third born of my three siblings, and I somehow missed out on the large, brawny frame my father passed on to my two older brothers. Like my mother, Callia, and my only sister, Olina, I stood at medium height and was slight in build. But I made up for my small frame with a quick step and an even quicker mind. Father spoke with pride at the village gate when he told of my accomplishments. One would think my warrior-like brothers would have piqued his pride more, but somehow I had his heart and his attentions, perhaps because I was so different. Nonetheless, I enjoyed his extra favor.

Father had reluctantly given me permission to pursue this “foolhardy” mission, as he called it. As a Greek merchant of wealth who did nothing more than tolerate the Jewish population of our city, he thought little of what he had heard of Paul. It was said Paul was once a leading Pharisee belonging to the elite of the Jewish community in Jerusalem. That enough was sufficient to trouble Father. “First a Jew, and second a Pharisee!” he would bellow. And if that were not enough, this Jewish Pharisee claimed to have had some sort of encounter with his god while traveling from Jerusalem to Damascus. This, I must admit, captured my imagination. Imagine, encountering a god! Nonetheless, Father didn’t believe the story, and he thought it was a foolish thing to stand waiting to see the man. More than once I thought he might have been right, but then one never knew. So there I stood, and there Paul of Tarsus was not! If only he would hurry along!

…………

It wasn’t until the sun was reaching its zenith and I was parched with thirst that I saw Paul and his companions appear on the horizon. I shortened the time it would take them to arrive at my position by walking as rapidly as I could in their direction. My excitement only increased as the distance between us closed. 

I could see that there were at least a dozen men in the haggard and dirty-looking party. Some of them rode on the backs of scrawny donkeys, though most walked with small bundles carried over their shoulders. Several other donkeys, appearing as weary as did the men, were loaded down with what seemed to be most of the group’s belongings. I have to say that I wasn’t too impressed. With the image I had received from those telling the tale of a previous visit by Paul to Ephesus, I expected a more kingly procession than that which met my eyes. Be that as it may, I was thrilled and relieved that they had finally arrived.

“Here, here, my lad,” said the bearded man who led the procession. He was a tall man who walked with a steady pace in spite of his apparent weariness. He wore a tunic that reached nearly to his feet, a style common to the Jews. Those of Greek or Roman heritage thought long tunics to be effeminate, but this man didn’t fit their image. Far from weak and feminine, he stood taller than most and appeared strong like an ox. He wore a thick turban to protect his head from the blazing sun, and solid leather sandals, perhaps made from the hide of some hapless animal somewhere that was sacrificed first to the gods and then to the more practical needs of their worshipers, as was often the case throughout the lands. The man’s face was creased and leathered, with a faded scar running from his forehead downward to the top of his left ear.  His beard was stiff with dirt and grime from his travels, and he stroked it with his hand in an absent-minded kind of way that seemed to make him appear thoughtful and wise. His eyes had a softness to them that at once put me at ease. I liked the man immediately.

“What have we here? Are you well, young man? You seem out of place all alone outside the safety of the city’s gates. Do you require aid from a humble group of men on mission for our god?” Thus, I was given food, water, and a ride upon a wobbly little donkey back into Ephesus. 

It was a while before I spotted Paul, or the one I assumed to be Paul, riding in the rear of the procession. I wondered at that—a supposedly great leader that chose to ride not before his troops but behind them? The man had something about him that caused me to stare in wonder, though. He was small, homely, and commonly dressed, yet he haughtily sat upon his donkey as if to say he commanded the world. He had sent no scouts ahead into the city to prepare his way, as was the practice of most traveling great men in their efforts to gain the accolades of the people. He appeared to lack fear of harm, as I saw no weapon within his easy grasp. I wanted to see more, but dust rising from our forward progress soon obscured most of what was behind me.

We traveled the sandy road up a steady incline toward Ephesus. The going was slow, but steady. Eventually we passed through the city’s walls through the Hercules Gate and began our way toward the city center on Curetes Street. It was then that I got a closer look at Paul. Yes, he was small, but he rode tall upon his beast. His head was hooded to protect it from the sun, but as he turned about, I could see it was mostly bare of hair. His beard was full, but dirty from his journey, his nose long and bony and reminded me of a vulture atop his perch, poised to take full advantage of his prey’s misfortune. And his eyes…his eyes were like small glass trinkets that might more readily be found in a crafted doll sold in a side-street market. If the man himself didn’t command your attention, his eyes certainly did. The villagers we passed were mesmerized. They were entrapped by his stare and seemed subject to hear his voice whether they wanted to or not. What a mysterious person, this man Paul.

The city was alive with excitement as this awaited troupe pressed through the Mazaeus and Mithridates Gates and into the agora, the main commercial district of Ephesus. One would think a prince had come, or perhaps an Olympic god, come to call on his faithful and extol the sacrifice of worship he thought himself due. Music played, children danced, and the old ones told of prophecies that were surely being fulfilled. Paul simply waved in a curiously humble kind of way from atop his donkey. I concluded the words said of him surely must be true: he was a very great man, perhaps even divine. I was very excited.

The same bearded man who had spoken to me on the desert road brought me to focus once again on the happenings around me.

“The greeting we receive seems a little overdone, don’t you think, lad?” he asked.

“Yes and no, sir,” I replied. “Ours is a friendly and hospitable city, so gentle travelers who mean us no harm are welcomed and provided for. Yet this event is deserving of more than the ordinary. Some in our city remember this man Paul from his last visit here and tell how he speaks with authority, how he overpowers the elements, and even commands the gods. Many of us have waited with some impatience to witness these things for ourselves.”

“Speak with authority he does, young man, but overpowering the elements and giving commands to the gods is for one mightier than he! I’m afraid these kind spectators will find disappointment there.”

“Alas, that is what my father said,” I replied with an obvious dejection in my voice. “But I thought surely the tales must be true, otherwise so many would not believe.”

“You have much to learn about the ways of men,” he said. “They are fickle, they are. First, they believe one way and then they believe another. We’ve been received into a village as would be lords and kings, and in nothing but three days more, run out as if we were the dogs of a neighboring village come to scavenge the scraps left for the local misfortunes. They are fickle all right, but you won’t convince Paul of that! Something inside drives him and convinces him of his mission, and he is quite relentless. More than once I’ve considered going home, but somehow I’m captured by the assurance he has, and on I go. No, he is no commander of the gods, but he seems certainly to have the ear of one! Only the future will tell us the end of all these things.”

“May I know your name, sir? You are both gracious and insightful. I think I might learn much from you if allowed the opportunity.”

“I am Aristarchus of Thessalonica,” he said. “Of the graciousness you speak, I think you right. Of the insightfulness, I question. Perhaps only the future will tell of that as well, aye lad? Tell me your name as well, and how old do you profess to be?

“Do I profess to be? I profess to be twenty and two, but alas I am but ten and six—nearly, that is. And what does that matter anyway? And my name is Tychicus, son of Lucius, an important merchant of this great city.”

“Well, Tychicus, son of Lucius, the opportunity to learn from someone other than one’s father comes only with age, except maybe for one as impatient as you seem to be. I suppose time will tell about that matter as well.”

“Perhaps you will forgive my impatience and allow me a question then,” I responded.

“Speak, lad. I presume you will whether I offer permission or not,” he said with a smile.

“You say you are from Thessalonica, and you obviously speak with the accent of a Greek, yet you dress like a Jew. Are you a convert to Judaism?”

“A convert I am, but not to Judaism. Perhaps in time I will have a chance to explain it to you.”

“What kind of answer is that, except one that demands even more questions?”

By this time the crowd had become a throng and the cheers had become a roar. I had experienced such an event only once before when a Roman general had visited our city on his way home from a mission of great importance in northeastern Galatia. On that occasion, though, the Celebrated One rode at the head of the procession.

Through the colorful fabrics worn by the horde gathered in the agora and the street, I could barely see my father. He obviously had seen me and he was advancing toward me like a seasoned warrior advances through a mass of young recruits on the battlefield. He was on a mission I could see, and somehow I knew that mission involved me. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice him, but eventually that was impossible.

“Tychicus, what are you doing?” he shouted as he got near enough for me to hear. “Get down from that beast immediately! How dare you associate my good name with the likes of this imposter? Get down, I say. Get down!”

“But, Father, it is not as you think. I only received transport from this kind man, Aristarchus. Though dressed as a Jew, he is actually a Greek from Thessalonica. Were it not for him, I would have fainted in the desert. It is his generosity that has placed me here upon this ass.”

Father was a reasonable man, if somewhat headstrong in some areas. Kindness offered his kin by strangers, even if they were associated with the Jews, was something he could not overlook. “Please forgive me, kind sir, and please accept my gratitude for your provision and watch care over my foolish offspring. You obviously are sent by the gods for our service and I shall sacrifice a ewe in your honor this very eve.”

“You are generous, sir. I have taken a liking to this son of yours. I am humbled at your offer of a sacrifice, but it is quite unnecessary.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Father said. “You travel with the Hebrew Paul and scorn the gods we honor in this city. So be it, if that is your desire.” And then he turned back to me: “Tychicus, I said get down from that beast, do it now! What do you mean by this disgrace to my name in the city of my birth? How should I live it down if those at the gate were to see you? Get down!”

I saw the grin on Aristarchus’ face as he turned and made his way through the crowd to rejoin his friends, leading his donkey behind him. He didn’t seem offended by my Father’s ravings, but instead seemed to find them humorous. I wondered why. I also wondered at the feeling that overtook me as I watched him go. The events of the day had been exhilarating, to be sure, but something else had happened. I felt as though my life had changed forever and I was suddenly thrust upon a journey that would take me to unknown and mysterious places on a mission far greater than I’d ever imagined.

…………

It didn’t take long for Father and me to travel up Curetes Street and arrive at our home. The people who normally thronged the streets were crowded around the agora, still caught up in the spectacle brought on by Paul’s arrival. 

“Better for us,” Father said. “It is a rare thing to find the streets of Ephesus so empty. This incline is difficult for me, though, Tychicus. Hurry along and warn your mother of our arrival.”

The secluded pathway that led to our family’s house left Curetes Street on a steep incline. The house sat on the south side of the road, high enough up the hill to allow an extraordinary view of the harbor and the ocean that stretched beyond. We lived in a wealthy part of the city, reserved primarily for successful merchants, city leaders, and affluent Romans who had moved to Ephesus either by their own design, or because they had been exiled there by an angry Emperor. There were two entrances into our villa: one for servants, and the main entrance, which opened into an airy courtyard, beautifully decorated with the finest statuary, colorful frescos, and the most striking marble ornaments that gold could buy. Fountains rose from two corners of the courtyard, their streams flowing through chiseled channels that met in the middle of a wall adorned with deep green vines and tiny yellow and orange flowers. It was a place of peace and tranquility where I spent a great deal of time pondering my future when I would finally come of age.

Our home was much more ornate than most of the homes in Ephesus, but still it held a comfortable atmosphere and provided a secure haven from the world. I had been born in the house and had lived every day of my life primarily within its boundaries. I felt safe in our home. I knew I might leave it one day to take my place in the world, but in the meantime I was happy to live there.

I entered the courtyard in a hurry. The sun’s rays were penetrating the overhead foliage with beams of light saved only for days like this. As I rounded the corner, I ran headlong into what felt like a rock wall, but was actually only the formidable Diomedes, my father’s favored house slave.

“Whoa, Tychicus, what is worthy of such haste? Are you all right, boy?”

It took a moment to regain my senses. It seemed as though my mind had suddenly gone blank and was separated from the rest of me. Diomedes caught me in his arms and steadied me on my feet. A run-in with this giant, whether on purpose or by accident, was not in one’s best interest!

“I am sorry, Diomedes! Please forgive my clumsiness!

“You are forgiven, but tell me, what is it that sends you home in such haste? Is someone chasing you?

Finally, my mind came running back to join the rest of me. “No, Diomedes, no one is after me! I have come from the agora where the city is celebrating the arrival of Paul of Tarsus. I saw the great man myself, and spoke at length with one of his companions. It was quite exciting!”

“No! I do not believe you! Your father spits into the dirt at the very mention of the Hebrew Paul! Surely he did not allow you to converse with one of the dogs that follow him!”

“It’s a long story, Diomedes! Come, we must inform my mother of Father’s approach and then I’ll explain.”