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smile widened slightly. “You beg the question, Mark. Before God creates a changeable universe, there is nothing to which time can apply; true?”

      “I suppose that is so.”

      “Then the universe that God created would not always have existed, nor was there a point in ‘time’ when He created it, God Himself being timeless; do you see?”

      “I think I do.”

      “If a son of God exists—by which I mean a being begotten of God so as to be fully of His essence—he will likewise be timeless, will he not?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then that which emanates from God—a son begotten of God—could not have been created, but was (and is) eternally a manifestation of God. In such a timeless realm, the son exists, but did not begin to exist; he always was. Would that not follow?”

      “It would.”

      “Is it not then also logically possible that God intervened in our changeable, created world, at a point in its time, by sending His son into the world to take on human form?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Can we now agree, it is possible that God took on a mortal human form in the person of Jesus, without compromise of His divine essence—including the essential quality of not being created?”

      “I will agree.”

      “Now let us look at this mystery from the opposite side: If God can partake of our humanity, is there any sense in which man can partake of God’s divinity?” Timothy paused briefly, a pregnant pause for effect, giving me to know that something important was about to pass his lips. “Perhaps here, Mark, you may find an answer to your questions about salvation.”

      I could feel the joy of discovery descending on me, like a child experiencing the thrill of learning how to read, or to solve arithmetic problems for the first time. I recalled Timothy’s admonishment when the voyage began: if an answer feels right, if it yields that same sense in the depths of my being of something true as when the Way was first shown to me, I must trust it, and embrace it regardless of logical proof. Timothy’s explanations were feeling right.

      I didn’t want the feeling to wane. “Tell me more,” I pleaded.

      Timothy, however, displayed no sense of urgency in exploring the subject further. “Soon, soon. But we have had enough discourse for now, my brother. I have promised our new friend, the Cretan merchant, that I would spend some time to speak with him of the Way—and I see him waving to us!” With that, Timothy arose and went aft.

      Instead of following him, I went at once to the trunk and took out the parchments again, perusing them for some confirmation of what I had just heard from Timothy. If Jesus was truly God, had he claimed to be such? There were several scattered sayings in the parchments in which he referred to himself as the “Son of Man,” but none directly as “Son of God.” But there was one which at least hinted at his acknowledging being both:

      ‘For whoever is ashamed of me in this sinful generation, of him will the Son of Man also be ashamed, when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.’

      As I pondered the meaning of these words, it occurred to me that Jesus may have been invoking a parallel to a passage in the Book of Daniel:

      In my vision at night I looked, and there before me was one like a son of man, coming with the clouds of heaven. He approached the Ancient of Days and was led into his presence. He was given authority, glory and sovereign power; all peoples, nations and men of every language worshipped him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion that will not pass away, and his kingdom is one that will never be destroyed.

      Had Jesus used “Son of Man” as a euphemism for “Son of God,” perhaps in order to avoid the direct claim to divinity which could be used against him by his enemies?

      Chapter 7

      At sunrise the next morning we set out into the Ionian Sea, bound for Cephalonia, the largest of the Ionian islands, named for the mythical hero Cephalus, fabled Athenian hunter who mistook his wife for a deer and killed her with a magical spear that never missed its target. There we would bring on fresh provisions, as well as new goods and new passengers, for the remainder of our voyage.

      I had practically roused Timothy from his sleep, and he could hardly have helped sensing how anxious I was to continue our discussion. Yet he maintained his unhurried composure, as serene as ever. As he went aft to stretch his legs, I turned and leaned against the top wale of the ship, gazing toward the horizon, smelling the salt and feeling the spray of the sea as the ship rose and fell with each wave. This journey, I knew, would end all too quickly, and what awaited us in Rome I could only guess. If I was to be truly useful to Paul, I was running out of time to conquer the self-doubt that had plagued me.

      When Timothy returned, it was with the countenance of a man on a mission.

      “Where did we leave our discussion of yesterday, Mark?” Before I could answer, he exclaimed “Ah, yes! How man may partake in God’s divinity, wasn’t it?” With that, he stood up abruptly, making his way to our two trunks we had stowed in the stern of the boat. I followed dutifully.

      Timothy reached in one of the trunks, and produced a round loaf of bread, a tin plate and a small bronze cup from beneath Paul’s cloak—giving me to know that it was time for the Eucharistic meal. “Bring the wine, Mark,” he instructed, motioning with a nod of his head toward a sheepskin flask we had brought, sitting atop the other trunk.

      Then Timothy promptly walked toward the benches at the rear of the main mast, where the boatswain was seated, taking a break from his duties on the ship. He had been watching us intently for some time.

      “May we join you, sir?” Timothy asked as he seated himself directly next to the man, not waiting for an answer. He motioned me to sit across from him, and I complied, with no protest from the boatswain.

      “You are Christians,” he said to Timothy and me. “Are you not?”

      Timothy showed no trace of surprise as he pulled a stool from under his bench, and setting it as a table between us, placed the plate on it and then the loaf on the plate. “Indeed we are, sir; but tell me, how did you know this?”

      “Since we left Ephesus I have observed you,” he replied. “I see that you are devout. The two of you pray often, but you cannot be true Jews, for you do not ritually wash your hands before you eat.”

      “You are most astute, sir. And what do you know of our rituals?”

      “Little enough. You do not eat meat which has been sacrificed to other gods. You have a rite of initiation, I am told, involving immersion in water. Beyond that, I do not know.”

      “Then perhaps you would like to observe another ritual, one we are commanded to perform in memory of our Lord.”

      With that he placed the loaf of bread in front of him and prayed over it, saying the words that had grown so familiar to me: “We thank thee, our Father, for the life and knowledge which thou hast made known to us through Jesus thy servant; to thee be the glory for ever.” He then broke it and gave a piece to me, saying “Take and eat the body of our Lord.” He ate the remaining piece, and then poured out some wine, again praying over it, saying “We thank thee, our Father, for the holy vine of David thy servant, which thou hast made known to us through Jesus thy servant; to thee be the glory forever.” Then he passed me the cup, saying “Take and drink the blood of our Lord.” I drank from the cup, and then passed it back to Timothy to finish. We then bowed our heads and gave thanks aloud, together: “Thanks be to thee, holy Father, for thy sacred name which thou hast caused to dwell in our hearts, and for the knowledge and faith and immortality which thou hast revealed to us through thy servant Jesus.”

      The boatswain, after watching this, looked bemused. “Surely you do not believe what you say about this bread and wine being flesh and blood.”

      “Why do you doubt it, sir?” Timothy asked.

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