John's Story by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins Read Free Book Online

face him and tell them the truth.”

FOUR
    Y ou’re flushed,” Polycarp said, bending close to John, who had dropped onto a wood bench in the changing room. “And breathing heavily. Isn’t he breathing heavily, Ignatius? It seems to me he’s—”
    “Breathing heavily, yes, I can see that. Panting is the word you’re looking for there, Polycarp. Let him catch his breath.”
    “I am angry, that’s all,” John said. “You young pups can’t wait to debate the man. I prefer tearing him limb from limb.”
    “My, my,” Polycarp said.
    John stood. “You don’t understand, Polycarp. You weren’t with the Master when He—”
    But the blood rushed from John’s head and he teetered, then plopped to the bench again.
    “Whoa there, old-timer,” Ignatius said. “Steady. Deep breaths.”
    “I didn’t mean to agitate you, rabbi,” Polycarp said.
    “Well, you did! You think scolding me will ease my fury? It doesn’t. And all this does is make me chastise myself. What am I thinking? A believer all these years and still no control over my emotions.”
    Ignatius massaged John’s back. “Settle now. You have reason to be indignant. But think, man. You are no match for the young Cerinthus. If he is the one you pointed out, I should be the one to take him on.”
    “I would that you not fight him either, Ignatius. Though I would love to see that. But for a man who never saw Jesus, let alone walked by His side for three years, to speak as with authority…”
    “I know,” Ignatius said. “I know. Let’s gather our wits about us.”
    “I don’t know how long we should let him sit without eating, Ignatius,” Polycarp said. “The noon hour approaches.”
    “I’m fine,” John said.
    “No, he’s right,” the Bishop of Antioch said. “Why don’t we head toward the theater. You wanted to pray and remember Paul there, did you not?”
    “I did.”
    “Unless you are not up to it.”
    “Don’t play the fool,” John said. “I am up to anything, but I’ll not forgive myself if I let that heretic out of here without facing him.” He rose but allowed his young consorts to each take an arm. “I’m all right.”
    As they moved again into the steaming baths, John recognized one of the young men in Cerinthus’s entourage, lounging by the door.
    “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Are you not a disciple of Cerinthus?”
    “I certainly am!” the young man said, grinning. “He is in the water and about to speak. Would you care to meet him?”
    “I would very much, but I should inform you that I plan to—”
    It was all John could do to restrain himself. He wanted to follow the young man, to shout, challenge, start the argument himself as soon as he saw Cerinthus. But he knew he must not. He prayed silently that God would give him the patience, the fortitude, to hear the man out. Paul had been so good at this, listening and then picking apart a man’s arguments logically and forthrightly. Soon enough the double-talker would be seen for what he was—a blasphemer, a cultist, an antichrist.
    Who had allowed this man to address the bathers? Would the Romans allow a true Christian the same privilege? Of course not. Worse, another young man, who had assumed the role of master of ceremonies, introduced Cerinthus as a Christian!
    And why did this crowd, certainly largely unaware of who the man was and what he was about, applaud him before he began? Would they worship any man who appeared worthy, even before hearing him?
    Cerinthus looked to the tile floor and raised a hand for silence, and John was sickened by that obvious fake humility. “I am but a poor man,” he began, “not of any rank or privilege that should lend me credence. I consider myself a believer, though I will be swift to say you will not find me among the worshipers of Jesus who turn their backs on the Sabbath and try to institute a new day, a so-called Lord’s Day. It is the Christ I worship, not the man Jesus.”
    John felt on his arms the grips of