Authors: D. Brian Shafer
Fire and Sword
Chronicles of the Host: Exile of Lucifer
Chronicles of the Host 2: Unholy Empire
Chronicles of the Host 3: Rising Darkness
Chronicles of the Host 4: Final Confrontation
Chronicles of the Host 5: Fire and Sword
Nova Fannum
A
VAILABLE
F
ROM
D
ESTINY
I
MAGE
P
UBLISHERS
FIRE AND SWORD
D. B
RIAN
S
HAFER
© Copyright 2009 – D. Brian Shafer
All rights reserved. This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America. This book may not be copied or reprinted for commercial gain or profit. The use of short quotations or occasional page copying for personal or group study is permitted and encouraged. Permission will be granted upon request. Please note that Destiny Image’s publishing style capitalizes certain pronouns in Scripture that refer to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and may differ from some publishers’ styles.
Destiny Image Fiction
An Imprint of
DESTINY IMAGE® PUBLISHERS, INC
.
P.O. Box 310, Shippensburg, PA 17257-0310
“Speaking to the Purposes of God for this Generation and for the Generations to Come.”
This book and all other Destiny Image, Revival Press, Mercy Place, Fresh Bread, Destiny Image Fiction, and Treasure House books are available at Christian bookstores and distributors worldwide.
For a U.S. bookstore nearest you, call 1-800-722-6774.
For more information on foreign distributors, call 717-532-3040.
Or reach us on the Internet:
www.destinyimage.com
.
ISBN 10: 0-7684-2757-6
ISBN 13: 978-0-7684-2757-8
For Worldwide Distribution, Printed in the U.S.A.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 / 13 12 11 10 09
Many thanks go out for the completion of this book. To the many fans of the series who continually badgered me about a fifth book—thank you! To my church—Waco First Assembly of God—for putting up with my writer’s temperament. To my family—Lori, my beautiful wife who never gets enough credit for my success; Kiersten, my beautiful and artistic daughter who is growing up too fast; Breelin, my other daughter who is a joy in our hearts; and Ethan, who always keeps things lively, and noisy, around the house—I love you all. Thank you for letting me bury myself from time to time to get the writing done!
P.S. Did we ever make it to Disney World?
T
O
T
IMOTHY
, M
Y
D
EAR
S
ON
…
Paul’s Cell, Rome, A.D. 67
Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ…
The inked stylus stopped scratching on the parchment. For a moment or two the writer sat as if he were a statue, hunched over a little table. The lamp barely gave enough light for him to see his own hand, much less the tablet on which he now wrote what would probably be his last letter. He rubbed his tired eyes and smiled to himself.
How many times had he defended his authority? In the past it seemed much more important to him personally. He remembered the many arguments on whether or not he was a legitimate leader of the Church—an apostle or a pretender. But God, in His grace, had firmly established him as a leader of the Church and a voice to the Gentile world. Thus he, Paul, one-time persecutor of Christians, was now writing as its lead apostle. He smiled as he considered that his final letter still proclaimed this authority.
…by the will of God, according to the promise of life in Christ Jesus.
He set aside the parchment that had been provided for him by some friends in Rome. Thankfully he had found favor with the warden of the prison, who allowed these little luxuries in so dreary a place. He had been imprisoned in this city once before—some six years previous. But he understood that this would be his final arrest. He had been tried by Nero’s court and found guilty of professing his belief in Christ. It would now be his final privilege to die for those beliefs.
He looked at the unfinished letter and thought of his young friend in the ministry. Timothy was like a son to him, and he had raised him up to lead the church in Ephesus. As this would most likely be his final word of instruction and encouragement for the young pastor, he found himself in a melancholy mood. Tears welled up in Paul’s eyes as he looked at his final testament.
What form should his final exhortation take? How could he sum up the burden he felt for the church—an especially poignant burden made painfully more acute because of his imprisonment? He had written to churches before while imprisoned. The last time he was imprisoned in Rome he was able to communicate a sense of joy that his imprisonment had affected the household of Caesar with the good news of the Lord! He also had the confidence that the churches—particularly the church at Philippi—were remaining steadfast and the work of the Gospel was progressing.
This time was different. He felt much more disconnected. He had been abandoned by former partners in the ministry. He was not allowed the access to people that had been accorded him in his previous arrest. His prison cell was a far cry from the house he had been allowed to rent when he was under arrest in Caesarea. This was more of a pit with stone walls—cold, dim, and damp, always damp. And, of course, the death sentence was upon him. Yet he maintained an inner strength—the joy of knowing that he had fought a good fight and that the Kingdom of God was everywhere advancing.
Paul rubbed his hand. It was bothering him again, an old pain from an injury he had received years before. He set the stylus down and massaged the painful fingers. Was it from the stoning at Iconium? Or was it the beating he took at Philippi when the Lord delivered the girl who predicted the future? He laughed aloud. He had so many marks on his body that he had lost track of where the scars and wounds were received. He took up the stylus and considered the wounds as badges of honor. The light flickered in his little lamp, growing dimmer by the minute. He smiled and continued writing.
To Timothy, my dear son, I bid you grace, peace, and mercy from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord …
“Grace, peace, and mercy?” sneered a voice. “Is that really what he wrote, Beziel? How bitterly ironic!”
They laughed.
“If this is how the Most High pays off His greatest apostle, then what hope have any of them?” asked another. “First He takes his freedom—then He takes his head!”
“Nero will make quick work of them all,” agreed the other.
The angel watching vigil over Paul remained steadfast, but alert to the dark spirits who had been sent to harass Paul’s mind in his last days on earth. The angel watching Paul scratching away had been assigned to him from the very start—even before his conversion to the Lord’s side. And now, having followed Paul throughout his marvelous ministry around the Roman world, he would stand with him to his last breath at the end of a Roman blade.
“You there, Serus,” said one of the spirits to Paul’s guardian. “Looks as if your assignment is nearly ended. How unfortunate that it ends so bloodily.” The demon looked at Paul with venom and added, “And not soon enough.”
Serus ignored the two dark figures.
“We shall report back to our master that Paul is writing his final letter,” said Garras, a spirit of despair who had been assigned to vex Paul’s mind. “Once this man is gone—along with Peter and the rest of them—the whole movement will lose its way. That is the way of humans!”
“Humans, yes,” Serus said, unable to let the challenge go answered. “But that is not the way of the Most High.”
“Yes, well, it is humans who are left to carry on the miserable work,” Garras snorted. “As soon as the leaders and the others who knew Jesus are gone, the movement will disappear like all things human.”
Serus ignored them.
“Let’s leave him to his wretched thoughts,” Beziel said. “Won’t be long until all that is left of him is a few pitiful letters!”
Garras and Beziel laughed and vanished. Serus turned back to Paul, who continued to write. After a moment or two, Paul sat back and closed his eyes. They burned. His eyes had been a source of discomfort for years now, affecting not only his sight but his writing. He scrawled more often than wrote. He set the stylus down again and moved to his cot. Serus placed a hand upon the apostle’s shoulder. Paul looked up, thanking the Lord for His peace.
Lying down on the lice-ridden mattress, which consisted of straw stuffed in a very thin cloth, Paul tried to relax for a few minutes. But even as he contemplated what he might say in this farewell to Timothy, he couldn’t help but think of the incredible events that had led him to this very moment. His mind drifted back some 35 years and began to replay those early days…days of which he was not proud…but days that set him on an unalterable collision course with the greatest destiny—one he never could have imagined. Who would have thought that Saul of Tarsus would one day appear before the emperor himself as Paul, apostle of God?
The sounds of other prisoners echoed through the damp air. Some men cried aloud; some cursed; some spoke as if they were out of their mind—but mostly, the sounds that reverberated were of men shuffling around in their cells, chains rattling, as they contemplated their final days on earth. Paul looked up at the opening in the ceiling—a small window in the floor above through which his food and certain communication was passed. He could hear his keeper shuffling on the floor above him, speaking to someone in muffled conversation.
Paul had learned long ago that his happiness was not a matter of circumstances—that true strength lies in the ability to rejoice in the Lord in all things. In fact, he had written to the church at Philippi that this was the secret he had learned from the Lord about remaining content. He laughed to himself as he thought about the Philippians and the letter he had written to them—that was another letter he had written while imprisoned.
