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Did gold rust?

He eyed the distance to the shore. Perhaps he could land the boat, hide the goods, and continue to Andriake on foot. He could always come back later by land or boat. Perhaps that was an even better plan than the original. If the others knew the cargo he carried, they'd only ask questions—or worse, they'd know who he really was. Or at least who he 'had' been.

Water lapped a little higher. Nikolas bailed faster.

He drew a dripping hand to his brow, squinting against the sun and the turquoise sea glittering with a crust of diamonds. Beyond, the Taurus Mountains tumbled toward the Mediterranean in a mottle of pale almond and gray limestone broken by bursts of palms and oleanders mingled with bright sprays of blooming fuchsias. He wasn't far. The coast was familiar from the last time he'd traveled this route—only then he'd been carrying a message for the pastor in Myra from the pastor in Patara.

He'd never anticipated arriving in Myra for Pastor Tomoso's funeral. And even less, to step into the house and find himself awarded the dangerous position of replacement leader, no matter that he was years too young. Times were desperate, and men... they were not as old as they used to be.

As terrifying as the prospect had been, Nikolas knew he wouldn't refuse. An odd peace had come over him when he'd accepted, and he clung to the memory of it. Perhaps, after he'd failed everywhere else, this was where he actually belonged. Leaving his hometown hadn't been difficult. His memories there were not good, and the rumors still swirling about him were even worse. There was nothing left for him there—aside from a boatload of gold, which he'd gone back for. Possibly one of the biggest mistakes he'd ever made.

Nikolas glanced around him. Nothing but dazzling sea and sun, a welcome sight for a man who'd spent the last few hours slipping behind rocks and small islands to avoid being seen by early morning fishermen, but for a man about to go down with his boat?

Blood and panic raced through his veins.

Calm yourself, Niko. You can swim. 

An orange had freed itself from the sack in the prow and bobbed against his calf, its skin glistening. They were small. Leftovers. Probably no good anymore, but that morning, as he filled the questionable boat with every 'aureus' he could carry, the little sack of oranges had remained close. Silly, he knew. But every time he bit into the tangy flesh, he felt again the grief over his mitera's passing and saw the toothless grin of the little girl who'd found him sobbing on the beach in Myra so many years ago. A bit ragged and in need of the food herself, she'd offered her orange to him instead. And while it hadn't erased his grief as she had claimed it might, knowing someone saw his pain, cared enough to help... He'd never forgotten it.

Nikolas had planted the seeds in a tiny pot on his windowsill, carefully tending the fragile seedlings through the neglect of his brother and pater. Through the pain of their deaths. Hiring men to relocate the potted trees to his uncle's monastery had been the largest expense of moving there and had come with the additional cost of being labeled a wastrel in need of reform. Not a new epithet. He'd ignored it as he had the others and planted the trees at the edge of the monastery grounds. They'd finally borne fruit two years ago, despite being stunted and scorched after the monastery had been burned and abandoned.

Nikolas swallowed back the burning in his throat and lifted his chin. Surely God would not lead him this far only to let him drown now. When the four emperors had passed the series of anti-Christian edicts, escalating from simple expulsion of Christians in government to the massacre of thousands, he and a few others had escaped the attack at the monastery. In the following years, he'd done his best to help the battered church in Patara as church leaders were arrested, homes and Scriptures burned, and whole families executed for refusing to declare their allegiance to the gods of the empire. And when the church in the next city had welcomed him—and begged him to lead them—he couldn't refuse. The remembrance of his calling brought reassurance, quenching the panic. For now.

A bit of white flashed near an outcropping of land. The sun on the water? The sail of a small vessel? The signal?

He had to be close. Titus had given clear instructions not to sail into the port of Andriake but to stop just shy in a hidden cove. He would be there waiting to unload and hide the cargo, though he had no idea what it was.

Wind struck Nikolas's face. Finally. He adjusted the tattered sail, limping the boat closer to the rocky beach. The wind played a twofold game of filling his sail and kicking up waves. He bent to scoop again, water playing at his calves now. The faster he sailed, the quicker the boat seemed to fill. His mind raced. What to do?

Is this how I lose everything, Lord? Have You spared me and everything I own, just to take it all now? Perhaps it was no less than what he deserved after what had happened.