The following evening possessed a curious tension, as though the very walls of the Time Traveler’s
house had begun to anticipate the journey more keenly than the men within it. The same company assembled—Psychologist, Medical Man, Provincial Mayor, Filby, myself—and again the lamps cast their warm, honey‑colored glow over the table. Yet the conversation, from the first course, had a different gravity.
Filby, who had spent the day in the laboratory with the Time Traveler and the newly arrived scholars, seemed almost feverishly alive. His eyes shone with that peculiar mixture of piety and intellectual hunger that made him, in certain moods, resemble a medieval mystic.
“You must understand,” he said, leaning forward so that the candlelight caught the red in his hair, “Saint Paul is not merely a figure of doctrine. He is the earliest Christian voice we possess in writing. Earlier than the Gospels, earlier than the polished narratives of later centuries. He is a man speaking in the raw heat of a new faith, before it had settled into its later forms.”
The Psychologist raised an eyebrow. “And this fascinates you more than Christ Himself?”
Filby hesitated, and for a moment the room grew still.
“I fear to see the face of the Lord,” he said quietly. “I am not prepared for such a revelation. But Paul—Paul is a man. A brilliant, difficult, contradictory man. His letters are full of urgency, of argument, of a mind wrestling with the world. I have studied them for years, and still I cannot reconcile the man with the myth.”
The Medical Man tapped his notebook. “You believe you can find him? In Corinth?”
Filby nodded. “The scholars agree. Paul’s movements in the late forties and early fifties are unusually well attested. His time in Corinth—eighteen months, perhaps more—is one of the few periods we can place with near certainty. But the other disciples…” He spread his hands. “They vanish into rumor. Into tradition. Into the haze of later centuries. Peter, James, John—no one can say precisely where they were at any given moment.”
The Psychologist smirked. “So you choose the one apostle who wrote letters instead of the ones who wrote Gospels.”
“Precisely,” Filby said. “The letters are anchors. They give us dates, names, quarrels, journeys. They give us a man in motion. And if we could hear him speak—if we could see how he carried himself, how he argued, how he prayed—many mysteries might be resolved.”
The Time Traveler, who had been listening with a faint smile, finally spoke. “Filby has persuaded a remarkable company to join us. Linguists who can speak Greek as it was spoken then, not as it is taught now. Scholars of Egyptian, Babylonian, Assyrian tongues. Experts in ancient trades, ancient weapons, ancient customs. Men who can walk into Corinth without betraying themselves by a single gesture.”
The Provincial Mayor chuckled nervously. “And what of us? We shall stand out like sore thumbs.”
“Not if you follow instructions,” said the Time Traveler. “You will be dressed, trained, and briefed. You will speak little. You will observe much. And you will not wander.”
The Psychologist swirled his wine. “You speak as though the past were a safari.”
“In some respects,” the Time Traveler replied, “it is.”
Filby leaned back, his expression softening. “I do not seek miracles. I seek understanding. Paul’s letters are full of fire, but also full of puzzles. Why did he quarrel with Peter? What precisely did he mean by ‘thorn in the flesh’? How did he preach? How did he persuade? How did he endure? To see the man would be to illuminate the text.”
“And Christ?” the Psychologist pressed again.
Filby’s voice dropped. “I am not worthy to look upon Him. But Paul—Paul I can face. And perhaps, through him, understand something of the earliest days.”
The Time Traveler rose. “Gentlemen, tomorrow we depart at dawn. The scholars are already lodged in the guest rooms. The machine is provisioned. I suggest you retire early.”
There was a murmur of agreement, though none of us seemed eager to leave the table. The fire crackled. The lamps flickered. The house felt strangely suspended between centuries, as though the present were already loosening its grip.
At last we rose, each man subdued by his own private thoughts. Filby paused at the doorway, looking back at the Time Traveler with a mixture of reverence and anticipation.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly, “we step into history.”
The Time Traveler nodded. “And perhaps,” he replied, “history will step into us.”
We parted for our rooms, the corridors unusually silent, each of us aware that sleep would not come easily. For in the morning, we would leave not merely London, but the age itself.
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