Philip turned back to the cobblestoned street before him. There was nothing to fear. It was if he was being followed by a different person. There was no darkness, no chilling apprehension, only the peaceful assurance he was safe.
It was almost as if he was being guided. Or, rather, as if he had a guide.
Deny it as he would, Philip’s heart pounded as he ran lightly up the marble steps of the mansion of Virginius. He had been gone for well over two hours, and it was past the usual time for Marcus’s daily bath.
The atrium was quiet and still as he entered. Only the sounds of his sandaled feet upon the marble floor and the distant trickling of the fountain playing in the garden met his ears. Clearly, his absence had not attracted a dangerous amount of attention.
Noiselessly, he stepped from the atrium to the peristyle edging the garden. A quick glance showed the garden was empty, save for one individual.
Marcus stood before the family shrine. The morning sacrifice had long since been made, but it was obvious he had made a second offering of wine upon its altar.
Philip watched from the edge of the peristyle, observing discreet silence. Common sense told him announcing his return in the midst of his master’s reverent sacrifice would be woefully imprudent. As it was already, his hands trembled, wondering what Marcus would do and say to him.
Finished at the shrine, Marcus turned. Instant anger flashed across his face, seeing his slave. “Where have you been?”
Philip exhaled slowly. Humble respectfulness was easy with Daniel; it was quite another with the young man who seemed to always get under his skin. “I was out walking, my lord.”
“Without my permission? I’ve been in need of your service for over an hour now. I wonder you dared to leave the domus.”
Philip bit his lip, attempting to control his rising anger. Why was it Marcus’s tones always sent the blood boiling throughout his body, enraging him?
Love thy neighbor as thyself.
“My apologies, master.” Philip felt the blood rise in his cheeks, but he had done it. He had begged Marcus’s pardon.
Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “I should have clapped that ring about your neck long ago. Fancy getting an apology from a Briton!”
Philip clamped his teeth together. His hands doubled into fists, closing until the nails bit into the palm. Say nothing.
“Don’t just stand there.” Marcus snapped at him. “You’ve wasted my time as it is. Get my things for the Baths.”
Philip half-bent, not trusting himself to speak. When he had asked Daniel to command him, he had not thought to receive an order this difficult.
Apologize for running away.
Philip almost jumped. What sort of idiotic thought was that to have? He had just humbled himself into the very dust! Apologize again? Never.
Honoring Marcus is your first step towards peace.
Philip ground his teeth. It was impossible. He couldn’t. It was all Marcus’s fault anyway. Had Marcus not driven him half-mad with pain and vexation, he never would have run away in the first place.
Where had such a thought come from anyway? Surely–surely–it had not come from the God he now pledged to follow, Jesus Christ.
Philip felt a tinge. A soft whisper echoed in his heart, urging him to obey. The twinge intensified, hurting him. Instinctively, he felt it: he would be miserable until he obeyed this mysterious command.
“Why are you just standing there? By Aphrodite! Will you never learn to obey me?”
Philip felt Marcus’s anger in his stride towards him. He cringed, half-starting back. Marcus’s hand closed around his arm, holding him fast. Philip swallowed hard, his heart thudding.
“Marcus.”
Marcus paused, his hand upraised. Philip looked up at him, shaking. Attempting to control his faltering voice seemed hopeless.
“My lord, I–I wanted to beg your pardon for–for running away. It was wrong of me to–dishonor you. I pray you will–forgive me.”
For one fleeting moment, a look of dumbfounded surprise hovered over Marcus’s clear-cut features. His eyes softened, as if touched. Then, abruptly, he drew back his hand and struck him heavily across the face.
Philip’s heart swelled. He pursed his lips tightly together to keep from uttering his mind. The hot tears arose in his eyes, watering from the smart of the stroke. Inflicting pain was becoming a talent for Marcus.
Marcus leaned close to him, dark and threatening. “I am no idiot, Philip. I know the ways of slaves. Are you such a fool you think your humble little apologies will keep me from punishing you?” His grip tightening with painful intensity upon Philip’s arm. “Do not try that trick again.”
With a forceful shove, Marcus released him.
Philip stepped back against one of the columns to keep his balance. Marcus gestured fiercely at him, and he needed no further urging to leave his presence.
Swiftly, his heart thudding against his chest, he ran into the atrium, then up the steps to Marcus’s bedchamber. Inside, he leaned against the door, closing his eyes. The heavy blow had set his temples to pounding. His hands shook wildly, but, by a great effort, he controlled them.
He had obeyed. And perhaps, after all, it was because he had listened to the mysterious Voice he had not been punished more severely.
Philip exhaled slowly. He was angry, angry at Marcus for so misjudging him. But, somehow, he was also at peace. He had done right.
Slowly, he straightened himself and went to gather Marcus’s fresh clothing. The pain was still very fresh in his face, but he brushed it aside. It no longer mattered.
He had won his first great victory for Christ.
Chapter Twelve
Darkness shrouded the Vicus Tucus, looming and mysterious. The moon shone high overhead, its radiant beams casting dusky black shadows from the colossal pillars and formation of the mansion of Virginius.
Though it was several hours after the setting of the sun, the air was warm and humid. In sunny Rome, it was difficult to recall the icy snow and frigid breezes of Britain.
A lone owl flew overhead, casting its winged shadow upon the cobblestoned street. A single hoot issued from its beak, echoing with strange volume against the mammoth structures.
Under the covering of his hood, Philip glanced up at the bird, watching it disappear into the dark shadows on the soft currents of night air. Three weeks ago, he would have been terrified by hearing its call, knowing the omen of imminent death attached with its eerie hoot. Now, however, he was unafraid.
Beside him, covered in his own heavy woolen cloak, Beric walked in guarded silence. Only his sandaled feet made sound, falling in regular rhythm upon the cobblestones that characterized Rome.
Philip glanced sidelong at him. A prayer was heavy on his heart for him. Slowly, his mind drifted back to the afternoon when, two days after his conversion, he had first broken the news to Beric he was a Christian.
It still surprised him that Beric had made little comment. He had expected a stern rebuke for forsaking his country’s gods, but Beric had met his announcement with a quiet respect he had never expected in a once-devout British chieftain.
And, more surprising still, Beric had only that evening requested to be taken to the Christian meetings.
The meetings.
Philip felt the icy fingers of apprehension creep up his neck. He cast an uneasy glance behind him. At the time of his conversion, he had not truly realized how very dangerous Rome was for Christians, but now there was no mistaking the peril his new faith had brought upon himself.
The proof was all around him.
The emperor’s dislike of Christianity was intensifying with every passing day. Only a week after his conversion, Philip had heard of a mass execution in the imperial arena. Twenty Christians had been killed under the swords of gladiators and even more had been thrown to starving lions.
But, terrible as this event had been, it was becoming commonplace. Too commonplace.
Last week, another brother had met his pitiless
end. But, this time, Philip had known him. He had a countenance to put to the gruesome story.
Marcipor, a close friend of Daniel’s and a fellow-slave, had been caught with a basket of bread and wine for communion. When confronted and challenged to offer a sacrifice to Jove, Marcipor had refused.
And, he had been covered in oily pitch and lit on fire in Nero’s personal gardens as a result.
Melancholy bordered on Philip’s heart. It was difficult to think of his pain. Worse still was the certain knowledge that Marcipor had not died alone. There had been dozens with him.
His mind drifted onto the words of Paul. The apostle’s epistle to the Romans was well-circulated, and Daniel had verbally translated it from Greek to Latin for Philip’s special benefit during one of the meetings. All of the words were powerful, but one phrase stood out in particular to him.
And not only so, but we glory in tribulation also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience hope…
Philip shook his head ever so lightly. Glorying in tribulation was not easy to do. The apostle Paul himself knew this. He had been imprisoned in Rome for two years before just recently being released. Before his captivity, he had been shipwrecked, flogged, stoned. And, though he had left decadent Rome to continue his missionary work, it was almost certain he would experience further suffering for the sake of the gospel.
But, in the midst of all his stories of suffering, Paul preached hope. And he was right. Philip felt a smile tugging at his lips, melting his despondence. Wherever persecution found them, the Christians seemed to spring back stronger and more powerful than before.
“Are you certain you know where we are going?” Beric’s hushed voice broke into Philip’s plethora of thoughts.
“Yes.” Philip forced himself to focus on the present moment. “We’ll be there soon.”
Almost as he spoke, his eyes fell on a familiar door. A tiny, almost invisible symbol marked one corner of the frame. It was the Ichths, or, sign of the fish. They were about to be among friends.
Philip tapped the door with his knuckle, scarcely making a sound. The door opened a crack, but no wider. “Peace be with you.” He whispered the password. The last few weeks had taught him well. At once, the gap widened, allowing space for them to slip through.
Just inside, his eyes fell on the others. My brethren. Men, women, and children sat grouped together, some on the floor, others on low stools. Their tones were hushed, sincerely joyful to be together, yet too mindful of the danger to raise their voices.
Philip raised his hand in silent greeting. Peace washed over him, as it always did when he joined his fellow-believers. He stood another moment, looking at them. Herein was the beauty of his new faith. Slaves sat with masters, Greeks mingled with Jews. And Romans embraced their conquered inferiors.
“Peace be with you, Philip.” A delicate young girl drew near him, balancing a pitcher of wine on her hip. Her maidenly form was slim and shapely, and she wore her faintly-curling dark hair pulled back high on her head in the attractive Greek fashion.
“May the grace of our God be with you, Moriah.” Philip crossed his hands upon his breast as he spoke, subservient. He was always at a loss for words with the pretty adopted daughter of Daniel.
The girl was Roman by birth, but, when Daniel had first found her, abandoned on a street corner, he had given her a Jewish name. Moriah. Philip dimly recalled Daniel telling him it was the name of a sacred location in Jerusalem, a place now defiled by Roman authority.
“We are all assembled.” Daniel’s quiet voice fell over the group. “Let us begin with prayer.”
Philip moved forward to find a place among the brethren, motioning for Beric to follow. He knelt, offering a slight nod to the believers who glanced up at him. Beric knelt beside him, his garment brushing Philip’s shoulder.
“Almighty Jesus, we are gathered in Your Name to worship You. We thank You for Your goodness and love. We praise You for Your death on the cross, for giving us eternal life through Your blood…”
Philip let Daniel’s voice fade out. Normally, he listened with devout fervor, weighing Daniel’s prayers in his mind and learning from his examples how to pray. Tonight, however, his heart was too full. Silently, he began his own petition.
Almighty Jesus, I thank You for Your goodness. I can’t begin to praise You like Daniel, but You know my heart. You’ve delivered me from so much. Please continue to deliver me. I haven’t begun to love like You love, but I want to.
Philip paused a moment in his mind. Did he really mean that? A brief reflection revealed he did. Hard as it was to forgive others, to love individuals like Marcus, he wanted to. He could not bear being bound by hate again.
Help me to learn how to love, Jesus. And I pray you will let my father see the truth about Your grace. Let him come to know You as I have done.
The completion of Daniel’s prayer cut into Philip’s own petition. Prayer requests and news began to circulate around the room.
One man’s father had been imprisoned; yet another had recently wed and requested prayer for his unsaved wife; and Moriah quietly requested prayer for courage in witnessing.
The requests taken, Daniel quietly told of his personal salvation account, coupling his story with a full explanation of how to accept the free gift of eternal life. Philip knew he did so for the sake of Beric, desiring to witness to him without seeming too pointed.
The story seemed new every time Philip heard it. He wished he could recite the account of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection as fluently as Daniel. It seemed every time he came to the meetings, he realized how much he had to learn.
Too soon, the story came to a close. Daniel glanced around the room, his eyes shining from his bewhiskered face with a kindly, searching gaze.
Philip glanced at Beric. He did not expect him to be at all impressed. After all, he was a brave-hearted Briton, devout to his country’s gods and the oath to destroy Rome. He was not even certain why Beric had requested to come.
To his surprise, Beric’s head was bent low in his chest. Philip was almost startled to see it. His strong, jaunt father always sat upright, his chin held proudly erect, his eyes looking out on the world with the expression of calm, cool leadership he had always possessed.
“If there is no immediate business at hand, I would like to ask a brother to close in prayer.” Daniel half-turned, as if to choose a brother.
Abruptly, Beric lifted his head. His voice, clear and firm, broke the stillness of the room. “I believe.”
Philip’s mind whirled. This was impossible. Did Beric really mean what he was saying? Just as quickly, guilt seized him. Where had been his faith? His own conversion had been swift; why should he doubt his father’s sincerity? His conscience pricked him.
With God all things are possible.
Dimly, he saw Daniel move forward, grasping Beric’s hand. Their tired countenances suddenly lightened by joy, the brethren gathered around them, touching Beric, murmuring words in his ear.
Daniel motioned for Beric to kneel with him, his hand gripping his new brother’s shoulder. Beric’s hand covered his face, his tones unsteady.
And, for the first time, Philip heard the sound of his father’s voice being lifted to the One Almighty God.
Sudden emotion threatened to overcome him. Philip moved forward, kneeling beside his praying father and laying his own hand on his bent shoulder. At that moment, rejoicing such as he had never before felt filled his heart. He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of his joy.
Abruptly, the words of Paul’s epistle flashed into his mind, startling him. For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.
Philip gazed over the assembled brethren. A strange heaviness masked his joy, creeping into every corner of his heart.
Why did those words seem to ring in his ears?
“By Hercules! You move with the swiftness of a tortoise! Hand me that pallium.”
Phil
ip stifled a sigh. It seemed that since his conversion, Marcus had grown even more irritable. He found constant fault with him, the slightest trace of his former favor and indulgence having completely disappeared.
Daniel had said it was to be expected. He had said that temptation and vexation was certain to come in its strongest forms at the beginning, attempting to lure him away him away from his new faith.
But that was impossible. Philip knew in his heart he was a child of God. And no man, not even Marcus, could snatch him from his Lord’s hands.
He handed Marcus the garment, half-hoping his quiet submission would calm Marcus’s temper. “Here you are, my lord.”
Marcus took the garment slowly, his eyes narrowed with piercing coolness. Philip felt a chill of uneasiness. He glanced up, meeting Marcus’s gaze, then, subserviently dropped his eyes.
“You seem weary.” Marcus’s voice bordered on suspicion.
Philip looked up. How did Marcus always know? He and Beric had not returned home until quite late, remaining at the meeting place long after everyone else had left. He had only caught a few hours of rest before the rising of the sun had prodded him to his feet. “I am a little tired, my lord.”
He turned away to pour out the wine. Marcus’s voice continued behind him.
“Where were you last night?”
Philip stiffened. His hand shook a little as he set the pitcher down. Turning, he handed Marcus the wine, not daring to look him in the eye. “Your wine, my lord.”
“Avernus take the wine! Answer me, you fool. Where were you last night?”
Philip slowly drew himself up. The moment he had dreaded had come. He could not lie– that much he was certain of. But there were lives, lives other than his own, to be thought of. “I–I beg your pardon?”
“Do not pretend you don’t understand me, Philip.” Marcus stepped threateningly nearer. His fingers brushed the fastening on his right wristband, ominous. As was so often his case, his behavior hinted his readiness to take physical action if Philip continued to put him off.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 13
