Philip felt a cold chill. He remembered all too clearly Marcus’s powerful strength. A cringing remembrance of the flagellum swept through his mind. But, if he was to suffer, he wanted it to be for the sake of his Lord, not his own disobedience. He titled his chin. “I was out walking, my lord.”
“I wonder you dared to leave without my permission.”
Philip fought to maintain an even, quiet tone. “You have never forbidden me to go out, my lord.”
“I did not know my slave was such an idiot as to roam the streets at midnight. But, as I own, you are from the barbarous tribe lands.”
Philip said nothing, though his heart swelled resentfully at the cutting sarcasm. Marcus eyed him.
“Surely your walk had a destination.”
Philip’s heart sank and he struggled to keep a forthright demeanor. “Yes.”
“And where was it?”
Philip’s mind whirled. What could he say? Even if lying was permitted for Christians, Marcus would see through his deceit in a moment. “It was a home–here in the city.”
Marcus colored in angry vexation. “By the gods, Philip! You will not keep your master in ignorance. I demand the full truth from you at once.”
So it was the full story or nothing. Philip braced himself. He would tell only what he could without risk to the others. “I was at a meeting of the Christian brethren, my lord.”
Marcus cocked an eyebrow, surprise flickering over his face. “The Christian brethren? What nonsense is this, Philip? You are no Christian.”
Philip swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his chest. “You are wrong, my lord. I am one.”
Silence permeated the room.
Philip’s heart pounded wildly. What would Marcus do to him? He averted his gaze for many long minutes, then, slowly, raised his eyes.
Marcus’s countenance was expressionless. Abruptly, he turned around, taking up his mug of wine and cradling it in his hands. “So this will explain my misery of the last few weeks. Like all Christians, you pray curses down on the head of your rightful master.”
Philip started a little. Was this what Marcus thought of him? Had he really seen no change in him since his conversion?
A sudden pang struck him. How could Marcus have seen much of a change in him, after all? He resented him, his commands. And he feared him too much to really show him how hard he was trying.
“You wrong me, my lord. I have made no such petition in my prayers.” Philip bit his tongue almost the moment he spoke. Defending himself was certainly no way to convince Marcus he had truly changed. Or, rather, he was changing.
Marcus turned, displeasure deep on his countenance. “You have told me I am wrong twice in the last few moments. Is that the way you Christians are instructed to address their masters?”
“No, my lord.” Philip felt a wave of shame. It was little wonder Marcus considered him the impudent fool he had always been. “My apologies.”
Marcus eyed him. “If these Christians have taught you how to beg my pardon, then perhaps they are not so remiss after all. But,” and here his voice grew low and threatening, “I will not be responsible for your safety. I care little whether or not you belong to this sect. My only concern is that you serve me well. Yet, if you are caught and fed to starving lions, it is your own doing. Do not expect me to save you.”
Marcus ended with a look that assured Philip he meant what he said. Setting his cup down, he turned and vacated the room.
Philip stood where he was, motionless. So that was all. Marcus had not stormed or threatened him. Perhaps persecution would not come from his quarter after all.
A slow smile quivered about his lips. Once again, his faith had failed, but God had not. God would never fail him.
Three evenings later, Philip donned his simple cloak and slipped through the atrium to the vestibule. His father had already left for the meeting. As the meeting was scheduled earlier in the evening, they had thought it best to not be seen going by twos.
A snatch of a whistle lighted on Philip’s lips. He had many questions for Daniel and was eager to arrive at his destination. Though he wished he knew more than he did, the anticipation of having his constant questions answered was a true pleasure.
“Philip!”
Philip felt the whistle die on his lips. With a tinge of apprehension, he stepped toward the library. Marcus stood in the doorway, a scroll in his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“Where were you going?”
“To the meetings, my lord.” Philip took careful survey of Marcus’s expressionless face. “I shall not be out as late as I was before.”
Marcus tapped the end of the scroll absently into his palm. “See that you keep that promise.”
“Yes, my lord.” Philip half-bent. Turning, he strode quickly away, of no mind to tempt Marcus’s changing moods.
Marcus watched him leave. It was not until the sound of the closing door struck his ears that he turned, reentering the library.
What strange whims his slave had, to be sure. One moment an untamable barbarian, the next a contented Christian. He would never begin to understand Philip’s restless energy and impossible thinking.
Without warning, a stern voice cut into his thoughts. “Have you dispatched your slave on an errand, Marcus?”
Marcus turned to face Rowland. Assuming a carelessness he did not feel, he threw his parchment down upon a low table. “No, father, I have not. Why do you inquire?”
“Because I think it very strange you allow him so much liberty. By the gods, do you want to lose him again?”
Marcus laughed slightly. “I do not think that at all possible. That ring about his neck should more than guarantee his safe conduct.”
“I am glad you are so confident.” Rowland’s voice was dry, and he picked up the scroll Marcus had carelessly cast aside. “Where was he going?”
“To a Christian meeting of sorts, I believe.”
Rowland looked up in sudden astonishment. “Marcus, I trust you are joking.”
“No.”
Rowland’s scroll closed with an echoing snap. Angrily, he tossed it down upon the table. “By the great gods! And you have dared to permit it?”
Suddenly conscious of his father’s displeasure, Marcus straightened himself erect. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I saw little reason to forbid it.”
“Little reason! Are you so foolish that you are not aware that the Christians cause all the ill that befalls Rome?”
“I questioned Philip somewhat on that score. He assured me he makes no such prayers.”
“And you believe him?” Rowland spat the words. “Marcus, I am ashamed of you. We will be cursed by all the gods in turn if you do not put an end to this folly. Where is your Roman pride that you allow your personal attendant to worship a dead Jew?”
Marcus felt the color rising in his cheeks. He was accustomed to being treated like a man, and Rowland’s angry sarcasm stung him to the quick. “I am as true a Roman as any man could be father. You know that.”
“Then pray show a little Roman sense, Marcus! As your father, I command that you put an end to this nonsense or I shall take matters into my own hands by sending that insolent little cur to the auction block.”
Marcus bit his lip for a long moment. So now his father threatened his pride and masculinity by threatening to take his own possession from him. He made no attempt to hide the cold anger bordered on his voice.
“Cease to threaten me, father. If it is your desire that my slave be rid of this Christianity, then you need only state as much. Your wish shall be my will–without such derision.”
Rowland narrowed his gaze. “So you say. I am decidedly disappointed in you, Marcus. That you should for a single moment tolerate this infamous sect within my household is a severe dishonor to me.”
Marcus averted his gaze to hide their smoldering. “My apologies.”
Rowland turned and stalked away. At the door, he turned, his voice sharp.
“You say you are a
true Roman at heart, Marcus. You shall prove it by dispelling all trace of Christianity from your slave. And,” his voice grew cutting, “you better do it quickly. No dog of a Briton will bring a curse upon my household.”
With a piercing glare, Rowland left the library.
Marcus stood still. Like rolling waves, anger burned in his countenance. It was not so much his father’s command that infuriated him, but his blatant ridicule. He, the now eldest son and right hand of his father, had been humiliated and spurned like a child.
And Philip had been the cause of it.
“Jove be my witness.” Marcus’s hands suddenly doubled into angry fists. “Christianity shall indeed be wrenched from this household.”
Chapter Thirteen
Philip crept noiselessly up the steps of the Virginius domus. He cast a quick glance behind him. Thankfully, it did not seem they were being watched.
Behind him, Beric’s clothing rustled against his own. His close presence was warm. In the darkness of night, with danger lurking beyond every shadow, it was reassuring to have his father with him.
Philip stepped into the vestibule. A single oil lamp flickered, casting eerie shadows against the wall. The domus was silent. Somehow, its hollow darkness reminded him of the caves of Britain.
He turned. Beric’s face was dimly illuminated by the golden lamplight, expelling the remainder of his figure into a shadowy outline.
“Marcus will be expecting me.” Philip barely lifted his voice above a whisper. “I hope he is not angry I was gone so late. I had more questions for Daniel than I realized.”
“Daniel is a wise man.” Beric’s tones were as hushed as his own. “I am pleased you spoke with him. Many of your questions had been in my own mind.”
“And I find myself with a full dozen more to ask him. I wish I had the half of his knowledge.”
Beric chuckled, his muffled laughter lightening the shrouded darkness of the atrium. “I don’t doubt you someday will, my son. You are too keen-spirited to undertake anything half-heartedly.” His hand rested lightly on Philip’s shoulder. “But I have seen in the last few weeks how you are curbing your free spirit to deal respectfully with Marcus. And for that, I commend you.”
Philip felt a warm rush. His father was not one to give praise lightly. Bending, he touched Beric’s hand to his forehead.
“Thank you, father. Your commendation is kind.” He straightened, grinning ruefully. “It may be a little premature, though. I am ashamed to admit it, but the very sound of Marcus’s name boils my blood. I don’t think I’ll ever possess a tame character where he is concerned.”
“Then I advise you go quickly to him while you are still under the influence of Daniel’s preaching.” Beric squeezed Philip’s shoulder. “Goodnight, my son.”
“Goodnight.” Philip offered a half-smiling salute before striding quickly across the atrium and mounting the stairway to the family’s sleeping chambers.
At the door of Marcus’s chamber, he stopped to take a deep breath.
He was still very lighthearted from the stimulating conversation he and Daniel had shared, to say nothing of the pleasant evening he had enjoyed with his new brethren. Despite a slight twinge of conscience, he was not eager to come down from the joyful heights the meeting had taken him to return to the irritations of his duties.
Give me grace, Lord. He inhaled deeply, stepping into the well-lit apartment.
Marcus stood at one of the casement. At the sound of Philip’s entrance, he turned, irritation, as always, high in his countenance.
Philip half-bent, his heart sinking. Marcus looked dour indeed. Inwardly quaking, he crossed his hands on his breast. “All hail, my lord.”
“You were gone long.” Marcus’s voice was dark in its curtness. “I do not consider this a fulfillment of your promise.”
Philip exhaled slowly. Marcus was not going to make it easy for him. Should he explain that he had come sooner than the time before? Or say nothing?
Marcus didn’t leave him either option. “Still, it no longer matters. You are no longer to go to those meetings, Philip. And, for that matter, you are to cease your practice of Christianity altogether.”
Philip started. The abruptness of Marcus’s command was shocking. Surely Marcus did not mean what he said! He had said only a few days ago he had no objection to his slave’s newfound faith.
Slowly, he ventured to speak, trying to sort through his feelings of disbelief. “My lord, I do not understand–”
“Then allow me to make it plain to you.” Marcus stepped a little nearer, coldly authoritative. “Christians bring about all the ill that befalls Rome, to say nothing of the disapproval our divine emperor has for the sect. I have seen my duty as a Roman and will not tolerate its practices in any slave of mine.”
Philip’s heart sank. If Marcus’s words were resolute, the icy frigidness of his dark eyes was even more so. But, surely, this was all impossible. “You cannot mean that, master.”
“I do. The sooner you are purged of this folly, the better.”
“But it is not folly.” Philip felt a well of desperation growing within him. What had triggered this sudden intolerance in Marcus? “We do not bring about ill to Rome, nor is our emperor’s dislike for our faith at all just.”
“Enough.” Marcus’s eyes blazed. “Take care how you speak of Nero. Men have died for less than what you just uttered.”
Philip bit his lip and looked down. Of course. This was Rome. Never speak your mind, never doubt the authority or infallibility of an emperor.
Marcus drew a little closer, his voice cruel. “I wouldn’t know why you would care anyway, Philip. You make a worthless Christian as it is. Are you not bidden to obey and respect your lawful master?”
Philip felt a twinge. He would never be able to convince Marcus he was trying to change, trying to follow the example of his true Master. He chose his words carefully. “We are commanded to obey our masters as long as we are not ordered to do something against the higher authority of Jesus the Christ.”
Marcus laughed callously. “And I suppose you will tell me obeying my command in this goes against this Jesus. But, it is no matter. You will heed me, Philip.”
Philip averted his gaze. “And if–”
“If you disobey? You will not disobey, Philip. You will not wish to live to see the consequences.”
Philip looked up, hoping to see a glimmer of mercy in Marcus’s dark eyes. There was none. The young man was as grimly resolute as any master could be.
“Well? Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord.” Philip spoke softly. He understood perfectly.
Marcus motioned briskly. “Then go to your own quarters. I do not require your services tonight.”
Wordlessly, Philip strode across the chamber to his own sleeping place. Shutting the door, he leaned against it for many long minutes. As usual, Marcus had made his choice a simple one.
Obey or suffer.
Slowly, he went to his couch and knelt beside it. Though he was still new to this business of proper Christian prayer, he wanted to be on his knees more than he ever had before.
“Jesus.” He began slowly, contemplating what he was saying. “You know what my master has decreed. And I know I cannot obey him. Give me the strength to resist him, no matter what he might do to me.”
He paused. His conscience twinged painfully, and he resolved to make a full confession. Now more than ever, he wanted perfect honesty between him and his Savior.
“I am afraid of him, Lord. But the worst of it is that I still hate him. I struggle to love him like You have commanded. If I am to disobey him, I want him to see that this is not like all of my other follies. I want him to see a change in me. Please let him see that change, even if it is through my suffering.”
Philip could scarcely believe the words fell from his lips. He dreaded Marcus’s displeasure and cruel strength more than he would have admitted to anyone, but, at this moment, he felt he was willing to suffer if it would brin
g Marcus to see what true Christianity was.
“He was right, Jesus. I am a very poor type of Christian. But, somehow, help me love him and show him what a Christian can be through Your grace.”
Again, he paused. More than anything, he wanted to ask to be delivered from persecution. But the words would not come to his lips. Dozens of his fellow-believers died daily. Was it fair that he ask to be excluded?
A struggle raged violently in his heart. He wanted deliverance. Surely, it was not wrong to ask for it. But is it right?
Slowly, his head sank onto his couch. It was all or nothing. He was not going to be a half-way Christian. “And, Lord, let it not be my will, but Yours. May Yours be done.”
Philip felt unusually rested when he awoke the next morning. Still, his first thought upon opening his eyes was that of Marcus’s command. For a long moment, he gazed at the open casement. It was too easy to lay there and think of all the terrible things his master might do to him.
Get up. Don’t mope. Focus on Christ’s strength.
He bounded out of bed. As he dressed, he thought on every possible positive outcome. Perhaps sleep had even altered Marcus’s hardened demeanor. He forced himself to keep that thought in mind as he moved into the next room.
It was a vain hope.
Marcus said little while Philip aided him to dress, but, when he at last broke the silence, his words were the last ones Philip wanted to hear. “You have not forgotten my command?”
“No, my lord.” What else was there to say? Philip had not forgotten and it was apparent Marcus wasn’t about to let him forget.
“That is well.” An unusually pleasant expression played about Marcus’s countenance. “I have been considering reinstating you as a wrestler. Within a few weeks, if all goes well,” and he made a meaningful sign, “I intend to see you again upon the wrestling mat.”
If all went well? If I recant…
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 14
