Another moment found him on his knees. But it was not enough.
Philip felt a strong sensation, pulling him downwards. With arms stretched outwards, he prostrated himself on his face, extending himself before the King of creation. A fervor of petition flooded his heart, issuing into a ceaseless intercession he had never before experienced.
And, in the hours that passed, he knew it was only the boundless grace of his Savior that gave him the ability to pray with such passion for the young man who had killed his father.
The faint light of the dawn found Philip still stretched out upon the floor, his lips moving in silent supplication. It was not until the full beams of golden sunlight flooded the room that he rose to his feet, revealing tell-tale moisture on the marble floor.
But the battle was not won.
Philip felt the oppression in the very atmosphere of Marcus’s chamber. The Spirit within him sensed the forces of evil, waging war over his master’s soul.
Marcus was very pale and weary in appearance. While Philip felt only renewal by his long night’s vigil, it was clear the struggle Marcus was enduring had entirely exhausted his strength.
And his good-temper.
Philip struggled hard to keep his self-control all during the difficult task of aiding Marcus to dress. He had never before suffered as many harsh words and heavy slaps as he did that morning. Marcus’s spirits were sorely strained, and his only relief seemed to be in battering his slave about.
It was a relief to Philip when he left the room. He felt weary, his spirits decidedly more dejected than when he had risen from prayer. Aching, he moved listlessly around the room, seeking forgetfulness in work.
With his labors done, Philip waited for Marcus to summon him. The time for his daily bath was close at hand.
Marcus did not call.
The hours slipped away, and Philip neither heard nor saw anything of his master. When questioning the other slaves, it was said he had gone out; though, to where, no one seemed to know.
Concern bordered on Philip’s heart. Where had Marcus gone? And why had he not called his slave to accompany him, as he always did? Even when in his deepest disgrace, he had always been required to serve Marcus. It did not seem possible that his master had left him behind as a punishment of sorts, although he admitted the prospect was more of a reward than anything else.
Afternoon slipped into the dusky shadows of evening.
At last Philip went out onto the balcony adjoining Marcus’s chamber, gazing down the busy Vicus Tuscus. Pedestrians, chariots, and peddlers ambled past, but he could see no sign of Marcus. It was not until the last golden streams of light disappeared from the sky that Philip went in.
Absently, he lit the oil lamps, watching their soft beams cast warmth over the room. Humidity hovered in the air, creating an atmosphere of drowsy serenity.
Philip felt the overpowering desire for sleep stealing over him, but he staunchly refused to lie down. He must await Marcus’s return. Resolutely, he attempted to silence the mystifying fear suspended over his heart.
Where was Marcus? Surely, he was safe. But, then… Philip felt a sudden pang. Suicide was widely accepted in Rome for those left with no hope.
Oh, God, don’t let him have taken the coward’s way out. Please–
The door swung wide. Marcus stepped into the room, his steps weary.
Philip started to his feet, nearly overcome with relief. “My lord! I–”
He stopped short. There was something different about Marcus, something new in his countenance. He was very weary and pale, as when he had left, but a new serenity seemed to hover over his countenance.
“I have not eaten at all today.” Marcus came forward and seated himself wearily on his couch. “Hand me that fruit.”
Philip obeyed, confusion filling his mind. Why did he sense something different about Marcus? Certainly, his appearance had not changed and his mannerism was very much like it always had been.
Marcus glanced up at him as he helped himself from the bowl of fruit Philip held before him. A flicker of something Philip could not understand crossed his face, and he averted his eyes.
With Marcus settled comfortably with fruit in his hands and a goblet of mulsum beside him, Philip knelt beside him. Draping a towel over his shoulder, he began to remove Marcus’s dusty sandals.
Unexpectedly, Marcus lifted a remonstrating hand. The sudden color washed over his face, tightening his features. “No-no. Do not wash my feet, Philip.”
Philip rose, confused. What ailed Marcus? He always washed his feet after his return. “My lord–” He paused, respectful hesitance checking him. “I beg your pardon, but are you quite well?”
Marcus looked up at him. His manly face contracted despite his apparent efforts for composure. His chin quivered, and Philip saw his tanned throat swell and tighten. Great emotion settled over him, flaunting all resistance.
“Philip...”
Marcus paused. He seemed unable to go on, again overcome by that mysterious emotion.
Philip’s heart swelled. His proud, strong master had always been the exemplar of Roman self-control when it concerned emotion. Something extraordinary must have occurred for him to even momentarily humble himself before his disdained slave.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You were right.” Marcus’s tones were low and husky. He sat collecting his composure a moment, and his voice regained some of its usual firm timbres. “I went to the home of Daniel today.”
Philip’s eyes roved Marcus’s countenance with fervent searching. “Yes?”
“And I spoke with him for hours. I asked him every question that ever entered my heart, and he explained it all. He told me what it is to be a Christian, to serve Jesus as His child.”
Marcus paused. Again, his throat constricted. Abruptly, he arose and went to the casement, standing with his back to Philip for many moments.
Philip stood motionless. His heart thumped wildly, beating against his chest. What was Marcus trying to say?
“I have been tormented by many fears of late.” Marcus turned, looking Philip steadily in the eye. “I know you have seen it.” He paused. “But I think you shall see them no more.”
Philip’s mind whirled. Jesus alone was the conqueror of fear, the Giver of the perfect love which casts away dread and doubt. Without Him, there was no peace. “You don’t mean–”
“Yes.” Marcus drew himself erect, his shoulders squared. New resolve washed over him, highlighting his working features. “Come what may, be it life or death, I am with you.”
“You are in earnest?” Philip took a step forward. His knees trembled, caught between disbelief and joy. “You do not mock me?”
“Yes. I have sworn it on my honor as a Roman. I am resolved that Christ alone is my hope, the strength of my life.” Marcus’s voice shook as he spoke. Unexpectedly, his hand clutched the folds of his toga about his heart. “Philip, I felt Him. I felt His call. I have heard it for weeks now, but could not bring myself to accept Him. I think you knew it.”
“I was praying for you.” Philip’s voice was very low. The joyful reality seeped into every core of his being. Marcus knew! He knew the truth, believed in the existence of the Savior who loved him.
Thank you, Lord. Thank you!
His heart had been settling into a natural cadence, but it suddenly swelled and pounded against his chest. He felt tears washing over his eyes, blurring his vision.
Marcus believed!
Recollection of the fervent prayers he had made on Marcus’s behalf flitted through his mind. What if he had not obeyed the heavenly injunctions to pray, to beg God for Marcus’s soul?
He saw himself, his hands outstretched before his Savior. The doubts, fears, anger, and pain he had suffered rushed into his mind, overcoming him. He had not truly believed. But God had been faithful. He had turned Philip’s weakness into strength, holding fast to His promises.
You were faithful!
Philip thrust himself forward. At that m
oment, Marcus was not his master, but a brother. All of the things he had done, all that he might do was suddenly lost in a blur of joyful exuberance and blinding tears.
And he embraced Marcus.
In that moment, Philip knew he had fully forgiven Marcus. He had not been sure before. Now, however, peace settled over him, healing the aching void in his heart. The past was gone, veiling the suffering he had endured.
Marcus embraced him back.
Philip’s heart swelled. The hands that had held the flagellum, that had brandished the rod over him, now enfolded him. Nothing stood between them, not Marcus’s haughty spirit or his own bitterness.
Only God could have wrought such a miracle.
Great are you, Lord! Great are Your mercies!
Philip felt a warm drop of liquid on his hand. It was not his own. Looking up, he saw Marcus’s misty eyes resting on his scarred arms.
The lash-mark.
With every passing day, it reminded Philip of Marcus’s fierce strength, of the mastery he had over him. The memory of that terrible day continually wrought fear in his heart, subjecting him to his lord’s will. And the scar was but one of dozens. Philip knew the marks on his back and shoulders would last a lifetime.
“Christ forgive me, Philip.” Marcus’s voice shook. “I know He has the grace to pardon me, but I cannot expect you to. The wrongs I have done you–”
“Say no more, Marcus.” Philip fought back the rising mist in his eyes. “The scroll of your past is sealed. You are a new creature in Christ.”
“I flogged you. It was at my hands; I wanted to crush your faith myself. And your father, Philip–I cannot bring him back.”
“It is finished. All things are new, Marcus.” The aching lump deepened in Philip’s throat. Only God, he knew, gave him the ability to speak forgiveness to Marcus.
Thank you, Lord.
Marcus could not speak. Philip saw him try, but no words issued from his lips. Instead, he offered Philip his hand. His dark eyes searched Philip’s, supplicating.
Philip grasped his outstretched hand. He understood Marcus’s wordless appeal, knew the emotion that prevented his speaking. “I forgive you, Marcus.”
Uttering the words was like unleashing the floodgates of heaven’s joy. Philip’s heart sang. The hand that had comforted him in pain was with him again, touching him. He felt it.
And that hand would continue to be with him. Vast and mysterious, God’s plan would not leave him helpless. It would continue to guide him, answering his prayers.
Even as the prayer of two saints–one on earth and one in heaven–had been answered concerning Marcus.
Chapter Eighteen
Alone in the library, Marcus’s eyes drifted slowly over the scroll held loosely within his hands. His temples ached dully, and he lifted his wrist to rub his forehead. But, there was little wonder his head ached.
Marcus smiled dryly, considering the events of the last few days. The sheer amount of knowledge he had acquired during the four days since his conversion was staggering. He had not learned so much about any one subject since his young boyhood.
And that was without a strict teacher pressing him to learn.
Only last night, he had been baptized into the Christian faith. By his request, it had been Daniel who had spoken the blessing over him and lowered him in the name of the Holy Trinity into the Tiber.
Marcus’s throat ached. Philip’s emotion at his baptism had warmed his heart, but it could not alleviate the pain he felt. Try as he might, he would never be able to forget the things he had done.
You are new. Christ has forgiven you.
Marcus shook his head a little. Christ’s spilled blood might cover his own blood-red hands, but it could never erase the memory of Beric’s sufferings. The sight of the cruel rods falling on the martyr’s broad back and Philip’s agonized cries would haunt him continually.
He shut his eyes, attempting to wash away the remembrance. It was merely replaced by the sight of Philip, lying prostrate before him. He recalled the strange force that had stayed his hand, keeping him from completing the full measure of stripes he had meant to inflict on Philip.
He now knew where that power had come from. And he thanked Christ for it.
What a merciful God he served! How easily Jehovah could have killed him while he was torturing His servant. But, that would not have been the nature of the God of second chances.
“My lord?”
Marcus opened his eyes. “Yes.”
Philip stepped into the library, crossing his hands on his breast. “I am ready to depart for the meetings, my lord. Is it your pleasure to come also?”
“Not tonight, Philip. My head aches, and I fear I would be poor company.”
“Do you wish me to remain behind?”
“No.” An amused smile played about Marcus’s lips. “You have never let anything keep you from the meetings. There is no need to start now.”
“As you say.” Marcus saw Philip’s face relax and knew how difficult his offer had been to make. The boy fairly lived and breathed the meetings. “I’ll return soon, my lord.”
“Hasten. The others distrust me enough as it is without my delaying you.”
Philip hesitated. “I cannot believe they all distrust you, my lord.”
“Perhaps not, but that does not mask the truth. I have heard enough to know they all think me an imposter. You and Daniel seem to be the only ones who have truly forgiven me. But what does it matter? I cannot blame them.”
“If what you say is true, they are wrong, my lord. I was the one who suffered and Christ gave me the power to forgive. They should do the same.”
Marcus laughed slightly. “People do not forget wrongs easily, even Christians. But it is just. Now, go, before you give them further reason to hate me.”
“Yes, sir.” Philip bowed and left the room.
Marcus watched him cross the atrium and leave through the vestibule. He dropped his eyes to his scroll, again rubbing his forehead.
The sound of a sharp voice did little to soothe the pounding ache in his temples.
“You allow your slave too much liberty, Marcus. I have told you so before.”
Marcus rose slowly to his feet, standing before Rowland. Irritation gnawed at his heart, but he controlled himself to speak quietly. “Good evening, father.”
Rowland ignored the polite greeting. “Where was the boy going?”
Marcus felt a sudden thrust. He had put this moment off. He knew that it had to come eventually, but words could not depict the dread he felt at breaking the news to his father. “He was going to the Christian meetings.”
Rowland’s face darkened with radical speed. “You are a constant wonder to me, Marcus! Have you not broken his obstinate will yet? How dare you defy me by allowing this folly?”
Marcus remained silent. Rowland’s countenance grew livid.
“I am ashamed of you, Marcus. Since you are not man enough to control your own slave, it sorely disappoints me that I must keep my word and take this matter into my own hands. Tomorrow, that little cur goes to the auction block.”
“No, father.” Marcus spoke quietly, but he set his jaw with cool decision. “Philip is my slave. No man may sell him.”
“Then what are you going to force me to do? Beat the two of you combined?”
Marcus set his chin with firm resolution. His father’s sarcastic anger irritated him to no end, but he was determined to stand by Philip and his own new faith.
Be a man. Tell him straight.
“It may be that you shall have to keep that threat, father. As it is, I will not see Philip punished for going to these meetings. And, in all honesty, you must know I wish I was with him.”
For once, entire bewilderment flickered across Rowland’s blackened countenance. Marcus took a step nearer, his tones icy in their poignancy.
“You do well to look so confused, but it is the truth. I, who have so fiercely withstood Philip’s faith, am a Christian. And I am not ashamed to o
wn it.”
Silence permeated the room.
Rowland’s hands slowly doubled into angry fists. A wave of color washed over his face, then, sped away, leaving only white-hot rage. “May that be so, Marcus. I at least possess the shame any true-blooded Roman should have when faced with such an atrocity. By the spear of Mars! That I–Rowland Virginius–should have sired a miserable traitor!”
“I am no traitor.” Marcus’s face flamed. “My allegiance to Rome is as great as it always has been.”
“Shut your mouth! Do not call yourself a faithful son of Rome when you are a Christian.”
Marcus cringed. His fingers bit into the palms, squeezing back all he was thinking. The hate and rage boiling in his father’s face was intimidating, even to him. But he refused to be cowed, to stand in slave-like meekness when Rowland challenged him. He was a man. And he had made his choice.
Rowland’s furious tones loudened, his voice a spat. “Bring back that wretched Briton. I will wring his neck for this!”
“No.” Marcus spoke through tightly-clenched teeth. “God only knows how I tried to conquer Philip’s faith. He cannot be faulted because I saw the truth.”
Rowland’s eyes narrowed, piercing through him. He stepped closer, and Marcus felt the threatening presence he himself had so often intimidated Philip with. “Marcus, I give you one chance. Recant this foolish obstinacy and beg my pardon for defying me. Nothing more will be said.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then prepare to be cast from my will and this home forever. I will disown you, Marcus–the gods curse you!”
Marcus felt the color fading from his cheeks. He had known Rowland’s wrath, but had not thought he would cut his only living son from his inheritance. He would be brought to the level of a beggar.
His heart pumped wildly. So he must forever bid farewell to the home of his youth, to everything he had known and loved.
“I will not do that, father. I am a loyal son of Rome and your eldest child. Those things have not changed. But I will not deny Christ. He is first in my life, and I have pledged to live and die in His service.”
Rowland’s countenance grew cold. “So be it. You have forever cut all bindings to me, Marcus. Collect your belongings and be gone; remain another moment in my sight, and I swear I will have you scourged!”
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 20
