From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Marcus did not cast another glance upon his father’s livid face. Speedily, he withdrew and made his way to his chamber.

  With hasty hands, he gathered his money and what few articles he thought necessary. Clasping his pallium around his shoulders, he left the room.

  In the atrium, Lady Persis stood weeping. Young Diantha stood beside her, the quiet tears trickling down her face. Rowland towered over them both, giving Marcus a withering glance as he came down the staircase.

  “Get from my sight, miserable cur! You have prevailed upon my goodness for too long already.”

  Marcus said nothing. Silently, he strode past his mother and sister, pausing a moment to rest his hand on Diantha’s curling dark hair.

  “God be with you, little sister,” he said, low, leaning over her.

  Rowland clapped his hands, summoning the slaves. Knowing his threat of scourging had not been a vain one, Marcus straightened himself and strode across the atrium. At the door, he paused.

  He was leaving the domus forever.

  It was with a rapidly beating heart he stepped onto the Vicus Tuscus and mingled with the dozens of pedestrians. As he strode along, the numbing powers of shock gave away to grim reality. It had all happened so quickly. Within a half-hour, he had been reduced to pennilessness.

  Looking down, Marcus saw that his hands shook. The confrontation with Rowland had been worse than he had anticipated. A burning ache seized his manly throat. Like Philip, he was forever separated from his father.

  Only Beric had loved his son to the end. Rowland did not.

  Marcus pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. The lump grew in his throat, swelling with his aching heart. Fleetingly, he glanced up into dusky sky, streaked by the last strains of sunlight.

  Guide me, Father. I am not ashamed to admit this hurts me.

  A haunting, diabolical voice immediately sounded back at him, taunting him. It is just! You who slew Beric, who tortured Philip. It is just!

  Marcus shook himself. Yes, it was just. Still, his soul screamed out, fighting the haunting presence. I know it is just I be punished. But, oh, God, you promised forgiveness. Am I not a new creature in You? Am I not forgiven?

  The whirling mist of doubts and fears only plagued Marcus’s mind more relentlessly. He tried to shake them off, but they screamed in his mind.

  It is just! Murderer, thief. It is just. Just!

  At the door of Daniel’s home, Marcus paused to collect his scattered emotions. He seemed to grow more shaken with each passing moment. His serene coolness had given way to throbbing pain, aching in his heart and dissembling his usual fearless demeanor.

  How could Rowland have done this? Did he not love his only living son? Their differences had always been great. And, until now, Rowland had always permitted their varying opinions to stand respected.

  Was coming to peace truly such an unpardonable sin?

  The longer he lingered, the more Marcus felt certain he could not regain the mastery of his emotions. Inhaling deeply, he knocked for admittance. A brother opened the door, and Marcus slipped inside.

  The inner chamber was aglow with oil lamps, lighting the serene countenances of the worshippers. Daniel stood in their midst, taking prayer requests.

  Lingering in the shadows, Marcus surveyed the room until his eyes rested on Philip’s face. The boy was seated on the outskirts of the brethren, intent upon what was taking place.

  Marcus half-stepped forward, then, stopped. Moriah was seated beside Philip. The only remaining space was beside her, and Marcus knew his close presence would discomfort her.

  The thought sent a pang to his heart. Like so many of the brethren, Moriah seemed to distrust and dislike him. She avoided him continually, and, whenever her sparkling hazel eyes happened to rest upon him, their pupils overshadowed with cool mistrust.

  It was a mistrust Marcus could not fault. She was no fool. She knew what sort of a lascivious life he had lived, of his drunken reveling, of the harm he had brought upon two of the brethren she loved. And, by contrast, she was a beautiful, chaste young woman who had lived a pure life of service to Christ.

  Marcus chose to stand.

  Daniel glanced around the circle, ready to bring the prayer requests to a close. “Is there any final request to be made?”

  Marcus felt a twinge, urging him to speak.

  For a fleeting instant, he fought against it. He was a new believer. If he shared his heart, the others would criticize his motives. After all, he was the man who had tortured one of their beloved members. How dare he–a persecutor of Christians–speak before them all?

  But his heart was too heavy for silence.

  “May I be permitted a few words, Daniel?”

  Daniel turned, surprise hovering over his bearded countenance. “We did not expect you tonight, Marcus Virginius. May peace be with you.”

  Marcus nodded. The aching pain in his throat had grown.

  Daniel motioned him forward. “Come into the light and say what you will, my brother.”

  Marcus stepped forward. His strong hands closed into light fists, perspiration wetting his fingers. He swallowed, collecting his thoughts.

  Speak your heart. They will not despise you for your weakness.

  “My brethren.” He stopped. His voice was shaking, husky.

  Be with me, Father.

  “My brethren, I have a request for prayer. I have been called to make my first sacrifice for Christ, and, while it is insignificant when many of our brothers are giving their lives, it is very close to my heart.”

  Marcus again swallowed. His peripheral gaze caught Philip, leaning forward with questioning concern on his face. How ironic it was that his slave cared for his wellbeing more than his own family.

  “Tonight, I acknowledged my faith in Jesus to my father. I-I now find myself without a home or inheritance. If you would, my brethren, pray I may endure this loss with courage. I-thank you.”

  Marcus found himself suddenly unable to speak. He seated himself in a shadowed corner. Low murmurs of sympathy and acknowledgment met his ears, penetrating his aching heart with warm encouragement.

  They care.

  “We will pray for you, Marcus.” Daniel’s low voice was gentler than Marcus ever recalled hearing it. “And you will be homeless no longer. Until you are able to make your own way, you and yours will share my home.”

  Marcus could not speak. His eyes met Daniel’s, allowing them to express his thanks. Slowly, his eyes drifted downwards, resting them upon Moriah’s face. What did she think of him sharing her home?

  Soft and unblinking, her hazel eyes met his for a fraction of a second. Pulling her veil taut around her pretty shoulders, Moriah turned away from him.

  Long after the others had gone, Marcus stood at the casement in Daniel’s home. The dark street beyond the bakery was quiet and still. Still, he looked out, his eyes overcast and somber.

  You have provided for now, Father. But what future will I have? I am a patrician. My place is in the senate, in the law courts of Rome. How shall I obtain my career without an inheritance, without money?

  Without warning, Marcus felt a presence behind him. Turning, he saw Philip behind him, waiting subserviently for his master to notice him. “Well?”

  “Do I disturb you, my lord?”

  “No.” Marcus leaned against the casement frame, loosening his cloak. “What do you want?”

  “It is late, my lord. Do you not wish to retire?”

  Marcus rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I have not thought of the time. My mind is too occupied for rest, I fear.”

  Philip seemed to hesitate. Marcus gestured to him. “You may speak.”

  “I only desire to say I sympathize for you during this time of trial, Marcus. You feel your father’s callousness keenly, I think.”

  “I do.” Marcus looked past Philip. It felt awkward, discussing his problems with his slave. Still, he sensed the burning need to communicate with someone. Someone who cared. “I am his only
son. And, while we’ve never been very close, I do respect and love him.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Philip raised his eyes with the same expression of hesitant respect. “He is watching, Marcus. He will not leave you destitute.”

  Marcus smiled a little bitterly. “Your wish to comfort me is admirable, Philip, but I think you are mistaken. Jehovah sent this trial as a punishment.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Marcus settled himself more comfortably, hoping to give a casual appearance he did not feel. “He is the Divine Judge, is He not? And no holy God would watch His devout servants be killed and flogged without punishing the author of that suffering.”

  “Jehovah is not vindictive.” Philip’s tone was indignant. “You are His child, Marcus. The things you have done are removed as far as the east is from the west. I have told you so before.”

  Marcus surveyed him contemplatively. Christian though he was, Philip’s spirit could still rile with fervent heat. It was amusing in a way.

  And presumptuous.

  “Don’t argue with me, Philip. Christian or heathen, I am still your master.”

  Marcus saw the burning color flood Philip’s cheeks, crimsoning his British-white skin from chin to forehead. He averted his gaze, reverting to subservience.

  “My apologies, my lord.”

  “I didn’t mean you were to be formal.” Marcus’s voice softened. For the first time, it hurt him to see a slave cringe under his rebuke. He owed Philip more than he could comprehend. “I only think you are mistaken.”

  Philip raised his eyes. “Perhaps I am. But I only meant to remind you that Christ has called you to life, not condemnation.”

  “Truth. And it does not truly matter which of us is correct. God has seen fit to send me this trial, and I will bear it manfully. If all I have been told is true, there is a good purpose for it.” Marcus looked closely at Philip. “I don’t suppose you always believe that yourself.”

  “No, not always.” A look of deep pain crossed Philip’s countenance. “I struggle with it often. When my father died–”

  Philip cut himself short.

  Marcus felt a deep thrust. He knew what Philip had suffered. And he knew why he ceased from speaking about his pain. “Do not stop on my account. I know what I have put you through.”

  Philip shook his head. Marcus saw his eyes glisten. Strangely, his tears seemed more masculine than the emotionless restraint he as a Roman had always strictly observed. Could it be that true men were not afraid to show their pain?

  “It is better I do not speak of it, Marcus. A new time has come. I will not fill the bright pathway God has chosen for our lives with my struggles.”

  A bright new pathway.

  The thought stayed with Marcus for the remainder of the night. Could it be his separation from his earthly father was a veiled blessing? Temptations of every depiction abounded in the Virginius domus. Perhaps God was with him, shielding him from danger.

  Dangers he was too weak to resist.

  When morning finally dawned, Marcus came to another decision. Rowland knew of his new faith; now there was another who ought to know.

  Delicia.

  Fearless though he was, Marcus cringed at the thought of telling her. Delicia was as much absorbed with pleasures and revelry as he had been. What would her response be to discovering her future husband was a Christian?

  It was a task to be accomplished as quickly as possible.

  Promising to return before nightfall, Marcus bid Daniel farewell and summoned Philip to accompany him.

  Marcus’s mind was very full as he strode the cobblestoned streets to the domus of Saturius. His heart still ached, and he had little desire for further rebuff. Delicia would not be merciful with him.

  And, if by some slim chance she was gracious, he had nothing to offer her in return. It was a chilling prospect.

  Father, give me the right words. Help me explain what it is I believe so that she will understand. And, somehow, help her accept my faith for her own. It is the only way there will be peace in our union. Bring her to a saving knowledge of You, and give me favor in her eyes.

  The magnificent mansion of Saturius rose up, looming over him. Marcus’s steps slowed involuntarily. The domus’s scarlet door seemed to beckon him to a pitiless end. He could only image what cruel words Delicia would speak on the other side.

  Will you cower from a woman’s robe? Be a man! Stand for your Savior.

  Marcus squared his broad shoulders, feeling strength ripple through his biceps and tingle in his fingertips.

  The time was now.

  Lightly, he stepped up the marble steps. He lifted his hand in a firm series of knocks, then, awaited entrance.

  The household steward appeared, holding the door close to his body. Cold and menacing, he seemed unwilling for Marcus to enter.

  “Yes?”

  “I am here to see Lady Delicia. Pray present me, Scipio.”

  The steward’s expressionless features did not change. “I am under orders not to admit you, sir.”

  “Why? I am no stranger to this household.”

  “Henceforth, Marcus Virginius, you are no more than a foreigner. My master Saturius commands me to say you are never to come here. You are never to see my lady Delicia and are forbidden from all correspondence with her. That is all.”

  The steward made as if he would close the door. Marcus stepped forward, settling his countenance with a tautness that would cow the most determined slave.

  “Not so fast, Scipio. Tell me why.”

  “Sir, I have many pressing tasks. Pray–”

  Marcus’s hand closed with angry vehemence around his arm. “Tell me why.”

  The steward shook off his hand. For one instant, a flicker of disgust replaced his subservient nonchalance. “He who would deny the powers of Rome and scorn a father’s commands has no place in the domus of Saturius. It is my master’s order and my lady Delicia’s wish. Need you further reason?”

  “No.” Marcus’s stern tone subsided. Slowly, he turned away from the steward. Behind him, he heard the door swing shut, the bolt scraping into its lock.

  At the bottom of the steps, Philip’s countenance was grave. Marcus knew he had heard all. He stepped past him, unable to look him in the eyes. Every detail of his intended humiliation had been witnessed by his own slave. Would his shame never end?

  Marcus launched into a quick stride. He had no desire to linger beside the domus of Saturius. It was best he returned to Daniel’s home and set his mind on learning a profitable trade.

  It was his only choice.

  His hearty pace did little to calm his aching heart. Marcus’s throat burned. His temples pounded wildly, resounding pain shooting through his forehead. He felt his fingers constrict, pulling his hands into fists.

  I am not even given the chance to see her. She has heard the tale from my father, from Saturius, from those who hate me. How can she understand what it is I rest my hope on if she has not heard it from my lips?

  Marcus scarcely felt the close presence of the other pedestrians, of their garments brushing against his own. He walked by force of habit, allowing his steps to lead him where they would.

  She was to be my wife. Has loyalty amounted to nothing in Rome? If I am a Christian, then my God should be hers. How can she deny her desire to see me?

  In his heart, Marcus knew the truth. She did not desire to see him because she did not love him. They had never really loved each other. Their union was meant to be a political one, nothing more.

  Delicia lived for pleasure, for wealth. He could offer her neither.

  How quickly he had lost his future. From his inheritance to his career to his wife, he had no prospects. It was if God wanted him to rest his entire existence upon Him, trusting fully in His goodness.

  An echoing plethora of screams cut Marcus’s thoughts short.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Like the opening of a sea, pedestrians and peddlers alike separa
ted, throwing themselves against the safety of the surrounding walls. Many more dashed into nearby shops and dwellings, slamming the doors against the street.

  The rattling sounds of a runaway chariot filled the air. The vehicle itself came unto full view, drawn by a team of agitated horses. They thundered down the street, marking their passing with overturned baskets and destroyed booths.

  Marcus paused in his walk. A single glance assured him of the situation.

  A patrician of some thirty years was frantically endeavoring to stay the horses’ wild dash. Foolishly, he clutched at the reins and shouted unheeded commands, exciting the steeds with his own passionate desperation.

  Another man, apparently the rightful driver, was slumped down in the bottom of the chariot. He was clearly insensible, and Marcus could see he would not awaken in time to aid his incompetent master.

  Inevitably, the chariot would dash against a stone wall and break apart. One, if not both, of the occupants would be killed.

  Marcus braced himself. The chariot thundered nearer, murderous and wild. The horses plunged beside him, their hooves landing with shattering force against the cobblestones. The shock of their tread rolled through the ground, rumbling underneath his feet.

  Now. Now!

  He threw himself forward. Hands flailing, he caught the reins of the foremost horse. The animal was hot, foaming at the mouth. Flicks of perspiration caught him in the face. His heart rate kicked up a notch, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. If he failed…

  For one eternity-like moment, he felt himself dragged along, his sandaled feet scraping the road. He gritted his teeth and clenched the reins tighter. The horse tossed his head, endeavoring to shake him off. His hooves pounded perilously near Marcus’s exposed legs.

  “Halt!” Firm and clear, Marcus’s tone seemed to penetrate the wild instinct governing the steeds. Slowly, gradually, they came to a standstill, tossing their beautiful heads.

  Marcus pulled himself erect, maintaining one hand on the bridle. His heart pounded against his chest, his lungs screaming for oxygen. The deed had been swift and almost deadly.