“So be it, Marcus. Play the honorable rescuer if you will. I will not forget. Even,” and his blackened face became chillingly repugnant, “as I have forgotten nothing of the past.”
Marcus made no reply. His hands fairly itched to throttle Thallus around the throat, but he satisfied himself with merely clenching them into impenetrable fists. Now was no time to quibble about the past.
With another spat, Thallus leaped into his litter. A vexed command set his slaves in motion, and the litter passed swiftly down the street. With his departure, curiosity ceased, and the milling crowd gradually dispersed.
Marcus glanced sidelong at Moriah. She was pale and he could see her hands trembled. Still, she still bore the same quiet, graceful carriage that always distinguished her.
Marcus knelt and began picking up the strewed fruit lying in all directions on the street. Little of it was bruised, and he wordlessly placed the sound produce back in Moriah’s basket. Silently, Moriah joined him.
The task complete, Marcus lifted the basket to her arms.
“I thank you, Marcus.” Moriah lifted her hazel eyes to his face, her voice simple. “You have dealt very kindly with me.”
“It was no kindness, Moriah.” Marcus spoke almost sharply. Instantly, he hated himself for it, but his mood was too riled to speak lightly. The intentions of Thallus towards the woman he loved were far too real for pacifism. “Do you think I would stand by and see a sister debauched by that foul oaf?”
Moriah momentarily averted her eyes. When she again raised them, her pupils were soft. She said nothing, but Marcus felt the quiet searching in her gaze.
Abruptly, he turned away. “I will escort you home.”
“There is no need, Marcus. I–”
Marcus cut her soft protest short. “Do not argue with me, Moriah. I know the ways of men such as Thallus. He may lurk in waiting for you.”
“God will protect me.”
A bitter laugh caught Marcus’s throat. “As He would have saved you a moment ago, I suppose.”
“He did.” Indignation sparkled in Moriah’s lovely eyes. “Or have you forgotten you came to my rescue?”
“Exactly.” Marcus took her arm. He felt grim authority sparked by her tone. Every passing minute, every recollection of Thallus’s vile lasciviousness deepened his passionate ill-humor more. “And I will not stop protecting you until I have seen you safely at your father’s home.”
Moriah opened her lips, then, by some afterthought, shut them in a firm line. Again, averting her eyes, she balanced the basket of fruit more securely on her hip.
Marcus laid a quick restraining hand on the shoulder of a passing boy. “Take my horse to the Castra Praetoria, lad.” He pressed a denarius into his hand. “Say you are sent by the Tribune Marcus Virginius Aeneas, and they will receive you.”
The boy made a quick salute and took the reins of the animal. “Yes, master.”
Marcus gave him a quick slap on the back in passing. With quiet authority, he gave Moriah’s arm a slight pull and led her into the middle of the street.
The walk to the house of Daniel was a very silent one.
Marcus looked down at Moriah once or twice, but her gaze remained fixed straight ahead. Unblinking, soft, bordered by long brown lashes, her eyes refused to acknowledge the man at her side.
Marcus jerked his own head upright and looked forward. He set his chin, blinking. The harsh afternoon light settled on his countenance, revealing the aching pain behind his stern mask.
Was he never to be forgiven?
It is all for nothing, Lord. She will never see me as the man of honor I strive to be. I have fought, I have struggled for nothing!
Instant shame bordered on Marcus’s heart. He knew he did not serve the Lord to win a woman’s hand. But, oh, how many times he might have had another woman to wife. He was ready to lavish his affection and care upon the woman who would call him her husband, ready to give her every tender consideration.
Only, he knew in his heart he could never love any woman but the one at his side.
At the door of Daniel’s shop, Marcus loosed Moriah’s arm. She turned, her eyes cool and quiet as they met his.
“I thank you, Marcus. Your concerns were very kind.”
“Give thanks to Christ.” Marcus’s voice was husky. By some impulsion he could not control, he leaned passionately forward and grasped her hand in his own. “Try to forget, Moriah. Forget the past. And, God help you–” his voice faltered, “try to forgive.”
He loosed her with painful swiftness. Catching his breath with a ragged sound, he turned away and strode quickly from her.
Anger boiled within him during the entire walk home.
He could not pretend he was not angry, that he was not hurt. By all the Caesars in their succession, surely it was permissible for a tribune to feel pain. Would he never be rid of the torture that woman inflicted on him!
Marcus checked his thoughts ever so slightly. Moriah was too gentle to wish to hurt anyone. Still, she had to know in some measure what torment she was bestowing.
I have been pure, Father. Since the day You redeemed me, I have tried to walk worthily. I have confessed my sin before You. What else should I do? Tell me what I must do!
Marcus felt no response to his passion. In some respects, he was not surprised. How could he expect to know God’s plan? Its vastness was unsearchable. He could only trust and hope.
His personal chiding did little to cool his temper.
He strode swiftly up the steps to the vestibule. Scarcely waiting for a slave to answer his pounded knock, he swept into the atrium.
Cleotas appeared in the library door. “Ah, Marcus! You are home at last. What kept you?”
“I was detained.” Marcus maintained a low voice. “Pardon me.”
Cleotas eyed him. Contemplatively, he tapped the end of his scroll into his palm. “We will speak later, Marcus. You are weary. Bathe and rest, and we will talk over refreshments.”
With that and the soundness of his wisdom, Cleotas vanished. Marcus knew he sensed his adopted son’s irritation. And, as always, Cleotas avoided conflict like the plague.
Yes, he would bathe. He would rest. Perhaps then his good humor would return.
“Philip!”
Philip appeared in the doorway leading to the gardens. With a look of relief washing over his face, he strode forward. “At last! I was beginning to worry about you. You said–”
“I know what I said.” Marcus cut him short, his voice sharp. “Have you prepared my bath?”
Philip stood still. “No, my lord. It is your custom to bathe in the public houses.”
“Did it never occur to you I might desire one here?” Marcus jerked his cape from his shoulders with angry force. He could feel the heat rising in his face. “Can nothing be done without my commanding it?”
Silence permeated the room.
Marcus felt a tinge. It had been longer than he could remember since he had rebuked Philip. It had been years since he had raised his voice in anger at him.
Philip’s eyes drifted downwards. “No, my lord, I did not think of it.” His quiet subservience was strikingly humble. “May I be forgiven.”
Regret smote Marcus’s heart, but he was in no mood for humility. “Don’t just stand there like a gawking cub! You know what I desire.”
Philip silently bowed. He said nothing, but Marcus saw his wary countenance as he left.
Tired frustration welled up within Marcus. Panged by the quiet whispering of his conscience, he walked slowly to the garden. Wearily, he sank onto a marble bench beside the fountain.
For many minutes, he leaned forward, his head in his hands. It seemed an eternity before the tranquil silence of the garden was at last broken.
“Your bath is prepared, my lord.”
Marcus looked up. Philip stood a few paces away from him. His eyes were gravely quiet, and Marcus could feel their searching.
Could he never lose his temper with a slave without guilt?
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br /> “Thank you, Philip.” Marcus rose as he spoke. He led the way inside, knowing without a glance that Philip followed him. Pain and frustration intensified with his every step. It was as if his own sandaled tread pounded the ache deeper into his heart.
In the atrium, he stopped.
He could go on like this no longer. He was weary of battling the pain, the ceaseless torture of uncertainty that bound him. Now was the time to know the truth. Once and for all.
“Philip.” Marcus turned, facing the young man behind him. “I must ask you something.”
Philip steadily met his gaze. “Speak on.”
“I must know.” Marcus struggled to find the right words. “I pray you, what-what are your intentions for marriage?”
“Marriage?”
“Yes.”
Philip raised a quizzical brow. “Surely, you have not forgotten a slave cannot legally marry.”
Marcus bit his lip. Philip was not making it easy on him. “You know the laws of Rome have nothing to do with this. I would recognize your marriage, even as our brethren would.”
Philip laughed slightly. “I thank you for that avowal, my lord. But, even with your consent, there is no denying the fact I must have a woman to wed.”
“Precisely.” Marcus again felt heat creeping up his neck, around his jaw-line. “So, I beg of you, be candid with me.” He felt the words escape him, rushing from his lips. “What are your intentions towards Moriah?”
Philip’s amused expression melted into unmistakable confusion. Slowly, a glimmer of understanding filled his face. “You think I am in love with Moriah?”
“In a manner of speaking, well, yes.”
Philip’s laughter rang out, filling the atrium. “The idea is an absurd one, Marcus! How could I presume to love the woman that you, my lord and master, adore?”
Marcus felt a wave of stunned disbelief. His cheeks begin to burn. “You mean–”
“I mean that there has never been anything between Moriah and me except a mutual desire to seek and save the lost, Marcus. We work well together. She is a virtuous woman, and I do not deny I enjoy her company. But that is all. She understands that as well as I.”
Marcus could feel the color rising clear into his forehead. Swiftly, he turned his head away, but he knew his embarrassment was clear. “Have I been so obvious?”
“To me, yes. I cannot answer for anyone else.” Philip drew nearer. “I have known your feelings for Moriah for some years, Marcus.”
Marcus said nothing for a moment. Relief and pain worked so heavily together he could scarcely command his voice. “Even still, Philip, though your word has made me free, I can never have a chance of winning her.”
“I do not see why.”
“Have you not seen it?” Marcus turned towards him, allowing the tormented pain he felt to work in his face. “She shuns me, Philip. In five long years, in all that has transpired since my conversion, she has not forgiven me for my past.”
“Marcus.” Philip’s voice grew abruptly firm. “You are a new creature.”
“I am a murderer.”
Philip’s eyes blazed, sudden indignation washing in scarlet color over his face and neck. “By God’s grace, Marcus! Will you never forget the things which are behind you?”
“And how can I forget?” Angry frustration bordered on Marcus’s tone. His heart swelled, gripping his throat. “How, Philip? She will not let me.”
“I cannot think Moriah has harbored bitterness against you for all these years.”
Exasperation worked in Marcus’s face. “You would think well of anyone, Philip. You refuse to see faults as others do. But, by the Caesars! Do not be naïve to the truth. I know, pure and virtuous as she is, Moriah has never accepted me because of the things I did to you.”
Slowly, Philip’s countenance quieted. “If these things are true, it would be folly indeed for Moriah to reject the hand of the godliest young man I know because of any of my past sufferings.”
Marcus’s throat constricted. The words echoed in his heart, tightening his chest. He half-turned away, his voice low and choked. “I am not godly, Philip.”
“I disagree.”
Marcus felt Philip’s hand rest on his shoulder. His voice was low and gentle, the same tone he used when speaking of Christ to a nonbeliever or comforting a grieving widow.
“Whatever anyone else thinks of you, Marcus, I know the truth. I see the things you are tempted with, the things you resist for Christ’s sake. I know your uprightness. You stand for Christ alone and are not ashamed. And anyone, Marcus, whether it be Moriah or one of this world, who does not value these things in you is unworthy of you.”
Silence permeated the room for a brief instant.
Marcus swallowed, attempting to smile. He brought his hand over the one upon his shoulder. “You are a faithful friend, Philip. I could desire no better one.”
Philip smiled a little, but gravity still hovered over his face. “Have you spoken to Daniel of your feelings?”
“No. I-I cannot.”
“Do you think it honorable to hide your intentions?”
Marcus grimaced bitterly. “How like you that is. Always thinking of honor. But, no, I do not suppose it is.”
Philip looked steadily at him. Marcus caught his message behind his clear blue eyes, and he again felt a well of agonized desperation.
“You cannot understand what it is I feel through this, Philip. My uncertainty is tortuous, but her blatant refusal would kill me.”
“You cannot reap a reward without pain, Marcus. Is that not the motto of a soldier? Surely, giving God the opportunity to bless you is better than shutting the door to His plans.”
Marcus stood silent a moment. He let his gaze drift past Philip through the threshold opening into the gardens. Lazily, a refreshing breeze stole softly into the atrium, cooling his heated cheeks.
Philip’s words rang of the truth he would not have had the courage to face on his own.
Lord, I want Your will. Have I been impeding Your plan? You know my heart. Give me the strength to know Your desires and fulfill them.
The answer of his Lord’s will burned like letters of fire into his mind.
“Bring me a parchment and pens.” Marcus spoke quietly, but he lifted his chin with steady resolve. “I will follow your counsel.”
A warm light flooded Philip’s eyes. He clapped Marcus compassionately on the shoulder before swiftly striding away.
Marcus watched him go. The dull, pulsating pain intensified in his heart. He fiercely shook his head, trying to evade its clutches.
Where was his trust in God?
Slowly, wearily, he felt himself pulled by an unseen power to his knees. Resting his arm on one of the ornate benches beside the pool, he buried his face in his hands. His heart swelled, beseeching his God for the love of the woman he would gladly give his life for.
And, lurking deep within his aching heart, was the petition that her answer would not crush his spirit–and his faith.
Daniel watched Moriah’s face with tender searching. Before him, her hazel eyes scanned the parchment held taut in her hands.
Slowly, the scarlet color flooded her face. She lifted her flashing eyes, bringing the parchment down. Tightly, passionately, she gripped it until her knuckles showed white.
“And?” Daniel maintained a quiet voice. “What do you say, Moriah?”
“What is there to say, father?” Moriah’s voice was tremulous. “You know I must refuse him.”
Astonishment struck Daniel with almost painful intensity. He felt it seep throughout his body, moving him a step forward. “What? Do you know what you are saying?”
“Yes.”
“You cannot.” Daniel struggled to speak. Already, the thought of relinquishing his beloved adopted daughter to another’s man care filled his heart with an aching void of loss. He could not imagine life without her presence, her gentle ministrations. But he would not for a moment see her throw away herself for his sake. “You do not k
now what you are turning down.”
“I do, father.”
“Marcus is the best and godliest of young men, Moriah. His profession is sound and honorable; the wealth of his inheritance is beyond fathoming. You would lack for nothing.”
Moriah lifted her chin. Her hazel eyes sparkled, luminous through the soft mist bordering her lashes. “There would not be honor, Daniel. And that means more to me than all the vain riches this world can offer.”
Daniel surveyed her searchingly. “And why no honor? Marcus is an upright, courageous man. You saw his epistle, Moriah–he loves you with all his heart and soul.”
“I am sorry for that, as sorry as any woman could be. I never gave him any cause to love me. Indeed, I gave him every reason to know my true feelings.”
Daniel felt a slow well of disquiet rise in his heart, troubling him. It was not like Moriah to speak with such strange defensiveness. Her tone was low, but he detected an almost heated ring behind its quiet front.
“I do not understand you, Moriah. Tell me once and for all why you cannot wed Marcus.”
Moriah averted her eyes. Her veil framed her face, shadowing the quiet resolution etched inexorably on her countenance. “I will not place my hand in ones stained with blood, father.”
Low as her tones were, they struck Daniel’s heart like a dagger. Slow disbelief rolled like shock through his body. “Marcus is a godly believer, a new creature in Christ.”
“He is also a murderer.”
“Moriah.” Daniel fought to restrain his pained indignation. “I cannot believe I hear these words from your lips. You reject Marcus because of his past?”
“Is it not reason enough?”
“No.” Daniel found himself speaking unnatural severity. Could this truly be his beautiful, godly daughter? Wherever she went, her gracious spirit won new hearts to Christ and provoked others to good works. Bitter unforgiveness did not meld with the Christ-like woman he knew her to be. “Not when Christ has redeemed and forgiven him, as He has for us all.”
Moriah’s chin trembled. Her eyes filled, pain registering on her features. “Do not judge me, father.” Her whisper was tremulous, wounded by his severity. “I do care for Marcus, as a brother. But, please, you cannot ask me to become his wife.”
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 27
