From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Thallus was nowhere to be seen.

  Behind him, he felt a soft presence. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Moriah, neatly attired and veiled. He beckoned her forward, laying a protecting hand on her cloaked back.

  The crowded buyers made way for them, allowing them to pass out of the auctioning room. Outside, with the oil light casting flickering shadows on the cobblestoned street, Marcus cast a keen glance behind them.

  No assassin was in sight.

  His hand closed over his gladius. He would take no chances. God alone knew what murderers Thallus might have thought to hire.

  With his free arm, Marcus led Moriah away from the noisy forum. The way was dark and quiet, a striking contrast to the chaos they left behind them. Full moonlight glistened off of Marcus’s armor, coupling its light with the blazing torches of occasional pedestrians and at street-side corners.

  Beneath his arm, Marcus could feel Moriah trembling. It was obvious he was leading her towards his own domus, away from the childhood home she had had no desire to leave.

  Marcus wanted to explain, but he felt strangely unable to speak. His desire had been to take her immediately home, but legal matters made it impossible. Until the papers could be signed and witnessed, Moriah was his slave. She could not return to Daniel without the threat of being branded a runaway or–worse still–being terrorized by Thallus.

  No. Marcus steeled himself. Whatever she or anyone else might think of him, he must personally oversee her protection. The fortune he had had just spent would avail little if she were seized as a runaway by Thallus.

  And he would be certain to take advantage of any such possibility.

  Marcus looked down at her. The moonlight shone full on her face, revealing that her eyes were brimful of soft tears. An instant pang fell on his heart.

  She trusted him no more than Thallus.

  He struggled with the thought. His throat was aching and dry, his heart too full for speech. After all he had saved her from, she still did not believe he was pure. She did not trust his motives, his intentions towards her.

  For one short moment, bitterness welled up in Marcus. What was the purpose of controlling himself, of living an honorable life if she refused to think well of him? Her purity, her very life was in his hands. If she was determined to think ill of him, why should he not filch the fruit he could not pluck?

  Instant shame tingled through his body. He could almost hear God’s voice, whispering in his ear. You don’t live uprightly to seek men’s praise and good opinion, Marcus. You do it for Me. Be worthy, whether you are rewarded or not.

  The mansion of Aeneas appeared, dark and silent. Marcus quickened his stride, the pressure of his arm tightening around Moriah’s back as he guided her up the steps.

  His increased speed seemed to provoke her first resistance. At the door, she stopped, lifting her white face imploringly to his.

  “My lord, I beg you–”

  “You have nothing to fear, Moriah.” Marcus forced himself to speak with quiet command. The sight of her drawn face and tear-filled eyes was quickly becoming too much for him, and he feared he might be persuaded to send her home, despite the overwhelming dangers. Swiftly, he opened the door. “Go in.”

  Moriah’s face crumpled into tears.

  Marcus felt her tremor, sensed her inner struggle. He knew she was debating fighting him. He would not give her the chance to run. Whether she knew it or not, it would only be to her own destruction.

  Hardening himself, he forced her inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Just inside the atrium, Marcus released Moriah’s arm. Shaking with fear and exhaustion, she stumbled a few steps away from him.

  He opened his lips to speak. The sooner he explained her position and his own decisions for her welfare, the better.

  A sudden sound cut his intentions short.

  Philip stepped into the dim lighting, crossing his arms upon his chest. “All hail, Marcus. I was uncertain where you had gone. I–” Sudden astonishment flitted across his every feature. “Moriah! Praise God! We have been sorely distressed for you. But why are you here, at this of all hours?”

  Marcus bit his lip. He had not told Philip of his intentions, unwilling to attract praise or commendation from the brethren. The issue was a sensitive one, and he had hoped to quietly work out Moriah’s freedom without fuss.

  Now, however, he realized his mistake.

  Slowly, dark fury washed over Philip’s face. Marcus had not seen his eyes blaze with such unchecked anger since his conversion to Christianity. The expression in them was tangible, fairly prickling his skin.

  A railing accusation could not have revealed Philip’s suspicions more clearly.

  Marcus felt the blood tingle in his face. For a military tribune, the presence of a boyish flush was growing strangely familiar. He opened his lips, ready to defend himself against the unspoken charge.

  “Ah! So you have got her, Marcus!”

  Marcus clamped his mouth shut. He turned to see Cleotas stride casually across the atrium. Cleotas paused in critical survey before Moriah, his arms crossed upon his chest. A defined nod titled his chin.

  “She is a beauty! I must commend you, Marcus. I see the years of restraint have not taken the edge of your good taste.”

  Marcus swallowed. “Father, I–”

  “Ah, there, do not mind me.” Cleotas waved his hand carelessly. “She is your slave, not mine. I know my presence is not desired.” His eyes twinkled in a knowing wink. “Vale, Marcus.”

  With the swiftness of his coming, Cleotas was gone.

  A long silence fell over the atrium.

  Marcus glanced sidelong at Moriah. Her hazel eyes were downcast, maidenly color high in her forehead. His gaze traveled downwards, seeing her tightly clasped hands tremble.

  Helplessness overcame him. God, what have I done these last five years that everyone doubts me now? It was too late for explanations, too late to avow how entirely guileless his intentions were. Cleotas’s misunderstandings had entirely nullified whatever excuse he might give.

  “Moriah, please go into the library and wait there.”

  Wordlessly, Moriah bent and crossed the room, her tread soft.

  Her subservience hurt Marcus to see. He had spoken gently, but her understanding of his command was clear: she saw him in the light of the master who owned and controlled her.

  With Moriah’s exit into the library, Marcus turned from following her movements. He was met by Philip’s flashing eyes. Abruptly, the young man turned away from him, contempt livid in his features.

  “Stay here.” Marcus spoke almost sharply. The misunderstandings had come to their final summit.

  “Your pardon.” Philip’s icy tones could have been carried by the frigid mountain snow. “I would not think of diverting your pleasure.”

  He once again turned to stalk away.

  Marcus caught him by the shoulder. “I command you to stay and listen to me. By the Caesars, have you no respect for your master?”

  Philip turned so passionately Marcus was nearly startled. He stepped back, soldierly instinct lifting his hand to the sword at his side. His British slave was more than capable of knocking him to the floor if he chose to do so.

  “Well you speak of respect, Marcus!” Anger rent Philip’s voice. “Where is your respect for the things of the faith? Where is your compassion, your decency? Moriah has suffered unspeakable shame already without this. How dare you–a professor and advocate of our faith–turn your own sister into an object of sport? You mock Christian purity, everything we stand for!”

  Marcus lifted his hands. “Peace!”

  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the torrent of accusations. The aching well of hurt was too much. First Alexander, then Cleotas, now Philip. They were all one in their poor assumptions of his character.

  Huskiness threatened to overcome his voice. He felt weary and broken, suddenly more discouraged than he could ever recall feeling. “Do not chide me, Philip
.”

  Philip’s fiery gaze lapsed into stony petulance.

  Fighting the impulse to lash out, Marcus swallowed back the welled-up indignation and hurt threatening to overcome his control. He heard the sound of his own strained voice, a poignant plea he had never before made to a slave.

  “By God in His heavens, do not accuse me of these things, Philip. I cannot bear it coming from you. I am innocent. Believe me, Philip, believe me to be the honorable man I have sought to become these last few years.”

  Philip’s eyes softened. Like the flickering wane of an oil lamp, the flashing sparks in his pupils died to quiet searching. “If I have misjudged you, my master, I will never forgive myself.”

  “It is a reasonable conclusion.” Marcus fought to steady his voice. “But I would not do it, Philip. I purchased Moriah to save her from Thallus, nothing more. Surely, it is better for me to be her master than him.”

  “Yes.” New quietness governed Philip. “If your intentions are as you say, her fate is indeed a fortunate one.”

  Marcus stepped passionately forward. “I swear I am telling you the truth.” His voice cracked, feeling as if he were ripping his own heart from his body. This was by far the most difficult temptation he had endured. “As soon as the arrangements can be made, I will set her free.”

  Philip stood motionless. Slow sympathy visualized in his face. “Marcus–”

  Marcus whirled around. Philip’s unexpected compassion; his own aching heart; the tortured knowledge of what he knew Moriah was thinking of him was too much.

  He leaned his head on a pillar, his strong right arm half-encircling its smooth exterior. Involuntarily, his free hand tightened into a vehement fist, perspiration gliding through his fingers.

  Before his eyes, the dimly-lit atrium grew misty.

  “I should have never doubted you.” Behind him, Philip’s voice was almost husky. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, gripping him. “You have lived honorably since your conversion. I had no right to accuse you.”

  Marcus straightened himself. Resentment threatened to command him, but he refused to harbor it. Philip had forgiven far greater wrongs in him; he could forgive this insult to his character.

  Still, he sensed that, though he forgave, he might never forget.

  “You were not alone, Philip. Whatever my good intentions, I know others doubt me. Still,” and Marcus smiled a little bitterly, “perhaps Moriah herself will reveal I have done her no harm.”

  Silence fell over the atrium.

  Marcus cast a glance at the library door. The longer he waited, he knew, the more difficult his temptation would grow. “Go to her, Philip. See that she is made comfortable in the guest chamber. And,” his voice again lapsed into huskiness, “assure her of her safety.”

  “Will you not come with me?”

  “No-no. I dare not. She cannot abide my presence and–and you know my feelings. Go, quickly.”

  Philip silently crossed his hands on his chest.

  His chest aching, Marcus watched him go. Abruptly, he looked away, blinking. The swelling pain was gradually becoming unbearable. His soul screamed for answers, rising in sudden petition.

  Oh, God, somehow work Your perfect plan through this.

  In the shadowed library, Moriah stood beside the window. It opened into the garden, ushering the dark, sweet fragrance of rose petals into the room. The odor mingled with the dusty scent of scrolls and ink, partially tranquilizing her.

  Nothing, however, could entirely still her fears.

  Her heat beat in regular rhythm, echoing against her chest. The last few hours had been one long nightmare, a blur of shame, terrifying faces, and Marcus.

  Marcus.

  She looked down, clasping her hands. They still shook. Her terror of Thallus had lapsed into the deep, frightening pain of betrayal. Sudden hot tears blurred her vision, and she bit her lip.

  Is this your way of showing your love?

  It was difficult to swallow the bitterness welling up in her heart. She had refused to marry Marcus; now he purchased her. She would not willingly give him what he wanted; he would use her like all Roman men used their slaves.

  She had had her misgivings, but she had never considered him capable of this. Somehow, the shame was worse than if Thallus had taken her for his slave. My own brother. The man who claimed to love me.

  Moriah suddenly closed her eyes, allowing the salty tears to steal in quiet trickles down her cheeks. Oh, God. Her heart cried out, her petition too great for utterance. Do not let Marcus deal this way with me. Touch his heart, his conscience. Keep him from this sin–and me from this shame.

  A sudden, quiet step behind her sent the blood rushing from her face. Her heart seemed to stop, leaping into her throat.

  Oh, God.

  The step drew nearer. It was the well-defined tread of a man. She refused to turn, shaking, waiting. Again, she closed her eyes, agonizingly awaiting the sound of Marcus’s voice.

  “Moriah.”

  In a burning rush, she felt the color flood her face. She turned, her relieved exhale almost a cry. “Philip.”

  The handsome young man stood before, gravely quiet. The faint beams of streaming moonlight rested on his face and body, accenting his muscular strength. It was a powerful strength she had only seen exerted on behalf of the weak, the defenseless.

  If anyone could save her, it was he.

  “What will he do with me?” The question escaped her, a tremulous whisper.

  Philip’s grave eyes met hers. “You were not purchased as his slave, Moriah. My master’s only intent was to save you from the lust of Thallus.” His eyes momentarily fixed themselves on the illuminated patterns of moonlight, streaming on the floor. “You and I have done him a great injustice, my sister.”

  Moriah stood motionless. “I do not understand.” She felt as if she were drowning, a bewildering well of mixed emotions settling slowly around her. Surely, she had not misjudged the intentions of Marcus towards her. “Why did he bring me here if not for his own pleasure?”

  “You know the laws, Moriah. It is impossible for him to free you immediately. There are legal documents to be signed, and you cannot be released until you are under no obligation or possibility of false accusation.”

  “Then he–” Moriah cut herself short, closing her eyes. Slowly, the tears ebbed their way through her lashes, trickling down her face. Burning shame and relief enveloped her, sinking into her heart. Her voice faltered, unbelieving. “He will let me go?”

  “Yes.”

  “It cannot be.” Moriah felt a half-smothered sob catch her throat. She turned away, resting her arm and head against the wall. This was not the man she had convinced herself he was. “Why? Why will he let me go?”

  Philip’s hand rested gently on her heaving shoulder. “Because he loves you. And, more importantly, because he loves his God.”

  Moriah placed her hand over her mouth, trying to still the sounds of her weeping. Until that moment, she had not realized how greatly she had hated and feared Marcus. Now, her feelings filled her with shame more vivid than the one she had endured on the auction block.

  He was noble, upright. And she had despised him more than Thallus himself.

  Gradually, her weeping stilled. “Why did he not tell me himself?”

  “He knows your feelings against him.”

  “Then he will not even come near me?”

  “At least for tonight, no.” Philip’s hand dropped from her shoulder. She knew he was torn between brotherly compassion and protocol. Though they were now equals in station, she was the property of his master. “Moriah…”

  She looked up at him. He had said her name with the whisper of a breath, something like appeal deep in his tones. And the keenness of his deep blue eyes upon her was an expression she had never before seen from him.

  Her breathing grew calm, matching his quiet mien. “Yes?”

  “Can you forgive?”

  The tears started again in her eyes. She looked down. Soft
ly, her hand found his arm, tracing his scars. “Philip–”

  Firmly, his hand grasped hers, holding it away from his arm. “Moriah, don’t look at it.” His voice softened. “Look only at Jesus. Look at His sacrifice, the blood He shed for all mankind. Can you forgive?”

  Moriah’s heart swelled. She felt the tears streaming down her face. She could not speak to answer, unable to overcome the knowledge of her own unforgiveness and Marcus’s unfathomable goodness.

  Philip dropped her hand, resting his own on her shoulders. His passion seemed to step beyond rank and bloodline. His eyes sought hers, intently pleading.

  “Moriah, my master is far from perfect. He is only a man. But, Moriah, he is such a man. He has been faithful to God and upright in his ways. And no one can say more for anyone than that.”

  Moriah looked at him. Though overflowing, her eyes refused to blink, to turn away from his fervent gaze. The pressure of Philip’s hand increased on her shoulders.

  “You know his past, the things he did to me. I will not pretend they did not happen. But, Moriah, he did not know what he was doing. Even in my greatest sufferings, I knew in my heart he did not understand. He was a Roman, acting in obedience to his father and his country’s demands. And, Christ be extolled, I forgave him.”

  Philip’s hands dropped. His hand closed around his arm, his eyes flickering with something like deep pain.

  “Moriah, I sense you have held what you have seen and heard against Marcus. But you see the scars of a punishment I deserved. I was a rebellious slave and he a hardened master. Can you not understand? We were both redeemed by the blood of the lamb. Marcus is pure before his God. And if you cannot give him your love,” his voice softened into huskiness, “at least do not continue to crush your spirit with bitterness. Inability to love a man as your husband is one matter. Unforgiveness is another.”

  Moriah could feel his fervor. His breath was warm, his whole body alive with an emotion he rarely portrayed. Somehow, his eyes seemed to bore into her soul, filling her with overwhelming heartbreak.

  Oh, God. Her soul screamed out, rising above the whirling multitude of thoughts echoing in her heated brain. What have I done?