Marcus’s countenance overshadowed. “Nor has it for any of my family.” He hesitated. Slowly, his hands gripped her shoulders. “Tell me, Diantha: how is my father?”
“Rich and still influential. He has not changed, Marcus.”
“I feared so.” Marcus swallowed, averting his eyes. “I-I have not heard you mention our mother.” He looked up. “How is she?”
Diantha’s eyes filled afresh. “Dead, Marcus.” Her voice was a whisper. “With your disgrace, both of her sons were dead. She pleaded for you with our father for months. He refused her, and-and she died not long after it was said you joined the Praetorians.”
Philip saw Marcus’s hands clench, his face pale with sorrow. “Hatred is a terrible thing. I regret it lowered my father enough to my break my mother’s heart.”
“It is not your fault, Marcus. You did the right thing.”
“Yes.” Marcus touched her hair, his mouth hinting a soft smile. “And, now, please Jehovah, the right thing will be done by you. My wife,” and he lingered over the words, “will be a friend and guide to you. She is resting from the fatigues of the wedding, but I will have a servant take you to her. For now, you must bathe and freshen yourself.”
He turned to a female slave. “See that Lady Diantha has all she requires in the way of attire and service. I will purchase a personal attendant for her, but, until then, you must see that she is properly attended.”
“Yes, my lord.” The servant girl bowed.
Diantha lifted thankful eyes to Marcus’s face. He squeezed her shoulders a final time before lifting his hands in dismissal.
She flitted gracefully away. The graceful sound of her movements met Philip’s ears. A strange tingle rushed down his spine. He allowed his eyes to follow her to the door, willing her to look at him.
As if wishing had conveyed an audible appeal, her eyes lifted in his direction. Their gazes met. Her eyes warmed, then, like a breath of fresh air, she was gone. Still, her presence seemed to linger, filling every nook of the room with grace.
Philip averted his eyes. She was a beautiful girl. He was a man; he recognized a beautiful face when he saw one.
But was it right for him to cast his gaze upon her? He was dedicated to the Lord, to the ministry. His years of celibacy had been fruitful ones and, beyond the natural desire to someday marry, he had been content. Why, then, did these strange feelings haunt him? Since yesterday, he had not been able to put Diantha from his mind.
It was then he realized Marcus was gazing intently upon him.
Philip felt the color tinge his lightly tanned cheeks. Had Marcus noted the look Diantha had cast upon him, the turn of his own eyes to follow her? With difficulty, he found his voice.
“May I congratulate you, my lord. I am happy for this newfound joy.”
“As I knew you would be, Philip. Truly, it is a faithful saying that our Lord’s blessings are new every morning.” Marcus paused. “I thank you for welcoming Diantha last night. Your consideration to her in my absence was most kind.”
“It was nothing, my lord.” Philip laughed slightly, partially easing his discomfort. “It was a pleasure to welcome her. And, were it not, I should have still done it. I am not such a fool as to arouse my master from his wedding chamber in the dead of night.”
Marcus chuckled. “Your prudence was wise.” He glanced around, searching for something.
Philip discerned his thoughts. With swift subservience, he stepped to a table and poured out a glass of iced wine. Turning, he held the goblet out to Marcus, its gold basin brimful with chilly sweetness.
“My lord.”
A strange look crossed Marcus’s face. Slowly, he accepted the wine, yet made no move to touch it to his lips. “You no longer need to call me that, Philip.”
Philip slowly turned, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Marcus’s voice bore a shade of quiet rebuke, but there was something else beyond his reminder. It was as if sadness encompassed him.
“Master.” He turned, lifting his fingers to silence the quick protest he saw in Marcus’s eyes, on his swiftly-opened mouth. Quiet resolve washed over him. “Do not rebuke me, Marcus. In my mind, you will always be my master.”
Marcus smiled, but his eyes held the same sadness of his voice. “Christ is your only authority now, Philip. I am your brother and friend only.” He paused. “What will you do with your freedom?”
“That all depends on whether or not you intend to send me away, Marcus.”
“Send you away?” Marcus laughed, his chin tilting back. “Do not jest with me. You know you have a place alongside me for as long as you desire it.”
“I am glad.” Philip smiled. His fingers absently traced the pattern of his goblet. His thoughts were many, almost too many to form into speech. Slowly, decision flooded him, weighting his words. “You ask what I will do. You must know that the thought uppermost in my mind is still to be your personal attendant.”
Marcus nodded slowly. “I confess that is what I hoped. Your service and comradeship mean much to me. But I must now pay you for your services, Philip. No freedman may labor unrewarded.”
“Agreed.” Philip set his goblet down. “I will not need much gold for myself, but a little of it goes a long away among the needy.” He paused, again forming his thoughts into words. “This brings me to my main desire, Marcus. With my freedom, it has come into my mind to spend more time laboring in the service of Christ. Daniel has often expressed his wish I would join him more often during his ministrations to the poor.”
“It is a noble wish.” Marcus swallowed a draught from his goblet. His features were contemplative as he set it down. “But you are not required to ask me, Philip. Need I remind you again you are free?”
“And need I remind you I still consider you my lord?” Philip felt a smile again hover over his lips. He stretched out his hand, laying it lightly on Marcus’s shoulder. “I still seek your consent.”
Marcus looked steadily at him. “You have it. I can never forbid you from serving the Lord with your whole heart.”
“It is not enough.” Passion flooded Philip’s heart. His pulse quickened, considering all he might do for the Kingdom. You have given me freedom to serve You, Lord. Now give me a special grace to fulfill Your commission well. “Give me your blessing, Marcus.”
“I am not worthy.” Marcus’s voice was low. “My love for Christ pales in comparison to the sacrifices you make every day for His name.”
A familiar pang smote Philip’s heart. Would Marcus never recognize his own worth? He looked at him. He knew him so well. The dark hair, the almost black eyes that could command and hold him at will. The strong, masterful figure that led hundreds of soldiers with the unceasing courage and sharp mind of an inexorable leader. How can such a man above all ordinary men think so little of himself?
“Marcus.” Philip took a step nearer. His heart burned. How could he assure Marcus of what he felt, of the respect and admiration he had for him? “Tell me who is worthy?”
Marcus said nothing. His fingers brushed his goblet, his eyes fixed on the ornate table it stood on.
Philip was quiet. Years of experience had taught him when to speak and when to allow Marcus his thoughts. He continued to gaze at him, knowing his eyes spoke volumes.
At last, Marcus looked up. The corners of his mouth twitched, hinting a quiet smile. “Who would have thought it?” Softness bordered on his voice, almost to huskiness. “My nation conquered yours. Our forefathers struggled and killed, my own brother among them. Britain was paid for in blood. And now a British captive goes out among his conquerors to share the light of God.”
The Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives. The words flashed into Philip’s mind. He had often heard Daniel repeat them. It was if Jesus Himself had spoken the words in his heart, giving him double assurance. His calling was sure. To proclaim liberty among the captives.
He felt the Spirit stirri
ng in his heart, impassioning his words. “It was not Rome who held me captive, Marcus. I can see it now. It was sin, the works of the flesh. I became free in Christ. And, now, my heart is of one mind to share that sweet release with others. For me, the chiefest of sinners, there can be no greater joy.”
Marcus smiled, a watery smile that hid some inner emotion. “You have already given so much of your time and energy for this work. I can only praise God your mind is to now give it your all.”
“It is, Marcus.” Philip felt his passion redouble. “To give beauty for ashes, as He did.” His hand gripped Marcus’s shoulder. “Now bless me, Marcus. Do not let me begin this great task without the sanction I want above all else.”
Slowly, Marcus nodded. His averted eyes revealed little, but Philip sensed he was moved. Beauty for ashes. His words were being relived even as they spoke. What ashes could be greater than the sins of their pasts? Yet, standing there, Marcus was sending him out to fulfill the work of the gospel.
Philip sank to his knees. Above him, he felt Marcus’s strong hands rest on his shoulders, then his head. His eyes closed, his heart beating in steady rhythm against his chest.
Thank you for this great task, Lord. Give me the strength to fulfill it. Give me Your grace.
The sound of Marcus’s voice was strong, his husky tenors filling the room. “Philip, my brother, I charge you and strengthen you. Set your face like a flint; be not ashamed of the word of truth. Follow after the things which make for peace and edify your brethren.” He paused. “Be strong in the faith. And may the God of all peace stablish your heart and work His will through you.”
Silence filled the room. Marcus’s hands squeezed Philip’s shoulders.
“In the name of Jesus. Amen.”
The words echoed in Philip’s heart. He repeated them to himself, a silent prayer. In the name of Jesus.
Rowland Virginius tasted his wine. It was bitter to his tongue, burning his throat. Muttering an oath, he set it down, hard, on the table.
Behind him, a dark cloaked figure waited in silence.
Breaking off a plump grape from a cluster, Rowland placed it contemplatively in his mouth. “You say she found refuge in the household of Aeneas?”
“Yes, my lord. Judging by appearances, she was very well received.”
Rowland ground his teeth. Rage filled him, seeping into every corner of his heart. “Go. Keep a close eye on the household of Aeneas. I want a full report of their activities.”
The spy bowed silently. Dark and mysterious, his departing footsteps were soon lost to hearing.
Rowland again ground his teeth.
Reclined on a low couch, Saturius cast him a derisive expression. “What did you expect, Virginius? That Diantha would go to the Vestal Virgins? You were a fool to disown the girl. Casting these miserable Christians to the lions is the only sure way to end the sect.”
“I couldn’t do that.” Rowland turned to him. “Diantha was my only remaining child. I did my duty as a Roman; no one can require more of me.”
“Naturally. But is it not rather unfortunate you did not handle the matter at the beginning? You might still consider yourself blessed, surrounded by both of your children.”
“What do you mean?” Rowland spat the words, feeling the angry heat pour into his face. “I did all that was humanly possible to rid Christianity from my household.”
“By killing one British slave?” Saturius’s sarcastic chuckle filled the room. He rose, tossing aside the pomegranate he had been plucking with meaningful deliberation. “I think not, Rowland. You spared the one who spawned the lies that infiltrated your family. How could you expect the Christian scourge to die?”
“How easy it is for you to speak of these things now.” The veins bulged in Rowland’s neck. Great gods, but his head ached, doubtless from yesterday’s long evening. To dull his angry grief, he had drunk himself into a heavy stupor and cursed the foul Christians who had beguiled his only daughter. “How could I know the boy would influence Marcus? Almighty Jupiter, Marcus himself flogged the miserable dog.”
“Yes.” Saturius’s tone was gratingly sarcastic. “It may have been then that the wretched Briton worked his spells on your son.”
Rowland turned towards him. Frustration rushed down his spine, weary with the whole conversation. “Marcus made his decision. He was a strong young man who knew his own mind–curse him! No one could work magic on him.”
“They say these Christians are terrible sorcerers, Rowland. And I knew your son nearly as well as you did. Marcus was indeed strong–a strong, loyal Roman. I don’t consider it accidental his head was turned.”
“What then?” Rowland snapped. His head pulsed and spun more with each passing moment. Must they continue to dwell upon the past, upon the son he no longer claimed? “Do you insist that he was bewitched?”
“I do. No true Christian wins the favor of a powerful man like Cleotas Aeneas. And it goes beyond that. I heard it in the court of Nero himself that the Tribune Marcus Virginius Aeneas is one of the most powerful and promising officers in the entire Praetorian Guard.”
“Do you imply that a Christ-follower cannot have a promising career? Speak sense, man!”
“I am.” Saturius made a gesture of impatience. “I think it highly improbable for Marcus to have risen to such a rank while being a member of that sect. Indeed, all things considered, I am certain of it. After all, was not this Briton a Druid before he was a Christian? The combination of two such evils must have been supreme.”
“Then,” Rowland spoke slowly, choosing his words with slow deliberation, “if–and I say if–that British scum holds Marcus under his spell, what can be done about it?”
“What should have been done years ago. He must die.”
Rowland laughed sardonically. He lifted his goblet again to his lips, ignoring the burning sensation the liquid created in his throat. “That is not so easily done. Do you not remember the boy? His physique was superb. He must be a perfect gladiator by now–valuable to his master.”
“He is.” Both men turned at the sound of the frigid voice.
Thallus stood in the door, resettling his white toga around his arm. Icy rancor fairly sculpted his face. Brusquely, he stepped between his two elders, wrapping his fingers around the wine pitcher with throttling strength. His hands shook as he lifted his brimming goblet to his lips.
His cool nonchalance irritated Rowland to no end. “What do you mean? You interrupt us, then drink my wine without an explanation?”
“Careful, Rowland.” Saturius’s voice was sharp. “My son is not as yours was. He is wise, a Roman. He may serve your purpose.”
Rowland eyed Thallus. “Can you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Thallus gritted his teeth. “By killing that dog of a Briton, as my father suggested.”
“And why would you do this?”
Thallus stepped closer. Rowland could feel the heat of his breath, his bitter fury. He made no attempt to hide his innermost feelings. His flashing, narrowed eyes were a formidable sign in one so young and strong.
“I claim no love for your son, Rowland Virginius. Candidly, I hate him with all that is within me. Were I to advise you, it would be to tell you to leave him to this despicable,” and his words became a spat, “Christianity he has embraced, to leave him to his own chosen fate! But then I should not have my revenge.”
“And what exactly is this revenge?” Rowland spoke coldly. Thallus’s self-interest was always evident.
“Marcus loves his British slave as a brother. Nothing could hurt him more than to lose him. For all he has done to me, for the years of shame and rivalry, I will kill the one he values above his life!”
For a long moment, perfect silence settled over the room. Thallus’s eyes flashed and glittered; Saturius stood by in silent, pleased observation. At last Rowland exhaled, breaking the silence.
“So we are agreed. The slave Philip must die. But it would not seem that you, Thallus, ar
e not in one accord with our purpose.” He eyed him, allowing a sarcastic bent to his head. “Do you not believe in slaying this Briton to free Marcus from his spell?”
“Does it matter what I believe?” Thallus made no attempt to hide his scorn. “But, I will answer you plainly, noble Rowland.” His words again became a spat, anger rising in every decibel. “I don’t think your son is bewitched. I think he made his choice, as we all do. He is a Christian. He deserves to die as one. But,” and his hand went downwards, brushing aside his toga to reveal a sharp dagger, “I am content to let him live in sorrow instead.”
Rowland felt his eyes locked in Thallus’s menacing gaze. The young man’s passion was strong, a tribute to Rome. He believed in all Rome stood for: power, strength, and the gods above all nations. Would that I had sired such a son.
“Go.” He heard his own voice, strained by the force of his own desire. “Kill this miserable Christian slave. And Jupiter grant it will free Marcus from this spell and cause Diantha to see the truth.”
Thallus’s eyes flickered. “I am more concerned with the favor of the gods and Nero.”
Again flicking the scabbard of his dagger with menacing alacrity, he began to casually leave the room.
Rowland felt vexation boil up within him, clenching his hands into fists. “Don’t pride yourself, Thallus. You know your intents are not for Rome.” Angry sarcasm again wet his voice. “They are for yourself.”
Thallus turned. A slow, sardonic smile played about his lips. “Tell me, Rowland.” He paused sarcastically. “What are your intents? Are they for Rome?”
Allowing the weight of his sarcasm to sink in, Thallus turned and strode from the room.
Rowland slowly released his hands, easing them from their cramped fists. Looking down, he saw the fierce print his nails had created in the tender flesh.
No. His intentions were not solely for Rome. They were not only for Marcus and Diantha either. He had long ago calloused his heart towards his children. But, for the shame and disgrace they had brought him, he would have his revenge.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 35
