From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  “Praise God.” The words escaped Philip in a low rush. Relief surged through his body. He stepped towards Marcus. “And the others?”

  “All safe, to the best of our knowledge.” Marcus drew his cloak from his shoulders and handed it to him. “The legionaries and I kept watch until everyone slipped out.”

  “Have you put your reputation in danger?”

  “I think not. The city guard will not suspect my word. At the worst, they may think I was mistaken.” Marcus turned towards Moriah. Lifting her veil, he touched her chin. “I praise God you were kept safe.”

  Their lips met in a long kiss before Marcus released her. “Go to your rest, Moriah.” He hesitated. “It is late. Do not burden yourself to wait up for me.”

  “It will be no burden, Marcus.” Moriah’s eyes danced with a coy smile, and Philip felt a tinge of amusement at the boyishly flirtatious glance Marcus sent her. She looked at him. “Goodnight, Philip.”

  “Goodnight, Moriah.”

  Moriah flitted from the room. Diantha closely followed her, casting a soft glance over her shoulder. Philip caught the turn of her eyes, reading her maidenly hesitance.

  A strange thrill rushed down his spine. She wants me to acknowledge her. It was now his turn to feel a boyish stir. His tones refused to strengthen, their decibels soft and uncertain. “Goodnight, Diantha.”

  Her smile flashed like a ray of sunshine at him. “Goodnight, Philip.”

  In a moment, she was gone. Philip turned back to Marcus, fighting himself to refocus his mind on the present moment.

  “Is there anything you need before I retire?”

  Marcus did not answer him. His face was grave, hesitant. “Philip…” He looked down. When he finally looked up, his eyes were overshadowed. “I know you feel I have done wrong tonight.”

  Philip felt a familiar burning flush tingle his neck and face. He had not intended to mention what had happened. If there was anything that he was uncomfortable with, it was rebuking his master.

  His silence seemed to irk Marcus. “Why don’t you tell me straight out you disapprove?”

  “Because I don’t know that I altogether do, my lord.” Philip drew himself up, meeting Marcus’s eye. “I know your heart. You saved us much suffering tonight. For that, we are all grateful, no matter what our personal feelings about the way you chose to deter our enemies.” His voice lowered. “And you are not accountable to me, Marcus.”

  “You are now an elder. Is that not an occasion for desiring your approval?”

  “If you consider the approval of a British captive important.” Philip smiled, attempting to lighten Marcus’s gravity. Then, sensing his growing irritation, “You know I am not here to judge you.”

  Marcus looked away. His eyes settled on a marble bust of Mars, his expression distant. “I am a soldier, Philip. I am trained to fight, to kill, to do whatever possible to save me and mine. I think it was that instinct which governed me tonight.”

  “And no one could doubt your courage was honorable.” Philip brushed aside his personal misgivings. For himself, he did not think he could lie to save himself or anyone else, but his conscience was his own affair. “If you are troubled, it is to God you must speak. My approval is nothing besides His.”

  Marcus’s face relaxed into a weary smile. “You are right, of course. I will seek the Lord’s face. You are a great encouragement to me, Philip. Thank you for choosing to uplift, not criticize me.” He clapped Philip on the back. “Goodnight, my friend.”

  “Goodnight.” Philip watched his swift departure until he had disappeared into the dusky recesses of the house. At a slower pace, he made his own way up to his small chamber.

  Inside, he quietly knelt beside his couch. His mind and heart were very full. Arswind’s danger; the salvation of the soldiers who had desired them harm; the protection of his brethren–a thousand requests swirled in his mind. Above them all, however, a single word held him captive.

  Diantha.

  “Oh, Lord.” Philip felt a groan rush from his lips. He buried his face in his hand, running his fingers through his hair. “I want Your will, Jesus. I always have. But, forgive me, I am afraid to know what it is. I want her, Lord.”

  It was only a partial relief to admit the truth. Philip pressed his forehead. His heart was throbbing. The weight of a thousand anchors seemed to be dragging his spirit down, haunting him with a single question.

  What if his desire was not God’s will?

  Over the last three weeks, he had felt a small seed sprouting blossoms within his heart. He knew he loved Diantha. And he was almost as assured of her affection for him. She was beautiful, spiritual, and gracious. They worked well together, and her heart for the lost was as great as his own.

  What was there to hinder their union?

  Philip slowly got up from his knees. Not bothering to undress, he stretched himself on his couch. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he stared up at the ceiling.

  Confusion ran rampant through his mind. Why can’t I hear Your voice, Lord? Is it because I don’t want to hear the truth? Am I in rebellion to Your will? The thought sent a wave of screaming pain through his heart. Surely, there was nothing he was unwilling to give up for his Father.

  He turned over on his side. “I give her to You, Jesus. Guide my heart and hers. Let nothing be done outside of Your perfect plan.”

  Rest in Me, Philip.

  Philip exhaled softly. His heart pumped against his chest, slowly settling into a quiet cadence. The Spirit’s voice was a comfort, but he struggled with the absence of a clear answer. His eyes closed.

  “I will rest in You. I will wait on Your timing and allow you to lead my circumstances.”

  New peace flooded his heart. Refusing to burden himself with needless questions, Philip’s breathing settled into a steady rhythm. Sleep circled, darkening his vision with whirling drowsiness.

  Abruptly, his eyes jolted open.

  What if God’s will involved something beyond his realm of thinking?

  Diantha settled the empty basket on her hip. Only a few crumbs reminded them of the crusty loaves they had started out with.

  “Daniel’s bread is the best in Rome. It is honorable of him to donate it to the Lord’s work.”

  Philip looked down at her. A quiet smile was on her cheeks, satisfied with the work they had accomplished. His heart twisted. She was so beautiful, so filled with the Spirit. Everything within him wanted to claim her for his own.

  Her labors of love among the poor of Rome always warmed him. He was accustomed to servitude, but she had been a patrician’s daughter. Until Christ had saved her, her hands had never been lifted in labor for anyone, let alone beggars. He never heard her complain, not even today, when a diseased man had retched on the hem of her stola.

  “Daniel is a wonderful example to us all. He will always be my greatest earthly inspiration.” His eyes traveled over her. Her quiet strength was so strikingly unusual. He would never get over the feeling she was more akin to a British woman than a Roman. “Thank you for your assistance today.”

  Diantha laughed slightly. “I did very little compared to you, Philip. Your energy seems to have no limits.”

  “I can assure you it does.” Philip felt his own laughter roll from his chest. He allowed his eyes to dance at her, sending a blush to her cheeks that tingled his own face. Everything about her presence warmed him, filled him with unsurpassable joy. “Time seems to fly when I have your assistance.”

  Diantha shifted the basket needlessly on her hip, allowing her veil to half-conceal her face. Still, Philip could see her blush deepen.

  “You are too kind. But I must agree. Considering Arswind was not with us, we made remarkable time.”

  “Yes.” Philip felt a worrisome pang. Arswind had not appeared to work with them that morning. Of course, there was nothing at all alarming in that. His master had doubtless refused his permission to leave.

  Or, he had been flogged, as he had feared. The thought was a bitter ache, s
urging through Philip’s body. God’s protection was not always granted, he knew. But, somehow, he had felt so keenly Arswind would not be harmed.

  Surely he is only detained. Arswind is a strong soldier of the cross. God’s hand is with him.

  Diantha seemed to read his thoughts. Her hand found his arm. “You are worried about Arswind?”

  “Yes. I worry about what his lord might have done to him. He was threatened with scourging.”

  “And you of all the believers know what it is to be flogged for Jesus.” Diantha’s voice was soft. “But, if Arswind has suffered, you must also know God has a plan. It may be his master will come to know our Savior.”

  “As Marcus came to know Christ. Your faith is honorable, Diantha.” Philip touched her hand, smiling. “Come, it is growing late. We shouldn’t be out past dark.”

  Swiftly, they walked through the cobblestones streets, avoiding the rain-filled wheel ruts. As the shadows deepened, Philip’s hand rested on the small of Diantha’s back, protecting her with his strong presence. She drew near him, masking the mingled scents of food and smoke by her soft botanical scent.

  At the Aeneas domus, they hastened up the steps and into the vestibule. A swift voice cut through the silence.

  “Where have you been?”

  Philip turned. The voice was startling, almost angry in its intensity. From the end of the atrium, Marcus strode towards them. His tanned face was unusually tight, working with color.

  “Well? Answer me, Philip.”

  “We were distributing food to the poor.” Philip struggled with the consciousness that he was being treated once again as a slave. “I told you where we would be and what our plans were, Marcus.”

  “You didn’t say you would be out until dusk.” Marcus made him a glowering look. His voice was stern, rebuking. “I have been worried. And what of Diantha? The streets are dangerous in daylight, let alone evening.”

  Philip felt a wave of hot color flood his face. His neck burned, sending a furious tingle down his spine. His hands clenched into fists, anger lashing out into words before he could restrain them.

  “I fulfilled my obligation to you. Nothing happened to Diantha–you can see that for yourself.”

  “Yes. Providence is gracious. And what if something had happened? What could you have done for yourself or her? Is your ministry so important you will risk your life and others?”

  “Remind me who released me to fulfill the work of the Lord!” Philip met Marcus’s flashing gaze, his body posturing angrily. He was furious clear through. He had been free long enough to resent Marcus’s conduct. “Am I not answerable to Christ? You–”

  He cut himself short, suddenly realizing what he was doing. His own fury startled him. It had been years since he had lashed out in carnal anger at Marcus. He shook his head, swallowing back the angry resentment boiling up inside him.

  Marcus seemed to soften. He opened his mouth, but Diantha’s spirited, indignant voice cut him short.

  “What right have you to lecture Philip? He is no child, nor a slave. He has labored tirelessly for Christ today, and, I can assure you, I was perfectly safe with him. He would not have let anything occur to harm me. He is one of our elders, Marcus. Have you no shame?”

  Marcus stood silent.

  Instant regret rolled through Philip. His own temper had provoked Diantha’s indignation. He knew under no other circumstance would she openly oppose and rebuke her honored brother.

  “No, Diantha.” His voice was soft. “Marcus is my lord; I should not have spoken so.” He glanced at Marcus, forcing his eyes to drop in subservience. “I apologize, my lord.”

  Marcus himself dropped his gaze. “It is nothing, Philip. I was…worried.” He looked at Diantha, then again at Philip. “Diantha was right–you are no man’s slave. Pardon me, Philip.”

  Philip nodded absently. Glancing sidelong at Diantha, he saw her gazing strangely at Marcus. Her voice became quiet. “What is it, Marcus? Something is wrong.”

  Marcus did not answer directly.

  Philip felt a sudden thrust. Diantha is right. A fresh wave of shame crossed him. He had been Marcus’s closest companion for years. Surely, he should have discerned the signs of Marcus’s strained temper. “Tell us what is wrong, Marcus.”

  “It involves you, Philip.”

  Philip looked keenly at him. “How? What has happened?”

  “I received certain intelligence this afternoon.” The corners of Marcus’s mouth were tight, his voice flat and tense. He seemed to be harboring a dark secret, one which he was unwilling to reveal. “Your life is in extreme danger.”

  “What causes you to say this?”

  “I have my knowledge, Philip. Your name is on the lips of every city guard and legionary in the Castra Praetoria. Someone in high places wants you dead, and there is no secret made about it.”

  Philip was silent a moment. “Who?”

  “We don’t know yet. But,” and Marcus’s eyes flashed with an expression Philip knew only too well, “God preserve his soul if I find out.”

  “Marcus.” Philip took a warning step forward. God forbid that Marcus would sin on his account. “There is murder in your heart.”

  “Don’t speak to me about murder!” Marcus spewed the words from his mouth, his voice dark with anger. “I am no spirit, Philip. I see the things being done to our brethren. Thank God you are not a soldier, that you do not have to sit in Nero’s arena and watch those of your faith die. I have seen the blood, the torture! And I will kill before I see those things done to you.”

  There was something in Marcus’s manner that struck a sudden chilling chord in Philip’s heart. Marcus’s eyes flashed, his fists clenched in a terrible something that was more than indignation, more than anxiety for his danger. He felt himself grow cold. “How do you know all these things?”

  Marcus looked at him. The icy fire in his eyes slowly melted, softening into weariness. “There is no easy way for me to tell you, Philip. Arswind–” He paused, a single husky tenor catching his throat. “Arswind is dead.”

  Philip heard the low cry of Diantha beside him. A numbing wave of shock rolled over him, sickening him. For a long moment, he stood motionless. His heart and mind felt dead. Slowly, agonizingly, with his inner acceptance of the hard truth, a burning pain seared through his chest.

  “How?” The question fell unbidden from his lips, husky. His soul screamed for an answer. “Who told you?”

  Marcus looked away from him, but Philip saw his quick blink, the soft glisten in his dark pupils. “I received the detailed information at the Castra Praetoria. Arswind was flogged by his master the night we escaped from the soldiers. He was then handed over to Nero’s personal torturers within the palace.”

  “And?” Philip clenched his fists, forcing his mind to sift through its torrent of questions. Lord, I was so certain. Arswind–why Arswind? Inside, he felt his heart tear, as agonizing as if it had been snatched from his body. “Why to the torturers? Why not immediately to the arena?”

  Marcus stood silent.

  An icy hand clamped around Philip’s heart, tingling him through. Marcus’s silence was more agonizing than knowing the truth. He stepped forward, passion lending his numb body strength. “Why, Marcus?” His voice shook, threatening to break. “Great God of our fathers, he was flogged! Was it not enough?”

  Marcus looked at him, quiet. “His lord saw it as a sign of loyalty to Rome. He saw it as an opportunity to reveal the whereabouts of a Christian elder named Philip.”

  Philip stepped back. He could sense the blood fleeing from his face. Inwardly, his stomach gripped with nausea, hollowing his voice. “And he was tortured…for my sake?”

  “Yes. It seems Arswind’s lord knows something of you and of the price on your head. Praise God,” and Marcus’s voice shook ever so slightly, “Arswind revealed nothing. And God was gracious. He did not live long enough to adorn the arena.”

  A whirling cloud of darkness swirled over Philip’s vision. When it cleared
, he looked down to see his hands shaking uncontrollably. He felt more shaken than he could ever remember being.

  Arswind had suffered for him.

  From his peripheral vision, he saw Diantha sink down against the wall, pulling her knees into her face. Her shoulders shook, quietly weeping.

  His strength suddenly failed him. The numbing powers of shock wore away, leaving his body weak. He stumbled, kneeling beside a bench. With his nausea intensifying, he leaned his head on his hand.

  “No, Lord.” The agonized words spilled from his throat. “Why Arswind? Why? I assured him of Your protection. He trusted me. Why this faithful follower?”

  Marcus’s hand rested on his shoulder, gripping it. “You now know why I was going mad at your delay, Philip. Think, my brother. It could have been you.” His voice broke. “Do you still judge me for my concern?”

  Philip shook his head. His voice refused to speak. Deep inside, brokenness welled up. He had seen dozens of believers perish under the cruelty of their oppressors. But Arswind had been different.

  He held such promise, Lord. He was such a strong young believer. Why? Why because of me?

  Marcus’s hand left his shoulder. His sandaled feet created a soft slap across the atrium floor, and Philip sensed him taking Diantha in his arms. Their clothing rustled in rising, blending into the sounds of their unified tread. It grew fainter, until it left the atrium altogether.

  Philip’s body shook. Abruptly, his face dropped into his trembling hands. Alone in the echoing, wide atrium, he wept.

  Chapter Thirty

  Philip tossed on his couch. The room was warm. A gnat buzzed around his face in search of moisture. He swatted at it, his eyes gazing unseeingly at the roof above him.

  Your life is in extreme danger.

  The words echoed in his mind, haunting him. He was accustomed to danger, to the daily possibility of being arrested and martyred for Jesus. It was something he had surrendered to Christ when he had first accepted salvation.

  Why then did the chilling hand of fear clench his heart?