Children scrambled past them, their shouts of play and quarreling reverberating against the crumbling stonework. Somewhere, a baby screamed in shrill hunger. On nearly every corner, Philip could feel the wanton eyes of harlots.
How they need You, Lord!
“A denarii, by the immortal gods!” A beggar’s hoarse whisper caught Philip’s attention. The man’s shrunken hand clutched at his tunic, pulling him downwards.
Philip quietly knelt at his side, resting his hand on the beggar’s threadbare rags. The man was covered in boils. Lice and flies crawled over his diseased body and through his oily hair, spreading the filth.
“Here.” Philip gently dropped a coin into his dish. “May the one true God, Jesus Christ, give you peace.” He paused. “I should like to tell you–”
With haste Philip should not have been able to guess was possible in a diseased man, the beggar scrambled away from him. Clutching his dish to his chest, he disappeared around a corner.
Philip was still a moment. He had been rejected before. But there was something oddly different about this beggar’s hasty flight. There had been a look of terror in his eyes. Slowly, he rose to his feet, turning.
An ominous shadow fell over him, blocking the already dim light.
A single beam flashed momentarily against cold steel. His eyes fell, locking onto the dagger. Its sharp edges were designed to kill. A hard hand held it inches away from his chest, steady, inexorable.
Philip followed the path of the blade up its owner’s arm. It directed his gaze into the cold eyes of Thallus.
“The legionary Alexander Lucianus is here to see you, tribune.”
“Send him in.” Marcus stood by a casement. His gaze had been drifting over the training grounds, but the sentry’s voice awakened his thoughts to the present moment. Concentrating was difficult today.
His ways are not our ways.
The thought was a haunting one. Marcus’s throat tightened. What if God’s ways held something beyond even his worst imaginations?
Alexander swept into the room with more haste than military promptness. His salute was equally swift. “Hail, tribune.”
“At ease, Alexander.” Marcus motioned to a pitcher of wine. Alexander shook his head, and he poured out a single goblet for himself. “What brings you here?”
“Philip, my lord tribune. I am worried about him.”
“That makes two of us.” Marcus set his goblet down. “He gives no thought for himself. I couldn’t keep him at home today.”
“Which was exactly my worst fear. Marcus, there is good reason to believe it is one of your old enemies who is behind this scheme to murder him.”
“How do you know?”
“One of the believers spoke with me today. He is a slave in the domus of Saturius Quinctia. Apparently, he overheard a conversation between Saturius and,” Alexander hesitated, “Rowland Virginius.”
“My father?” Marcus stiffened. A thousand thoughts whirled in his mind. It would only make sense for Rowland to despise the life of Philip. “What was said?”
“He didn’t know everything. Only that Saturius, Rowland, and the son Thallus are in one accord that Philip must die.”
Marcus ground his teeth. His hands clenched into angry fists. “I should have known. Thallus, in particular, has sworn to have revenge against me.” He paused. “The question is now: what can be done? Philip is blindly averse to any concern for his safety.”
“I want to take a conteburnium of legionaries and search for him. It may be this new evidence will convince him to go into hiding. Have I your permission?”
“More than that, I’ll go with you.” Marcus strode across the room, picking up his scarlet cloak. “Assemble a picked force. I want men who will keep their mouths shut if anything is discovered. Use your own discretion.”
Philip met Thallus’s cold eyes with a steady gaze. Strangely, he felt no pang of fear. Beyond the first lurch of shock, his heart maintained a steady pace. Everything within him breathed a quiet courage, giving him strength.
“What do you want, Thallus?”
“So you remember me.” Thallus laughed sardonically. His narrowed eyes were like piercing beams of icy snow. “But why should you forget? Why would a slave forget the patrician he beat?”
The dagger rustled against his clothing, threatening. Philip’s mind flitted back to the past. Who would have thought his passionate loss of control at the Baths would return to haunt him all these years later?
His voice kept its restraint. “If I remember you, Thallus, it is for the associations you had with my master.”
“Yes. Your master.” Thallus spat the words. “I have forgotten nothing of the wrongs he did me either. Marcus thought he had his sweet victory when you conquered my slave, when he stole that pretty Christian woman from my arms. But he hasn’t. Today I will prove it.”
Philip’s mind whirled. What was it Thallus meant?
The gripping hand of slow understanding chilled his heart. For one moment, his pulse nearly stopped. Then, it surged onward, filling him with the same, calm assurance he had felt for so many hours.
Be strong and of good courage, Philip.
His senses keen to the danger, Philip felt the presence of others behind him. He was surrounded by at least three men. Against the wall several paces away, Daniel’s face was ashen.
Thallus twirled his dagger, playing with it. He seemed in no hurry to continue his point, to fulfill whatever promise of victory he meant. His cool self-assurance was ample proof this was not the first time he had held a man at death’s door. When he again spoke, his voice was suavely indifferent.
“Is it true you Christians can hold spells over men?”
“No.” Philip continued to meet his gaze. The ridiculousness of the question seemed out of place, but he sensed the meaning behind it. “You are mistaken when you call us Christians sorcerers. We do not exercise demonic powers over men, but,” and he allowed a touch of resolve in his voice, “we do have the sustaining strength of our Savior.”
“Then you didn’t cast a spell over Marcus? He was not forced to become a Christus-follower?”
“No. My lord made his own choices.”
“I thought as much.” Thallus yawned in his face. “A pity. Marcus would have done better to claim some mystical force. His father might have had mercy.”
“I did not think Rowland Virginius capable of mercy.”
“Now you understand.” A muscle twitched in Thallus’s cheek. “Would it interest you to know he sent me?”
Philip was silent a moment. Thallus obviously desired to toy with him. “My only interest is in fulfilling the work for which I came. Allow me to pass.”
“Allow you to pass! You impudent fool.” Thallus’s mockery snapped. “Do you think my business here was for a pleasant chat?”
Philip exhaled with slow control, feeling the dagger prick his chest. He felt Thallus’s hot breath on his neck, the scent tainted of strong wine. Everything about his ominous close presence insinuated a cruel pleasure.
“Who do you think you are?”
A slow smile tugged at Philip’s mouth. God brought him opportunity even then. “I am a child of the one true God.” His heart surged. I am well-beloved in Your sight, Father. “I am a servant of Jesus Christ–”
A swift, stinging blow fell over his face.
“How dare you speak that name?” Thallus’s yell echoed furiously through the alley. “Do you think I will stand here and be preached at, you Christian dog?”
Philip bit his lip. No amount of humility could keep the anger from boiling up within him. He was a citizen of Rome. And even when a slave, his own master had not struck him since before his conversion. The warrior in him itched to double his fists. Turn the other cheek…
Thallus pressed the dagger again into his ribcage. Philip could feel the force of his wrath. “Whether or not you cast a spell on Marcus, you were the cause of his shame. It was because of you he left the religion of his fathers. And you m
ust pay for that!”
For the first time, Philip felt a prickle of fear. It ran down his spine, and he became conscious of the cold perspiration standing in little beads on his face and neck. So it was Thallus himself who sought his life.
Thallus’s gloating expression revealed he sensed his apprehension. “You know my reason for following you into this sewer. That is well.” His brows cocked. “But I am a reasonable man. I know you are a skilled wrestler, a warrior. Recant this idiotic Christus-worship.”
“For what purpose?”
“I will make you great.” Thallus shifted, a gleam in his haughty expression. “Imbecile, your miserable life is within my hands. Choose to recant your religion and enter my service. Marcus foolishly allowed your talent to wither. I will take it and restore you to your power.”
“My power is not within wrestling, Thallus.” Philip felt his heart thud, a dim sensation somewhere behind the overpowering calmness settled over him. He understood plainly the intent of the dagger pressed against his chest. Thallus only played with him. He desired the boastful glory of ravaging a Christian’s faith before killing him. “My strength is from the One who gave His life for me. And nothing can take that from me, Thallus. Not even you.”
Be strong and of good courage, Philip.
The sounds of clashing armor, of a shouted command filled the alley. At its end, Philip saw a blur of scarlet and silver, a rushing entourage of masculine bodies. The startled shout of one of the men was a distant echo, resounding in his brain.
“Master! The Tribune Aeneas!”
A curse dropped from Thallus’s lips. He thrust himself forward, his brutal strength powered by haste.
And a searing, agonized pain shot through Philip’s chest.
Philip crumpled. He felt the dagger ripped from his body as his knees buckled beneath him, flooding him with pain so intense his vision darkened. He heard his own breathing, ragged. His hand closed over the wound, a strange, warm moisture seeping through his fingers.
“Swine! Dogs!” Somewhere, Marcus’s furious voice echoed through the alley. Philip heard the sound of running feet, of the legionaries shouting at the fleeing men. His eyes closed.
“Philip! By God’s mercy, Philip! Speak to me.”
Philip struggled to open his eyes. He sensed Marcus’s hand gripping his shoulder, the other pulling his hand away from his wound.
“Father in heaven. Don’t take him. Hear me, Father. Don’t take him!” Marcus’s groans raised into an anguished shout. “Find him! I want that man brought to me. I will kill him with my own hands!”
Philip forced his eyes open. His vision cleared, revealing the agonized expression on Marcus’s white features. “No, Marcus.” His breathing was labored; he could not force the air into his lungs. Somewhere, deep inside, he could feel a mysterious draining. Was it his life’s blood? “Forgive, Marcus.”
He could not go on. His eyes closed once again.
Nothing will separate you, Philip.
How could peace be so clear in the face of death?
The voice of Daniel resounded in his mind, as it so often did. There is no greater terror than the fear of death. But, as a Christian, you are learning to die daily. Thus, when the actual time comes for your spirit to leave your body, you will have already gained the victory over its sting.
Somewhere, there was a bright, glorious sunset. He could see it, touch it. The sun was setting. But the light only grew brighter, a dazzling beacon beyond the looming horizon.
Darkness was becoming dawn.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Aeneas domus was strangely quiet. The slaves performed their duties softly, their voices a hushed whisper. In the great atrium, the slightest sound created a hollow echo, sighing among the marble images of the gods.
In his chamber, Marcus knelt beside his couch. Again and again, he clasped his fingers together. He felt numb, helpless. Oh, God. His soul screamed out, a continuous groaning appeal. Do not take him from us. You have the power. Let him live. I need him, Lord.
His bleary eyes rested on the others. Alexander. Diantha. Moriah. Daniel. They were all gathered, watching the body of Philip with hushed fervency. He lay motionless, only his ragged breathing signifying he still lived.
The dagger had done its work well. The physicians bore no hope for Philip. Apparently, it was only a matter of time until his wounded heart ceased beating. But we know you can heal, Father. You have the power. Jehovah-Rapha, Daniel called Him. The Great Healer.
Beside him, Diantha knelt beside the couch. She struck a disheveled appearance, worn out by weeping. Her hair was tangled and disorderedly, a striking contrast to its usual smooth glossiness. The corners of her beautiful eyes were red and bleary, continually filled with soft moisture. She clasped Philip’s still hand in her own, holding it against her tear-wet cheek.
Marcus’s heart twisted. His grief was terrible, but what could it be compared with hers? He wrapped a loose arm around her shoulders. He had seen this day more clearly than he had thought. His own words rose up to haunt him.
What of Diantha? What will it do to her faith, to her heart?
And what of his own heart? Could he live without Philip? His faithful attendant, his brother, the devout young leader who had taught him so many lessons?
Philip had been so much to him. God had taken evil and made it good, turning his selfishness and cruelty into a friendship he would rather die than live without. Through Philip, God had proved He could turn slavery into freedom, enmity into friendship, and darkness into light.
Surely, God would not have given him all that only to snatch it away.
Marcus felt a groan escape him. He buried his face in the soft folds of the bed clothes, not caring who saw his grief.
In his pain, he wanted nothing more than to kill Thallus. There was murder in his heart–and he didn’t care. It had only been Philip’s agonized plea that had kept him from snatching his gladius from its sheath and ending Thallus’s miserable life. Blood for blood. But Philip had asked him to forgive. So he had let the murderer go, numb to everything but the agony of his feelings and Philip’s pain.
A muffled groan sounded above him. Marcus lifted his head. The quick spark of hope he felt at seeing Philip stir was quickly replaced by dread. Was it the seal of death that seemed to hover so closely over his white features?
He half-rose, leaning over him. “Philip.” His voice was a husky waver. He could not control himself to speak firmly. “My brother.”
“Marcus.” Philip’s tones were cracked, made nearly inaudible by suffering.
Marcus felt a rush of tears, seeing the effort it took for him to speak. God in heaven. His heart swelled, nearly forcing another groan from his chest. Relieve his pain. Only don’t take him. His hand closed over Philip’s free one. “We are all with you, Philip.”
“Diantha…where is she?”
“I am here, Philip.” Her voice a sob, Diantha leaned over Philip.
Philip took her hand from his own and held it. He did not speak, but his look of quiet contentment signified the comfort of her presence.
Marcus looked sidelong, sensing the rustle of Alexander’s clothing as he leaned against the couch. The young man’s face was streaked with tears, his green eyes brimming with moisture. In the midst of all his turbulent grief, Marcus felt a tinge of respect. Though kneeling beside a tribune of the Praetorian Guard, Alexander was not ashamed to weep for his brother in the faith.
Philip’s gaze traveled over each of their countenances. His look was one of simple gratitude, thankful for their presence. Pain settled afresh over his face, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was to rest them upon Marcus.
Marcus’s eyes filled with a torrent of hot tears. In that single look, he recognized everything he had been denying. Great God, please! His soul groaned, nearly ripping his burning heart from his chest. Philip was nearly home.
“Philip.” Fighting to control the sobs welling up in his chest, he leaned over him. “You ar
e not in pain?”
“No, not now.” For the first time, Philip’s voice was clearly audible. A faint tinge of color warmed his cheeks, then sped away. “It is well, Marcus.”
Marcus saw the spatter of his own tears as they fell onto Philip’s face. Everything within him longed to embrace his brother, to spill his own strength over onto his fading body.
“Have you forgiven me?” The words escaped him, his voice broken into restrained weeping. “For all I have done to you, have you truly forgiven me?”
“Yes. There…there is no man…on earth I love…better than you, master.” Faint though it was, Philip’s smile was enough. His hand moved slowly over Diantha’s disheveled hair, caressing it. “I-I…have been…blessed.”
His hand went still.
Silence enshrouded the room.
Marcus felt numb. Something settled over him, washing him in cold nausea and a pain so intense he couldn’t breathe. Was it only his pain or had he truly seen an unearthly light settle over Philip’s face, washing it in perfect peace?
Before him, Diantha’s head sank onto Philip’s motionless chest. Slowly, the sound of her muffled sobs filled his ears, as hollow as an echo from the past.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Dimly, Marcus heard the sound of Daniel’s husky voice above him.
“I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” Rent, Daniel’s voice broke. “Take our brother into Your arms, Father. We give him to You.”
Around him, Marcus heard the weeping of the others.
Deep inside, something began to break. He struggled against the waves of torturing agony beating again and again at his chest, ripping, tearing his throbbing heart into pieces.
Blinded, blurred though his vision was, his moisture-filled eyes refused to tear from Philip’s face. Beautifully serene, Marcus knew he saw the countenance of a martyr. Everything in that look was a mirror of how he had lived for the Christ he had died for.
He tightened his grip on the lifeless hand one final time. Goodbye, brother. The ache in his throat was quickly becoming unbearable. He served You faithfully, Father. Receive Him now into glory.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 39
