by Carol Ashby
Footsteps retreating. A trickle of water being poured into a cup. Footsteps returning to his bedside. The boy was probably offering the cup, but he couldn’t take what he couldn’t see. He’d been careful to keep his eyes directed at the sound of Galen’s voice, but the boy must know now that he wasn’t actually seeing him. A wave of unease washed over him. The boy was probably not a threat but...
Galen picked up Decimus’s hand and placed the cup in it. “Here.”
Legs scraped as Galen moved something closer to the bed. It sounded like he might be sitting astraddle a chair, leaning on the back, watching him drink. Decimus felt a little foolish for thinking the boy posed a threat.
“Want some more before I go feed that great stallion of yours? Rhoda’s been looking after him almost as closely as Val’s been looking after you. She calls him Pegasus. He comes to that name, but she’d probably like to know his real one.”
“Astro, from the star blaze on his forehead.”
Decimus found himself liking the friendly young man. His sister had spoken truth when she’d assured him last night that her family wouldn’t hurt him. The boy’s general openness made it seem unlikely that he’d deliberately lie to him.
“Do you and your sisters live here alone?”
“Since my parents were killed in the raid on the village three years ago.”
“Was this your father’s farm?”
“No, it’s Val’s. Father became a physician when we left home because he’d always liked studying medicine. Val’s the physician now. She really knows how to help people when they need her. Just look at you.”
“Your Latin is excellent. That’s unusual this deep in the northern provinces.”
“We used to have a villa just outside Rome. I spoke it as a little child. Rhoda was too little to speak when we left there. Mother taught her, and Father taught Val after we found her.”
“Found her?”
He’d been right about the boy. He was revealing a family history with peculiar details that might explain her behavior.
“This was her parents’ farm, but they died of the fever. Val was really sick with it, too, when we found her lying out by the corrals. We stopped to take care of her, and before we knew it, we were family. She taught Father how to farm here. The slaves did everything at our estate in Italia. He used to say Val was one of the smartest, kindest people he ever knew. She’s been as much mother as sister to us since the raid.”
“How old is she?” The corner of Decimus’s mouth curved. The boy was a talker. One question and a whole story tumbled out of him.
“Nineteen, but the way people ask her for advice all the time, you’d think she was an elder.”
“Is she betrothed?”
“Not yet. She hasn’t met a man who could pass the test.”
So she was a young unmarried woman and head of her household. With all that Galen had revealed, some of his questions were answered, but none of it explained why she’d decided to help him. That mystified him as much as it had before their conversation.
He held out the cup for a refill. Galen brought it back full and placed it in his hand again. As Decimus framed the next question to draw out more truth, rustling in the loft interrupted the silence.
Galen lowered his voice. “I hope we didn’t wake them up. But if I have to be up doing chores, maybe they should be up, too.”
With a chuckle, he dragged the chair away from the bed. One soft thud as the door closed behind him and Decimus knew he’d gone to tend the livestock.
He had much to think about after his talk with Galen. He drained the cup and lay down on his side to ponder what he’d heard.
A wealthy man leaving his villa near Rome and bringing his young family to a frontier province. Why would he leave such a privileged life and settle here on the small farm of a sick girl he’d treated? What had happened to his wealth? The boy said she thought a god had told her to bring him home and he would recover. She’d said a god had protected him from being killed by the ax. So much talk about a god as if he were a person who cared what happened.
He sucked air through clenched teeth as the truth struck him. He’d fallen into a den of Christians.
The tension in his shoulders radiated out into the rest of his body. For as long as he could remember, his father had despised Christians. When Father was organizing the games as part of his regular duties as quaestor, he took particular pleasure in having wild animals tear Christians apart as one of the featured events. After his elevation to praetor, he passed the harshest sentences allowed on any Christian who came into his court. As provincial governor of Germania Superior, he’d established the same policy as Pliny did in Bithynia and Pontus, executing any Christians who refused to deny their faith and sacrifice to Caesar and the Roman gods.
Decimus knew his duty when it came to Christians. Father wanted them arrested and executed for very good reasons. They were atheists who refused to even pretend to worship the emperor or the gods of Rome.
That was traitorous. Anyone could take part in the sacred rites of the state religion without believing in the Roman gods. He didn’t believe in them himself, but like any true Roman, he went to their temples and offered the sacrifices to show his loyalty to Rome. The superstitious feared the gods’ favor could be withheld from Rome and her Empire if the rites weren’t performed perfectly. Even a slight error and the whole ritual had to be repeated. The Christian refusal damaged the perfection.
Even worse, the Christians wouldn’t acknowledge Caesar as divine and swear loyalty to him as their lord. All because they claimed only their crucified rabbi deserved the title. Of course, Caesar wasn’t actually a god, but he really was lord of the empire and should be served as such. If Caesar wanted worship as part of that service, Decimus was perfectly happy to perform the required acts of worship as part of his duty to Caesar and to Rome.
The Christians’ refusal was a threat to the Empire that needed to be stamped out. It set an example of rebellion that couldn’t be tolerated. They might question Caesar’s position as lord for religious reasons, but if they got away with it, others might question it for political ones.
He’d watched many Christians die in the arena, singing songs of praise to their god rather than worship Caesar. That kind of fanaticism made them very dangerous people.
His dark scowl softened. He’d also heard good things about them. Reports were circulating of them caring for deathly ill strangers, even though they might sicken and die themselves. Galen’s parents had done that for Valeria. The danger hadn’t stopped them. These Christians were the same. They’d saved him from dying by the side of the road, even though they must know any soldier was sworn to enforce the governor’s policy against them.
By definition, any enemy of Rome was his own enemy. But this particular set of Christians…what was he to think of them? Especially her. Why was she so willing to help him when she must know he was the enemy of her whole family? His mere presence put them all in mortal danger.
His lips tightened. There had to be some ulterior motive behind her helping him the way she was. The whole family would bear close watching. He desperately needed their help right now. They seemed willing to give it for the moment, but what the future held was another question altogether.
Chapter 11: Safest Place in the Empire
Footsteps on planks above Decimus were followed by a soft rustling in the direction Galen had first come from. Her foot on the ladder produced a softer creak than Galen’s. He turned his head toward the sound.
Soft footsteps approached. “Good morning. You look like you’re feeling much better today. You met my little brother Galen?” Her fingers brushed against his as she took the empty cup from his hand.
“Yes.” He paused. What was safe to say to this Christian? “He asked my horse’s name.”
“Rhoda will be glad to learn his real name. We don’t know your name, either.”
“Decimus.”
“Tha
t’s very short for a Roman name.”
“It’s long enough.”
Caution was in order. It was unlikely that some woman in the hill country of Germania would know the wide purple stripes on his tunic meant he was the senatorial tribune, second in command of the legion and a member of the highest order of Romans. She probably thought he was an ordinary soldier. He’d be a fool to let these people know he was Decimus Cornelius Lentulus. His full name would immediately reveal that he was not just any Roman soldier but the son of the Roman governor who wanted them dead.
It was safe enough to tell her his first name. There were only a few first names in common usage, so many people shared his. It already made no sense that these Christians were helping him. Surely no Christian would help the son of the man who had decreed they should be executed, but he couldn’t afford to have them stop. He needed his sight and his strength back before he could risk that.
“I’m not sure I told you my name last night. It’s Valeria.” She adjusted the blanket that had slipped off his shoulders when he’d raised himself up to drink. “Do you need something to ease your pain this morning?”
“I don’t want to sleep now.”
He needed to watch her for a while to figure out why she’d brought him to her home. She didn’t seem like a stupid person who wouldn’t realize he was her enemy.
The irony of his choice of words struck him. Watch her―not really an option for a blind man, but he could listen. Maybe his vision would clear in a few hours. Then he could rely on his eyes again and not just his ears.
“Last night I used a special mixture to help you sleep. I’ll make you something for the pain only.” The gurgle of water being poured into a kettle was followed by the squeak of metal on metal. A hook holding the kettle swinging over the fire?
Her voice was directed away from him. “I’m sorry it will taste just as bad as the tea last night. It’s the pain killer that’s so bitter.”
“The pain’s not bad if I don’t move suddenly. I can bear it.”
“I’m sure you can, but you shouldn’t try. You’ll heal faster if you can rest comfortably.”
“Maybe later.” The new tea was probably safe to drink, but if it dulled the pain, would it dull his remaining senses as well?
She was humming again, and the sound moved around the cottage. His ears focused on her movements, but he couldn’t decide what she was doing while she waited for the water to boil. He wanted to know everything she did. Now that he knew she was a Christian, he couldn’t trust her.
Finally, the gurgling of water rising in pitch told him she was pouring the boiling water into a small container of some kind, and he could smell the bitter aroma even from his bed―not something he wanted to drink before he needed to.
“The tea is ready. Are you sure you don’t want some now?”
“Not now.” He didn’t want her pain killer, but he did want her answer to what he was most eager to know. “What I want is to know when I can expect this darkness to clear from my eyes so I can see again.”
The long silence that followed raised the hairs on his neck like an enemy creeping up behind him. Why was she so slow in responding? She’d been quick enough to answer all his other questions. Was she trying to hide something from him? He could usually tell when a man was lying by watching his face. It was much harder just listening. With a woman, it was even harder. He was about to demand that she answer him when she finally spoke.
“Well...when Oleg was kicked by the horse, it was about a week before his sight began to return. Gaius said the deep bruises inside his head had to heal enough first. Then it took a while to be fully restored. Perhaps we’ll see something like that for you. That’s the only case I’ve seen myself, so I can’t predict exactly.”
The prickles on his neck subsided. He was mostly satisfied with her answer. A week wasn’t that long. Longer than he would like, but he could put up with the darkness for a few more days. It would take longer than that for his leg to heal, and he couldn’t really do anything until then anyway.
Valeria had been truthful, but she hadn’t revealed what she feared. Gaius had said the blindness would almost always be permanent. But God had already given the tribune one miracle by keeping him alive, so why not restore his sight, too? She would keep praying for another miracle.
His face had shown no emotion as he listened to her trying not to tell him too much. Was he just trying to cover his fear, like he had last night, or did he not suspect how serious his injury was? He was still weak from blood loss, and he needed to rest for several days before much of his strength would return. He’d find out soon enough, and the stronger he was when he did, the better he’d be able to bear it if God didn’t choose to restore his sight.
She cleared her throat, not sure exactly how to say the next thing. “There are probably some...man things that you need to do in private. When Galen comes back in, he can help you with ...whatever.”
The corner of Decimus’s mouth pulled upward. This young woman who wasn’t fazed by blood and death had girlish modesty. Her cheeks would probably be an appealing pink…if he could see them. Well, that shouldn’t be too long.
Her perception and forthright statement of his needs both amused and surprised him. Nothing much seemed to escape this woman’s attention. Why did she seem so unaware of the danger a Roman soldier posed to her family of Christians?
Her footsteps came toward him. “Since you’ll be with us for a while, we need to change your clothes. Galen can help with that, too. Yours need washing to remove the blood, and they’re too...Roman. We’ll need to fix that before anyone sees you.
“You’re taller and broader than Gaius, but he was plumper. I think some of his clothes will fit well enough for now. At least the shirts should, although the sleeves will be short. The pants will be too short, but that’s the best we can do until I make some alterations.”
Whatever she dragged from beneath the bed made a heavy scraping sound. The soft thud against the bedframe suggested a trunk. Fabric rustled as she took some clothes out of it before shoving it back under his bed.
“It would be wise to speak something other than Latin if anyone except my family might hear. Germanic is best, or Greek if you can’t do that. Rome is not loved around here, and very few speak the conqueror’s language really well. Your Latin is too polished. People come unexpectedly for my help, and rumors of a real Roman in the neighborhood might bring trouble.”
“As you wish, Valeria,” he replied in Greek. Safer if she didn’t know he mostly understood what they spoke in Germanic. “Anything else?”
Curious. Why such concern about keeping anyone who posed a threat to an injured Roman from knowing he was here? Maybe he didn’t need to worry about why she was helping him. All that really mattered was that she kept doing it until his sight and strength returned.
“Well, very few men here are clean-shaven like you were. You have a two-day growth now. You should let it keep growing. Galen or I can trim it for you when it grows out enough.”
Decimus’s laugh broke free―a deep, full-throated laugh like he’d shared with his men in the inn’s courtyard.
“You would turn me into a Greek merchant.” Despite his pain, he found the image incongruous and funny. A Lentulus as a money-grubbing Greek!
“I would keep you safe from unfriendly eyes until you’re better.”
A door hinge creaked. Galen must have returned from feeding the livestock.
Her voice turned away from him. “Stop! Do not track that mud from the cattle shed into the cottage. And we’re speaking Greek to Decimus if anyone comes by. His Latin sounds too much like a Roman.”
The door closed. Galen had probably stepped back outside to scrape his feet before entering. Another creak of the hinge, then footsteps of the boy coming to the bed.
Valeria’s voice was directed toward her brother. “Here, Decimus needs some help with these clothes and a few other things. We want to make him look le
ss Roman, just in case. Be careful of his wounds so they don’t start bleeding again. I’m going out to collect the eggs while you help him with whatever he says.”
Her footsteps moved away. The door swung on its hinges again, and she was gone.
“Planning for everything―does she always do that?” So many practical ideas for concealing his Roman identity impressed him, but were they necessary?
Galen chuckled. “She does, indeed, but it can make life really simple. I don’t have to think too much myself. Now, what do you want me to help you with?”
Decimus hadn’t expected to be so weak when Galen helped him into a sitting position. He had to place his hands out to both sides just to steady himself. Sitting up made his head throb, too. Even though she spoke as if she expected him to recover completely, he still felt terrible. He’d be in no shape to deal with any enemies for many days, maybe even a few weeks. Much longer than the week it might take for his sight to return. Looking less Roman probably was a good idea.
Galen’s hand gripped his arm to steady him more. “Don’t worry about being wobbly for a few days. It happens to everyone who loses a lot of blood, and you probably lost more than anybody Val’s ever treated before. She’ll probably let you stay mostly in bed for a few days, but she makes people get up at least some as soon as they can. Father thought people healed faster that way. So does she.
“You can lean on me to steady yourself until I get your crutch made this morning. Just don’t put any weight on your left leg yet. I’ll be in big trouble with Val if I let you tear the stitches loose and it starts bleeding again. She wouldn’t want to sew you back up when you’re conscious.”
