Remnant of the Fall

by Beth Shriver

  Crouching down he peered through the key hole into the dark room. Only the glow of the moon shed any light, but not enough to make out anything significant. A shuffling noise caught his attention as he leaned back against the door. He rushed down under the small staircase and waited.

  The woman took each step slowly, as the stairs were steep. She turned to the final four steps leading to the small door then stopped. Marcus’s bent body went still in his hiding place. He held his breath and willed her to take the last few steps and open the door.

  Her breathing was quick, and he could see her pinched grip on the railing as she labored herself to the top step. Pulling out a key, she slipped it into the lock and stepped inside. Marcus exhaled and pulled himself from the cumbersome hiding place. He waited until she shut the door and then stepped to the keyhole again to watch. She stood with her back to him, clay pitcher in hand, and poured water into a bowl.

  Turning the handle, he opened the door with ease until a creak in the hinge made him pause. The noise did not alert the woman, who didn’t hear it over the splash of water as she wrung out a cloth. He slipped through the door, shut it gently, and then slipped into a closet and let the drape fall over him.

  She stopped and stared behind her scanning the room with dark eyes but went back to her duties.

  Glancing behind him, Marcus saw dressings of cloth and medicines made from roots and special herbs. He buried himself deep into the back of the closet, hoping he was hidden well enough and she would stop short of his hiding place if needing supplies.

  As he waited, he wondered if the old man’s health had plummeted since his last visit. He did not remember needing so many remedies and supplies.

  Marcus’s calls here had become more frequent since Maximus’s power had decreased and his need for wine increased.

  Marcus needed this man’s wisdom. Their armies were unstoppable, but Maximus suffered such instability that Marcus felt sure the armies would falter if he remained in power.

  Remembering back to his first conversation with the old man, he came to realize the possibility of overpowering the weak ruler.

  ****

  On his way to dine that evening, Marcus had passed the palace nurse carrying supplies. Her dark face barely visible under a heavy scarf, she walked with a quick step that made him curious about what could cause such urgency. He followed her until she came upon a staircase he had never seen, hidden at the dark end of a hallway and covered by a huge tapestry. She quickly ducked and lifted the wall-hanging and started up the stairs. He was close behind, stopping only when she did at the bottom of a flight of four stairs after a slight turn. He heard the click of a lock being opened and the squeak of a door.

  Waiting a few minutes, he made his way to the door and peering in, saw her standing with her back to him giving a sponge bath to a bedridden man. It was not until she moved to take the bowl away that he saw the man’s face—Claudius, father of Maximus. Marcus’s heart stopped as he pushed himself against the outer side of the door. He waited for the opportune moment then moved inside the room and into a closet covered with a curtain, and then waited for the nurse to finish.

  Once she had gone, Marcus approached Claudius, kneeling before him. Marcus was overwhelmed and spoke without thought.

  “Claudius, you are still alive.” He felt he would burst from confusion and anger. His mind reeled with the possibilities, and he came up with only one—Maximus. To see his true ruler this way dismayed him. This was the man who had blown Marcus’s embers into flames for the rebellion, whose words had driven him to the position he now claimed as general of the vast army that had been built from nothing decades ago.

  “I must take you from this place.”

  “Marcus.” Claudius laid a shaky hand on Marcus’s shoulder to quiet him. “No, then we would both be killed. I am just glad to have been found. So someone will know the truth before I die.” His hand dropped weakly down beside his frail body.

  Marcus felt frustration and a sense of helplessness build and shamed himself for it. “The people must know. How could this happen?” But he knew how, and the more he digested the situation the more it made sense to him, and he calmed his nerves. Claudius was the one unjustly being held within these four walls, but Marcus was the one distraught.

  “We should work this to our advantage, Marcus. All in power now are young. You need the wisdom of my years to keep the many people under Maximus’s command willing to keep the rebellion alive. Listen and learn from me.” He asked for water in a raspy voice. Marcus filled a cup and handed it to him. He drank and talked, and then drank and talked still more.

  His words confused Marcus and made him feel traitorous, but discipline, reverence…something made him continue to listen, and his eyes were slowly opened.

  “Half a century has passed since my father began to persecute the Israelites and their religion. The Romans, having the desire to gain control over this country, rose up. We have not been defeated for many decades and will not relent. We have grown in numbers and since your father’s day, young Marcus, and have seen many victories.” He paused and swallowed hard. “But now, with Maximus as their leader, they grow restless, questioning his lack of experience. They know he took the dictatorship before even knowing battle, not to mention politics. He now has unwilling men, forced to fight or be executed. It is no longer about taking over all the land. It is about keeping what we have gained.”

  Had Claudius gone mad? It was if he had another mind in his own body. “But with our numbers so great, this is the time to wage war. No matter the desire of the people. They will live to serve in whatever way their ruler deems.”

  Claudius sighed, not with frustration, but sadness. His faded eyes grew moist as he looked through Marcus. “Must we have mutiny within our own walls to make you understand? Maximus does not inspire the people. Our soldiers are not fighting from their hearts.”

  Biting back his resentful frustration out of respect, Marcus kept his voice even as he answered. “We have come too far not to fight for complete control.”

  Claudius let out a rough chuckle. “Your words are my own when I was your age. And if Maximus was not in power, yes. But there is a season for everything, Marcus. We can control people of this land, but we cannot control their faith, their beliefs, and that is where the heart lies.”

  Marcus refused to see this kind of reasoning. It went against everything he had worked for and believed in, everything Claudius had believed in. He would not give up the fight for this territory. The one point that interested and concerned him most was Maximus. He was the weakness of the rebellion.

  “Season?” Marcus made his reluctance known as he lowered his tone and said the word.

  “Yes, a season for every endeavor under heaven, as told to me by a man from the island of Malta.”

  Marcus had heard of this man who told stories of his crucified leader. “When did you see such a man?”

  “On our way to Rome. There was a terrible storm, and we were forced to stay at this island until the storm subsided. This man had just come from Rome and was filled with a zeal I had never seen before. One couldn’t help but listen, even if you didn’t agree, which I didn’t at the time.”

  Marcus scoffed. “I think you have become delirious during your time in this tiny room.”

  “Maybe so.” Claudius waved a trembling hand at Marcus as if to dismiss what he had just said. “I know you see Maximus failing. But he is still the one to whom you must profess your loyalty, serve, and endorse. We still need to fight and win the long battle that has been fought by our fathers and forefathers.”

  Surrendering to fatigue, Claudius shut his eyes. “That is, unless you feel you could rule better in his stead.” His eyelids fluttered, but he did not open them again.

  The last of his words knotted Marcus’s mind with thoughts he dared not untangle. Marcus realized he could not win this war of words, and so he let the elder rest but promised to return, and he did. Marcus took every opportunity to listen
to Claudius and learn. What the people needed was a strong ruler, one who could lead armies and had a quick mind—one such as himself.

  ****

  Coming back to the present, Marcus realized how long he had reminisced and grew tired of the wait. This time he would get the key. He could not keep waiting on the timing of the woman to see his mentor again. Claudius’s health had obviously taken a turn for the worse, and Marcus needed answers that only he could provide.

  Marcus listened as the nurse bathed Claudius and then she popped her head through the curtain, reaching for a cloth and bottle of medicine. He shrank back and sucked in air. Her eyes never lifted, and she was back by the bedside before Marcus took another breath.

  This was too risky. If she got word to Maximus, he would purge Marcus and replace him with Anthony, a man weaker than Maximus himself. He sat still and waited, until he heard nothing, then he lifted the curtain. The old woman slept in a chair by the window, the key outlined in the pocket of her apron. He stepped close to her, treading lightly, until he reached her, and slid a hand into the pocket. As he began to pull the key out, she opened her eyes. They widened, and her mouth opened to scream. He put a hand to her mouth.

  “Old woman, if you make even an utterance of noise, I will crush you. And if you speak of this after tonight, I will have you killed.” Her eyes moist and body still, she furrowed her brow, and then froze.

  “Do you hear me?” He pushed harder on her mouth and face, staring with dark, hard eyes. She could barely move enough to nod her submission. A tear streaked down her cheek as her body shook.

  “Yes, you should fear me. For if you do not, it will be your life.” He pushed his hand away, pushing her back into the chair. She sobbed quietly and hid her face from him.

  Slipping the key in his belt pouch, he pierced her with a cold stare before walking over to Claudius. He took slow steps to reach him, staring at the emaciated skeleton of a man lying flat on his back. His chest barely moved as he struggled to take in air through his pale, dry lips.

  “This was not the man I saw less than a week ago,” Marcus said aloud as his thoughts jumped about in his mind trying to piece together the reason for Claudius’s condition. He reached for the unlabeled bottle of medicine the nurse had administered, popped off the cork, and smelled nothing he could recognize. Licking his finger, he dabbed a bit and tasted. Poison. Slow, but sure to take a life, unlike gar visha, which rushed quickly to the heart.

  What man would want him dead? No other than Maximus. But had he become that evil? Evil enough to want his own father dead?

  Anger consuming him, Marcus slammed his fist into the door. The nurse’s muffled scream did not distract him as he stood watching the wooden door bang against the stone wall. He still needed Claudius. This was not done. The army would set out come daylight, and he needed more information.

  Marcus watched the woman sink into the chair, holding the ends of her scarf to her face. Hands quivering, she moaned and shook her head as he neared.

  “Give me something to counteract the poison.” She trembled and began to sob. Realizing he would not accomplish anything with her in this state, he sat and looked away from her. He had no patience for weakness. Even a hint of it made him cold.

  “Where is it?” He kept his eyes averted as she slowly stood and walked to the closet. He heard the tinkling of the glass bottles followed by her footsteps scuffling toward him. She held out a bottle to him in shaking hands. When he took it, she pulled her hand away too soon, dropping it between them. The crash of glass splintered his ears. He grabbed her and threw her into the chair. Raking his fingers through his dark hair, he stared into her eyes until she closed them.

  “Clean it up, and give it to him. If I do not see improvement in him, you will suffer at my hand until he recovers.” He reached down and put a pinch of the spilled herbs into his belt pouch and walked to the door, shut it, and locked it behind him.

  Chapter Five

  Enan woke the next morning with every intention of speaking to Tirzah’s parents, but when his eyes opened to see the morning sun, his stomach jelled. Then he remembered Abraham’s words from last night—all show. Never one to back down from a challenge, he scrambled out of bed and was out the door before he could stop himself.

  Tirzah’s parents, Andrew and Martha, were prominent people in the village. Andrew made a decent living as the only physician within miles of their village. Martha was involved in the village affairs, from the annual festival to groups of women who helped organize lessons for the children. They were temple sponsors helping with the special needs of the community, which now were to prepare for the possibility of war. The women stored food, blankets, and water in specially-prepared underground store rooms.

  As he approached Tirzah’s home he prayed. “God, why is it when I fight, I ask for protection, and with this I ask for courage?”

  Enan knocked on the door and waited as he heard faint footsteps approaching. As Martha opened the door, her eyebrows arched and face froze.

  “Good morning, Martha. You look well.”

  “Come in, Enan,” Martha instructed with a tight smile. He stepped onto the mosaic floor and into the foyer. Great urns were placed throughout, and curtains hanging from large windows swayed in the breeze. They walked to the courtyard which Martha had decorated with a profusion of colorful flowers.

  She stopped and intertwined her fingers together, letting them drop in front of her. “We haven’t seen you for some time now.” She looked him up and down, assessing him. “You can join Andrew in the pergola.”

  Enan understood Martha’s protectiveness of her only girl and had learned from Tirzah not to take her behavior toward him personally. This morning, he would have to make sure he didn’t. “I’m glad Andrew is still here. I thought he would be working already.”

  “He has been called out and will have to leave soon, so you should go to him.” Dismissing him thus, she walked back to the kitchen.

  Andrew glanced up from his writing and gave Enan a smile. He stood, and they clasped hands in greeting. “Welcome home, young man.”

  Enan took a seat at the stone table, and the two men talked about the town’s happenings since he had been gone. Then they discussed the possible conflict.

  “I hear the elders have met and talk of Zayin becoming involved in hiding Josiah. Is this true?” Enan asked. He felt Andrew was his most reliable source of accurate information and listened in the hope it was not true, for the sake of Zayin.

  Andrew was slow to answer, choosing his words. “Not a living generation has gone by without a battle for our lives or our religion. Our generation will be no different.”

  Enan let the information churn through his mind as he answered, “I am ready to fight for Josiah, but not in my home. The villages in the hill country are difficult to attack and too small for many spoils. What would be their bounty other than Josiah himself?” Enan knew Andrew could not openly tell him of Josiah’s whereabouts but hoped for any information he could give.

  “Every small community will know bloodshed before this is over. It is our heritage and our future.” His sad eyes narrowed before he continued, “And the bounty is great. Great enough for you to fight with all your heart, Enan.” Andrew stopped and averted his eyes, and Enan understood Josiah was in danger. “The people have been free in northern Palestine to believe in the one true God. Roman’s rule would destroy that freedom.” He leaned forward and stared into Enan’s eyes. “You have honed your skill, Enan, and I admire each and every warrior who fights for Josiah and his people to continue to have that freedom.”

  Enan nodded. He trusted and believed this man. Filled with concern for his home and the knowledge of his country’s need, he responded, “It is my honor to fight.”

  Martha entered the courtyard and handed Enan a cup of steaming tea. “Tirzah must still be resting,” she informed him, gazing from one man to the other.

  “No, not yet, Martha.” Leaning back into his chair, Andrew’s face drained as l
ines of worry crossed his forehead. Enan hesitated at the observation. His duty now was to his people. Bringing up his plans with Tirzah after such serious talk of upheaval did not seem prudent.

  Tirzah appeared out of nowhere, and everyone stared at her in surprise. She looked at them bemused as her eyes widened. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, we were just talking with Enan while we were waiting for you.” Martha glanced up at her daughter and then to Enan. He felt sure Martha knew of his intentions and wondered if Andrew did as well.

  Tirzah leaned over, about to give Enan a kiss on the forehead, and stopped, feeling her mother’s disapproving glare. “This is a nice surprise. I didn’t know when to expect you. Have you eaten?” Tirzah took two plates and filled them with food from the platters at the end of the table.

  “You will have to excuse me. I promised to be early this morning.” Martha gave Enan a practiced smile as she tidied up the table.

  “I will walk with you to the temple.” Andrew rolled his parchment and placed it in a box with the others. Martha nodded as she gathered their cups.

  Andrew glanced at Enan, remembering his last words. “We’re glad you’re home, Enan.”

  Enan avoided Martha’s stare but felt it all the same. Duty-held, Enan thought of what was before him and kept his eyes downcast. He stared at his sandaled foot tapping on the floor and then looked up at Andrew.

  “It was good to speak with you, Andrew.”

  “Yes. We’ll talk more when we have more time. It was good to see you, Enan.” He put his hand on Enan’s shoulder, kissed his daughter on the cheek, and left with Martha.

  Tirzah watched her parents leave together. She hesitated then stared at Enan. “So, what did you and my parents talk about?” She studied Enan as she put a plate in front of him.

  Enan sat staring at his favorite food—wheat bran and fresh fruit—with an ache in his belly from hunger, but was unable to bring himself to eat.