Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  “That’s a long story, and not worthy to be told over so fine a vintage.”

  “Appease me.”

  Jonathan sighed and stared into his wine. Torren stood on the threshold of Jonathan’s past, inviting himself in, and Jonathan wanted nothing more than to shut the door. He’d never told his story to anyone but Nessa. With her, he’d been able to leave out the work of the Lord’s hand, because she would know it without explanation. Even when God had delivered him from Hulderic. He had no desire to relive all that pain again in the retelling.

  But what if God had opened the door? Jonathan took a deep breath and a long drink of wine to prepare. “I was twelve years old the day I met my father. The same day my mother died. Instead of turning to God for comfort, I turned away. I didn’t know it then, but that was the worst mistake of my life. To this day.”

  Torren hung on Jonathan’s every word, and Jonathan missed nothing. From the slave cart bound for Capua, to finding Nessa violated, killing an innocent man, and how Caius broke him. He told of God’s voice and strength that delivered him from the Final Shadow that day in the arena. He even shared his anger at Torren for taking his coin to free Ramses, and the moment of shame and repentance at having given in to temptation with Caelina in his brokenness because of it. He left out one detail—a private conversation with Prefect Norbanus prior to leaving Rome. A small but growing group of Christians met there in the palace in secret. Torren didn’t need to know that, at least not yet. Faith in God Most High was alive and well in Rome, even in the palace of the men who claimed to be gods themselves. Jonathan finished and wet his throat with the last of his wine.

  “And now, here I sit as a testament to the never-ending love and sovereignty of the one true God.”

  Torren stared at Jonathan like he’d never seen him before, the wine in his hand all but forgotten.

  “Now that you know everything, what do you think of me?”

  A knock at the door interrupted, and Rufus stuck his head in. “It’s done, my lord.”

  Torren nodded to him, and Rufus closed the door again. “I think I am a man of coin and not words, though I’ve never been sorry for it until now.” His hand came up to rub the back of his head as he frowned. “I hope what I’m about to give you tells you in the way my words cannot that since I’ve known you, you have taught me more about what it means to be a champion than anyone I have ever known, including my father. I envy you many things, Jonathan Tarquinius. Your noble name, the love of a woman more constant than the sun, but most of all, the way you are at peace with who you are.”

  Torren had used his full name, but Jonathan couldn’t dwell on that now. “The peace of God can be yours through Jesus Christ. I can tell you how, if you wish.”

  “Another time, my friend. There is a gift I must give you first.”

  Jonathan grimaced as Torren stood and reached for a scroll on his desk. He wanted to tell Torren nothing could be more important, but instead he prayed the seeds of truth planted in the heart of his master would be watered by the Spirit of God.

  Torren held the scroll out to him. There was no seal, so it couldn’t be from the messenger he’d seen earlier. “Without you we couldn’t have delivered Rome from the tyranny of Domitian and protected the lives of all in the alliance.”

  Jonathan chose not to tell Torren that God had given him peace and purpose for his part in assassinating Domitian. To honor both God and his master, he framed his response to acknowledge them both. “My hope is that one day the men who rule Rome will also worship the one, true God. At the very least, let those of us who do, do so freely, allowed to live free of fear and persecution.”

  “I know. I believe Nerva is such a man, incorruptible by power and if he isn’t, well, he’s too old to do much damage and will be our problem, not yours. Your work is finished. For Rome, for the alliance, and for me.”

  Torren extended the scroll to him once again, smiling from ear to ear. “Your freedom, Jonathan.”

  Breath ceased as Jonathan stared at the scroll in Torren’s outstretched hand.

  “Take it.” Torren thrust the rolled scroll toward him again.

  Jonathan’s fingers trembled as he grasped the parchment. His vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He took the scroll and a deep breath—his first as a free man in eleven years.

  “You can keep the mark of our house if you wish. Once a member of this familia gladitoria, it is an honor carried to death. We also always throw a feast whenever freedom is earned. I hope you’ll stay and enjoy it with your brothers tonight.”

  “Of course.” Jonathan forced the words out, no longer trying to fight the tears in his eyes or the weight of the gratitude he felt.

  “This is also yours.” Torren placed a heavy leather bag in Jonathan’s other hand. “Enough coin for a good beginning wherever you choose to go from here. Even Germania.”

  Jonathan’s gaze flew to Torren, who stood and smiled at him. “Take it to your room and put it away before any of your brothers are tempted to pilfer while your back is turned. Especially Wolf.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” And he didn’t—to Torren or to God.

  “You’ve already said it, my friend. Every day in the way you live. Now go. Put that away, and don’t forget. Feast tonight. We must have our guest of honor present.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Torren grinned, and laughter danced in his eyes. “I’ll remember you said that. Now go.”

  Jonathan loosened the ties on the leather pouch while he walked to his chamber. The coins inside were gold aureii, and there were too many to count without pouring them all out. He planned to do that as soon as he reached his table. He’d need to buy a good donkey, and hire a guide to get him to the legion camp in Germania, after inquiring at the palace if it was still in the same location. Maybe he should also hire a guard in case he ran into robbers along the way. An ex-gladiator, who would be an expert with a sword and used to harsh conditions. God help whoever dared to stand between him and Nessa ever again.

  He opened his door, and a flash of color that didn’t belong brought his head up. The pouch fell from his grip to the stone floor and gold coins scattered everywhere.

  But he didn’t care.

  Nessa stood facing him from the center of his room. She wore a wool tunic and stola the color of new wine, held in place by a belt of beaded silver. Her dark brown hair was skillfully arranged to frame her face. Long tendrils hung near her cheeks beside that blush and smile that could only be hers. And her eyes—those deep, brown eyes met his.

  She came toward him like in his dreams. Touched his face and whispered his name. He lowered his mouth to hers, tasted the nectar of her kiss, and knew with certainty this was no dream. And that his dreams had not done justice to the love between them.

  When he felt the fire race through his veins that normally readied him for battle, he at last pulled back to look into her eyes again. “How are you here in answer to my every prayer?”

  Her mouth curved, still shiny and damp from dancing with his. With the pad of her thumb, she stroked the scar on his cheek made by Caius’ ring. “Because the Lord is faithful to all His promises and loving toward all He has made.”

  She ran her fingers through his short hair, sweeping it back in that gentle stroke of hers that owned him in a way no man ever had. “Torren Gallego sent word to Quintus under imperial escort, though I don’t know how he managed that. The scroll they carried must have been very powerful, because the General released Quintus from service. After Quintus returned from speaking with him, Quintus freed me. We traveled under praetorian escort back to Rome. I’m a slave no longer.”

  “Nor am I. Torren gave me my freedom only moments ago.” And a small fortune that still lay at their feet. Right now the coin didn’t matter. They were free. They were together. Jonathan pulled her into his arms once again and held her as tight as he could. Gratitude to God he couldn’t put into words poured from his heart in silence as he held his betrothed.
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br />   She rested her face against his chest and her hands warmed his back through the thin wool of his tunic. For a long moment he held her, savoring the feel of her in his arms, her hair brushing his skin and the heat of her breath against his heartbeat.

  Her grip on him tightened and she pressed closer to him. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d always been beautiful to him. Her spirit above all else, but seeing her attired as richly as she deserved stunned him. Her radiance would have his brothers, especially Styx, in an absolute frenzy at the feast tonight. “That my brothers will take one look at you and I’ll have to fight them all right there for your favor.”

  She raised her head and sorrow filled her eyes. Her eyes grew damp as she traced the scar on his cheek again, this time with her fingertips. “You will never have to fight for me again. I’m yours for as long as I draw breath. Even after, God willing.”

  The promise in her eyes pierced his soul. He took her face between his hands and turned her head up until her gaze was chained to his. “I would endure every moment of every day that has passed a thousand times over to be here with you now.”

  Her mouth parted and a single tear fell from the corner of her eye. “As would I.”

  His brows knit together as he remembered the atrocity she suffered at the hands of Caius because of him and his gaze fell away.

  She grasped his chin and raised it so his eyes returned to her. “As would I. Every moment.”

  Her simple words spoke of her love more than any others could. He pulled her close again, tucking her to him so his chin could rest on the crown of her head. “I’m unworthy of you.”

  “You are not.” She squeezed him tighter in her embrace. “You are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image and likeness of the living God.” She pulled back to look up at him again. “And I love you for that.”

  “And I love you.”

  “That’s good, because you promised to marry me, in case you forgot.” A mischievous smile rounded her cheeks as she pulled his mother’s carving from inside the neckline of her dress and let it hang between them.

  “I didn’t forget.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I have someone in mind to marry us, but it will require a trip to the palace. There is much I need to tell you.”

  “Yes, there is. Quintus and I spent last night at the palace, and today two praetorians traveled here with us. One of them knows you.”

  “Is his name Norbanus?”

  Her face scrunched for a long moment. “I can’t remember his name. Ever since joining the legion, I’ve been terrible with names. There were too many.”

  “Does he look like an older, thinner Quintus, with black and silver hair under his helmet?”

  Her eyes widened. “He does! I can’t believe I didn’t see that right away.”

  Lord, you are too good to me. “He’s the man I wanted to marry us. But it seems God already knew that and how hard it would be for me to wait even a single day.” Jonathan laughed as he watched that blush he loved color her face as deep as her stola. “I’m sure Torren won’t mind if we make my celebration tonight a wedding feast. If you don’t.”

  She answered him with another kiss, and Jonathan lost himself in the love of the woman in his arms and the God who’d given him back a life far richer than the one stolen from him all those years ago.

  Chapter 41 – Surrender

  Jonathan shut the door to his room—their room—and tried to temper the anxiety coursing through him as if he were about to enter the arena.

  “I think I ate too much.” Nessa clutched her stomach with both hands and smiled. “I can’t remember the last time I saw so much food in one place that wasn’t for a legion.”

  Jonathan pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “I was too busy admiring my new wife to notice any food.”

  “That’s not what the garum smell on your tongue says.” Nessa chuckled, her laughter making her vibrate in his arms. “But I don’t mind.” Her gaze traveled the short distance from his eyes to his mouth. The smile fell from her face, replaced not by sadness, but a different kind of hunger.

  He swallowed. “I know it’s been a long day for you, but I’d like nothing more than to feel you beside me until morning.” Her expression remained unchanged. He’d been hoping for relief, prepared for hesitation, but something to help steer him. He wanted her, but didn’t want to rush her either, especially since it would be her first time since him.

  “I’d like that, very much.” She pulled away and moved toward the table, presumably to dim the lamps.

  He approached his bed—their bed. His fingers trembled as he unbuckled his belt and hung it on the hook like always. It would have been easier to sit to take his sandals off but the thought of turning around and facing her terrified him. He kept his tunic on, thinking she would feel more comfortable that way.

  “Jonathan.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. For a second he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

  She wore nothing but lamplight. The beauty of her body in full view staggered him. The creamy glint of her skin was alabaster perfection—unblemished, unmarred, and beginning to blush as deep as her face. When his lungs finally remembered to breathe, his intake of breath was so swift it made an audible gasp. The flawlessness of her body made him keenly aware of every battle scar on his own. He swallowed against the fear rising inside him at the obvious inequity of their forms. She was Eve in the garden. He was unfit to even gaze upon her and looked away.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  He looked up to try to explain, but she’d turned her back to him and reached for her discarded garment. He reached her in three strides, taking hold of her elbow gently. “Don’t be.” He tugged her lightly and she turned to face him again, keeping her eyes at her feet. “Nessa, look at me. Please.” He fought the urge to tip her chin up. She was his wife now, and even before she was, he would never have forced her to do anything. Ever. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld. It makes me afraid.”

  Her eyes slowly rose and the look of uncertainty in their brown depths pierced him like a spear. “Of me?”

  “No,” he whispered, reaching to touch her face. “No, of course not.”

  She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Then what are you afraid of?”

  He could feel his own face flushing and he bit his lower lip, trying to summon the courage to tell her the truth. He licked his lips, stared at the dip below her throat instead of her face. “Of not knowing how to please you. And my scars, they—I don’t…” His throat closed and his breathing deepened.

  Her hands moved from his back to his neck, tugging his head down to her shoulder. He closed his eyes as she cradled his head against her. The pad of her thumb traced the raised ridge on his cheekbone near his eye and she whispered in his ear, “Your scars are my scars.”

  She moved to kiss the skin her thumb had caressed. She pushed him away gently at the shoulders and before he could meet her eyes, she leaned up to kiss another on his shoulder.

  “Your scars are beautiful. They are a part of you, just as I am.” Her hands began to gather the fabric of his tunic with purpose. “Raise your arms,” she commanded.

  He did, and she slipped the cloth over his head in a deft motion and let it fall to the stone floor. Standing before her in only his cloth, her gaze traveled over him. Fear made his heart race. She had yet to see his back, what they’d done to him in her absence. He’d never seen them, the scars from the scourging, but he knew they were there. She caressed his shoulder as she moved past him and he held his breath.

  Her gasp reached the far walls as her fingertips traced the skin of his back. He hung his head and closed his eyes.

  “Did Torren do this?”

  “No.”

  Her arms encircled him, her cheek resting against his backbone. “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” He gripped her arms held around his s
tomach.

  “I wish I’d been there to care for you.”

  “You were. More than you know.” He turned to face her, saddened at the tears in her eyes. “I hope in time the sight of them isn’t as hard to bear.”

  Nessa grasped his head between her hands and locked her eyes with his. “Listen to me. My tears are for the pain you suffered. No other reason. You are a treasure. Your body is a treasure, and made perfect in my love for you. I meant what I said. Your scars are beautiful. As are you. Inside, and out.”

  She pulled him down to her and kissed him again. Soon her hands played over his back, from neck to waist, her palms traveled every length of his scars while she kissed him until he could no longer stand under the cleansing tide of her acceptance. He pulled his lips from hers and she released him and moved toward the bed.

  “Come lay with me,” she said, her voice calm and assured.

  He was neither calm, nor assured, but his love and desire propelled him forward. He’d never wanted to surrender more in his life than to his wife in their marriage bed.

  Jonathan traced the line of Nessa’s spine, up and down, ever so slowly, while she slept securely in the crook of his body. The steady rhythm of her breath on his skin had him wondering how he’d ever survived being apart from her.

  “Are you cold?” she asked.

  His hand stilled on her back. “You’re awake.”

  “Yes.” Her head rolled so that her chin rested on his chest and those fur brown eyes he adored peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “Are you cold?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No. Every few minutes you tremble, as if you were cold. I want you to be comfortable.”

  “You always take care of me, don’t you?” Jonathan moved his hand from her back to her head, admiring the way her hair was a tangled mess from their passion.