“I remember.”
“Each piece is another name for our Lord. Christ is our armor. He encloses us in his protection. Remember the things you’ve been taught. Renew your mind in Christ.”
“I know in my mind and still I struggle.” She rose, moving away again. “You know how difficult my own life was before I met Shimei and he brought me to you. What you don’t realize is Shimei had to constantly turn me back onto the path. He was so strong in his faith. Even when he was dying, he didn’t question God.” Her eyes burned with tears. “I’m not like him. I’m not like you. I lived so long in the streets and fought so hard for survival, it’s ingrained in me to go on doing the same thing.”
“Christ has made you a new creation.”
She laughed sadly. “Then perhaps salvation didn’t take because I’m the same stubborn, stiff-necked girl without a home who was stealing food in the marketplace, hiding from the gangs, and sleeping in doorways. Atretes reminds me of those days. He makes me want to fight back.” She turned away. “I thought I’d changed, John, and then I find myself with a man like him and the old me is resurrected. I’m not worthy to be called a Christian.”
He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “None of us is worthy, Rizpah. It’s by God’s grace we’re saved and given an inheritance in heaven, and not through any righteousness of our own. You are a Christian. Your belief in Jesus makes you so.”
She gave him a bleak smile. “Would that I were a better one.”
His eyes warmed. “A commonly held goal.” He took her hand in both of his. “I’m confident that he who began a good work in you will perfect it.”
Cleopas entered the room again, a fussing Caleb in his arms. “He wants his mother,” he said, looking harried.
Laughing, she took the baby and kissed him. “He’s hungry, and there’s not much you can do about that.” Cleopas showed her into a small alcove where she could be alone to nurse her son. As she did so, she thought of all the things John had said to her and felt peaceful. God knew what he was doing.
Forgive my doubting heart, Lord. Put a right spirit within me. Let me see Atretes through your eyes and not through the eyes of my old self. And if it be your will for us to go to Germania, well, I don’t like it, Lord, but I’ll go.
Nourished and bundled in soft, warm linen, Caleb slept contentedly as she rejoined John and Cleopas in the triclinium.
“Cleopas tells me I had visitors earlier this evening, before you arrived,” John told her. “It would seem Atretes isn’t the only one wanting to leave Ephesus.”
8
Atretes stood on his balcony looking down the road toward the terebinth tree. He hadn’t slept much the night before for thinking about Rizpah and his son. As soon as she had left, he had come here and watched her walk along the dusty road toward the city. One of the men sitting in the shadows of the terebinth tree had watched, risen, and followed.
“I’ve been followed before, Atretes. I know how to hide.”
Those words filled him with unease and raised questions within him. Who had followed her and why? From what or whom had she been hiding?
He had almost gone after her then, but thought better of it. Now he wondered if he had made a mistake after all. What if she didn’t come back? Could he find her? Or would her Christian friends secret her out of Ephesus?
One day had passed. He worked out ways in his mind to enter the city and look for her. He would start by finding and questioning the apostle.
“I know how to hide.”
He ground his teeth in frustration, wishing he hadn’t trusted her. She had his son and he didn’t know where to find her. She had said she was going to the apostle, but that didn’t mean that was where she had gone.
“I’ll send word. I promise, on my life.”
And like a fool, he had let her go. He had let her walk out of the villa with his son. His son.
Hadn’t he trusted Julia all the while his gut instinct had told him what she was the day he had met her in the Artemision. He had gone to her anyway, allowing lust to burn away reason. He had handed her his heart on a platter, and she’d carved it up and devoured it.
And now this cursed woman comes into his life with her beautiful brown eyes and luscious curves, and what does he do? He hands over his son to her. He places his freedom in her hands. He hands over to her the means to destroy him.
Cursing, he turned away from the balcony railing. Struggling to gain control of his riotous emotions, he reentered his bedchamber. He went to the marble table against the wall and sloshed wine into a silver goblet. Draining it, he poured more.
When the pitcher was empty, he held the goblet. Mouth twisting, he stared morosely at the figures of wood nymphs being pursued by satyrs. Julia would have liked it. It would’ve appealed to her sense of carnal adventure.
“I’ll do anything for you, Atretes. Anything.”
Clenching his teeth, he squeezed until the goblet was misshapen. “Then you can die, witch. Die for me,” he said through his teeth and dropped the twisted goblet on the tray.
Stretching out on his bed, he stared at the ceiling. It pressed down on him. He felt the walls closing in. The voices came again, voices of the men he had killed. Groaning, he rose. Dragging several furs off the bed, he went out of the room. Lagos appeared at the foot of the stairs, ever ready to be at his command. Atretes went past him without a word, striding along the inner corridor. There was no sound but the echo of his own footsteps. He went through the baths to the back of the villa. It was cold outside, a wind blowing in from the north. He strode across the yard to the heavy door in the back wall.
“All’s well, my lord,” Silus said. Ignoring him, Atretes flipped up the bar, yanked open the heavy door and went out.
Lagos followed, disturbed. “Did the master say how long he was going to be gone?”
“No, and I didn’t ask.”
“Perhaps someone should follow.”
“If you’re suggesting that someone be me, forget it. Did you see the look on his face? The gate will stay open. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
Gallus approached from the darkness. “Atretes left again?”
“He’s probably heading for that cave again,” Silus said.
Gallus went outside the gate. Lagos saw him signal someone and then come back inside.
Troubled, Lagos said nothing.
* * *
Atretes breathed easier with the night-shadowed hills around him. When he reached the knoll beyond and above the villa, he squatted on his heels and drew the furs around him. Here, beneath the expanse of the starry heavens, he felt closer to freedom. No walls to close him in. No one watching him. He could smell the earth and it smelled good. Not as good as the forests of Germania, but far better than the confines of a ludus or even a luxurious villa.
Releasing his breath slowly, Atretes lowered his head to his knees. The wine was beginning to take effect. He felt a flush of warmth and light-headedness, but knew he hadn’t drunk enough to accomplish what he wanted. Oblivion. He wished he had thought to bring another wineskin with him so he could get so drunk he’d forget everything, even who he was.
He’d give everything he owned for one night of dreamless sleep and a sense of well-being in the morning. He gave a bleak laugh that sounded hollow in the darkness. Everything he had wouldn’t be enough to undo the past, to give life back to those he had killed, to wipe away the grim memories and his own foul guilt. He was twenty-eight years old. He had been eight when his father had begun training him for combat. It seemed since that time combat consumed his thoughts, his actions, his very being. His talent lay in taking life. Swiftly. Brutally. Without remorse.
His mouth curved bitterly. Without remorse?
He had felt no remorse when killing warriors from other tribes who had dared enter Chatti boundaries. He had felt no remorse when killing Romans who had invaded his homeland. He had felt triumph when he had killed Tharacus, the first lanista at the ludus
in Capua where he had been brought in chains.
But the others? He could still see their faces. He couldn’t forget Caleb, the Jew, kneeling before him, head tilted back. Nor could he obliterate the face of the Chatti clansman he had killed during his last battle in Rome. The boy’s words still reverberated in his mind. “You look Roman, you smell Roman . . . you are Roman!” What had it felt like to be a child running free in the woods? He couldn’t remember. He tried to remember what his young wife, Ania, had looked like and couldn’t. She had been dead more than ten years now, a faint memory of a life that no longer existed, if it ever really had. Perhaps he had dreamed those happier times, a trick of his imagination.
He closed his eyes tightly and felt the darkness close in around him.
“Out of the depths I have cried to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice!”
The words came back unbidden, fleeting, springing from his anguish. Where had he heard them before? Who had said them?
Soft light filled him as he remembered Hadassah standing in the opening of a cave. He wished she was here with him, that he could talk with her, but she was dead by now. Another casualty of Rome.
“Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him,” she had said of her god the last time he saw her. She had been in the dungeon beneath the arena, awaiting her own death. “God is merciful.”
He looked up at the night sky and other words came back to him in a soft whisper.
“The heavens tell of the glory of God, and their expanse declares the work of his hands.”
He buried his head in his hands again, trying to press the words away. Hadassah was another of his burdens, another whose life had slipped through his hands. If her god had such power, if he were really the “one true God” as she and Rizpah claimed, why had he allowed Hadassah to die? No god worth following would allow such a faithful follower to be destroyed! But the fact that Hadassah’s god had let her down didn’t bother Atretes so much as the fact that he had let her down as well. Hadassah had saved his son, and he had let her die. Had he stayed he couldn’t have saved her, he knew that—but he could have stood beside her and died with her. That would have been honorable. That would have been right.
Instead, he had chosen to live in order to find his son.
And then he had let him go again.
Atretes closed his eyes and lay back against the cold ground. “One more day, Rizpah, and then I’m coming after you,” he said into the stillness. “One more day, and you die.”
9
John sent Cleopas and another young man to bring those who had come earlier, seeking advice about leaving the city. Within a few hours, the apostle’s house was crowded with men, women, and children. Of those who arrived with their families, Rizpah knew only Parmenas, the beltmaker.
Parmenas arrived with his wife, Eunice, and their three children, Antonia, Capeo, and Philomen. The beltmaker owned his own shop in which he displayed the cingula for which he was best known. These elaborate belts made for members of the Roman army served as badges of office. The apron of decorated leather strips protected the soldier’s groin in battle and, when the soldiers marched, made such a horrific sound as to spread terror through most adversaries.
John introduced others as they arrived. Timon, who bore the marks of a savage beating, was a fresco painter who had run into difficulty when he had been summoned by a priest of the Artemision and been commanded to paint a fresco honoring Artemis.
“I refused. When he demanded a reason, I told him my conscience forbade me creating anything honoring a pagan goddess. He was less than pleased with my answer.”
His wife, Porcia, held their children close, looking distressed and fearful. “Some men came into our home last night and destroyed everything.”
“They made my mother cry,” one of the boys said, his dark eyes on fire. “I’d like to make them cry.”
“Hush, Peter,” Porcia said. “The Lord would have us forgive our enemies.”
The boy looked mutinous, as did his younger brother Barna- bas, while little Mary and Benjamin clung to their mother’s sides.
Prochorus was a baker, and with him were his wife, Rhoda, and his sister Camella with her daughter Lysia. The man looked harassed, less by persecution for his faith than by the two women who stood on either side of him. Neither looked at the other. Lysia was the only member of the family who looked serene.
Four young men arrived, having heard from others that a band of Christians were leaving Ephesus. Bartimaeus, Niger, Tibullus, and Agabus, all not yet twenty, had already received the blessings of their families to go out into the world and spread the gospel. “There are voices enough here,” Niger said. “But what of Gaul or Britannia?”
“We want to spread the good news to those who haven’t heard it yet,” Agabus said.
The last man to arrive was Mnason. Rizpah was immediately impressed by his manner of speech.
Eunice leaned close. “He’s a well-known hypocrite,” she said in a whisper and smiled. Rizpah noted the way her eyes shone as she spoke. Apparently the woman was quite pleased at the prospect of being in the company of a renowned actor. “He’s called frequently to perform readings before the proconsul and other Roman officials. Isn’t he handsome?”
“Yes, he is,” Rizpah agreed, though she thought him somewhat affected. Mnason was a man of obvious dignity and polish, his voice proclaiming careful training and deliberation. He drew attention and was comfortable with it, almost expecting it. “Mnason recited one of King David’s psalms to guests of the city clerk who’d gathered for a feast the night before the Plebeian Games,” Eunice said softly, lifting little Antonia onto her lap.
“Which song did he recite?”
“Psalm two. ‘Worship God with reverence, and rejoice with trembling. Do homage to the son.’ At first, the guests thought Mnason was giving honor to their newly deified emperor, Vespasian, and his son Titus, now our illustrious caesar. Others suspected otherwise. Someone demanded an explanation, but Mnason said his courage failed him at that point. He told them the writer had been inspired of God, but that he did not know which god and the meaning was for each man and woman present to discern for themselves. ‘If you have ears to hear, you will hear,’ he said. Most of the guests thought it a riddle then and made a game of guessing. There were some who were not amused.”
Porcia joined them. “I don’t think Mnason should go with us. He’ll draw attention to us.”
Rizpah thought Mnason would draw far less attention than Atretes. The German would overshadow Mnason in an instant. Atretes wouldn’t even have to open his mouth or utter a word. His physical beauty was enough to command attention and his fierce charisma fascinated.
“The only ship taking on passengers is one from Alexandria,” Cleopas said. “It’s scheduled to leave in two days, weather permitting.”
“What’s its destination?” John said.
“Rome.”
“Rome!” Prochorus said in dismay.
“Have you ever heard Mnason recite?” Eunice asked Rizpah.
“No, I haven’t,” she said, wishing the woman would pay more attention to her two sons, Capeo and Philomen, who were arguing over a toy, and leave her alone to hear what the men were saying.
“The Lord blessed him with a remarkable voice and memory,” Eunice said, oblivious to her sons’ squabblings, her eyes fixed in admiration on Mnason. “When he became a Christian, he was hungry to learn as much Scripture as he could, and he did. He can recite over a hundred psalms and he knows Paul’s letter to our church in its entirety. When he’s reciting, I feel as though I’m hearing God’s voice.”
“I’ve heard the persecution is worse there,” Parmenas was saying.
“Are we going to Rome, Mama?” Antonia said, confused and frightened by the heightened emotions of the adults in the room. Eunice kissed her cheek. “Wherever we go, the Lord will go with us,” she said, smoothing the child’s hair back.
“How can we go to Rome?” Porcia said, her face pale and strained. �
�Who will protect us?”
“The Lord will protect us,” Mnason said, having overheard her remark.
“As he’s protected us here?” Porcia said, her eyes filling with tears. “As he protected Stachys and Amplias? As he protected Junia and Persis? As he protected Hadassah?” she pressed, listing fellow Christians who had been sentenced to death in the arena.
“Hush, Porcia,” Timon said, embarrassed by her outburst.
She wouldn’t be hushed. “You’ve been beaten, Timon. Everything we’ve worked for has been destroyed. Our lives have been threatened, our children tormented. And now we’re to go to Rome where they make Christians into torches to light the arena for their games? I’d rather go into the wilderness and starve.”
Little Mary began to cry. “I don’t want to starve.”
“You’re upsetting the children, Porcia.”
She drew the two little ones close. “What of our children, Timon? Mary and Benjamin are too young to even understand what it means to believe in Jesus as Lord. What happens if—”
“Enough!” Timon commanded, and she fell silent, her mouth working as she fought her tears.
Rizpah put her hand over Porcia’s and squeezed. She understood the woman’s fears very well, for Caleb was her own primary concern. Hadn’t she come here to John in an effort to find a way of protecting Caleb from being used by Sertes? She wanted Caleb to grow up strong in the Lord and not in captivity as a pawn used against his father. If Atretes or Sertes took him from her, he would never have the opportunity to know the Lord.
O God, show us a way to bring our children out of this. What would it be like to live in a place where one could worship freely without fear? What would it be like to see buildings rise to the glory of God rather than to some empty pagan idol? Rome tolerated every religion conceived by man and denied the very living God who had created her and the world in which her inhabitants lived. Rizpah closed her eyes.
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