Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  Rachel’s thoughts began to turn back to those days—and as always she cut them off. She gazed calmly back at him.

  “I know that you have loved us, Rachel, but you have not been happy here. You seem better when you’re with Simon and Daphne, but even then—well, we have discussed it many times. They say that you have never been the same since…it happened.”

  She lowered her head. Of course she wasn’t the same! Who would be? First, her mother had been murdered by Caligula, and then her father had given his life so that she, Rachel, could save her own. She hadn’t wanted to be saved; she had wanted to stay with her father, and die with him—but her father’s friends, Simon and Daphne, had taken her with them and escaped from Rome.

  Lazarus sighed. “I promised your mother and father years ago that I would take care of you, Rachel, if anything happened to them. You know this. Judith and I have loved you as if you were our own. And to my sister, you were the daughter she never had.”

  Rachel’s brow furrowed. She wouldn’t think of Martha, either.

  “But the time has come, my dear, that your life must change yet again.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her head lifting swiftly.

  “I—am getting old.” He smiled at her and walked around his desk. “And you, Rachel, are far past a marriageable age. In a month or so you will be eighteen years old.”

  Rachel drew a deep breath. “Sir, we have spoken of this before, and I’ve told you my feelings.”

  “I respect your feelings, Rachel, but I must do what is best for you.”

  She stared at him, desperation rising in her chest, clotting in her throat…

  “I admit I’ve never understood your objections. But, dear, it is time for you to marry.”

  “My mother—” Rachel moistened her dry lips. It was so hard to speak of her. “My mother promised me that my opinion would be considered.”

  “I would not arrange a betrothal with any man I thought you could not be happy with, Rachel. This is a friend of mine who has seen you in Jerusalem, and knows who you are. He has asked to marry you.”

  “How can this be? How can he know me if I do not know him? I have met no man in Jerusalem!”

  “His name is Benjamin. He’s a physician, like your grandfather was—and like him, Benjamin is successful and sought after. And he is a believer.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, Rachel blurted, “I don’t care! It doesn’t matter. Sir, I am very grateful for what you and Judith have done for me. I love you both, and little Samuel, with all my heart! But—if you don’t wish me to live here any longer, I can go and live with Simon and Daphne.”

  He said mildly, “Of course we want you to stay here. But as I told you, I am growing old—and Simon is almost as old as I am. We have discussed this together. We must know that you are properly cared for, when we are gone.”

  “I can take care of myself!”

  “No.” Lazarus shook his head. “I’m doing what your father would have wished.”

  “My father,” Rachel said, closing her eyes for a moment, “would have wanted me to be happy.”

  “You will be happy with Benjamin. He has studied the—the nature of man, and says he understands why you feel the way you do. Why you will not speak of your parents—or go to our assemblies—or pray.”

  Rachel felt a flare of anger. “He could never understand me! How dare he say such a thing!”

  “He’s very wise, Rachel. This is best. He’s coming to dine with us tonight and we will discuss the betrothal.”

  “Does he know that I’m not Jewish? That I’m half Greek and half Roman?”

  “He knows everything about you. He wants very much to marry you.”

  “No!” she cried. “I will not marry him.” She turned and fled from the room, tears flooding her eyes. She paused in the corridor, then ran to a door leading to the courtyard and flew up the steps to the roof.

  Panting, she stood for a moment and tried to calm herself. “I’m acting like a child,” she said aloud, and went to stand beside the low wall surrounding the roof. For a moment she looked out, over the smaller houses of the town, thinking—in spite of herself—that her mother had stood here, had seen the same sights and even the same people, had probably held Rachel in her arms here, and talked to her, and pointed here and there…

  She took a deep breath and sat down in the brightly-cushioned swing, pushing slowly with her foot. Poor Lazarus! He had been so good to her. He and his wife had welcomed her with open arms; they had seen to her education, that she had the finest clothes, that she had everything she wanted! And they had prayed for her…all these years…because she was unable to pray for herself.

  But there was a reason she could not marry. And she would never tell it to anyone.

  What am I going to do?

  Rachel leaned her head back, gently pushing the swing, and let her gaze lift to the afternoon sky. The sun hurt her eyes and she closed them. God was so far away—and once he had been as close as one’s dearest friend. She couldn’t bring herself to pray. She didn’t know what to say to God—not since he had let her mother and father die, in such terrible ways, when they’d only been seeking to serve him, to do his will…

  In fact, she hadn’t spoken at all for a long time. After fleeing Rome, Simon and Daphne had brought her here—as her parents had wished. Rachel had been in Bethany for several months before a letter came from their friends in Rome, saying that Caligula had…on the advice of his Uncle Claudius…pardoned all three of them, and ordered their pursuers back to Rome.

  The eight-year-old Rachel had wept often, but alone. She couldn’t bear the pained, sympathetic looks people gave her—couldn’t bear to talk or even think about what had happened. It was Martha, Lazarus’ older sister, who had, with patience and kindness and gentle insistence, drawn her out of the cocoon she had built around herself. Gradually Rachel had become aware of the constant anxiety everyone felt about her…how it broke their hearts to see her as she was. And so, she made herself speak; she made herself take an interest in the things Martha taught her—cooking, sewing, grinding wheat, baking bread…

  And then God had taken Martha away, too. One morning the beloved, white-haired woman simply had not awakened.

  She heard the sound of someone clambering up the steps and a young boy came into view, running toward her, his tunic revealing grubby knees where he’d been playing in the dirt. He plopped down beside her, breathing hard, and squinted up at her.

  “What are you doing, Rachel?”

  She reached out to ruffle his thick black hair. “I’m plotting at how I’m going to beat you the next time we play ‘Five in a Row’!”

  “You beat me all the time!”

  Lazarus’ and Judith’s son, Samuel, had just been born when Rachel arrived. She had taken little interest in him at first, but by the time he was a year old she was devoted to him. He was almost ten and equally devoted to her.

  “I do not – but I don’t believe in just letting you win! You have to earn it.”

  “Come down and sail my boat with me. I got it balanced just right.”

  She smiled. “I must soon go and change clothes for supper. Your father says we are having a guest.”

  “Who is it?”

  Rachel’s smile faded; she turned and pretended to gaze out over the balustrade. “Someone we don’t know.”

  Samuel was not fooled by her nonchalance. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head and looked at him again. “Nothing is wrong. You know I don’t like being around strangers.”

  “Well, he won’t be a stranger if he comes to supper,” Samuel replied. He stretched out a grubby hand and touched her own. “You’re better now, Rachel. Everyone says so. Except I wish you would come to our church meetings.”

  She had no answer, and heard the sound of a horse on the road below. She rose from the swing to stand at the low wall, but the rider had already left the road to enter the stable grounds.

  “I’ll go an
d see who it is!” Samuel offered, sliding off the swing.

  “No—no, Samuel. I must go. Tomorrow we can go to the stream and sail your boat. Perhaps you could make one for me and we’ll have a race!”

  “I will—I’ll start on it now!” he cried, and ran toward the steps. Rachel descended almost as quickly, intent on reaching her bedroom before anyone saw her. She could hear voices at the nearby stable. A feeling of impending doom gripped her as she entered the house and hurried down the corridor. She closed the door to her bedroom and tried to think.

  There was nothing to do but tell the man—to his face—that she would not marry him. Lazarus would not tell him; she suspected he was planning to force her into marriage if she continued to refuse. She had to stop the thing before it started—it would never do to allow herself to become betrothed, and then try to, somehow, get out of it later. How could Lazarus do this to her?

  She went to the highly polished mirror and pulled the mantle away from her head. Her dark blonde hair with its pale streaks was wildly tousled. She stood there, thinking, imagining the scene in her mind.

  She would walk into the dining room, and there would be Benjamin—a doddering old man, from Lazarus’ description. All the physicians she knew were old, and this one was even wise! He would smile toothlessly at her and she would take her seat, wondering how best to deliver her news. There would be some awkward conversation, and then she would look up and say—

  Rachel kept staring at her reflection. I’ll not cover my head, or comb my hair! I’ll chew with my mouth open and knock over my cup…

  Suddenly she was conscious that a great deal of time must have gone by. The light in the room had grown dimmer, and she lit a lamp. She wouldn’t wait for supper. She would tell him now, while he was with her guardian!

  She rushed into the hallway, stopping a servant who was on the way to the dining room with two pitchers of wine. “Where is Lazarus and his guest?”

  “Why, they are still in the study, I believe.”

  “How long have they been there?”

  “For some time now. Oh, I wouldn’t—” The woman stared at her as Rachel turned and strode swiftly toward the study, stopping at the doorway. But she paused only an instant. Hearing the deep timbre of a strange man’s voice, she opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, but with her head high and her chin set determinedly.

  The two men stopped talking. Her guardian simply looked at her with his eyebrows raised. Nothing ever seemed to surprise him.

  “I am sorry, Lazarus. But I must say this, for the good of everyone concerned. I must make you both understand. Please know that I mean no disrespect, to either of you.”

  For the first time her gaze turned to the other man. The waning afternoon light that streamed through the west window fell on a tall…and decidedly vigorous…form, with dark hair that came to just below his ears and swept away from his face—a face of strong and even features, and eyes whose color she could not determine, but which collided with her own so forcibly she felt almost a physical jolt.

  Rachel bit her lip, nearly overpowered by the urge to turn and flee. But somehow those eyes would not release her. Well, he wasn’t ancient, after all…but it didn’t matter! She must tell him—tell them both; she must spare everyone the unpleasantness that was bound to occur if they tried to force her into submission…

  “I cannot marry you, sir. It is impossible.”

  The silence that met her declaration was profound. The man seemed more than surprised—even astonished, but then his mouth curved slightly and he said, “I am certain that, had I been looking forward to our marriage, I would be bitterly disappointed.”

  She stared at him in confusion. What a strange thing to say, from a man who had been so eager to wed her! She should have felt a wave of relief; instead, something much like disappointment nudged her.

  “My guardian must have told you of my decision, sir. I hope I have not offended you. Surely you can see it is nothing against you, since we have not met before this day.”

  Understanding came into his eyes. She could see now that they were almost like the light in the room…a warm, luminous brown-gold. He inclined his head toward her and said, “I believe you have mistaken me for someone else, more fortunate than I—or unfortunate, if we must take you at your word.”

  Lazarus cleared his throat. Rachel’s hand went to her own throat and she looked at her guardian with horror.

  “Rachel, my dear, this is Tribune Metellus Petraeus, from Rome.”

  The man didn’t give her time to consider the depth of her humiliation. He moved a little toward her and said, “I hope I have the honor of meeting the daughter of Paulus Valerius?”

  Slowly, she nodded, and felt more confused than ever. She took a step backward, sending a pleading look toward Lazarus.

  “The tribune has come—” Lazarus began, and stopped. For the first time in her memory, he seemed not to know what to say.

  The man was watching her closely, as though trying to see into her mind, and at once all of her long-held defenses rushed to her aid. Stiffening, she said, “I am sorry to have intruded.” She moved toward the door.

  “Wait, please.” The voice was low and yet commanding. A soldier’s voice. When she turned reluctantly toward him, his eyes again met hers. “I spoke lightly to ease your distress, but I have come on a most serious errand. I will explain, if your guardian doesn’t wish to.”

  The tribune looked expectantly at Lazarus, who abruptly motioned toward the center of the room. “Please, let us all be seated.”

  In deep embarrassment, Rachel chose the old wooden chair nearest the door. The two men sat on the padded benches on either side of the desk. She felt even more uncomfortable when she remembered that she was without a mantle, and that by now her long, tangled hair must certainly resemble the snaky head of Medusa.

  “Rachel,” Lazarus said, and again he stopped. She looked at him wonderingly. Surely he must know that nothing he said could disturb her—as long as it had nothing to do with marriage! She had already experienced the worst blows that life could give…

  “Rachel, there is a letter. Waiting for you in Rome. You must—prepare yourself—” He glanced at the tribune. “Perhaps you had better tell her.”

  The man’s next words, though quietly spoken, shocked her clear through to her soul. She clutched the arms of the chair and felt her head grow light and her ears begin to ring.

  “Your father wrote a letter, for you, the last day he was in prison. It has recently been found among some other documents at the House of the Vestal Virgins. I have been commissioned by the emperor to take you to Rome—to retrieve the letter.”

  CHAPTER II

  Both men were suddenly beside her; she felt herself lifted and moved swiftly to a bench, where she lay with her arms and legs dangling. She sat up, or attempted to do so, but the tribune had knelt and would not let her rise. Lazarus had grabbed a sheaf of parchments and was waving them over her, stirring the air.

  “Please,” she whispered, struggling against the restraining and remarkably strong hands. “Please let me go.”

  The hands pulled her upward until she was in a sitting position. Lazarus had, from somewhere in the room, procured a cup of honey and wine, which he held to her lips. It dribbled down her chin and upon the front of her gown, disappearing into its plum color even as she tried to wipe it off with her own hand.

  “I am quite well,” she said determinedly, but she was shaking.

  “I will ask Benjamin to have a look at you,” Lazarus said. “Forgive me, Rachel. I knew this would be difficult for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the tribune, in his deep and resonating voice that, so close to her, sent a kind of vibration through her own chest. She shoved him away and stood up, pushing her hair back from her face.

  “I am not interested in the letter. I am not going back to Rome.”

  “But you must,” Lazarus said, befo
re she could move. “The emperor has written an edict, that you are to be returned to Rome so that the Vestal Virgins may give you the letter, in person. The emperor believes he is doing this as a favor to your father, whom he greatly admired.”

  His words were like knives slamming into her body.

  “Tribune Metellus has sworn on his own life to bring you back safely to us.” Lazarus added softly, “Rachel, my dear, you have no choice.”

  A moment of silence passed, in which the men watched her—Lazarus with unaccustomed anxiety, the other man with a quizzical look of concern. He was probably wondering at the merit of the task to which he had pledged himself…and what kind of woman fainted at such trivial news.

  She thought suddenly of the man to whom Lazarus meant to betroth her. She might not wish to return to Rome, but at least it would postpone the inevitable.

  “Very well,” she said, in as dignified a manner as she could. “When do we leave—sir?”

  “Tomorrow morning, if that is agreeable.”

  “Tomorrow? But—so soon?”

  “The emperor believes there is a need for haste.”

  “You will stay with us tonight, of course,” Lazarus said, always the perfect host.

  The tribune turned toward him. “Thank you. I’m staying at the Antonia, but I accept your former invitation to dine with you tonight.”

  “Excellent. Rachel, please go and ready yourself. Our guest should be here soon.”

  She walked dazedly to the door, which the tribune opened for her, and down the passageway to her room. Tomorrow! There was so much to do—packing and planning, and she must say goodbye to Simon and Daphne! It would be a few miles out of the way, but she might never see them again…She had no illusions about traveling, for it was a dangerous enterprise under the best of conditions—and all the way to Rome…

  She couldn’t believe it. She’d never dreamed she would go back there! And as for the letter—Her heart lurched at the thought of her father writing to her in his prison cell, knowing he was about to die…

  Rachel shook her head as though to clear her thoughts, and felt her hair move across her shoulders. It reminded her of her appearance, and her scheme to be as unattractive to Lazarus’ friend as possible. Well, that wasn’t necessary now, was it? She would be away for months, then there would be time to deal with her betrothal on her return. She walked to her closet to choose a fresh gown.