Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  “You’re safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid.” She met his gaze, and the look in her eyes sent a chill through his own body. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to be safe.”

  “Then we are at cross purposes, aren’t we?”

  She noticed how his tawny eyes reflected the moonlight, and how the touch of copper in their rims made them warm and…and what? She felt as though they were magnetized, pulling her into them. Her shaking subsided and he let go of her arms. She remained sitting…she drew her knees up and laid her arms across them, and rested her forehead on her arms.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” Her voice was muffled. “I hope it won’t happen again. It hasn’t for a long time, until now.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Metellus rose to walk back to his pallet. He grabbed the blankets, money bag and sword, and went back to her, tossing the blankets down.

  Her head lifted and she stared at him.

  “You shouldn’t be alone,” he said brusquely. “And I’m going to be sleeping next to you on the ship, so you might as well get accustomed to it.”

  He set down the sword, then stretched out among the blankets and turned his back to her. Too distracted to dwell on the dismal effects of her dream, Rachel finally lay down. She pulled the blankets up to her chin. It was strangely comforting to have him next to her…strange, because she did not know him. It was as if some part of her knew…had always…known him. It puzzled her, and made her more determined than ever to hold him at arm’s length.

  * * * *

  When she woke, Metellus was gone…probably to get the donkey. Rachel lay still for a moment. It was still cold; the sky was faintly glowing, but before long the heat would return, and the thought of her stifling clothes made her sit up and search her bag for the shears she had brought. Pulling out each gown, she cut the sleeves off between shoulder and elbow. If the weather turned cool, she could always put on one of her mantles.

  The heaviness of her hair falling around her neck had made her even more miserable. She thought for a moment. Then slowly, deliberately, she held out a long golden lock and touched it with the shears.

  A hand clamped down on her wrist. “What are you doing?” Metellus demanded.

  Startled, she raised her eyes to his. “It’s been so hot—I’m going to cut my hair.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, before he said softly, “Please—don’t cut off your hair.”

  “Why?” she asked, feeling like a child who had been caught in some mischief.

  He said nothing, until he released her, straightened, and turned away. “Because I promised to return you—just as you were.”

  He began rolling blankets and strapping them onto Huldah, who stood docilely beside the arched opening to the road. Rachel picked up one of the pieces of cloth next to her and cut it into several strips, one of which she used to tie back her long mane of hair. When she stood up, with her blue gown loosely belted and her hair pulled away from her neck, she felt much more comfortable than she had yesterday.

  “There’s a room inside, with food,” Metellus said, without looking back at her. “You’d better eat something before we go.”

  It had been a long time since yesterday afternoon, when they’d eaten the dried meat and bread he had brought. Rachel found the room he spoke of, discovered she had a greater appetite than she could ever remember having, and partook heartily of the smoked fish and boiled eggs and fruit. When she went outside, Metellus was adjusting her baggage on Huldah’s back.

  “She is good-natured, isn’t she?” Rachel remarked, rubbing the donkey’s nose.

  “As good as they come, I think. I’ll be sorry to get rid of her when we reach Joppa.”

  “Why don’t you hire someone to take her back to Bethany? Lazarus will reimburse you, and pay for the donkey. I—I’d like to keep her.”

  “Why?” he asked, glancing down at her as he tightened a strap.

  She looked away. “I don’t know. Just to remember—that is—”

  When she stopped, stammering, Metellus said, “I can probably find someone traveling to Jerusalem who will be willing to take her to Bethany. And it’s Claudius who is paying, so there will be no need for reimbursement.”

  “Claudius—oh, you mean Caesar.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “That Claudius.”

  This time she couldn’t resist smiling back at him, but she turned abruptly and stepped toward the road. In a moment he followed, and they were on their way again, striking out in a northwesterly direction and leaving the ridge of Judean mountains behind them. The land was interspersed with pine and oak trees, with thorny shrubs everywhere. Tall and wide-spreading sycamores lined the road, which gradually began to descend as they drew near the coast. Already they could feel the breeze that swept off the sea. There were many other travelers as well, some with donkeys, some with camels, some with carts pulled by oxen.

  Rachel didn’t complain, but Metellus seemed to know instinctively when she needed to rest, and they stopped now and then under a sycamore. He had brought food and water for them—and Huldah too, who lapped noisily when he poured some from a jug into her bucket.

  Metellus seemed to have given up trying to make Rachel talk, and somehow the silence was more threatening than conversation. She began, almost shyly, “I’m sorry I spoke to you as I did yesterday, Tribune.”

  They were going through a dark pass, with hills pressing close around them. It was cooler, and she almost shivered. Metellus looked at her.

  “As am I.”

  “We don’t—joke—about God. And we are not to take his name in vain. How could we, if we love and revere him? How could we ever profane the name of Jesus Christ, who died for us? Your remark seemed to take it all so lightly.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’d forgotten how it is with Christians.”

  She peered back at him. “Have you known many—Christians, that is?”

  “One or two,” he said cautiously. “And not very well.”

  “What do you believe, Tribune, about God?”

  Metellus glanced around him. “I believe there is a God. But I don’t believe he is a Jew. I don’t know his name or where he lives. I only know that he is a creator, or how else did the world come to be? It’s easy to see that the gods of Rome and Greece were invented by men. I’ve never understood why this God didn’t make himself known, somehow.”

  “But he did make himself known!”

  “Please, Rachel.” Metellus shook his head. “I have heard it all. How this Jesus is supposed to be the Christ, how he fulfilled the Jewish prophecies, how he died and supposedly rose again. It is all easy to dismiss, except—why would people keep worshipping him after he was dead…unless…”

  “Unless they know he is alive.”

  Huldah chose that moment to balk, coming to a complete standstill. She stood placidly and switched her tail as Metellus tried to coax her forward. People passed by them, some of them laughing. He lost his patience and threatened to sell her to the barbarians who ate donkey meat, and, as if understanding, Huldah gave a jerk and began plodding forward again. Secretly he was glad for the interruption, and hoped Rachel would stop trying to convert him.

  Rachel was deeply troubled. If something happened to Metellus, and he died after rejecting his Savior…it was unthinkable! She cared for everyone’s soul, but this man…

  “Let’s talk of something else, shall we?” he suggested. A ray of sun fell on him suddenly, as they left the steep, dark passage behind them and started through a long valley of gently rolling hills.

  Rachel decided she would take up the matter later. “Very well. Tell me, how did it happen that you became a Praetorian?”

  Squinting against the sun, he replied, “I had joined the army at a young age. Not long afterward, Caligula had the legions line up on the Campus Martius—at different times, of course, and he personally selected those he wanted to become Praetorians. I happened to be one of ma
ny. He’d already got rid of half of those who were already there. I admit, I didn’t like being confined to Rome. But—I had no choice. It was better after Claudius became emperor.”

  “And—are you married, sir?”

  His eyes sought her own. “No.”

  Rachel blushed, but couldn’t stop herself. “But, you must have someone—who is—special to you.”

  “At the moment,” he answered, “that would be you.”

  Rachel’s heart gave a leap, but she told herself he only meant she was special because she was in his charge. Besides, it didn’t matter whether he thought she was special or not!

  She realized that once again she was footsore and nearly exhausted. “How much farther is it?” she asked, noticing that the sun had lowered considerably.

  “Not far. Look,” he said.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand, and could see the glint of the sea. On either side of them were wheat fields and orchards, and quaint farmhouses with barns. The road became more congested with people, and before long they were entering the city of Joppa.

  “The voyage to Rome is a long one, Rachel. Are you ready?”

  Something inside her shrank at the prospect of seeing Rome, and the memories it would stir…but then…there was a strange sense of excitement, too. Perhaps she had needed to come here, and hadn’t known it. But God had known.

  Metellus stopped and was watching her, as though trying to decide whether she was going to bolt and run away.

  She purposely avoided his gaze, and sighed. “As ready, I suppose, as I will ever be.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Metellus had no trouble buying passage on a grain ship, but it was more difficult finding an inn at which to stay during the two-day wait for the ship to sail. All the rooms were taken, as the innkeeper at Emmaus had warned them. Rachel suspected the former tribune had to use his influence as an emissary for the emperor, and probably some extra money exchanged hands, but he managed to procure two rooms for them. Metellus came to her as she waited next to Huldah, and told her to follow him to the back of the inn. Though sparsely furnished, the rooms were clean. As soon as he unloaded all the baggage from the donkey’s back, he told her he was going to find someone to take Huldah to Bethany.

  “Let me come with you,” she urged. “I want to see what he looks like. I don’t want anyone who’s going to mistreat her.”

  “You should stay here,” Metellus answered. “There are people everywhere, and I can’t watch you and haggle with people over the donkey. You will have to trust me.”

  “Well then, please make them understand that she’s not to have any marks on her, or a sore mouth, and she must be well fed.”

  “Trust me,” he said again. “And don’t leave this room until I get back.”

  Fortunately the inn was situated on a promontory high above the coastline, and she could look down at the people on the docks and the ships sailing in and out of the harbor. She hadn’t even grown bored by the time he returned, an hour later.

  “A family of four,” Metellus told her, walking into the room. “A man and his wife, and two young children. They were delighted to have the donkey travel with them…they had only a small cart, pulled by another donkey who looked considerably less agreeable than Huldah. She can easily carry both the children.”

  “And they seemed kind?”

  “They were Christians,” he answered. “Does that reassure you?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I overheard them praying, before I approached them in the marketplace. They were buying food, and thanking God for it, in the name of your Jesus.”

  “Well, I’m sure there are Christians who don’t behave as they ought, but these sound as though they’ll be good to Huldah.”

  He stood looking at her; the room was filled with a deep golden glow as the sun began to disappear in the west. Again, Rachel was acutely conscious of his masculine presence, which seemed to overpower the small room.

  “What shall we do for two whole days?” she asked, taking an involuntary step backward.

  “We’ll begin by getting something to eat, before it’s completely dark. What would you like?”

  “Are you taking me with you, or bringing it back?”

  “Come on.” He moved toward the door, waiting for her to precede him. “Take that cloak, or whatever you call it, and put it over your head.”

  She hid her annoyance at the way he so freely gave orders, and hurried to grab the mantle and arrange it over her head and shoulders. They walked down a steep, stone pathway to the street below. Metellus turned to the right, and they were soon at the marketplace. It was almost deserted, except for a few peddlers who had built small fires and were still calling to passersby to come and look at their goods.

  He found a stall where an elderly man was just starting to put away his trays of goat cheese, nuts and fruit. He had several honey cakes left, as well, and Metellus purchased everything he had, along with two tall cups of water.

  “Thank you, sir!” said the old man gratefully. “There are benches and tables just around the corner. Please return the cups when you are finished.”

  Metellus led her to a wooden table that looked slightly cleaner than the rest, and they sat down to eat. Again, Rachel was ravenously hungry. She started to push the mantle back from her head.

  “Don’t do that,” he said quickly, and she stopped, her hand in mid-air.

  “Why not? It’s uncomfortable, and it’s hard to eat with it on.”

  “Your face,” he answered, taking a drink of water.

  “What’s wrong with my face?” she said indignantly.

  “Nothing. And that is why you should keep it covered.”

  Rachel kept her eyes on her food, embarrassed by his words. There was nothing wrong with his, either, she thought…having noticed, in the last remnants of the sun’s fading light…the warm luminosity of his eyes, the smoothness of his dark hair, those intriguing creases that always deepened when he smiled…

  An old, familiar sadness descended upon her. Why did he have to look like that—why did he have to make her feel as she did…as though she wanted to—touch him, be close to him? It was all so futile, so hopeless!

  “What’s wrong?” he asked suddenly.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Something went out of you—as though you’d put out a light.”

  She looked up at him, pushing away from her food. “I’m tired. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “We’ll take it with us.”

  She became aware that he had been watching a group of three men who stood some distance away, under a tree. They were staring at her while trying to seem inconspicuous, speaking to each other in a desultory way, their eyes occasionally flicking toward Metellus. When he stood up, they saw the sword at his side and instantly melted away into the growing darkness.

  “Stay close to me,” Metellus said, not bothering to lower his voice. She followed him to the merchant’s stall, where he returned the two cups and bought a large napkin in which to wrap their food. They returned to the table, scooped up the food, and began to walk back to the inn.

  Rachel pressed as close to him as she could without actually touching him. If anything happened to him because of her, she would never recover from it!

  There were few pedestrians in the street. The area around the inn was lit by torches, and Rachel preceded Metellus up the steep path to their rooms. No one accosted them.

  “Keep your door barred,” he told her, and noticing her wide eyes, added lightly, “Not that I think there is anything to be afraid of. Just don’t let anyone in, and if it’s me, I’ll call out to you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, trying to seem as unconcerned as he.

  He glanced in her room before she went in, and waited as she lit a lamp. Rachel closed the door and slid the bar in place. She heard him walk away, and the sound of his own door closing.

  She began to tremble. Tears stung her eyes and she bit down hard on her lip,
refusing to shed them. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Looking around the tiny room, she saw a basin of water. She pulled the fragrant cleaning oils from her bag and set to work scrubbing herself of the journey’s dust and grime. There would be little privacy on the ship, so she’d better stay as clean as possible until they sailed…She dug through her bag and found a nightgown, pulling it over her head, and lay down on the straw-filled mattress. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, and soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * * *

  Metellus’ first instinct was to make Rachel stay in her room the next two days, but realized that would have been practically impossible. It was just as impossible, though, to keep her from attracting attention, even if she did hide her hair and half her face. She was tall and slender, but full in the right places, and people were always giving her a second glance…if not more. The first day he took her to the marketplace, where they spent most of the day; it was filled with people and animals, merchants’ stalls and tents held up with tall poles, smoke from fires and the sounds of voices speaking different languages. The ground was paved, though broken and uneven, the air hot and odorous, but Rachel seemed to enjoy herself.

  The next day he allowed her to accompany him to the docks, where he confirmed the time of departure, spoke with the captain, and let her walk around observing all the activity—which seemed to fascinate her. He remembered that she hadn’t been in a large city, except Jerusalem, since she left Rome as a child. He enjoyed watching her, for she was still a child in many ways. But…she was a grown woman, and more than once he had to deliberately look away from her and force his thoughts elsewhere.

  A fine protector he was, he thought in self-derision. He’d cautioned himself about his emotions getting the better of him, and here he was, letting this slip of a girl carve a place in his heart that he’d sworn no woman would ever have. Women were for men’s pleasure and for bearing children…they were not to be trusted. They should be cared for, yes, but held at a distance…

  His gaze went back to her. She was standing on a small platform, looking out to sea. She’d forgotten everyone around her; it was as though she could see all the way to Rome, and there was something arresting about her face, something haunted and yet yearning and wistful. The breeze coming off the ocean stirred her gown and made the covering over her hair rise upward…she reached up to catch it, her profile sharply etched against the blue cloth. As if sensing his eyes on her, she turned toward him, stepping off the platform and walking slowly to where he stood.