by Debra Diaz
“Please, God,” Rachel thought, but she hadn’t prayed in so long she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why should God listen to her, after she had ignored him all these years? Why would he heed her now, when as a child she had pleaded with him to spare her parents?
Metellus moved backward and continued to taunt the men, completely drawing their attention away from her. “I can see why no woman will have anything to do with the likes of you. An uglier pair I’ve never seen! Do even the harlots run at the sight of you?”
He went on to insult their prowess as men, causing them to hurl themselves forward and slash at him with fury, but he was swift and light on his feet, and seemed to easily parry their blows. They had…for the moment…forgotten Rachel, and she knew that she should do what Metellus had told her, and run for her life. But she was not going to leave him—to die for her! She began digging through the baggage in the wagon, and her hands fell on the large cloth sack that enveloped her bow.
Shaking, she untied the sack and began dragging out the bow and the quiver of arrows. The sound of the fight filled her ears—clanging and ringing steel, swift movements and grunts and labored breathing. Looking back once, she saw Metellus stumble back under the onslaught, and then right himself. His arm moved with lightning speed to deflect the flashing blades, and one of the men hissed loudly as a wound opened on his own arm, forcing him to shift his sword to his other hand.
The gladiators-in-training fought with the skill of that profession, and though he could have defeated one easily enough, Metellus was hard-pressed to defend against two of them at once. He risked one swift glance toward the wagon and saw that Rachel was still there…and was not surprised. He wondered briefly why no one came out to see what all the ruckus was about, but perhaps the inhabitants of Capua were accustomed to such disturbances. He did not call out to her; he didn’t want to remind the men what they were fighting for, since one of them could easily go after Rachel while he continued to battle the other.
The thought of their taking Rachel brought a rush of increased strength and determination. The other two men were tiring, and he managed to give one of them another gash that would soon match the scar already on his face. The man yelled a stream of curses, and then exploded with such rage that he, too, had a resurgence of strength.
Rachel took the bow in her hands, and deliberately drew several deep breaths to steady herself. Placing an arrow, she took careful aim…but the men were moving so fast she could not be sure which one the arrow would strike. Patiently she waited, until one of them paused for the briefest moment. She aimed between his shoulder blades, but something made her lower the weapon, and she released the arrow. It plunged deeply into the man’s right buttock, causing him to howl and drop his sword. Metellus could give him only a glance, for the other man was swinging wildly in an effort to bring the fight to an end.
The one with the arrow protruding from his backside reached to pull it out, screaming with pain. Metellus took advantage of the diversion to pierce him in the other leg, and in almost the same movement, sliced a gash in the other’s sword hand. The two men seemed to realize they were in deep trouble.
“We’re going to find you,” growled the one still standing, for his companion had hunched over on the ground, retching. “And we’re going to kill you.” He grabbed the other by the neck of his tunic, pulled him up, and they went, half running, half limping, down the street.
Metellus stood for a moment, watching them go. He was close to the wall beside the town gate, and slowly he went backward a step or two and leaned against it, now feeling exhaustion in every muscle of his body. The front of his tunic was torn, and blood ran from a deep slash on his shoulder. Dizziness clouded his mind, and he closed his eyes for a moment…until he heard a rustle, and the sound of Rachel’s voice.
“Metellus,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes to see her standing before him, and his mind cleared of everything except her. It was the first time she had ever said his name. She was staring at him with a wonder and raptness that made him half-smile, and still leaning with his back against the wall, he stretched out a hand and touched her arm. She didn’t flinch or try to run away, as she usually did. He drew her slowly toward him until she stood against his body, and as slowly, lowered his head and kissed her with such thoroughness and leisure he might have had all the time left in the world. His arm went around her, drawing her still closer; he dropped his sword, and his other arm encircled her, his hand sliding down her back caressingly. He moved away from the wall, lifted his head, and looked into her face.
Her eyes fluttered open and met his…they were lambent and darkly blue, and they lowered to his lips.
Metellus realized her arms were strongly around him. Again he kissed her, pulling her to him, almost lifting her off her feet. Rachel clung to his hard, broad shoulders, to his lips, and felt a thrill and trembling sweep her entire body. A strange exultance soared through her, and somewhere, she lost herself…
It was Metellus who pulled back, slowly releasing her until she stood looking at him in sudden pain and confusion, as though she’d been taken up in a whirlwind and set down in a foreign country.
“We must go,” he said gently, reaching down to grab the sword he had dropped. “Before our friends gather all their schoolmates.”
“Yes,” she said, barely comprehending what he said. Then she seemed to come to her senses, and turned to walk back to the wagon. He helped her climb up, and her hand lingered on his, but she drew it back and braced herself as the donkey…who seemed to have been sleeping while standing up…jogged slowly forward.
Metellus took the rope in a firm grip and led them swiftly through the gate and to the open road before them, lit by the blue-white rays of the moon. Soon they came to a small house set far off the road, and Metellus turned down the long path toward it.
Rachel vaguely recalled he had said something about a family who took in travelers. She was still half in a daze, and she couldn’t look at Metellus. They came to a rattling halt in front of the house, and a man came out to greet them. He was Roman or Greek, from his manner of dress, with a shiny bald head and a kind expression on his face.
“Yes, may I help you?”
“We‘re looking for a place to stay the night,” Metellus answered. “I was told in the town that you might take us in.”
A woman joined him. “You are welcome here. Is this your wife?”
Metellus looked up at Rachel, who sat unmoving on the wagon. “No. We were hoping you would have two rooms.”
The man and woman exchanged glances, and turning their attention back to Metellus, obviously noticed his disheveled appearance. Besides the gash on his shoulder, there were nicks and cuts on both of his forearms.
He told them, “There was a—slight altercation, with a couple of ruffians calling themselves gladiators.”
“Oh, my, those men are always causing trouble!” the woman exclaimed. “Something should be done about it!”
“Come in,” said the man. “You both look very tired, if you don’t mind my saying so. Take what baggage you need—I have a stable in the back. And a well, sir, if you’d like to clean up. I’ll see if I can tend that wound of yours.”
“Thank you,” Metellus said. He turned to Rachel, but she was already scrambling from the wagon and selecting a bag to take inside.
The woman ushered her into the house, while the man went with Metellus toward the stable. Rachel tried to smile, and looked at the comfortable furnishings of the house.
“My name is Porcia, and my husband is Lepidus. We have only one room to rent, but we shall be happy for you to stay in my daughter’s room. Her name is Junia.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to impose on your daughter. If I could have the room, the tribune can sleep on a floor somewhere.” Rachel didn’t think he would mind, since they’d been sleeping for weeks on a hard wooden deck.
“The tribune?”
“I’m sorry. His name is Metellus—he used to be wit
h the army. I am Rachel. He is—escorting me to Rome, for an appointment.”
A petite girl of about twelve, with long dark hair, came into the room, smiling at them. “Rachel, this is Junia. Dear, I know you won’t mind sharing your room with Rachel tonight.”
“No. Won’t you come and see it? I have water for bathing.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”
“And then you must have something to eat,” said Porcia. “I haven’t finished putting away the food from supper—it won’t be long…” The woman hurried away to the kitchen.
Junia’s bedroom was brightly lit with lamps, and she showed Rachel the basin of clean water on a table. “You may have my bed—there’s a smaller one we put in here when we have guests. My father will bring it for me.”
“No, you are too kind. I will sleep in the smaller one.”
The girl only smiled and left the room. Rachel set down her bag, washed her face and hands, and changed into a clean gown. When she went back into the hallway, she followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, where everyone stood waiting for her. Metellus had also washed and changed his tunic, and she could see part of a bandage around the garment’s neckline. His hair was still damp…and, as always, his eyes seemed to take on the glow of light in the room.
“Please sit down,” said Porcia, and proceeded to serve them as though they were long awaited friends.
Their hosts asked no questions, but Rachel began to feel that the silence between herself and Metellus was arousing their curiosity. She made herself look at him and asked quietly, “How is your wound, Tribune?”
Metellus raised a dark eyebrow. So, it was back to ‘tribune’, was it?
“Oh, he will live,” Lepidus answered cheerfully. “As I told him, I hope he gave those mischief-makers something to remember him by.”
“Lepidus!” said his wife reprovingly.
“Well, what’s wrong with that, Porcia! It’s time someone put them in their place.”
“I think Rachel gave them something to remember us by,” Metellus said, dipping a chunk of bread in the rich, steaming stew. “She is very good with a bow and arrow.”
Lepidus burst into laughter, as his wife lifted her brow in surprise.
“Did you kill him?” Junia asked, her eyes wide.
Rachel shook her head, as Metellus answered, “No, but he will have trouble sitting down for some time to come.”
This time everyone laughed. Rachel couldn’t help but smile…she liked these people, and almost wished they could stay much longer than one night. She and Metellus finished eating, and Metellus was shown into the extra room as Lepidus carried a small cot into Junia’s room. Junia delayed coming for some time, giving Rachel time to settle herself in the small bed. She pretended to be asleep when the girl crept in, blew out all the lamps and crawled into the other bed.
Rachel was more tired than she could ever remember being, but she couldn’t sleep. She was shaking…perhaps a reaction to fear…or something else. What had happened to her tonight? It was as though she had become another person, a person she had no right to be and must not allow to take possession of her. But the damage was done. When she returned to Bethany, she would not be the same young woman who had left. She would never be the same.
Down the passageway in his own room, Metellus also lay awake, thinking. Rachel had finally succeeded in changing all his plans…no longer was building a house or starting a new life important—or, at least, not a life without her. In one single moment everything had changed…and he would not be content until she belonged to him. She already did, only she didn’t know it. Somehow, he would have to convince her.
* * * *
Early in the morning, their hosts prepared breakfast for them. Everyone ate together, but before they began, Lepidus looked around and said, “Will everyone please join hands?”
Metellus gave Rachel a puzzled look but held out his hand. She took it reluctantly, giving her other hand to Porcia, and everyone bowed their heads. Lepidus began to pray: “Our Father, we thank you for this food you have given us—indeed for all that you have given, and we thank you for sending these two people to us. We ask you to bless them and keep them, and protect them from danger. In the name of your son, Jesus Christ, amen.”
Rachel lifted her head, tears in her eyes. “I am a Christian, too,” she whispered. “I am so happy that we stopped here.”
“Oh, God bless you, child!” cried Porcia. She looked at Metellus, who said nothing, and turned back to Rachel. “How did you happen to become a Christian?”
“My mother and father were Christians, and I came to believe at an early age. Please tell me—how did you hear of Jesus?”
“It was someone we met in Rome, a few years ago,” Lepidus replied. “At the time I worked as a tent-maker with a man named Aquila. He and his wife were believers. As I’m sure you know, the emperor sent all the Jews out of Rome earlier this year, because they were upset and causing disturbances whenever Christians preached in their synagogues, or in the streets. Many of the Christians left, as well. My wife and I came here.”
“Was Aquila’s wife’s name—Priscilla?” Rachel asked, her voice trembling.
“Why, yes,” answered Porcia. “You knew them?”
Rachel couldn’t speak for a moment. Metellus watched her, concerned…wondering why she looked stricken to the heart. “Yes, that is—my parents knew them.”
“They live in Corinth now. It is a shame that we all had to scatter, but I’m sure God had a reason for allowing it to happen.”
Rachel looked at Lepidus and nodded, forcing a smile. “The church that Aquila belonged to—are any of those people still in Rome?”
“Only one or two, I think. But their influence was so far-reaching—there are believers all over Rome, because of them. Not everyone left, by any means.”
“Why did you leave,” Metellus asked, “if there was no threat to you?”
“Frankly, sir, we are concerned about who will succeed Claudius, when he is—no longer emperor. How well we remember the nature of his predecessor, Caligula. It is possible that neither Jews nor Christians will be tolerated.”
Metellus silently agreed. He was certain that Claudius’ wife intended for her own son to succeed Claudius, and Nero was eerily reminiscent of Caligula—who had demanded to be worshiped as a god. He listened as Lepidus spoke of the church in Rome, and again Rachel seemed almost moved to tears. The conversation was making him uncomfortable, and as soon as there was a lull, he got to his feet.
“You have been more than kind,” he said, “and we are most grateful. But we must go.”
“Of course—we have been blessed to have you with us.” Porcia rose, and she and Junia began clearing the table. Lepidus went with Metellus to hitch the donkey to the wagon, and they walked to the front of the house. By then, the women were waiting for them. Porcia embraced Rachel, saying, “We will pray for you.” She looked deliberately at Metellus and added, “For both of you.”
Lepidus refused the coins that Metellus offered him, saying, “This is something we do—for our Lord’s sake.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said quietly. “You have helped us more than you know.”
She and Metellus began walking, with the donkey and wagon in tow. Lepidus and Porcia watched them, until they reached the road.
“There is something about them,” Porcia said, taking her husband’s arm. “God is telling me—something. Let’s go in now, Lepidus, and pray for them.”
* * * *
“We can reach Three Taverns before nightfall,” Metellus said, looking over his shoulder at Rachel, who stayed some distance behind him. “Perhaps we can find another family with whom to stay. I don’t think there is an inn there…or much else, for that matter.”
Rachel made no reply. He saw that she was not going to talk, and left her to her thoughts. But he added, “If you’re going to walk back there, keep a watch for anyone behind us who looks like he thinks he is a gladiator.”
He sto
pped for a moment, and waited until she stopped and met his gaze. “And thank you, for saving my hide…at the price of someone else’s.”
Her lips curved upward, and then as quickly she resumed her serious expression and dropped her gaze, waiting for him to start walking again. He wanted to have a long, frank talk with her, but now was not the time…
They passed well cultivated orchards and vineyards, and lands that were wild and tangled with vegetation; they went up and down steep hills and crossed vast plateaus covered with lush green grass. By the time they reached the village of Three Taverns it was late in the day, and again passing just beyond the village, Metellus found a small house, beside which a sign was posted: Travelers Welcome, Thieves Killed. The owner was an old man who offered them a single room and waited with an outstretched palm for his payment in advance.
“Do you have more than one room?” Metellus asked wearily, pulling a small pouch from the belt at his waist.
“No. What’s the matter?” the old man cackled. “Not speaking?” His small, bleary eyes landed appreciatively on Rachel.
“I’m her brother,” Metellus said, not taking the time to explain. “Is it all right if I sleep outside her door?”
“Go ahead, or there’s a room in the stable, with a stable-boy. But you can ignore him—he’s a deaf-mute anyway.”
“I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same to you.” Metellus turned to Rachel. “Get your things. I’ll sleep in the hall.”
Rachel took her cloth bag and entered the room shown them by the old man. It was tiny and had no amenities that she could see—not even a pitcher of water. She was too tired to care, and removed her clothes, fell upon the bed, and was fast asleep. When she woke in the morning, Metellus had already collected his blankets and put them back on the wagon, and was waiting for her.
“There’s a well in back,” he told her, looking down from where he sat on the wagon.
She saw that he had already drawn a bucket for her, and scrubbed herself as well as she could. Perhaps in Rome she could have a real bath! She hurried back to join him, where he was now standing beside the donkey.
