by John Hagee
“She attended for a while,” Plautius said, “but she never went on to be baptized. She became disillusioned and left.”
“And that’s when serious trouble started.” Sergius wiped the crumbs from his mouth and tucked his empty napkin under the edge of his saddle. “Tullia didn’t get what she wanted, so she left the church and then tried to rob everyone else.”
“She stole from the other Christians?” Marcellus asked.
“Not money,” Sergius replied. “She stole hearts.”
“The hearts and minds of people,” Plautius explained. “She tried to draw others away from the faith, and she spread rumors that Christians practiced cannibalism and incest.”
“Cannibalism?” Antony nearly choked on his last bite of mutton. He racked his brain, trying to think of anything his mother had ever said about her faith that would lead someone to think that Christians were cannibals. And incest? It was unthinkable. Peter and Jacob and Rebecca—they were some of the finest people Antony had ever met. At least, he had thought they were . . .
Of course, they were. Antony shook his head to clear the ridiculous thought from his mind. The few Christians he knew were kind, generous, and morally upright. Claims to the contrary must certainly stem from ignorance or prejudice.
“Whatever possessed Tullia to make such preposterous claims?” Marcellus asked. “Surely no one believed her.”
“A few did.” Verus, who was riding with Sergius, spoke for the first time. “My sister was one of them. She still won’t have anything to do with me.”
“But your own sister would know that you didn’t practice incest,” Antony observed.
“She didn’t believe that part,” Verus said. “She believed the part about being cannibals.”
Plautius said, “We think what Tullia was referring to was the fact that we refer to each other as brother and sister. And in the Eucharist we say that the bread is the body of Christ and the wine is the blood He shed for the remission of our sins. She never took Communion with us, but she knew of the practice, and she distorted the symbols to mean something horrific.”
“Why would she want to slander the believers in such a vile way?” Marcellus looked incredulous. “Why was she so bitter?”
“Because God didn’t answer her prayers the way she thought He ought to,” Sergius said. “So Tullia decided she hated Jesus and anybody who worshiped Him.”
“She went back to her pagan religion,” Plautius said, “and became steeped in witchcraft and sorcery. I didn’t figure out until long after she’d left the church that manipulating spiritual forces was what Tullia had really been after, not a relationship with God.”
He paused to direct Antony to turn left where two roads intersected just ahead of them. “Shortly after we became Christians,” Plautius continued, “my wife was healed of a serious illness. I talked a lot about healing and praying in Jesus’ name, and that’s when Tullia became interested. She somehow thought Jesus was a divine talisman, that praying in His name was some kind of magic formula to guarantee that she would receive whatever she wanted.”
“What she wanted,” Sergius said bitterly, “was a baby.”
His words caused a frisson of fear to ripple through Antony. Tullia had wanted a baby, and now she had Rebecca’s. What did it mean?
“She’d been married seven years but hadn’t conceived a child,”
Plautius explained. “She attended our meetings for almost a year, and for all those months she prayed fervently for a baby. But God did not answer her prayer. Not only that, Tullia’s husband eventually divorced her because she couldn’t produce the heir he wanted.”
“Tell him what she did to Cornelia,” Sergius said, his mouth a grim line that cut across his square face. For the first time Antony sensed that a profound sadness, not mere contrariness, lay behind the man’s argumentative facade.
“After her departure from the church, Tullia did more than spread rumors,” Plautius acknowledged. “She learned to cast spells, and she practiced on anyone she had a grudge against—most of them church members. About a year after she left the fellowship, Cornelia, Sergius’s wife, became pregnant, and when Tullia found out, she went into a jealous rage. She put a curse on Cornelia.” He shot an apologetic look at his brother. “We didn’t know about the curse until later, though. All we knew at the time was that Cornelia became mysteriously ill. She kept getting worse, and eventually she lost the baby—”
“And her life.” Sergius abruptly finished his brother’s thought.
The men grew quiet then, and Antony was left to contemplate the fact that Sergius had lost his wife and unborn child because of a witch’s curse. Was that really possible? Many people were superstitious and turned to sorcerers and mediums for all sorts of cures and remedies as well as predictions of the future. Antony had never consulted a magic practitioner and did not hold them in high regard, but he knew they could be found at all levels of society.
Marcellus finally spoke the question on Antony’s mind. “Are you sure the curse killed her?” he asked Sergius. “Perhaps she fell ill from another cause and it was just a coincidence.”
“She’d never been sick a day in her life,” Sergius said.
“Several people claimed to have heard Tullia pronounce the curse,” Plautius said. “They came forward after the funeral, and the news spread like wildfire.” He paused to look at Sergius again, as if judging whether to continue. “I don’t believe the curse killed Cornelia,” he finally said, “but I can’t explain why God healed my wife but not my brother’s. I don’t have an answer for it.”
Antony certainly didn’t have an answer for it either; he wasn’t even sure where to begin asking questions when it came to matters of faith. After a moment he told Sergius, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Sergius responded with a solemn nod, then turned to his brother. “And I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” he said to Plautius, “about holding you responsible.”
“That was your grief talking,” Plautius said sympathetically.
“I just got all stirred up again when I heard Tullia was making trouble. I don’t want her hurting anybody else, and I don’t want any more people becoming followers of hers.”
Plautius related to the others how Tullia’s reputation had risen after Cornelia’s death. “A lot of people began to fear her, and to respect her magical abilities at the same time,” he said. “Every time she casts a spell and it works, Tullia grows more powerful in the eyes of her neighbors.”
“She doesn’t grow more powerful in my eyes,” Verus said. “More wicked.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Plautius agreed. “And people seem to quickly forget the silly spells she casts that don’t come to fruition.”
Recalling something the brothers had said earlier, Antony asked, “Do you think Tullia has cast some kind of spell on Victor? Or put a curse on him?”
Plautius let the question hang in the air for a long moment, then he said, “It doesn’t matter. God’s power is far greater than any witch’s curse.”
“All we need to do,” Verus said, “is get that baby away from there. God will assist us, just as we prayed.”
“And we will trust Him that no harm will come to the child,” Sergius said. He pointed to a building about a hundred yards ahead of them. “The road to Tullia’s house is to the left, just before we get to that inn. Tullia’s brother owns the place.”
The group fell silent, and Antony brooded over their impending visit to the home of a witch. Was it possible she had access to a source of supernatural power? If so, was the Christian God truly more powerful, as his new friends believed? Antony suddenly wished he’d paid more attention to things his mother had tried to tell him about her faith over the years. And for the first time in his life, he wished he had the reassurance that he could rely on a power greater than his own.
Marcellus saw the inn Sergius pointed out and reckoned they must have traveled back to the southern edge of the city. There were few houses now, and he
could see the highway in the distance.
He also thought about what Plautius had said and knew in principle that it was true: Good and evil were not opposing but equal forces, and God’s power was greater—infinitely greater—than that of the most accomplished sorcerer or medium or witch.
Yet in the few months Marcellus had been a Christian, he’d had no opportunity to put that knowledge to the test. And before his conversion he’d been a bona fide skeptic when it came to spiritual matters— like Antony, who now appeared disconcerted by the turn the discussion had taken.
As they turned on the road by the inn, the men discussed what to do when they reached their destination. Sergius wanted to demand that Tullia hand over the child, and to seize him by force if she didn’t. Verus protested that they shouldn’t use physical force unless absolutely necessary; and besides that, they had no weapons.
Antony and Marcellus admitted they had brought their daggers with them. “I’ve only had to use mine once,” Antony said, “in self-defense.” He turned in the saddle and smiled. “A client who wasn’t too happy with the outcome of his case threatened to kill me.”
Sergius did not return the smile. “Are you prepared to use your weapon now?” he asked.
“I’m prepared to do whatever it takes,” Antony said slowly.
Plautius did not seem that concerned about a rescue strategy. “We’ll know what to do when we get there,” he said simply.
Marcellus noted Antony’s determination and recalled his recent interactions with Rebecca. The lawyer had no legal obligation to help rescue her baby, and his willingness to get involved seemed to go beyond a simple desire to protect an innocent child. Antony was clearly developing feelings for Rebecca, and that both pleased and worried Marcellus. Antony was a fine man, and Rebecca needed someone like him in her life. But she also didn’t need to be rushed into anything. Marcellus made up his mind to have a talk with Antony.
Marcellus had also been taken with Rebecca when he’d first met her, although his concern had been fatherly. His friendship with her and John had eventually led to important changes in Marcellus’s life. For one thing, he had become a Christian through their influence, and he believed the same thing could happen to Antony— in fact, he prayed earnestly that it would happen.
Beyond leading to his conversion, Marcellus’s relationship with Rebecca had renewed his concern for his own daughter, whom he had not seen in a dozen years. Before he left Devil’s Island, Marcellus had promised God that he would try to find her and make things right. He’d never meant to abandon his daughter, but his military service had taken him away from home for months or years at a time. Unable to bear the long separations, Marcellus’s wife had divorced him and remarried.
His mind drifted back to the last time he’d seen his little girl; she had just turned six, he remembered. She would be a grown woman now, a woman who probably had no memory of the father she’d barely known, and that realization pricked his heart like a needle.
Over the years Marcellus had buried the loss deep inside. When he’d met Rebecca, however, it brought the whole situation back to him. Rebecca was only a few years younger than his daughter, and Marcellus had been unable to resist trying to help the young prisoner survive the godforsaken island to which she’d been banished, even though it had entailed a substantial personal risk. All he could think of was how desperately he would want someone to help his own daughter if she were in such jeopardy.
For a moment Marcellus engaged in a bit of self-recrimination for not protecting Rebecca and Victor better. He wasn’t sure he could have done anything to prevent the kidnapping, but he couldn’t help feeling guilty that he had been the one to suggest she leave the baby with Agatha and start helping Helena a few hours every day. Perhaps if Rebecca had been at home with her son, this wouldn’t have happened.
No, he thought, Damian would have found some other way to strike a blow to the family. Still, Marcellus was dismayed that it had come to this, and that they were now riding into an unknown, and quite likely dangerous, situation.
Suddenly a horse whinnied nearby and everyone’s attention was once again riveted to the roadside. Marcellus did not see any other travelers, and he realized it had been a while since they had passed anyone on the road.
Verus was the first to spot the animal. He reined in his mount, and the others followed his lead. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the left. The horse was tethered to a tree just inside the thicket, but no rider was in sight.
“This road doesn’t get much traffic anymore,” Plautius observed. “It only leads to Tullia’s house and beyond that to an old abandoned mill. Not much cause for anyone to leave a horse tied up here.”
Antony asked, “Do you think it could be Jacob’s?”
“Perhaps,” Sergius said thoughtfully. “He might have wanted to approach on foot—make it less likely for someone to spot him in advance. If you travel through these woods, you come up to the back of Tullia’s house.”
“See where the brush is disturbed? Could be a hunter,” Verus pointed out. “I used to hunt deer in these parts all the time—before Tullia got so contrary, that is. I make it a point to avoid this area now.”
The late afternoon sun beamed down on the gravel road, making it sparkle in spots, but the low angle of the rays cast deepening shadows inside the thicket. “Whoever owns the horse is going to have to come out of the woods soon,” Marcellus said. “Another hour and it will be too dark to find the way out.”
Sergius nodded. “And that means we need to conclude our business with Tullia quickly.” He lifted the reins and prepared to ride again, but Antony held up a hand, signaling the others to remain still.
“Is it just me,” Antony said, “or does anybody else sense it?” The usually articulate lawyer now struggled for words.
“Sense what?” Marcellus asked.
“That there’s something ominous about that riderless horse,” Antony said, looking torn. “I have a strong feeling it belongs to Jacob and that we ought to investigate, yet we can’t do that and get to Tullia’s house to rescue Victor before dark.”
“We need discernment,” Plautius said, “and we know where to find it.” Before Antony or anyone else could object, Plautius bowed his head and prayed out loud. In three short sentences he petitioned heaven for the Holy Spirit’s wisdom, asked God not only for guidance, but boldness, and thanked Him for a successful outcome.
As soon as the group echoed the amen, Verus suggested they split up. “You two should go to Tullia’s,” he said to Plautius and Sergius, “because you know her best.” Offering a gap-toothed grin in Antony’s direction, he said, “And a smooth-talking lawyer might help convince her to give up the child without coming to blows.
“Marcellus and I can follow the trail inside the forest. If it leads away from Tullia’s house, we won’t pursue it; that would mean it wasn’t Jacob.”
Plautius approved of the plan. “Check it out,” he said as Verus and Marcellus climbed off the horses they were sharing with him and Sergius. “Then you can meet us at Tullia’s in case we need your help.”
The rescue party separated. Two men headed into the woods on foot while the other three proceeded on horseback.
11
ANTONY COULDN’T BELIEVE they were just going to stroll up to the front door and ask Tullia to hand over the baby, but that’s exactly what Plautius intended to do. And for some reason, Antony did not argue with him. The stocky little blacksmith possessed a quiet confidence Antony could not fathom.
When they reached the stone house, they tied their horses in front. Antony hadn’t known what to expect of the witch’s house. It was small but neat, he noted, and would have appeared inviting in other circumstances. As they walked up to the door, Antony felt for the dagger under his cloak, satisfying himself that his weapon was still in place. He hoped he would not have to use it, but he had decided he would not leave this place without Victor, whatever it took.
Plautius rapped forcefully on the door,
but there was no response. He knocked again; still no answer.
Sergius pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge. Antony was sure it had been bolted from the inside. So much for Plautius’s idea, he thought.
“Tullia,” Sergius called in a loud voice. “Open up. We’re not leaving until you do.”
Antony looked around, wondering how else they could get inside. If there were windows along the side of the house, they would probably be shuttered; however, they would be easier to break down than the solid door. Before he could suggest it to the others, Antony heard footsteps approaching the entrance from the inside.
An attractive but disheveled woman opened the door. Her light-brown hair was unpinned and windblown, her clothes dirt-stained and in disarray. Oddly, though, her face and hands were clean and still damp, as if she had just washed. Her complexion was lighter than most of the local women, Antony noted, and her skin had a pinkish glow from the fresh scrubbing.
“Good day, Tullia.” Plautius nodded politely.
“I’m not receiving visitors,” she announced. “Especially not you two.” Tullia did not invite them in, and she did not step over the threshold toward the unexpected guests. Keeping one hand on the open door, she glanced uneasily at her cousins, as if wary of their motives.
“We won’t stay long,” Plautius said. “We just came for the child.”
“What are you talking about?” Tullia asked.
“You know exactly what we’re talking about.” Sergius was not as patient or as even-tempered as his brother. “We want the child Damian brought you for safekeeping.”
Tullia’s eyes widened, and she hesitated slightly before denying the accusation. “There’s no child here,” she said, “and I think you should leave now.” She started to close the door, but Antony anticipated her movement and quickly wedged his foot inside.
“Where is Damian?” Antony asked, pushing the door open wide and forcing Tullia to take a step backward. “Is he here?”
