“Then the younger is the Jew who has turned away from his religion,” Phoebe said. She glanced at Hadassah for confirmation.
“Mankind was created in God’s image, my lady. Not only the Jew.” Hadassah looked at Decimus. “We are all God’s children. He loves us equally, whether Jew or Gentile, slave or free. We cannot earn his love, we can only accept it as a gift—a gift that he will give to each one of us.”
Decimus was amazed at her words, amazed even further that she had spoken them aloud. The mask had slipped and the true face of her religion was before him. He wondered if Hadassah even understood the implications of what she offered, or the threat of her ideology to the very structure of the Roman Empire. “You may go,” he said, watching her rise gracefully and leave the room.
The Jews were despised for their morality, their separatism, their rigid adherence to their laws, their stubborn belief in one god. Even as a slave, Enoch had a certain arrogance about him, believing he was a member of a chosen race. What Hadassah said about her god went beyond even that. Her words broke down the walls of bloodline and tradition. Every man a child of God, all equal in his sight. No righteous Jew would agree with—nor Roman emperor tolerate—such a claim, for it broke the pride of one and the power of the other.
But something more disturbed Decimus. He’d heard words like hers before, cried out in a strong voice to a multitude who’d gathered near the Egyptian obelisk. The man who had said them was crucified upside down. A man called Peter.
“It would seem our little Hadassah is not a Jew after all, Phoebe,” he said solemnly. “But a Christian.”
Atretes’ despair grew with his hatred as he stood on the sand and saw what revenge Domitian had planned. Facing him was a powerfully built young man with a beard and long, flowing blond hair. He wore a bearskin and held a framea. A captive, Bato had said, giving him as much warning as he could. A German captive, and by his markings one of his own tribe, though he didn’t recognize him.
“Atretes! Atretes!” the mob cried out, their chant only dying down gradually as he made no move to attack. Others in the mob shouted derisive insults. How swiftly the tide changed. Another wave began among the throng who but moments before had loved him. “Whip them! Burn them!” Atretes saw one of the trainers come out with a hot iron and knew he meant to prod the young captive into battle. On his own side, Bato appeared near the wall, looking grim. He glanced pointedly toward Domitian’s box. Turning his head, Atretes looked up. Domitian and his friend were laughing!
As the German warrior let out a whelp of pain, Atretes unleashed his fury on the Roman trainer. The gasp of the crowd could be heard as he cut the man down with a swipe of his gladius. Stunned, the arena rang with silence.
Atretes faced the warrior and took up a defensive stance. “Kill me if you can!” he ordered in German.
“You are Chatti!” the man said in amazement.
“Fight!”
The warrior lowered his framea. “I will not fight a brother. Not for the pleasure of a Roman mob!” He looked around at the mass of people and spat on the sand.
Atretes saw himself five years before. His knuckles whitened on the gladius. He had to make him fight or they would both die ignobly. And so Atretes taunted the younger man as he had been taunted, mocked his pride, rubbed his face in the defeat that had brought him captive to a Roman arena. He knew where the fire in a German’s heart lay and fanned the flame until the point of the framea came up again and the young man’s eyes were blazing.
“You look Roman, you smell Roman . . . you are Roman!” the warrior said, cutting deeper wounds in Atretes than he could ever know.
The captive fought well, but not well enough. Atretes tried to make the fight last, but the mob wasn’t fooled and began to shout angrily. Atretes took the next opening and, when he pulled his blade free, the warrior dropped to his knees, gripping his midsection. Blood oozed between his fingers as he raised his head with an effort.
“I never thought to die at the hands of a brother,” he said thickly, the contempt still all too clear.
“Better me than to be thrown to wild animals or nailed to a Roman cross,” Atretes said. He bent down and picked up the framea, steeling himself for what he had to do. He handed it to the warrior. “Let them see how a German can die.” When the man just looked at him, he shouted, “Get off your knees!”
The man used his weapon to rise. As soon as he was on his feet, Atretes drove the gladius through the warrior’s sternum, piercing his heart. He held him upright and spoke into his face, “I send you home to Tiwaz.” He let go of his sword and let the man fall straight back, arms outstretched as the mob screamed approval.
Breathing heavily, Atretes didn’t retrieve the Roman gladius. Instead, he bent and picked up the framea. Tears blurring his eyes, he turned and glared up at Domitian. Even in victory, Atretes knew he’d been defeated. Thrusting the framea high, he called curses down upon them all in German.
Bato had Atretes brought to him before he was returned to his quarters for the night. “Vespasian sold you to Sertes. You sail for Ephesus in two days,” he said.
A muscle jerked in Atretes’ cheek, but he said nothing.
“This opportunity was bought at a high price. Don’t waste it,” Bato said.
Atretes turned his head a fraction and looked at him. Bato had never seen such cold eyes before.
“May the gods continue to smile on you and give you the freedom you justly deserve,” Bato said, jerking his head in silent command for the two guards to take Atretes away.
In the darkness of his cell, Atretes buried his face in his hands and wept.
Chapter 25
Hadassah sat on the floor with fellow believers and listened to Asyncritus speak of problems they all faced.
“Ours is a struggle to live a godly life in a fleshly world. We must remember we are not called upon by God to make society a better place to live. We are not called upon to gain political influence, nor to preserve the Roman way of life. God has called us to a higher mission, that of bringing to all mankind the Good News that our Redeemer has come . . .”
Bowing her head, Hadassah closed her eyes and prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness. She was ashamed. She had brought the Good News to no one. When opportunities presented themselves, she shied away from them out of fear. Her master and mistress asked her to tell them about God, and she cloaked the truth within a parable. She should have told them about Jesus, of his death on a cross, of his resurrection, of his promises to all who believed in him.
Asyncritus went on speaking, remembering what Peter and Paul had taught him before they were martyred. He read again from the apostle’s memoirs, and Hadassah fought tears.
How could she withhold the truth from those she loved so much? She prayed for each of them unceasingly. And yet, was prayer all she was required to give? How could they ever turn to God if she merely entertained them with stories and not facts? How could they ever understand the deeper meaning behind the stories if they didn’t know God? She pressed her fist against her chest over and over again, wanting ease from the pain she felt. God had placed her in their household for a purpose, and she was failing to fulfill it.
Why were the Valerians so obsessed with unimportant things? A week didn’t pass that she didn’t hear Marcus and Decimus arguing politics and business. “The national budget must be balanced and the public debt reduced!” Decimus insisted; Marcus argued that the authorities had too much control and must be limited. Decimus blamed Rome’s problems on the imbalance of foreign trade, saying the Roman people had forgotten how to work and had become content to live on public assistance.
“You’ve been importing goods for the last thirty years and getting rich on the proposition,” Marcus was quick to point out. “Now that you have the protection of your Roman citizenship, you want to deny others the same opportunities.” He laughed. “Not that I don’t agree in part. The less competition, the higher the price!”
On only one issue did both agree: The
nation was headed for bankruptcy.
Following many such arguments, Phoebe summoned Hadassah to play her harp and soothe their troubled spirits. Hadassah’s own heart was full of sorrow. What did it matter whether Rome fell? What did any nation matter when measured against the eternity of a single human soul? But how could she, a simple slave girl, open the eyes of these Romans she had come to love to what was truly important?
She sought answers in congregating with other Christians. Sometimes answers were there. Sometimes they weren’t.
Oh, God, help me, Hadassah prayed fervently, her fist pressed against her aching heart. Give me courage. Give me your Word. Burn it into my mind, carve it into my heart, show me the way to reach them!
How could she begin to explain to the Valerians about a Savior when none of them felt a need for one? How could she explain they belonged to God, who created them, when they believed in ridiculous stone idols and not in an almighty Creator? How could she begin to tell them who God is or prove to them God existed, other than by her own faith, the meager faith of a slave? And what was faith but the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen?
Oh, Yeshua, Yeshua, I love you. Please help them.
She didn’t even know the right words to ask for what she needed. Why else had God placed her in the Valerian household if not to bring them the Good News of Christ? She sensed the hunger in them and knew she had the bread that would fill them for eternity. They never needed to hunger again . . . but how could she get them to eat of it?
The serenity she found in meeting with other believers lingered all the way through the streets of Rome. She could pour out her love for God and be understood among the others. She could rejoice in singing and communal prayer. She could partake of Communion and feel close to God. If only she could hold on to that feeling of renewal all through the night and coming day.
She slipped silently inside the side door to the villa’s gardens and lowered the bar again. She hurried along the pathway and entered the back of the house. She closed the door quietly, then gasped as a strong hand caught hold of her arm and spun her around.
“Where have you been?” Marcus said. His fingers tightened, demanding a response, but she was too frightened to speak. “We’re going to talk,” he said and propelled her along the corridor, into a lamplit room. Releasing her, he closed the door and turned to her.
“Jews don’t meet at night nor in secret,” he said, his eyes glittering with anger.
She drew back from the intensity of his emotions.
“I’ll ask you again! Where have you been?”
“Worshiping God with other believers,” she said, her voice trembling.
“By believers you mean other Christians, don’t you?” Her face went ghastly pale at his accusation. “Aren’t you going to deny it?” he demanded roughly.
She lowered her head. “No, my lord,” she said very softly.
He jerked her chin up. “Do you know what I could do to you for being a member of a religion that preaches anarchy? I could have you killed.” He saw the fear come into her eyes. She should be afraid. She should be terrified. He took his hand from her.
“We don’t preach anarchy, my lord.”
“No? What would you call it when your religion demands you obey your god above an emperor?” He was furious. “By the gods, a Christian in my father’s household!” He wondered why he hadn’t guessed sooner. His father only had to make some offhand remark suggesting the possibility, and all the pieces of the puzzle fell together. “You’ll listen to me and obey. Here it ends, Hadassah. As long as you remain with us, you won’t leave the villa unless ordered to do so. Under no circumstances will you meet with these Christians, nor will you so much as speak to one of them on the street in a chance meeting. Do you understand me?” His eyes narrowed on her pale, shocked face. She lowered her head. “Look at me!”
She lifted her head again and looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Seeing how deeply he had hurt her, he became angrier. “Answer me!”
“I understand,” she said very softly.
He felt a pang of remorse at his harshness and a muscle jerked in his jaw. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand a thing.” She didn’t know the risk she took. “These people have to hide in the darkness. They have to conceal their ceremonies. They can’t even put a likeness of their god into a temple to worship like ordinary people. I don’t know how you became enmeshed with these people, but your involvement with them stops and it stops now.”
“Is Rome so afraid of truth she must destroy it?”
Marcus struck her across the face, a blow that rocked her and surprised a gasp of pain from her lips. She raised a trembling hand to her cheek.
“You forget to whom you speak!” Marcus rasped. He had never struck a woman under any circumstance, and the fact that he had struck this one made his heart twist inside him. But he would strike her again if it would make her listen to him and heed his warning and his command.
She recovered quickly and bowed her head in subservience. “I apologize, my lord.”
The palm of his hand burned, but that was nothing to the burning in his conscience. She’d never done anything but serve each member of the family with eager devotion and love. He thought of the whip marks on her back and knew she had taken them for Julia. He remembered her reasoning with him in Claudius’ garden, convincing him to spare the slaves, because she feared her god would punish him.
Belief in that god was the cause of this.
Belief in that god was going to get her killed!
He had to make her understand.
Marcus tipped her chin and saw the pink imprint of his fingers on her pale cheek. Her eyes didn’t meet his, but he could see they were carefully expressionless. He felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. “Hadassah,” he whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to protect you.” He laid his hand over the mark, wanting to cover it and make it go away.
Her eyes flickered to his and he saw an infinite sorrow and compassion in them. She gently laid her own hand over his as though to comfort him. He cupped her face, drawing her close and filling his lungs with the scent of her.
“Hadassah . . . oh, Hadassah . . . ” He bent and kissed her. Hearing her soft gasp, his heart raced, and he dug his fingers into her hair, kissing her again. Her hands pressed palm-flat against his chest, but he pulled her fully into his arms and slanted his mouth over hers. She stiffened, and then, for one brief, heady moment, she melted against him, her mouth softening beneath his, her hands clinging rather than resisting. Then, as though suddenly realizing what was happening, she struggled in panic.
He released her, and she jerked back from him, her eyes wide and dark. Her breath came in soft gasps that made his heart race. She stepped back.
“I want you,” he said softly. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
She shook her head and stepped back further from him.
“Don’t look at me like that, Hadassah. I’m not threatening you with a beating. I want to love you.”
“I’m a slave.”
“I don’t need to be reminded. I know who and what you are.”
She closed her eyes tightly. No, he didn’t. He knew nothing about her, not really. Nothing that mattered. “I must go, my lord. Please.”
“Go where?”
“To my quarters.”
“I want to come with you.”
She looked at him again, her hand clutching the wool of her tunic. “Have I a choice?”
Marcus knew what she’d say if he gave her one. Against all natural human instincts, her cursed god demanded purity of his followers. “What if I said no?”
“I would beg you not to violate me.”
He flushed hotly. “Violate you?” The word cut him and roused his already heightened anger. “My family owns you. It’s no violation to take what I want from something that belongs to me. It’s a sign of the respect I have for you that I’d even—”
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br /> He stopped, hearing himself. For the first time in his life, Marcus was filled with an unspeakable shame. As he stared at her, for just an instant he saw himself as she must see him, and he winced. Something, he had called her. Something! Was that how he really thought of her? As a possession to be used without consideration of her feelings?
Marcus stared at her bleakly and saw how vulnerable she was. She was white and tense, a pulse throbbing in her throat. He longed to hold her, to comfort her.
“I didn’t mean that.” He came close to her and saw her body tense even more, but by obligation she had to remain. Running the back of his knuckles down her soft cheek, he sought some way to make amends. “I will not violate you,” he said. He tipped her chin. “I want to love you. You want me, too, Hadassah. Maybe you’re too innocent to realize it, but I know.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “Sweet little Hadassah, let me show you what love can be. Say yes.”
She trembled, her body responding to the touch of his hand, the gentle huskiness of his voice, the sense of his growing desire—and her own. She could hardly draw breath at his closeness. . . .
But what he spoke of was wrong. What he asked her to do would not be pleasing to God.
“Say yes,” he whispered. “One little word could make me so happy . . .”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Say yes,” he said heavily.
She closed her eyes. God, help me! she cried within her heart. She had loved Marcus for so long. The feelings he roused in her now were melting her inside, burning away her reason, making her forget everything but the feel of his hands. He kissed her again, his lips parting. She turned her face away. Yeshua, help me resist these feelings! Marcus’ hand touched her gently, and the shock of sensation made her draw back.
He closed his eyes, a strange sense of loss filling him at her withdrawal.
“Why must you, of all the women I’ve wanted, worship a god who demands purity?” He reached out again and cupped her face. “Give up this god of yours. All he does is deny you the few pleasures life has to offer.”
A Voice in the Wind Page 41
