Man of God

by Diaz, Debra

  MAN OF GOD

  DEBRA DIAZ

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Debra Diaz

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your use only. It may not be re-sold or digitally reproduced for use by another person. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  This book is the standalone sequel to Woman of Sin. It is not necessary to have read Woman of Sin in order to enjoy the reading of this book.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologus

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  PROLOGUS, 40 AD

  Tiberius Caesar was dead, supposedly of natural causes, but it was rumored that he had been murdered. The story began with his traveling about in Campania in defiance of an increasing physical weakness; he finally stopped at a villa on the southern coast of Italy, where his physician informed Sutorius Macro, the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, that the emperor was about to breathe his last. Hiding their exultance, Macro and the emperor’s grandnephew, Caligula, sent out dispatches and laid their plans…and when the old man had expired, Caligula made the “grim” announcement to a group of his own admirers, who were also thrilled, and didn’t hesitate to show it. The young man was still tearfully addressing them when an irritable voice rang out from the imperial bedchamber:

  “Where is everybody? By the gods, I want something to eat!”

  Panicking, everyone scattered…but the emperor’s recovery was short-lived. Caligula sought out Macro, who calmly proceeded to smother the old man under a pile of his own bedclothes.

  It was, however, just a rumor.

  The nickname, Caligula, meaning “Little Boots”, had been bestowed upon Gaius Caesar when he was but two or three years old by soldiers of his father’s army, when he had gone strutting about the campgrounds in a tiny but authentic uniform. He’d been popular even then, and now was hailed with delight as the new emperor. At last grouchy old Tiberius was dead! Here was the young and noble son of Germanicus…Germanicus, who had been loved by everyone—except by whoever killed him.

  True, the new emperor had an odd and feeble appearance, with a wide forehead, wispy pale hair, high cheekbones and a weak chin, and a sad and drooping mouth that could harden into a line of abject cruelty. But few saw the cruelty, at first. At the age of twenty-five, he gave the impression of great promise. In spite of his look of frailty, he had a strong voice that served him well onstage, for he had a passionate love of theater. He declared, in that fine, orator’s voice, that Rome should never again fear the sort of despotism that had taken place during the reign of Tiberius. A year passed, during which he improved the tax system, increased pay to the army, sponsored spectacular events in the arena, gave free food to the masses, and brought about many other reforms that solidified the public’s approval of him.

  But the following year…something happened. Caligula fell victim to a mysterious illness, and when he recovered, he had changed. (Though many who knew him well said he did not change at all; he only stopped putting on a show of goodness.) No one could decide whether he was indeed mad, or if he was simply running amuck, having gone in such a short time from obscurity to being the most powerful man in the world.

  He began a reign of terror that made Tiberius’ treason trials look like the antics of schoolboys, and embarked upon such sexual abandon that even Rome was outraged. There was only one man who could give him pause once he set his mind upon some frantic and incomprehensible course of action, and that was his uncle. (His old confidant, Macro, had gone the way of many others…stripped of his position two years ago, after which he and his wife committed suicide.)

  Uncle Claudius was as unlike his brother as it was possible to be. Germancius had been handsome, affable, an excellent soldier; the unfortunate Claudius was unprepossessing in appearance, limped, stuttered and was generally regarded as a fool. It was, however, a calculated effect, for Claudius had a keen intelligence and did not mind if it was underrated, since if he’d been considered a true threat to the throne he would no doubt exist only as a heap of ashes, like most of his other relatives.

  Caligula would never confess it, but in spite of his scorn for Claudius’ physical and presumed mental shortcomings, he had a grudging respect for the practical advice his uncle could give him on occasion…after all, even idiots could have a degree of common sense, could they not? Claudius was well acquainted with politics and human nature, and had watched, with a jaundiced eye, all the happenings in Rome from the time of Augustus.

  “Tell me, Uncle,” the emperor said one day, pretending to yawn with boredom, “what do you think of this new sect that calls itself the Nazarenes, or whatever it is?”

  Claudius’ mouth sometimes worked and twitched a few times before anything came out. “I—I don’t think anything about them. After all, they worship another god instead of those of Rome and your Divine Maj—majesty. It is wise to ignore them and most likely the whole thing will die out eventu—ally.”

  Caligula rose from his marble, cushioned bench and strode to the edge of the palace balcony where he struck his habitual pose, bending a knee, grasping the finely embroidered edge of his toga. He cocked his head and rolled his eyes thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know about that. Look at the Jews. They worship another god and we have very graciously allowed them to do so. Perhaps that has been a mistake. I can only imagine what they would do if I required them to bow down to me. In fact, I decided some time ago I would put a statue of myself in their Temple over in Jerusalem.”

  Claudius tried to conceal his horror. “It wouldn’t be worth the consequences, your Majesty. You know they would fight to the death before allowing such a sac—that is, what they consider a sacrilege, my Lord Emp—orer.”

  “That’s just the problem, Uncle,” Caligula said softly, with small pouches puffing out on either side of his mouth. “And the Nazarenes are just as stubborn. They worship the same god, I hear, but somehow this dead Jew is mixed into it and they think he is on equal footing with their god. I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense. It would be better all the way round if everybody stopped this twaddle, and admitted there is only one Lord, one King!”

  “One Lord, One King,” Claudius intoned. It was Caligula’s favorite appellation for himself.

  Caligula turned and strode toward his uncle, who sat beside a small potted tree and seemed to be trying to hide behind it. “I am going to call for an assembly. Rulers and chieftains from all over the empire. We shall see how widespread this problem is and decide how to deal with it. Well, actually, I have other reasons for this gathering, but that one will do well enough. And now for that other matter that concerns me. You remember Paulus Valerius, do you not?”

  “We met several times, years ago. He was always k—kind to me.”

  “Kindness is weakness, Uncle! Paulus Valerius Maximus is not weak. It was pity for your wretchedness you saw. Tiberius was most anxious to find him, before his…death. And I have often wondered what became of Valerius. He has rec
ently been seen here in Rome! Someone reported it to me. But we can’t find him. When we do, you can be sure we will have some questions for him to answer.”

  “Questions?” Claudius repeated, reluctantly.

  “Yes, questions!” The emperor’s eyes became fixed; his tone softened again. “Such as, why did he abandon his appointment and leave Jerusalem? Why has he remained hidden these seven years? And where is that woman he supposedly rescued, the one who killed Magnus Eustacius?”

  “Why such an interest in Valerius?” Claudius was afraid to ask, but knew his nephew expected it.

  “I liked him,” Caligula almost whispered. “He reminds me of—someone. Why is his statue not in the Forum of Augustus?”

  “He never p—permitted it, your Majesty. It seemed he lacked the pa-patience for such things.”

  “I want him as head of my bodyguard. Flavius will have to take second place.”

  Claudius didn’t think that was a good idea. “Even though he helped the woman escape? Even considering he has broken his oath and is no longer a soldier?”

  “We shall see about that. As for the woman…well, who cares about Eustacius! He was a bumbling sot like his father. But he was an aristocrat, after all—therefore, she must die.”

  Caligula jerked his head around as if listening, then turned back to his uncle, who now sat with alarm bells ringing in his own head. “Jupiter has spoken,” the emperor declared, with a familiar, wide-eyed expression that Claudius could never decide was comical, or one from which to flee as speedily as possible.

  “We will start a search for the woman. We have a description; she is quite a beauty, I’ve heard. Indigo eyes, hair like a black waterfall. Whoever said that is a poet! She’s Greek, an aristocrat herself, before her father was executed and she was sent off as a slave. I am certain that when we find her, we will find Valerius as well. And both of their fates will be up to me…not to the dead Nazarene, not to the unknown God, and not even to Jupiter. Don’t tell Jupiter I said that, Uncle. One Lord, One King!”

  CHAPTER I

  Paulus Valerius Maximus had become so accustomed to a sense of imminent danger that he no longer trusted his instincts. Once he had lived by them, as did most soldiers of high rank…and though he still led men, gone were the days he had carried them into battle. Now it was a different kind of battle, and the danger was more subtle and ill defined. It lurked in daylight and dark, it peered from shadows, it hid in the eyes of those who offered friendship and intended malice. He didn’t care about himself…it was those he loved that he sought to protect, and yet he knew it wasn’t really himself who protected them. He had little control over what happened in life, but he trusted the One who did.

  That didn’t, however, stop him from thinking of all the things that could go amiss. It was a weakness he hadn’t managed to conquer.

  He tried to merge as unobtrusively as possible into the dense throng swarming toward the harbor. His hooded robe, combined with the heat of July radiating from the pavement and brick buildings around him, made him feel uncomfortably warm. At least he wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, for dozens of other men were garbed in a similar fashion, mostly Jews and other easterners; Roman men wore tunics, and some, who wished to let everyone know how important they were, wore togas.

  The hood covered his neck-length mane of wheat-colored hair, now liberally threaded with silver, and most of a face too striking for a mere glance. His appearance had proved to be disadvantageous for a person in hiding, as had his wife’s. Yet in all these years they had not been recognized…himself as a Roman legate who had resigned his post and disappeared, and Alysia as a former slave who had killed a Roman citizen of senatorial rank, and managed to escape before being arrested.

  Paulus had aided in that escape. Alysia had been his sister’s slave, and the man she killed was about to rape her. With Paulus’ urging she had boarded a ship bound for Cyprus, a ship that had been caught in a storm and sunk, leaving him to bitterly believe he had sent her to her death. What he didn’t know was that she had changed ships at Crete and sailed to Palestine, where she had lived for a year before he found her again…by chance, he had thought then, before learning that very little happened by chance.

  They had both learned a great many things during those years in Jerusalem.

  He began to be impatient as he made his way through the clots of people—those who were moving, the ones who stopped to chat, those who were looking around as if either lost, or overawed by the great marble and stone buildings. Ostia was more like an annex to Rome than a separate city; she was Rome’s port, where vessels from the sea sailed onto the Tiber, unloaded their merchandise and sent it on barges upriver toward the smaller docks at Rome, some sixteen miles to the north. Among many other imports, the ships brought in grain, wine, oil and wheat…thus, the larger part of Rome’s food storage, and the agents who controlled it, were located here.

  He turned off the main street and went down another that ran parallel to the river, seeking the shade and coolness offered by the trees lining its bank. He arrived finally at the docks, passing warehouses with sloping ramps, slaves and pack animals, the tables of the customs officers, agents inspecting merchandise for their employers, workers loading barges, clerks making payments to crews.

  He wondered how long he would have to wait. He was reasonably certain the ship carrying his wife and daughter would arrive within an hour or two; he still had connections to people who knew such things. The ship, with its distinguishing characteristic of a bull’s head carved into its bow, had been sighted yesterday sailing near the coastline, by one of the lighthouses. Before they left Joppa, Alysia had written him a description of the ship, and the letter had gone its usual clandestine way, to the house of his mother and into the hands of Omari, a household slave…who had dispatched a trusted messenger to him. After receiving word yesterday of the ship’s proximity, Paulus had estimated the time of arrival and hoped he wouldn’t be too far off.

  Ah, there it was…he could see it, still far out in the glistening water, but making good progress. The square sails flapped in the breeze and he felt a wave of jubilation… at last! He hadn’t realized how desperate he was to see them. He paced back and forth, ignoring the benches where others sat waiting the arrival of passengers.

  They’d been gone for months—since the middle of April. Someone that Alysia had known in Bethany had died, and she had wanted to go and visit the family. He’d finally given in, and Rachel wanted to go with her. It wasn’t a good time for Paulus to go, for he was teaching new converts who were about to embark on journeys spreading the word of God. His friend and former slave, Simon—who lived in Rome near his two young sons and their wives—had consented to go with them, for protection.

  The moment they’d left Paulus was filled with consternation; he must have been insane to let them go! So many years had gone by he’d grown lax in his watchfulness, and after what had happened on their last sea voyage…he shook off a memory too painful to contemplate just now. By God’s grace they were coming safely home, and he tried to shake off, too, that tiny but insistent feeling that something was about to go wrong.

  * * *

  Alysia clutched at the rail as the ship slipped into its mooring, resisting the urge to wave as hard as she could. She would know him anywhere, even if the hood did cover half his smiling face…She laughed with sheer joy and beside her Rachel laughed too, and clasped her hand. Behind them, their good friend Simon chuckled deeply.

  “From the looks of him he’s missed the two of you—a little,” he said, steadying Rachel as the ship jostled against the dock. They began to gather up their belongings, as did the hundred or so others who had obtained passage on this merchant ship, sharing with each other small spaces on the wooden deck. The crew hastened to obey the captain’s orders, letting down the plank to allow departure from the ship, and everyone surged toward it. A bronze statue of Neptune stood on the bow…to bid them farewell.

  At last they were on the landing. Paul
us came toward them swiftly, giving Alysia a short embrace, but a long look that made her feel as though she’d been thoroughly kissed. She felt the warmth on her face as he picked up Rachel and held her close.

  “And how was your eighth birthday, darling—not very good at sea, was it? I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “We missed you!”

  “We’ll have a real celebration now that you’re home. Simon, I thank God for you!”

  “It was a fine journey, Paulus. No—problems. I’m glad I was able to go. I stayed with Stephen’s family.”

  A little of the gladness faded in Paulus’ eyes at the mention of Stephen, but he kissed Rachel and put her down, and took some of the baggage from Simon. “We’ll have to walk to the north side of town,” he said. “I’ve hired a coach to take us to Rome.”

  “May we get something to eat, Father?” Rachel asked. She was a quiet child but a usually happy one, having been impressed throughout her life by the need for quietness. She had Alysia’s slenderness and delicate features, and Paulus’ coloring, with dark blonde hair and eyes somewhere between blue and green. As a baby she had strongly resembled Paulus’s sister, Selena, but that resemblance faded as she grew older.

  “Of course we can. Let’s wait until we get closer to the forum, shall we?”

  They set out walking along the well-paved, main street. The jostling crowd had become only slightly less dense in this late hour of the day. Leading the way, Paulus maneuvered through a busy intersection, passing temples and shrines, fine houses, multi-storied basilicas, baths, shops selling all manner of goods…and a large number of taverns. Finally they stopped at a large, open building where a man stood behind a stone counter, dealing with several patrons lined up before him.

  “Cheese and wine, bread and fruit,” Simon said, reading the sign. “I think I’ll have two of each.”