Man of God

by Diaz, Debra

  He caught the axe deftly and ran around to the other end of the stable, where that door was locked from the inside. The fire and the most dense smoke hadn’t reached this area yet, and if he could get the door down they might be able to save the foals. He heaved the axe into the wooden door over and over until it began to give way. The men with him pushed and kicked until it fell, and they rushed in to search through the haze for the latch that hemmed in the young horses. They, too, were wild; many had to be grabbed by their manes and pulled out through the door. The fire surged toward them, bringing a blast of intolerable heat and rolling smoke.

  “That’s all but one!” one of the men shouted to Paulus. “It won’t move. We’d better get out!”

  Paulus had one foal by the mane; he slapped its rump and it leaped up to run through the doorway. Turning back, he knew he had enough time to get the last one out, and found it in a corner of its stall, paralyzed with fright. He seized a handful of mane but the colt, larger than the others, wouldn’t budge. He was in pain now, his lungs about to burst, his flesh searing. Once again he could barely see, but between billows of smoke he spied a leather strap lying across the petition between stalls. Grabbing it, he lashed at the animal until it bolted and ran for the corridor, nearly trampling him. Confused, it turned the wrong way and began to head into the fire. Paulus threw himself into its side and pushed with all his strength, until it wheeled and galloped for the door.

  Hardly able to stand, he lurched after the horse, flinging himself through the door and into the fresh air. The other men waved torches they had grabbed from the courtyard, and chased the animals into the nearby pasture. In the darkness, Paulus suddenly felt vise-like hands grip his upper arms and a voice growled into his ear: “This is what happens to Jews and Nazarenes! No more spreading the word around here!”

  Pain exploded in his head as something crashed against it, and just before all awareness left him he felt himself being dragged back into the now raging inferno.

  * * *

  Alysia raced toward the men holding torches as the last of the colts and fillies scrambled into the pasture. “My husband!” she called frantically. “Where is my husband?”

  Several broke away and ran toward her. “He didn’t come out?”

  “No—where is he?”

  They began running toward the other side of the stable, with Alysia and many of the other slaves following. Rachel had been told to stay close by the pond and she sat down, stunned. The fire lit the entire landscape, and she could feel its heat even here. Two of the women slaves came and sat beside her.

  One of the men with Alysia started to turn back. “I’ll get the blankets, and a rope to lead us back out!”

  “There’s no time!” said another, and he disappeared into the wall of smoke, followed at once by the others.

  Alysia felt crushed by anxiety as she waited… why hadn’t he come out? No one could survive in that! The flames roared, and she could hear crashing sounds as the building began to fall in upon itself. Waves of heat and smoke engulfed her, and she was on the verge of running into that impenetrable gray curtain herself when she saw three shadowy forms emerging…two men, with Paulus sagging in the middle. The two other men were immediately behind them, and they all rushed out, gasping and coughing. There was no sound from Paulus; he staggered between his rescuers, his face and skin streaked with black, his tunic black and smoldering, dotted with burn holes.

  “Get this off of him!” Alysia cried, pulling at the tunic. They managed to remove Paulus’ clothes before they all collapsed onto the ground. More slaves ran toward them and Alysia sent one of them back for a blanket. She knelt beside her husband.

  “Paulus, can you hear me?”

  All at once he began to cough and retch; she rolled him over on his side, examining him in the light cast by the fire. Beneath the streaks of soot his skin was red, but he didn’t seem to be badly burned. He turned onto his back, opened his eyes and focused on her face; they were very blue and shot through with red.

  “I hear you, Alysia,” he croaked. “I’m all right.”

  The slave rushed to them, carrying one of the wet blankets, and he and Alysia tucked it around Paulus’ body. She smoothed back his hair and he winced suddenly, and groaned. Her fingers found a huge swelling.

  “He’s hit his head…”

  The others dragged themselves up from the ground. Paulus struggled to speak.

  “Someone hit me—pulled me inside.”

  “I tripped over a shovel…just inside the door,” one of the men said breathlessly. “Somewhere it…shouldn’t have been.”

  “Who was it?” Alysia exclaimed. “Who would have done such a thing?”

  Paulus shook his head, unable to answer. Another of the slaves ran forward with a large cup of water; Alysia took it, slowly raised Paulus’ head, and held it to his lips. When she handed it back to the slave she saw Rachel approaching slowly, her eyes wide with dread and fear. She managed to smile at her daughter as she eased Paulus’ head back to the ground. “He’s going to be all right, dear.”

  Paulus held up his arm from the elbow and took Rachel’s hand. She dropped down beside him and put his hand to her cheek.

  “Thank you,” he said after a moment, addressing the men around him. “You saved my life.”

  “It was God who saved you,” said one of them. “We never would have found you—we couldn’t see anything. And then—there you were. It is a miracle you’re alive, sir.”

  “There were men—at least two,” Paulus said laboriously. “Hiding in the woods.”

  “I’ll have the place searched,” said the slave.

  “Probably gone—by now.” He told them, pausing for breath, what the men had said. “Be careful from now on…keep watch.”

  “We should get you into the house, sir.”

  While Paulus protested that he could walk, another large blanket was brought and he was laid upon it; four slaves picked up each end and he was carried into the house, and down the corridor to the bedroom. Alysia and Rachel followed as he was placed on the bed. They all smelled of smoke…Alysia thought she would never be able to smell anything else.

  “Would you please bring a basin of water and some cloths?” Alysia asked one of the slaves hovering outside the door. She went to stand beside the bed, her gown and robe askew, her hair tumbled about her shoulders, a smudge of soot on one cheek.

  “You look—beautiful,” Paulus said, with an appreciative but crooked grin, then closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  “Your father,” Alysia said quietly, smiling down at Rachel, “is going to be fine.”

  Rachel, who had made a valiant effort not to cry, put her arms around her mother’s waist and hugged her…as tightly as she could.

  * * *

  Horatius came two days later, after receiving word of the fire, and found Paulus at the stable, looking over the ruins and charred stone walls. Slaves had thrown water over several areas that were still smoldering, and the odors of ash and soot hung heavy in the air. A stout breeze had dispersed much of the haze of smoke.

  “Antonius!” said the white-haired man, ambling toward Paulus with a worried frown. “How are you, Antonius?”

  Paulus greeted him with a smile and answered, “A sore head. And a hard one, thankfully.”

  “Thank the Lord! Any ill effects from the fire?”

  “Red skin, a few blisters. Coughing is much better. I have indeed been blessed. But I’m sorry about all this, Horatius. I feel I am to blame. I’ll help you to rebuild.”

  “Nonsense! Rebuilding is a simple matter—I’m only grateful that you and others were able to save the horses. But you shouldn’t have risked your life, Antonius. And as for blame…more nonsense! Obviously someone around here has something against believers in Jesus, and that includes many of my slaves…may the Lord be praised! Any one of them could have spoken of their faith at the marketplace, and inspired the same reaction.”

  “Still, I feel responsible for drawing attention
to you. Please let me pay for the stable.”

  “I won’t hear of it!” Horatius looked slightly surprised that Paulus would have the means to pay for such an undertaking. “Come, let’s go and look at the horses. I’m arranging to have them kept in other stables…owned by friends of mine…until I’ve built another one. And I’ll get some good watchdogs for the place—a Molossus or two—they’re great fearsome brutes!”

  The two men walked toward the wooden fence surrounding the meadow, where the horses were grazing or lying down under the trees. Beyond the pasture, the mountains sloped upward to meet an azure, cloudless sky. Paulus leaned casually against the fence, hiding a sudden dizziness and feeling of nausea. He wasn’t as well as he pretended…but he could be much worse.

  “Your words at the marketplace must have been very powerful, to provoke so great a response,” Horatius commented. “I have heard you speak of what you called ‘spiritual warfare’. You said that when you come against a territory, or a principality—if you will—that has been in Satan’s control for thousands of years, it is to be expected to encounter conflict and fierce opposition. Satan has come against you, Antonius. I’m sure he has been opposed to you all these years, but now it seems he has determined to stop you.”

  When Paulus didn’t reply, he went on, “You should have died. You were in that stable for who knows how long, with little or no air to breathe—flames all around you. God delivered you for a reason, Antonius—and I will pray that he continues to do so.”

  “Thank you, Horatius. You don’t know what all this has meant to us. Our time together here is something we will always remember.”

  “I’m glad of that. But don’t mind the fire! It wasn’t your fault. Do you have an idea—as to who is responsible?”

  Paulus hesitated. “It could have been any number of people who heard me speak that day. But there is a man named Timaeus—I don’t want to falsely accuse him, but he said certain things that lead me to believe he would be capable of it.”

  “I know him. And yes, he’s capable. I will be on my guard.”

  Paulus turned slowly toward him. “You are a good man, Horatius. I wish I could tell you…everything. I pray God that nothing will ever happen to you because of your association with me.”

  “I’ve told you before—it is an honor. And please, stay here for as long as you like.”

  “We must return to Rome. In fact, we were thinking of leaving tomorrow.”

  “Very well. I’ll send my carriage back here after I return, and it will be ready for you in the morning.”

  “Again, thank you, Horatius.”

  “Since you’ll be entering the city instead of leaving it, the guards will be even less likely to take a look at you. But now that you are under attack, Antonius, I will pray even harder for your safety.”

  * * *

  “Tell me, Flavius, what is special about the thirty and first day of August?”

  “It is the day of your birth, your Majesty.”

  Caligula sat at breakfast on the terrace of his palatial apartment. His wife and small daughter had just left to return to their own rooms, and Flavius was always glad to see them go. He didn’t see how Susanna tolerated either one of them, for the woman was absurdly pompous, much like Caligula, and the child…in spite of her tender years…was equally arrogant, not to mention spoiled, ill mannered and spiteful.

  “Let us hope the Senate doesn’t forget…this year,” the emperor said, popping a grape into his mouth. “Although it would be amusing to think of a punishment for them if they do. I never laughed so hard as to see Junius Laurentius run alongside my chariot with his toga hitched up. Such knobby knees for a fat man! You know his heart gave out the next day.”

  “Yes, I recall.”

  “That is also the day I have set as the last one for Petronius to find Paulus Valerius. That’s less than two weeks. How is the search going, Flavius?”

  Taken aback, Flavius endeavored to keep a stoic expression. “I would have to consult with Petronius, your Majesty. I have heard nothing.”

  “You might remind him that he made a vow. If he doesn’t keep it, I will have his head.” The emperor licked his fingers. “But first, I will have it shaved. No man should go to his death with such a fine head of hair.”

  * * *

  Standing at attention in one of the reception rooms, Petronius grew pale as Flavius told him what the emperor had said.

  “What about the search?” Flavius demanded.

  “We are making some progress, sir. A young woman has been detained who we believe can give us information.”

  “Who—what woman?”

  “Her name is Daphne—a prostitute. Or rather, she claims she is no longer a prostitute. She has been in custody for some time and my men have been trying to make her talk. She refuses. She was overheard calling out for her God, this Jesus of Nazareth. Since she is one of his followers, we think that might be how she knows Valerius. We’ve started looking for him among the Nazarenes.”

  Daphne! Flavius sought to conceal his dismay at Petronius’ words.

  “What have you done to this woman? Where is she?”

  “We’re keeping her at her house. My men have employed certain—methods—but so far she has refused to tell us anything.”

  “What makes you think she knows anything to tell?”

  Petronius was not going to mention Livias. “Whoever approached her first became convinced she knew something. I, too, am convinced of it.”

  “I will go and see her myself. It may be that you are wasting your time with this woman. And that is something you don’t have much of, Petronius.”

  The other soldier paled again. Then he said, “She is very—strong, sir. She has great faith in her God and has withstood our—methods. Do you know…who is this Nazarene they all worship?”

  Again Flavius was taken off guard. Should he say he didn’t know? But that would be denying the Lord—the very one who saved him! He said cautiously, “From what I have heard, he is believed to be the son of God, the same God worshiped by the Jews. It is said that he died to save mankind from their sins, and rose again to live forever.”

  Petronius gave him an odd look. Flavius ignored it and said coldly, “Take me to this woman—right away.”

  * * *

  As Horatius predicted, the guards at the gate did not even glance inside the carriage as it passed. Leaving them at their house, the driver smiled and saluted them with his crop and left to return the carriage to its owner. Paulus brought in their baggage as Alysia lit the lamps and walked through the rooms, making sure everything was as they had left it…she wasn’t sure why she did so. There was a musty smell and she began throwing open the shutters. Her daughter was about to take her own things to her room.

  “Rachel, we’ll have to start lessons again,” Alysia told her. “You remember Cassia’s daughter, don’t you? Cassia wants her to begin studying with us, but she’s very weak in certain things. I told her you might be willing to help her rise to the level of everyone else.”

  “Well,” Rachel said doubtfully. “All right, Mother.”

  Alysia noticed her hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Rachel answered, and went into her bedroom.

  Alysia looked at Paulus, who stood leaning his arm against the doorjamb. She strode quickly forward and slid an arm around him, putting her other hand on his face.

  “Paulus, you’re not well. Don’t go back to the aqueduct tomorrow.”

  He put his hand over hers. “The dizziness comes and goes. It will finally stop. You know it’s not the first time I’ve taken a knock on the head.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “All right—I’ll visit some of our friends for a day or two. But after that, it’s back to work.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  A guard came to the door when Flavius and Petronius arrived at Daphne’s house. They passed from the small foyer into a reception room. There were paintings on the walls…of men and women
in varying stages of nudity, and it seemed there had been an effort to cover them, because large cloths lay on the floor as though they’d been torn away and dropped.

  “Where are her interrogators?” Flavius asked, averting his eyes from the paintings.

  “Gone for the day, sir,” the guard answered. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Where is the woman?”

  “In there, sir.

  Flavius walked into Daphne’s bedroom. Sumptuously decorated, it was obvious what the room had been used for. Here were more erotic paintings and frescoes; a cabinet bearing objects of a sexual nature covered one wall; a red silk canopy hung over the bed, with wide strips of silk stretching downward and tied to each corner. Another table with a bench before it bore various bottles and jars, brushes and combs and a hand mirror. A faint smell of perfume wafted in the air.

  Within the bed a small figure lay very still, amid a welter of bedclothes and cushions. Flavius opened the shutters at the windows, so that the afternoon sunlight fell across the bed. Daphne moved slightly, turning away from the light.

  “Look at me,” Flavius said sternly.

  Slowly she turned onto her back, but she didn’t look at him, staring instead at the ceiling. Flavius had to bite his tongue. One of her eyes was blackened and her lips were swollen. But what appalled him were the scars on her face where she had been branded with a hot iron; looking over the rest of her lightly clad body he saw where the brands had been pressed against her upper arms…and who knew where else. His own facial scars were nothing compared to hers.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned deliberately to Petronius, who stood behind him. “Why wasn’t she brought to the palace instead of being kept here?”

  Petronius looked uneasy. “We felt if the emperor knew about her, he would lose patience and dispatch her before we could get the information we need to find Valerius. I’m sure you agree, Centurion Flavius.”