Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  He held up the second paper and shook it gently in her face. “As it is, I now hold the paper indicating that this boy is a freeman. I shall keep it in my possession until your father gives me further instructions.” Now he looked directly at Drusus. “If you are out with Miriam or your sister, there will be no trouble. If we find you alone again in the streets, your freedom will be automatically revoked and you will not see either of these two again.”

  “Why?” Miriam cried. “He has nothing to do with this.”

  The escort continued to stare at Drusus. “Do you understand me, young man?”

  Drusus, almost trembling, nodded numbly.

  The man turned back to Miriam. “As for you, if you try to smuggle any other letters out of Rome, I will have no choice but to keep all three of you confined to the house until your father returns. That would be tragic for three so young, but make no mistake, this is not an idle threat.”

  Miriam stepped back, feeling as if she couldn’t get her breath.

  “Do you understand me?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” she murmured. She shut the door as he turned away. When she heard his footsteps going down the stairs, she turned to Drusus, her face stricken. “I’m sorry, Drusus.” She went to Livia and threw her arms around her. “I am so sorry.”

  II

  In the countryside near Rome 15 July, a.d. 31

  The villa of Antonius Marcus Didius was seated on a low rise about two miles east of the city. Though it was one of the largest Miriam had seen, like most other villas this was generally rectangular and quite drab in shape. Actually, in architectural terms, it was no more than two huge boxes butted up against each other. There were no windows on the outside walls, which gave it the look of a fortress as one approached it. Miriam found this a strange custom. She could understand the desire to close off the noise and smells of the city streets, and windows seemed superfluous when the only view was of another blank, drab wall. But out here in the country the views were pleasant and the breezes off the sea delightful, especially in the heat of the summer. It was strange that the Romans did not take advantage of both of these features of their environment.

  The other odd thing about Roman architecture was that usually there was only one outside door that led into the entire villa. There might be other rooms around the outside of the building, such as the summer kitchen or storage rooms, but the outside doors to these didn’t allow entry into the house itself. The main door led directly into the atrium, a large open area that formed the center of the first block of the villa. In the center of the second block, there was a garden court that was open to the sky. Unlike some of the smaller estates Miriam had visited, this garden court had a beautiful fountain in the center of it, fed by a spring from a nearby hillside. The courtyard provided the only natural light within the villa.

  All of the rooms in the villa—bedrooms, eating rooms, rooms for daily activities—opened either onto the atrium or the courtyard. Here there were windows and doors, but they all faced the interior of the house.

  As Miriam, Livia, and Drusus reached the main door of the villa, Miriam glanced over her shoulder. Cain and Abel had stopped beneath the shade of a trellis a short distance away. She smiled to herself. Their two escorts refused to give their names, obviously warned about developing any personal relationship with their wards, so Miriam had started calling them after the two famous sons of Adam and Eve. The larger one, a man who was mostly bald and who shaved his head to complete the effect, always took his responsibility with grim seriousness. He was Cain. A little harsh, Miriam thought, but it did seem to fit. The younger one, who would occasionally smile and nod when they came out of the apartment for the day, she called Abel.

  Once the escorts knew the destination, they had visibly relaxed. Earlier, as it became obvious that the three of them were leaving the city, the two men had closed in within a few paces, poised to run them down should they try to escape. But once they realized the Didius estate was their intended goal, they fell back again. Since the Didius family were the ones who employed them, along with the four others who took turns guarding the apartment at night, they rightly assumed there was no need to worry.

  Miriam lifted the brass knocker and rapped it sharply. Livia touched her arm. “We’ll wait over there in the shade. I think it will be better that way.”

  Miriam nodded. Livia was probably right. As they moved away, one of the servants opened the door. There was an immediate smile of welcome when the girl saw who it was. “Is Mistress Cornelia at home?” Miriam asked.

  “She is,” the girl replied. “Let me take you into the courtyard, and then I’ll let her know you are here.”

  “I know the way,” Miriam said. The girl half bowed and backed away.

  Miriam moved through the atrium and into the garden court. She stopped by the fountain, listening to the soft trickle of the water and drawing in the pleasant smells of mint, thyme, caraway, marjoram, and basil. In one corner of the court Marcus’s mother kept a small herb garden, her personal hobby.

  She turned at the sound of footsteps. Cornelia Alberatus Didius appeared from one of the rooms and came forward with a welcoming smile. “Good morning, Miriam. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Good morning, Cornelia. I’m sorry to come without announcement.”

  She took Miriam’s hands, genuinely pleased. “You need no announcement, my dear. You are welcome in our home any time.”

  “Thank you. I wonder if you might have some time I could speak with you this morning.”

  “But of course.” Cornelia half turned. “Let me tell the servants that we will be having company for dinner. You will stay?”

  Miriam shook her head slowly. “Thank you very much, Cornelia, but I cannot today. Perhaps another time.”

  Cornelia’s eyes showed her disappointment, but she immediately accepted Miriam’s answer. Cornelia Didius, the matrona of the Didius household, was slightly plump, with long brown hair and the first sign of wrinkles around her eyes. Miriam guessed that she was nearing forty, which meant she had lived longer than many Roman women. Often girls in Roman society were married as soon as they reached puberty and could be a mother as early as twelve or thirteen years of age. Grandmothers who were thirty years old were common in Rome. Even for the upper classes, a woman’s life was not one of gentle leisure, and many women never reached so called “middle-age.” Cornelia was warm in spirit, generous in praise, and quick of wit—traits she had given to her eldest son. She represented all that was noble and good in Roman womanhood. She had a deep sense of pietas, or duty, to her family, and not only was accepting of her role, but was completely happy in fulfilling it.

  She motioned to a stone bench near the fountain. “Come, let’s sit down.”

  As they did so, Miriam looked into the woman’s eyes and saw the steadiness and strength there. Surprisingly, that gave her a sinking feeling. Miriam remembered very clearly one of Marcus’s stories about examples of Roman women and their commitment to duty. One of the noblemen of Rome had somehow offended the emperor. In such cases, it was customary for the man to be invited to commit suicide and thus spare his family the embarrassment of a public trial and execution. When the man faltered in his courage to do so, his wife took his sword from the scabbard and stabbed herself. Then, bleeding profusely, she handed the bloody sword back to her husband. “See,” she told him, “it does not hurt. Now do your duty.”

  What Miriam was about to do could easily conflict directly with Cornelia’s sense of pietas. If so, there was no question in Miriam’s mind that duty would come before any emotional attachment Cornelia might feel toward her, strong as that might be.

  “You are troubled,” Cornelia said, reaching out and laying a hand on Miriam’s. “It saddens me to see pain in your eyes. Are your needs not being met adequately by Arcadius?”

  “No, no,” Miriam said hastily, “Arcadius is wonderful. He is a most attentive servant and often runs to get us something before the request has even formed on our
lips.”

  Cornelia relaxed a little. “That is why I told Antonius that we should send Arcadius to serve you. He is one of the best slaves in our household.”

  Miriam drew in a quick breath. “No, we have nothing but praise for his service. But I do have a matter that has created some difficulty for me. I have come to see if I might impose upon your good will for help.”

  “Tell me, and I shall speak of it to Antonius tonight. He will see that it is dealt with in whatever manner is required.”

  “No!” Miriam blurted. She forced a quick smile. “No,” she said, more calmly now. “This is not a matter that your husband should be troubled with. It is a personal matter between my father and me.”

  “But your father has returned to Judea.”

  “Yes.” Miriam looked away. On the walk out here from the city, Miriam had thought carefully about how much she should tell this woman. Cornelia and Miriam had grown close during this time—now almost a year—that Miriam had been in Rome. She decided that her only hope lay in complete honesty.

  And so she began. She started with the day in Samaria, well over a year earlier, when Simeon and Yehuda strode into their camp and saved her from the viciousness of Moshe Ya’abin. She told Cornelia in great detail of the ambush at the Joknean Pass, emphasizing how Simeon’s intervention had saved many Roman lives, including that of her own son’s.

  “Marcus never said anything about that,” Cornelia said when Miriam paused for a moment. “I saw the scar on his arm. He just shrugged it off when I asked him about it. Is that when that happened?”

  “No, I think that happened earlier. A minor skirmish is how Marcus described it to me.” Miriam didn’t see any relevance in going that far back. She continued, explaining about Moshe Ya’abin’s escape and the danger that had created for her and her father. Cornelia nodded. This part she did know, and Miriam could see the anger in her eyes at such an outrage.

  It took another ten minutes to explain what had taken place between Miriam and her father. She spent almost half of that time telling her about Jesus. She talked briefly about his miracles, told her about the woman taken in adultery, summarized some of his teachings. To her surprise, Cornelia was fascinated by this and asked several questions.

  “If I tell you something,” Cornelia said, interrupting her narrative, “you must promise not to speak of it when Antonius is present.”

  Surprised, Miriam nodded. This was good. A shared secret might be what was needed.

  “Antonius knows of this, but he has little patience with it and gets irritated if I speak to him about it.”

  “About what?”

  “I too have found a religion that has touched me in a special way.”

  “Really?” Miriam said, completely caught off guard.

  “Yes, it is the worship of Mithras. It is just now becoming popular in the city.”

  “Isn’t Mithras a Persian God?”

  “Yes, he is the Sun King, or the Invincible Sun. According to the priests of Mithras, the Sun King fought a heroic struggle with a mighty bull. He finally killed the bull, whose blood flowed over the earth and fertilized it, bringing forth the plants that allowed men to live. So it is to Mithras that mankind is indebted for a multitude of blessings.”

  She looked around, then lowered her voice. “It is part of the worship of Mithras to believe that he is the only true god, that all other gods are but the creation of men’s minds.”

  “But—” Miriam could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had thought her people were the only ones who held to a belief in one true god.

  “Some of the teachings are secret and cannot be revealed except to those in the Mithraic fellowship, but they include the need for purity and righteousness, a belief that good shall triumph over evil, and that we must strive to live honorable and upright lives, serving the Sun King by how we live.”

  “Jesus also says that we serve him by following him, by accepting his teachings, by becoming like him.”

  “Then I understand the power he has upon you, Miriam. I always felt uncomfortable with the gods before—there are so many and they seem so different from each other. To think that there might be just one God is a remarkable concept to me, but I find myself growing more comfortable with it every day.”

  Miriam just stared at her. This had certainly not been part of the conversation she had rehearsed in her mind.

  “I’m sorry,” Cornelia said. “Go on. You say you father forbids you to follow after this Jesus?”

  “Yes. He wants to destroy him because he thinks Jesus will stir up a rebellion against Rome.”

  Cornelia’s eyes narrowed, and Miriam instantly saw her mistake. “Jesus isn’t fostering rebellion,” she said quickly. “Actually Jesus preaches that we change our hearts, not that we overthrow governments. He asks that we love our enemies and forgive those who wrong us.”

  Cornelia relaxed again. Her concern was not a surprise. Her son was in Judea. Any talk of rebellion there would understandably cause her anxiety.

  Miriam moved on to recent events. She described the clash between her father when she told him about her baptism, and of his putting her under virtual house arrest.

  Cornelia’s eyes widened at that. “You are guarded each time you go out?”

  “Yes. If you walk out with me when I leave, you shall see that there are two of them with me today.”

  “That is horrible. Antonius told me that Mordechai had asked that we see that you were safe and cared for, but not guarded, not restricted.”

  “In one sense,” Miriam said glumly, “that’s true. We can go anywhere within the city we wish, but we are always watched. Also, they have stopped all letters from coming in, and I can send no letters out.”

  The angry look on the older woman’s face gave her heart. She went on, knowing she was coming to the hardest part. “Did Marcus tell you that he and I are betrothed?”

  There was a brilliant smile. “Yes. We are so happy.” Then as she saw Miriam’s face, the smile instantly disappeared again. “Is that not true?”

  “Oh, it’s true all right. It’s just that neither my father nor Marcus told me about it. Not until just before my father left to return to Judea.”

  Cornelia was shocked deeply. “No! You didn’t know before then?”

  Miriam shook her head. “Father said that the arrangements are all made, that Marcus and he will return in time for Saturnalia.”

  “But Marcus told us of his plans before he left to return to Judea the first time. He wanted to know how we felt.” There was a momentary smile. “We were thrilled, of course. Even Antonius, who rarely shows much of what he is feeling, was pleased. He likes you, Miriam, as do I.”

  “Your family has been wonderful to me, Cornelia. And Marcus and I—” She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “We have become very close. I find him to be a man that I admire and respect greatly.”

  “But not love?”

  Miriam didn’t know of any way to soften her answer. “No. Especially now that I have found Jesus. I want to find someone with whom I can share my deepest feelings, my deepest convictions. Marcus wouldn’t stop me from being a follower of Jesus. He told me I can believe whatever I want, but—”

  There was a sudden wistfulness in Cornelia’s eyes. “I understand. Antonius does not forbid me from participating with the Mithraites, but he finds the whole thing to be somewhat ridiculous.” She looked away. “So I never speak with him about it.”

  Miriam felt a great wave of love for this good woman. “I would have considered it a great blessing to have you as my mother-in-law. I truly would.”

  “And I was so pleased when Marcus told us of his plans. He told me that it was not yet finalized, that he needed to speak with you of the details.”

  “I am sure that the decision not to tell me was my father’s idea and not your son’s.”

  Cornelia didn’t answer immediatly, obviously deep in thought. Miriam was not sure what else to say about the betrothal. It was time to ma
ke her request.

  But before she could speak, Cornelia’s head came up. “You spoke of needing my help,” she said slowly. “Miriam, in spite of my deep affection for you I cannot overturn anything my husband has set in place—the arrangements with Arcadius or the escorts or—”

  “I know,” Miriam answered quickly, “and I would not ask you to do so. I am coming to understand the depths of a woman’s sense of duty to her family in your culture. It is something I respect and admire. I have not come to ask you to intervene in my behalf with Antonius in any way.”

  There was both relief and a touch of skepticism in Cornelia’s eyes.

  Miriam held her breath, knowing the critical moment had arrived. “I have accepted the loss of freedom. I have accepted the loss of privacy. But I have friends and family in Judea who do not know if I am even still alive. I have a cousin with whom I am very close. She and her husband were thrown out of their home by my father because they helped me warn Simeon of the trap. I cannot learn if all is well with her nor can I let her know all is well with me. I wrote a letter last week and tried to find someone to send it off for me. The guards learned of it and tore it up. They have threatened to restrict us to our apartment if I make any further attempts to write to anyone.”

  Cornelia’s eyes darkened slightly. “That is not right.”

  Miriam reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew a piece of papyrus. “I have written another letter to my cousin Lilly to replace the one that was taken.”

  Cornelia was watching her closely, her eyes difficult to read.

  “I know there are men in the city who for a fee will see that mail is taken to Ostia and put on the right ship. If you could have one of your servants do that for me, I would be deeply grateful.”

  For almost a full minute, Cornelia didn’t answer. Finally, she straightened a little. “In this letter, have you asked your cousin to help you escape?”

  Miriam shook her head, glad that she had foreseen this possible question. “I have not. I have not asked for any intervention, for I know that would compromise your honor and obligations to Antonius. I have done nothing more than explain my circumstances so they will understand why there has not and will not be any word from me until my father and Marcus return to Rome. I think I owe them that much.”