“You could call it that.” Daniel moved forward, seating himself beside Philip. “Yet, it is no ordinary religion, Philip.” He paused, his countenance contemplative. “More than a meaningless religion, my worship involves a personal relationship with my God, the One I love.”
The concept was too much for Philip. Love one’s deity? Honor and devotion were understandable traits, but love? He eyed his host. This Daniel was growing more and more confusing.
Daniel seemed to sense his bewilderment. Gently, he laid a hand on Philip’s knee. “I see you don’t understand, Philip. But, then, how should you? I dare say you’ve never heard of such a notion until now.”
“You never spoke more truly.” Philip smiled half-sarcastically. “The idea of turning down gold for one’s God is unheard of in Rome.”
“Or in all parts of the world, we could say.” Daniel chuckled lightly. “And, I think you will find my faith more interesting still. You are a slave. Would it interest you to learn that there are no distinctions of race and rank in the teachings of my beliefs?”
Philip laughed. “Then it is small wonder I have never heard of your faith, my good host. It cannot be a very popular notion.” Then, sarcastically, “Does your faith have a name?”
“We are called Christians.”
A slow look of understanding flitted across Philip’s face, and he moved a little back from his host. “Great gods, I have heard of you.”
Daniel smiled a little. “You look startled to meet one of us.”
“I am. Is it not illegal under the divine emperor to claim that religion?”
“Yes.”
Philip gazed curiously at Daniel. Here was a man after his own heart. He broke the law and was not afraid to own it. “Then why do you do it?”
“Those who have seen and accepted the truth are not ashamed to stand by it, Philip. And, as Christians, we do not fear what the emperor or any other man can do to us.”
“Even death?” Philip felt a wave of incredulity.
“Yes, even death. In Christ, there is no fear of death, because we have hope of life eternal. This life is but temporary, a passing shadow that is soon gone. It is after death we go home to our Lord Jesus Christ and will live forever in His glorious presence.”
Skeptical as he was, Philip felt a slow tinge of longing. Daniel spoke with such joy, with the fervor of passionate assurance. It was if he had purpose to his life–a purpose other than living out the ceaseless routines of daily life, spurred on only by the hatred of those who owned and hurt him.
Blessed hope. What he himself would not give to have such an assurance! To live eternally with this glorious God, forever freed from the hated presence and name of Marcus!
Still, he was unconvinced.
“It sounds beautiful enough, but I don’t understand why you Christians should get to live eternally. I’ve heard you drink blood[3], as our Druid priests do. Is this what your God requires of you?”
“The old rumor.” Daniel waved his hand. “No, there is no truth in that speculation, Philip. It is no more than a wild tale, invented that our Emperor Nero might better serve his own ends.” He paused. “But, as to what our God requires of us, it is only that we accept His free grace and forgiveness.”
A look of scorn settled on Philip’s face. “No god accepts us without a sacrifice of sorts.”
“True.” Daniel looked steadily at him, his features kind. “That is why our God sent His only Son, Jesus Christ, to die for us and pay the blood-sacrifice. He did so rather than demand the price of our sin–death–, thus showing us His great mercy and love.”
Mercy. Love. Grace.
The words were new ones when connected with a deity. Philip pondered the idea in his mind. What sort of a God sent His only Son to die for mortal man? A beautiful fantasy, he thought dryly. Beautiful, captivating, and impossible.
“A strange God you have,” he said aloud. “He sends His only Son to make princes of you all, but refuses to give you comfort here in–what was it?–your temporal home. I still do not understand why you won’t accept my dupondius. Is it wicked to enjoy the means of pleasure?”
“No.” Daniel chuckled. “Comfort is not forbidden to us, and I know you do not believe your own sarcasm.” His hand found a place on Philip’s shoulder. “My faith bids me welcome the stranger and help the weary, that is all.”
“So you can accept it.” Philip pulled the coin again from his pouch. “Since it won’t offend your God, take it and let us have done.”
Daniel paused a moment. “Truth be told, I have still another reason for refusing it, Philip.”
“Why?” Philip felt the hairs bristle on his neck and a tinge of angry color washed over his face. “Is it because I am a Briton?”
“No.” Daniel arose and stepped to the window, momentarily looking out. He turned, his voice and eyes gentle. “I do not accept it because I do not think it is yours to give.”
Philip stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean that it is unlawful for a slave to take his master’s money and give it to another.”
Daniel’s steady tones unnerved Philip. His keen, quiet eyes seemed to see through him, as if he knew all the dark secrets he harbored.
He knows!
A sickening feeling of helplessness washed over Philip, gripping his body. His heart began to pump wildly, thumping against his chest. Shaking, he rose to his feet. “You imply a great deal, my host.”
“And there is something in your eyes that tells me much, Philip.” Daniel stepped toward him, gently laying his hand on Philip’s trembling shoulder. “I am no fool, my boy. You were not lashed by a charioteer, nor did a fall cause those many bruises.”
“What if you are wrong?” Philip defiantly met Daniel’s gaze, desperately attempting to still his shaking hands.
“I am not wrong.”
Slowly, agonizingly, Philip’s gaze dropped. What could he say? If Daniel suspected the truth, there was no changing his mind.
He is a Christian. I have that over him. He can’t turn me in–his own life would be at stake.
Emboldened by the thought, Philip again looked up. “And if you are right?”
“Then I would counsel you to return to your master.”
A sudden bitter laugh caught Philip’s throat. “Return to my master? If you weren’t a fool, you are now.” He stretched out his arms towards Daniel, anger boiling in his face. “See what he has done to me? I am scarred for life! And now you would see me nailed to some cross?”
“No.” The pressure of Daniel’s hand deepened on his shoulder. “Your punishment might be severe, true, but I cannot counsel you otherwise.”
“Why? Does Christianity require that slaves endure torture simply because it is the will of their master to bestow it on them?” Philip spoke in angry bitterness. He could feel his countenance working, caught between fear and emotion.
Daniel considered him. His eyes were understanding. “You have been ill-used and vexed–I can see it clearly, Philip. I don’t doubt you have suffered many wrongs, but, Philip, think upon your own actions. Have you been a faultless slave?”
“And if I haven’t?” Philip spat the words. What right did this Jewish breadmaker have to challenge him? “I thought you Christians believed in justice. Is it right that I suffer, that I am forever scored by the whip?”
“I don’t know.” Daniel’s voice was mild. “I don’t know what it was you did or under what circumstances your lord punished you. And, truly, I am not here to judge either you or him.”
“No.” Philip shook Daniel’s hand off his arm, stepping angrily away. “You are not here to judge–only to counsel me to return to the man who will see me scourged and writhing on a cross! You are not a slave–you don’t understand what it is I suffer!”
A measured look of reminiscing flitted across Daniel’s face. Slowly, he pulled up his sleeve, revealing a deep, crimson scar. “I know what it is you suffer, Philip.”
At the sight of the lash-mar
k, Philip felt some of the fire leave his chest. His tones quieted. “Who treated you so?”
“A Roman legionary.” Daniel spoke steadily, quietly. “I was brought here from Judea as a slave ten years ago. Water was scarce during one point of our journey, and I fainted from exhaustion on the way. I was flogged to my feet.”
Philip felt his passion subside. If Daniel had been a slave, then, they shared mutual ground. “How did you escape?”
“I didn’t.” Daniel pulled down his sleeve, hiding the scar. “I was sold and labored as a slave in a villa for many years. But, eventually, I won favor with my master and he released me.”
Philip’s gaze fluttered downward. “There is no favor to be won with my master.”
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t you care?” Philip felt a wave of desperate frustration. “Does my fate meaning nothing to you?”
“I care more than you could ever know, my boy. The injustice of slavery is something that will always grieve me, partly because I have been where you stand, partly because I am a Christian. But, still, I can only counsel you to return and submit to your master. There is no other way, both by Roman law and in the laws of my faith.”
“Then I reject them both.”
“Can you?”
Philip was stunned by the question. Truly, could he? He could hide for a time from the law, but could he forever? And, having once heard of this mysterious and beautiful Christianity, could he erase it from his mind?
Daniel stepped towards him, momentarily dropping his eyes. He then lifted them to meet Philip’s gaze. “Philip, there is nothing I would want more than to keep you safe here. It grieves me to think of all you might endure if you are caught. But, as you know, I cannot harbor you.”
“No.” His passion gone, new weariness overshadowed Philip. “I would not have you risk your life for me. I will go.”
Turning, he strode to the couch he had earlier reclined on. Picking up his cape, he threw it again over his shoulders, pulling the hood over his blonde hair.
Daniel watched him, his eyes strangely overcast. He seemed truly sorry to turn him out. Philip hesitated, then, quietly took the few steps between them and held out his hand.
“I thank you, Master Daniel. You have been good to me–I will not deny it. May your God bless you for your kindness towards a helpless slave.”
“And may He also bless you, Philip.” Daniel’s voice was low. “I trust you will one day come to trust in Him and accept His mercy as your own.”
Mercy. Philip laughed bitterly. “You are a good man, Daniel–and a dreamer. Mercy is not a thing to be shown towards one like me.”
He turned and strode towards the door. Without a backwards glance, he swung it wide. A quick cry of alarm escaped his lips.
“No!”
Chapter Nine
It was too late to duck back into the safety of the house, too late to run or hide. Marcus stood a few paces away, surrounded by his soldiers and the slave-catcher. And he had seen him.
Philip stepped out into the street. He would not endanger Daniel’s reputation and liberty by being caught within his home. Whatever his crazy notions, the man had been kind to him.
A dizzying plethora of thoughts ran rampant through his mind. Should he fight back? Or should he surrender peaceably, hoping Marcus would spare his life?
He didn’t have the time to decide.
A second later, and Philip felt the heavy hand of the slave-catcher slap him, felling him to the ground. He grazed his shoulder painfully against the jutting corner of the bread shop, nearly striking his head. His hood fell back, exposing his countenance to clear view.
Kill me now. By my gods, your gods, and the God of the Christians, don’t crucify me!
A figure stepped over him, blocking out the brightly-streaming sun. Philip looked up into Marcus’s cold face, feeling his anger in the very shadow stretched over his body.
“Yes, this is the slave.” Marcus’s tone radiated cold displeasure. “Bind him and let us go.”
The soldiers bent over him, jerking him by the shoulders to his feet. Philip made no move to defend himself. Dull, spiritless apathy washed over him. If this was the end, he had no strength to prevent it.
Marcus watched silently. As his hands were bound behind him, Philip dared to look up, allowing himself one moment in which to glance into his master’s eyes.
That fleeting look was enough. Marcus’s eyes flashed with inner passion, his expression menacing, and his arms crossed ominously upon his stalwart chest.
Mercy.
Again, bitterness flooded Philip’s soul. What clemency was to be found at the hands of Marcus? One look at him, and he knew Marcus meant to kill him. A verdict of death by slow torture was written clearly on his stone-like features.
Despite the direness of his situation, Philip smirked. Perhaps now was a good time to become a Christian. At least he wouldn’t have to face eternity with Marcus.
For that matter, how had Marcus found him anyway? That wretched rabble must have seen him. And, like good citizens, their only concern was the well-being of an offended, misused master.
What generous consideration.
“Hurry up,” Marcus snapped. “Let us be off.”
The soldiers straightened themselves erect, pulling the cords that bound Philip. Wearily, he submitted to their pull. He felt sick with apprehension. He was about to die and he was afraid. He–the son of a British chieftain and a former Druid worshipper–was afraid of death! Surely the gods mocked him.
“Wait!”
Philip paused, as did the others. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daniel approaching. Had he seen everything?
Not that it mattered. A lot of good your counsel did me, Christian.
“What do you want?” Though curt, Marcus made an attempt to speak civilly.
“Are you this boy’s master?” Daniel spoke mildly, his eyes steadily meeting the cold fire of Marcus’s gaze.
“Yes. What of it?”
“Your pleasure seems very far gone from him.”
An unexpected glimmer of amusement deepened on Marcus’s face. “You speak with the assurance of an augur.” His sarcasm swelled. “Allow me to express my deepest admiration for your prowess, noble friend.”
“My apologies, noble lord.” Daniel’s voice remained free of ill-will. “I only meant to inquire after his well-being.”
Marcus surveyed him with dark curiosity. “And why should the well-being of a runaway slave be of such great importance?”
“He does not seem an ordinary slave.”
Philip marveled at Daniel’s quiet, composed mannerism. Marcus treated him with the scornful arrogance of one who knew himself superior and was in no mood for the opinions of his inferiors. Still, Daniel maintained a gentle, mild tone and mien, his eyes strangely pitying.
Marcus laughed shortly. “No, he is not an ordinary slave. He is far from it. Do not let his good looks deceive you, my baker friend. Suetonius ought to have been strung up when he conquered Britain–and this sorry wretch is the worst of that race.”
“And you mean to scourge him, crucify him perhaps?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Marcus’s voice again grew cutting in its impatience. “He is disobedient and a runaway. The gods must have their sport with him.”
Philip felt an unmistakable shiver run down his spine. He had been called the pleasure of the gods before. Now, it seemed, they were to turn that pleasure into merciless sport. Only they knew what terrors Marcus meant to inflict before killing him.
“You serve hard gods.” Daniel paused. “Granted you knew the One, the Almighty Jehovah God, you would know that clemency is better than vengeance.”
A slow look of understanding flitted across Marcus’s face. “A Jew, are you? I thought Claudius got rid of your kind long ago.” His irritation increased. “But, what it does it matter? This slave is my own. No man shall interfere with my justice.”
Daniel stepped a little nearer, his voice low. “Young man, be
merciful, even as you would wish to be shown mercy. This slave has done you great wrong, but you also could not have conducted yourself flawlessly.” Then, with an emphatic pause, “Forgiveness is greater.”
Marcus stood motionless, his eyes locked into Daniel’s clear, unmoving gaze. He seemed bound by a spell, unable to speak or look away. The words seemed to linger in the warm air, strangely haunting.
Forgiveness is greater.
Philip himself felt bound by the extraordinary power of the concept. For a fleeting second, the sickening feeling left his stomach, relieving his mind of its torturous apprehension.
Forgiveness. Was this what enabled Daniel to look and speak with such quiet assurance? Or was it only a part of a bigger concept, a greater power that flooded men with the peace and love Daniel portrayed in his every action?
Then the spell was broken.
With a shake, Marcus freed himself from penetrating hold of Daniel’s gaze, irritation washing afresh over his cold features. “I bid you good day,” he said shortly. Then, to the others, “Follow me to the house of Virginius.”
Philip submitted to the rugged pull of the soldiers upon his bonds. As suddenly as it had left, the deep pit of nausea returned to his stomach, washing him in cold perspiration. Again bound by bitterness, he glanced up into Daniel’s face, then, turned resolutely away.
The half-hour walk to the Virginius domus was both the longest and most fleeting trek Philip had ever taken. Every step brought him closer to his demise, filling his heart with unspeakable dread.
His own fear irritated him. His queen, Boudicca, had faced a scourging at the hands of Roman officials with haughty bravery. Her every action against Rome had been fearless–even her own self-inflicted death, which had been an act of courageous defiance in itself. And hundreds of his fellow-Britons had followed her in her demise, refusing to live under the merciless regime of Rome.
Why couldn’t he be as one of them? Why did he fear death?
From his infancy, he had been taught the Druid idea that life was a curse and death was to be anticipated with joy. Pain was fleeting, and, with his happy release, he would be forever freed from the hated presence of Marcus. So why did he dread his end?
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