From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  God save me. Be with me!

  Inside, the atrium was still and noiseless. Philip could hear his own heart thudding against his chest. He stepped cautiously forward, his sandaled feet swishing against the ornate floor.

  “Where have you been?”

  The stern voice sent a chill rushing down Philip’s spine. Slowly, he turned, crossing his hands respectfully upon his breast. Whatever else happened, he must remember to give Marcus the deference Christ would wish him to show.

  “All hail, master.”

  Marcus took a threatening step near him, emerging from the shadows into the light of the flickering lamps. “Withhold your pretty airs and speeches, slave, and answer me. Where have you been?”

  The moment was nigh. Philip swallowed hard, meeting Marcus’s angry gaze. Show no fear. You are in His hands.

  “I was at one of the Christian meetings, my lord.”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed. His countenance was menacing. “I thought so, but refused to believe you could be so foolish. By Hercules, why did you disobey me?”

  For a moment, Philip felt genuine pity flood his chest. Marcus was so controlled by anger, so lost within his own lust and cruelty. He does not know. He knew nothing of the peace of knowing there was a God who loved him.

  A surreal calm settled over him. Before he could truly think, Philip knew he had his answer. “I had to go, Marcus. I had to learn more of my Savior.”

  “As you will need a savior, slave.” Marcus’s eyes were a dark flicker. They held a mysterious fierceness Philip had only seen in wild animals. “I swore to crush any rebellion in you, and I shall keep my word.”

  The strange, cold quietness of Marcus’s voice sent a chill down Philip’s back. He was accustomed to violent fury, but this was a new anger he had never before seen in his lord. Marcus was dark and merciless, controlled by some unseen force that was greater than his own cruelty.

  Philip closed his eyes, breathing hard. For the first time, he recognized spiritual oppression when he saw it. God, save me! He is not himself. He does not know what he is doing.

  Marcus clapped his hands sharply together. The sound brought the steward bowing into the atrium.

  “You called, my lord?”

  “Have the men in with the rods.”

  Demetrius left the room, saluting in silent obedience.

  Philip looked at Marcus. He could feel the color waning from his cheeks, his body tense. So this was his punishment? To be brutally flogged, perhaps by Marcus himself? A fleeting downwards glance revealed his hands were shaking. He had not felt this much fear since his capture.

  Marcus read his thoughts. “Yes, Philip.” His entire body seemed sculpted in cruel resolve. He was one of a strong line of merciless conquerors. And he could be as ruthless as the best of them. “I will teach you once and for all that I am to be obeyed.”

  Demetrius abruptly reappeared with three of the men servants, one of whom held a thick rod in his hand.

  At the sight, Philip’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He cast a swift glance at Marcus, willing his silent plea to soften his heart. Surely, his stalwart young master did not mean to kill him. Lord, help me.

  Marcus continued to look coldly at him, his eyes locking Philip in his hold even when he spoke. “Strip him to the waist.”

  Philip went cold. He felt his tunic pulled roughly down over his shoulders, leaving his back and arms bare.

  A tremor passed through him, paralyzing his movements. He raised his eyes, watching Marcus step to the man who held the rod and take it from his hand.

  “Now hold him down.”

  Philip’s arms were grasped in a brutal hold. One of the men gave him a violent jerk, flinging him to his knees. In that moment, deathlike fear seized him. His thoughts whirled, realizing the truth behind his own terror. He was more afraid for Marcus than for himself.

  The men knelt beside him, gripping his arms. Knowing in another second he would be forced down on his face, Philip struggled against them, raising one hand in appeal to Marcus.

  “Marcus, I beg you! Let me speak.”

  “I will listen to one thing only, Philip.” Marcus’s voice was rigidly cold. “Give me your sworn oath you will denounce this dead Jewish carpenter, and I will forgive your disobedience this once. That alone will I hear.”

  “I cannot do that, Marcus.”

  The quiet resolution in his own voice sent unnatural peace again washing over Philip’s heart. His heart pounded, and he knew his own inner terror of Marcus. Yet, he was calm, an assurance of pity overwhelming him.

  Marcus did not know what he was doing.

  Dimly, Philip began to realize the phenomenal forgiveness his Lord Jesus had for his enemies and so many of his Christian brethren had for their tormentors. It was power not of himself, but of Another.

  His voice shook. “My lord, it is not for myself I speak to you, but for your sake. You do not know what you are doing.”

  “You think not?” Marcus’s callous laughter filled the atrium. “Your master knows well what he is doing, cur.” His eyes narrowed. “And I take pleasure in it.”

  “There is nothing you can do to me except what my Savior allows. You cannot truly hurt me, Marcus. You will only harden your own heart by this sin.”

  “Enough!” Marcus’s face flamed, contempt livid upon his features. “What is your dead Jew beside the mighty pantheon of Rome? Do you think I fear you, your God?” His furious voice intensified, the rage deepening on his face. “You are nothing! Your God is nothing! And you shall learn whether or not the gods of your master are more powerful than this Christus you think you serve.”

  Philip’s throat constricted. Forgive him, Lord. The words echoed in his ears, their blasphemy a curse to the Almighty God he loved.

  Marcus gestured wrathfully to the men. “Hold him taut! We shall see if his God can halt my hand!”

  Philip felt the cold floor beneath his stomach, the brutal grips of the two men who stretched themselves on either side of him to hold him down. He felt the motion of Marcus, stepping over him. His breathing quickened, his heart pulsating painfully in his chest. Tightly, he closed his eyes.

  Finish well, Philip. Finish well!

  The first blow fell. Philip heard the whistling sound of the rod’s fall before it touched his body. Burning, stunning pain followed its descent, and Philip heard the sound of his own muffled cry echo throughout the room.

  His hands doubled into tight fists, the warm perspiration seeping through his fingers.

  A second blow fell. Philip swallowed hard, forcing his scream down instead of out. His mind whirled, but one thought stood out among the plethora of others.

  You shall have tribulation, but I have overcome…

  The curved rod tore into Philip’s back. He cried out, his forehead resting in agony against the floor. He heard Marcus’s upraised arm, heard the rustle of the garments upon his descending arm.

  I have overcome for your sake.

  “Idiot!” Marcus’s frustrated, furious voice rent the whirling confusion of Philip’s pain-ridden mind. “Say that you will obey me and I will stop.”

  Philip clamped his mouth into a firm line. God help me! Help me!

  His silence enraged Marcus all the more. Philip felt his fury in the vengeful force of his blow, scoring the entire breadth of his shoulders. Another blow fell, and then another. Philip felt a warm trickle down his shoulders, over his back.

  Before him, the ornate patterns of the floor lost their color and blended into one grey, whirling sphere. His stomach lurched; nausea threatened to overcome him. He could not think; he could not breathe to scream.

  Slowly, the whirling room faded into a black mist. He sensed the blows descending on his back and shoulders, but he could no longer feel them. Confusion shot through his mind. Why could he no longer feel the pain?

  Why? What… Something touched his hand, the hand held outstretched by the merciless grip of the men lying beside him. The voice in his mind became audible.
/>   I have overcome for your sake.

  The blows still fell, and Philip felt the world sinking into a deep, endless void of black. Was it death? But the voice was there, holding him up, keeping him from sinking further.

  Nothing shall separate you from me.

  There was someone with him. Philip could feel it, sense it. Darkness was trying to hold him down; he could feel the oppressive presence that had followed him before he gave his life to Christ. But it was fading; darkness was fading to light.

  A final touch lighted on his perspiration-drenched hand.

  Philip’s eyes closed; he had no strength to keep them open. Slowly, with the dim knowledge Marcus had stopped, his mind reeled into peaceful insensibility.

  There, pain ceased, but the assurance he was not alone did not.

  When Philip awoke, it was to the sound of his own moaning cry. Racking pain shot through his back and shoulders, sickening him. Why this terrible pain? What had happened? Thoughts ran rampant, ending with the image of a hard countenance.

  Marcus.

  His blurry eyes opened, and he felt the salty tears drying on his cheeks. The room came slowly into focus. Beric’s grave, white face came into view, leaning over him. A brief glance revealed he was in his own room, lying on his couch.

  Philip looked down. He was still naked to the waist. Blood drenched the tunic still lying loosely around his hips, ragged tears revealing where Marcus had struck his lower back.

  A moan rose to his lips. His hands clenched into agonized fists, attempting to withhold the cries threatening to break from his throat.

  It was then Philip sensed a warm tingle on his hand. Looking down, he saw nothing, but a fleeting remembrance crossed his mind.

  The touch. The voice.

  Philip’s eyes closed and he leaned heavily back upon his cushions. He felt Beric lay his hand on his bleeding shoulder, his voice faltering.

  “Philip, my son–”

  Philip’s eyes opened. He felt his mind slipping again into unconsciousness, but his heart burned with a sensation he himself could not understand. “Father, forgive him. He did not know what he was doing.”

  It was impossible for Beric to know whether Philip spoke to his earthly father or to his heavenly, but, in his heart, Philip knew whom he addressed.

  It was to both.

  Marcus poured out a glass of wine with a shaking hand. Lifting the mug, he cradled it in his hands, hating himself for the way they trembled.

  “Curse him.” His low voice intensified, and he set the mug down hard upon a table. “Curse him! The wretched swine!”

  He stood motionless, breathing hard. His heart beat wildly, pounding against his taut chest. Slowly, he sank down onto a low couch, burying his face in his hands.

  Great gods, why did this mystical fear envelop him? What had possessed him to stop flogging his slave before he had surrendered?

  He had never been so enraged before, so intent upon breaking a slave’s will. He had felt someone, something, at his shoulder, urging him to press on, to beat Philip until he swore to obey. And, while he could not recognize its identity, its presence did not disturb him. The truth be told, he was grateful for the dark pitilessness it had bestowed upon him. It had enabled him to keep on, to keep flogging his slave when another man might have stopped.

  It was something far worse which unnerved him.

  Marcus shuddered. His hand closed around his wine glass, lifting it to his lips. Shaking, he downed its contents at a single swallow and immediately poured out another draught.

  For the countless time, he poured the wine down his throat. He waited. Frustration boiled up inside of him, and he threw the mug against the wall.

  His mind refused to numb.

  Again, Marcus dropped his aching head into his hands. An icy chill sped down his spine, and he hastily lifted his head. Nothing was there.

  But there had been.

  He had felt a strong presence, holding back the rage that controlled him and the mystical darkness which had spurred him on. His mind flew back over the events of the last half-hour.

  Philip had ceased to cry out. He lay motionless, making no resistance to the brutal blows. That in itself was an act of unfathomable courage. Marcus had seen many slaves flogged and knew that before him had lain a boy possessing phenomenal bravery.

  Philip’s very courage had enraged him. He had lifted his arm to strike him for a countless time when, suddenly, his limbs refused to move.

  Something had held him back.

  Another cold shudder ran down Marcus’s back. He had been paralyzed. He recalled seeing the men glance at him, wondering at the shock he knew governed his features. And still, that terrible, strong something had held him, refusing to allow him another blow. But that was not the worst.

  That mystical force had been with Philip.

  While that strange power had withstood him, it had seemed to be strengthening Philip. Peace fairly hovered over the wretched boy. It was as if he knew no pain, as if he could not sense his master’s fury.

  Marcus shook his head. Great gods, but these Christians were casting a spell on him! They were sorcerers. That must be his answer. Philip had tried to stop him, but his mystical powers had not worked in time.

  Surely that is what happened! Surely–

  Marcus stopped himself. Had he dared to almost think it? Jove! No Jewish carpenter was greater than the pantheon of Roman gods! How could he, a Roman, even entertain the thought?

  Marcus arose. Stooping, he picked up his mug and refilled it. Lifting it, he made a solemn vow before touching the mug to his lips. “Great Jove, be my witness! No dead Jew is greater than you. I shall prove it. Philip will surrender–his sorcery will have no power over me!”

  The flow of wine down his throat burned like fire.

  Marcus clenched his fists. “Take care, Philip! Rome is god. And no other deity shall withstand me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Are you quite certain you are able to go out tonight, Philip?”

  Philip looked up from fastening his cloak around his bandaged shoulders. He felt weary and, judging from Beric’s concerned gaze, he knew his countenance was decidedly pale.

  Yet, there was little wonder in all of that. He had suffered a long week of pain and discomfort before he had been able to leave his couch. And, though a day after he had first left his bed, he could scarcely stand upright.

  “I think so, father.” Philip paused, seeing the hesitance in Beric’s face. “What is it?”

  Beric half-averted his gaze. “Another flogging would kill you, Philip.”

  “If it is the Lord’s will.” Philip attempted to speak lightly. He didn’t want to think about the pain, the terrible uncertainty of what Marcus might do if he caught him disobeying again. “I have been gone from the meetings for a week now. I can stay away no longer.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken at last by Philip.

  “Will you not go with me, father?”

  “Yes.” Beric looked up. “I shall follow you in a half-hour. I have a few duties to attend to first.”

  “Then I shall be off.” Philip forced a cheerful salute. Then, low, “Do not be afraid for me. No one shall pluck me from His hands.”

  Philip felt the assurance of his own words as he spoke. A week ago, he should not have been able to speak with such calm confidence. Now, however, he knew. He knew the peace that passeth all understanding.

  As he walked through the atrium, Philip considered the brutality he had suffered. It seemed so long ago, yet, somehow so near. He thought back on the touch he had felt, of the voice that had given him such strength.

  A smile played about the corners of his mouth.

  The flogging had been merciless: the cruelest pain he had ever endured. But, for all that, it was sweet to know how close he had been brought to his Savior through the suffering.

  He placed his foot on the step leading into the vestibule. Instantly, a voice sounded behind him.

  “And where
do you think you are going?”

  Philip turned. His heart sank, and he struggled to speak calmly. “To worship my Lord with my brethren in the faith.”

  “You are scarcely able to walk.” Marcus drew near, contemptuous. “Have you learned nothing? By the gods, it is evident you were not flogged long enough to make a suitable impression.”

  Philip looked quietly at him. “You made an impression on me, my lord.”

  Marcus suddenly slapped him. “I’ll have none of your cheek! What do you mean by disrespecting me?”

  Philip struggled to control himself, to control the anger that had arisen with the smarting pain of the slap. “I did not mean it as insolence, my lord.”

  “So you say. For a Christian, you are the most disrespectful, obstinate cur I have ever seen!”

  Philip dropped his eyes. What was there to say? Marcus was determined to think ill of him.

  Marcus continued to look contemptibly on him. “So you are disobeying me again. Have you no respect for me?”

  “Yes. And I am willing to be obedient to you in all things. If…” Philip’s voice trailed. “If only you will not bid me do wrong, Marcus.”

  Marcus laughed. “Since when do you care about right and wrong? And, even if you do, it is for your master to decide what course of action you are to take. Take assurance–you will be far happier doing the things I would have you to do.”

  Philip understood him perfectly. Marcus lived as any other young man did. He lived to pleasure, to what satisfied him. What was more natural than he should desire to corrupt his slave’s faith than by tempting him with his own sins?

  Choosing his words carefully, he met his gaze. “Things such as revelry and lust? Fornication, perhaps?”

  “The more appropriate terms would be amusement and pleasure, my young fool.”

  “And you offer these things to me?”

  “Yes, if you obey me.” Marcus’s frustration was lightened by the touch of a smile, playing alluringly around his lips. “Your Christianity has only brought you sorrow and pain, Philip. Recant it, and I will see that you are given pleasures such as you have never before known.”