“What if I do not want them?” Philip maintained a quiet, steadfast mien. “What if I value my purity and faith in Christ more than these pleasures you offer me?”
Marcus again laughed. “Spoken like a naïve boy. When you have tasted the fruit of delights as I have, you will know which to choose.”
Philip’s heart burned with mingled indignation and pity. How low and hardened Marcus had become to offer him such things. When he had first known him, Marcus had seemed an upright young man, though Roman in his ways. Now, however, his heart was calloused.
And it was only growing harder.
“Marcus, Christianity is not something that can be taken off at will, like a tunic. You offer me cheap substitutes, but, even if I partook of them, I would only grieve my Savior. I would still be His child. No one, not even you, can take my faith from me.”
The brow of Marcus darkened rapidly while Philip spoke. Fiercely, he stepped a little away from Philip, as if recoiling from a serpent. “Reject my well-meant offers if you will. If you want to be an idiot, it does not matter to me. But you will still submit your will to mine, Philip.”
“You cannot make me.” Philip’s voice was low. “Nothing can take me from my God.”
“We shall see.” Marcus spat contemptibly. “Consider yourself fortunate I am determined to break your spirit and not your life. Were it otherwise, I would kill you where you stand.”
Philip said nothing. He wanted to overcome Marcus’s evil with good, as the Lord had been teaching him. But now did not seem the time to speak of Christian love and forgiveness.
“You are too weak to bear the punishment you deserve.” Marcus gestured fiercely to the stairs. “Go to your quarters and do not dare leave them.”
Philip silently obeyed, making a slight gesture of respect as he did so.
Marcus watched him go with boiling frustration. What a thorough idiot that boy was! He had even succumbed to bribery and still Philip refused to surrender his foolish will. Did he not know his master was certain to conquer him? Was he truly so ignorant of the things he had been offered to find no allurement to their pleasures?
“Stupid boy,” Marcus muttered under his breath. He crossed the atrium, then, halted, hearing low voices at the top of the stairs.
“Marcus will not allow me to go out, father. Still, there is no reason why you should remain here.”
“I will go, my son.” Beric’s voice was low. “Yet, it is a sore disappointment I must go alone.”
Marcus stood motionless. The voices continued, but he did not listen. He had heard enough. Beric is one of them.
Perhaps that would explain Philip’s frustrating obstinacy. Guidance and encouragement by a well-respected parent were certainly factors that would lend great determination to Philip’s stubbornness.
Marcus strode into the library, contemplative. Though he had purchased him, Beric was not entirely his slave. He had been given as a gift to Rowland, and it was for Rowland to decide what to do with him.
“Marcus.”
Marcus started a little. Rowland himself sat on a low couch before him, a pile of scrolls at his side. Recovering himself, he nodded politely.
“My apologies. I did not know you were here.”
“Seat yourself, Marcus.” Rowland motioned to a stool. “I want words with you.”
Marcus obeyed, certain of his father’s topic. Rowland considered him with sharp eyes before diving into the subject which vexed him.
“Demetrius tells me you at last flogged your obstinate slave.”
“Yes.”
“And has the lad yielded to your orders?”
“No.” Too restless to sit, Marcus arose and paced the floor before his father. “I have scolded, threatened, and punished him, but he remains steadfast. I even tried bribery, but it availed nothing.”
“Then are you ready to send him to the auction block?”
“No.” Marcus rubbed his aching temples. He had been out far into the night, resulting in a headache of gigantic proportions. And dealing with the issue of his stupid slave certainly brought no relief. “Despite his rebellion, he is a valuable slave. I have plans to reinstate him as a wrestler, but I cannot do it until I have broken his will.”
Rowland’s eyes followed him. “I suppose you have removed from his path all those who would encourage him in his folly?”
Marcus stopped short. “Until a few minutes ago, I was certain I had, father. But it would seem Beric is a Christian also.”
“There is little surprise there. Christianity spreads like wildfire.” Rowland fingered his scroll contemplatively. “But neither slave will persist in their obstinacy much longer.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“The only thing that can be done. Beric must be questioned. And, if he is found to be a Christian, he shall recant or die.”
Marcus cocked a brow. “Sounds simple, but these Christians seem to be very obstinate in this matter of recanting, father.”
A glint appeared in Rowland’s eye. “Then, if he dies, it will be a proper lesson to Philip. All things considered, it is better to lose the elder slave than the younger. Beric is not worth half of Philip’s value.”
Marcus considered Rowland’s words. Perhaps he was right. At any rate, his father had fresh vigor, a thing he himself was quickly losing. He had battled this obstinacy long enough.
“As you say then, father.” He heard his own voice give casual agreement. Strangely, something pricked his heart, confusing him. Why was he compelled to have caution? He cared nothing for Philip. But he followed his instincts, allowing one tinge of mercy to penetrate his callousness.
“But let us wait until the morning to question Beric. It may be that Philip will reconsider and pledge to obey me before then.”
The bright morning sunlight streamed through the tall casements looking out over the Vicus Tuscus in Marcus’s chamber, casting patterned shadows upon the polished floor.
Philip moved casually about the room. Deftly, he straightened his lord’s couch and folded his cast-aside toga. Marcus had seemed in a hurry that morning and had donned no more than his daily tunic and belt.
His shoulders twinged uncomfortably as he folded the toga. The work of healing had been slow, and he was constantly plagued by pain and weariness. He had arisen from his sick-bed sooner than he should have, but fear of Marcus’s displeasure had driven him to his tasks.
Still, the recollection of the Presence he had felt while being flogged was a great sustainment. Had it been Jesus Himself who had been with him? Philip could not begin to know. But what little he knew was enough.
He had not been alone.
You are with me, Lord. Philip lifted his eyes for one fleeting moment to the ceiling before laying Marcus’s toga in its proper place. You will always be with me.
The sudden sound of a disturbance caught his attention. He could hear a bustle and murmuring down in the atrium, as if the household slaves were gathering for some unknown event.
Philip stiffened. Marcus would be furious if he had summoned the household slaves and his personal attendant was not among them. As quickly as he could manage, he left the room.
At the foot of the stairs, he stopped. Horror sunk deep into his chest, so strong he felt dizzy. Like he thought, the household slaves were gathered together.
And in their center was Beric.
He was stripped to the waist and tightly bound. There was something in his face Philip could not discern, but he knew it as an expression he had never seen before. Grave, yet peaceful, he looked both a warrior and a child.
Marcus and Rowland stood on either side of him, both grimly resolute. Marcus’s dark eyes were roving, searching for someone. Chilled, Philip felt his eyes rest upon him and saw him lift his hand in a fierce beckon.
“Come here, Philip.”
Philip stumbled forward, fear pounding at his chest. What was happening? Why was Beric bound? Surely, surely, he was not going to be harmed.
Jesus, what is hap
pening here? Help me; help my father! I don’t understand.
“It has come to our attention that this surly wretch is a follower of the man called Christus.” Rowland’s deep voice was dark, his eyes roving over the assembly of slaves in ominous forewarning. “Christianity is a crime worthy of death by edict of our emperor and so shall it be within my household.”
He turned with a threatening gesture to Beric. “Slave, I give you one final chance to recant your foolish beliefs. Do so and save yourself from death by flogging.”
Philip’s heart thudded. He looked wildly at Marcus, unable to believe his ears. Death by flogging… No, Jesus. No! Marcus steadfastly refused to look at him, his cold gaze fixed upon Beric.
“Noble lord, there is nothing I would refuse to do for you.” Beric spoke steadily. He bore himself erect, his shoulders squared. It was if he was again a chieftain, a warrior who esteemed his beliefs more than life itself. “But this one thing I may not do. I am a follower of Christ, and, as such, I will live and die.”
“You are sentenced out of your own mouth.” Rowland turned with a wrathful spat to the household guards. “Flog him to death.”
No! No!
Numb with shock and horror, Philip flung himself forward, unable to think about what he was doing. He burst through the circle of slaves, throwing his arms around Beric’s naked chest. “No!”
“Move that boy.” Rowland snapped the order, motioning to the guards. “Be quick about it; I am losing my patience.”
Philip tightened his grip on Beric’s stalwart frame. The guards surrounded him, attempting to drag him away. He clung tighter, burying his face against his father’s chest. “No! You cannot!”
“Philip!” Marcus’s angry voice sounded in his ear. “Obey or you will be scourged with him.”
Philip felt his grip loosening, weakened by the fierce pull of the guards. Beric leaned over him, his voice low.
“Nothing will separate you from God’s love, Philip.” His voice broke. “I love you, my son.”
Fighting and struggling, Philip felt himself ripped away and flung violently onto his knees. Raising himself, he was in time to see Beric being forced down on his face. His soul screamed out in helplessness. God, help him! Help him!
The sound of the first blow echoed in his ears. Resonating, the sound of his own agonized cry rent the air, hurting his throat. He struggled to his feet. “No! Stop!” He pivoted forward, adrenaline cutting off common sense.
Marcus caught him by the arms, spinning him around. “That’s enough, Philip.” His hiss was fierce. “Be still.”
Philip was nearly blinded by a torrent of tears. Agonized, he threw himself on his knees. His heart throbbed. Slowly, surely, his oxygen was being cut off. Flailing, he found Marcus’s hands and grasped them in his own.
“My lord, I beg you! Stop them! Marcus, please.”
“This is what shall be done to Christians in this household, Philip.” Marcus’s coldness was terrifying. Except for the night he had been flogged, Philip had never seen him so hardened. “His obstinacy has sentenced him.”
The sound of blows melded with the hot blood pounding in Philip’s ears. Wildly, he cast his eyes on his prostrate father. Dimly, he saw a rod descend, tearing the back of Beric.
Another agonized scream rose to his lips. He struggled to rise, to throw himself forward. It was then he realized he could not move. He was paralyzed, frozen by horror and disbelief.
“Marcus!”
His cry did not flicker a single muscle in Marcus’s face. The face of the young man remained coldly resolute, as chiseled as the marble countenance of Mars.
Again, Philip saw the rod ascend, saw the blood that streamed over Beric’s scored back and shoulders. Wildly, his eyes roved to Beric’s face. White. As white as the foaming waves curling over the coastline of the icy North Sea.
He felt his world sinking, whirling into a dark, deep void. Stay awake. Plead for him. Oh, God, where are You? Reality began to fade; he was too dizzy to think straight. He fought against the blackness, struggling to keep conscious.
It was a vain attempt.
The sound of blows grew muffled. Blessed, dark quietness enshrouded him, cutting off the sound of his own cries and the horrible agony sickening his heart.
When Philip awoke, he found himself alone in a little chamber adjoining the library. Slowly, he raised himself, swinging his legs over the side of the settee he lay upon.
On the opposite side of the room, a motionless figure lay shrouded in a cloth, resting unceremoniously upon the floor.
Philip’s heart lurched. Slowly at first, then breaking into a run, he crossed the room and threw himself at the side of the still figure. His hands shook wildly. No, Lord. No… Dashing away the hot tears blinding his vision, he forced himself to draw back the cloth.
Beric’s face, even in death, was calm and resolute.
Somewhere deep inside Philip, a sobbing cry welled up within him. It broke forth, its sound the echoing, moaning sob of a broken heart. It was quickly followed by another.
Shaking, rent by sobs, Philip dropped his head onto Beric’s chest. His hands stretched across the still body, holding him fast.
“No.” The low sound of his sobbed-out denial was a whisper. His voice intensified, nearly inaudible by his weeping. “No. My father. My father!”
His fingers groped across the body, seeking Beric’s hand. When at last he found it, icy coldness had already stiffened its joints.
The touch was too much for him. Something like a scream rose in his throat, but he choked it back. His entire frame shook uncontrollably, and he felt as if he was being turned inside out.
Half-raising his head, he looked downwards and saw the conjugated blood drenching Beric’s body. Welts, bruises, and deep, bloody lines scored his body, marring all but his face. His face alone bore the peacefulness of a Christian martyr–a warrior at rest.
Why? Why? Philip clung to Beric, the tears running down his face in hot rivulets. His eyes closed, his hands gripping his father in angst-ridden torture. Let me die. Don’t leave me here all alone! Please take me, Jesus.
“The men are here to take the body.” Marcus’s voice sounded behind him, strangely quiet.
Philip made no movement. Perspiration running through his fingers, he clenched his father’s body tighter, his tears running onto the still chest beneath his face. You shall not separate us. Jesus, where are you? Where are you!
“Philip.”
Philip felt Marcus’s hands rest on his shoulders, gripping him by his garments. Rent with sobbing, he shook his head, resisting him. Marcus’s very touch sent a shudder through his body. Let me go. God, get that devil’s hands off of me!
Marcus’s pull grew stronger. Philip felt a hand overtop his own, breaking his grip. Weeping, he stumbled to his feet, pulling fiercely away from Marcus. “No! Let me be. My father!”
Marcus held him fast, quiet and inexorable. Helpless in the firm grip, Philip could only watch as the male slaves bore his father’s body from the room. He stood, shaking with tears, tensing against the clamp-like fingers burrowing into his arms.
With Beric’s body gone, Marcus’s grip loosened. Philip jerked fiercely away from him, stumbling to his knees besides the settee. Broken, weeping, he cradled his hands over his heart, dropping his head onto his knees.
He sensed it as Marcus left the room, shutting the door upon him.
And he was alone.
The minutes slipped into hours. Philip remained upon his knees, his shoulders shaking, the low sobs breaking from his aching throat.
Slowly, the sun made its descent. Evening fell, casting its gloomy darkness upon the little chamber.
Still, Philip knelt. Even with his eyes closed, he felt the trickling moonlight spill over him. Its cold illumination was shrouded in death, in the terrible pain aching in every core of his body. His tears ceased, too worn out to sob any longer. For one full minute, he listened to the perfect, haunting stillness.
Like death.
He raised his head, lifting his tear-wet face to the ghostly orbs of light streaming in from the casement. Before he could stop himself, he heard his own husky whisper echo back at him.
“Is this the way You treat Your followers? Is this Your reward for my faithfulness?”
The tears welled up in his eyes, spilling down over his white cheeks. His voice broke, ending in sobs that tore his heart. “Why? What sin have I committed that You would do this to me? Is it not enough that my entire family is dead, that I am a slave? Was it not enough that I was flogged for Your sake?”
His sobs intensified, racking his entire frame. Again, he dropped his head into his shaking hands. “Why?” His cry echoed across the room. “Why? Tell me why!”
Silence permeated the chamber, broken only by the sounds of his violent sobs.
Overwhelmed by his sense of loneliness, Philip lifted his head. His swollen eyes rested slowly on the place he had last seen his father’s body. Only a reddish-brown mark remained, sealing the Virginius domus with the blood-sign of a martyr.
Nothing shall separate you from me, Philip.
“Is that my only comfort?” Philip cried out, his voice resonating in the darkness. “Is that the only promise You can give me? That I shall have Your love when You have taken everything else from me?”
My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.
“Is that what You want?” Philip’s sobs burst forth afresh. He cradled his hands on his chest, rocking himself. “For me to be weak? To take everything from me just so You can show me Your perfect strength?”
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.
“This has no goodness! What purpose can there be in my sorrow?” Philip rose to his feet. He could feel the suffering etched on his broken face. “Where were You when I needed You? Where?”
Silence filled his heart. Slowly, agonizingly, he again sank to his knees. A shame so fierce it nearly overpowered his grief rent his soul, tearing at him.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 17