“Forgive me.” The words fell in a broken whisper from his lips. “I am weak, Jesus. Be with me.”
His sobs again threatened to break forth, but he held them in check. He lifted his streaming eyes to the ceiling. “I cannot bear this burden alone, Jesus. You are all I have. Please don’t leave me all alone! Please be with me. I cannot bear this on my own strength. I will let Your strength be perfected in me, if only you will help me.”
By some inner compulsion he couldn’t explain, Philip felt his tightly-clenched hands open. Slowly, he stretched them out before him, raising them in mute worship.
“I let him go, Father. Only be with me!”
In that moment, a surreal peace flooded his heart. It was indescribable, mingling with his pain like a healing salve. He bent his head, his hands outraised. The tears continued to pour down his cheeks, but, slowly, new assurance filled the aching void in his soul.
Nay, in all these things, you are more than a conqueror through him that loved you. And nothing shall separate you from my love.
Chapter Sixteen
Gloomy darkness shrouded every corner of Marcus’s chamber. Only the moonlight cast its faint beams into the room, glinting off of the gilt wine glass lying unceremoniously upon his couch.
The sight was like the numbing of relief of intoxicating drinks itself, alluring him to their fleeting forgetfulness.
Marcus strode quickly across the room. Shaking, he snatched up the cup and poured strong wine into its deep basin, spilling some of the ruby liquid over the side of the pitcher. Great gods, he had to forget this day. Inhaling heavily, he lifted the mug with both hands to his lips. Feeling the fate of a man parched in the wild deserts, he fervently swallowed the contents, draining the cup to its last drop.
His hands trembled. With a resounding crash, the glass fell from his hands, striking the hard floor and dashing into a thousand glistening pieces.
The echoing sound startled him. Abruptly, he turned and his elbow brushed the side of the pitcher. It too toppled, sending scarlet liquid pouring down over the table and onto the ornate floor.
Marcus bent to retrieve it. Instant nausea washed over him, tangibly stealing the color from his cheeks. Slowly, he straightened himself, unwilling to touch the wine. Its scarlet color was the hue of death itself.
The color of Beric’s innocent blood.
Marcus shuddered. Barely pausing to undress, he threw himself on his couch, pulling a light covering over him.
For hours, he tossed. Sleep deserted his eyelids. Every sound was torture, every whisper of the breeze stealing through his casements was as a thousand spirits. Superstitious fear haunted him, and every passing second deepened his dread of seeing the ghost of Beric.
The wine intensified the excitement of his fevered brain, failing to bring the anesthetized relief he longed for. Great gods, but why this torture? Why could he not sleep?
With agonized slowness, his eyelids grew heavy. Drowsiness fell over him, sending him into the throngs of light slumber.
Its unconsciousness was more exhausting than being awake.
In his dreams, the white, agonized face of Philip haunted him. Marcus heard his cries, heard his frantic pleas for Beric’s deliverance. And, somehow, he saw himself.
Cold. Hard. And pitiless.
Stop them! Marcus. Marcus!
He felt a grasping hand on his own, a desperate voice in his ear. And the final words of a doomed father, his love surpassing any thought of his own sufferings.
Again, the silhouette of Philip rose before his eyes. He tried to push him away, to silence the racking sobs reverberating in his ears.
My father! Marcus. Marcus!
Chilled by the sound of his own name, Marcus sat upright, panting. For several minutes, he peered into the darkness, perspiration standing out in little rivulets on his forehead.
It had only been a dream.
Or had it?
Marcus lay down, pulling his coverlet over his shaking body. It had not been a dream. It was real, relived in his fevered mind. Everything he had seen he had done. And he would never be able to forget, to wipe the agony he had witnessed from his memory.
Sleep again visited his eyes, but it was a restless slumber. He tossed on his couch until the faint grey light of the dawn stole into his chamber. Somehow, its presence did not bring the welcome relief he longed for.
He was groggy as he rose from his couch. He stumbled as he crossed the room, intent upon procuring fresh clothing. Normally, Philip would perform this service, but the boy had not appeared to fulfill his duties.
It was just as well. He had no desire to lay eyes upon him, upon the countenance that was sure to haunt him with reproach.
Marcus dressed and wearily fastened his wristbands. He glanced across the room. The wine he had spilt the night before still lay in a little pool beside his couch. Somehow, the light of day only intensified its color, more reminiscent of blood than before.
He clapped his hands. He would have a slave clean up the mess, removing its torturous parallels. Perhaps he could then forget. Pluto guide me! Take the wretched soul of that slave and let me forget.
The sound of footsteps caused him to turn. To his shock, Philip stood directly behind him. Marcus stood motionless. Much against his will, his eyes refused to budge, taking in every feature of Philip’s face.
The boy was as pale as if he had been scourged himself. The blue eyes that had won him so much admiration were swollen with weeping, the exhaustion of his grief evident in every feature of his appearance.
Marcus felt a wave of anger. Here was the last person he wanted to see. But of course Philip would wish to remind him, to haunt him with the atrocities of what he had done.
“Clean up that wine.” The command fell from his lips far more harshly than he meant it to. He immediately felt the injustice of his callousness. Philip’s sorrow was natural. And he had certainly committed no offense by answering his master’s call.
Silently, Philip obeyed. He knelt beside the wine, mopping up its scarlet pool. Without being told, he swept up the broken glass and restored the pitcher to its proper place. Finished, he rose to his feet and stood in silent subservience.
Marcus gazed piercingly at him. Now was the time to gain Philip’s pledge of obedience, to finish the task of conquering his spirited stubbornness. And, upon receiving his oath, he would allow himself to lay aside his superiority. Perhaps lavishing comfort and indulgences upon Philip would lift the terrible burden bordering on his heart and mind.
“Philip.”
With submission he couldn’t help but marvel at, his slave lifted his eyes and looked at him. Marcus held him with his gaze, allowing his words to make his impression.
“Philip, if you doubted my resolution in this matter before, you are assured of it now. I am certain you would not like to meet the same fate as your father.”
The boy’s chin trembled. His blue eyes filled with tears and he averted his gaze, allowing the quiet drops to splash onto the marble floor.
Marcus continued, maintaining a quiet voice. Certainly, Philip was at a point where he was more certain to be conquered through gentleness than severity. “Give me your pledge that you will leave off the practice of Christianity. I shall then say no more.”
Philip looked up, his eyes watery. “I cannot do that, Marcus,” he said, his voice a broken whisper.
A sudden wave of anger penetrated Marcus’s heart. He had been prepared to deal kindly with his foolish slave. Was the stupid, stupid boy still intent upon defying him? “And why not?”
“I am a Christian. Nothing shall separate me from my Jesus.”
“So you say.” Marcus’s pent-up frustration burst forth, furious. “You continually speak of this perpetual union with your precious Savior. Where has He been, pray?”
He stepped forward, purposefully intimidating Philip with his close presence. His anger continued to boil over. “Where was your Jesus when I flogged you? Did He save you, end the pain you felt? Where was
He when your father died? Where!”
“He has been with me.” Philip’s voice, though low, was steadfast. “He has never left me.”
“A merciful God He is then!” Marcus spat the words, contempt livid on his face. “What loving Savior would watch his servant suffer and do nothing? Why didn’t he deliver you?”
“He has.” The tears rolled down Philip’s face unashamed. “He delivered me from my sin, from the hate that once controlled me. He has delivered me from fear. And, those things, Marcus, are the greatest deliverance of all.”
Marcus stood motionless. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. He could not speak, nor did he know what he would say if he could.
The greatest deliverance of them all.
It was a deliverance he wanted more than he would confess even to himself.
Philip continued to stand before him, his shoulders shaking with his unuttered sobs. His head bowed on his chest, the tears spilling down his white cheeks.
Marcus’s heart twisted. Wretched cur! Why did Philip weep so unashamed? Why was every tear a torture to his heart, each falling drop a blow to his senses? And–oh, by the gods! Philip was a slave. Why did he care what he had done to him?
“Cease your tears, wretch.” Marcus snapped the words, finding relief for his overwrought feelings in his lashed-out anger. “You are now fourteen years–a man among my people and your own.”
Philip’s voice shook. “The greatest Man, the Savior I love, wept for his friends. I am no greater than He.”
Marcus clenched his fists until the fingers bit into the palm. Constant talk of this Jesus made him want to throttle Philip and have the whole wretched ordeal over with. The fierceness of his own shout echoed through the room, startling even himself. “Will you never give up this folly?”
Rather than terrify, it seemed to arouse new spirit in Philip. He raised his head, his eyes glistening with rekindled resolve.
“Never, Marcus.”
Marcus’s face burned. He scarcely knew himself for anger. How dare this lowly slave defy him, throwing the kindness he would have offered back in his face?
His hand itched to slap him. He began to raise it, then, abruptly, stopped short. Fiercely, he struggled against the truth. It was to no avail. He could not hurt Philip. That terrible Presence was at his side, holding back his hand.
Chilling fear washed over his heart, trickling down his back. He could not move. Philip’s eyes remained locked in his own, waiting, cringing back from the blow he could not deliver.
With a rustling jolt, Marcus’s arm came down to his side. He felt the color wane from his face. His heart pounded wildly, captured by mingled anger and fear. “Get out of my sight!”
Clear bewilderment lighted on Philip’s face. He half-bent and backed away, evidently more than a little desirous to leave.
Marcus felt his frustration boiling up within him. It irked him to see his slave leave unscathed by the punishment he deserved. He suddenly found his voice. “Stay!” Then, as Philip turned, “I suppose you are ready to be sent to the arena?”
A visible shudder passed over Philip’s frame. “I do not want to go there.” His voice was low. “But it may be the will of my Lord that I meet Him sooner than I expect. And for that, I could not be sorry.”
He again turned away.
Marcus stood still for a long moment, fairly boiling with frustration. Slowly, he began to pace. What was to be done? Philip was determined to defy him.
Perhaps the most frustrating factor was that he could do nothing. In his heart of hearts, he feared the Presence that had twice stayed his merciless hand. Its power was undeniable.
But where did it come from?
Philip had had no time to make some mystical petition this time. What if–oh, great gods! What if his God was real?
It is impossible. Marcus struggled against the sentiment that threatened to grow into a conviction. This Christus was crucified. And the eagles in their realms forbid that the God of a slave should have more power the gods of mighty Rome!
Marcus pressed a hand to his aching brow. He was tired of this whole miserable drama. Wearily, he leaned against a pillar, closing his eyes.
It was then he heard the low murmur of a voice, issuing from Philip’s chamber. Marcus knit his brows. The foolish idiot was praying. Well, he would put a swift end to that!
Swiftly, he strode to the door separating his chamber from Philip’s. The door stood half-ajar, and he lifted his hand to strike it fully open. By a sudden compulsion, his hand remained aloft, curiosity curtailing his anger.
How exactly did these Christians pray?
Looking through the crack, he saw Philip, kneeling beside his couch. His hands covered his face, and Marcus heard the low, sobbed-out petitions falling in broken intervals from his lips.
“Help me forgive him, Jesus. Help me forget what he has done to me and-and the one I loved best.”
Marcus’s hand dropped slowly to his side. Surely, Philip did not speak of forgiving him. No slave in his right mind would petition his god for the ability to forgive the master who had so mercilessly hurt him.
Philip’s sobs intensified. “I cannot bear this, Father. You promised to uphold me; I beg You not to forsake Your promise. Give me strength to endure this trial. And, if-if I am to be sent to arena, help me to remember Your love even there.”
The slow conviction sank into Marcus’s heart. What Philip believed, whether true or not, meant more to him than life itself. Clearly, his threat of the arena had done little good.
He half-turned away, unwilling to hear more. But, against his will, Philip’s final petition halted him.
“Jesus, I cannot undo the things Marcus has done to me. I am suffering and would gladly stop this pain if I could. But, please,” and his voice faltered, “use these things for Your better glory. Use them to bring Marcus to You.”
The blood drained from Marcus’s face. His throat tightened, racked by a sudden burning ache. He could not have understood Philip correctly. Did he really petition his God to make him a Christian?
I must put an end to this! The thought spun in Marcus’s mind. His slave dared to pray that he, a son of mighty Rome, would become a Christian. The petition was a dishonor in itself–to think that he could unite with a religion so despised by his fatherland, so demeaning in its acceptance of both slave and free men.
But, he could not move. He felt strangely touched. In all of his eighteen years, he had never before heard someone pray so earnestly for him, let alone a slave.
Marcus turned slowly away. Something tingled at the back of his eyes, sending a fine mist streaming over their dark pupils. And, for the life of him, he could not curtail the foreign moisture.
He did not know if he would if he was able.
Philip never knew how he survived the three endless weeks after Beric’s death. Time flitted away on dark, dreary wings, blurring his days into one long, torturous existence.
His brethren were his greatest solace. Daniel in particular took him to his arms and comforted him, weeping with him. The loss of Beric was a sore blow to all those who had known him, and Philip found himself surrounded by heartfelt sympathy.
And, Providentially, it was a comfort he was often afforded. Three times a week, he slipped from the Virginius Mansion to meet with his fellow believers.
He was never stopped.
Strangely, Marcus seemed to turn a blind eye to his constant disobedience. Philip was certain he knew of his frequent night escapades, but Marcus never said a word to him. He seemed indifferent or–stranger still–afraid.
Philip often wondered what it was that had softened Marcus’s heart towards him. He could not begin to understand it.
And for good reason.
The young man was excessively callous during the weeks following Beric’s death. He drank himself into a stupor nearly every evening–stupors that often awoke into fits of violent rage. He was often away from the domus, spending many hours in the company of other young
noblemen.
Gossip concerning the things he did while away was frequently circulated among the household slaves. Philip made every endeavor not to listen. But it was impossible to avoid the truth about the lasciviousness that was apparently mastering Marcus.
To most, it was thought that Marcus was simply sowing a few wild oats before he settled down to begin his career.
Philip, however, sensed differently. Was it possible that a battle was raging, a battle of the Holy Spirit against the forces of evil? Was Marcus attempting to flee the pangs of his own conscience, knowing the truth but unwilling to accept it?
Partly to fuel his own desire for complete forgiveness, partly because he truly cared, Philip prayed fervently for him. Seeds did not give life without death, he knew. It was time for the death of Beric to awaken into the full, life-changing transformation of Marcus.
One evening, Philip prepared as usual to go out. Absently, he fastened his cloak around his shoulders. It was a relief to him to do so. After all the time that had passed, the metal collar around his neck still brought a wave of color to his cheeks.
“Are you going out?”
Philip started. He had thought Marcus on his couch, sleeping off his wine. A tremor passed through his body, a single thought burning itself into his brain.
He had made a full recovery. He was strong. Strong enough to be flogged.
Outwardly, he maintained a calm demeanor, breathing a silent prayer. You are in His hands. “Yes, my lord.”
“Where you are going?”
Philip flinched a little. “To the Christian meetings.”
Marcus stood motionless. He beheld him with an expression Philip could not understand, new in its mildness.
The silence grew long.
Philip felt a new fear. What terrible punishment was Marcus conjuring up for him? Was he about to make good on his threat of the arena?
When Marcus broke the silence, his voice was very quiet. “Would you mind if I accompanied you, Philip?”
Shock spun through Philip’s mind, nearly sending him off his feet. Was it possible? After all his prayers, was Marcus truly considering Christianity?
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