Almost instantly, his joy melded into dread. Marcus was callous, merciless to the core. His intentions might harbor some sinister plot, planning the demise of the best blood Rome had to offer.
“Why do you wish to go?” The curtness of Philip’s query startled even himself. Dear God, don’t let him be angry with me.
Marcus seemed puzzled for a moment. Slowly, the light of understanding broke over his face. “I mean them no harm, Philip.”
“You must promise me that.” Philip quaked at his own boldness, but he was resolute. No harm must come to his brethren because of his own foolish trust. “I must have your sworn oath, Marcus.”
“Do you dare tell your master what he must do?” The wrath in Marcus’s voice was unmistakable. The vexed color rose high in his forehead. “I can make you take me there, Philip.”
Philip said nothing. He stood motionless, half-averting his eyes. At last, as the silence again grew long, he looked up.
Marcus met his gaze. As if tired by the whole affair, he made an impatient gesture. “Very well, you insolent cub. I swear upon my honor I mean no harm to your friends. No one shall be arrested or hurt by my accompanying you.” Then, with doubled impatience, “There, does that satisfy you?”
Philip felt a twinge, sorry that his necessary disrespect had displeased Marcus. “Yes, my lord.” He spoke softly, hoping his humility would appease Marcus. “I beg your pardon; I did not mean to anger you.”
Marcus looked at him with narrowed, displeased eyes. “Let us be off.”
Swallowing hard, Philip led the way, opening the door for Marcus. For a brief instant, he closed his eyes.
Do not let him be deceiving me, Father. Protect my brethren. If Marcus means us harm, let it come on me, not them.
“Hurry up!” Behind him, Marcus gave him a jarring shove. “Pick up your feet, cur.”
Philip quickened his pace, controlling the momentary irritation that swelled in his chest. Swiftly, he ran down the steps and led the way down the Vicus Tuscus.
The sky was a mixture of deep grey and cobalt color, the horizon rent by the few streaks of light streaming from the fast-fading sun.
Pedestrians hurried through the street, intent upon reaching their homes before the danger of darkness fell upon them. Carriages of goods rattled past them, pushed by weary produce peddlers. Occasionally, a chariot rolled down the street, its owner flicking the team with the end of the whip held carelessly in his tanned hand.
Skillfully, Philip led the way through the streets, always conscious of the strong presence behind him. He forced himself not to consider what Marcus might do if it was in his heart to be cruel. Oh, Lord God, please don’t let this be foolishness on my part. Please, Jesus. Instant consolation quieted him. Somehow, he knew he was doing right.
At last, he stopped before a small house on the Vicus Jugarius. The street was eerie in its darkness and the house itself looked deserted. He raised his hand to rap upon the door, but Marcus’s low voice halted him.
“Are you certain this is the right house? By the gods, this is a place for spirits and vagrants.”
“Fear not, Marcus; I have been here many times.” Philip cringed as he saw Marcus’s eyes narrow. As he rapped on the door, he chided himself for his own frankness.
Just give him every excuse to beat you when he gets you home, will you?
The door swung open, allowing room enough for Philip to slip through. Quickly, he stepped inside, motioning for Marcus to follow. “Peace be with you,” he whispered before leading the way to the inner chamber where he knew the others were assembled.
The soft light of oil lamps illuminated the room. The low hush of voices quieted as Philip stepped inside. Glancing from his peripheral vision, he saw Marcus linger in the shadows.
“Peace be with you, friends.”
“And peace be with you, my young brother.” Simeon rose to his feet. “I greet you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Nervous apprehension pounded at Philip’s heart. Half-gesturing, he motioned Marcus forward into the light.
An immediate gasp fell over the whole of the company. Marcus’s toga and signs of rank clearly introduced himself. Philip knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he had no need of presenting Marcus as his master.
They knew.
Simeon, the first to recover himself, rested eagle-like eyes on Philip’s countenance. “What is this, Philip? Is this young man the one we think?”
Philip’s heart sank at Simeon’s stern tone. With difficulty, he controlled his voice to speak quietly. “My brethren, I present my master, the noble Marcus Virginius.”
Again, several indistinct exclamations circulated, mingled with murmurs that bespoke nothing short of horror. Several members of the brethren drew back from him, exchanging knowing glances of distrust and apprehension.
Philip looked at Marcus, seeing him stiffen. Yet, behind his proud Roman aloofness, he was quiet, as if he did not blame their feelings.
Simeon’s countenance darkened, his stern tones increasing in severity. “You have done very foolishly, Philip. Is this not the man who scourged you for your faith, who turned a blind eye to your father’s suffering? How could you bring such peril upon us?”
Philip felt mingled desperation and uncertainty. He was certain he had done right. A foreign timidity descended upon him, caught between Simeon’s stern rebuke and Marcus’s masterful eye. He attempted a faltering explanation.
“He swore on his honor to bring no harm upon us, Simeon. And, whatever ill my lord has done me, I believe him too noble to break his word. I–”
“He who would persecute one believer would persecute them all.” Simeon cut him off, his sharp Jewish countenance fervent with zealous rebuke. “You have done foolishly.”
“Do not chide him, my brother.” Daniel arose. Philip felt his quiet, kindly eyes rest upon him, easing his distress. “You have forgotten our brother Paul and the persecution he wrought among the believers before coming to the gospel. Philip has brought his lord; therefore, let him be made welcome.”
Simeon was silent. Daniel turned to Marcus, welcome clearly written on his features.
“I give you welcome, Marcus Virginius.”
“Thank you.” Marcus spoke quietly, and Philip was certain he recognized Daniel. For a fleeting instant, Philip wondered what Marcus’s thoughts were towards the man who had aided his runaway slave.
Daniel was ready to commence the meeting, however, giving Philip no further time to wonder. Wordlessly, he motioned a low stool to Marcus, then, knelt on the floor beside him.
The meeting proceeded as usual, but it was difficult for Philip to keep his mind on the service. His thoughts remained active, fixed almost entirely on the young man beside him.
What did Marcus think of all of this? Did he find their simple worship and prayers strange? Was he touched? Or–and Philip shuddered inwardly–did what he see make him more determined to break his slave’s will?
When the simple message and reading of Paul’s epistle was complete, Daniel asked for prayer requests. Moriah was the first to speak.
“I ask prayer for a woman I have been witnessing Christ to. She seems very close to the truth, and I trust she will come to accept it very soon.”
Glancing sidelong, Philip saw Marcus lift his head a little more erect, his attention caught by the sweet, clear tones. His dark eyes rested on Moriah, drifting over her delicate features and down to the folded hands in her lap.
Moriah seemed aware of Marcus’s interest. She shifted uncomfortably, drawing her veil a little more over herself.
Philip felt a twinge of indignation. What right did Marcus have to look at her with such obvious attraction? To be sure, Moriah was as pretty as one could desire. Her very presence perfumed the air about her with grace and purity. But, she was a Christian maiden. And nothing could contrast her purity more than the lascivious lifestyle he was fully aware his master lived.
Philip endeavored to quiet his feelings. Perhaps it was only the nove
lty of a woman speaking before an assemblage comprised of both men and women that had excited Marcus’s curiosity. Or perhaps he was intrigued by so beautiful a maiden giving herself over to the chastity of Christianity.
Don’t judge him for motives you cannot know.
With that thought, Philip set his mind towards concentrating on the meeting. A few more prayer requests were spoken, then, Daniel prayed over the assemblage. The time and place for the next meeting was set, and then the service was concluded.
Philip looked at Marcus. He did not signify any immediate desire to depart, and, with a low “Excuse me”, Philip hurriedly crossed the room.
Daniel was waiting for him. With his usual pleasant smile, he laid his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “How does it go with you, Philip?”
“I am well, Daniel.” Philip cast a glance across the room. Marcus sat where he had left him, his eyes fixed upon two or three of the brethren as they stood talking. “I only wish I knew what the future will bring.”
“It is best not to know.” Daniel caught the direction of his look. His voice grew low. “Is your master close to the truth?”
“I do not know.” Philip drew a deep breath. “I pray constantly for him, but he seems very hardened to all things referring to the gospel.”
“Why did he come tonight?”
“I do not know that either. Truth be told, I am afraid, Daniel. I do not trust his motives. He swore to bring no harm upon any of you, but-but that does not exclude me from punishment if he has a mind to hurt me.”
Daniel was silent a moment. “He is a very handsome, pleasant-looking young man. One would not think from looking at him that he is the hardened individual we know him to be.”
“Truth.” Philip again looked across the room. Most of the believers had departed, and Marcus met his eye with clear desire to be gone. “I cannot linger here, Daniel. Please, pray for me.”
“I will, Philip.” Daniel paused. “And for Marcus.”
“Yes.” Philip felt a wave of shame. Why had he not requested prayer for Marcus? His soul was safe. It was Marcus who, in the end, would suffer if he did not accept the truth. “Goodnight, Daniel.”
Quickly pressing Daniel’s hands to his forehead, Philip turned and returned swiftly to Marcus’s side. “You are ready to depart, my lord?”
“Yes.” Marcus’s tone was curt, and Philip’s heart sank. With the growing fear he would be punished upon their return, he led the way to the door.
In the entry, Moriah stood awaiting Daniel. Philip offered her a silent salute as he passed. Marcus, however, slowed in his walk, resting his dark eyes on her face.
“Good evening, maiden.”
Moriah met his intent gaze. A flicker of feminine spirit flitted across her countenance, and Philip was surprised by the firm boldness of her tone.
“Good evening, my lord.”
Amusement played about the corners of Marcus’s mouth. Clearly, he was not accustomed to having a woman answer him so curtly. But, there was little surprise in that. Philip had seen him melt an entire roomful of Roman noblewomen with a single turn of his flashing smile.
Half-bowing, Marcus continued on. Moriah did not give him a second glance, but Philip saw the bright color burning in her cheeks as he shut the door.
Chapter Seventeen
The walk home was a silent one.
Marcus had noted their course and led the return trek at a swift pace. Philip followed close behind him, dread growing within his heart. He could not begin to discern Marcus’s thoughts. Was he angry? Or had his first experience of a Christian meeting touched his heart?
At last, they mounted the steps of the Virginius domus and entered the quiet vestibule.
Philip felt a familiar pang as he stood in the atrium. How many times he and Beric had stood there, speaking of the meeting they had just attended and the truths they had learned. Everything ached within him, longing for Beric. Help me forgive, Lord. Help me see Marcus the way You do.
“Come with me to my chamber.” Marcus’s voice was curt, and he did not wait for Philip’s reply.
Still, Philip felt a tinge of relief. Perhaps he was not going to be punished after all. Marcus would never think of flogging him in his personal chambers.
In his room, Marcus threw himself down on his couch. Philip drew near and attempted to take his toga. Marcus, however, gave him an impatient push.
“Sit down.”
Slowly, Philip obeyed, sitting on a low stool at Marcus’s feet. It was then he noticed how pale Marcus was. The young man looked intently at him, his eyes searching.
“I have gone to your meetings and still I do not understand what it is you Christians believe. I know you worship some Jewish carpenter hailed as Christ, but that is all.”
Philip considered his words carefully, attempting to discern Marcus’s desire correctly. “Do you wish to know more, my lord?”
“Why do you think I seated you here?” Marcus’s voice bordered on impatience. “Tell me everything.”
Philip’s eyes gazed searchingly into Marcus’s. Was it possible this was the moment he had prayed for? Help him understand, Lord. Somehow, touch his heart.
As clearly as he could, Philip told the story of the Christian faith. He told how Jesus was the Son of God; born of a virgin; of his perfect life and ministry; of the cruel death he suffered on a Roman cross. And, in conclusion, he spoke of the Father’s will to save sinners by slaying His only Son; of how whosoever who desired could accept the free gift of everlasting life; and of the eternal home Jesus was preparing for those who believed in Him.
Marcus listened quietly as he spoke, making no interruption. No trace of emotion or animation crossed his expressionless face during the narrative. His interest seemed the aspiration of one merely concerned with personal knowledge, not the workings of the Holy Spirit.
When he had finished, Philip waited in silence for Marcus to speak. His heart swelled in silent prayer for him, only too aware of the doubts and fears that plagued the heart of an unbeliever when faced with the truth.
Marcus’s voice was cold when he spoke. “This story is altogether the most fanciful one I have ever heard. The mere notion of God sending His only Son to die for mortal man is ridiculous in itself. And I can safely assure you no crucified carpenter rose from the dead after three days in a stinking sepulcher.”
Philip said nothing. How was he to answer? Such things were unheard of in the world. No deity of his knowledge had ever been said to become a man, let alone die for mortal flesh.
Yet it is true, Father. I thank You it is true.
Marcus motioned impatiently to his goblet. Philip slowly filled it with the sparkling, intoxicating wine. His heart ached as he watched Marcus take it in his hands, sipping slowly of the contents. Would he never realize that numbing his mind was not the answer to his struggles? That a drunken stupor could not rid him of heartache?
Marcus finally set the goblet aside. He stood up, unwrapping the folds of his linen toga. It was then Philip saw his hands trembled strangely.
“You cannot expect me to believe such an idiotic tale. There is little wonder ignorant slaves like you flock to accept Christianity. Perhaps you need the crutch of love and sacrifice, but I do not.”
The haughty mockery in Marcus’s voice was clearly bordered by something else. Philip looked intently at him. Could it be fear?
Marcus was evidently frustrated by his silence. Forcefully, he thrust his toga into Philip’s hands, the color tinting his tanned cheeks. “By the gods! I tell you I do not believe this despicable story. And how dare you–a lowly, foolish slave–think I need this Jesus? I am my own master!”
Philip remained silent. Marcus was beside himself, governed by a force beside his anger. His hands shook and his wrathful color quickly gave place to an unfamiliar, taut whiteness.
The slow truth washed over Philip. Marcus was afraid, just as he had suspected. But afraid of what? Was it possible the strange dark force that had tried to prevent him from accepti
ng Christ was also haunting Marcus?
Save him, Lord. Deliver him from his fears and bring him to You.
Marcus drew nearer. His stance was stiff and apprehensive, like a warrior preparing to defend himself from a sudden blow. His dark eyes flashed, his bronzed chin quivering.
“Don’t flatter yourself by your silence, Philip! I can see your thoughts. You can hide nothing from me. You do think I need this Jesus, don’t you? Don’t you?”
Philip raised his eyes, his throat aching. Marcus’s callous strength had often been to his own suffering, but, somehow, it hurt him far worse to see him in his weakness. He swallowed hard, knowing he must speak the truth.
“Yes, master.”
Marcus leaned close to him, and Philip felt his hot, labored breathing upon his neck. “Well, I don’t. I need nothing, let alone the religion of a slave! I–”
Marcus cut himself short. He turned abruptly away, but it was too late.
Philip’s mind whirled. Had he truly seen those dark, flashing eyes glisten, melting into a soft mist? It was not possible.
Marcus stood with his back turned to Philip for many long moments.
Philip stood motionless, uncertain of what to do. Should he go to Marcus? But, if he did, what was he to do? He did not dare touch him. And he certainly could not speak. In this state of mind, who knew what Marcus would do to him?
He was spared from making a decision. Just when he was about to speak, Marcus broke the silence, his voice low.
“Go to your own chamber.”
Slowly, with an aching heart and bewildered mind, Philip obeyed.
Philip slept little that night. In the next chamber, he could hear Marcus tossing upon his couch and knew that he also was awake.
Be with him, Father.
Philip felt an immediate twinge. Marcus’s soul wrestled between heaven and hell, and he lay comfortably on his couch. It didn’t seem right.
Before he fairly knew what was occurring, Philip felt an overpowering command to pray. Urgency overswept him, pounding in his heart. With lightning speed, he thrust aside his coverings.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 19