Marcus felt a familiar ache seized his throat. He looked down, squeezing his strong hands and watching the muscles ripple up his tanned arms. At times, he hated his own strength, knowing what pain he had inflicted.
But, those hands that had shed so much innocent blood were clean.
“He will know someday, Philip. He may know now.”
“I know, my lord.” Philip drew a long breath. Marcus saw the effort he made to smile. “At any rate, he knows I have forgiven you.”
Marcus slowly placed his hands on Philip’s upper arms, gripping them in the Roman fashion of an embrace. He had done so with Seneca, with dozens of men he did not even know. It was the least he could do for Philip.
“And, that, Philip, means more to me than you could ever know.”
Part II
For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
~Romans 8:38-39~
Chapter Twenty
66 Anno Domini – Five Years Later
The hot Italian sun glistened off the scarlet and bronze attire of a military tribune. His tanned, handsome countenance shone with perspiration, trickling beneath the crested helmet strapped to his head.
He strode down the Vicus Jugarius towards a colossal mansion, bronzed, well-built legs protruding beneath his soldier’s tunic. Treading lightly up the steps, he laid a strong hand over the short gladius swinging rhythmically at his side.
Inside the cool domus, he exhaled deeply.
“Great Caesars! This heat is enough to madden a man!”
A young man of some nineteen years was seated by the sparkling fountain playing at one end of the pool. He rose to his feet, crossing his hands on his chest in swift salute. “I have refreshments laid out in the library for you, my lord.”
“If I survive long enough to partake of them. Help me out of this accursed armor.” As he spoke, Marcus unclasped his long cloak and threw it unceremoniously on a marble bench beside the pool.
Philip moved forward. With the deftness of experience, he unstrapped the heavily-decorated breastplate and removed it. Laying it aside, he returned for the plumed helmet.
Clad only in his padded tunic, Marcus stretched his arms out to their full length, bringing them over his wet, close-cropped hair.“Eia! I arrived none too soon. You say refreshments are laid out in the library?”
“Yes, my lord. Your father is there also. He has been asking for you.”
“I will not keep him waiting.” Marcus gestured to his cast-aside armor. “Take those miserable trappings away. You may serve me directly afterward.”
Having given his directions, Marcus strode briskly through the atrium to the library. Throwing open the door, he lifted his arm in greeting.
“All hail, noble Cleotas Aeneas, beloved senator and father!”
“Marcus.” Cleotas looked up from his scroll with an amused smile. “The gods favor you.” Then, with a keen glance, “You are rather warm, I see.”
“An excellent observation. But, then, it is the fate of those who choose to labor for their occupation. Others, I see, are content to lounge the day away.”
Cleotas laughed, tossing away his scroll. “You chose your own profession, Marcus; I chose mine.”
“Truth. And I would not exchange mine for any other.” Marcus poured out a goblet of honeyed wine and sipped its icy sweetness before continuing. “Still, I admit days such as this make me regret I ever chose the active life of a soldier.”
“Be grateful you are a tribune of the Praetorian Guard. Many of your more unfortunate fellows are wasting away in Brittanicus and Jerusalem.”
Marcus threw himself down upon a couch. Absently, he removed the silver bands encircling his wrists. “You speak truly, father. But, whether in Rome or Judea, there are still duties to be performed. My voice is hoarse from a counsel with my centurions today.”
“And the dungeon below the palace? Did any of your men relieve the guard stationed there today?”
Marcus caught the sudden change in Cleotas’s voice. “Possibly. Why do you ask?”
Cleotas motioned to his cast-aside scroll. “Your fellow Christians are being captured and tortured at an alarming rate. It seems Nero is still bent on wringing a confession from one of them.”
Marcus was silent. A great fire had ravished Rome two years ago, but its fervent heat and fury were imprinted upon his mind as clearly if it had been yesterday. Fire was no respecter of grandeur, and the Circus Maximus had been among the many colossal structures and homes burnt to the ground.
Emperor Nero has instigated the rumor the Christians had deliberately started the blaze. Marcus felt a wave of indignant fury rush through him at the thought. The Vestal Virgins could not have been more innocent.
It made little difference to those hungry for the blood of Christus-followers.
“Many of them will be sent to the Flavian Amphitheatre, I suppose?”
“Yes.” Cleotas turned his eyes upon him with a burning sensation Marcus could fairly feel. “Marcus, are you never afraid you might be next?”
“Anything is possible these days. Still, I am a soldier of Rome. My loyalty to her is unchallenged. I do not think my superiors have ever had any grounds for suspecting me.”
“What of the centurions and legionaries under your command?”
“Their place is to obey, not to think, Cleotas. You know that as well as I. And my commands seldom infers of my faith.”
Cleotas arose to regain his scroll. Contemplatively, he tapped it into his palm. “Still, you must be cautious, Marcus. Caesar’s dispositions are unforeseeable. And he is not afraid to execute those closest to him.”
“I do not know that Caesar is safe himself, father.” Marcus spoke dryly. He again sipped from the cold contents of his goblet, attempting to wash away his darkening mood.
Cleotas looked a moment at him. “I know Nero has little of your respect, my son. But, if danger threatens him, it is your duty to speak of it.”
“I agree. But there is nothing to say, excepting vague whisperings and rumors.” Marcus paused in contemplation. “And it is not for me to speak poorly of my superiors.”
“Then you do not deny these whisperings issue from those in high places?”
“No. But neither will I acknowledge that they do. I will only say Nero may not always possess the popularity of the world–or of his Praetorian Guard.”
There was a fleeting moment of silence.
In his heart, Marcus knew Cleotas respected the emperor no more than he himself did. He was a known murderer, a man whose sensual and demonic passions wreaked havoc on all those who opposed his designs.
Some even dared to whisper he was losing his reason.
But it was not for those reasons alone Cleotas disliked him. It had only been last year the divine emperor had forced Seneca to commit suicide for the unreasonable charge of treason. However innocent, Seneca had proudly severed several veins, thus suffering an agonizing death by blood loss. That circumstance had forever altered Cleotas’s allegiance to Nero, however little he spoke of it.
Marcus thought it best to lighten the subject. He sat down his goblet, striking a brisk mannerism. “A new cohort arrives in the Castra Praetoria tomorrow. The prefect has assigned them to my legion.”
Interest lightened Cleotas’s eyes, dispelling the dark expression overshadowing their pupils. He leaned forward.
“I suppose you will be on hand to observe their reception?”
“It is my custom, yes.” Marcus turned as Philip appeared in the door. “Ah, there you are. Well?”
“Begging your pardon, but are you planning on attending the meeting tonight?”
“Yes. Fetch my cape; I will be with you in a moment.” Marcus turned back to Cleotas. “I see I am not to be allowed leisure, father.”
Cleotas�
��s eyes had followed Philip’s departure from the room, but he now raised them with a slightly impatient expression. “And do you allow a slave to command you, Marcus? Stay at home for once and be comfortable. Jove, the priests of Venus are no more devoted than you!”
Marcus picked up his bands, clasping them around his tanned wrists. “And their dedication is sadly pointless, Cleotas.” He stopped abruptly, seeing the look that flitted across his adopted father’s face. “My apologies, sir. You know–”
Cleotas waved his hand. “You do not offend me, Marcus. I know your zeal for your God. And you know I have little faith of my own.”
Marcus paused besides his father’s couch. Instinctively, he knew Cleotas wished he would remain at home. They saw precious little of each other since his appointment as a Praetorian Tribune. But, duty called.
And there were additional, more appealing factors to be considered.
“I will not stay long tonight, Cleotas.” Marcus met Cleotas’s hand in farewell, gripping his forearm. “I bid you vale.”
“Vale, Marcus.”
Marcus turned, exiting the library with swift steps. Even when off duty, it seemed he could never shake the soldier’s firm stride.
Nor would he wish to.
He would never worship Rome’s gods. He was a Christian, and her eagles would never again reign uppermost in his heart and mind. But, nonetheless, he was proud to be an officer of the greatest military force in the world, a tribune of her most elite company of soldiers. The Praetorian Guard had a reputation as highly-skilled men of war. He was gratified to be a leading member of her prowess.
Philip was dutifully awaiting him in the atrium, his master’s scarlet cloak slung over one arm.
Marcus approached, allowing him to throw the garment over his shoulders. Waving off Philip’s attempts to do it for him, he clasped the folds around his chest and drew one corner over his arm.
He glanced sidelong at Philip as he made his preparations. Five years ago, when he had first come to the Aeneas household, he had had the ring filed from his slave’s neck. To this day, he was grateful he had taken that step. It had done much towards easing their positions into something he could truly call friendship.
Finished, Marcus led the way out into the humid outdoors. The sun was setting against the horizon of Rome’s colossal structures, but the air was still thick and heavy. Mosquitoes buzzed around his perspiring face as soon as he stepped out, and he brushed them absently aside.
The well-known trek to the home of Daniel did not take long. Marcus lightly rapped on the door. Beside him, he saw Philip’s deep blue eyes scanning the darkening street for any nosy neighbors who might summon the city guard.
The possibility was slim. Marcus was in uniform, and it was unlikely anyone would suspect a soldier of Rome and his slave. Still, caution was of the utmost importance.
Particularly when men such as Nero rule.
The door swung open, allowing the two young men to enter. Marcus led the way, giving his whispered greeting to the doorkeeper. “Peace be with you.”
“Peace, brothers.”
Philip lingered behind to speak with the doorkeeper. Marcus continued on without him. Standing in the entry of the inner room they met in, his dark eyes scanned the company of believers.
Most had already gathered. Simeon. Daniel. Two or three legionaries from one of his cohorts.
He recognized the soldiers instantly, and they paused in their conversation as his eyes rested on them. They began to rise and salute, but Marcus lifted his hand. Among Christians–particularly at the meetings–there were no titles, no differentiation between male and female, slave or free.
They were all one in Christ.
Behind him, Marcus felt Philip brush his shoulder. It was time for the meeting to begin. His heart pounding ever so slightly, he stepped forward into the room. Finding an empty bench, he seated himself, continuing to scan the dimly-lit room.
She was not there.
Philip sat down beside him, leaving room for one more occupant.
Daniel stood up, clearing his throat. An instant hush fell over the softly murmuring congregation and every eye turned on him.
“Peace, brothers. With your consent, I thought it profitable to begin tonight’s meeting with one of the psalms. I will begin with the ninety-first. He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty…”
Marcus caught his breath. His attention was diverted from the beauty of the psalm, caught by a more alluring subject.
Moriah stood in the doorway. Her entrance was noiseless, but, to Marcus, the pealing of all his legion’s trumpets could not have announced her presence more fittingly.
She balanced a basket of bread on her hip, her attention fixed upon Daniel. She waited reverently for him to finish, smiling openly on the cluster of children seated at his feet.
They were the only members she seemed to notice.
Glancing from his peripheral vision, Marcus saw all three legionaries watching her. Obviously, their attention was no more fixed on the psalm than his was. He felt his blood begin to simmer. What he would not give to pull rank on them. But that would be unfair. Attempting to cool down, he reminded himself they had as much right as he to attempt to win Moriah’s heart.
As Daniel read on, Marcus let his mind go. Moriah had been a lovely girl when he had first met her. Now, five years later, she was an even more beautiful woman. She was of average height, carrying a trim, shapely form. Her features were more defined, more womanly, but she continued to bear a pure, innocent expression.
She was also entirely unmarried.
Marcus knew Moriah had had her chances at marriage. But she seemed content to wait, waiting for a Christian man of flawless character to sweep her off her feet.
Her evident resolve only deepened Marcus’s conviction he could never be good enough to win her. He had remained pure since his conversion, had walked uprightly in all his ways. But he knew she remembered his past.
The psalm complete, Moriah stepped forward to pass out bread and wine for communion. A single goblet was circulated around the room. Marcus sipped of its contents, pausing in silent remembrance of the blood his Savior had shed so he could be clean.
As Moriah brought the bread around, she paused at the bench. Her hazel eyes warmed with a soft smile, and she broke off a piece of the unleavened bread for Philip.
Marcus saw Philip lift his eyes with gentle warmth, saw their hands brush as he took the bread from her hand. Their shared look seemed to linger before she finally turned away and offered the basket to Marcus.
Lifting his eyes, Marcus looked at her, but her gaze was not fixed on him. She seemed impatient for him to help himself so she could move on. Fighting his frustration, he took a piece from the basket, and she moved gracefully away.
Marcus glanced sidelong at Philip. The young man was quiet and subdued, partaking of his communion with all the reverence of one zealous for his faith. He looked the perfect Christian, serene and dutiful.
It was little wonder he found such favor with Moriah.
The passing years had been good to Philip. A young man of some nineteen years, he was respected throughout the Christian community as an exemplar of the faith. His diligence to the meetings was unrivaled, his good works and purity unsurpassed.
And his Christian attributes were far from marred by long-faced homeliness. Good looks were also on his side.
The Britons had not ceased to find admiration in fashionable Rome, and Philip was a true son of his race. His sweeping, close-cut blonde hair, fair skin, and blue eyes attracted attention wherever he went. He was tall, standing an inch or two above Marcus. He trained in the Baths or at the barracks every day, and his sinewy muscles matched, if not surpassed, his master’s.
Marcus grimaced dryly. It was good Philip was no longer the rebellious little cur he had once been. Had his fiery temper persisted, there would be no curtailing him now.
But, both fortunately an
d unfortunately for him, Philip was no longer that same hotheaded Briton. He was still governed by spirited courage, but was also somehow very calm and self-possessed.
The final prayer was pronounced, and Marcus looked up in time to see Philip look across the room at Moriah. She met his eyes with her usual smile, the beautiful color flooding her face.
Marcus averted his eyes.
“In the name of the Jesus our Lord, Amen.”
The hot sun beamed down on the perspiring cohort, standing at parade attention. Under the sweltering rays, their polished armor glistened, sparkling with dazzling intensity from the unified mirrors of hundreds of breastplates.
Astride his horse, Marcus surveyed the cohort with narrowed eyes. This new company of legionaries was fresh. According to the prefect, the majority of the men had only recently returned from their probatio, or, basic training.
Their first few weeks within the Roman army had been good to them. Marcus surveyed their tanned, muscular arms, gripping their pilums with taut rigidness. They were well-built, well-disciplined machines.
Throughout the whole cohort, not a muscle moved. The legionaries gazed ahead of them, unseeing, unblinking.
Marcus dismounted, throwing the reins to a slave. His centurions closed in behind him, silently following his tread.
Marcus strode to the head of the company. The centurion of the cohort raised his arm in stiff salute.
“Hail, Aeneas.”
“Centurion.” Marcus raised his arm in salute. “I welcome you to the Castra Praetoria.”
“Thank you, tribune.”
Marcus gestured to the cohort. “These men have recently returned from their probatio. What is their character?”
“They are well-trained and disciplined, tribune. None are sickly, none unruly.”
“We will soon see.” Marcus turned his eyes on the men. He walked down the first line of legionaries, the centurion and his officers falling in behind and around him. As he walked by them, the legionaries brought their pilums stiffly back in silent salute, returning it to its outstretched position as soon as he passed.
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