“Strike me, tribune. Flog me, torture me, send me to the arena. I know the things you can do to me. But I will not denounce my Jesus.”
Slowly, Marcus lowered his hand. His heart was touched as it had not been for many days. Abruptly, his throat constricted, aching.
How little he had known how true his instincts about Alexander really were. He had sensed he was a good soldier.
He now knew Alexander was also a courageous brother.
“I am always pleased to find a man who is not ashamed to own his beliefs, Alexander.” Marcus knew the simple quietness of his tones was a bewildering contrast to his former severity. “Well done.”
Indescribable shock flooded Alexander’s white countenance.
Marcus continued to meet his eyes, crossing his hands upon his chest. “Peace be with you, my brother, in the name of our Savior.”
Alexander stood momentarily speechless. Abruptly, the blood washed over his face. He turned away, hiding his face in his hands.
“Great God.” Marcus heard his almost unintelligible groan. “And if I had denied You?”
Marcus stepped forward. For once, he had no compulsion against laying aside his military authority. He laid his hand lightly on Alexander’s shoulder, compassionate.
“I often test my soldiers, Alexander, but you must know I seldom feel the satisfaction of seeing one pass inspection as well as you have today.”
Alexander turned. He straightened into soldierly erectness, but all of his military training could not mask his overwrought feelings. He swallowed, his throat constricting.
“Tribune, I–”
He paused, apparently unable to speak.
Marcus surveyed him with understanding. “Your loss for words is reasonable, legionary. One would not presume to believe I am a Christian. Still, it is the truth.”
“I beg sincere pardon of you, my lord tribune.” Alexander’s eyes sought his, his low voice tense. “You do not test me? You are not trying to take the lives of my brethren?”
Marcus saw the searching appeal in his pupils. Again, he placed his hand on his shoulder. “No. I swear by our Lord and Savior I am who I say I am. But, if you do not believe me now, you soon will. Time will reveal I make no offerings to Jupiter.”
Gradually, Alexander’s breathing regained a normal rhythm. His eyes momentarily closed. “Praise God.”
Marcus let his hand fall, offering it to him. Alexander’s gaze drifted up from his metal-banded forearm to his eyes, half-shaking his head.
“No, my tribune, I–”
Marcus stopped him. “Do not be afraid to take my hand, Alexander. I am more than your commander. I am also your brother.”
With slow, respectful hesitance, Alexander took his hand.
Marcus grasped his forearm. Looking into Alexander’s green eyes, he sensed his obedience was provoked by fear. Contemplatively, he loosed him.
“You are afraid of me. That is right for a soldier of Rome. But, when we are alone, you must remember we are equal in Christ.”
“Why did you do it?” Alexander’s voice was soft.
“Test you?” Marcus turned away, pouring out a goblet of wine. “I wanted to see what you were made of, if you were as courageous for your faith as you are on the field of combat.” He paused. “And I consider my own life too valuable to risk losing it to a so-called Christian who is not willing to die for his beliefs.”
Alexander remained silent. He seemed half-desirous to speak, but could not completely forget that he was standing in the presence of his austere commander.
Marcus drew near him, stretching out the goblet. “Drink, Alexander. We will share wine, you and I.”
Alexander took the goblet. He brought it to his lips, swallowing.
Marcus took it from him and lifted it to his own mouth. He did the unthinkable by sharing the same goblet with a humble legionary, but it was an act he was more than willing to make for a brother.
Even as You drank of a far deeper cup of suffering for me, Jesus.
The loyalty he had seen earlier in Alexander reappeared in his eyes, warm and honest. In his heart, Marcus knew he had made a friend in this brother.
And, in those volatile times, it was a friendship he would need.
“Just once, Alexander. Can you not down me even once?” Marcus’s laughing voice filled the sand pit training arena.
Alexander, stripped to the waist, was shiny with perspiration. He drew a hand across his forehead, breathing heavily. “You mock me, tribune. You have downed me four times already.”
“And the statutes of wrestling require only three.” From his position on the sidelines, Philip uttered a ringing laugh. “I wonder you dared take on your commander.”
“He challenged me, my friend.” Alexander looked up into Marcus’s twinkling eyes. “And I shall not be such a fool as to accept him again.”
Marcus laughed. He strode across the sandy pit and picked up a rough towel, patting his face and neck. “I only wanted to ensure my position as an officer had not weakened my muscles, Alexander. It has been some time since I grappled with a hearty young legionary.”
“You shall not have much opportunity again unless you command me, my lord.”
Marcus chuckled. Lightly, he threw Alexander’s tunic across the arena at him. “You should wrestle with Philip someday. If I make you cringe, he will make you beg for mercy.”
Alexander rubbed his arms ruefully. “Then may God forbid that day ever comes.” He pulled his tunic over his head. “Great Caesars! I do not take defeat well, even at the hands of my tribune.”
Philip went to him and good-naturedly helped him don his armor. “You are a strong and honest man, Alexander. Those qualities will take you far, regardless of anything else.”
Marcus saw the look that passed between the two young men. During the last few weeks, a deep friendship had developed between Alexander and Philip. Without a doubt, Philip was already becoming an influential mentor, and Alexander made no secret of his respect for him.
But, then, he did not hide his regard and zealous loyalty for Marcus either. When off duty, he often sought his counsel. And, though his position as a legionary made it more difficult for him to lay aside respectful homage, Marcus knew their hearts were knit in friendship.
Marcus pulled his tunic over his broad shoulders. “Come, Philip, do not let your pity for Alexander cause you to forget your duties.” He beckoned mirthfully. “Whose servant are you?”
Philip chuckled. He came forward and began to strap the pieces of Marcus’s ornate armor onto his broad back and chest. “A thousand apologies, my master. It was the least sign of sympathy I could give my sorrowing brother.”
“Enough.” Marcus gave Alexander a pointed look of amusement. “He must learn to accept his defeat.” Armed, he slung his cape over his shoulders, pulling one end around his arm. “That is all, legionary; dismissed.”
Alexander silently saluted and left the arena. Marcus stood watching him go, tightening the silver bands on his forearms.
“He will be a good commander someday.”
“Even as he is a fine Christian now.” Philip’s eyes also followed him. “He went yesterday with Moriah and me to distribute food among the poor. His compassion was very evident.”
Marcus turned slowly to face him. “You say he went with you and…and Moriah?”
“Yes.”
Marcus felt a pang. No man, least of all one as manly and upright as Alexander, could fail to be attracted to Moriah. And, if she did not already love Philip, Alexander’s good looks and winning, forthright character would certainly win her.
His position was only growing more and more hopeless.
Marcus’s eyes wandered over the columns encircling the wrestling training arena. Like those formidable pillars, a barrier seemed forever driven between him and Moriah. Perhaps it was meant to be. He could never hope to deserve her.
“I will visit my father this afternoon.” Marcus threw down his towel, resisting the urge to expend h
is frustration by tearing it in two. “See that my horse is saddled, Philip.”
He turned away, unable to keep his strong fingers from clenching themselves into fists. A quick hand caught his arm.
“Marcus, what is it?”
Marcus turned slowly, allowing his dark eyes to meet Philip’s keen blue ones.
Philip looked searchingly at him, new gravity overshadowing his features. “Your countenance has changed towards me, Marcus. Tell me what it is.”
Marcus opened his lips, then, shut them. He half-turned away, unable to tell Philip all that was in his heart.
How can I, Lord? He is upright, virtuous. He would give her up to me if he knew. And I cannot bear to break both of their hearts as mine is.
“If I have done amiss, my lord, then–”
“No, no.” Marcus forced a smile to his lips. “There is nothing wrong. You are too sensitive, my Philip.”
Philip’s eyes were still keen with searching. “I know when my master looks differently upon me.”
Marcus laughed, concealing the bitterness threatening to catch his throat. “You imagine it.” In the Eastern fashion, he placed an arm around Philip’s neck, swiftly embracing him. “Say no more. I will return later.”
Turning on his heel, Marcus strode away. He knew without looking that Philip stood watching him go.
How keenly Philip could discern his moods! But, this time, he would not share the pain that shadowed his heart, the bitterness that threatened to separate them. He would overcome it in time. And Philip must not know how he felt.
By the time Marcus had made his preparations to leave the Castra Praetoria, his horse was ready saddled.
Taking the reins from the slave who held them, he swung lightly into the saddle. Squeezing his muscular legs into the animal’s sides, he cantered from the barracks, receiving polite salutations from the gate-guard as he exited.
The ride into the heart of Rome was a long one, but to Marcus, time flitted away with little acknowledgement. His mind was full, and the milling plebians, patricians, slaves, and peddlers who separated around his mount were one swarming mob to his unseeing eyes.
A beggar limped in front of him, and Marcus drew in rein to allow his pass. The momentary delay brought his mind from his milling thoughts to his weary body. The day had been a long one.
He straightened his shoulders, lifting a hand to his aching neck. Without warning, his eyes fell on a slender form.
Moriah.
The figure was closely covered by a long veil, but Marcus caught a glimpse of her face as she turned. Even if he hadn’t, he felt certain he would have recognized her maidenly form, her graceful carriage.
His hands hesitated on the reins. Everything within him screamed out to rush to her, to speak with her. Of course it was out of the question. Masculine pride swelled in his throat. It gripped him in its powerful control, refusing to let him move.
Instead, he watched her.
Moriah moved gracefully among the produce peddlers, filling the basket she balanced on her hip. She was clearly a well-known customer. The peddlers seemed to greet her by name, offering her warm welcome to their stalls.
From his position, Marcus could detect her low, clear voice, her occasional laughter. Oh, great Caesars! What a beautiful woman she was. Her purity was clear, a clear beam of light in the sinful darkness of the noisy, crowded forum.
Without warning, Moriah looked up. By some strange chance, her eyes drifted over the scores of people between them and were lifted to his eyes. They immediately darkened, and a wave of scarlet blood flooded her face.
Marcus felt his own cheeks burn. She had seen him. More than that, she had seen how intently he was gazing upon her.
Embarrassment nearly choked him. The full reality of how he must have looked struck him. How was Moriah to know his thoughts were pure ones and not the lustful desires of any ordinary Roman officer?
Moriah turned resolutely away from him. She seemed unwilling to be further tainted by his presence. With the swiftness of a young roe, she began to mingle with the milling crowd leaving the forum.
Marcus’s eyes continued to follow her, his throat aching.
Abruptly, a rich litter passed, born by four stout Gothic slaves and led by another. It momentarily blocked his view, hiding Moriah from sight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The litter passed ruthlessly through the crowd, the Gothic slaves spurred on by the impatient commands of their master. The milling throngs opened by waves around them. No one, it seemed, was willing to risk the anger of a high-ranking patrician.
A ringing, maidenly cry suddenly echoed above the chaotic noise of the forum.
Marcus’s heart took a sudden leap. His eyes scanned the street with tense searching, finding Moriah’s slight form in time to see the slave leading the litter shove her unceremoniously from the path. She lost her footing and fell beneath his feet, fruit rolling from her fallen basket along the cobblestones.
A red-haze of fury dimmed Marcus’s vision. The uncivilized brutes! How dare a slave touch her? Now was no time for inaction.
He spurred his horse forward.
Just before him, the litter abruptly stopped. A patrician leaped out, striking one of the slaves with the flat of the hand.
“Clumsy oaf! Stand back.”
Amidst the crowd of curious onlookers, the patrician took Moriah’s arm and drew her to her feet. “Great gods, maiden! I beg a thousand apologies. My men are too callous by far. I regret that they,” and his wanton eyes passed unashamedly over her fair face, “have handled so fair a woman as you in such an uncivilized manner.”
Moriah drew herself up, quickly averting her burning eyes. She pulled slightly away from the young man. “No apology is needed, my lord. I thank you for stopping.”
She half-turned away, making it quite apparent she desired to go. The young nobleman only laughed and held her fast.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, fair one. Allow me to make recompense for this blunder. A goblet of wine with me, perhaps?”
“I am not thirsty, my lord.”
“Not thirsty, eh?” The patrician drew her a little closer. “That is strange coming from one who is more beautiful than the Vestal Virgins. But, perhaps you will allow me to make my apologies in another way. I–”
“No, my lord.” Moriah pulled as far from him as his inexorable hands would allow, the hot blood dying her fair face and neck. “No recompense is needed. Please let me go.”
Again, the nobleman laughed. “You are too modest. It is not every day the gods allow my litter to pass one as beautiful as you. Come to my home with me–we will settle on a price for,” and his hand lightly touched her veil, “this unfortunate accident.”
“Let me pass.” Moriah spoke in a sort of cry. She struggled in his hold, her eyes searching the crowd in agonized appeal. “Let me go!”
The nobleman tightened his grip. “Nonsense, pretty one. Come–”
Enough. Marcus was grateful years of physical training had hardened his fists into balls of steel. One quick step out of the crowd, one swift blow, and the patrician was on the ground, his words cut into a sputtered grasp. Marcus placed himself at Moriah’s side, laying his hand over his gladius.
“I think I am better suited to attend this young woman, you filthy swine.”
Choking on his enraged expletives, the nobleman stumbled to his feet. “How dare you! Do you not know–” His words died suddenly on his lips. Slowly, his uplifted hand dropped to his side. “Marcus Virginius.”
Stunned recognition flooded Marcus’s mind. Thallus. He met his sardonic gaze for a long moment before at last breaking the silence.
“It has been many years, Thallus.”
“Too many, to be certain.” Thallus’s cool sarcasm was unmistakable. “So, what are you now? A sweeper of the streets? Or perhaps a priest of your new…religion?”
Marcus felt his anger rekindling. By a great effort, he maintained an even tone. “You know very well I am the adopted s
on of Senator Cleotas Aeneas.”
“Ah, yes. Marcus Virginius Aeneas.” Thallus’s narrowed eyes drifted over his armor-plated chest, his helmed head. “You are a legionary?”
“A tribune.”
“And because you are a Praetorian tribune, you think you can interfere between me and this woman?” The anger in Thallus’s voice mounted. “You are a fool, Marcus. What is she to you?”
The heat poured into Marcus’s face. What indeed?
Only the woman I love.
The thought send warm blood flooding with burning intensity throughout Marcus’s body. His heart pounded. He did not dare look at Moriah. One glance, and he knew she would sense his thoughts.
“Thallus, the maiden is the daughter of a close friend.”
“A close friend!” Thallus laughed scornfully. He drew a step nearer Moriah. “Naturally, Marcus. I’ve seen your ways, your manner of taking your pleasure.” His hand lightly brushed the side of Moriah’s garment. “You will not beguile me out of my way with this woman, as you have with others.”
Marcus’s chest constricted. Of course Thallus would remember the past. And he had no qualms against speaking of it before the young woman they both knew was purer in heart and body than an arbutus of Capri.
Fury burned so hot he again saw red.
Through the scarlet mist, he saw Thallus’s hand, rising with menacing deliberation against the folds of Moriah’s garment. His smirk widened, glancing sidelong in silent challenge at Marcus. His fingers tightened, closing around her arm.
Adrenaline shot through Marcus’s body. Seized by enraged strength, his hand closed on Thallus’s upper arm. “Take your hands off her.”
Thallus’s face flamed with angry color. “I warn you, Marcus–”
“No.” Marcus leaned close to Thallus, allowing his face to smolder inches away from his glinted eyes. “I warn you.” He half-drew his gladius, ominously permitting his slow deliberation to create his point. “I am a soldier, Thallus. Do not challenge me.”
Thallus met his fiery gaze for a full moment before relinquishing his grip on Moriah. Slowly, with a spat onto the dusty street, he backed away.
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