From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Daniel’s heart swelled. Her distress and his own mingled emotions smote him like the blow of a taskmaster, aching in his heart. His hands rested in gentle compassion on her arms. “Moriah, you know I have pledged to never force you to wed a man you cannot respect or love. But I must ask: is this your final word?”

  “Yes.”

  Daniel was silent a moment. His grip intensified upon her arms, loving. “I am grateful I am not going to lose you, daughter.” His husky voice faltered ever so slightly. “But God give me grace. I do not know how to tell Marcus.”

  Moriah said nothing. She stood motionless for a long moment, resting her chin on Daniel’s broad shoulder. At length, she pulled away from his caressing hands. Flipping the end of her veil over her shoulder, she smiled through her tears up into his face.

  Daniel watched her pick up a basket and disappear into a back room. His heart ached, burning in his throat. For the life of him, he did not understand why peace had deserted his soul.

  During the long, sweltering hours of that night, Daniel tossed on his couch. He could not sleep. The aching burden hanging over his heart continued to intensity, almost sickening him.

  Prayer brought him little relief. Instead, it only seemed to deepen the strange impression that a mistake had been made.

  Many men had asked for Moriah’s hand in marriage before. Rejecting them was always a painful task, but it had not tortured him as he was tormented now. He sensed with all his being that something was wrong in this particular case.

  Was it because he loved Marcus so? He and Philip were like sons to him. Was it only his own selfish desires that caused him to shrink from breaking the hard truth to Marcus?

  Or was there something deeper behind his pain?

  Daniel groaned aloud. He could not understand. He knew only that he was bitterly confused and tormented, pressed to agony by the certain feeling he was thwarting God’s will.

  But Moriah had made her choice. He had long ago pledged to never force her hand in marriage.

  And, right or wrong, it was a pledge he could not break.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alone in his personal record-keeping chamber, Marcus leaned back and stretched his arms behind his head. He closed his dark eyes, allowing his mind to go.

  The day had been an especially tiring one.

  A legionary had been convicted of committing the same fault three times. Marcus had no choice but to condemn him to death under the sentence of fustuariaum. The unlucky legionary was beaten to death in front of the legion by the others in his conteburnium, or, squad unit.

  Marcus thought back to the execution. As he watched, his mind had been full. Achingly, he had wondered what Moriah’s opinion was of a man who condemned other men to a brutal death.

  He steeled himself. There were those, even among the brethren, who had to do Rome’s dirty work. Lawfully executing a man was one of those tasks.

  He brought his hands forward, stretching them out to their full length. Aching from his rigid position, he stood upright. His eyes drifted downwards, focusing on the copy his scribe had made of his letter to Daniel.

  His heart burned, aching with the apprehension that constantly overshadowed his chest. The uncertainty of his fate was killing him. Still, the silence was not as difficult to bear as the pain of rejection.

  The clash of arms against a buckler startled him. Quickly recovering himself, he drew himself sternly erect as a legionary entered.

  “A man to see you, tribune.”

  “I presume he has a name.” Marcus made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

  “He calls himself Daniel of Bethlehem-Judah. He claims his business is important.”

  “Very well; show him in.” Marcus felt a well of trepidation tighten his throat and chest. In another moment, he would know if his life would transform into the blissful heaven-on-earth he imagined.

  Or if it would not be worth the living.

  Daniel entered with quiet courtesy, offering a swift gesture of respect. Marcus nodded curtly at the legionary, and he retired with the traditional salute.

  Alone with his guest, Marcus stepped forward to offer him his hand. “All hail, my friend.”

  “Greetings, Marcus.” Daniel took his hand, gripping his lower arm. “I hope I do not disturb you by coming here.”

  “No, to the contrary.” Marcus forced himself to speak lightly. Inwardly, his heart pounded against his chest, tightening his throat. It was ironic that he could face a thousand deaths in combat without fear, but standing in the presence of his own familiar friend chilled his heart with apprehension. “Will you be seated?”

  Daniel nodded his thanks. Marcus began to pour out a glass of wine, but Daniel waved his hand.

  “No, no, Marcus. My business will not take long.”

  The moment had come. Marcus forced himself to assume a military countenance, setting his face rigidly. Slowly, he seated himself behind his desk. “I-I suppose you received my letter.”

  “Yes.”

  Marcus saw Daniel shift, as if in discomfort. Keenly surveying his honest countenance, he immediately sensed the hard truth. Moriah had rejected him.

  And Daniel was unwilling to tell him.

  “Speak on, my friend.” Marcus’s voice was low. “Say what you must.”

  Daniel looked steadily at him, his eyes gravely quiet. “There is no easy way to frame the truth into words, Marcus. You are my brother and my friend, and I do not deny my heart is sore for you.”

  “But Moriah has rejected me.” Marcus’s voice was husky. It was better to say it himself than hear the words from the friend and mentor he respected so well.

  “Yes.”

  Marcus felt a slow wave of pain wash like a rippling fire through his body. Abruptly, he looked away, tightening his fingers until they bit into his palms. The ache crept upward, constricting his throat.

  “Why?” He did not recognize the sound of his own husky query. It almost startled him. Soldiers were expected to mask their pain, guising it under stern callousness.

  He himself was a soldier of soldiers. He recognized blood as water, demanded rugged strength of himself and others. Scenes of torture and killing were familiar to him, sometimes exercised by his order or at his own hand. Above all, he knew the pains of duty, experienced through the loss of a friend in battle or by condemning one of his own men to the lash or death.

  All of those things did not compare with what he felt now.

  “I beg you will not ask me that, Marcus.”

  “I will know.” Marcus raised his head, feeling a flash lighten his eyes. “Tell me why, Daniel.”

  Daniel hesitated. His bearded face was overshadowed with quiet sympathy, every feature revealing the pain of his task. “Marcus, you are our brother. You have been upright, steadfast in the faith. You are well respected. You–”

  “I do not care to hear about my virtues. Tell me my fault in this.” Marcus made no attempt to take the edge off his interruption. His heart ached bitterly, nearly suffocating him.

  God, I did what I thought was Your will. Is this my reward for following Philip’s counsel, for seeking the honorable course?

  “You have done nothing amiss, my brother. The difficulty does not lie in the present, but in the past.”

  A moment of silence filled the room before Daniel cleared his throat to continue. “Marcus, the Lord has redeemed and justified you. But some memories linger on; yes, even prejudices. The murder of Beric–”

  “That is unjust.” The boiling pain and anger rolled through like Marcus like a wave. “It was over five years ago, Daniel.”

  Daniel lowered his eyes. “She has not forgotten.”

  “I was a zealous son. I was trying to honor my father’s wishes and the nation that birthed me.” Marcus felt his voice beginning to break, lapsing into choked huskiness. “God knows how I have repented of the things I did, Daniel.”

  “I know that, Marcus.”

  Daniel’s quietness did nothing to ease Marcus’s agoni
zed desperation. He felt as if he were drowning beneath all the pent-up emotions he had harbored for so long. Struggling for the mastery, he tried to curtail his passion, but to no avail.

  His throbbing, pulsating heart refused to keep silent.

  “You say I am redeemed. Yes, praise be to God, I am His child! And I have begged His forgiveness again and again for my sins, for the things I did to Philip and others. Is it not enough that He has pardoned me? Or,” and his heated voice died to a broken whisper, “is there another judge beside God?”

  “Marcus.” Daniel arose, his eyes a mirror to Marcus’s anguished heartache. Gentleness was evident in his voice, in the hand he laid on Marcus’s shoulder. “It is not I who condemn you.”

  “Does it matter? You speak for her.”

  “But I do not agree with her.”

  Marcus could not speak. The growing lump in his throat was far too restricting. He blinked rapidly, turning slightly away from Daniel.

  The pressure of the hand on his shoulder increased.

  “I do not pretend to understand this, Marcus. There is nothing I want more than to see you and her happily wedded. I would go so far as to say I even believe it is the Lord’s will that you marry.”

  “That is no consolation.”

  “Perhaps not now, but later. My brother, see beyond your pain and try to understand. Our Savior works in mysterious ways.”

  “Do not blame God for her prejudice, Daniel.”

  “I do not.” Daniel paused. “I only seek to give you hope. I have prayed long and arduously concerning this matter, and I do not speak lightly when I say I believe time may heal your heart.”

  Marcus turned to look at him. “Is that the hope you give me?”

  “Not entirely.” Daniel’s gaze became distant. “I also think it possible a mistake has been made.” His hand squeezed Marcus’s shoulder. “Give this time. The Lord may soften her heart.”

  A bitter laugh caught Marcus’s throat. “What if she is right? I am unworthy. And I know now what I have suspected for many years. I am also unforgiven.”

  “Marcus–”

  “Do not rebuke me.” Again, Marcus’s husky voice faltered. “Do not tell me I am pardoned when I am not.” He paused, biting his lip. Slowly, he stretched out his hand. “You have been kind to tell me in person. I thank you for that.”

  Daniel took his hand, his eyes overshadowed and troubled. “Perhaps we should talk of this at another time.”

  “No. Do not broach the subject again.”

  Daniel hesitated. Slowly, he dropped Marcus’s hand and turned to the door. At its threshold, he stopped, facing him. “I feel for you, Marcus. Know that I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you.” Marcus lifted his hand in farewell. He desired to be alone more than anything in the world. “Vale.”

  The door closed quietly behind Daniel’s exit.

  Marcus stood motionless a moment. Slowly, he sank into his seat and buried his face in his hands.

  His worst fear had come to pass.

  The sorrow of rejection by the woman he loved was torturous. But, knowing her reasons, her harbored unforgiveness was a prejudice he could not bear. He had known it was possible, had even expected it. But it did not mean he could stand the burning, wrenching pain of its injustice.

  He was alone. Worse, he was unforgiven.

  The anguished thought came to him. He had forever separated Philip from the one he loved more than anyone else on earth. Was it not just that he was now separated from the one he had no desire to live without?

  “Great God.” His groan filled the room. “Will my punishment never end?”

  Minutes slipped into hours. Time lost its meaning, its gripping power. The shadows moved austerely across the room, revealing the waning afternoon.

  Marcus sat with his face buried in his hands, his elbows almost driven into his writing table. His lips moved constantly, silent in their intensity. Slowly, the tell-tale moisture crept between his tightly-clenched fingers, falling in two or three salty drops to the desktop.

  Outside the room, he gradually heard voices. They came nearer, laughing, lighthearted. It was not difficult to discern the tones of Philip and Alexander.

  It was too late to hide his emotion. Marcus did not lift his face from his hands. His spirit felt crushed within him.

  I am already driven into the dust. What does it matter if a legionary does witness this in me?

  The door swung wide, and Marcus sensed Philip and Alexander stepped into the room. Their laughing conversation immediately hushed.

  “My lord?” Philip’s voice held a ring of keen concern. “Is all well?”

  “I’ll return later.” Alexander was audibly subdued. Marcus heard him leave the room, shutting the door behind his exit. Clearly, the young legionary was too respectful to view his commander’s apparent weakness.

  Marcus felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. He could sense Philip kneeling beside him, bringing himself to his master’s eye level.

  “Marcus, what has happened?”

  Marcus lifted his head, allowing Philip to see his misty eyes. His voice felt strained, still husky in spite of his two hours of silence. There seemed no way to share the difficult truth.

  “Daniel was here.”

  Grave understanding flitted over Philip’s face, tensing the hand he maintained on his master’s shoulder. “He brought ill news, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not understand.” Philip’s voice was low, but Marcus detected an edge of tightness. “Why?”

  Marcus’s eyes drifted down over Philip’s searching, pained countenance to the muscular arm extended in brotherly compassion to his shoulder. A deep, riveted scar creased the skin, mirrored by a second line also stretching across his left arm.

  His voice cracked, fighting his brokenness. “You know why, Philip.”

  Philip’s hand dropped slowly from his shoulder. His deep cobalt eyes lowered, his hand absently touching the scars. When his eyes lifted, it was with a fiery blaze Marcus had not seen in many years.

  “The only marks that can be seen are ones I deserved.”

  “And the ones you didn’t? Her memory of the flogging I gave you, of Beric’s death are etched in her heart with blood, Philip.”

  “Just as our pardon and the world’s are sealed in blood.” Philip spoke passionately, his voice a tremor of indignant anger. “The blood of Jesus Christ our Savior is all that stands.”

  Marcus said nothing. Weary discouragement hung like a dark cloud over him. He felt oppressed, forsaken. For five years, he had buried the truths about his past.

  In a few words, they had resurrected to haunt him.

  Philip gripped him by both arms, forcing him to look at him. His indignation spilled over, washing in color over his face. “Marcus, forget. Move forward in Christ, and, by God’s grace, forget!”

  “That comes easily from one who has never harmed anyone.”

  “Does it?” Philip leaned back on his heels. “I tell you, Marcus, there is much I would undo from my own past if I could. Every time I look at you, I am ashamed to remember the rebellious things I once said and did.”

  “And you compare that with persecuting the believers?”

  “Yes. Sin is sin, Marcus.” Philip softened. He leaned forward, quiet, yet passionately earnest. “But I have learned one thing you have not. It is that there is no condemnation to them that believe.”

  Marcus sat silent. He squeezed his fingers tightly together. Slowly, fighting back his true feelings, he forced a slight smile to his lips. “Your concern for me is more than I deserve.”

  Philip’s eyes sought his. “No. It is what brothers ought to feel for one another.” He paused. Again, his hand found Marcus’s shoulder. “Do not despair. If this is the Lord’s will, Moriah will come to see the truth. In the mean time,” and a slight smile began to play about his lips, “nothing will separate you from His love.”

  Nothing will separate you.

  The words echoed i
n Marcus’s mind. Slowly, like a rising dawn, peace began to envelop him. The darkness of his pain would not vanish, he knew, but he was sustained by a greater strength–a hope that passed all understanding.

  Moriah brushed through the milling crowd of shoppers in the market end of the forum. The basket she balanced on her hip was already laden with food, mostly wine and unleavened bread for communion.

  Considering communion, she drew a cloth more securely over the food items. Bread and wine were already well-known as Christian food.

  Despite outward vigilance, her mind was not truly on her tasks. Her heart ached, pained with the events of the last three weeks.

  Daniel had said little to her concerning her rejection of Marcus’s proposal, but she felt his disapproval. Not necessarily in her choice, but for her motives. He had delivered a message about the sin of unforgiveness to the brethren only the night before, and she had felt as if every word was directed to her conscience-smitten heart.

  She had cried herself to sleep as a result.

  Still, she could not bring herself to forget the murder of a man she had respected. Every tear Philip had shed on the day he had first told Daniel of his loss had smitten her tender heart. She had seen his weeping, the bandages that were clearly visible beneath his servant’s tunic.

  And she had seen enough scourging in barbaric Rome to know what it was Philip had suffered.

  You judge a man who didn’t know what he was doing. Her conscience screamed out at her. You harbor bitterness when Philip himself has forgiven the past.

  Moriah felt the tears welling up in her eyes. What was it that kept her from acknowledging Marcus’s goodness, his upright virtues? She knew he was respected, that he was a godly man. Why could she not forget his past and honor him for who Christ had made him to be?

  Perhaps it was pride.

  The ugliness of the word tingled Moriah’s cheeks, coloring them in pomegranate red. Surely, pride was not among her faults. Was it not discernment that kept her from marrying Marcus?

  A jolting bump into a pedestrian dispelled every thought from her mind. She caught her basket in time to keep the contents from being spilled into the street. Looking up, her eyes met a noxious pair of masculine eyes.