From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Marcus unclasped the bands encircling his wrists. His cloak came next, and he laid it absently over his wristbands.

  Glancing down, his heart twisted strangely. Even in the dim lighting, the redness of his cape was a scarlet flame, a vivid symbol. On the day he had become a soldier, he had laid aside the white tunic of pure citizenship for the scarlet blood of a warrior. No wonder she despises me. Even his clothing was a symbol of blood, suffering.

  And the hands that longed to hold hers at the wedding altar were one that had killed.

  “Oh, God.” Marcus felt the groan rush from his lips. “You called me to the service of a soldier, both in Your service and Rome’s. Do not let me hate my own calling because I cannot win her love.”

  Uttering the words aloud was like a pugio in his chest. Marcus looked down, fighting heartache. He could never win her love.

  Is her affection your only desire, Marcus?

  “No.” Marcus breathed the words. “You know it is not, my God. I want Your will first.”

  Then be content in My time, My plan. There will not be given you any trial you cannot bear.

  “Is it wrong to want companionship?” Marcus heard the words escape him in a sort of cry. His soul felt sick within him, his spirit crushed. “Is it wrong to want the love of a godly wife? Do I sin in desiring her? Have I not waited, been faithful to You and to her? Why? Why?”

  Marcus felt himself pulled downwards. Sinking to his knees, he lifted his hands in mute appeal. Strangely, he felt no answer. He heard only a still, small voice.

  Worship Me.

  “I will love You, my Lord, my strength.” Marcus’s voice was broken. “I honor and extol You, my God.” His voice faltered. “I will serve You, even if You never give me my heart’s desire.”

  The soft night breeze rustled in, cooling his heated cheeks. Slowly, his misty eyes drifted towards the streaming moonlight, dancing off the polished floor of his balcony. Like that ceaseless, constant light, his heart would go on, ever loving, though never receiving love in return.

  He arose, letting the pale glimmers rest on his face. His breathing softened, exhaling into a sighing groan.

  “I will always love you, Moriah.”

  In the lavish guest room, Moriah stood at the open casement. Her eyes were dim, still flooded with soft tears.

  The luxurious treatment she had been given had not been her expectations for this night of terror. A female slave had bathed her face and hands in scented water, helping her exchange her clothing for comfortable night apparel. Her couch had been freshly made up, decked with perfumed pillows and woven coverings.

  In one corner of the chamber, a single oil lamp burned, casting its glow over the room. Its soft light caressed her skin. She looked down, her shadow a maidenly silhouette against the patterned floor.

  The form of a woman.

  Her throat tightened. A woman that was still pure before God and man.

  Suddenly, she crumpled. Leaning her back against the wall, she pulled her knees into her chest and cried.

  Realization of Marcus’s goodness was one thing. Coming to grips with her own bitterness and the unjust hatred she had harbored was another. She had not seen it as sin before. Now, she realized it for what it was. In all its dark forms, the ghastly head of the monster sin arose in her mind, striking repentance into her heart.

  Oh, God. I would not forgive him. I would not see his worth. Is it too late to undo all I have done?

  She lifted her head. A thought struck her, vivid as words of fire. Her brimful eyes settled on the lamp burning with such a soft, yet steady flame in the opposite corner of the room.

  Was it too late for Marcus to forgive?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Marcus waited tentatively for the ink to dry upon his parchment. He glanced up, beckoning. “You may sign it.”

  Silently, Alexander laid down his goblet of wine and came across the room. Leaning over the table, he signed his name on the scroll and applied his seal.

  Marcus took up the parchment, his dark eyes scanning its contents. “Alexander Lucianius, legionary of Rome.” He nodded slowly, something like sadness stealing over his clear-cut features. “You are my witness to the freedom I bestow on my slave Moriah, per testamentum.”

  “I am honored you desired my witness.” Alexander’s green eyes were quiet, but Marcus could see their pupils flicker with respect. “May our everlasting Lord bless you for your honorable dealings with our sister.”

  “Amen.” Marcus’s voice was soft. Lifting his hand in wordless farewell, he watched Alexander exit the room at a soldierly stride.

  Alone, he sat toying with his signet ring. He had already pressed into the wax, sealing his written documentation of his decision.

  Moriah was free.

  Somehow let this be for Your glory, Father. His heart was sore. A long night of prayer and supplication had brought little relief to his spirit. May Your will be accomplished.

  The sound of the opening door aroused his attention. Lifting his eyes, he saw Moriah enter, her garments rustling ever so slightly. Strange how so simple a sound portrayed her grace, her feminine modesty.

  “You sent for me, my lord?”

  “Yes.” Marcus stood up, beckoning her to his side.

  Moriah drew near, her eyes discreetly lowered. Beneath her modest veil, she bent as he neared him, crossing her hands upon her breast.

  Marcus’s heart thudded. Somehow, her charm was only more appealing in such subservient form. Nonetheless, it hurt him to see her womanly spirit chained by degrading servitude.

  “No, Moriah.” Quick and almost stern, he felt the words escape him at a masterful rush. “I do not require this of you.”

  Moriah stood erect, her eyes still averted. “You are my lord and master. Surely you expect homage from your slaves.”

  “Yes, from my slaves and the soldiers under my command.” Marcus saw the glowing color illuminating Moriah’s cheeks, visible even beneath her half-bent head and loosely falling veil. “But you are no man’s slave, Moriah.”

  She looked up at him. Marcus saw the half-inquiring turn of her eyes, the sudden catch of her breathing.

  “I do not understand.”

  “I believe Philip sufficiently explained it to you last night.”

  Moriah’s eyes again became downcast. “He explained your noble intentions towards me, my lord. But I did not think I could possibly be sent home so quickly.”

  “As long as it was my gold that purchased you, it is indeed possible.” Marcus dropped his eyes to the parchment on the table, fingering its edges. The longer he stood alone in Moriah’s presence, the more difficult it was contemplating sending her away. “Here is the legal documentation of your freedom. I have had a copy made for your benefit as you leave.”

  Moriah seemed unable to speak. She stood still, her hands clasped together.

  Marcus’s voice cracked. “You are free to depart. I have a litter prepared for your use, and Philip will escort you home to Daniel.”

  Moriah looked up, revealing the soft mist bordering on her lashes. “Thank you, Marcus.” Her voice was a soft whisper. “May God reward you for your kindness towards me.”

  Marcus gazed down at her. Twin battles of love and passion raged in his heart, threatening to overcome him. The sight of her unashamed tears and simple gratitude was even more moving than her subservience.

  His hands twitched. He could smell the soft rosy scent of her garments, the sandalwood of her hair. It was intoxicating him, a rush of adrenaline to his veins.

  He had to get her out of his sight.

  Give me strength. He was so weak, so ready to yield. Temptation was never stronger than when it was about to be lost.

  “You may go.”

  His voice sounded so unlike his own. He sensed Moriah looking up at him, but he steadfastly averted his eyes, looking above her.

  Oh, God, let my mind be stayed on You. Men are so feeble, so carnal. Do not let my heart sin, though my body is pure. Help me.
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  Moriah again bent, the folds of her veil brushing Marcus’s hand. “The God of our fathers be with you.”

  Like a vision of the night, she was gone. Her presence remained, her scent in Marcus’s nostrils. Had she only been a mirage of his weary mind?

  Marcus stepped to the door. Clapping his hands, he waited until Philip appeared. Almost refusing to look at it, he handed him the parchment copy of the freedom papers.

  “Take this with you to Daniel’s. Give it to him with all assurance of Moriah’s legal restoration as a citizen of Rome. And, tell him–”Marcus paused, fighting the aching lump in his throat, “tell him I return his daughter to him a chaste virgin.”

  “Yes, master.” Quietly compassionate, Philip half-bent. He straightened himself, and, for only lingering instant, touched Marcus’s shoulder.

  Then, he was gone, leaving Marcus alone with the burning ache welling up in his chest and the full reality of despondent aloneness.

  At the Baths, Marcus attempted to forget his trials in the soothing relaxation of the steaming hot water.

  The warm scents and comfortable drowsiness did partially tranquilize him, but not even Philip’s vigorous massaging could drive into the heart of his pain. He lay motionless on the marble bench, his muscles relaxed and snapped of tension, but his soul sick within him.

  There was no escape from the throngs of his suffering.

  As he settled his toga more comfortably over his military uniform, he wondered dully if he would ever forget; if life could be endured without the satisfaction of his desires. Was he destined to always walk thus: faithful, trusting, hoping, yet ever alone?

  The quietness of the Aeneas domus did little to lighten his spirits. Orderly and tranquil, its very stability was a thorn in the flesh to Marcus’s apathetic discontentment.

  He moved listlessly into the garden. The sweet, warm scent was only a lingering reminder of the unhappy fate he could not change. By all the Caesars in succession! Why could he not forget; why was everything a lingering reminder?

  Rise up in faith, Marcus.

  Marcus’s head jerked erect. Was it any wonder he was so miserable, so lost inside his own feelings and desires? Until he buried his hopes and wishes, surrendering them to the God he loved, he would never be at peace. He was a man, a warrior. More importantly, he was a Christian.

  It was time to go forward as one.

  “Help me to forget.” Marcus slid from the garden bench to his knees, not caring if the slaves or even Cleotas saw him. “Great God in heaven, help me move forward. Do not let bitterness fill my life because I cannot have the one thing I want.”

  Even as he spoke, Marcus realized the convicting truth. All along, it had been about his wants. Even when he had saved Moriah, somewhere, at the back of all his noble, truehearted motives, had been the undeniable desire to keep her pure for himself.

  Now, he wanted to devote himself to the motives of true charity. Love was not partial, as he was. It did not save Moriah alone, but was lifted up on behalf of the poor and defenseless brethren everywhere.

  Marcus felt a tinge. He did not think himself capable of ever becoming the exemplar of faith and charity Philip and the others were. But, in his own way, he could try.

  “No longer, Father. I will not dwell upon myself, but upon others. Help me to rise up in Your strength.”

  As he spoke, Marcus felt a new peace flood his heart. The pain was there; perhaps it always would be. But he could go on. He would not be a prisoner of circumstances, but a steadfast follower of the One who held him in the palm of His almighty hand.

  “Marcus?”

  From his knees, Marcus looked up. Philip stood along the peristyle, clearly regretful for the interruption.

  “Yes?”

  “A thousand apologies, but Daniel is in the atrium awaiting you.”

  Stiffly, Marcus rose to his feet. He grimaced ever so slightly. This was precisely what he had hoped to avoid. The accident of his success in the slave-forum was not a thing he wished to be praised for, particularly coming from the adopted father of the woman he loved.

  “See that we are not disturbed.” Marcus crossed the peristyle into the atrium. His dark eyes scanned the room, finding Daniel at one end.

  His sandaled feet swished against the floor, and Daniel turned. Masking his discomfort beneath mannerly casualness, Marcus stepped easily across the floor, extending his hand.

  “All hail, my friend.”

  “Peace in the name of our Lord, Marcus.” Daniel gripped his forearm, holding him for a long moment. “And may His blessing rest upon you.”

  There was a slight moment of silence. Marcus felt at a sudden loss for words, awkwardly uncertain what to say. He cleared his throat, partially calming the discomfort of his nerves.

  Great Caesars, but boyish uncertainty was becoming frustratingly characteristic of him. Where was his military boldness, the courage that enabled him to lead thousands of men into combat? It was unsettling how the presence of one particular man could shatter his confidence with the ease of a pottery jar.

  Daniel’s eyes were warm as he spoke. “Marcus, I will not mask the purpose of my coming. I am here to thank you. No,” as Marcus opened his lips to speak, “do not stop me. God was with you; there is no debating that score. But your virtue is also to merit.”

  “If there is any virtue in me, Daniel,” and Marcus’s voice was soft, “it is not to my credit. You know that.”

  “Yes. But even the strongest of believers stumble sometimes, my brother. You have stood strong where many another man might have failed.”

  Marcus said nothing. Did he dare mention how close he came to losing his control, to filching his desires because he could not win them nobly?

  “I cannot repay you, Marcus. All I can give is my thanks and the acknowledgment of the worthy young man you are.”

  “I did not do it for thanks, Daniel.” Marcus felt frustration build within him. Why, he could not tell. All he knew was that he deserved no gratitude, no blessing or praise. If there was anything noble in my actions, Father, it was You shining through me. “I did only as the Lord directed me.”

  Daniel looked keenly at him. “And as your own tender love guided?”

  Marcus felt no embarrassment in the query. He would not deny it. His love and life were pledged to Moriah, whether she shared that oath or not. He tilted his chin ever-so slightly, quietly resolute. “Yes.”

  “Then your love continues? It has not died?”

  “I am not a fickle man, Daniel. My feelings for Moriah have only grown stronger, never weaker.”

  Daniel’s searching countenance relaxed visibly. “I felt certain of this, but I had to be certain. Marcus, if you could have the hand and heart of the woman you desire, would you accept them?”

  Marcus looked dully at him. Why did Daniel torment him with meaningless questions, with possibilities that could never be? “You know I would. It is my life’s deepest hope.”

  Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then consider it won.”

  Marcus stared at him. His heart lurched, nearly choking him. The shock was quickly followed by burning anger. “Do not mock me, Daniel. This is too cruel in you.”

  “I do not mock you, Marcus. I speak truly.”

  “But why?” Marcus felt contempt livid on his face, in his voice. “Because I preserved her purity? Does that make her my rightful tribute? No, Daniel. It is low of you to offer her to me and my acceptance would only be lower still.”

  He half-turned away, afraid of his own anger. What did Daniel take him for? A man who took advantage of a woman’s misfortune? Does he think I guarded her virginity out of selfishness alone?

  God forbid he would take any woman to wife under these conditions.

  “Is it then a sin to wed the woman who is willing to have you for her husband?”

  Low and meaningful, Daniel’s words halted Marcus in his stride. He turned, disbelieving his own sanity. Surely, his mind was not beginning to taunt him.

 
“What?”

  Daniel stepped a little forward. “Moriah is willing, Marcus.”

  “I don’t understand.” Confusion shot through Marcus’s mind. What could have possibly changed Moriah’s heart towards him? She hated him, both past and present. Even my occupation is distasteful to her.

  “Who can understand it? It is a confusing thing when a woman’s heart is changed. But, Marcus, I think I know what softened her. You have proven you are not the sort of man she thought you were.”

  Marcus stood motionless, his feet riveted to the floor. His heart thudded. His chest felt tight, unable to breathe or comprehend the full reality of Daniel’s words. Why?

  He heard himself ask the question aloud. “Why? Last night alone could not have moved her heart.”

  Daniel looked steadily at him. “And why not? One instance of your nobleness was enough to convince her.”

  “Then this is some outpouring of her thankfulness, some payment she feels obligated to give me?”

  “No. Moriah is not an impetuous woman.”

  “But does she love me?” Marcus’s voice cracked. He felt frustrated confusion boiling up within him. He wanted to believe, to trust that Moriah sincerely desired him. But after so much rejection, so much pain? Lord, she hurt me deeply. Can she really be sincere now?

  One thing was certain: he refused to be rejected again.

  “I know she honors you. And she loves you enough to marry you. But I think these are things you ought to ask her yourself.” Daniel turned towards the library, his call quiet. “Moriah.”

  Moriah appeared in the library door.

  Marcus felt the blood rise in his cheeks. She had to have heard every word that passed between them. But perhaps it was just as well she knew what he was thinking.

  Moriah came softly towards them, a soft blush mantling her cheeks. She did not look at him. Her hazel eyes were downcast, maidenly discreet.

  Marcus’s heart twisted. That was exactly what he loved about her. She was spirited and courageous, yet, still so modest. It was if her reservation came at the most appropriate times, transforming her from a strong woman into an angelic figure of sweet submission.