From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Did he dare allow himself to acknowledge how perfect he considered her?

  “I will leave you alone.” Daniel crossed his hands upon his breast, the tiniest hint of a smile playing about his bearded mouth. “May God guide your hearts.”

  Silence fell over the atrium with his departure.

  Marcus fingered his wristband, studying Moriah. She remained silent, never lifting her eyes.

  Was it possible that such an angel would give herself to him?

  The thought alone sent the blood tingling throughout his body, warming him through. His heart swelled. The echoing sound of his own voice nearly startled him, realizing the abruptly broken silence.

  “Speak, Moriah. Tell me if what Daniel says is true.”

  Moriah lifted her eyes to his face. “Yes.”

  Soft and simple, her tones were like an adrenaline rush. Marcus’s hands clamped into tight fists, forcing himself to remain stationary. He steeled himself. He must not let momentary exhilaration erase the memories of all he had suffered.

  All he feared he might suffer again.

  “Why? What has changed your heart, Moriah?”

  Before him, Moriah’s hazel pupils melted into soft tears. “I was wrong, Marcus.” Her whisper was broken. “I refused to think well of you. I thought only of your past, of things you did in ignorance and before Christ.”

  Marcus felt his heart swell. Whatever else, her apology was sincere. He softened his voice, willing his sympathy to overflow to her. “And you now think differently?”

  “Yes. I know,” and a tremor caught Moriah’s tones, “you are who you claim to be. You are a noble Christian, a man of God.”

  A man of God. Marcus stood still a moment, allowing the words to sink in. They were ones he had never expected to hear from Moriah. He felt huskiness overcome his tones, swelling in his throat.

  “I don’t deserve that you should think so well of me.”

  “But I do, Marcus.” Moriah’s misty eyes flashed sudden light. “Don’t think me fickle and foolish. Last night revealed much. I am ashamed,” and her voice lowered, “that it took such a sacrifice on your part for me to see your goodness, but my eyes have been opened. And I honor you, Marcus.”

  “Is honor all you feel for me?” Marcus fixed his eyes with piercing keenness on her. His heart ached, caught between love, joy, and the overwhelming fear Moriah’s actions were of gratitude. “I must know, Moriah.”

  Moriah said nothing.

  His pulse pounding, Marcus stepped forward, his hands passionately brushing hers. “Speak your heart. Tell me if you love me. If you don’t,” his voice cracked, “do not be afraid to tell me.”

  “I care for you deeply, Marcus.” Moriah spoke clearly, his voice steadfast. “I can truly say I love you as something more than a brother.” Her eyes lowered. “Whether I love you as passionately as a woman ought to love a husband, I cannot tell. But, if not, I know I will learn to.”

  She will learn to. Somehow, the admittance did not pain Marcus as he would have thought. She cared for and honored him. When most couples married for politics and connections, what more could he ask? She cares enough to become my wife. Lord, is this Your will?

  Marcus knew instinctively he had no reason to ask. He had always been assured of God’s will in this matter. They were meant to marry, meant to raise a godly seed for Christ.

  Slowly, curtailing his eagerness, he closed his hands over hers. They felt soft and warm to his touch. His fingers intertwined themselves with hers. “Then, Moriah, in the name of our Lord and Savior, will you wed me?”

  “Yes.” Moriah’s voice was a breath. Her eyes flitted over his face, beautifully expectant.

  Marcus felt a rush of adrenaline unlike anything he had ever experienced before. In a flash, sufferings of the past were forgotten, melted into perfect, joyous exhilaration.

  He closed the step between them. The desire to kiss her was strong, but he held himself in check. Doing so was the seal of marriage, ending her virginity. He would wait until a bishop pronounced them one in Christ and she was truly his.

  Still, nothing would keep him from expressing his joy.

  Releasing her hands, he enfolded her in his strong embrace. She came willingly, resting her head on his shoulder. Marcus laid his head over hers, his grip tightening. Again, his nostrils were filled with her rosy scent, warming him.

  Through the seemingly endless well of joy resounding in his mind, he became conscious that his heart was singing. It sang as never before. A thousand choruses rang in his mind, but, somehow, only one phrase stood vivid.

  His promises are true! They are true!

  His eyes closed, exhaling into her soft tresses. Everything was quickly becoming a blur of emotions, overwhelming his heart and mind. But his heart would go on, going on with singing.

  It would never end.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “In the name of the Father, Spirit, and Jesus Christ our Lord, may you be known as man and wife.” Daniel’s voice carried over the wide banquet chamber, filling every nook with his joyous tenors.

  His milling listeners stood silent. Their countenances were alive, some with quiet joy, others with approval. Overall, the atmosphere was one of satisfaction. From soldier to patrician, they were in one accord of thanksgiving.

  Philip, leaning against one of the pillars, felt his throat swell with a sudden aching pain. He stood in clear view of the wedding couple, close enough to see Marcus’s fingers squeeze his bride’s hand. She lifted her eyes to his, her face caressed with blushes.

  Philip swallowed. He felt a bittersweet ache tugging at his heartstrings, washing in a faint mist over his eyes. He blinked, allowing the watery smile to widen over his face. Despite the emotion, his heart was singing.

  Thank you, Lord. I praise You for this glorious day.

  Daniel’s strong voice carried on. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. I bless you, my son and daughter, in the name of our Savior. May your union be fruitful, an olive tree around your table. Amen and amen.”

  A swift explosion of applause echoed through the room.

  Philip mingled his handclapping with the others. He blinked again, clearing the foggy mist blurring his vision. As his eyes regained their focus, he saw Marcus bend over Moriah, placing his lips to hers.

  The deed was done, the official seal given.

  In the year of their Lord, sixty-six anno domoni, Tribune Marcus Virginius Aeneas had taken his wife.

  Philip saw the lingering love-look shared between them. His heart warmed. Since the day Moriah had pledged to wed Marcus, he had seen a great transformation in her. It was if she had purposed to knit her heart to his.

  And love had grown.

  As a new dawn. Philip brought his arms up, folding them against his broad chest. His heart continued to swell. The mix of emotions he felt was beyond even his own understanding.

  The month following his master’s betrothal had been heaven on earth for Marcus. Philip had seldom seen a more joyful, contented man or a more cherished bride-to-be. Marcus had lavished every attention upon Moriah, endowing her with every possible token of his affection.

  Even today, her rich wedding attire was a symbol of Marcus’s overwhelming care for her comfort and happiness. She wore the traditional white tunic, though had declined the elaborate belt of Hercules. In every possible respect, she and Marcus had desired a Christian wedding.

  In light of that desire and with the need for safety, only Christian brethren had been invited to the ceremony. Later, a banquet of high-ranking officials and Praetorian officers would be held to satisfy Cleotas’s wishes and Marcus’s own public duties.

  Philip’s eyes rested on Moriah’s sparkling face, feeling his heart again grow warm. Moriah looked more beautiful than ever, her countenance alive with radiance. She chatted gracefully with the guests, accepting their well-wishes with blushing charm.

  Your ways are not our ways, Lord. He lifted his heart in silent praise. How miraculous it w
as that it had taken Nero’s persecution and the shame of the auction block to bring Moriah to the full-realization of Marcus’s noble goodness.

  As always, God’s plan was vast and mysterious.

  He saw Cleotas approach Marcus, folding him in a quick, hearty embrace. Releasing him, he took Moriah by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.

  Philip felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He remembered the conversation Cleotas and Marcus had shared about Moriah. Cleotas’s angry confusion had been unmistakable.

  “Over nine thousand denarii for a slave! Marcus, my son.” Philip recalled the veins bulging in Cleotas’s neck, deserted of all his charming good-humor. “If you had wanted a wife, I could have gotten you one for nothing. And a dowry to enhance the deal, by Pollux! But you choose a slave?”

  “You either can’t or won’t understand me, Cleotas.” Marcus’s tense, low voice had bordered on frustration. “I already attempted to explain I did not buy Moriah for my own lustful intents. I purchased her only to preserve her purity from men like Thallus Quinctia.” The sarcastic bent of his voice rose into unbreakable resolve. “I’ve restored her as a Roman citizen. And I will marry her.”

  Cleotas threw his hands in the air. “And to think that when you brought that-that–” a quick warning look from Marcus checked the language on his lips, “slave home I had hope for you. I thought you were at last coming to your senses. But by the gods, Marcus! I will never understand you Christians.”

  “You don’t have to. But you did promise not to interfere, father.”

  “So I did. But–oh, great Jupiter! She spent a single night in this household. You claim she is still chaste. So be it, Marcus! You don’t have to wed her. Your goodness will enable her to marry another.”

  “I am not marrying her for some misled form of duty, Cleotas.” Philip recalled Marcus’s passionate voice, his almost fierce attempts to explain himself. “I love her. And I love her too much to offer her any position lower than that of my wife. Praise God, I’ll take her to me with honor: pure, a Roman citizen, and coming to me of her own free will. It’s what any true man ought to offer a woman, not merely a Christian.”

  The conversation had ended abruptly.

  From his serving corner, Philip had seen the anger of Cleotas’s countenance melt into something deeper than confusion.

  It became clear upon his face. Marcus’s words had stirred thoughts that had never crossed his mind. It was as if personal responsibility had never before burdened him. Marcus’s intentions were for honor. His had never been for more than his pleasure.

  After all, what sort of a male, let alone a Roman one, liberated women in such a man’s world?

  Whether the conversation changed Cleotas’s viewpoints about his lifestyle, Philip did not claim to know. He only knew that, behind all his frustration, there was a deep respect for the young man he called his son.

  And he endeavored to love Moriah on account.

  His mind flitting back to the present moment, Philip saw Moriah’s eyes warm at Cleotas’s embrace. In spite of his carnal Roman ways, Philip knew she loved him, for Marcus’s sake if for no other reason.

  Cleotas looked a moment into her lovely eyes. A smile played about his lips, and he winked at Marcus before returning to mingle with his guests.

  Philip dropped his arms, taking a half-step forward. He had curtailed the burning to desire to congratulate Marcus long enough.

  Almost as quickly, he stopped.

  Several legionaries approached Marcus, Alexander among them. As usual, the slave must bide his time.

  He leaned back against the pillar. The soldiers took their leisure congratulating Moriah and making polite salutations to their commander. Marcus was cordial, even merry, but his eyes continually roved beyond his congratulators, searching for someone.

  Philip instinctively stepped forward, making himself visible. He sensed Marcus was looking for him, perhaps desiring some service.

  Marcus’s face relaxed. He beckoned slightly.

  Politely, Philip made his way around the group of men to Marcus’s side. He bowed slightly, expecting a trivial command. But Marcus laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer.

  “Stand here.”

  Philip was tinged by confusion. He looked at Marcus, surprised by his low voice, his almost mysterious command and close presence. This was not like his master. When in company, Marcus was ever the stern Praetorian tribune, the proud Roman patrician. His friendship with his British slave was a private matter, never exposed to the public eye.

  Marcus met his inquiring gaze for a long moment before turning away. He raised his hand for silence, his strong voice reverberating through the room. “A moment’s peace, good friends. Gather around; I have a few words.”

  Silence fell over the room.

  Philip felt the pressure of Marcus’s hand increase, squeezing his shoulder. A strange tingle rushed down his spine. He could sense the eyes of the guests resting upon him, expectancy deep in their faces.

  His confusion deepened. What do they know that I don’t?

  From his peripheral vision, he saw Marcus turn towards him. Instinctively, he faced him. Immediately, his eyes were locked into the dark pupils of Marcus’s gaze, as so often had been his case.

  Marcus’s voice was strong when he spoke, but there was a strange huskiness bordering on his voice. Philip saw the apple rise and fall in his throat, his manly neck tightening.

  “Friends, I cannot express the joy it has given me to have your presence on such a glorious day. Your happiness and support of our wedding is a thing Moriah and I shall remember always. And, as it is a day of rejoicing, there is yet one event I crave you to witness.”

  Philip felt his lips move in silent inquiry. Marcus?

  The corners of Marcus’s eyes narrowed with a hint of a smile, but he made no sign of explanation. He faced the guests more fully, the huskiness in his voice growing more evident.

  “Many years ago, I purchased a young British captive as my attendant. You see him here beside me. He has served me faithfully, devotedly. The truth be told, I cannot express how tireless his care for my needs has been. Nor can I express how much he has become to me.”

  Marcus turned, looking fully at him. Philip swallowed against the aching lump forming in his throat, seeing the faint mist gleaming over Marcus’s dark eyes. The tingle again swept down his spine.

  Lord, I don’t deserve this. Marcus knows the person I was before I knew You.

  “Philip has been my slave, but I do not hesitate to say I could love no earthly brother, no close companion better than he.” Marcus’s voice abruptly lowered. Philip saw his swallow, his efforts to control the voice that was wavering. “I have said I cannot find the words to express what it is I feel for him. Rather, I will demonstrate it.”

  Marcus beckoned slightly. Glancing in the direction of his gesture, Philip saw one of the younger household slaves step forward and hand Marcus a felt cap. Instant recognition ran like a thrill through Philip’s mind.

  The pileus.

  A symbol of freedom, worn by slaves emancipated by their lords.

  Philip’s heart-rate quickened. God, I must be mistaken. He looked from the cap in Marcus’s hands up into his dark eyes, attempting to see through the meaning behind his steady gaze. My lord?

  Marcus’s voice again grew strong. “As you are my witnesses, I pronounce my slave Philip free. He is a citizen and freedman, with no obligation to me his former master,” and his eyes warmed, “except by law of patronage.”

  A wild chorus of handclapping shook the room.

  Philip’s mind whirled. His eyes closed, masking the stinging wave of tears that blurred his vision. Lord, I don’t understand. The aching lump in his throat intensified. I deserve nothing. I am nothing. Why have You chosen to show me Your love this way?

  His eyes opened, feeling two strong hands grip his arms. He returned Marcus’s embrace, fighting the overwhelming flood of emotions. Somewhere deep inside him, he felt a laugh sp
ring to his lips, sob-like.

  The unexpectedness of Marcus’s gift was too great, too much for him to comprehend. He had never dreamed of freedom. A life beyond slavery was something he had surrendered years ago, relinquishing the bitter sting of servitude to God’s perfect will.

  The limitless possibilities of full surrender had simply never entered his realm of thinking. He could almost hear Daniel’s voice echoing in his mind.

  When your will is His, Philip, the sphere of His plan is boundless. It can cross the highest mountain, the greatest impossibility.

  Philip felt himself released. Marcus brought the cap up, touching his forehead. The applause loudened.

  He was free.

  Again, Philip found his vision blurred. It had been many years since tears had found their place in his eyes. Yet, somehow, he would have it no other way.

  Before him, Marcus himself was misty-eyed, his smile watery. “The Lord bless and keep you always, my faithful servant.” His voice was soft, husky. “May his face shine upon you and give you peace.”

  Philip started.

  The ancient blessing was almost more than he could bear in itself, a holy consecration of his new life and its freedoms. He could not have desired a greater pledge of brotherly love from his master.

  His throat constricted. It was not the blessing alone which moved him.

  Marcus had spoken in the language of the Iceni.

  It had been years since he had heard the beautiful language of his forefathers. Instant memories overwhelmed him.

  For a moment, the woodsy scent of his green hillsides, the rising smoke of the tribal fires, the misty atmosphere of the isles he had called home rose in his mind. His nostrils filled with the scents, his heart with bittersweet recollection.

  Marcus’s kindness in evoking such memories was almost as great as his gift of freedom.

  His hand found Marcus’s, gripping it. Emotion became the bursting desire to speak, to again bask in the tongue of his tribesmen.