“I can never thank you as you ought to be, master.” His tongue glided over the Iceni words, shaking a little. His speech was almost as polished as if mere days had separated his voice from his language. “I can only praise God for His goodness through you.”
“It is enough, Philip.” Marcus’s misty eyes warmed. “I know your heart.” He clapped Philip on the shoulder. “Let us speak no more of this until later. Only, always remember that, wherever God calls you or whatever you must do, you will always have a place here.”
Philip nodded. The overwhelming possibilities of his future were only dimly beginning to have their place in his mind, but he recognized the fullness of Marcus’s heart beneath his pledge.
Marcus returned to his guests. The laughter and conversation resumed, filling the room with noisy exuberance.
Philip stood still. The words still rang in his mind. He would never tire of their joyous meaning.
I pronounce my slave Philip free. Free.
The atrium was dark. Only the flickering light of a few oil lamps bathed the room, sparkling against the quiet water of the pool. Philip stepped into the room, his sandaled feet creating a soft slap against the marble floor.
It was late. The guests had finally gone, leaving a welcome haven of peace with their departure. Only the bountiful store of wedding gifts and a somewhat depleted storeroom hinted of their earlier presence.
Marcus and Moriah had made their retreat; Cleotas was slumbering off his wine. With the exception of a household watchman or two, the servants were asleep in their quarters. Only he was awake, left alone to recall the events of the day.
Absently, Philip leaned against a pillar. In his British fashion, he crossed his arms on his chest, contemplative.
His eyes surveyed the patterns on the floor. How well he remembered the ornate designs of the Virginius atrium blending into one swirling color, the agony of the rods tearing his back and distorting his mind. The events of his boyhood seemed so distant, yet, their misery was etched in his mind and heart as if it were yesterday.
You are nothing! Your God is nothing!
The echo of Marcus’s anger played in Philip’s mind. For a moment, he could almost feel the rods, the inexorable grip of the hands that had pinned him to the floor. He would never forget the racking pain of that flogging.
But, just as quickly, the memory faded, replaced by something he would never forget.
The touch. The voice.
Philip closed his eyes, remembering. In his deepest agony, when he had thought himself ready to die, the presence of Jesus had been with him. And it had returned to comfort him after the death of Beric.
Philip opened his eyes. How many scenes of violence and suffering an atrium such as this one had witnessed. But, unlike the Virginius domus, this household had witnessed scenes of goodness.
The Lord bless you and keep you. There had been a time he would never have believed such words could issue from his master’s lips.
Did he choose to do so, Philip knew he could again summon the mist to his eyes. The presence of emotion was still with him, bordering close on his heart. The scenes of the day were fresh, playing over and over in his mind.
Only Christ could have wrought two such miracles–the union of the two friends he loved and his own freedom.
Freedom.
Philip stretched his arms out to their full length, bringing them back again. Strength rippled through his arms, tightening his muscles. He felt like a new a man. The very word freedom seemed to course through his veins like adrenaline.
He was a citizen of Rome, a freedman. He was free to marry, to vote, to manage himself as his own master. He had long since ceased to fear corporal discipline, knowing Marcus would never again strike him, but now his safety was legal. No man could subject him to bodily harm.
He was free.
The sound of a quiet knock interrupted his thoughts.
Philip started a little. The hour was far too late for honest visitors. He paused, waiting for the sound of the knock to resound. Presently, it came, soft and timid. The sound was almost as if it were a frightened child.
He glanced around the atrium. The slaves were certainly in too deep a slumber to have heard such a diffident knock.
Swiftly, he crossed to the vestibule. A slight tinge of hesitance pricked his instincts, but he brushed it aside. The watchmen were within the close vicinity, though he doubted he would need their services. He had forgotten nothing of his savage training in the wild British Isles.
With slow cautiousness, he unbolted the heavy door. He opened it, his eyes adjusting to the midnight darkness.
A silhouetted form captured his immediate attention. The figure was decidedly maidenly, delicate, and wrapped in a long cloak.
“Yes?” Despite the indistinct murmur of activity that could still be heard from the distant forum, Philip almost started at the sound of his own voice. The hour seemed much too late for speech. “How may I assist you?”
“You are Philip of Briton? The servant of the honorable Tribune Marcus Virginius Aeneas?” Soft and clear, the girl’s hushed voice was almost musical.
“Yes.” Philip looked keenly at her. Clearly, the maiden knew him from someplace, though he could not imagine where. Her tones and bearing were too noble for him to have to have met her on his errands of mercy among the poor. “Do you have business with me?”
“More particularly with your master.” The girl drew her cloak more securely around her shapely shoulders. Her eyes were clear and honest, looking steadily into his. “May I enter?”
In answer, Philip held the door open wider. She stepped past him, modestly dropping her gaze.
It was then he noticed how dark her eyes were, fringed by equally dark lashes. He felt a chill of uncertainty. There was something about the turn of her gaze, the steady manner in which her pupils met and commanded his that was strikingly familiar.
In the atrium, she threw back her hood, revealing faintly-curling hair. It was dark, coiled attractively against her head.
Philip closed the door, glancing at her. Her form was slender and shapely, her height slightly taller than the average woman. It was clearly obvious she was Roman born and bred. Everything about her breathed the grace and authority of a patrician, yet, she somehow bore an entirely distinct touch of modesty.
Seeing him look at her, she tilted her chin ever so slightly, her eyes catching his gaze. Her expression spoke little. She seemed open to his curiosity, as if it was not a British slave who stood before her.
“May I pour you a glass of wine?” Philip compelled himself to speak pleasantly, mingling his subservience with compassion. The girl obviously had an important reason for coming at such a late hour to the Aeneas domus. “You must be weary at such an hour.”
“I am. Thank you.” Spoken softly, the girl’s answer was again clear and distinct. Strangely, it was not the clarity of command. She was gracious, even humble.
Philip felt his confusion mounting. No ordinary Roman lady spoke pleasantly to a slave, particularly one receiving her at the dead of night. Everything about her signified friendship, even equality.
The feeling that he had seen her before grew stronger.
He stepped to her side, handing her the goblet. Her eyes mirroring thanks, she lifted the goblet with both hands to her lips, cradling it.
Marcus.
Philip tingled with a running thrill, the thought a startling one. Everything about her was his master, only in feminine form. The dark eyes that commanded him; the bearing; the natural authority. Even her manner of cradling her goblet spoke volumes. There was nothing that did not equal Marcus’s comportment and particular ways of doing things.
He stepped closer, the thrill running again through him. “My lady?” His voice grew soft, his eyes running again over every feature of her countenance. “Diantha Virginius?”
She looked up at him. “You recognize me.”
“It has been many years.” A wave of shock rolled through Philip’s body.
“You’ll forgive me if I say you’ve grown.”
“I was a child.” A tinkling laugh escaped her. “And you were a rebellious boy. I will never forget how you tried my brother.” Her eyes wandered over him. “But you have not changed much. I have never forgotten you.”
“I fear there is little good to remember me by, my lady.”
“No.” Diantha drew herself up. New earnestness flickered over her face. “There is much I recall about you that is noble.”
Philip looked at her. Like Marcus, he could not see through the thoughts behind her dark eyes. Still, there were few options to her words. Is it possible she respects Christianity?
Her gaze was steady, holding him. Somewhere, deep inside him, he realized his heart was pounding. In that, there was one difference between her and Marcus. He did not mind the sway she held over him.
He half-shook his head, freeing himself. All of his experience with ministry and service ought to have won his confidence in the presence of a noble lady. Why, then, did he feel so nervous, so boyishly uncertain and awkward?
A cough arose in his throat. “Will you explain what you mean, my lady?”
Diantha drew a little closer. A slow, bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Please, do not call me that, Philip. I am not your lady.”
Something about the manner in which she said his name triggered the heat in Philip’s cheeks. It crept upwards, deepening his awkward confusion. “I do not understand.”
Again, Diantha did not answer his questions. Her eyes drifted downwards. “They say today was my brother’s wedding.”
Philip made no answer. He struggled to recall that he was free, but to no avail. Captivity had made its mark on him, holding his tongue. A slave did not speak unless he was asked a direct question.
A moment of silence filled the atrium.
Diantha looked up at him. “What sort of a woman has he taken for his wife?” Her voice was soft, as if she feared his answer.
“A woman of the best and godliest character.” Philip felt warmth spread through his chest. “Moriah is a jewel beyond compare. Your brother is a blessed man.”
“I am grateful to hear it. I feared…” Diantha’s voice broke off. She smiled, but Philip saw her chin tremble strangely. “My greatest desire was that Marcus would stand by his principles and choose a wife worthy of him.”
Philip considered her. Stand by his principles. The words echoed in his mind. What kind of a Roman lady valued principle above power? The preachings of Seneca had been influential in their time, but he doubted the words of the dead continued to impact the youthful. Rome spawned indulgence, self-pleasure. Why does her disowned brother continue to attract her care?
He studied the patterned floor. “My lady–” He paused, glancing up at her. The slight flicker of her eyes signified she had not changed her mind about his use of the title, but she said nothing. “I beg your pardon, but I must ask. Why did you come here?”
Before him, her face crumpled into tears.
Philip felt a start, confused and almost hating himself. Swiftly, he stepped forward, touching her shoulder.
“If I have hurt you, I will never forgive myself. Please–” His voice died, at a loss for words. Seeing a woman weep always pained him beyond depiction. A silent prayer formed on his lips for her. Be with her, Lord.
“You have done nothing.” Diantha shook her head, brushing her hand against her cheek. It came away shiny with moisture. “I have longed to cry all day.” Her chin trembled, her words spilling in a tremulous rush from her throat. “My father has disowned me. I was cast from my home only this morning.”
The intensity of indignation began to simmer in Philip’s chest. He felt a wave of sympathy, understanding what it was she suffered.
His mind flashed back to the past. Though little had been shared with him, he had known how deep a void of hurt Rowland had created in Marcus’s heart. The scars of disgrace and pain had been masked, but he often wondered if they had ever healed. In his mind, it didn’t seem possible. Marcus had respectfully chosen not to abandon the name of Virginius, but, to all who knew Rowland, the additional surname was a daily reminder that he was not Cleotas’s flesh and blood.
It seemed an unthinkable cruelty to inflict the same punishment upon his only daughter.
“Why?” Philip spoke gently, his voice low. He had seen much suffering in his ministry, but the sight of pain never ceased to move him. The circumstances behind her disgrace were nothing; his was a ministry to comfort and uplift the sorrowing.
Diantha inhaled slowly. She appeared comforted by his touch. Blinking, she forced a watery smile to her lips. “I am a Christian.”
The unexpectedness of her answer was another vivid shock.
Philip was silent, a torrent of questions flooding his mind. Did she speak honestly? Or was this a malicious trick of Rowland, intended to entrap and harm Marcus and Moriah on the happiest day of their life?
Diantha seemed to sense his mistrust. She drew herself up, and again Philip was surprised by her quiet authority. “Do not be afraid to trust me, Philip. I swear by all we hold sacred I am telling you the truth.”
Philip looked quietly at her. In his heart, he was prepared to believe her, but cautiousness was the first rule of wisdom. “Can you prove it?”
Surprise flitted across Diantha’s features. Philip sensed she struggled to determine which course to take. It was not every day she was doubted, even resisted by an insolent British slave.
Her voice faltered. “Even Daniel, one of our great elders, believes me.”
“So you say.” Philip spoke quietly. “Forgive me, but I have seen much treachery. I am certain you understand.”
“I do, Philip. You know perhaps more than myself or even Marcus what it is to suffer for Christ.” Diantha’s eyes never left his. Still full of soft tears, they remained honest, unwavering. “I can give you no proof of my integrity. That is a thing time alone will reveal to you. I can only throw myself on your goodness and trust you to believe in me.”
“Diantha.” Philip gentled his voice. Inwardly, his heart was warm. Her simplicity was convincing, even appealing. “You are Marcus’s sister. It is not for me to believe or not believe you. That is not what I meant by my questions. I mean only that we as believers must be discerning.”
He allowed his expression to relax, certain that his eyes already betrayed his trust. “Come, I will show you to a guest chamber. In the morning, you may see your brother and explain why you are here.”
Diantha’s moist eyes warmed, but she said nothing.
Philip signaled for her to follow him. Swiftly, he led her across the silent, dusky atrium to one of the guest apartments. At its door, he gestured.
“Do you require an attendant, my lady?”
“No, not tonight.” Diantha paused. She seemed to be gathering her scattered emotions, recollecting her quiet strength. “You have been most kind.”
Philip stood looking down at her. Something about her answer triggered his respect. What Roman lady denies the services of slaves? Her gracious authority and simple sweetness was strikingly appealing. In many ways, she seemed more British than Roman.
Powered by something he didn’t understand, his voice grew soft. “Goodnight, Diantha.”
He turned, half-striding away. A strange feeling encompassed him, confusing him. In ten short minutes, this Roman girl had filled him with feelings he had never before experienced.
Nor did he understand them.
Behind him, her soft voice stopped him in his stride. “Philip.”
“Yes?” He turned. Somehow, he was almost glad to do so. Her soft dark eyes met his, immediately holding him.
“You are no longer a slave, are you?”
“No.” Philip felt a rush of adrenaline, highlighting his cheeks with color. “My master freed me today.” He paused. “How could you tell?”
Diantha smiled. “You have always walked like a warrior. That in itself has not changed. But today you both speak and walk as o
ne with a mission.”
“I have always had a mission, Diantha. My calling is to win the lost to Christ.” Philip paused, considering his words. “But you are right. Before, as a slave, my work was bound within the restrictions of my master. Now, Christ alone is my authority.”
Diantha played with the corners of her cloak. Slowly, her eyes smiled up at him. “Goodnight, Philip.” She turned, vanishing into the dark recesses of the guest chamber.
Philip stood motionless. He felt the corners of his mouth curve into a smile. Swiftly, feeling the unexplainable desire to laugh, he hastened up the staircase to his own apartments.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Marcus enfolded Diantha in his strong embrace, his hands gripping her shoulders. Her face was buried in his shoulder. His head rested atop hers, his cheek pressed against her dark hair.
From his serving corner, Philip felt a smarting lump gather in his throat. He could hear Marcus’s husky voice murmuring her name.
“Diantha. Little sister.”
Diantha raised her head, her eyes luminous through their tears. “Marcus. Oh, praise God that I have seen you again.”
Marcus held her at arm’s length. Slowly, he raised his hand, caressing her cheek. “It is a bitter trial that brings us together, my Diantha. But it has its blessings. I wonder if father considered this joyous possibility when he put you from his heart and home.”
“I doubt it, Marcus. But let the past be. I am here with you.” Diantha paused, her eyes roving in quick survey across Marcus’s countenance. “You will let me stay, will you not?”
Marcus laughed. The sound was husky, a rush of pent-up emotion. “What a question! Cleotas will have to be consulted, but I am certain he will readily welcome you. You will again have a home, Diantha.”
“Praise God.” Diantha’s voice choked. Half-shaking her head, she smiled up at him. “I was afraid, Marcus.”
“Of what?”
“Of many things.” Diantha drew a shaky breath. “Mostly that you would not receive me, that my father’s daughter would be scorned. But the years have not changed you, Marcus. Your love has not ceased for me.”
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