He again rolled over. He felt sick, still wrapped in nausea. The merciless end of Arswind was raw in his soul, a pulsating wound. He blinked against the salty tears, his ache renewed in his throat. And in his heart.
“Oh, God.” The groan rushed from his lips. “Your ways are unsearchable. I know Your plan was perfect for Arswind. But why for my sake? Why did he die in such agony?”
Only the chirping of crickets met his ears. Philip closed his eyes, fighting the aching pain screaming in his mind and heart. God did not owe him an answer. And, somehow, he sensed he would never know why.
Still, his mind refused to stand still. It roved through the endless plethora of possible answers. Was it possible the boy had died to give him the warning he needed, to bring awareness to his own danger?
He shuddered. God forbid. He felt the moisture steal beneath his eyelids, mingling with his perspiration. Surely that was not Your plan, Lord. Surely You did not allow his death to preserve my life.
Either way, the danger was real.
Again, the icy hand clamped around Philip’s heart. He felt its chilly power spread through his body. The abrupt realization came to him: his perspiration was not from the heat, but from fear.
The fear in itself was torture. Why was he afraid? What terrors had he not already faced that he could not face again? He who had survived captivity, slavery, the lash, and daily peril should not be afraid to trust in the One who had brought him safely through his trials.
A dull sensation crossed him. He had been nervous, even anxious before. But this was a new fear, a chilling power he had never experienced until now. It was strangely consuming, filling every nook of his soul and body.
What was he about to face? What was this terrible unknown he dreaded with such intensity? Was it possible–and his mind halted in contemplation–God was warning him of some impending trial?
A touch lighted on his hand. Nothing will separate you, Philip.
Philip’s eyes jerked open. His heart pulsed, oxygen severed from his lungs. “What is it, Lord?” His voice cried aloud into the darkness. “What are You preparing me for?”
Be strong and of good courage. Neither fear, nor be afraid.
Philip’s heart swelled. Sudden, torrential peace flooded his soul. Like darkness scattered by radiant light, the icy fear sped from his body. Slowly, his lungs settled into a calming rhythm, and he began to breathe again.
Whatever God’s plan held for him, he would not be alone.
His eyes closed. Slumber encircled him, shutting out reality and the unknown future. Instead, he dreamt. And, in his dreams, a familiar face smiled with gruff kindness upon him.
“Philip, my son.”
It was Beric himself.
He was alive and well. He looked strong, as proud and valiant as he had been as an Iceni chieftain. His countenance shone with unearthly light, his beard neatly full. And Philip felt their arms clasp, their chests meet in a long embrace. The strong touch was one he could never forget.
His eyes jerked open.
It was early morning. The sun was beginning to make its ascent, scattering the mist-like grayness into full light.
It had only been a dream. Or had it?
Philip stood up, rubbing his arms. He stepped to the window and looked out. The early sunlight glistened off the colossal buildings on every side of the Aeneas domus, warming his face. Rome was beginning to stir, awakening to the day’s labors. The city was beautiful.
And spiritually dead.
So many souls, Lord. Philip’s heart ached. Many of those souls were ones who had killed those he loved best. He exhaled slowly, gripping the sides of the casement. The dull pain of loss had not lessened.
Philip relinquished his palms. It was then he realized they tingled. A warm, strange vibration sped down his spine. He had almost forgotten.
The touch. The voice.
How many years had it been since he had first physically felt what he was certain was the presence of Jesus? He often put the sufferings of that day from his mind, but he would never forget what he had experienced.
But why again? Why this charge to be strong and to have courage?
The questions rolled over Philip’s mind. He felt confused, possessed of the knowledge that some certain trial loomed in his future. Strangely, the dull consciousness was void of fear. He felt peaceful, more at rest than he could ever remember being.
Adjacent to his room, Marcus’s bell rang.
Philip dressed swiftly. Fastening his wristbands as he went, he stepped into Marcus’s chamber.
A swift glance revealed Marcus standing at one end of the room, looking out of the window. Moriah was still wrapped in sound slumber, her arm outstretched atop the coverlets.
“You called?” Philip spoke softly. He did not wish to awaken Moriah. She should sleep even if her husband chose such early hours.
Marcus turned. It was then Philip saw his face was drawn and pale. He did not appear to have slept. Weariness enshrouded his features. “Yes.” He stepped forward. “I know it is early. I would not have called, but…” He paused. “I felt certain you would be awake.”
“Yes.” Philip felt the understanding between them. There was little need for words. He stepped to the wardrobe and took out Marcus’s military attire. Quietly, he strapped the polished armor in place and went about the usual motions of fixing his tribunal toga.
Marcus’s eyes never left him. They followed him continually, searching. Philip did not raise his gaze to meet them. He did not want to see the weariness, the unspoken question he knew burned in his master’s mind.
With Marcus fully attired, Philip turned away. He felt a quiet hand rest instantly on his arm, halting him. He turned, lifting his eyes for the first time to meet the dark pupils looking with searching intensity at him.
“You are not blaming yourself for what happened to Arswind?”
“No.” Philip considered his words. He searched his heart, sifting through the emotions to the core of his innermost feelings. “It was the Lord’s will. I do not say I understand, for I don’t.” He paused, fighting the growing huskiness in his throat. “But I do trust Him.”
Marcus continued to look at him, his gaze a searching question. It was if he could not bring himself to speak the query bordering clearly on the tip of his tongue.
Philip said nothing. His heart was a surreal well of peace. He had never before felt such strange quietness of mind, such calm in the face of the storm he could almost see looming on his horizon. Even the keen anxiety he saw in Marcus was like a passing whisper, something oddly unable to influence his own feelings.
Nothing could shake him.
“Will you go out today?” Marcus’s restraint broke at last. His voice was a low rush, like an escape of cold air.
“Yes.” Philip paused. Accustomed to subjecting his will to another for so many years, there were times he faltered to take his own lead, to speak with command. Not so today. He kept his gaze quietly steady. “I promised Daniel I would assist him.”
“That pledge was made before, in other conditions. There is no wrongdoing in retracting it.”
“You are wrong.” Philip saw the wave of dark color that rolled like a cloud over Marcus’s face. “I am going.”
“Because you are too stubborn to realize your own danger?” Marcus’s voice rose in frustration. His tension was fairly tangible.
“No. Because I feel the Spirit’s leading in this, Marcus. I must go.”
Marcus softened. Again, weariness encompassed him. “If you were still my slave, I would force you to stay here.”
“No, you would not, Marcus.” Philip laid a swift hand on his arm. Marcus’s soldierly concealment of emotion did not usually allow the deep concern he saw in him. “I know you would not hinder the Lord’s work.”
“No.” Marcus turned a little away, his voice flat. “At this moment, I feel I would do anything to ensure your safety.” He took an ornate bottle from a shelf, tipping a few drops of the contents into his
palm. The musky, botanical scent of Indian cologne filled the room. He brought the liquid over the back of his neck, his throat. The force of his movements betrayed his rising tension. “What good can you do for the work of the Lord if you are killed?”
“My life is in God’s hands.”
Marcus turned. Slowly, he closed the gap between them. “And what of Diantha?”
Philip felt the blood rise in his neck, in his cheeks. Just the sound of her name sent the adrenaline coursing through his veins. With difficulty, he restrained his voice to speak quietly. “She will not be going with me today. But her life is also within His will, Marcus.”
“That is not what I meant. What will happen to her if you are murdered?” A sudden husky tenor bordered on Marcus’s voice. “What will it do to her faith, to her heart?”
Philip could not speak. His heart pumped wildly. He knows. He had seen their feelings for each other. Marcus’s soft tenors continued to confirm his thoughts.
“I know you love each other.”
Philip swallowed. The desire to explain himself was strong, but he scarcely knew what he could say. “I should have spoken of it. Only,” his voice caught slightly, “I have not known how. My life has become…one constant prayer.”
The corners of Marcus’s mouth twitched in an understanding smile. “Yes. I know. There is nothing you can or cannot tell me about the way you feel I will not have already felt myself.”
“I have not spoken to her. I would not–without your permission.”
“You have it, Philip.” Marcus’s hands gripped his shoulders. “I could have no greater joy than in having you for my brother.”
“If it is the Lord’s will.” Philip uttered the words softly. The passion of Marcus’s demeanor touched him, but he could not evade the mysterious prick warning his heart. Be strong and of good courage, Philip.
“And why would it not be?” Marcus’s voice became unsteady. “Why should the Lord deny you your happiness?”
“Because His ways are not our ways, Marcus.” Philip allowed his eyes to drift past Marcus. His life seemed to rise up before him. Scenes revisited, flashing through his mind. How many times he had learned to trust his God, coming to grips with the fact that His plan was unsearchable. Each time man had meant him harm, Christ had turned it for good. “We cannot know our future. I know only that I have committed my soul to His keeping.”
“I am afraid for you.”
“But you will not keep me from the Lord’s work.” Philip felt a smile rise to his lips, so strong he himself could not understand it. He did not stop to wonder. All he knew was peace. “Believe in Christ with me, Marcus. Believe that nothing shall befall me outside of His will.”
Silence filled the room.
“Lord, help my unbelief.” When Marcus spoke, it was an audible sigh. He again gripped Philip’s shoulders. “Go then. And may God guide your path.” In the Eastern fashion he occasionally adopted, he placed his arm around Philip’s neck and embraced him close.
Philip quietly returned the embrace. Swiftly, he pulled himself away and left the room, the masculine scent of Indian cologne still in his nostrils.
In the atrium, he was met by Diantha.
Her eyes were slightly red, marked by the appearance of tears. She was pale and, like Marcus, did not appear to have slept. Ceremony thrust aside, she drew very close to him, her eyes searching his.
“Are you going out today, Philip?”
Philip touched her hair. It was soft to his fingertips. As always, her scent was warm and botanical. “I must, Diantha.”
“You know what they did to Arswind. They will do worse to you.”
“If it is the Lord’s will.”
“And it will be.” Diantha’s eyes filled with tears. “He has allowed so many of our brethren to suffer. Oh, Philip! Think! Think of yourself, of us.” Her voice became a soft whisper of pleading. “Is your life nothing that you will throw it away?”
Philip’s hands rested on her shoulders. His heart twisted, wrung by the sight of her tears. But, somehow, the depth of her words could not slip past the endless voice of peace engulfing him. It whispered his duty in his ears, urging him to go.
“Here or in the streets, I am in His keeping, Diantha. And I am safer in His will than outside of it. You know these things. In your heart, you know my calling is certain.”
“Yes.” Diantha brought her hand over his own, and Philip felt its tremble. “You are called to the ministry. I do not doubt that, Philip. Nor do I discourage you from it.” Her eyes filled afresh. “It is only until this danger is past.”
“No.” Philip took her hand from atop his and pressed it within both of his own. “Danger is never past for us. And I hear the Spirit, Diantha. Come what may, for whatever purpose He has, I know I am to continue my work.”
“But you may be mistaken. You–”
“No.” Philip touched her lips, stopping her. “I am not. And you must not dissuade me. Do not let that sin rest on your head.”
Diantha’s head drooped. Her shoulders shook. “I am afraid, Philip. I am not strong as you are.” She raised her face to his. The soft tears spilled down her cheeks, falling in noiseless drops on her stola. “What if God takes you from me?”
Philip’s arms slipped down her shoulders, embracing her. She seemed to melt into his arms. He held her tightly, resting his cheek against her hair. “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” His voice was a gentle whisper. Somehow, no other words would rise to his lips. There was no other promise he could give. His grip tightened. “I love you, Diantha.”
A soft whimper escaped her. Burying her face, she cried into his chest. “I love you too, Philip.”
“Then keep holding onto that.” Philip put her gently from him. “I’ll be home tonight.”
Softly, he bent down and kissed her cheek. He hated to pull himself away from her, but the call of his mission beckoned. Leaving behind her warmth, her sweet scent, he strode from the atrium into the morning sunshine.
Outside, the humid warmth was intoxicating. Philip lifted his face to the sun, his sandaled feet leading his way by force of habit. The heat settled into his body. Every core of his being felt rejuvenated.
Abrupt darkness dimmed the light.
Philip glanced up. The sun shone full. No clouds littered the sky. Only this strange dark presence chilled the air, cutting off his warmth. He had felt it before. Once before his conversion. And, once, when his spirit had hovered between life and death under the rods.
Each time, God’s presence had been near. As it was last night, Lord. I know, whatever Your plan holds, You will be with me.
Daniel was waiting for him at their usual street-corner meeting place. Philip extended his hand as he drew close, a slight smile deepening on his mouth.
“Peace be with you.”
“And to you, Philip.” Daniel drew him into a swift embrace, his beard brushing Philip’s cheek. He motioned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder. One never knew who might be watching. “Come. We will go into the Subura district today.”
Philip nodded in wordless acknowledgment. He had been to the slum section of Rome many times before. Known for its poverty, crime, and prostitution, the Subura was the center of much suffering. There was no better to place to distribute their food, coins, and good news.
As they made their way around fellow pedestrians and through the bustling commerce, Philip could sense Daniel glance at him.
“You are quiet today.”
“My mind is full.”
“I would imagine so.” Daniel was quiet. He continued to glance sidelong at him. “Marcus told me everything. Does it trouble you?”
“That my life is in danger?” Philip drew his cloak more securely around his shoulders. He sidestepped a jutting piece of cobblestone, collecting his thoughts. “No. It did last night, but…not now.”
They were nearing the Subura. Philip could smell the rotting garbage, the stifled air of the too-close apartments. Agains
t the shadows of a wine-cellar, Daniel stopped to look at him.
“God’s peace radiates from you, Philip. Your courage is evident.”
“It is not of myself. God has been with me, Daniel.” Philip paused. His pulse surged, desiring to tell Daniel all that was within his heart. “I have told no one this, my friend, but you at least must know.”
Again, he stopped to sort his thoughts. “I felt that my life was planned. You must have guessed what has been in my heart: that my greatest wish has been to marry Diantha. I wanted to spend my life with her and in the ministry. But now, my heart is different. My life feels as if it is fading. It seems as if God Himself has warned me that my time in His service is growing short.”
Daniel was silent.
Philip looked past him, fixing his eyes on the cobblestoned street. “Even now, I feel that a candle has been lit in my heart. But it seems to be sputtering. Do you think I am wrong?”
“Philip.” Daniel touched his shoulder, his voice gentle. “Am I your judge? I cannot know what is in your heart.” A sudden catch permeated his voice. “But I pray God you are mistaken.”
Philip looked at him. How well he knew the bearded face, the compassionate eyes and strong faith of Daniel. “For the sake of those who care for me, so do I.”
His throat felt dry, thinking of all Daniel had done for him. Everything within him wanted to lighten the load of worry he saw in his friend’s countenance. His steps slowed.
“If I never say it again, Daniel, allow me to say it now. I count you as one of the greatest blessings of my life. Your friendship and all that you’ve taught me is something I will thank God for until the end of my days.”
Daniel’s beard held a smile, but Philip saw its waver. His eyes blinked, his voice hollow in its huskiness. “And for all you have been to me, Philip, I thank Adonai.”
They walked on in silence.
The alley closed in around them, the light shadowed by the towering apartments on every side. Garbage and filth lying in the street became increasingly difficult to avoid. An overpowering stench rose from the ruts, substantiating it was not rainwater which filled their murky depths.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 38