by Angela Hunt
He stiffened as Flavius propped his arm on his shoulder. “What news, eh? We’ve leaving this dust bin for the marble streets of Rome!”
Atticus released a choked laugh. “Imagine that.”
“Indeed! Imagine worshipping at a proper temple, attending games in the Coliseum, living in a decent barracks. I was beginning to think we were stuck—” He stopped and narrowed his gaze. “What’s the matter, big man? One would think you weren’t thrilled to be leaving this god-forsaken place.”
Atticus snorted. “I want to go to Rome. But … there’s Cyrilla. And Quinn. I can’t imagine leaving them.”
Flavius stared at the ground for a moment, then slapped Atticus on the back. “Better make the break now, then. Let them get used to your absence.”
“But—”
“Don’t go soft. Softness will only hurt more in the end. Make a clean break, Atticus, like you should have done years ago. What did you think, you could pretend with them forever? Impossible. You’re Roman, they’re … well, they’re not. You’d better get used to the idea of severing unofficial ties.”
With a final slap on the back, Flavius stalked away, whistling a tune.
* * *
For three weeks, Atticus volunteered his men for patrols, escort duty, and posts at the port, anything that would take him away from the barracks at Caesarea. He found it easier to put Cyrilla and Quinn out of his mind if he didn’t have to look across the courtyard and see Pilate’s palace and the garden where they often met.
One rainy afternoon, he rode his horse into the stable after a march to Cana and back. The rain had been unusually insistent, and beneath his armor he was soaked to the skin.
His mare whickered and shook her head as he dismounted, jingling the bit in her mouth. Atticus gave her an appreciative pat on the flank, then gestured to one of the stable hands. “Take care of her, will you?”
“Do you take more care for a horse than for me?”
He looked up. Cyrilla stood next to the doorway, her head and shoulders covered with a soaked linen veil. Seeing her in that unexpected time and place, Atticus realized that the last traces of girlishness, uncertainty, and baby fat had evaporated from her features. She had become a woman … and, from all appearances, an unhappy one.
The eyes she turned on him were hot with resentment. “Did you think you could just walk away?”
He glanced around, then took her arm and led her away from the activity in the barn. Unfortunately, this meant walking back out into the rain.
“What do you mean?” he asked when they had left the barn behind.
“I heard,” she said, her voice breaking. “My Lady Procula is returning to Rome and so are you. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
He pressed his lips together and looked away. “Cyrilla, you know I can’t have a wife. I am a soldier.”
“But you have a son. You have acknowledged him publicly.”
“Many of the men in my cohort have sons. But they’re not legal. There are no adoption papers—”
“You think I care about papers? I care about you, Atticus. I thought you cared about us.”
“I do care.”
“Then why aren’t you doing something?”
It was a reasonable question, but Atticus flinched as though she had stabbed him with it. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know!” The wet material gathered on her shoulder dropped over her arm as she flung out her hands. “But you could try something! Maybe we could stow away on a boat, or you could buy us passage—”
“Don’t you think I’ve considered that?” He ran his hand through his wet hair. “What am I supposed to do with you once you get to Rome? I can’t afford a house, so where will you live?”
Her chin rose. “I supported myself before we met you. I could support myself—”
“No. Not like that.”
“Then what?”
She held her head up in the grey light of the rainy day and for the first time he realized the full strength of her determination. By all that was holy, this woman deserved his effort.
A smile nudged itself into a corner of his mouth as he pulled her into his arms. “I don’t know what to do, Cyrilla, but give me time, and I promise, I’ll think of something.”
With her face buried in his chest, her next words were muffled: “You promise you won’t leave us?”
“I promise.”
* * *
Two days later, with his nerves strung as tight as a bowstring, Atticus approached the palace garden. Cyrilla and Quinn were tossing a ball by the fountain, maintaining a careful distance from the Lady Procula, who appeared to be crying.
Atticus turned his back to the governor’s wife, lest Procula think he wanted to see her. “Cyrilla?”
She rolled the ball to Quinn, then gave him a tentative smile. “I hoped you’d come.”
“I came as soon as I could.”
She gave him a quick, hopeful look. “Did you think of something?”
“I think so, but I need to know—are you sure you want to come to Rome?”
Cyrilla lowered her gaze. “I can’t believe you’d ask that.”
“Rome is not Judea. You’d be giving up everything familiar to you.”
“But I’d be keeping you and Quinn, wouldn’t I?”
Atticus took a deep breath. All right, then. He would ask Lady Procula if she would bring Cyrilla to Rome. His question, if interpreted incorrectly, could lead to trouble. If Pilate learned one of his legionnaires had taken the time to inquire after a servant and a child—
He strode toward the pale woman sitting by the trimmed hedges and knocked his fist against his breastplate. “My lady, may I have a word?”
When Procula lifted her head, he saw the faint tracks of tears on her cheeks. “Please do not—” She looked at him more closely. “Oh! It’s Atticus, right?”
“I hate to disturb you, but I need to speak to you.”
Her face crumpled with unhappiness. “Have you heard something about my husband?”
“No, my lady. I have not come on your husband’s account.”
“Then whose?” Her gaze softened when she looked toward Cyrilla. “Of course.”
“I was wondering, my lady—will you bring your maid and the child with you to Rome?”
Procula tilted her head, regarding him with a look of faint amusement. “What do you think, centurion? Should I take Judeans to Rome? I have no need of them; my household will be well-equipped with slaves.”
“You will not have these servants.” Atticus paused. She had to have guessed what he was thinking, so why was she being difficult?
She looked up at him through a fringe of curled bangs. “Tell me, Atticus—as a Roman soldier, have you never wanted to marry?”
He stiffened. “It is not permitted.”
“And how does that make you feel? Do you ever want to rebel? Run off and tell the entire Roman world to drown itself in the sea?”
“I serve Rome and its commanders with my whole heart. I have taken a vow and I intend to keep it.”
“So there is no room in your heart for rebellion … or a wife and child?”
Atticus swallowed hard and tried not to reveal his irritation. “The army does not permit me to enjoy those things.”
“But you have made room in your heart, Atticus. You do enjoy them. And I wonder how you have been able to pull it off.”
He held his tongue. An answer would verify that he had established a family; a denial might result in a permanent break from Cyrilla and Quinn.
Procula ran her fingertip over the stiff bloom of a lily. “I shall try to help you. I’ll ask my husband to bring the woman and the boy. Pilate has so many things on his mind, he’ll scarcely notice my request … or me. He is too worried about his future.”
Atticus bowed. “Thank you, Lady Procula.”
“You’re welcome.”
He bowed, but not before flashing Cyrilla a hopeful smile.
* * *
> The Lady Procula, Atticus later learned, proved herself both faithful and insightful. She kept her promise to ask Pilate if Cyrilla and Quinn could accompany her to Rome, and, as she had predicted, the governor gave his absent-minded consent.
The news had thrilled Cyrilla, and not until the matter was settled did Atticus realize how desperately he’d been hoping for the procurator’s permission. He had sworn to leave all for the military, but abandoning the woman and the boy would have been a painful sacrifice …
He and Cyrilla had been aboard the transport ship for little more than a week when she pulled him aside and motioned to Quinn. “You need to speak to the boy.”
“About what?”
The tip of her nose went pink. “He has just realized that he … is not like you. Because you’ve been with him … you know … more often since we’ve been at sea.”
Atticus blinked, then drew in a deep breath. He had known this moment would come sooner or later. He hadn’t expected it to arrive when Quintus was only seven years old.
And what should he say? He knew nothing of what fathers told their sons about such intimate matters. The men in his garrison were frank enough with their thoughts and comments, but how did a man talk to a child at such a tender age?
He walked forward, took Quinn’s hand, and led him toward the bow. Smiling, he lifted his son onto a block, then braced the boy’s hands on the rail as a sudden gust struck the boat, heeling the vessel over enough to bring their fingertips within a foot of the foaming sea.
To his credit, Quinn laughed. Atticus chuckled, glad the boy wasn’t afraid, and nestled the child against his chest as the ship breasted the swell and straightened.
“Your mother,” Atticus said, glancing down at his son’s face, “tells me you had a question.”
Quinn looked up, his eyes wide, then he scrunched his nose and nodded.
“You want to know why we look different … in a way that has nothing to do with why I’m tall and you’re small.”
The boy’s chin dipped in another nod.
“Well.” Atticus braced himself against the railing. “Have you seen the brand on my back?”
Quinn’s eyes flicked to the armor over Atticus’s shoulder, then moved away as if afraid to rest there. “The dog and snake?”
“It’s a dog, a snake, and a scorpion. The brand of a Roman soldier.”
Quinn digested this information, his eyes serious, then looked back at Atticus. “Did it hurt?”
“Yes, it did. But it doesn’t hurt now. And anyone who sees my back knows I’m a soldier. Not all soldiers have this brand, only the ones who worship Mithras.”
The boy slid his hands beneath Atticus’s as the sea spat at them in a sudden white plume. “Will … will I have to get a brand?”
“No. In fact, I have left the people who worship Mithras, but my body still bears his mark. Taking the brand was part of a ritual. You’ve seen rituals, haven’t you?”
Quintus nodded.
“Good. When you’re old enough to go to the public baths, you’ll see that men look different in many ways. Some groups of people, you see, perform rituals on babies and cut away part of their skin. Some perform these rituals when boys become men. And some groups never perform these rituals at all.”
Quinn looked up at him again. “And me?”
“When you were a tiny baby, you lived with people who cut part of your skin away in a ritual. I’m sure you don’t remember it, but that’s all right. It doesn’t hurt you any more, does it?”
“No.” Quinn remained silent for a long moment. He didn’t look up when he asked, “Didn’t I come from your people?”
Atticus squeezed the child’s arm. “You came from special people, Quintus, but the gods brought you to me and your mother. Are you glad they did?”
Again, the small face tilted, the nose squinched, and the mouth curled into an impish smile. “I am.”
“Me, too.” Atticus dropped a kiss onto the top of the boy’s head and inhaled the scent of sea salt in Quinn’s hair. “Very glad.”
Chapter Forty-nine
For the next several years I worked with Peter and Susanna, spreading the gospel wherever people would listen. My hair, which had been a rich and glossy ebony, became threaded with gray. I watched lines appear in Susanna’s face and knew that even deeper tracks were finding a home in my own.
But no matter how wearying the work, we always found occasions for joy.
Seven years after the resurrection of my rabboni, in a coastal town called Joppa, Peter raised a woman named Tabitha from death. The miracle opened the villagers’ hearts to our message, so Peter, Susanna, and I took jobs in the town so we could continue to share the good news about Yeshua.
We stayed with Shimon, a leatherworker, and often laughed at how far we’d come from our beginnings. No pious Hebrew would ever work with dead things, but the skins of dead beasts enabled us to earn a living and gain respect among the people of Joppa. The palms of our hands took on a golden glow from handling the various dyes and agents used to soften animal skins. I was delighted to be working with dyes and colors again.
One afternoon, while Susanna prepared the midday meal and I mixed a new dye, Peter went up to the roof of Shimon’s house to pray. Before Susanna could call the men to eat, three strangers approached the courtyard gate.
I saw them first, and though I had been perspiring all day, I felt suddenly damp, slick with the cool, sour sweat of fear. A horrible sense of déjà vu swept over me, for although two of them wore the simple garb of household servants, one man wore the red tunic and armor of a Roman soldier.
I retreated into the shadows, forcing Shimon’s wife to answer their summons. Dusty from their journey, they asked if this was the house where they could find Simon, also called Peter. Startled, the leatherworker’s wife nodded.
I would have flown up the stairs to warn him, but I had no time. Peter had heard their inquiry from the rooftop; he came downstairs and, as thoughtless as ever, identified himself. The men explained that they had been sent by Cornelius, a Roman in Caesarea. An angel, they said, had told the centurion to send for Peter.
I did not believe their story. Roman soldiers, sending for a follower of Yeshua? How could Peter possibly believe them?
We’d heard many stories in the days since Yeshua’s resurrection. We’d heard about Sha’ul, a Pharisee from Jerusalem who ordered the stoning of many believers, including that of Stephen, a leader among Yeshua’s followers in Jerusalem. Shortly after Stephen’s death, we’d heard that Sha’ul had seen Yeshua on the road to Damascus … and the shock had been so great that Sha’ul had believed in Yeshua and received the Holy Spirit. I doubted that story, too, until Sha’ul came to Jerusalem and met with the other disciples. After the meeting, Peter explained that the Lord had called Sha’ul just as he had called us, so we should accept him as a brother.
After listening to Peter, I could welcome my Hebrew brother Sha’ul, but Romans? I closed my eyes and tried to picture Peter preaching to the legionnaires who drove the nails into our rabboni’s wrists, but I could not even imagine it.
But Peter always blurts out the first thought that crosses his mind. Before I could give him a private word of warning, he had invited the men for dinner and asked them to be our guests for the night. Though I grumbled privately and rolled my eyes at every comment the Gentiles made, Peter made them feel welcome, and Shimon preened as though their presence brought honor to his humble house.
That night, as I lay between Susanna and the wall—the farthest position I could take from the Gentile dogs under our roof—a startling thought occurred to me. Peter and the strangers were leaving for Caesarea the next morning … and Caesarea was home to the Italian cohort, the same group that had come through Magdala and murdered my family ten years before.
A lot had happened in those years: I had given myself over to darkness and been brought back to wholeness, I had walked with Yeshua and witnessed his death and resurrection, and I had been baptized and fi
lled with the Holy Spirit. The resentment and hatred that had burned within me in the months following my family’s deaths had not grown cold.
If I went with Peter to Caesarea, I could slip away and make inquiries at the fortress. I could see if anyone there knew Gaius Cabilenus or Atticus Aurelius.
I might actually find those men. If I did, and if this centurion who’d sent for Peter proved sympathetic to our cause, he might be willing to see that I received long overdue justice.
I rose on one elbow and peered at the thin curtain dividing the room. Perhaps the prophets were right. Perhaps, like our father Avraham, at times we really did entertain angels unaware.
* * *
The next morning we rose and prepared for the journey. Peter lifted his brows when I told him I wanted to go along, but he had too many things on his mind to protest.
Other believers from Joppa joined us, including Shimon the leatherworker and his wife.
The uneasiness that had filled my soul faded to a sunny cheerfulness. Memories of my days traveling with Yeshua flooded my mind as we set out on the road that led north to Caesarea, and I think even Peter was caught up in nostalgia. He told stories of Yeshua as we walked; he even told the Romans that I was the first to see our risen Lord on the morning of his resurrection.
Two days after leaving Joppa, our party walked through the tall gates at the Roman fortress at Caesarea. Susanna and the people from Joppa kept whispering and pointing at the sights of the thoroughly Roman city, but I’d been to Tiberias, so heathen marvels held no attraction for me.
The three Romans hurried away to fetch the centurion who had sent for Peter, while we waited in an open courtyard. A profound and peaceful weariness settled over me like a blanket. I had come many miles and waited ten years for justice, so I could wait a few hours more.
A group of servants hurried out of the barracks, eager to show us to rooms where we could wash and rest. Tomorrow, they assured us, we would meet Cornelius at his house.
* * *
“It’s not that I don’t want to meet this centurion,” I told Peter the next morning. “But I’d like to make inquiries among the soldiers about some people I knew from Magdala.”