by Angela Hunt
Within an hour after sunrise, Claudius Lysias, chief captain of the cohort stationed permanently in Jerusalem, received Herod’s guard and dispatched his aides to see what was keeping the jailers. They ran down the stairs and found the dungeon empty except for a handful of frantic guards. Simon Peter, who had been securely locked into his cell at sunset, had vanished, leaving a trail of open gates and unlocked doors.
When the news reached the visiting centuries, Flavius pulled Atticus into a quiet niche. “Tell me,” he said, his voice like iron. “Tell me you didn’t walk him out.”
“Surely you don’t believe that!”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Atticus shook his head. “I swear to you, I didn’t leave my bed last night.”
“Quinn, then. You sent Quinn.”
Atticus gritted his teeth. “You think I’d risk my son’s life?”
“I don’t know. You’d risk yours easily enough.”
“I promise you, Flavius—neither Quinn nor I had anything to do with this.”
The trembling captain of the guard went in to face Claudius. “This Peter is no ordinary man,” he told the captain, a quaver in his voice. “By all the gods, I swear we took every precaution. He should be here. He should not have escaped.”
Claudius jerked his head in an abrupt nod. “You’ll have to explain yourself to Herod.”
If possible, the jailer’s face went a shade paler. He summoned his men, adjusted his uniform, then soberly presented himself to Claudius’s escort.
Out of pity for the unfortunate jailers, Claudius’s men marched across the pavement to Herod’s palace with measured and unhurried steps. Atticus watched from a distance as the ill-fated men entered the king’s hall; he wasn’t surprised to hear Herod condemn every man to death.
Yet Atticus couldn’t help feeling relieved for Yeshua’s followers when Herod issued another command later that afternoon: he and his retinue would return to Caesarea as soon as possible. The empress Messalina would accompany him.
Agrippa had had his fill of Jerusalem.
* * *
Apparently, God had also had his fill of Agrippa. Not long after Atticus’s return to Caesarea, Herod entertained Messalina and a group of sycophants from Tyre and Sidon. Dressed in embroidered purple robes and a heavy crown, he sat on his throne and made a ponderous speech that threatened to put his audience to sleep. But the fawning merchants, eager for royal approval, responded with enthusiastic shouts, proclaiming they had heard the voice of God, not a man.
Atticus and his men stood at attention as Herod rose and accepted the applause with languid waves. Midway through his acknowledgement, however, a grimace twisted his face. The king bent over, clutching at his gut, while he shrieked in pain and Messalina went pale with fear. Atticus and his men charged forward, fearing that an assassin in the crowd had hurled a weapon at the king, but Herod’s physician could not find any evidence of a knife or dart.
The king’s bowels, the royal physician later reported, had been devoured by worms. A rumor circulating among the people blamed Agrippa for his own demise—he’d been stricken, the priests of several religions claimed, because he accepted worship rightfully belonging to God.
Frightened by the instability of the region, the empress Messalina returned to Rome, taking with her two centuries from the Cohors Secunda Italica Civum Romanorum.
Atticus stood at the stern of the transport ship and gratefully watched Judea slide away.
Chapter Fifty-four
With Flavius and Cyrilla, Atticus sat on a bench and watched as the commanding legate administered the oath of the sacramentum to a group of new recruits. Dressed for the first time in the blood-red tunic of the legionnaire, eighteen-year-old Quintus stood at attention and stared straight ahead as he echoed the first recruit’s vow: “idem in me.” The same in my case.
Not until he had fulfilled his promise of twenty-five years’ service would he again wear the white toga of a civilian.
Atticus had helped Quinn don his tunic and armor, explaining that the color symbolized blood that should not stain his conscience as long as it was shed in defense of the empire.
“Some of the men who will be training you will say the Roman soldier is only a tool of war,” Atticus told his son. “Though you possess dignity and honor, some centurions would have you abandon all thought in order to obey your commander. They will tell you to flinch from nothing and feel neither cruelty nor mercy. Some would have you become a cold, calculating, killing machine.”
Quinn’s dark eyes met and held his. “What would you tell me, Father?”
Atticus smiled. “I would have you remember that you have vowed obedience to the emperor, but a higher authority reigns above whoever occupies the Roman throne. There is a God in heaven who scoffs at gods made by human hands. He sent his prophet to earth, and that man died upon a Roman cross. Yet he walked out of his tomb, and because he lives, those who believe in him shall also conquer death. This truth will enable you to live courageously and to temper your strength with mercy. Remember this always, Quinn … my son.”
After the induction ceremony, Atticus and Cyrilla followed Quintus to the camp where he would train before being dispatched to his first posting. Cyrilla dabbed at her eyes, then rested her hands on the young man’s shoulders. “It’s been my greatest pleasure to watch you grow,” she said, sniffling. “I know you will make us proud.”
Quintus kissed her cheek, then turned to Atticus. “Any last words, Father?”
Atticus studied the boy he’d adored for the last eighteen years. Quintus looked every bit a man. His eyes were bright, his shoulders broad. Even at this moment of parting, the quaver in his voice was barely noticeable; only the tightening of the muscles in his throat betrayed the depth of his emotion.
Atticus gripped Quinn’s hand. “We’ve talked enough. Go, Son, and remember all your mother and I have taught you.”
Quintus threw his arm around Atticus, squeezed him tight, then pulled away for a final smile. “I’ll write you.”
The young man picked up his bag and strode toward the garrison, his shoulders broadening and settling as he drew responsibility around him like an invisible mantle.
* * *
Flavius slammed his cup down on the table and glared at Atticus. “By the putrid wax in Apollo’s ears, I won’t have it! This time you ask too much.”
Atticus blanched before the fire in his friend’s eye. “What do you mean? Quinn can’t serve in my century; the other men would think me unfair no matter what I did.”
“So you’d have him serve in mine?”
“Why not? You could keep an eye on him—”
“I won’t allow it. I won’t have a Jew among my men.”
Atticus stared, caught off guard by the force of Flavius’s reply. “What do you mean? Quintus has been raised Roman; he’s as fine a recruit as any man in this barracks—”
“He’s a Jew, Atticus. He doesn’t deserve to be a legionnaire. By all rights he should be in the auxiliary troops in one of the outer provinces. If not for your soft heart, the boy wouldn’t even be in Rome.”
Atticus sat without moving, blank, amazed, and shaken. Flavius had never approved of his relationships with Cyrilla or Quinn, but he had never reacted with this sort of vehemence. Atticus leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the table. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing? You’ve never been like this before—”
“I can’t believe you can be so blind!” Flavius’s eyes went black and dazzling with fury. “You spent years over there with those people and yet you can’t see anything wrong with them. You know what they do to their babies; you have seen their empty temple, you have heard their superstitions. You save one of their maimed infants and cart him off to some soothsayer from a poor village, then you believe the silly stories about the man walking out of his tomb—”
“It’s not a silly story.” Atticus f
elt his own temper spike. “And Quinn is not maimed.”
“He’s still a Jew.” Flavius rose and leaned over the table. “And I won’t have him in my century.”
“He’s my son.” Atticus stood and met Flavius’s glare. “And I want him to serve where I can keep an eye on him.”
“You think that’s what he wants?”
“I don’t care what he wants. I’m his father; I want what’s best for him.”
“What’s best for him is to go back to the land of his birth.”
“Who are you to say? You’ve never cared for anyone but yourself!”
“I care for my men. And I won’t require them to tolerate a Jew in their midst.”
“What if I go to the tribune and ask that Quintus be assigned to your century?”
“You do and I’ll tell the tribune the truth about what you did in Magdala. Who knows what will happen then?” Flavius’s mouth curled in an expression that was not a smile. “You’ve lived a lie for years, and for that you’ll be at least demoted and flogged. And Quinn? They could toss him out of the army or sell him as a slave. But the entire world will know there’s no way he could be your son.”
Atticus stared as Flavius’s words fell with the weight of stones in water, spreading endless ripples of betrayal. More than twenty years of friendship had shattered in the last moment, but perhaps he had never really known the man who sat across from him.
He drew a deep breath, then looked down at his fisted hands. “Let Quintus finish his training in Rome. I’ll request that he be stationed in Jerusalem, under Claudius Lysias.”
“One of the auxiliary cohorts would be more appropriate.”
“The auxiliaries are mainly Samaritan! That won’t do.”
The two men glared at each other for another long moment, then Flavius nodded. “I don’t care, as long as he’s not serving in Rome. Rome must be defended by Romans.”
Atticus nodded slowly.
* * *
Cyrilla listened sympathetically as Atticus told the story, then she pulled his head into her lap. “I know,” she said, her fingers brushing hair from his forehead, “how much it has cost you to allow Quinn to join the army. You will miss his company, his love … and now it would appear you have lost Flavius’s friendship.”
Atticus snorted softly. “I thought Flavius was a better man. I thought he stood for Roman ideals—”
Cyrilla dropped her arm on Atticus’s chest. “Even Rome is not all it should be.”
He caught her hand and looked into her eyes. “I will miss both of them,” he said, enjoying the chance to speak freely of the matters on his heart. “But I’m grateful to have you. When I think of how I nearly left you in Caesarea—”
“You were young and foolish then.” She eased into a smile. “You have improved remarkably in the last few years.”
He lifted her arm, encased her small palm between his big hands, and thanked God for bringing her to him. The invisible God worked in astounding ways, but he worked with power and authority.
“I’m going to marry you,” he said, studying her left hand. “When I am out of the army, I will place a ring on this finger and claim you as my wife.”
Her eyes lit with mischief. “You’d better. I’ve been waiting a long time.”
From another room, a servant’s sandals made soft popping sounds as she walked across the porch and into the garden. “You are too good to me, Atticus,” Cyrilla whispered.
He turned to better see her face. “Do you ever think it was a mistake? That I should have left Quinn at the house in Magdala?”
“I haven’t thought that since we met Yeshua.” Her eyes left no room for doubt. “What did the prophet tell you?”
Atticus pulled the prophecy from the well of memory: “He will grow to maturity apart from his people … but the purposes of God will be revealed in him, and he will know the truth.”
“Yeshua was right,” Cyrilla said. “Wait, and you’ll see.”
* * *
When he returned to his quarters in the barracks, Atticus pulled a sheet of parchment from his lap desk and addressed a letter to Quintus: Atticus Aurelius to his dear Quintus, greetings.
These are dangerous times, he wrote, careful to choose inoffensive words in case a commander might read over Quinn’s shoulder. So live as an honorable man and remember what you have been taught.
Quintus, my dear son, be strong with the special favor God gives you. You have heard me speak of many things that have been confirmed by reliable witnesses. Teach these truths to trustworthy people who are able to pass them on to others.
You are about to be tested, so endure suffering as a good soldier. Do not let yourself become entangled in imperial politics, for then you cannot satisfy the one who has enlisted you in his army. Follow the Lord's rules for doing his work, just as an athlete either follows the rules or is disqualified and wins no prize.
Know that I pray for you daily and I remain
Your loving father,
Atticus Aurelius
Chapter Fifty-five
I am about to continue when the scribe pounds his desk. “She must stop,” the man says, lowering his stylus.
The centurion at the table looks at him, a frown between his brows. “On whose authority do you order her to halt?”
“Mine,” the scribe says, holding up a glass vial. “I have run out of ink.”
The centurion exhales heavily as the scribe slides from his stool and waddles away. I lick my dry lips and clasp my hands. I have been talking for a long time, but though my voice is raspy, I am not tired.
I lower my gaze, sensing rather than seeing the Roman on the bench to my left. He has not spoken one word during my recitation, and I wonder what he is thinking. Does he now hate me as thoroughly as I have hated him?
The centurion shifts in his chair, glances at the single silent observer, then looks at me. “Do you need water?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. I am ready to finish my testimony.”
The gap-toothed guard at my right cracks a smile. “In a hurry, old woman? The arena will wait.”
I close my eyes and exhale a quiet chuff. That ignorant fool has no idea of the depth and breadth of my tale—how it spans years and miles and countries and emperors.
But it is nearly finished. And I am ready to die.
I clear my throat and lift my chin. “You have been patient, and I thank you for that. But I am eager to conclude.”
The centurion lifts a finger as the scribe pants back into the room, a cup in his hand. “Thank the gods for fresh ink. This woman will talk forever.”
I glance at the big man on the bench, who watches me with a wrinkled brow. Something moves in his eyes, some emotion I can’t interpret.
I nod at my judge. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Fifty-six
If in the following years I thought only about Yeshua and the Holy One’s magnificent provision, I would not be standing before you today. But, in truth, a woman’s world is filled with conflicting purposes and desires. I wanted to serve my Lord; I wanted to be a good friend and a compassionate believer. After learning that my particular enemies were beyond my reach, I should have been able to bury my grievances … but the emperor Claudius prevented me.
After Herod returned to Tiberias, John Mark’s mother and I had a long talk. She was growing older, as was I, and she said she would welcome my help at the inn. So I agreed to join her in managing the business. I was privately delighted that I’d be able to see John Mark, Hadassah, and their children every day.
I had only one request, I told Miryam—if she wanted my help, the inn on Crooked Street could not accept Romans beneath its roof. Since she’d never had anything but Hebrew guests, she agreed.
I spent several wonderful years working at the inn. I was blessed to watch Hadassah develop into maturity and her children grow from my knee to my elbows.
Three years after our agreement, however, John Mark bade me and his mother sit down. He had agreed to jo
in Sha’ul and Barnabas on a missionary journey, he said, and he would be taking Hadassah and the children with him. They planned to go to Antioch, and from there they would proceed to Cyprus and other cities, however the Spirit led.
His mother and I gave the couple our blessing, though our hearts broke as we said goodbye. Miryam and I stood with our arms around each other as the small family loaded a few belongings on a wagon and headed out.
They hadn’t been gone a year when we heard troubling news. Apparently John Mark and Sha’ul—as headstrong a man as I’ve ever met—had some sort of falling out in Pamphylia. John Mark left the work. Afterward, Sha’ul and Barnabas separated, and John Mark went with Barnabas to Cyprus.
Before sailing for Cyprus, though, Hadassah and the children came to Jerusalem for a visit. Miryam and I welcomed her with joy.
One morning, as Miryam remained behind to play with her grandchildren, I took Hadassah shopping. We were walking among the colorful wares, exclaiming over the sheer size of the marketplace, when Hadassah gave me a twisted smile.
“I had forgotten how vast Jerusalem is,” she said, her gaze drifting over dozens of booths in a single line. “I do believe a woman could find almost anything here.”
I squeezed her arm. “An Indian tunic, an Arabian veil, a Persian shawl—ask what you will, Hadassah, and I’ll get it for you.”
“I don’t need anything.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she pointed to a booth across the aisle. “Though John Mark could use one of those.”
I followed her pointing finger, then laughed. “A false tooth?”
“There’s too much sand in our bread; it has ruined his teeth.” She shook her head. “Not every city is as civilized as Jerusalem.”
We walked in silence for a while, then her expression stilled and grew serious. “He’s been talking about working for Peter.”