by Debra Diaz
A small frown had appeared on Paulus’ brow. “You surprise me, Simon. I thought you had more compassion for him. I thought you felt, as I did, that there was something different about him.”
“I do think he was different, and it did grieve me to see him mistreated. I will never forget how he looked at me that day…after I had carried his cross. He…thanked me, if you can believe that!” Simon shook his head in perplexity. “He might have been the bravest man I ever saw, but he was just a man. He was in agony…anyone could see that. I can’t explain this talk of a resurrection, but it’s just talk! No, I cannot call him God—and I’m amazed that you can do so!”
“Well, I amaze myself, Simon,” Paulus said, a little more lightly. “But I do call him God. I call him savior, and friend. I’m not ashamed to say that I love him, and would die for him.”
“And you will die for him, if you will forgive my saying so. Once this is known, they will give you no peace…until you have recanted before the emperor himself!”
Paulus looked at him oddly. “I may one day be called before the emperor,” he said, “but God willing, I will never recant.”
* * * *
“Well, it’s about time you brought this precious child to spend the day with me!” Martha exclaimed, adding with a chuckle, “I think I’ll teach her how to bake bread. After all, she is almost a year and a half!”
Alysia laughed. “You’re too late—she is already a better cook than I am.”
“Come inside. You are going to stay a while, aren’t you?”
“If you don’t mind, Martha, I would just like to walk around the grounds. I’ll come for Rachel soon.”
“You needn’t hurry, Alysia…enjoy yourself and do whatever you like. We’ll be busy for a while, won’t we, little one?”
Rachel nodded happily and spun about to smile and wave at her mother.
“Be good, Rachel. I’ll be back soon.”
Alysia walked behind the house and thought for a moment about which path to take. Almost at once she chose the winding trail behind the stable, leading to the brook where she and Paulus had talked…was it just more than a year ago? The brook was brown and low, showing the rocks at the bottom; the rainy season had barely begun and there had been only one rainfall in weeks. Blue water lilies floated limply on its surface.
“That’s how I feel,” she thought, “brown and low.”
Most days, her new-found faith upheld her, lifted her up, in spite of the unresolved matter with Paulus that grew heavier every day. But there were times when she wondered if she would ever see him again. After all, he had made no attempt to see her, or even communicate with her. Probably he thought that was what she wanted. But it wasn’t…not when they had parted so bitterly. A dozen times she had decided to go to him and then hadn’t done it, either out of cowardice or because something had occurred to stop her.
She should sit down on the ground, right here beside the sluggish little stream, and have a long talk with God. Maybe he wanted her to forget Paulus. Maybe she was just making herself miserable. Maybe…she should marry someone else. No, that was unthinkable. Not while he lived! But then, couldn’t God change her feelings, if she let him? Did she have enough faith to even ask for such a thing?
She kept walking. It was already warm this October morning; she reached up and removed her mantle, letting it drop to the ground. She gathered her hair in one hand and brought it over her right shoulder, enjoying the sudden coolness against her neck. Overhead, the branches of the trees leaned forward and touched each other, forming a tunnel of dappled light. A path trod by animals seeking water had formed near the brook and disappeared into the trees.
A stirring of bushes and the sound of twigs snapping made her turn to look at the path. Startled, she saw a lone figure come into view, tall, clad in a golden brown Roman tunic, with hair of the same hue. He held the reins as he walked his horse, his face alert and watchful.
“Paulus!”
He stopped, his eyes meeting hers. He let go of the horse, which walked toward the little stream and halted, as though affronted by its lack of depth.
Alysia stared at Paulus, aware of the marked change in him. A certain hard look of cynicism had gone, and in his eyes were no clouds of bitterness. The years had made their mark on his face, for it was lined about the eyes and forehead, and more than a few strands of silver threaded through his tawny hair. But that other change, that new look in his eyes, held her spellbound.
He took a step forward, and all at once they rushed to each other; Paulus drew her against him, and bending a little enveloped her in his arms. “Alysia,” he said, half-choking from the constriction in his throat. “My dearest love.”
Her arms were tight around him; her cheek pressed against his hard shoulder. She couldn’t believe he was really here. This must be a dream…and yet his body was warm against hers and she felt his hand on her hair. She smelled the clean linen of his tunic and could hear the thudding of his heart, and…behind her, the shuffling of the great horse, the rustling of leaves, the twittering of birds. No, it was too real to be a dream.
At last it was she who pulled away and stood looking up at him, trembling. What did this mean…why was he here? She backed up against a tree and half-braced herself against it.
“How did you find me?” she whispered.
His eyes were intense and penetrating, his muscles taut. His own voice was full of emotion. “I went to see Lazarus. There was something I wanted to tell him. Martha told me you were out here. I came another way…in case anyone was watching.”
“Why have you come?”
“To tell you how sorry I am, Alysia…for everything. To beg your pardon for my stupidity and hard-heartedness. In your place I would have done the same. About Rachel, I mean. Will you forgive me for what I said?”
“I have forgiven you. I was angry,” she admitted. “I felt that you didn’t understand.”
“It took some thinking,” he said, with a smile. “And I came—”
The pause grew long and she said, “Yes?”
“To tell you that I am going away.”
His words pierced her as coldly as a shaft of metal, and she lowered her eyes so that he wouldn’t see the acuteness of her disappointment. Whatever she had expected of him, it hadn’t been this. Her eyes filled uncontrollably with tears.
“Alysia,” he said quietly. “Did you think I would leave this place, and not take you with me?”
She held herself back, standing stiffly before him. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m going to ask you a question,” he told her, “and I want you to answer with complete honesty.”
She nodded, putting aside her confusion.
“You refused to marry me after Megara died, because you felt you would cause me to lose everything I care about…because of what you did in Rome, and you were afraid of what would happen if we were caught.”
Paulus hesitated again, watching her expression closely. “But what if I told you that I intend to give up my profession anyway, for something that has nothing to do with you, and become something of a fugitive myself? Would you marry me then?”
Alysia was looking at him in bewilderment. “Paulus, what do you mean?”
“I am…a believer. Stephen baptized me, and he and others have been teaching me. I’m resigning my command and leaving Jerusalem. I want you and Rachel to come with me.”
Her mind seemed half-frozen, her thoughts turning sluggishly in her brain. Paulus, a believer! It was the answer to a prayer, to hundreds of prayers! As if coming from underwater, she realized he was still speaking.
“I intend to go to Rome. I know that Rome is probably the most dangerous place in the world for both of us, but I believe that is where God wants me to go. We will have to be very careful. But God will protect us, until our work is finished.”
Still, her voice failed her. Why couldn’t she say yes…why couldn’t she smile and show him the joy she felt at his words? This meant that they need never be
separated again! But something, some sense she didn’t understand, restrained her.
Paulus saw in her eyes the great happiness she felt, seeing also something baffled and uncertain. He had told himself he would accept her answer; he had tried to prepare himself for the possibility she might still refuse. But now, unexpectedly, he was filled with near desperation, with a fear he could hardly control.
But he said evenly, “It will take some time to get things in order. I must see to a replacement. I have a man in mind that I believe will be fair to the believers in Jerusalem. Pilate will have no choice but to accept my resignation. And by the time Tiberius hears of it he won’t be able to find me.”
Alysia reached out and touched his face, still saying nothing.
Paulus placed his hand over hers. “Beloved,” he said softly, “what is your answer?”
She withdrew her hand, took a deep breath, and turned slightly away. “You want me to be your wife. You want me to stand beside you, and go with you to tell Rome of Jesus Christ. This is an honor I don’t feel worthy of, Paulus.”
“Worthiness has nothing to do with it,” he replied, a rough edge to his voice. “God has forgiven our past.”
“I know he has forgiven us. And yet…”
“Are you thinking of Magnus’ death?”
Oh, it’s more than that. It’s you and me, it’s…don’t you see how we could hinder each other? Don’t you see how our message could be harmed, and distorted, if the truth about our past, and about Rachel, were ever known?”
“That was before. People will understand—”
“No.” She shook her head. “Some people will not understand! Some will brand us hypocrites, liars. Our credibility would be…in doubt. We would bring shame upon all believers, shame upon him!”
“Alysia.” Paulus strove for patience. “Do you mean to say we cannot be together because of what people might think? I tell you God has forgiven your past, and mine.”
She said stubbornly, “But it’s still there! Oh, I don’t know what to do!” She closed her eyes for a moment and looked away. “Have you prayed about this?”
“Of course.” He didn’t add that, unlike the matter of his mission to Rome, he had never received a clear answer about Alysia. Yet, he had come to her anyway.
“My sins are a hundred-fold greater than yours, Alysia. But they are under his blood. If everyone who wanted to tell others of Jesus had to be perfect, there would be no one worthy to do so.”
“I cannot answer you now,” she said, with an imploring look on her face. “I want to be your wife, to go anywhere with you. But—” Her gaze dropped. Her fists clenched and she slipped them behind her, scraping them painfully on the bark of the tree.
Paulus stood tall and straight, then it was as if a breeze stirred and something came into his face. Even had she seen it, it passed so quickly she couldn’t have read it.
At last he said, “I must go to Caesarea. I will be gone about a week. When I return—”
She raised her eyes to his.
“Whatever your answer is, I will accept it.”
CHAPTER XXV
Lucius peered over the heads of the men seated in the fortress’ dining hall. Spotting the one he sought, he entered the room and dragged out a bench. Pulling a platter toward him, he grabbed a hunk of goat meat and began chewing on it.
“Tribune,” said Servius, looking surprised.
“Greetings, Servius. You may well show your astonishment, but my stepbrother is not here to throw me out. I’ve heard he’s left Jerusalem and I’d like to know why.”
“I’m not privy to information concerning the commander,” Servius said, but with a hint of a smug smile on his face. “However, the word seems to be going around that he has resigned.”
“Paulus has resigned his post?”
Servius nodded, and abandoned his pretence of ignorance. “He went to Caesarea, allegedly to tell Pilate. It was supposed to be a secret, but someone let it out. Pilate will be glad to see him go, mark my words. I think your stepbrother intimidated him.” He soaked up gravy with his bread and stuffed it into his mouth. When he could speak around his food, he added, “He’s due back here any day now.”
“Why does he do this?”
Servius shrugged. “For that matter, why did he ever come here in the first place?”
A soldier from the next table made an observation. “The legate is a changed man. His expression, his manner…it’s as if he found a whole new reason for living!”
“A woman, no doubt,” said another, raising a few guffaws. “He’s been too closemouthed for my liking. It’s said you don’t really know a man until you know the kind of woman he consorts with.”
“Speaking of women,” said the first, dourly, “mine just left me. For an Arabian camel-driver, no less.”
The room echoed with laughter and the sardonic retort, “Likely she prefers the smell of camel!”
There was another spurt of laughter. The soldier went on, “She was a comely one. It won’t be easy to replace her! There aren’t enough Roman women to go around and the Jewish ones won’t even speak to me.”
“There are some beauties among them,” Servius commented, reaching for more bread. “I’ll never forget that one we brought to the barracks for a bit of fun, a few years ago. Only Marcus spoiled it all. Remember her, Quintus? She had the face and figure of a goddess. And her eyes…”
Quintus was nodding. “Violet. I never saw such exquisite eyes. And her hair was full and black as night. She was a lioness…scratched me so hard I had the scar for weeks.”
“Her name,” Lucius interrupted, thinking of only one woman who matched so remarkable a description. “What was her name?”
Servius raised his eyebrows. “Athena, Alysia, or something like that. A Greek name.”
Lucius took a napkin and slowly began wiping grease off his hands. “Where does she live?”
Servius and Quintus looked at each other. Quintus answered, “We found her on the road to Bethany.”
Lucius stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed. So that was how it was, was it? Somehow the slave had escaped from Rome and survived the shipwreck…if there had ever been one…and had sent for Paulus to come for her. All this time she had been practically under his nose! How they must have been laughing at him!
He felt a pressure in his chest, as if his heart were going to burst. He said to Servius, in a low voice, “How would you like to be promoted in a very short time?”
“How?” Servius asked blankly.
“By helping me bring in a murderer,” Lucius replied. “The murderer of Senator Eustacius’ son. Alysia of Bethany.”
* * * *
Pontius Pilate had been abstracted, strangely apathetic, when Paulus visited him at the governor’s palace in Caesarea. It was rumored he spent most of his days sitting on a bench staring out over the sea; apparently the rumors were true. He had to be summoned to his office by a clerk, and when he arrived only gave Paulus a fleeting glance and sat down wearily behind his desk.
“Well, I haven’t see you since—since—” the prefect stopped, frowning.
“The crucifixion,” said Paulus, although he had actually spoken with him a time or two since then. He thought he knew what was eating at Pontius Pilate.
“The—oh, you mean that Nazarene business.” Pilate avoided Paulus’ eyes and began shuffling things on top of his desk.
“Has he been on your mind as much as he has mine?” Paulus asked frankly.
At last the prefect looked up. “What? What do you mean?”
“We both knew he was innocent.”
“And you heard those demented Jews claim responsibility for it…no, it wasn’t my fault. Is that what you came here for? — Because I will not discuss the matter.”
“As I matter of fact, I came here to inform you of my resignation.”
Pilate merely lifted his brows. “You cannot just abandon your post, Paulus. You were appointed by Tiberius.”
“I am not abando
ning my post…that’s why I’m here. Tiberius and I had an understanding. I would like for you to write the emperor and tell him what I’ve done, and tell him that I’m recommending a man to replace me…one that I believe will be responsible and fair-minded. Claudius Lysias, who is in Syria at the moment.”
“I know him. But this is most unusual, Paulus. As governor I should, perhaps, place you under house arrest and charge you with desertion.”
“Perhaps,” said Paulus, with a flare of annoyance, “you shouldn’t.”
Pilate got to his feet and for the first time since Paulus’ arrival looked him fully in the eyes. Something the prefect saw there had a strange effect, for his gaze shifted and he walked toward the window, where he pretended an interest in something outside. Then he turned again.
“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t report that matter to Tiberius. Why didn’t you?”
Paulus shrugged. “What good would it have done?”
“I keep expecting…well, let’s just say that I know Sejanus was responsible for my having this position, and Tiberius has never particularly liked me. I daresay he’s looking for any excuse to be rid of me.”
“With things as they are in Rome just now, I wouldn’t worry too much. He doesn’t want to be bothered with our problems. That’s why I’m reasonably certain he won’t oppose the suggestion to appoint Lysias.”
“If he doesn’t fly into a rage and kill the messenger,” said Pilate wryly.
“Actually I don’t think he’s going to care very much. And let’s say no more of it, shall we? Will you write the letter? I’ll leave my own letter of resignation as well, for you to send with it.”
“As long as you understand I am not giving you permission to leave…I will take no responsibility for it.”
“I understand…perfectly,” said Paulus, and almost asked him if he would like to wash his hands.