Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  “Because I’m not made of stone, Rachel, and you are enough to drive any man out of his senses. Especially your husband.”

  Comprehension came slowly into her eyes, and the blood rose in her cheeks.

  “You could have just slept out here, and not drunk yourself into a stupor!”

  He didn’t trouble himself to reply. Sheba began stamping her feet impatiently, and Rachel stepped back as he tested a final strap. His own horse was already saddled.

  Rachel turned and ran back into the house. She began gathering up their clothes, and stuffing them into their bags. Metellus arrived and they both declined breakfast, which seemed to offend the old woman, but she and her husband continued to watch them while they tied the bags onto the backs of the horses, and rode away.

  “No,” said the old man. “Definitely not a boy.”

  With surprising agility, he avoided a hearty kick from his wife.

  * * * *

  The aroma of fresh, hot bread made them stop at the baker’s. They found a place further along the road to eat, in a grove of eucalyptus trees that must belong to someone whose property adjoined the road. It was hot again, and though Metellus said nothing, Rachel thought he looked miserable. He tied the horses to a low branch of one of the trees and sat on the ground some distance from her, not eating, but drinking liberally from a waterskin.

  “This bread is delicious,” she said, breaking off another piece. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  He shook his head.

  Rachel sighed. “I have always wondered, what good is drinking so much, if you’re going to be sick afterward. Isn’t it a little like taking poison?”

  “Rachel, please.” He stared at her with reddened eyes. “Could we talk about this later?”

  Raising her eyebrows, she brushed crumbs from her lap and stood up. Metellus got slowly to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was irresponsible. And weak. It won’t happen again.”

  “I felt—as though you had abandoned me.” Rachel looked up at him earnestly. “I don’t mean while you were gone. But when I knew you were—intoxicated—it was as though you had gone somewhere, where I couldn’t reach you. It was—” She tried to think of a word. “It was a very lonely feeling.”

  “Your point is well taken. I could hardly have protected you in such a condition, should the need have arisen.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that. It was as though—as though some connection between us had been broken.”

  Metellus considered her words. “I promise you,” he repeated, “it will never happen again.”

  She smiled at him, but he only walked past her and began untying the horses. “Let’s walk for a while, shall we?”

  Rachel nodded and said, “It’s time to wash our clothes again. We both need a rest—why don’t we take the whole day and do nothing but that? Is there a stream or anything nearby?”

  “A river, according to the map. Not far ahead.”

  They fell into step with each other on the pavement, with the horses walking in the grass alongside them. Rachel couldn’t stop thinking about her discovery…that she was in love with Metellus, but the happiness she might have felt was dimmed by the knowledge that when Claudius suggested their marriage, Metellus had been opposed to it. She knew Metellus desired her, but did he love her? And what future could they possibly have together?

  A familiar feeling of melancholy touched her, but she shook it aside. For now, it was the present that mattered. And she had too long neglected Metellus’ spiritual welfare. She had promised someone—was it Daphne?—that she would tell him about Jesus Christ, even though he proclaimed he knew all there was to know, and still refused to believe. Rachel was not going to give up so easily, but now, she sensed, was not the time.

  They didn’t speak until they began a slight downward slope, went around a curve, and saw the winding river nestled in a narrow, green valley. Further down, a bridge spanned the river, and along its east bank were situated at least a score of white stucco houses with red tile roofs. The small spaces between the houses were filled with the tall firs and pines that graced the countryside.

  The ground descended sharply to the water, which was edged with large, reddish-colored stones. Grass and trees stretched all the way to a ledge hanging over the water, but a natural pathway ran from it to a sandy area below. The water lapped gently at the shoreline, clean and sparkling.

  “This is perfect!” Rachel exclaimed, leaving Metellus with the horses, and running to look over the ledge. He guided them down to the water’s edge, where he let them drink their fill, then upward to be secured under one of the trees. Rachel stood on the ledge, looking out over the river. A fisherman’s boat drifted some distance away, toward the village. Metellus removed all the baggage and asked, “Where would you like these, Rachel?”

  “Down there.” She pointed toward the rocks. “I can spread them across those stones to dry.”

  He did as she requested, climbed up again and without enthusiasm offered to help. When she refused, he went to lie down under a tree, falling at once into a deep sleep.

  Rachel removed the clothes from both their bags and waded with them into the water, where she rinsed them thoroughly, throwing them behind her onto the rocks. She made her way back to the shore, where she began spreading them out beneath the hot sun.

  When she was almost finished Metellus woke, feeling better and ravenously hungry. He sat up and watched her for a moment. He had grown used to her waiflike hair, for it still shone like silk and gold, framing her face and making her eyes larger, somehow more vividly blue. It was longer now, but still not touching her shoulders. Her skin had tanned beneath the sun—something most young women would deplore, but she didn’t seem to care. Her tall figure was lithe and strong…

  Rachel turned and looked up at the copse of trees, as though sensing his eyes on her. Metellus didn’t allow his gaze to linger, but got to his feet, untied a leather satchel from Samson’s back, and sauntered toward her.

  “I’m going to walk over to the village to get something to eat,” he said. “Do you want to come?”

  “Look at me!” she exclaimed…unfortunately, for he was trying not to look at her. “I’m soaking wet. Would you bring me something?”

  He nodded, and measured the distance with his eyes. “I should be back in less than an hour. My sword is on the horse, and your bow. You’re well hidden from the road, but if anything frightens you, get on Sheba and ride for the village. Unless you choose to shoot first, of course.”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning at him. “I could use some archery practice.”

  He had to smile back, and swiftly climbed the incline to the road, and started walking toward the bridge.

  * * * *

  The sun beamed down on the wet clothes, drying them, and Rachel pulled uncomfortably at the neck of her tunic. The cold water of the river seemed to beckon her. She cast a cautious glance around, noting that the fishing boat had gone further past the village, and the horses were still grazing. After only a slight hesitation she walked back into the water until it was chest high, and began swimming. She had not done so in ten years, but it came back to her as if it had been yesterday. She didn’t want to remember those idyllic days at the villa, where she had learned, but the memories surged into her mind against her will.

  It was during those weeks her father had taught her to ride a horse, as well, and the memory of that happy time seemed to pull at her limbs, weighing her down with a grief she always shut out, as though closing a door. Suddenly, she realized she was in water so deep that it seemed to want to draw her down; she felt it pulling at her, and her head went under for a moment until it bobbed up again. She began kicking her legs hard and pushing with her hands to tread water. Throwing a glance behind her, she couldn’t believe how far she had come. She knew she wasn’t a strong swimmer, and a feeling of near panic rippled through her.

  Metellus was on his way back from the village, carrying a satchel stuffed with bread and fruit,
when he began to reproach himself for leaving Rachel alone. What had he been thinking? The area had seemed safe enough, but anything could happen! His wine-besotted mind was still not reasoning clearly, and he decided he would have no more than a single cup from now on, and—as she did—drink water most of the time. When he began the descent toward the river he felt new alarm when he didn’t see her on the rocks, and looking further, saw that she was not with the horses. He ran toward them, about to call her name, when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. She was far out in the river, and it seemed that the gentle, rolling waves were pushing her still farther away.

  He dropped the satchel and plunged off the overhanging ledge. His head came up and he looked around to orient himself, and began swimming rapidly. When he stopped to look again he realized that she was swimming toward him, but much slower than he, as if she were at the end of her strength. He reached her, and made her turn over in the water as he placed his arm across her chest and began guiding her toward the bank.

  “Relax, and let yourself float,” he said, hardly breathless with the surge of energy that had blazed through his body. Rachel clung to his arm, trying to calm herself. The water was about shoulder high when she broke away from him and began swimming again. They both climbed out of the water and sat on the rocks as Rachel caught her breath.

  “I shouldn’t have gone out so far,” she gasped, pushing her hair out of her face and running her hands lightly over it. “Thank you, Tribune! You came just in time.”

  He was regarding her with such a look of astonishment that she began to laugh. “Is it so surprising that I know how to swim?”

  He leaned back, bracing himself on an elbow. “Who taught you?”

  “My father,” she said, after a moment. She lay down on the warm rock, exhausted and trembling.

  “Didn’t he also tell you never to swim alone?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “He did. I’m sorry.”

  Metellus lay beside her, and they let the sun beat down upon them. Rachel felt him take her hand, and the gesture seemed to speak of things…things that were left unsaid. In a moment she fell asleep, but though his eyes were closed, he remained awake.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Simon found Daphne sitting on a bench in the courtyard, her sewing in her lap, staring at nothing. He bent and kissed her cheek, sitting down beside her.

  “Thinking about Rachel again?”

  She glanced at him and nodded. “Simon, did we do the right thing, letting her go?”

  “We had little choice. The young man was quite capable of taking her by force.”

  “Taking her by—oh, don’t say that!”

  “You know what I mean, Daphne. I trusted him—for some reason. I believe it was God’s will for her to go with him.”

  “I trusted him, too, but I wish he were a believer.”

  “Even we believers do things we shouldn’t…Daphne, this could help Rachel a great deal. She has never—reconciled herself to what happened. She’s been angry with God—even us, sometimes, I think—because we took her away.”

  “She went back to that same place, perhaps the very room, where Paulus and Alysia were held under arrest, before Caligula. The memories—”

  “It was a hard thing for a child to bear. But others have been through such things, and survived. Paulus would have wanted her to make this journey. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have allowed it. I would have hidden her away, somewhere.”

  Daphne touched his hand. “I have loved her as if she were ours.”

  “As have I.”

  She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “What do you suppose Paulus wrote to her?”

  “Encouragement, I’m sure. Something to help her—endure what she must endure. God brought the letter forth at the right time, and because he is in control, we must believe this man, this tribune, was the right man to take her to Rome.”

  “What about—Benjamin?”

  Simon stood up, running his hand through his white-streaked hair. “Perhaps she will have changed her mind about marriage, when she returns.”

  Daphne rose to stand beside him, reaching out for his arm. “If she has, it will be the tribune who changed it—and then what will we do?”

  Her husband smiled at her. “Why borrow trouble, Daphne? Wait until they return, and then we’ll see how things are. But I strongly believe she ought to marry.”

  “I don’t know. There are women who don’t, you know, and get along very well.”

  “Rachel was not made to be alone.”

  “I think so, too, but—how do we know this, Simon? Could we really force her to marry against her will?”

  When he didn’t answer, she squeezed his arm and asked, “When do you suppose they will return?”

  “In a few more weeks, I should think, depending on how they travel. And we will pray, as always, that God’s will be done…in her life.”

  * * * *

  It must have been thinking of her father that brought on the dream again, but this time no one had a face…there were only dark shadows and the sound of horses running…and again the sense of irretrievable loss. She sat up and her voice came out in a rasping whisper, “Don’t leave me!”

  Metellus raised up at once, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. She jerked and turned to look at him. Her eyes began to clear from the fog of sleep, and she shook her head.

  “You must think I’m insane,” she said, unsteadily.

  He only said, in a quiet voice, “Tell me about your dream.”

  She described it as well as she could, choking down a sob that she would not allow to pass her throat. When she had finished, she said in a small voice, “I miss them, Tribune. I have often wished that I had died with them.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment; his hands trailed off her shoulders and she sat with her arms crossed tightly in front of her. At last he said, “Rachel, I don’t know much about dreams, or what they mean. But I don’t think you have been able to properly grieve for your mother and father. You have not been able to—let them go.”

  She brushed at a tear that rolled down her cheek. “How could I—have you forgotten your parents?”

  “I didn’t say forget them. That is impossible. But have you been able to accept the fact that they are gone, and that it was not your fault?”

  Rachel braced her hands against the rock and pushed herself off of it. Metellus followed, not intending to let her run away and avoid the conversation. But she stopped, and leaned a little against the rock, looking toward the water.

  “I don’t think I have been able to grieve very much, because I have shut everything out. I can’t bear to think about it. It hurts too much.”

  “That door you closed long ago has been opening, little by little. Let the memories come, Rachel, and find solace in them—not pain.”

  Rachel didn’t want to look at him, but against her will her eyes raised to meet his. She couldn’t read his expression, for she had never seen it before. She wanted him to hold her, as he had during the storm…it was becoming more and more difficult to resist the feelings he stirred in her.

  “I cannot take the place of your parents,” he said, in a low voice. “But for whatever it’s worth, I will never leave you. Not until you ask me to.”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  Metellus hardly knew, himself, what he meant. “I am your husband—legally, if in no other way. When we reach Bethany, you will have a choice to make.”

  “Tribune,” she began, and at the same time he said, “Rachel—”

  The sudden sound of children’s voices, shrieking with delight, burst upon them. Their heads jerked toward the hill above. A family of six was making its way toward the river, with all four of the children racing ahead.

  “Stop, Althea! Stop your brothers and sisters!” cried the mother. Ignoring her, the children clambered down the path. Rachel had begun to swiftly gather their clothes when they all stopped to stare at her.
r />   “Why are you dressed that way?” asked one of the younger ones.

  “I—I’ve been washing our clothes,” Rachel answered, casting a harried glance at Metellus. She added sweetly, “Won’t you help me, dear?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her but complied, as the children took off their shoes and began wading in the water. The mother rushed after them. The father tarried to speak to Metellus.

  “I am sorry for the interruption, sir. This is their favorite bathing spot. We pass this way once or twice a summer.”

  “It’s all right—we were about to leave.” He looked at Rachel. “Weren’t we, dear?”

  She had gathered up a bundle of clothes and began walking swiftly up the path. He followed with the rest, helping her stuff them into the bags. He retrieved the satchel from where he had dropped it. Rachel withdrew one of her light mantles, draping it around her head and shoulders, and he helped her mount Sheba. In a moment they were riding toward the road, as the entire family below stared after them.

  “You would think they’ve never seen horses before,” Rachel remarked. She desperately wanted to ask him what he had been about to say before the intrusion…but she was afraid it might not be what she wanted to hear.

  “They’ve never seen a woman in trousers riding a horse before,” Metellus answered wryly, and nothing more was said. They cantered across the great stone bridge, stopping to eat in a glade on the other side of the village. It was only mid-afternoon, and they continued on their way. By the time they reached the next town it was dark, and they found an inn that was reasonably clean. The next day they began to catch shimmering glimpses of the Aegean Sea, and walked along beside it until the road veered north toward the large city of Philippi. A long avenue of plane trees lined the road as they drew near it.

  “This will be roughly the halfway mark of this road,” Metellus told her. “And when we come to the end of it, the way will be even longer and more difficult. I suggest we sail from one of the southern ports—perhaps Attalia, once we’ve gone through the provinces of Phrygia and Pamphylia. It will be a fairly short voyage, and will take us directly to Caesarea.”