Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  Rachel was so weary with traveling that she readily agreed to another sea voyage. She was footsore and saddle-sore, though she refrained from saying so. Thankfully, Metellus suggested they stay at Philippi for three days to rest, and found an excellent inn overlooking the sea. They spent the days strolling through the noisy streets and the forums, where innumerable stairways connected the endless rows of shops. Everything imaginable was sold…from aromatic spices to farmers’ tools, clothing, pottery, chickens, and even turtles and snakes.

  On the third day they went to a circus to watch a camel race, which made Rachel laugh so hard her sides hurt. The ungainly beasts would run for a while, then decide to go in another direction…all the while trying to bite each other and even their bouncing, vociferous riders. Metellus made sure they left before the chariot races began, for he knew there would be a great deal of betting taking place, and foul language being thrown about…not to mention the high probability of several gruesome deaths. He led her out and they went to watch a troupe of actors outside a theater, who were hoping to draw a crowd to the performance later in the evening. They ate supper on the courtyard of the inn, where Metellus persuaded her to try octopus, and laughed when she surreptitiously spit it into her napkin.

  Another long row of beautifully shaped plane trees led them out of the city. The road wound about the coastline, sometimes near the water, sometimes farther away. There were long stretches of rolling hills, with mountains against the horizon, and vineyards and olive groves on either side. They passed by vast fields of wheat, and flocks of sheep on a rocky hillside. The sheep gave Rachel a sudden sharp pang of homesickness, but once again the thought came to her that she would never forget these days with Metellus, and part of her wished they could last forever.

  One day there were few wayfarers, and the sky was a clear, cerulean blue. They were riding the horses beside the road, at a slow pace. Rachel decided it was time to bring up the subject of her faith. She didn’t quite know how to begin, but then Metellus, as though reading her mind, brought it up himself.

  “I suppose,” he said easily, looking over his shoulder at her, “you believe it was your God who saved us, the day of the storm.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said at once. Sheba was slightly behind Samson and Rachel urged her forward, so that she was riding next to Metellus. “Who else could have control over nature?”

  “More gods than you could name,” Metellus answered lightly, “in every culture known to man.”

  “But there is only one,” she replied.

  “Yet you worship this Jesus as God,” he said, throwing her a curious glance. “And I’ve heard Christians speak of a spirit of God. That makes three.”

  “I’m not sure how to explain it,” she said hesitantly. “I can only tell you what I know. Though they are not all the same person, they are equal in authority—and in power. It is their—their roles that are different. Jesus’ relationship to God is like a…stream running from a fountain. Separate, and yet the same. The Spirit of God is who comes to live in the hearts of believers.”

  When he said nothing, she added, “It’s not important that we understand that. What is important is that Jesus offered to make himself a sacrifice, so that when people break God’s commandments, we will be able to have eternal life with God.”

  After a moment, Metellus said slowly, “When Caligula was alive, he talked about a shroud—that was reported to bear the image of a crucified man. He became obsessed with it, shortly before he died.”

  Rachel sat straighter with surprise. She hadn’t thought of the shroud in years. “Yes, it exists. I was very young, but I have seen it.”

  It was Metellus who looked surprised, then, and he stared at her for a moment. “How do you know someone didn’t—paint the image?”

  “Even if someone had done so, with good intent or evil, it is not the shroud I worship. That is why it is kept hidden, not only for its protection, but so that his followers will not make a shrine of it.”

  “But, if one were to admit the possibility of a resurrection, what if that could be shown as evidence?”

  Rachel shook her head. “It is not needed. The truth is revealed by God.”

  “Suppose I were to say I believe in God,” Metellus said, his eyes on the long ridge of mountains before them. “There must be a God…who created things, who can even stop a storm, if he chooses. Why is that not enough to grant me ‘eternal life’?”

  “Please, stop,” Rachel said, looking at him earnestly, and when they had both stopped their horses, tried to explain. “You do have eternal life, Metellus, but where will you spend it?”

  He returned her look, and shrugged.

  “Because when a law is broken,” she went on, “there is a penalty. You know this is true. Suppose there was a magistrate, and criminals came before him daily. Suppose they told him they were sorry, and so he let them go, everyone from the smallest liar to the most vicious murderer. Would you say that he was a just judge?”

  “I would say that he was…compassionate, perhaps to the point of foolishness.”

  “God is compassionate, but not foolish. He is a righteous judge. His compassion is shown in Jesus. Jesus paid the penalty for the breaking of his laws…laws which were given to us for our own good, and protection.”

  “You are saying that this Jesus was with God…was one with God…and willingly gave up his place to come to earth, and die the death of a common criminal—just to save the souls of men?”

  “Yes.” Rachel nodded, almost hopeful that God was speaking to him. “Yes, and he was the only one worthy to do so, because he was both man and God. As a man, who lived a sinless life, he could take our punishment for us. And as God, he rose from the grave on the third day—”

  “Yes,” Metellus said. “I know.” He urged his horse slowly forward. “I can believe in God, Rachel, but not in a Jewish carpenter who died on a Roman cross.”

  “But that isn’t enough, Tribune! What makes you, or any of us, think we are good enough to go to God, without paying a price for our sins?”

  “The Jews seem to think they have a special claim on this God,” he answered. “Why should he save a Roman?”

  “Because God sent his son into the world so that everyone who believes in him would be saved. Jesus said that. He was to be born a Jew—it has been foretold for centuries. God made a covenant with the ancient Hebrews, and he has kept it.”

  “Where did you learn all this, Rachel?”

  “I remember many things my father said. I have always believed them. And later, Paul came often to our house in Bethany, and taught the same things. I might not have gone into the room where they gathered, but I could still hear him speaking.”

  Metellus rode for a long moment without saying anything. Then he looked across at her. “I can see that you are very sincere. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly, “I fear for you, Tribune. Please pray about what I’ve told you. It is not enough simply to believe in God! That fine horse you are riding was once wild, and it has been broken. It surrendered, and became submissive to his trainer. That’s like becoming a Christian. This horse knew his trainer existed, but not until the horse surrendered did the man become his master.”

  “I am not a praying man,” he said shortly.

  “Praying is simply speaking—with faith. I said a few words the day of the storm, Tribune, and God did not allow that decrepit old house to collapse on us. He heard my prayer and had mercy on us, but he could have chosen not to. He is God, and there is a reason for everything he does.”

  Rachel heard her own words with a sense of amazement. She believed what she said, but she hadn’t known she was going to say it.

  “You must think I’m a hypocrite,” she said ruefully. “I haven’t been able to really pray for a very long time.”

  “If it’s as simple as you say it is,” Metellus said, “you should get things right with your God.”

  “Yes,” she almost whispered. “I want to. I
just don’t know how.”

  * * * *

  The closer they drew to the end of the Egnatian Way, the stronger grew a crisp, cold wind blowing off of the Black Sea. They crossed the strait between Byzantium and Chalcedon on a ferry and began the new leg of their pilgrimage. The roads were not as well-kept, and often Metellus struck out on lesser known paths and avoided the large cities. The land consisted of heavily forested mountains and barren plains, and during the fortnight of their journey, they slept mostly in tents alongside the numerous lakes and rivers. A few times they came to settlements where, unexpectedly, they found Christian families who were only too glad to share their homes with them. They all spoke of Paul, the great preacher who had come to spread the news about Jesus throughout the region.

  Metellus had purchased plenty of food and other supplies at Byzantium, so there was no need to seek out the cities. Sometimes he hunted with his bow and arrows for fresh game, though Rachel did not accompany him…she had never been able to kill small animals for food

  She enjoyed seeing the countryside, though it was rough and difficult at times. On one memorable afternoon they stopped to rest beside a pool lying between two great hills, and because Rachel was tired, Metellus set up the tents so they could spend the night there. Then he went swimming, and Rachel sat on the sun-warmed rocks until she could stand it no longer. She slipped into the pool, catching her breath as the frigid water bit through her clothes and touched her skin.

  “It’s deep,” he called out to her, but she swam toward him, and by the evening she was almost as expert a swimmer as he, and he taught her how to dive and to swim underwater. It was a most enjoyable day, though by the time the sun had lowered she was shivering with cold. Metellus built a fire and, after catching some fish with a small net, cooked them over the flames. Rachel huddled close to the fire as her clothes slowly dried.

  The moon had risen when they finished eating. Metellus came out of the nearby woods with more branches for the fire, and they sat on opposite sides, watching it.

  “Tribune,” she said hesitantly, “this has been a—a journey that I will always remember. I have you to thank for that.”

  “You have your father to thank for it. And Caesar. And let’s not forget the Vestal Virgins.”

  “Oh, let’s do forget them, by all means!”

  He looked at her, with the flames reflecting in his eyes. “I hope you’ve decided you didn’t really take an oath to remain a virgin for thirty years. Not that I would take advantage of your decision, of course.”

  She had to smile, because his own was irresistible. “I truly cannot remember, but you persuaded me that if I did, I was a child and it was forced on me. I don’t think God will hold me to it. I mean—” Confused, she glanced away from him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t take advantage.”

  He was silent, and seemed about to speak when the sound of a wolf howling came from deep within the forest, followed by a low roar that she had never heard before. She watched as he got slowly to his feet, walked toward her horse, and removed her bow and sheathe of arrows. “Better sleep with these,” he said, handing them to her. “Good night.”

  Rachel stood up. “Very well,” she said lightly. “I believe I have been told to retire to my tent.”

  As she took the arrows, her fingers brushed against his. She lifted her eyes, but now he was frowning. He said, “Just a precaution. I don’t think you need worry about wolves, or bears.”

  “I do not worry—about bears and wolves,” she replied. He sat down again in front of the fire, reaching toward it to shift one of the burning branches. He was still frowning. She went inside her tent, feeling resentful. She wished the night had ended differently…how, she wasn’t quite sure, but they had certainly enjoyed each other during the day, and he had sent her to bed like a naughty child! Their time together was swiftly drawing to a close, and she didn’t want it to end…ever.

  * * * *

  Metellus decided to sail from Attalia, a sprawling city with picturesque waterfalls plunging off its cliffs into the sea. However, all the nearby inns were full and they were forced to lodge in the heart of the city, which was exceedingly crowded and noisy. Metellus left Rachel there while he went to the harbor offices to inquire about ships. When he returned, he told her that they would have to wait for several days before there would be a ship traveling to Palestine that would have stalls below deck for the horses.

  Rachel was so weary she didn’t mind waiting. She sat in her room, staring at the dull mirror on the wall, and decided she never wanted to see a pair of crimson trousers again. She asked Metellus to send for water, and when it was brought she bathed vigorously, and washed her hair. It was quite a bit longer now, though still unevenly cut, and she brushed it until it fell softly almost to her shoulders. She dressed in one of her best gowns, and when Metellus came to take her to supper, his glance was full of admiration.

  She decided she liked the way he looked at her, and was careful to dress as attractively as possible…without being immodest. She had brought jewelry, and began wearing it, and even used the light perfume she had purchased at a market somewhere along the way…she couldn’t remember where. The days passed quickly, and on the final night she was packing her bags and found that she was missing one. It contained a number of her mantles and she was going to need them when she and Metellus reached Judea. She wondered anxiously if it had been stolen. Metellus had, only that day, confronted a man following them around the forum who was probably bent on thievery…it wasn’t the first time he had been obliged to do so, and the culprits usually vanished into the crowds.

  Rachel had been uneasy in the forum; she had taken Metellus’ arm, and he had looked at her with surprise,,, and something else. Suspicion? He’d had that same expression ever since she started dressing like a woman instead of a boy.

  Perhaps the bag was in Metellus’ room. The oil lamps flickered as she walked to the window, looking up at the moon. It was late, for she had napped in the afternoon, and had sat up washing her hair again after Metellus had retired to his own room. She debated with herself…she wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep any time soon if she continued thinking her bag had been stolen.

  She slid the bolt of her door, opened it, and looked swiftly up and down the courtyard. It seemed deserted. The moon shone in silver rays upon the tessellated pavement. With a whisper of movement, she hurried to the door of Metellus’ room and paused, listening. There was not a sound, and no light came from beneath. Finding it unbolted, she gave it a gentle push. Metellus was lying on the bed with his back to her, covered with a light blanket. Rachel tiptoed into the room. The light streaming through the window was so bright she could plainly see the bags strewn about in a corner of the room. Spying the one she sought, she bent to grasp it.

  A hand closed on her arm and jerked her upright so forcefully the air came out of her lungs in a gasp. Startled, she looked up to see Metellus towering over her. He stopped whatever he had been about to do when he recognized her. “What are you doing?” he demanded, releasing her arm so suddenly that she stumbled backward.

  “I—I was looking for—something.” She had no idea, now, what she had been looking for. She saw that his chest was bare, and, mortified, she dared look no further. His gold-brown eyes were blazing in the moonlight.

  “Get out of here,” he said harshly, and she didn’t hesitate but scurried through the doorway and ran to her room, slamming the door and standing beside it, panting, her hand over her heart. In a moment she heard someone approaching, and stepped back as Metellus entered, closing the door behind him. He had hurriedly drawn a tunic over his rumpled hair, leaving it unbelted at the waist.

  He said, his voice taut and unfamiliar, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. But this is a dangerous game you play, Rachel, and you are too innocent to know what you’re doing.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, bewildered.

  “This—” He couldn’t seem to find the word he sought. “The gods themselves must marvel
at my endurance, and by the gods I don’t know how I have endured it. If I were free from my oath to return you to your family…exactly as you were…this night you would be my wife, in deed as well as in word!”

  She gaped at him. “You think I’ve been trying to—to seduce you, when we both know I am not really your wife?”

  “You do not have to try,” he answered. “And you are my lawful wife. Old Claudius was wiser than he knew.”

  “But you didn’t want to marry me!”

  Metellus turned away, seeming to wrestle with himself for a moment. Then he faced her again, with a direct and penetrating look.

  “That isn’t true. Claudius had mentioned the matter the day before, and I told him I didn’t want a forced marriage. I wanted you to marry me of your own free will.”

  “You mean—you did want to marry me?”

  Metellus stepped closer. His hands took her arms, just above the elbows. Her long, dark brown lashes fluttered downward over her eyes. He drew her toward him.

  “Say my name,” he said quietly, but in a way that brooked no refusal. “Look at me, and say it.”

  Tears shone in her eyes as they reluctantly met his.

  “Metellus.”

  After a moment, his arms went around her and he lowered his lips to hers, gently at first, and then with increasing fierceness, until Rachel clung to him and kissed him with an intensity that matched his own. Abruptly he broke away, but put his face down against hers and said, “I love you, Rachel. I know there is a great gulf between us, because I cannot believe as you do, and I will not pretend to. You will have a decision to make when you reach Bethany, because I do want you for my wife.”

  “Metellus,” she said again, breathless. “There is a great gulf between us. But I do love you!”

  He lifted his head, and his eyes searched hers. In them he saw happiness, battling with abject misery. “For both our sakes,” he said, in a low voice, “we will forget this conversation, until you are home. And then we will talk.”