by Debra Diaz
She watched as he went to the door and opened it. In a more familiar tone, he half smiled and said, “Until then, you’d better call me ‘Tribune’.”
CHAPTER XIV
It was her first visit to Caesarea, but Rachel saw at once that it was as beautiful a city as any she had seen throughout her journey. The harbor itself, built by Herod the Great, was far superior to those at Ostia and other Roman ports. The voyage had only lasted a few days, and she and Metellus disembarked from the small ship directly onto a promenade. Metellus hired a carriage…he had decided they would stay a night or two at the procurator’s palace rather than seek an inn. The written decree he carried from the emperor was the only “introduction” they would need.
By the week’s end they would arrive in Bethany. The decision she must make loomed over her like a gathering storm. Metellus had not tried to influence her…had not even touched her since that night in Attalia. She knew that he respected her, and if she said the word, he would go out of her life, never to return. She might not be able to pray for herself, but she prayed for him—feverishly—wondering if God would even listen to her in her present state. She felt like a child who had defied her parents but still sought, and expected, their favor.
I’m still yours, she thought often, as though God might forget.
She stood waiting for Metellus, and her hand touched the letter that was always close. It was tucked now between her gown and tunic, held in place by the belt at her waist. She hadn’t read it since that day in Rome. The words had ripped through her like a blade, and she was sure her father had never intended the letter to have that effect…he had meant it to be a comfort to her. He could never have guessed what she had become…a shell of a person who could not even talk to God, much less lead anyone else to believe in him.
She had not mentioned her faith again to Metellus. She was afraid that if she pushed too hard, he would close his mind and heart forever…and besides, she was a poor witness. She would ask Lazarus or Simon to speak with him, for they were both powerful witnesses.
And what would she do—if still he did not believe?
He appeared beside her and took her arm, leading her down another walkway and beneath a great stone arch, mingling with hundreds of others going in the same direction. When they reached the other side, the hired coach stood waiting.
Rachel remembered suddenly to raise the mantle hanging over her shoulders to cover her head. As they stepped inside the carriage, she asked, “Where are the horses?”
“I found a man to see to them. He’ll take them to the palace stable sometime today, and bring our baggage as well.”
“I suppose we’ll be walking from now on,” she said. “I can’t wear trousers here—and truly, I don’t want to!”
They settled themselves on the padded seats. Metellus sat across from her, and the lines in his cheeks deepened as he smiled at her.
“I’ll miss them,” he said, but then all at once he wasn’t smiling, and he looked out the window as the carriage made a slow turn and started up a hill.
* * * *
Megara paused when she saw the coach roll to the front entrance of the palace and stop. It looked like a hired conveyance, and she watched curiously as a young woman and a tall man of about thirty or so stepped onto the pavement and started up the steps. The man stopped and spoke with an air of authority to the soldiers guarding the entrance.
She had just returned from a carriage ride herself, and was about to walk back to her own wing of the palace. She stood in the corridor in front of the open door and dismissed the two attendants who hovered near her. There was something familiar about that young woman…
The couple came through the door, and the woman swept the mantle back from her head, revealing honey-colored hair streaked with the sun. She was extraordinarily beautiful, bringing to mind a woman Megara had known years ago…a woman she had hated, and for whose death Megara had been indirectly responsible. Was this the child? She resembled Paulus, too; she had his eyes, which briefly touched Megara without recognition. What was she doing here?
Megara turned immediately and swept down the corridor, her gown billowing out behind her. Later, she would find out everything there was to know…
Rachel watched the disappearing woman, strangely troubled. Why had the woman looked at her like that? That red hair…her thoughts flew back ten years…but no, it couldn’t be that woman!
Metellus had finished speaking with the procurator’s secretary and noticed the whiteness of her face. “What is it?” he asked, following her gaze, where the trailing edge of Megara’s skirt whisked out of sight around a corner.
Rachel shook her head, convinced she was wrong. “It’s nothing.”
A soldier approached them and said, “Follow me, sir.” He led them to another hallway, and two large rooms opposite each other. Rachel was ushered into hers by a trio of slave girls, who immediately began preparing a bath. A male servant appeared with her bags. She stood waiting for the slaves to finish letting heated water from the underground pipes into the marble tub. Metellus came into the room.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and when she nodded, he looked out at the balcony, which faced the sea. “Your view is better than mine,” he said lightly. “I’m facing the courtyard. The procurator isn’t here but his assistant is very obliging—he’s already paid me a visit. He invited us to dine with him and his wife tonight.”
“I’d rather not,” she said quickly.
“I told him you were tired. Let’s eat on the courtyard outside my room.”
“Yes,” she said, and smiled at him. He went away, followed by the slaves, and Rachel undressed and soaked in the tub until the water grew uncomfortably cold. She couldn’t stop thinking about the red-haired woman, and the memories dredged up by the sight of her. She felt as though she had plunged into a waking nightmare.
The sun was swiftly descending as she put on a clean gown and combed her hair. The slaves entered again, lit the lamps, and left. Before she could decide what to do next, Metellus came for her, and escorted her through his own room to the courtyard beyond. It was full of statues and plants, and next to their table stood a gigantic sculpture shaped like an urn, out of which grew an enormous plant, or small tree. Lamps flickered on the table, and hung on chains from the arched colonnade surrounding them.
Servants brought their food and Metellus began to eat, watching her as she picked up a piece of fruit, and set it down again.
“Something is wrong,” he said, setting down his own food. “What is it?”
Rachel looked at him. His face was brown in the lamplight, his hair shining black, and his eyes were the warm gold of the setting sun. This night was probably the last pleasant time they would spend together before reaching Bethany. She didn’t want to feel this way…she didn’t want to cast a pall over their time together.
She took a sip of wine. “It’s nothing. It’s just that—that woman reminded me of someone.”
“She’s the deputy procurator’s wife. Her name is Megara.”
Rachel’s arm went suddenly limp and she almost dropped her cup, forcing herself to set it down gently on the table. Metellus’ hand covered hers and he said, in a sharp tone, “What?”
Rachel stood up, and he stood with her. “I’m sorry, Tribune—I’m not hungry.”
“Rachel, you are not going anywhere, until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“She—she was once married to my father. He and my mother thought she was dead. They married, and years later she came and—tried to cause trouble for them. She—”
Rachel could hardly speak now; her heart was pounding and she had begun to shake. “She betrayed them to the emperor’s men. She is the one who is responsible for their deaths.”
Metellus reached for her but Rachel pulled away, throwing him an anguished look. “Please, don’t come to me. I need to be alone.” Like a wraith she disappeared through the doorway, her footsteps fading until a door closed determinedly, and he heard the sound
of a bolt sliding shut.
* * * *
In the privacy of their own small dining room, Megara glanced at her husband and tried to speak with indifference.
“Who were those two people, Drusus?”
Drusus Appius suffered from unhealthy teeth, and tended to mumble. He replied, with the same indifference, “He is Metellus Petraeus, a tribune. He is to escort the young woman to her home in Judea.”
“Who is she? Why must she be escorted by a tribune?”
“I don’t know who she is. She had been summoned to Rome for some reason or other. He had an order from Caesar.”
“You must know—didn’t the tribune say?”
“No, Megara, I don’t, and he didn’t. He did say her name—something Valeria. That’s all I know. Why are you so interested?”
Megara seemed to flush darkly under the light of the lamps. “I thought I might know her from somewhere.”
“She’s hardly someone with whom you would be acquainted. Very young, from the glimpse I had in the corridor…young enough to be your daughter…and lives in Judea.”
“Yes, you’re right, Drusus,” Megara answered slowly. “How could I possibly know her?”
* * * *
The sun had not been long in a sky lightly touched with ribbons of crimson and gold, among a swirl of dark purple clouds. Rachel stood at the balcony, watching a thin mist dissipate beneath white beams of light. She was still wearing the gown from the night before…she had lain on the bed but hardly slept, her mind going in circles. A scene kept coming back to her, one she thought she had forgotten, of that woman sitting in a carriage with a smug expression on her face, and Rachel’s mother had said, “Megara, how could you?”
She realized she was holding her hands against her aching forehead and removed them. Looking around, she saw a great expanse of lawn that faced the sea, and on it was a huge tree with great spreading limbs. Under the tree sat two stone benches. She quietly opened the bedchamber door, walked briskly down the hall, and found the door leading outside. A sentry stood beside it, but did not stop her. She went through it, feeling the air crisp and cool on her cheeks, and walked toward the tree until she stood beneath its great canopy.
The sound of waves striking the rocks below filled her ears, and a chill breeze caught the edges of her gown. Her hair swirled around her neck. Below and to her right, the great harbor was still shrouded in mist. She looked out across the water, and could barely see the outline of a ship. A terrible loneliness gripped her. She hadn’t felt this abysmal grief for a long time, but it had returned…and she was not prepared for it.
She heard a rustle of sound and knew, without turning, that it was Metellus. He came to stand behind her and lowered his arms to encircle her waist, drawing her into him, into his strength and the exquisite comfort of his presence. She relaxed, and placed her arms and hands over his, welcoming his touch, warmed by his body. Metellus put his cheek down against hers, and felt her tears.
“Darling,” he said softly. This time she didn’t object to the endearment…for it went into her like a soothing balm. Her hands tightened on his, and she let the back of her head settle against his shoulder.
Megara watched them from her own balcony, somehow surprised by their obvious feelings for each other. The old resentment she had always felt when she saw two people in love stirred in her. She had thought she was rid of it. She hesitated for only a moment, and then slipped a light cloak over her gown and walked resolutely down the stairs to the door. As she neared them, the sun rose higher and shone on them in a whitish glow through the branches of the tree, its leaves whispering in the gentle wind.
“Tribune!” Her voice broke the silence abruptly.
Metellus stiffened at the intrusion, but Rachel jumped and he caught her arm before she could run away. She stared at Megara as if the woman had leaped out of a witch’s cauldron. Megara reflected wryly that people often looked at her that way.
“I wish to speak with you—what happened to your hair, child?”
Rachel dropped her gaze and found it impossible to answer. Metellus said soberly, “A concession to the heat, I believe.”
Megara’s sharp eyes went to the ring on Rachel’s finger. “Are you married?”
After a moment, Metellus replied, “Yes, we are.”
She stepped closer to Rachel. “I have something I want to say to you. I know you don’t wish to speak to me, or even look at me, but you must listen.”
Reluctantly, Rachel turned her face toward the other woman.
“What I did was—wrong. I want to tell you that I am sorry. If I could correct my past mistakes, I would—but unfortunately, I cannot.”
“A mistake,” Rachel said bitterly. “It was much more than a mistake!’
Megara raised her chin. “As you say. I have much regretted it.”
Rachel was at last finding words to express her feelings. “What you did to my mother and father was—beyond wicked! You did them great harm, even before you betrayed them!”
“Yes, I did. But I have since come to see that—your father—” Now Megara seemed at a loss for words. She swallowed. “He was good to me in the end. Even after what I did. And I have never forgotten it. I think he forgave me, and I would like to know that you have, too.”
“Forgive you!” Rachel cried. “Megara, I have not spent the last ten years hating you. I rarely thought of you at all, because in the end it was Caligula who killed them. But, God help me, now I realize that I do hate you! You saw me yesterday and recognized me, and all night your conscience troubled you. So now you come to me, wanting me to give you peace of mind so that you can live with yourself!”
“Yes,” Megara answered. “That is exactly what I want.”
Rachel drew herself up and said clearly, “You can jump into the sea, for all I care.”
Megara stood for a moment, her jaw clamped and her high cheekbones standing out rigidly. Then she turned and walked away, her cloak lifting with the breeze. She raised it to cover her head, and finally entered the palace door.
Rachel sat down on one of the benches, her hand at her throat. “Dear God, what have I become?”
“You had only to say the word, and I would have thrown her in.”
“Oh, no, do not make light of it! Don’t you see…what I feel toward her is just what she felt toward them, and made her do such horrible things. I’m ashamed, Tribune! I am shamed to my very soul.”
He started to tell her that she needn’t feel that way, that the woman had deserved it, but she was so obviously distressed that he bit back the words. Instead he sat next to her, and placed his arm around her shoulders. They watched the sea as the sun slowly emerged to inflame the sky, its beams shimmering on the water, and causing glints of light to reflect off the white sails of the ships beginning to leave the harbor. The last remnants of the morning mist swirled and disappeared.
Finally Metellus said quietly, “I assume you don’t want to spend another night here?”
Rachel shook her head.
“Then we’ll leave right away—that is, after breakfast.”
She glanced at him and tried to smile. “I’m sorry I spoiled your supper, last night. I shouldn’t be surprised if they throw us out.”
“Oh, no. Not a pet of the emperor, which you are…believe it or not.” Metellus stood and held out his hand. “Come with me.”
She placed her hand in his, rose, and walked with him into the palace.
* * * *
It always took a while to saddle the horses, with its numerous leather bands stretching from front to rear…and to strap on the baggage as well, but Metellus seemed to be taking an unusually long time. When he finally brought the horses out and Rachel joined him in front of the stable, she saw that he had altered Sheba’s saddle by sawing off all the pommels but one, and turned it around backward, enabling her to sit sideways on the horse with one knee crooked over the remaining horn. She could ride with her skirt modestly covering her, since she had put away the trousers
for good.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed, as he caught her under the arms and lifted her up.
“But no galloping,” he said sternly, “or you’ll find yourself on your lovely—backside.” Then he grinned at her. She raised her eyebrows but couldn’t help smiling, adjusted her gown and covered her head with the mantle, throwing one edge over her shoulder.
“I’ve said goodbye to our host,” Metellus told her, as he mounted his own horse. “And our hostess was nowhere to be seen.”
Rachel made no comment. They left the palace grounds, joining hundreds of others on the wide streets…visitors, men on business, soldiers, pilgrims who had come to view the magnificent sights. As a calculated diversion, Metellus took her on a short tour of the city. The harbor in itself was an architectural wonder. A vast theater, the largest she had ever seen, faced the sea; there was an equally large circus; there were markets, a Roman garrison, and besides the palace, other splendid residences for visiting kings and dignitaries. Towering over all stood a temple in honor of Augustus Caesar, with a colossal statue of him as the god Jupiter at its base. It seemed a city with a dual identity, for there were as many Jews here as Gentiles, and though thoroughly Roman in character, it had been built by a king of the Jews.
“There are two routes we can take,” he called to her, over the bustle of people passing to and fro. “There is a caravan road down the coast to Joppa, which all the merchants use. I thought you’d rather take a shorter route. We’ll pass through Antipatris and Lydda, then Emmaus and Jerusalem.”
Rachel nodded, and said, after a moment, “Could we enter by the north gate to Jerusalem, instead of the west? There is something I want to see.”
“There is nothing to see there, but a hill of execution.”
She nodded again, and he remembered that this was the place where Jesus the Nazarene had been crucified. He sighed inwardly and hoped she wouldn’t go off on one of her efforts to convert him. They were now at the southern edge of the city, and he soon found the turn onto the road he sought. They rode in companionable silence, admiring the view of the wide, fertile plain before them. Other travelers were either on foot or on donkeys, and soon were left far behind.