Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  For a long stretch the dusty, unpaved road was isolated, with no one but themselves going in either direction. Rachel noticed that Metellus seemed to have a heightened alertness…even more so than usual…and she grew vaguely uneasy. The horses, too, had pricked their ears and seemed nervous. Metellus tightened his thighs against the sides of his horse, and she saw his hand casually reach behind him to pull the handle of his sword forward, out of its sheathe.

  They were about to cross a small, brick bridge arching over a dry streambed, when Metellus stopped. The bridge obscured their view of the road beyond.

  “Stay here,” he said, turning toward her. “I just want to have a look at what’s ahead. If anything happens, ride back toward Caesarea.”

  She nodded solemnly, guiding Sheba to a stop, and the horse lowered her head and snorted in protest. Samson’s hooves clattered over the stone flooring of the bridge, and he and his rider disappeared.

  Something came to her ears…a strange, groaning sound, and Sheba sidestepped, flinging her head. It could have been the wind, which had been blowing in sporadic gusts all day, but when it came again, Rachel decided it was coming from under the bridge. Sliding off her horse, she walked to the far side of the road, bent, and peered downward.

  A man in a Roman uniform lay in the dust and rocks of the streambed. He was not moving, and some of the rocks around him were shiny with blood.

  She heard Metellus coming back over the bridge, looked up, and cried, “There’s a man!” She started down the incline.

  “Rachel, wait!” Metellus drew his horse to a sudden halt, leaped off and snatched his sword, running after Rachel. She had drawn close to the wounded man, who lay facing them, his right hand lying limply over his right side. His eyes opened as Metellus knelt and moved the hand aside. His uniform was covered with blood.

  “Zealots,” the man said in a whisper. “Three of them. Took my horse, left me for dead.”

  “Steady, soldier,” Metellus told him. “We’ll help you. How long ago were you attacked?”

  The man’s head barely moved from side to side. “Don’t know. Seems like hours.”

  Metellus straightened and turned to Rachel, handing his sword to her by its handle. “Are you as good with this as with everything else?”

  She nearly dropped it, surprised by its weight, and answered, “I’ve never held one before.”

  “Stay with him. I’m going to get a wineskin.”

  “Bring water, too, and one of my bags, please.”

  Metellus disappeared up the slope and Rachel knelt beside the man, laying the sword on the ground. “What is your name?”

  He coughed weakly. He was a young man, still wearing his helmet. “Justus,” he replied, trying to focus his eyes on her, but it seemed too great an effort and he closed them again.

  “I’m going to pray for you, Justus,” she whispered. “Dear Father in heaven, have mercy on this man in his pain and suffering, and bring him to wholeness again…according to your will, in Jesus’ name.”

  His eyes opened again and he croaked, “What god is this—you worship ?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Metellus arrived, and seemed to hear her words but chose not to comment on them. Rachel moved so that he could kneel and raise the man’s head, helping him to drink from the wineskin. Rachel rummaged in the bag he had brought, pulling out a blanket, which she folded several times and laid on the ground.

  “Take his helmet off,” she said. The man’s short-cropped blond hair was drenched with sweat. Metellus lowered the man’s head gently to rest on the blanket, as Rachel found a waterskin. She pulled out one of her mantles and doused one end of it with water, and pressed it against his face. She handed the skin to Metellus. “Give him water, too.”

  Metellus raised an eyebrow at her air of command but did as she bade him, then turned the man carefully to remove the leather cuirass he wore. The crimson tunic was soaked with a darker crimson, and a jagged hole in it revealed the ugly knife wound.

  “Are you learned in the ways of healing?” Metellus asked her. “Is there anything you can do?”

  She shook her head. “But I know we mustn’t pour water over the wound because it will loosen the clots. We must get him to a physician.”

  “There will be one at the procurator’s palace in Caesarea. That’s the closest place, from here. Hand me your cloak.”

  She stopped wiping the man’s face and handed him her mantle, which he then wound around the soldier by lifting him and tying it securely over the wound.

  “On my way—to Jerusalem,” the man murmured. “Letter for—the commander. In the satchel—around my waist.”

  “Who sent you?” Metellus asked.

  “Drusus—Appius. Deputy procurator.”

  “We’ll see that he knows of it. We’re taking you there now.”

  Rachel rose and stepped backward as Metellus straightened, then leaned down and pulled the man toward him, lifted him onto his shoulder, and began climbing up toward the bridge. The man was almost as tall as he, and when his shoe slipped on a pebble Rachel thought they were both going to go headlong back down again. But Metellus steadied himself and went on. She grabbed the blanket and bag, and dragging the sword behind her, followed them. She watched as Metellus lay the man across Sheba’s back, from which he had already removed the saddle and a few of their bags and satchels.

  “She’ll be steadier than the stallion,” Metellus said, breathing hard with exertion. “We’ll walk back—have to go slow, anyway.” As he tied the other saddle and bags onto Samson, Rachel covered the man with the blanket, making sure his head was turned so that he could breathe.

  “Maybe the pressure will keep the wound from bleeding,” she said worriedly. “I do not know much about such things.”

  “Common sense will do, in most cases,” he answered. “What did you do with my sword?”

  She pointed where it lay on the ground. “It’s so heavy,” she said.

  He had tied its sheathe around his waist, and now slid the sword into it. “Just as a precaution,” he said, when she met his eyes. “I didn’t see anyone around, when I looked earlier.”

  The soldier seemed to have lost consciousness. Metellus went to him and touched the pulse at his throat. He turned back to her.

  “I’ll lead Sheba—can you handle Samson? I don’t want to take a chance on either of them getting lively.”

  “Yes, I’ll lead him.”

  Rachel took the reins in her hands, and they started walking back to Caesarea.

  CHAPTER XV

  It was late in the afternoon when they arrived, but the man was still alive. The guards pulled him off the horse and carried him into the palace, as Metellus sent word for Drusus Appius to join him in the entrance hall. It was some time before the man came puffing toward them, his face agitated.

  “I am sorry…I have been meeting with the tax collectors all day. What has happened?”

  “One of your soldiers was set upon by Zealots, and wounded. I think he will live…he should be with the physician by now. He said he was taking a letter to the commander at Jerusalem.”

  “Oh,” said Drusus, frowning. “Zealots, you say. I must send out a detachment to run them down.”

  “I know Claudius Lysias, and I will be going through Jerusalem. If you like, I can take him the letter.”

  Drusus eyed Metellus shrewdly. “It has my seal on it, of course. I have no objection to your acting as an ambassador, sir, if you will sign for the letter. You are, after all, somewhat engaged in that role.”

  Metellus glanced at Rachel, who stood demurely beside him. “Yes,” he said lightly. “I will sign for the letter.”

  “How soon can you get it to the commander?”

  “In a few days—within a week at the most.” Metellus looked at Rachel again. “It’s too late to get started now. Are you willing to stay here overnight, if our host permits us?”

  “By all means!” said Drusus. “You shall have the same rooms, and I will have a m
eal prepared at once.”

  Rachel nodded slowly. “That is kind of you. Is—is your wife here, sir? I should like to speak to her.”

  “No, she left this morning. She is attending a wedding banquet in Tiberias…. one of the Herod family is getting married.” He looked at her curiously. “Was it very important? I am afraid she will be gone for several days.”

  Rachel smiled at him. “No, sir. Perhaps I will write her a letter.”

  “Indeed.” Drusus turned away from them, calling for servants.

  Metellus was watching her, surprised. “You are going to tell her that you forgive her?”

  “No. Only that I will...try.”

  * * * *

  This time they were able to enjoy a lamp lit supper on the courtyard. They left early the next day, spending a night in Antipatris and another in Lydda. But instead of traveling directly to Emmaus, they took a northern, little-used road that ran parallel to it, and camped overnight in their tents. The next morning, as they were packing, Rachel brushed away tears that she wouldn’t allow Metellus to see. It had been their last night together, and though he had been careful to keep his distance, how often their eyes had met, and she had looked away…how often he had spoken to her with a note of caring in his voice that he could not conceal.

  What was going to happen now? Did he still want to marry—really marry—her? What would Simon and Daphne, and Lazarus, say…knowing that he was an unbeliever? What would Benjamin do? She could barely remember Benjamin, the man who expected to marry her. She only knew that she loved Metellus, and wanted him…as much as he wanted her…

  As the dawn broke around them, Metellus lifted her onto her horse, and he looked up and said, “Nothing has changed, Rachel. But you must decide.”

  “I have decided,” she answered. “I want to be your wife.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, the glints of copper in his eyes seeming to blaze as though forged in a fire of white heat. She thought he would at least pull her down off the horse and kiss her, but he only smiled slowly, and then whistled for Samson and climbed into the saddle. Drawing close to her, he reached out for her hand and held it for a moment.

  “No words are dearer to my ears,” he said, and his smile faded as he released her hand. “But you must wait and talk things over with your family. I won’t cause a break between you.”

  “It is our custom for a woman to leave her father and mother, and cleave to her husband.”

  “But with their blessing, rather than their curse.”

  “They would never curse us! Besides, I cannot let them make such a choice for me.”

  “They have that right—after all they have done for you.”

  “They have my undying gratitude, and love! And when I was a child, obedience…but I am no longer a child.”

  “No,” he said softly. “I might have left Bethany with one, but I return with a woman.”

  His horse trotted ahead, and she tingled all over at his words. A thought came to her, unbidden…not a child, but still a child of the King! What would he think…that was the most important question. Oh, surely God would not have sent Metellus into her life, if he hadn’t meant them to be together! But, suppose he had only meant for Metellus to rescue her from her self-imposed prison? She had let herself fall in love with him…she had no one to blame for that.

  She wouldn’t think of that now. Somehow God would work everything out. He had always been there, working things out, even when she wasn’t aware of it…even when she was too caught up in her own paralyzing grief to go to him for comfort. How foolish she had been! Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get home, and be alone in her room so that she could pour out her heart to God, repent of her foolishness, and beg him to save Metellus!

  The day sped by as if on wings, and it was late in the afternoon when they came to Jerusalem. Just before reaching the Damascus gate, they came to the place she had wanted to see…the rocky knoll that half extended over the highway. There were no crosses on it now, for the Romans had stopped using it for executions. Too many people wanted to see it, to climb up its rocky path and bow and worship, as though it were a shrine. It had become a nuisance. Crucifixions were now carried out on the northwest side of the city.

  “The Romans call it Calvary, because it’s shaped like a skull,” Rachel said quietly, her heart pounding as she gazed up at it. “Do you see it? The nose and eyes…”

  “I see it,” Metellus answered, rather shortly. “So this is where he is supposed to have died?”

  “He did die,” she said, her tone almost sharp. “My father was there. And even if he hadn’t been there and seen Jesus die, it is the truth. The tomb where they laid him is nearby, but they’ve closed that, also. No one is allowed to see it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people want to go there and worship. Don’t you see—on the third day, the tomb was found empty. He rose from the dead!”

  The skeptical look on his face went to her heart like a fatal blow. Oh, Metellus, how can I bear it if you never believe? Again, doubt surged through her…doubt of herself, and her resolution to marry him, but not of her love. There was no question of that.

  * * * *

  They entered Jerusalem, and came quickly to the wide ramp leading to the Antonia. Leaving Rachel briefly in the main courtyard, amid several guards, Metellus continued riding up another ramp, with Sheba’s reins in one hand to make her follow. He left Samson at the stable and rode Sheba out, with Rachel’s belongings still strapped to the horse’s back. He thought of seeking out the commander and giving him the letter he carried, but that would take too long…he would return tonight.

  He noticed the guards were trying not to stare at Rachel, unsuccessfully. Even in simple garb and with her hair covered, she was impossible to ignore.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asked, as he dismounted from Sheba and walked beside her, the reins in one hand.

  “Just admiring your beauty,” he said, “with the others.”

  “How silly men are,” she said. “I have another request to make, Tribune.”

  “I am at your service.”

  “There’s another place I’ve always wanted to see. Instead of going through the lower city, could we go back through the north gate, and take the road east, to join the road to Bethany?”

  “If that is what you want to do,” he said, after a moment.

  “Yes, it is,” she said, smiling winsomely, and took his free hand. From the maps he had studied of Jerusalem, he knew she wanted to pass by on the shoulder of the Mount of Olives. There was a large garden and park there.

  He didn’t ask her why, for he’d know soon enough. He was too aware of her, to take much notice of anything else. Still holding hands, they walked slowly over the bridge crossing the Kidron Valley, and came to a grove of olive trees at the base of the mountain. Opposite the garden, the sun was beginning to dip behind the city of Jerusalem, and the trees cast deep shadows around them.

  Rachel had grown quiet and subdued as she gazed at their surroundings. Walking further into the trees, she stopped at a large boulder. Releasing his hand, she reached out, almost reverently, and touched it.

  “This place is called Gethsemane,” she said, in a low voice. “Jesus came here to pray, just before his arrest.”

  Metellus glanced over his shoulder. “He should have seen them coming. Why didn’t he try to escape?”

  “You still don’t understand,” she answered, turning to look into his eyes. “He came to earth…to die on a cross.”

  He said nothing, letting her probe his eyes for something she did not find. She turned back to the rock. “This is where my father—”

  She broke off, but Metellus could no longer see her face. He watched as she dropped slowly to her knees and bowed her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she thought, from her mind, heart and soul. A sudden release of pain and turmoil, replaced by a peace so deep as to be unfathomable, made her lightheaded, and she put both hands on the rock befor
e her. The love of God rushed over her…it had been there all the time and she’d been holding it at arm’s length, for she had blamed him for the death of her mother and father. She had felt so hurt and betrayed she could not speak to him, and for ten years she had endured a fracture in their relationship…of her own making.

  Rachel raised her face, to see the darkening sky from beneath the gnarled branches over her head. She had thought it was going to be so difficult…she had thought it would take hours of agonizing prayer. She was still going to spend hours in prayer, later tonight…but now, this moment, she was forgiven. She was free.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, with all her heart.

  Metellus saw her get to her feet and turn toward him. Her tear-streaked face shone with a radiance he had never seen in it before, making his breath catch in his throat, and at the same time his heart sank, because she had, somehow, moved infinitely away from him. Strangely enough, the words she had spoken to him the morning after he’d gotten drunk came back to him…It was as though you had gone somewhere, where I couldn’t reach you…a very lonely feeling.

  He felt exactly the same way. Spiritually, she had gone to a place he could not follow—and he wanted to be one with her, in body and spirit. Then he realized she had always been in that place, apart from him…it just hadn’t been as noticeable, until now. Somehow she had, this moment, made things right with her God, as he had once urged her to do. It shook him in a way he could never have explained, for not only did it move her further away from him, it seemed to give credence to what she believed. Was it mere superstition that had caused such a change in her?

  He hadn’t known, then, the power of this God.