Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  Peter sat down. His mother-in-law wiped her eyes, and said in a tremulous voice, “He took my hand and spoke to me, and I was well. I knew I was dying. One knows these things. And the next thing I knew, I was up and preparing a meal for everyone!”

  A ripple of laughter went through the guests. A man much younger than Peter got to his feet. Rachel recognized John. He had been a friend of her mother’s, and had come to see Rachel several times after she had arrived, as a child, in Bethany.

  “There are thousands of witnesses to these events that Peter and I saw. And there are so many more things he did—so many that all the books in the world couldn’t hold them. But I want to speak of his compassion. He loved everyone, from the lowliest to the highest and most arrogant of men. But he did not countenance their sins, and his harshest words were for men in authority who misled the people. Yet as he died, he forgave them. What greater love is there—than that?”

  John resumed his seat. A woman spoke softly, without rising. “My name is Mary. I am called the Magdalene. I was the first to see him, after his resurrection. And that is all I can say. Believe me, or call me a liar. I saw him alive, after he was crucified. As did Peter and John, and hundreds of others.” Her gaze was on Metellus. “If we hadn’t, why would we say so—when they are killing Christians in Jerusalem?”

  Rachel felt Metellus make a slight movement. She was afraid to look at him…afraid of what she would see in his face. She saw that Simon was stepping forward.

  “In the year that Jesus died, I was a slave. I belonged to Rachel’s father. He was the commander of the fort in Jerusalem, but he refused to take any part in the crucifixion because he believed Jesus was innocent of the charge of sedition. The governor, Pontius Pilate, carried out the execution. But Paulus was present, and he ordered me to carry Jesus’ cross, after Jesus had fallen several times under its weight. He was much weakened…he had been beaten and scourged, and had lost a great deal of blood.”

  Simon’s voice became husky, and low. “After I laid down his cross, I left. I could not bear to watch, and I did not see him die. But I know that he couldn’t have lived. I’m ashamed to say that it took a miracle to make me a believer, much later. Not so with Paulus Valerius, who merely weighed the evidence. I refused to believe in spite of the evidence.”

  Daphne stood and slipped her arm through his. “These scars you see on my face and hands were put there by the Romans. It doesn’t matter why. But I am here to tell you that…when enemies threaten you and do things to you, God will see you through it. He will either help you through it, or he will take your life, so you need suffer no longer. I was very new in the faith, but I knew enough to call upon God. And he did not fail me.”

  She looked up at Simon and smiled. They sat down together, and for a long moment no one spoke. Then Lazarus got slowly to his feet. His eyes roved over the dozens of people sitting and standing on the courtyard, and he said:

  “Jesus raised me from the dead.”

  * * * *

  No sound came from Metellus, but Rachel knew he was looking at her, and she turned to meet his gaze. Only she, who knew him so well, recognized the contempt in his eyes, and her heart sank. The Romans believed that Christians were nothing but a superstitious lot, a sect of the Jewish faith, blindly following a fallen leader and an enigmatic God…whose name could not be spoken, who referred to himself simply as “I AM”, who demanded strange rituals be performed to placate him, and who struck dead anyone who opposed him. They had no understanding of the might and power of God, or his love for mankind, or the reasons behind his actions. They didn’t know how or why he had chosen the Jewish race to bring the Messiah into the world. Most Romans disliked the Jews, and though Metellus had never shown any such prejudice, it was obvious he thought the entire gathering was either delusional or, for whatever reason, simply lying.

  “It’s true,” Rachel whispered to him. “My mother was there.”

  Metellus could not very well malign her mother, or her father, or these people she loved. He continued to remain silent, but a conviction was forming inside him, and he knew it was not the one she hoped for. It brought a stabbing ache to his heart… the thought of hurting her was intolerable. Yet that very thing now seemed impossible to avoid.

  He barely listened as Lazarus told of how he had become ill, and how his sisters had sent for Jesus. By the time Jesus arrived, Lazarus had been four days in his grave. Then Jesus had walked with the townspeople to the tomb, called out Lazarus’ name, and the dead man had come back to life.

  Many people were nodding; some were telling their neighbor, “Yes, yes, I was there that day. I saw it all.” By the gods, were they all insane? How could Rachel believe these things?

  “Not many people have asked me what it was like,” Lazarus said, with a slight smile. “Your mother, Rachel, was the first. But the truth is, I do not recall. I only know that I was very ill, and I woke in a tomb, because I heard Jesus call me. I heard nothing else, none of the weeping, the wailing. My sisters told me I had been dead. All of Bethany knew I had been dead. Yet, to this day God has not permitted me to remember what it was like.”

  “It was that miracle that sealed Jesus’ fate,” Peter said. “He had offended the Pharisees and Sadducees to the point where they had already decided he must die, and now he was immensely popular with the people—so that it seemed the whole world was going after him. It was not long after that…that he was arrested.”

  There were a few moments of silence, as everyone’s thoughts went back to those days, seventeen years ago. Then Lazarus seemed to stir himself, and said, “Now I would like to read the letter for which Rachel was called to Rome. I know it is always difficult for you to hear it, my dear Rachel, and we are grateful that you want to share it with us.”

  Rachel smiled at him and tried to steel herself, for the words always tore at her heart. Lazarus cleared his throat, and again there was utter silence as he read. Many people had tears in their eyes.

  Metellus listened, as though hearing the contents of the letter for the first time. It was more than he could stand, and he briefly considered an abrupt departure…but he didn’t want to be rude when his host had been nothing but kind. The fact that a man like Paulus Valerius Maximus could believe these fantastic stories appalled him. As had happened often in the past few months, he thought of the day Paulus had died; he remembered admiring the man’s courage, and wondering who this Jesus was, who had earned such loyalty. Later he had heard more about the new cult, and thought that somehow Paulus had been deceived into believing this Jesus was a god. But now it appeared Rachel’s father had been more than simply misguided…he had been a fool.

  Yes, there were some who had the gift of healing the sick—where the gift came from, he did not know. But no one could make the blind see. No one could make the deaf hear. No one could walk on water. Or raise a dead man to life.

  How had this Jesus fooled so many people? How was it that so many were willing to die for him? What had they seen that convinced them that he had risen from the dead?

  He realized the reading was over and people were talking. A few were preparing to leave, but most would stay overnight in Bethany, in Lazarus’ house and others. He said to Rachel in a low voice, “Meet me in the stable.” She glanced at him in surprise, but he didn’t look at her, and went to bid his host farewell. People stopped him, speaking to him with good will and even friendliness, and he could barely make a civil reply. They were all insane!

  Rachel stared after him. At the edge of her vision she saw Benjamin beginning to make his way toward her, but she evaded him and disappeared into the crowd.

  * * * *

  The stable was gloomy as she made her way across the wooden floor. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, barely illuminating the neat shelves and hooks bearing tools and various riding accoutrements. A row of stairs led upwards, disappearing into shadows. Metellus stood beside Samson, checking straps as she had so often seen him do, and as she slowly approached, he lifted his
head and let his eyes meet hers.

  She stopped, for his expression was the most solemn she had ever seen.

  “Rachel,” he said, his voice gentle but somehow dead and toneless. “I cannot compete with this. I would fight any man, any army—I would do anything to have you, and to make you happy. But this I cannot fight.”

  Rachel almost forgot to breathe. “Why must you fight it? Won’t you even try? I didn’t know this was going to happen…but hasn’t anything said tonight made you wonder if it could be true? Do you think we are all liars?”

  “I cannot be made to believe something that is—impossible. But I know that you believe it, and they believe it. That doesn’t make it true.”

  “And what is truth, to you? Either Jesus is a lie, or he is the truth. Either he is a liar, or he is exactly who he says he is. Those men and women who spoke of him tonight…have nothing to gain by lying! People tell lies to get out of trouble, Metellus, not to get into it!”

  “I will concede that, and it is a powerful argument. I cannot explain their behavior. All I know is that you belong to this Jesus Christ, in a way you could never belong to me. You belong to his followers and to his cause, and I would only bring you misery for the rest of your days.”

  “I love you,” she said fiercely. “I will wait forever.”

  He smiled a little at her vehemence, and stepped closer to her. “Look at you,” he said. “You don’t have to dress like one of them, and yet you do. You are part of them.” He gave a gentle pull and the mantle and head covering fell about her shoulders. One hand moved upward to cup her face. “This is the woman I know. A woman of passion. You will not be content to wait.”

  Her cheeks colored as she brought up her hand to cover his. “I can dress like a Roman, if it pleases you.”

  “What else would you do…to please me?”

  “Anything—anything, except—”

  “Except give up your faith. And I would not ask it of you. But I can’t live with it, Rachel. If it were any other religion—but this! I can make no sense of it, and I cannot respect it.”

  “You are my husband,” she reminded him, desperation filling her heart.

  His eyes locked onto hers; he moved his hand away. “By Roman law, I have only to say the word—and it will not be so.”

  “No,” she whispered, her eyes bright with tears.

  “Your faith means everything to you, and I will not stand between you and your God. Call it stupidly noble, if you will. But I do not feel…noble.”

  “What? What do you feel?”

  He began to turn away, but she caught his arm. He stopped, with his body half turned, as though he couldn’t trust himself to touch her, or to look at her.

  “Lost,” he answered. “Forever lost, as though I’m wandering in a wilderness. But I will wander in it alone, and not drag you into it with me.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “Will you leave me, too, Metellus?”

  He looked at her then, his face tormented by her words. “Do not say that to me Rachel! You would only be happy with a man who shares your faith. I will cause you nothing but worry, and distress.”

  “And how much more I will worry—if you go away!”

  “Rachel,” he said quietly, removing her hand from his arm. “I once promised you that I wouldn’t leave you, until you asked me to. I want you to release me from that promise.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She moved closer to him, as close as she dared, and lifted her face to his. “I am your wife, Metellus. Take me with you tonight, and make it so.”

  He groaned within himself…he should never have let her know his feelings, he should never have let himself love her.

  “You are not my wife,” he said, and thus divorced her.

  He moved away so abruptly that she almost stumbled, and grabbed the horse’s reins. Without looking at her again, he rode out of the stable.

  * * * *

  Halfway to Jerusalem, Metellus slowed the horse, finally drawing to a halt. He didn’t even know he had stopped for some time, until he realized it was cold and he could see the horse’s breath in the air. The summer was over.

  He dismounted and walked Samson for a space. An old, giant sycamore stood in the curve of the road, and when he passed it he could see Jerusalem in the distance, glittering like a star in the midst of an enveloping darkness. He stopped again and stood staring at it, his mind in a haze of doubt, and guilt, and agony.

  He had promised he wouldn’t leave her, and he had done that very thing. Just as she had been left all those years ago by the two people she loved most. He had meant what he said then, even though he’d known of her beliefs. He just hadn’t realized how all-consuming they were, or how absurd! It was one thing for her to believe that Jesus of Nazareth had been raised from the dead, by the power of a god. It was another thing to believe that the man himself had actually raised someone from the dead! And that he had done those other—innumerable—miraculous acts…

  Footsteps along the narrow road broke into his tortured thoughts, and he turned to see a dark figure coming closer, shuffling a little as though his legs were tired. He recognized the man named Paul, who had been present at Lazarus’ house. He felt a surge of annoyance, for he wanted to be left alone, and now civility demanded that he travel the rest of the way with this man who had, for the most part, remained silent all evening…but whose eyes burned with a strange light behind them.

  The man was not as tall as he, and looked up with a show of surprise. “Who is it—why, it’s Metellus Petraeus, isn’t it?”

  The night was clear and bright with moonlight. Paul gave a tug of his cloak and remarked, “It’s turned cold—why aren’t you riding, young man? Has the horse gone lame?”

  “No. I was—thinking.”

  “Walk with me, won’t you? I always like company.”

  Metellus thought gloomily that it was no wonder, when the dead Nazarene might materialize out of thin air at any moment. These Christians must be a nervous lot.

  “What are you going to do—now that you have completed your mission?” Paul asked. “Return to Rome?”

  “I’m going to Cyprus,” Metellus answered, as they began to walk together down the slightly descending road. He let go of Samson’s reins, and the horse followed obediently. “I have some property there.”

  “A beautiful island—that is a fine horse you have! Did you train him to do that?”

  “Yes, he is a fine horse,” Metellus agreed. “I learned in the army to train horses.”

  “Some men have a gift for it.”

  Metellus nodded and wished the man would be quiet. He didn’t feel like making idle conversation. Paul fell silent, as if reading his mind. Metellus discovered he wasn’t comfortable with the silence, either. He would start the man talking, and then return to his own thoughts.

  “I presume you are one of these Christians,” he said, trying not to sound judgmental. “Others had a story to tell—what is yours?”

  Paul gave him a sidewise glance, hesitated for a moment, and asked, “Are you certain you want to know?”

  Metellus shrugged. “I think I’ve heard enough tonight not to be surprised by anything.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that—I once hunted Christians, and sent them to prison, and had them killed?”

  Metellus stopped and stared at him.

  “Yes.” The man nodded at him. He had an earnest and direct way of looking at a person that was singularly disarming. “Those memories are like a thorn in my side. But one cannot change the past. Shall we go on?”

  Slowly, Metellus began to stride forward again. “Obviously something changed your mind,” he said.

  “That’s why I didn’t stay in Bethany. Some of them—Peter and Lazarus, and indeed, the entire church in Jerusalem—have accepted me. I think it’s clear now that I am a different man, but there are some who remember. It’s not that they don’t trust me, or haven’t forgiven me—but as I said, memories can live for a long time.
I thought everyone would be more comfortable if I returned to Jerusalem.”

  Metellus said nothing, waiting for him to gather his thoughts.

  “It doesn’t help, of course, that I have preached mostly to Gentiles. Until recently, the Jewish Christians had little to do with them, I’m sorry to say.”

  “You were going to tell me, sir, what changed your mind. Without preaching, I hope.”

  “I will tell you in plain language, and allow you to draw your own conclusion.” The man walked for a moment without speaking. Their footsteps on the earthen path, the clop of the horse’s hooves, the rustlings in the trees beside them, were the only sounds in the cold, clear night.

  “I was about your age,” he began, giving Metellus a thoughtful look. “I had rounded up all the Christians I could find in Jerusalem, and so I asked the High Priest to give me authority to go to Damascus, and arrest all the Christians there. Many of those from Jerusalem who escaped me had gone to that city. Although, mind you, the leaders of the church in Jerusalem—Peter and James and others, did not flee. The priests flogged them, and threatened them, but they only said they could not help but do what they were doing. And it’s rather difficult to kill them—one has to receive permission from Rome to do so. Except for one man. His name was Stephen. He drove us to madness with his words about Jesus, and before we knew it, we had dragged him from the city and stoned him to death.”

  “You were one of the priests?”

  “I was with them. He wasn’t the only one I was responsible for killing, but—he is the one that I remember most.”

  When Paul didn’t speak for a moment, Metellus asked, “What interest did you have in the Christians? Why did you care what they did?”