Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  “I was a Pharisee. One of the Sanhedrin. That is the ruling Council of the Jews, as you may know. Rome allows us to more or less govern ourselves, at least in religious matters.” The man’s tone became heavily ironic. “I thought I was doing God a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “Getting rid of those followers of Jesus. Men and women who were otherwise good Jews, who had gone after this miracle-worker, this Nazarene, who claimed to be one with God. To me, it was blasphemy, and they all deserved to die.”

  “What did you think of his miracles?” Metellus asked curiously, for it was plain to see that this Paul of Tarsus was a highly educated man.

  “I never saw one of them, therefore it was easy to dismiss them. Unfortunately, there were hundreds, and even thousands, who did witness these things. But even Satan can perform some miracles—whatever God will allow him to do.”

  “Satan?”

  “A fallen angel, who is the adversary of God. We used to say Jesus got his power from Satan. God forgive us all!”

  Metellus was growing impatient. “What happened, then, to make you believe Jesus is a god?”

  “Not a god. The only begotten son of God. And if we say he is the son of God, we mean that he is also God! Young man, we are almost to the city. Why don’t you come with me to the house where I’m staying? My friends will be happy for you to visit and hear all we have to say.”

  Metellus couldn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “I’ve heard all I care to hear. Thank you, sir, but no. I’m not interested in this new religion.”

  “I see. Well, we shall soon part company, so let us stop here for a moment.”

  They stopped walking. They had crossed the Kidron Valley and were about to enter the lower city, on the southeast edge of Jerusalem.

  “Forgive me if I do not add all the details, for I perceive you do not wish to hear them. As I said, I had asked permission to go to Damascus—a journey of five or six days, so that should tell you how serious I was. It was my intention to bring all the Christians back in chains, women as well as men. I was not alone—there were others with me. It was mid-day. Suddenly a light shone upon us, brighter even than the sun. I can scarcely describe it, other than to say it was like a living light…it seemed to pulse, as the very blood that flows through our bodies. Needless to say, we were all terrified. I fell to the ground and closed my eyes. And then a voice spoke to me. It said, ‘Saul, Saul’—you see, I was called by my Jewish name in those days…I am a Roman citizen, and thus have a Roman name as well. And when God says something twice, my friend, you had better listen!”

  Paul gave a short laugh. “As if I wouldn’t have listened had he only said it once! And the voice said, ‘Why are you persecuting me?’ I thought I wasn’t going to be able to speak, but I managed to say, ‘Who are you?’ And he said, ‘I am Jesus.’”

  Metellus did not allow his expression to change, though his annoyance turned immediately into fury. Lying? Insane? Which was it? They had robbed him of Rachel with their lies! He felt like hitting the man.

  Paul looked at him, with his discerning gaze. “You are not willing to hear the complete story,” he observed. “To shorten it, I will say simply that after I had recovered from this episode, I began to preach in the streets and synagogues of Damascus the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ. Instead of arresting the known Christians, I was gathering new ones. When some of the Jews there tried to kill me, I was smuggled out of the city by Jesus’ disciples.”

  “Why you?” Metellus asked, trying to swallow his anger and not succeeding. “If this Jesus were indeed alive, why would he appear to you?”

  Paul’s gaze became distant, thoughtful. “He had work for me to do. And who can know the mind of God? But two things I know—I am a man who goes about everything I do with great zeal. And because of my education, I am an expert in the Scriptures, so I am able to show the evidence that points to Jesus as our Messiah. It is evidence I had closed my mind against, until that day. Even then I could hardly believe it. I sat in blindness for three days, thinking, and praying. Until my eyes were opened.”

  He turned to Metellus. “I was an insolent man, a blasphemer, a fool. The message of the cross is a stumbling block to Jews…and foolishness to Gentiles. I am going to pray for you, Metellus. And for that young woman you love.”

  Metellus looked at him swiftly, and was amazed to see tears in the other man’s eyes.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Rachel stood in disbelief as she listened to the fading hoofbeats. Behind her, someone ran into the stable, and she turned to see Daphne standing beneath the gently swinging lamp, her eyes wide.

  “I saw Metellus riding out,” she said breathlessly. “Rachel, what has happened?”

  “He left me,” Rachel said, as though in a daze. “He’s gone.”

  “Left you? What do you mean?”

  “He says he will never believe as we do. And he doesn’t think that we should—be married.”

  Daphne stared at her. “Oh, my dear—”

  “He did not mean it,” Rachel said, straightening her shoulders in an unconscious gesture of defiance. “He will return.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rachel. But—perhaps it is for the best. Certainly we can all love him, and wish the best for him, and pray for him—but think of what it would have been like, dear. I’ve heard Paul speak of being—unequally yoked, he called it. Think of a mule being yoked together with an ox. What a disaster that would be!” She paused, and when Rachel remained silent, went on delicately. “And what of your children? How would they be raised—as Christian, or pagan? What kind of influence would he have on them? How could you bear it, Rachel? Yes, perhaps it is for the best!”

  Rachel came to life, her eyes blazing. “You do not know what you are saying! He is the only man I will ever love. I will wait for him to come back to me, and until then…please don’t say any of what you have just said—ever again!”

  * * * *

  Her feelings were too deep for tears. She lay staring at the ceiling, unconscious of the quiet voices of the guests who had stayed overnight…drifting murmurously through the unshuttered windows from the courtyard, and the rooftop. A chill breeze swept through the room, which she did not feel. She could think only of Metellus; she ached for him…mind, body and soul.

  She knew that he loved her. They were connected in a way that could not be easily broken, and except for their unconsummated marriage, were as intimate as two people could be. The separation of two hearts so joined together would be painful beyond endurance, and she sensed that he was not one to go long without something he wanted. That was why she was sure he would come back, whether he accepted the Lord or not, and she would pray unceasingly that he would accept the truth. She felt…then…that she would wait, and pray, until her dying day.

  The next morning, when the guests had gone, she found all four of her guardians on the courtyard…picking up cushions and pallets and piling them together, as the servants cleaned and took away tables and chairs. The autumn sun warmed the tiles and radiated upward, chasing away the chill air of the night before. As soon as she saw their faces, Rachel knew that Daphne had told them.

  “Oh, my dear,” said Judith, as Daphne had said and in exactly the same tone. She started toward Rachel and stopped. Though a kind woman, she was not demonstrative. She glanced uncertainly at her husband. They all seemed tense and apprehensive, as though afraid she was going to revert to her former state of apathy and hopelessness.

  “God is good,” she said, and smiled at them. “You mustn’t worry about me. I know that Metellus will come back. But, Simon, I missed my visit to you and Daphne this summer. Do you mind if I go back with you?”

  Simon’s brows were drawn together in concern, but he answered, “You know we want you to come.”

  “I want to be away from here, from visitors and neighbors—just for a while.” Rachel turned to Lazarus. “Do you mind? I love you all dearly, but I—” Her voice faltered and she paused before going on. “I n
eed to be alone.”

  “Of course,” Lazarus replied. “You must think and pray, Rachel, and find God’s will.”

  “If Metellus comes here, you will send him to me, won’t you?”

  Lazarus glanced at Judith, who nodded. “We will,” he said.

  Rachel turned, and Samuel was standing behind her. “You’ve only just come home,” he said, with child-like disappointment. “Why are you going away again, Rachel?”

  “I’m not going away,” she answered, bending down to embrace him. “And it’s only for a little while.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Soon,” she said, smiling into his face. “I promise.”

  * * * *

  The Antonia’s commander was tall and swarthy, with crisp gray hair cut short in the Roman fashion. He owed his appointment to Paulus Valerius, who had recommended the tribune to Tiberius Caesar as his replacement in a letter he had written, just before his remarkable disappearance. Tribune Lysias was not always honest, though he valued honesty, but he was a reasonable man and a loyal soldier. He believed in Rome, and in himself as her representative. He had been fairly successful at keeping order in Jerusalem, until the past few years. The gods knew it was not an easy task, for the Jews were stubborn, the religious leaders were annoying, and the soldiers under his command had to be held tightly in rein lest they offend one of them and cause a riot.

  He was frustrated under the rule of Cumanus, whom he felt was weak and ineffectual…as had been most of the procurators before him. He, Lysias, should have been governor by now…but that did not seem to be his destiny. He didn’t have the right connections politically, and Claudius Caesar had never taken much interest in Jerusalem…especially since the death some years ago of his good friend, King Herod Agrippa. Herod’s son, Agrippa the Second, had been made king of Chalcis in Syria, and was also responsible for appointing the High Priests in Jerusalem. He seemed harmless enough but Lysias did not like him, for though he was a Jew he was thoroughly Roman in thought and behavior…which to Lysias’ way of thinking implied compromise, and thus weakness.

  The commander walked to the window of his large bedchamber in the praetorium and saw a carriage roll to a stop below. His wife and stepdaughter had arrived for their annual visit. They did not like Jerusalem, or Palestine, and continued to live in his wife’s native city of Philippi. He often wondered why they bothered to visit. He supposed they must keep up appearances, and it was a diversion for them. As for himself, he didn’t really care if they visited or not. He had not been lonely.

  He went leisurely down the long corridor and then the stairs, stopping in the main reception room. He certainly wasn’t about to go running out to greet them. As he headed for his desk he heard someone walk past the doorway and turned.

  “Metellus!”

  Metellus stopped and came into the room. Lysias noticed that his eyes were shadowed as if he hadn’t slept well…he had not been himself the last two days.

  “I meant to speak with you before I leave,” Metellus said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “You’re leaving today?”

  “Yes. I had to make arrangements to send my horses to Cyprus. They’re going to be put on a ship at Joppa. I heard of a ship with stalls aboard, but they weren’t taking passengers. I will sail from Caesarea. And frankly, I’d rather not travel on a ship full of animals. I hired a man who should take good care of them.”

  Lysias nodded. “I wish you would stay here, Metellus. We have a few horses on the wild side who could use some—educating. I hear you’re good at teaching sword-fighting as well.”

  “Thank you, Lysias, but I’m ready to be on my way.”

  The commander strode a little away from him, his head slightly lowered in thought. “I have also heard that you acquitted yourself very well with the emperor in Britain. That letter that you delivered from Cumanus…it has brought me some concern, and I think you would be a help to me.”

  Metellus asked, without much interest, “What about the letter?”

  “A strange letter,” Lysias said, somewhat irritably. “But like Cumanus. Half taking me in his confidence, and half secretive. He says to increase the training and drilling of my men, and be ready for an altercation that might take place next spring, around the Jew’s Passover. Apparently his spies have caught on to some kind of rumor.”

  “What did he mean by—altercation ?”

  “He didn’t say. Something to do with the Jews, no doubt. Things often happen during their religious celebrations. There will be thousands of visitors here then, and anything is possible. I don’t mind telling you…I don’t have any exceptionally good men under me. I could use your knowledge and experience.”

  Metellus smiled. “I had reasons for leaving the army, Lysias. One of them was to get away from men like the procurator. I doubt he has heard about anything in particular. This entire city is already like a pot ready to boil over.” His smile turned to a half-frown. “I’m ready to start a life of being my own commander. Why haven’t you retired by now?”

  Lysias shrugged. “It’s in my blood I suppose—”

  The sound of movement in the hall stopped him, and a sentry appeared in the doorway. “You have guests, Tribune,” he said solemnly, and stepped aside. He seemed to be trying, without success, not to stare at the young woman who burst into the room. She was clothed in a ruby-colored gown that clung to every curve, with blue-black hair piled in curls, into which had been pinned colorful ribbons and flashing jewels. She was followed by an older woman, who seemed to droop with fatigue and wore an equally drooping blonde wig.

  The young woman went straight to Lysias and kissed him. “Hello, Father. It’s been such a trying day! How are you? Mother’s been complaining every mile! Every year she says it’s the last time she’ll come!” Her sky blue eyes darted toward Metellus.

  “My stepdaughter,” Lysias said. “Elektra. And my wife.” He stretched out his arms toward the older woman in a rather unenthusiastic greeting. “Hello, Phyllis. I am sorry you did not enjoy your journey.”

  “And who are you?” Elektra asked, her eyes completely taking in the face and form of the handsome man standing halfway across the room.

  “My name is Metellus,” he replied, with a formal nod.

  “My friend was about to leave,” Lysias said, recognizing the predatory light in his stepdaughter’s gaze. She was seventeen and had been married and divorced twice.

  “But you can’t,” Elektra said brightly. “Now that I’ve just arrived and need someone to show me about.”

  “He is not a city guide,” Lysias said mildly. “And you’ve already seen everything there is to see here.”

  “But not with Metellus,” she answered, so pertly that Metellus smiled. She seemed thoroughly charmed by his reluctant smile.

  “I am pleased to have met you,” Metellus said, adding with a glance at the older woman, “and your mother. But I must go.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Cyprus. I have a house near Paphos.”

  “Indeed? And a wife, no doubt.”

  Metellus didn’t answer, but nodded again and left the room.

  “What does that mean?” he heard her say. “Was he answering yes, or saying goodbye? Is he married or not?”

  The older woman began speaking, airing her complaints about the uncomfortable carriage and bumpy roads. Metellus went to the room he’d been occupying and grabbed the satchel containing his belongings, slinging it over his shoulder and striding swiftly from the room. He’d gotten rid of most of his things, keeping only his sword and a few clothes. He had enough dried meat and pieces of fruit to last until he reached Caesarea. He had decided to walk there, instead of ride. He wasn’t sure why, except that it would take longer.

  He walked down the ramp on the west side of the fortress, and paused for an instant, his head turning toward the southeast…toward Bethany…though he saw nothing but the busy street below the Temple Mount. Rachel, he thought, feeling again that
unutterable sense of loss that had plagued him since he rode out of her guardian’s stable, and out of her life. It was as though a vital part of him were missing, as though something had split him jaggedly in half.

  But this was the way it had to be. He would recover, and so would she. She was strong, and had her faith to console her. He was strong, too, and he didn’t need that crutch to lean on. Somehow they would both move past this disaster, and start their lives over again.

  The moment passed, that last moment when he might have changed his mind. He turned in the opposite direction, joining the flow of people heading for the north gate. He passed through it, and looked up at the eerie, skull-shaped rock where a man had been crucified. Why were his followers so immovable, why were they so convinced he was alive? It was something he would never understand.

  * * * *

  With a few last strokes of her pen, Rachel finished the drawing she had been working on for the last several days. It had been raining almost since her arrival at Simon and Daphne’s house in Bethlehem, keeping her from doing what she had so looked forward to…walking through the woods and fields, watching Huldah graze in the meadow, helping to keep watch over the sheep. For lack of anything else to do, she had begun to sketch…something she had not done in years.

  The sight of Huldah and the memories evoked by the little donkey had been difficult, but she was still full of hope, still sure of Metellus’ love for her. Sometimes she was amazed that she had not been crushed by his words, but she knew that God’s grace was upon her. She knew, now, that she could endure anything, as long as God was with her.

  Someone knocked on the door, and before she could put away the great sheets of papyrus, it opened and Daphne came into the room. “Rachel, I must talk to you—” she said, and stopped. She walked quickly to the table where the sheets were laid out. “Why, Rachel!”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said quickly. “I hope you don’t disapprove.”