by Debra Diaz
The pale sun had retreated behind a cloud, and Rachel realized she was shivering. She rose, and began to walk to the house.
* * * *
Metellus went from room to room with a critical eye, noting the straightness of the sturdy oak doors, the evenness of the tiled floors; he went out onto the courtyard, where stone steps led upward to the various rooms. He could smell the jasmine the artisans had planted near the house so its scent could be enjoyed inside, as well as outside. There were stone walkways and gardens all around the house. He could stand on one side and see the ocean, and on the other side for a magnificent view of the distant mountains, and below, the red roofs of a nearby village.
Just now there was a rainbow hanging in the eastern sky, arching gracefully over the village, and for some reason it reminded him of Rachel. She was never far from his thoughts. As he stood contemplating the progress of his villa, it occurred to him that he had been building it the way he thought Rachel would have liked it…with a certain elegance combined with restraint…nothing lavish, no obscene paintings or frescoes, no statues. Well, he would order statues tomorrow, he thought, annoyed with himself. He would hire a local artist to paint something on the walls—he didn’t want anything indecent, either, but he could at least have some nature or wildlife scenes…
It was late in the afternoon, and the workers had already left for the day. He climbed the outer steps to the stretch of lawn and trees behind the villa, and went into the house where he had been living for the past several months. The servants, an elderly married couple named Linos and Korinna, were preparing his supper. He sat down to stare out the window and thought how pleasant it would be to play a game of latrunculi, except there was no one with whom to play. It would be pleasant, too, to have someone sit across from him and play the lute or the lyre—whatever it was she had been playing that day. But there was no one here…he would dine alone, too, as usual, unless he rode to the tavern in the village, as he sometimes did.
Metellus cursed under his breath—before, he’d never minded being alone. Meeting Rachel had changed him, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He’d have to get a wife, he supposed, or some sort of companion…
The next day he rode into Paphos and inquired about hiring a local artist to paint frescoes on several walls of the house. After making that arrangement, he was walking toward the place he’d left his horse when two men walking nearby stopped and spoke to him.
“Metellus, isn’t it?”
Metellus stopped. He knew he had seen the men before, but he couldn’t place them at once…and then he remembered.
“You will forgive me—I know your faces, but your names—”
“Barnabas,” said the man who had spoken. He was tall, with a dignified manner and a ready smile. The man with him was possibly ten years younger. “And this is my cousin, John Mark.”
Metellus nodded at them. “How are you? I remember seeing you in Bethany.”
“Yes. We usually travel with Paul—this time we separated. We started at Salamis and have been down the entire length of the island. We just had a visit with Sergius Paullus. He told us you were building a house not far from here.”
“What do you mean you—started at Salamis?”
“Well,” said Barnabas, “it was the starting point of our journey. Spreading the word about the Lord, visiting the churches. We will go on to other places in a few days.”
They seemed to wait expectantly. Metellus asked, “Are you staying with the governor?”
“No,” answered the younger man. “He invited us, but we declined. We had heard you came to Cyprus.”
“Indeed?” said Metellus. “Who told you?”
“Why, I believe it was Paul,” Barnabas replied. “I’m not sure how he knew it, if that’s what you are wondering. We were hoping to see you here. In fact, we were about to pay you a visit.”
There seemed nothing else to do but to have them accompany him to his house. He couldn’t pretend to be very pleased about it, for he suspected they had come with the specific purpose of trying to convert him. He stopped for his horse and the three men walked the seven miles to his house. To his relief, the men made no allusions to their faith, and he found that he enjoyed their company, for Barnabas was very affable; John Mark said little but seemed to get on well with his cousin.
“I have done some carpentry myself,” Barnabas said. “Are they still working on your new house?”
“Yes—shelves and a few minor things. And I’m having some walls painted. It should be finished by spring.”
“I am at your disposal, if there’s anything I can do. And my cousin can drive a nail as well as anyone else.”
“Thank you,” Metellus said politely. He wondered how long they intended to stay.
Barnabas seemed to greatly approve of the villa’s appearance, and mentioned that he could build a cupboard that would fit perfectly into a certain space in the large dining room. He succeeded in talking Metellus into it and went immediately to gather supplies. A few days later it was finished—as beautiful a piece of furniture as Metellus had ever seen. John Mark did little about the house…Metellus received the impression that the young man’s immediate family was rather affluent and he was probably not accustomed to manual labor. However, he good-naturedly acted as his cousin’s assistant.
They did not speak of their work with the churches, and if they mentioned Jesus it was simply among themselves, to comment on something he had said or done. To Metellus’ relief, they made no attempt to preach to him. He was almost sorry when they said that they would be leaving the following day.
“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.
“I’m thinking of returning to Salamis,” Barnabas answered. “John Mark, I believe, intends to visit other places. Eventually I hope he will rejoin Paul.”
“It will be good to have you on the island,” Metellus said. “You must let me know if you stay.”
The next day there were few workers about, for the villa was almost finished. His visitors were preparing to depart when there was a commanding knock on the door. Korinna opened it to reveal a man of husky build and a wide face with large, almost tilted gray eyes and iron-gray hair. A younger man with dark hair stood behind him.
“I am Zenon,” the older one announced, looking around the room with a sharp gaze. “You have no doubt been expecting me.”
Metellus was about to say that regrettably he had not, when Barnabas strode toward them and said cheerfully, “Who hasn’t heard of Zenon? Metellus, this is the most famous artist on the island.”
“Which one of you is Metellus Petraeus?”
“I am Metellus. I’m sorry…I paid a visit to an agent and was not told your name.”
“I’m sure he assumed you would know of me. I am ready to begin. I have only a few days before I must fulfill another contract—I assume you have been told my fee. May I see the rooms you wish to be decorated?”
He was already striding forward in a commanding way. Metellus preceded him, followed by Barnabas, John Mark, and the other man. They entered the villa, with the artist looking reluctantly impressed, and then he rubbed his hands together and said briskly, “I do landscapes, animals, humans—nude or clothed—fruit, vegetables—well, what did you have in mind?”
Metellus’ brows drew together. “I hadn’t thought about it—draw whatever you like—except, no humans. And no satyrs or unicorns or things of myth.”
Zenon looked disappointed.
“How about a waterfall?” Barnabas suggested affably. “From the side of a mountain?”
Zenon waited. When Metellus gave a nod, he clapped his hands toward the man who had accompanied him. “My paints, Agapos. Hurry! Where is a ladder?”
His assistant hurried away. A ladder was brought. The artist donned a cape over his tight-fitting clothes and climbed the tall ladder.
Korinna appeared and announced that the mid-day meal was being served in the new dining room, and Metellus persuaded his guests to dine with him b
efore they left. Zenon and his assistant worked in the great front room, with the artist making loud comments now and again to the effect that he did not overly appreciate the abilities of Agapos. Metellus and John Mark were amused, but Barnabas, for some reason, looked solemn.
Metellus was never sure exactly how the accident happened, but when he and his guests had finished eating and were walking toward the entrance, the inept assistant seemed to stumble over a stack of mosaic tiles waiting to be put on top of the plain stone flooring. He fell heavily against the ladder, on which Zenon perched in a pose of deep concentration, his arm outstretched to make a flourishing stroke with his brush.
The ladder swayed, as the other men leaped toward it. The artist’s eyes bulged and he gave a cry as it fell…the ceiling was high, and it was a long fall. Metellus was too late to grab the ladder or even to attempt to soften the fall of the man, and they were forced to watch helplessly as he hit the stone floor. A thud and several ominous cracks were heard, and all humor was forgotten as they realized that the man was badly injured.
Metellus and John Mark knelt beside him. Agapos stood frozen with horror. Blood pooled beneath the man’s head, but he was still conscious, and he struggled to sit up. Metellus placed a firm hand on his chest and would not permit him to do so. One of his arms and both of his legs were bent at impossible angles.
“Get a blanket,” Metellus said to Korinna, who fluttered about with a cloth pressed against her mouth. “Can any of you ride a horse? We need a physician.”
“I’ll go,” said John Mark, rising quickly to his feet.
“Wait,” said Barnabas. His voice was so full of authority that everyone stared at him, except for Zenon, whose eyes rolled up in his head and closed.
Barnabas walked slowly toward the injured man. His hands were steady as he knelt and placed one of them on the man’s forehead.
“In the name of Jesus Christ,” he said, his voice as steady as his hands, “you are healed.”
Metellus watched in amazement as Barnabas touched the man’s arm, moving it into a straight line. He did the same with the man’s legs. Zenon sat up, trembling, and looked around him.
“What happened?” Zenon asked. “Did you give me something to stop the pain?”
Metellus couldn’t speak for a moment, and then he said, “No. Can you move your arm, and your legs?”
Zenon made a movement that enabled him to see the blood where his head had struck the floor. The healthy color in his face paled and he braced both hands behind him. “Where did that come from?”
Agapos stood by with his mouth open. Korinna ran to them with a blanket, and dropped it. John Mark walked over to stand quietly beside his cousin.
“How did you do that?” Metellus asked. “Are you a physician?”
Barnabas shook his head. Zenon was running his hands over his scalp and finding no lacerations.
“I fell off that ladder,” he said. “I was bleeding. I was in great pain. How long have I been lying here?”
“Not long enough to get well,” John Mark said wryly. “You were healed by the power and mercy of Jesus Christ.”
“Who is that? What do you mean?”
Metellus rose and left the room. He wouldn’t stay and listen to what they told him. Obviously Barnabas had the gift of healing…he had known how to straighten the man’s limbs, and stop his bleeding.
Part of his mind refused to accept that explanation. The man’s arm and legs had been broken; he had probably suffered other severe but less obvious injuries. One didn’t just straighten a broken limb…it had to be set, and it took weeks to heal.
Feeling dazed, he waited outside the front entrance. After a short time Zenon stalked out as though nothing had happened to him, followed by his silent assistant. “This is preposterous,” he was saying. “I don’t know how you did it. I certainly don’t think a dead man—well, a god—” He stopped and looked with perplexity at Metellus. “I was badly hurt. I don’t know how he did it. I shall have to consider—by the way, I won’t be back. I had barely started, but someone else can finish it. This place is bad luck for me. You may send me your payment for the hour I was here.” He looked scathingly back at his assistant. “Come along, you clumsy fool!”
Metellus watched the two men walk down the tree-lined lane to the road, noticing that Zenon did not even limp. He turned to see Barnabas standing beside him. He didn’t know what to say, and finally asked, “Have you ever done anything like this before?”
The other man answered, “I have seen Paul do such things, but I have never done—anything like this. I just knew, somehow, that I should do it. Perhaps I never shall again. But I think I must have been here today…for a reason.”
Korinna approached them with her husband, who had been summoned from the other house. “Shall I rinse out your clothing, sir?” she asked timidly.
Metellus saw blood on Barnabas’ robe, where he had knelt beside Zenon, and there was blood on his hands. “Please,” he said at once. “Come with me.”
He led the way to the smaller house, where Barnabas went into a bedroom to remove his outer garment. Metellus went to the well, accompanied by John Mark, and was drawing a bucket of water when Barnabas came out, his other robe tied about his waist and drooping down to cover his lower body. His torso was bare as he leaned over the bucket of water and scrubbed his hands.
Metellus stepped behind him, and immediately saw the vivid, upraised scars on the man’s back. He must have looked startled, for John Mark explained, “That is from a flogging he got in Jerusalem.”
“I’m sorry.” Barnabas straightened and dried his hands on the robe. “I had forgotten. I never think about it.”
“You mean the priests,” Metellus said. “Because you preached about the Nazarene.”
“That was the reason—yes.”
“I don’t know if Zenon thanked you for what you did. But I do thank you—however you did it.”
“I did nothing. It was God.”
Metellus decided there was no answer for that. He and John Mark waited in silence as Barnabas went back into the house, and soon returned in his dampened robe. Linos brought out the men’s baggage, which they strapped over their backs.
“It’s been good to visit you, Metellus,” Barnabas said, with his familiar smile. “I think we will stay in Paphos for a while. Perhaps we will see you again.”
“I hope so,” said Metellus, sincerely.
Barnabas put his hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been told that you know about Jesus. If you ever want to talk about him, please come and find us. Or, if we are gone, then Sergius Paullus, or any of the Christians here.”
Metellus gave a noncommittal nod.
“Do not delay,” said Barnabas, with such an air of authority that the servants, hovering nearby, looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “You know not what a day may bring. Death comes to every man, and eternity without God is a long, long time.”
CHAPTER XXI
Spring came to the villa…trees budded, flowers bloomed, and the sun was warm and pleasant. The white stone mansion standing at the edge of the cliff was almost finished, and soon wagonloads of the new furniture he had bought would begin to arrive, as well as urns filled with indoor plants, and more plants and shrubs for the gardens. He had forgotten to order statues, or to have another artist come and decorate the walls, but that could be done later. Metellus was busy now with plans for the new stables, and paddocks for the horses he would buy.
He sat one day drawing out some rough plans on a large sheet of parchment, listening absently as Linos and Korinna talked in the next room. It seemed to be an argument, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying, and presently Korinna came through the doorway and stood waiting.
He looked up. “Yes, Korinna?”
“Sir, I would like to ask your permission to be away from the house on the first day of every week.”
“What for?”
The white-haired woman looked at him anxiously and almost wrung her hands.
“There is a Christian family in the village, and they have worship meetings on that day.”
“Korinna,” he said, putting down his pen and staring at her. “Are you a Christian?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“When did this happen?”
“When the two visitors from Paphos were here. They talked to Linos and me.”
Metellus felt a surge of irritation, though certainly there was no reason why Barnabas and John Mark should not have shared their faith. Come to think of it, he had noticed a change in Korinna lately. She smiled more often, squabbled less with her husband, and he had seen her kneeling one day as though praying…he had thought she was praying to the household gods.
“Well,” he asked, “what about Linos?”
She looked troubled. “He is not a believer, sir. But, with your permission, perhaps he will come with me to some of the meetings.”
He said, after a pause, “As you like. You may both go—as long as we don’t have guests.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” She whisked out of the room, but he continued to sit motionless, thinking. What other converts had Barnabas and John Mark gained on their visit? Some of the workers? They had all been gone to the nearby village for a meal when Zenon had fallen and been “miraculously” healed. It was probably a good thing, for they were a superstitious lot and might have proclaimed the two men gods! But if the men had spoken to the workers, some of them may have become Christians. He shook his head; it was nothing to him…as long as they didn’t trouble him with the nonsense.
Metellus didn’t like to think about the incident with Zenon. He knew there must be a rational explanation for it…he just didn’t know what it was! But that didn’t make it a miracle! Only gullible people who were trying to convince themselves of something believed in miracles.
He heard the sound of a carriage approach the front of the house, and rose to look out the window. A small blonde-haired woman was disembarking, assisted by the driver. She bumped her head and knocked her hair askew…so he knew it was a wig. He went through the rooms, following behind his own servants who were hurrying to the door. He stood in the doorway and watched as another woman climbed out, this one shapely and well-dressed with shining black hair.