by Debra Diaz
“Metellus!” The younger woman waved at him. “We’ve come to visit you!”
Metellus walked toward them, trying to recall where he’d seen them before. It was a moment before it came to him—the Antonia. Lysias’ wife and daughter, or stepdaughter. He couldn’t think of their names.
Linos was already carrying in their bags, as though he thought they were expected. Metellus hid his surprise and said, “Hello—to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“We were on our way back to Philippi,” the older woman answered, with a tired smile. “And Elektra insisted we stop and pay you a visit.”
“I didn’t expect that you would remember me,” Metellus said.
“Of course we do.” Elektra gave him a long, sidewise look. “My stepfather spoke so highly of you. I would like to know you better, Metellus.”
Again he strove to hide his surprise and said, “You are welcome, but I regret I only have one extra room, if you don’t mind sharing it. I’ve been living in the smaller house while the new one is being built.”
“I don’t mind close quarters,” Elektra said silkily. Her beauty was impossible to ignore.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a room for your driver.”
“Oh, he’s nobody—a slave. We rented him along with the carriage. I see you have a barn. He can stay there.”
Metellus raised an eyebrow. “There is a village nearby, where he can stay.”
“No, he must be available whenever I want him.” She blinked her eyes at Metellus. “That is all right, isn’t it?”
He turned. “Korinna, show them to the guest room, and prepare food. Have Linos see to the comfort of the driver.”
It was almost time for the evening meal. The women followed the servant, and Metellus couldn’t help but notice the sultry manner, and walk, of the young woman. He was amused at first, and then puzzled, because he didn’t know why they should have come when they barely knew him, or how they had found him. His questions were answered as they sat together at the dining table.
“Stopping at Paphos is such a nice diversion from our sea voyage,” Elektra said, looking appreciatively at the platters of food on the table. “My father said you lived here. Cyprus is a beautiful island—everyone says so. I inquired of the city administrators where I might find you.. Of course they knew. You do remember us, I hope.”
“Most assuredly,” he said, recognizing the look in her eyes. She was prowling for a husband—or at least, a man. “How is your stepfather?”
“As devoted to duty as ever,” said the older woman. Metellus still didn’t know her name, but thought perhaps he would learn it eventually—without asking. She said, “I understand you are no longer with the army, Metellus.”
“No.”
“What are you going to do now?” Elektra asked, affecting an air of innocent curiosity.
“I intend to raise horses, once I have finished building the stables.”
“Don’t you like the city? Have you been to Paphos? It’s so exciting! All the beautiful shrines to Aphrodite! I’m sure they must have some very exciting festivals.”
“If you mean orgies, I think the governor has made public indecency against the law.”
Elektra smiled and leaned forward. “Well, he can’t have stopped them all! And what is indecent about celebrating love? How tiresome he must be! I know it’s getting dark, but I hope that tomorrow you will show me—I mean us—all around your new villa.”
“Of course.” Metellus looked at her reflectively. After a moment he asked, “How long will you and your mother be able to stay?”
Elektra’s blue gaze was very frank. “As long as you want me to stay,” she said.
* * * *
Rachel sat in the thickly cushioned swing and watched as Lazarus ascended the outer steps to the rooftop. A warm wind wafted over her, stirring her hair…it had grown considerably in the months since her return from Rome. Now it fell past her shoulders, over which she had draped a white mantle that covered part of the dark blue gown she wore.
“Thank you for waiting,” Lazarus said, smiling, taking a seat opposite her in a wicker chair. “I had some things to attend to. I have wanted for some time to speak to you alone.”
Rachel waited. She knew what he was going to say.
Though tactful, Lazarus seldom failed to get quickly to the point. “What are your feelings now, Rachel, about Metellus?”
Her stomach tightened at the mention of his name, though she had tried to prepare herself.
“I will always love Metellus,” she said, in a low voice.
“But something tells me that—you have given him up to God.”
She lowered her gaze and nodded.
“Does this mean, Rachel, that you will consider marriage to Benjamin?”
Rachel didn’t look up. “I don’t know.”
“Please look at me, dear.”
She raised her eyes to the kind dark ones. “You will find that the older one gets, the faster is the passage of time. You should have been married long ago. While I don’t insist that you consider my wishes, I would feel more secure if you had a husband—before I grow much older. I know that Simon and Daphne will care for you, but Simon is not much younger than I.”
“Lazarus, there are many widows, and women who never married, in the world.”
“But their life is more difficult. And I believe you’ve been lonely, haven’t you?”
Rachel looked down again, but nodded.
“And Benjamin has helped you, hasn’t he?”
Her head came up quickly. “But Lazarus, can I marry Benjamin while loving Metellus? It would not be fair to Benjamin! You do remember—my mother made the same mistake, and paid dearly for it.”
“That situation was a little different, my dear. At the time, faith was not a part of her decision. Can you compromise your faith by joining yourself in a sacred union with a man who does not share it? Do you even believe, Rachel, that he will ever come back?”
Rachel rose to stand beside the balustrade, looking out over the drowsing town without seeing it. At last the winter was gone and a freshening breeze swept down from the nearby Mount of Olives. Perhaps her mother had stood in this very place, while making decisions that would affect her life forever.
“I don’t know if he will ever come back,” she said softly. “And if he does, I don’t know if he will change his mind, about our faith. Yes, I have given him up to the Lord.” She stiffened her shoulders, forced a smile, and turned to face him. “I will consider marriage to Benjamin.”
* * * *
Metellus led the way through the many rooms of the villa, until they came to the main courtyard facing the sea. His guests had followed, wide-eyed…now they stood and admired the sight of waves crashing and foaming over the rocks below.
“I had no idea soldiers earned so much—I mean—the emperor must have been very generous with you,” the older woman said, pulling absently at her slightly crooked wig.
Metellus made no comment; he had finally remembered that her name was Phyllis, but did not address her, hoping to avoid getting on friendly terms with her. He didn’t like her much, nor her daughter—though there was no denying the latter’s physical charm.
Elektra stood in a carefully assumed pose, allowing him to absorb the allurement of her statuesque figure and the perfection of her profile. A breeze lifted her glossy black hair from her face.
“What a lovely view. I admit I’ve always been afraid of the ocean, and I detest sea voyages. But one can admire it from afar. Are you going to build a swimming pool here, Metellus? Not that I swim—I mean, I hear that it’s an excellent way for men to keep in good condition.”
“I had thought of it,” Metellus said. “Perhaps later.”
“Well,” said Elektra, turning to give him a brilliant smile. “I would love to see more of Paphos, especially the forum. Won’t you come with us?”
It might be an interesting diversion. Metellus gave assent, and soon he and Elektra were in the carriage
on the way to the city, Phyllis having declined to join them. They left the carriage near the gate and walked through the streets. There were explicit reminders of the love goddess everywhere…even Sergius Paullus did not have the authority to remove them. Elektra held onto his arm and pressed against him at every opportunity. Thankfully he saw neither Barnabas nor John Mark…he didn’t know why, but he didn’t want them to see him with his overly affectionate companion.
They ate a meal in the city, tarried for a few hours longer, and rode back to his house. Elektra practically sat on top of him in the carriage. It would be easy to take advantage of the situation…he just wasn’t sure if he wanted any sort of entanglement with her. She was not the kind of woman he wanted to marry. He didn’t know what he wanted, exactly—but Rachel’s face came into his mind again and again. Would he never be able to forget her? The thought disturbed him; the physical response he felt toward this woman made him feel guilty. Why should he keep denying himself, he thought…just as a crash of thunder fairly rocked the carriage, and a deluge of rain poured from the sky.
“Oh!” Elektra cried, and this time did crawl half into his lap. “I hate storms!”
He put his arm around her, but they were almost to the house. The carriage rolled to a stop and the driver leaped down to open the door. Metellus was already getting out, his arm around the girl’s waist, and he swooped her to the front door.
“How strong you are!” she cried, as they ran inside the house. “Why, you take my breath away!” She pushed back her dampened hair and laughed softly. “I shall go and get out of these wet clothes.”
All the lamps were lit in the dining room as they ate supper, with Phyllis nowhere to be seen. Metellus had overheard Elektra telling her mother to stay in their room…the reason for which seemed obvious. Seeing his eyes linger on her for a moment, she seized her advantage and resumed the attack.
Leaning forward to give him a view of her overexposed bosom, she said, “I’ve never known anyone like you, Metellus. So handsome and strong and ri—that is, so—so secure, and sure of yourself. I’m glad we’ve gotten to know each other.”
“So am I,” he said obliquely, taking a long drink of wine. “I feel I know you very well, Elektra.”
“Really? What do you think of me, Metellus?”
“I think—” He paused and said, “I think you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
He gave her so direct a look that her cheeks colored. “That pleases me very much. Is there anything I can do to—please you, Metellus?”
Before he could answer, Korinna appeared as if by magic and began clearing away dishes. She was frowning, and met his eyes with a look that increased the gnawing sense of guilt. Again he rebelled against it. He was not a married man, after all! If Korinna was going to sit in judgment of him he would just have to find new servants.
When Korinna had left, Elektra leaned forward again and giggled. “What a disagreeable woman she is, Metellus.” She whispered, with a conspiratorial air, “You know, you haven’t shown me your room.”
Without a word, he stood and helped her from her chair. They went into the long hallway, where lamps flared along the walls. Rain beat hard against the roof…an errant draft of wind caused the flames to dance wildly. Thunder crashed, and with a gasp Elektra flung her arms around him.
“I’m so afraid of storms,” she breathed, and when he met her eyes she pressed against him and raised her face to his. His arms went around her and he kissed her, his mood dark and fierce, until she made a sound in her throat like a cat. Unexpectedly his passion guttered and died, exactly like a flame snuffed out by an invisible hand. A vision, a scent of Rachel, a remembrance of the moments they had shared, flooded over him. Abruptly he pushed the other woman back and looked into her face.
“You must go,” he said, almost embarrassed by the untimely departure of his desire.
Her half-closed eyes opened wide. “Wha—what?”
“I want you to leave,” he said ungraciously, a scowl appearing on his brow. “I expect you and your mother to be gone by noonday tomorrow.”
She stared uncomprehendingly back at him. “I don’t understand! Metellus, what have I done?”
“Nothing you haven’t intended to do, from the moment you came to this house. Uninvited.”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“If it’s a rich husband you’re looking for, there are plenty of men who would be all too eager to accommodate you. I do not intend to marry you, or anyone.”
“You don’t have to marry me,” she drawled, her hands going out toward his shoulders. “Don’t be silly. I’m like any other woman, Metellus, and you are so—”
He grabbed one of her hands and began to drag her toward the room she shared with her mother.
“Stop!” she hissed. “Let go of me!”
“I want you out of here,” he said again. “Tomorrow!”
In the flickering light he could see disbelief turn abruptly into outrage.
“Oh! I thought you were a man, but you’re nothing but a—” She began furiously to berate him with insults so explicit they fairly burned his ears, but he stood his ground and stared back at her with such a formidable expression that she stopped and took a step backward.
“How dare you try to take me against my will!” she cried, changing tactics swiftly as he advanced toward her. She continued to retreat. “I’ll tell my mother. I’ll tell my stepfather, and he’ll have you stretched on the rack until you’ll never be able to—”
Metellus reached out and grabbed her arm, told her in a few well-chosen words that her stepfather undoubtedly knew what she was, and to go to her room before he really lost his temper…which caused her to burst into tears, wrench away from him, and turn to run blindly down the corridor.
Metellus waited until he heard the door close with a bang, then he strode swiftly toward the door leading outside and let it slam shut behind him. He stalked through the pounding rain until he came to the villa, went inside and slammed that door as well. He stood looking around at the ghostly pillars and shadowed walls, amazed at his own actions.
“Why?” he exclaimed, and the sound echoed through the vast, empty rooms. It was not yet completely dark and he began roaming through the halls, avoiding the ladders and benches and tools scattered everywhere…though he was not conscious of them, nor of the strong smell of plaster and paint, nor of anything but the explosive, inexplicable feeling inside him.
He had refused Elektra, surely one of the most beautiful and passionate women he had ever met. Why? A year ago they would have had quite a romp and without his feeling a twinge of guilt, but now…
It wasn’t just because of Rachel. It was true, no other woman could mean as much to him as she did, but something else was pulling at him…He kept walking, back and forth across the many rooms and corridors, his clothes dripping water along the floor. The wide stairway was not finished; it had merely been framed out in wood, and he found himself standing beside it. He stood there for a long time, lost in thought, and finally sat down on one of the steps.
“It’s because I know better,” he thought, incredulously. “I know it would be wrong. It’s because I believe in this God. I have seen and heard too much. I have no choice but to believe it.”
He did have a choice, he realized suddenly. He might believe in this Jesus of Nazareth, but that didn’t mean he had to do anything about it. That didn’t mean he had to give up his whole life…
* * * *
Rachel sat at the window of her bedroom, looking up at the moon and stars. She had been sitting there, thinking, for a long time, when she felt a stirring within her spirit, urging her to pray. Metellus’ face came into her mind.
“Help him, Father,” she whispered, as she did every day. “Help him to believe, before it is too late. It doesn’t matter if he ever comes back to me. All that matters is his eternal soul.”
As she prayed, she felt God’s comforting hand on her; she felt him giving her st
rength…for doing what she had to do.
* * * *
It had stopped raining and night had fallen. Metellus could see hazily out through a window, and in the distance, within a window of the smaller house, a lamp burned.
I am the light of the world…
He felt the words, rather than heard them. They beckoned him, welcomed him. He felt his resistance begin to crumble. His darkness was turning to light, as surely and completely as night gave way to dawn. He had known the truth for a long time…that Jesus of Nazareth, the son of God, had laid down his sinless life upon a Roman cross…payment for the sins of man against the God of heaven, who demanded holiness and justice. Who could be holy? No one! Not unless they covered themselves in the blood of that sacrifice.
Once he had called it superstition. Was that enough to explain why these Christians risked their lives? Did that explain why Paulus Valerius and his friend, Flavius, had knelt in confidence before their executioner?
Metellus realized, with a sense of shock, that he had known the truth since that day. Something about those men had convinced him. But like Paul of Tarsus, he had kicked and fought. He had refused to accept it, because he had not wanted to admit his need for a Savior.
Much of it was still a mystery, but now Metellus was sure of one thing: Jesus had lived, he had died, he had risen. And if he had risen, everything he said was true.
Remorse for his own sins and his stubbornness overwhelmed him. He had been in danger of hardening his heart forever, but as light flowed through him, so did love…God’s love. He moved off the step and sank to his knees.
“Save me” he said roughly, brokenly. It was all he could say.