by Debra Diaz
Barnabas had settled in a chair near a window and now rose to leave the room, to give him privacy. Metellus put out his hand.
“Stay, Barnabas. I don’t have anything to hide—that I know of. And though I am not, everyone still seems to think I am a tribune.”
He broke the seal and began to read the letter. A look of astonishment appeared on his face. After a moment he handed it to Barnabas and walked across the room to stand before the opposite window, to gaze unseeingly at the busy street.
Barnabas frowned slightly as he began to read aloud.
Tribune, I am the wife of Drusus Appius, the deputy procurator of Judea. Because of a former relationship with the father of your own wife, I am writing to you out of concern for her welfare, and that of her family.
I have information that there will be an attempt to murder a number of Christians in Jerusalem during the approaching Passover celebration. I do not know to whom to give this information. If you will come to Jerusalem, I am staying at the Antonia with my husband. Do not speak to anyone of what I have told you. Come directly to me.
The letter was unsigned. Barnabas laid it aside. “Do you know this woman?”
“I have met her. She was once married to Rachel’s father.”
“Paulus? So she’s the one…she sounds rather—”
“Direct,” said Metellus, remembering the scene with Megara in Caesarea.
“Yes. Is she to be believed?”
“I don’t know why she would invent such a story.” Metellus began to pace back and forth across the room. “Who would make such an attempt? The Jews, the Romans? How does she know of it? If from her husband, it must be a plot by Cumanus.”
“Peter and James and the others must be warned. I should not leave the church here just now, but if you are not going to Jerusalem, Metellus, then I will.”
“Of course I’m going. There is no need for both of us to go. I will warn the church in Jerusalem. And I think that Paul should be warned as well, wherever he is.”
“The last I heard, he was in Philippi. I will write a letter to James, in case you are delayed in your journey. And to Paul…and Lazarus. I won’t say how I came about the information.”
Metellus nodded. They were both quiet for a moment, and then Barnabas said, “Perhaps, son, this is the answer you have been looking for. God has summoned you to Jerusalem.”
CHAPTER XXIII
Megara was reading, a habit she had lately acquired, when a slave entered the room with a low bow. She looked up from the scroll, her brow furrowed.
“Yes, what is it?”
“A man is here to see you, my lady. He gave his name as Metellus Petraeus.”
She almost gave a start, and straightened, swinging her legs over the side of the couch on which she reclined. “He may enter.”
The slave disappeared and she gazed for a moment out the latticed window, where Mount Olivet rose against a light blue sky filled with brilliant white clouds. They shifted and changed shape, even in the brief moment that she watched them. A whisper of wind touched her red hair, piled in curls atop her head, and the gold-colored stola that adorned her shapely form.
Metellus walked into the room. Megara motioned to the slave and said, “Close the door, and mind that no one comes near.”
She looked at Metellus, struck again by his appearance and soldierly bearing. She said, “I see that you received my letter.”
He nodded. “I came as soon as I could.”
“You must think badly of me, Tribune, after the scene with your wife.”
“I am no longer a tribune,” he answered, perhaps for the hundredth time. “And I do not sit in judgment of you. I believe my wife regretted her outburst.”
Megara asked sharply, “Did she come with you?”
He hesitated. “Rachel has never left Bethany. At least, not that I know of.”
“Then what were you doing in Paphos?”
Metellus chose to overlook the fact that it was none of her business. “I was building a house.”
Megara frowned at him. “You are taking care of her, I presume.”
“You need not worry about Rachel. I came to discuss your letter.”
She said nothing for a moment, and then stretched out her hand. “Sit down, won’t you, Trib—I mean, Metellus?”
He took a seat opposite her. His face was guarded, but he seemed neither tense nor overtly suspicious. Perhaps she had been right about him…perhaps he would listen to her.
“I am placing a great deal of trust in you, Metellus. I overheard the plans I spoke of in the letter, and I don’t wish my husband or anyone else to know that I overheard them. I don’t wish anyone to know that you and I have spoken of it. But something must be done. I thought of you because—because Rachel married you. I believe the sort of man she married can be trusted.”
“Thank you, Megara, for thinking so well of Rachel. But I must tell you, our marriage was ordered by the emperor.”
There was silence, and he could almost see movement behind her topaz-colored eyes as she considered his reply.
“Do you love her?”
Without hesitation he answered, “Yes. I love her.”
“Then that is enough. May I tell you what I heard?”
“Megara, you can trust me to try and do the right thing. I cannot promise that you will remain completely uninvolved.”
A longer silence fell, and at last she said, “Very well. I owe a debt to my former husband’s child, and I intend to pay it. Her friends and her family, and even herself, are in danger.”
“If at all possible, I will keep your name out of whatever action I choose to take.”
“You cannot do it alone. You will have to convince Lysias to help you.”
Metellus moved restlessly. “First, tell me what you heard.”
Megara got to her feet, in a swirl of perfumed air. She walked a few steps, as if thinking, and turned to face him again. “A simple plot, concocted by the High Priest, to get rid of the Christians. Kill the leaders, and let the others scatter, and finally die out. He will blame it on the Zealots. Lysias does not know why, but he has been ordered not to allow his men to retaliate, or arrest anyone on the day this happens. Nothing must interfere with the murder of these Christians. Later, he can arrest some known Zealots and pretend that they were the murderers, to satisfy everyone that justice is being served.”
“But Lysias was warned that something might happen during Passover,” Metellus said, rising and going to stand beside her. “I saw a letter to that effect.”
“Yes, he was warned some time ago. And more recently, Cumanus ordered him not to intervene.”
“The governor knows of this plot?”
“Yes—he and my husband, the High Priest, and myself.”
“Who is going to attack the Christians?”
“Assasssins. The Sicarii.”
Once Metellus would have uttered an oath; now he walked to the window, stood there a moment, and walked back toward her.
“Who, specifically, do they plan to kill?”
“I have heard four names. James, the leader of the Jerusalem church. Peter and John, also leaders, but they travel a good deal. They are in Jerusalem now. And Lazarus, Rachel’s guardian, who is the head of a small church in Bethany. The priests hate him because he is a remembrance of a—miracle performed by the Nazarene. There are others, whose names I do not know.”
“And have they set a day?”
“Again, I do not know. I’m sure everything will happen in one day, because to draw it out would give the Christians time to flee. But I do know it is to happen sometime during the week of the Passover celebration, when people will be at the Temple and in the streets, and there can be as much terror spread as possible.”
“There is no way that all these men can be protected. And I don’t believe that any of them will flee. Even if they did, it could happen on their return. Somehow, the High Priest must be convinced not to carry out this plan.”
“Ananias is no
t going to change his mind. Can these men not be warned? At least they can be ready to protect themselves.”
“Yes, I will warn them. But it will change nothing. Megara, if Ananias controls the Temple, who controls Ananias?”
“That would be Herod Agrippa.”
“Does he know of this?”
Megara shrugged. “I have told you all I know.”
“I haven’t heard anything good about the Herods. What is Agrippa like?”
“He bows to Rome, like the rest of them.”
“Passover begins in two weeks,” Metellus said, as if thinking aloud. He walked slowly toward Megara and, to her surprise, took her hand. “Thank you. I don’t know exactly what I can do…but something will be done.”
“Metellus,” she said, in a low voice, “you said that Rachel regretted having spoken to me as she did. Has she—has she forgiven me?”
He masked his own surprise at her question and answered, “She told me that she intended to try to forgive you. And if I know her as I think I do, she has done so.”
She let out a breath as though she had been holding it. “It is important to me, and it is important for her. I hope she has. Tell her again that—I am truly sorry.”
Metellus nodded and released her hand. She stood unmoving for a long time, after he had gone.
* * * *
Metellus felt that the first thing he should do was to warn his fellow Christians. After making inquiries, he went to James’ house in the lower city. He was of short stature, with dark hair and a beard, who appeared to be between forty and fifty years of age. He expressed great concern at the news…but for others, rather than himself.
“I am not afraid to die, Metellus,” he said, looking the younger man in the eye. “And there are others who can replace me. But Peter and John cannot be so easily replaced. And Lazarus is much respected in Bethany. Yet I take comfort in knowing that God is in control of everything that happens. Whatever he allows—is for reasons too great for us to fathom.”
“I believe that, James. I, too, am a Christian.”
“I thought so! God be praised, young man! Have you told Rachel?”
It seemed everyone knew about himself and Rachel! He said reluctantly, “I haven’t decided whether I’m going to tell her.”
“Tell her, by all means!”
Metellus asked, with even more reluctance, “Has she married?”
James looked very sober. “I have not heard. I think I would have been invited—so probably not.” He seemed to understand Metellus’ mood. “You go, and tell Lazarus. I will tell Peter and John and the others. We will go to our knees and pray, but we will not allow this to stop us. We will certainly not hide during the celebration, for it is a perfect opportunity to tell many others about the Lord.”
“I have heard that you were—are his brother.”
“We have the same mother,” James said with a smile, and then sobered again. “He is my Lord, and I am his servant. You would wonder greatly that I say this, Metellus, if you had known me as a young man. Before Jesus’ death, I did not believe in him! He was my brother… how could he be the son of God? When he began to preach, and to perform so-called miracles, I would have nothing to do with him!”
“What changed your mind?” Metellus asked, with interest.
The man said simply, “I saw him…after his death. I couldn’t do anything but bow down and beg his forgiveness…which he so freely gives to all who ask, and mean it.”
“Yes. I know.”
“All the living, that is. After death it is too late, for as it has been said…it is given unto man once to die, and afterward—judgment. I rejoice that you have accepted him, Metellus, before it is too late. None of us knows what might happen today, or tomorrow.”
Metellus nodded.
“Pray for wisdom, young man, and God will give it to you. But you must believe. If you doubt, you’re like a wave in the sea, being tossed here and there by the wind.”
“I pray for wisdom every day,” Metellus answered. “Especially about Rachel. I want to go to her, but I don’t know if it’s God’s will, or mine.”
“You should tell her of your faith—that is all you can do. It is something you should both pray about, together.”
After he had left…and thinking of those words…Metellus headed at once toward the road to Bethany. His heart was beating like a drum in his chest as he handed the horse’s reins to Lazarus’ servant. His footsteps slowed until he was barely moving by the time he reached the front of the house.
Anna answered his knock, and merely gaped at him until she stood aside and waited for him to enter.
“Is Lazarus at home?” he asked, as she continued to stare.
“He just—went out to the courtyard, sir,” she managed to say.
He nodded, his heart now in his throat, as he walked in that direction. Lazarus was bending down, examining a plant in a tall urn, when he looked up and saw Metellus. Immediately he straightened.
“Metellus!” He strode forward as though to welcome him, and then stopped when Metellus did not move. “Is anything wrong?”
“Could we speak privately?”
Lazarus nodded, and led the way to his study. Metellus steeled himself to see Rachel at any moment, but the house seemed very quiet. When they were alone, Metellus related quietly to Lazarus what Megara had told him.
“Thank you for coming to me with this news, Metellus. But I’m sure you know it makes no difference to us. We will do what we have always done. God has the power to save us, if he wills it.”
There was an awkward pause. Finally Metellus said, “I hope that, for Rachel’s sake, you will take every precaution.”
“I will see that she stays here during the celebration. I would not have allowed her to go into the city during that time, anyway.”
After another pause, Lazarus asked, “Why did you come back to Jerusalem, Metellus? Was it only to warn us?”
“No. I think you know that was not the only reason. Is Rachel here?”
“She is in Bethlehem with Samuel, visiting Simon and Daphne.”
“There is something I want to tell her. When will she return?”
“Soon, probably. But, Metellus—” Lazarus’ eyes were kind. “You must know. She has promised to marry Benjamin.”
Metellus had half expected it, but the plummeting sensation inside him was so intense he could hardly breathe for a moment. At last he said evenly, “Is she betrothed to him?”
“Not yet. But she has agreed to the betrothal. It is to take place in a month or so.”
“Then she has made no promise. She only agreed to marry him.”
Lazarus smiled sadly. “An agreement, a promise. It is the same to her.”
“All the same, I wish to speak to her. May I come back when she returns?”
The older man eyed him reflectively. “Where are you staying?”
“At the fortress.”
“I’ll tell her that you want to see her, and if she wishes it, I’ll send word to you.”
“Thank you.” Metellus turned to go, but stopped. “Lazarus, be careful, for your own sake. She needs you.”
“She has what she needs,” Lazarus answered. “God—and a man who loves her, who shares her faith in God.”
It was on the edge of his tongue to tell him, but for some reason, Metellus didn’t. He nodded, and left without another word.
* * * *
Daphne struggled to lift the large pot away from the coals, moving aside as Rachel rushed to help her. They set it on a wooden table, with Daphne stirring as Rachel got out bowls in which to ladle the stew.
“It’s a shame Benjamin had to return before supper,” Daphne said, an innocent expression on her face.
“Yes,” Rachel said, looking abstractedly for a set of plates. She began to tear pieces off of a great mound of freshly-baked bread, and put them on the plates.
“He has certainly spent a lot of time with us since you arrived. He used to never have time for anything!
His profession was his life! Well, almost—since he does come to our assemblies.”
Rachel busied herself putting out napkins.
Daphne stopped stirring and looked at her. “Are you going to marry him?”
Rachel’s hands stilled and she turned slowly. “Yes. I have told him so.”
“He seems to get along very well with Samuel,” Daphne said. “That makes me think he will be a good father.”
“I’m sure he will be a—good father.”
For some reason, Daphne felt like crying. Not because Rachel looked unhappy, for she didn’t…but because every time she smiled it seemed too bright and determined a smile. Daphne knew the look, and she knew how Rachel felt, for she had once felt the same.
She put her hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Believe me, dear. You will grow to love him, and you will be happy.”
Rachel paused, and then smiled at Daphne…softly, and sincerely. “I know that. God is good, Daphne. Is it silly for me to say something so obvious? I know that everything, somehow, will be all right.”
Daphne nodded and turned to begin stirring again. This time, she did cry.
* * * *
The Antonia’s commander stared incredulously at Metellus.
“Who told you this?”
“It doesn’t matter. I thought at first it might be some sort of deception, a trap—but I don’t believe that. I trust the person who told me.”
The sword at Lysias’ side clattered as he paced to and fro. “I have already been ordered to be especially diligent during the Jews’ celebration, but not to interfere with anything that might happen. I didn’t know it meant murder! My men are to prevent riots and to maintain order in the streets. I’ve been told to make no arrests, unless I receive a direct order to do so. Do you mean Cumanus has agreed to this? For what purpose?”
“My guess is that the High Priest could expose a thing or two about Cumanus.”
“What about Drusus Appius? Does he know?”
“That—you will have to ask him.”
“He would go along with Cumanus. Why are you telling me, Metellus? There’s nothing I can do.”