by John Hagee
“The man certainly follows instructions; he definitely sleeps. All night long I listen to him snoring on the other side of the door—it sounds like thunder.”
Antony raised his voice in anger. “That’s not acceptable. Why didn’t you say something before? I’ll tell Peter to have him replaced immediately.”
“No! That’s not what I meant.” Rebecca hadn’t wanted the bodyguard in the first place, but she didn’t want to get him fired. “The guard has to sleep sometime,” she said, “and I’m sure he would wake up if someone came upstairs and tried to enter the bedroom. It’s just that I’m a light sleeper, always listening for Victor. I’ll get used to the snoring. At least I know the guard is there if I need him.”
“And I’m there too,” Antony said. “Just down the hall.” Antony had been occupying Jacob’s bedroom. Helena was in too much pain to be moved, and because Antony had been worried about Rebecca and Victor as well as his mother, he had decided to stay at the villa for the time being.
For the first few days Rebecca had been very grateful for the extra precautions, but now they seemed unnecessary. Nothing had happened in the two weeks since they’d brought Victor home. There had been no sign of Damian, even though they’d had someone watching Naomi’s house around the clock. Yet Peter worried that Damian might come back to Ephesus without trying to contact Naomi; the two of them might have had a falling out since the kidnapping-extortion scheme did not work out as planned. Or Naomi could be planning some other devious move without Damian’s help.
In some ways Rebecca felt imprisoned all over again. She needed time to herself. She longed to go for a walk in the hills, but Antony would insist on coming with her—as he had insisted on accompanying her on visits to the church families she was helping. Rebecca decided she would try to slip outside this afternoon, as soon as she tended to Helena.
Rebecca dipped a finger into the pot to test the temperature, and she was relieved to find the mixture had heated adequately. “I have to apply the poultice while it’s warm.” she informed him.
“Do you want me—”
“No, I don’t need any help.” Rebecca lifted the pot and turned to leave. She didn’t want to need his help, didn’t want to grow dependent on Antony, because that would only make it worse when he wasn’t around anymore. Rebecca had learned that you shouldn’t take it for granted that people, even the ones who were supposed to love you and take care of you, would be there when you needed them.
Antony briefly looked offended, then he smiled, as if slightly amused. “I’m sorry my presence makes you so jumpy.”
He didn’t look very sorry to Rebecca. He looked pleased with himself, in fact. And handsome—devilishly handsome—when he smiled like that. For some reason, that irritated her even more.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I was going to ask if you wanted me to go with you to the warehouse later. So much has been collected that Quintus suggested we make an inventory.”
“If it’s not too late when I’m through,” she said. So much for her walk in the woods. She did want to go to the warehouse, though. Coordinating the relief efforts was a source of satisfaction for Rebecca, and she had been excited at the ways in which the ministry was expanding.
A few minutes later, when Rebecca told Helena that the warehouse space allocated for their ministry was overflowing, she was excited too. “Now we can help some of the people from the other congregations in the city as well,” Helena said.
Rebecca perched on the edge of the bed and applied the fragrant poultice to Helena’s red, swollen fingers. Then she covered her friend’s painful hands with warm cloths, to help the medication penetrate below the skin. Helena closed her eyes and sighed in relief. Rebecca repeated the procedure on Helena’s knees and ankles.
Usually Helena drifted off to sleep as the pain subsided, but today she remained talkative. Rebecca knew she had to find the courage to talk to Helena about Antony; she couldn’t keep putting it off, and now was as good a time as any. Helena provided an opening when she began talking about Quintus.
“I don’t understand why he has never married,” Helena said. “He’s a good man, even if he’s a little on the staid side.”
“Perhaps Quintus prefers to be alone,” Rebecca said.
“It is not good for man to be alone,” Helena objected. “The Bible says exactly that.”
“I won’t argue Scripture with you,” Rebecca said, “but there may be times when it’s not God’s will for a person to be married.” She took a quick breath and continued before Helena could contradict her. “In fact, I believe that’s God’s will for me.”
On the verge of speaking, Helena suddenly closed her mouth and looked at Rebecca for a moment. “Where did you come up with that idea?” Helena finally asked.
“I’ve been praying about it for a while,” Rebecca said, “and I’m convinced that’s what God wants for me.” She removed the cloths from Helena’s hands and warmed the cotton strips over the brazier by the bedside.
“But you need a husband to provide for you.” Helena’s tone of voice matched her look of disbelief.
“I have my family, and money will never be a problem. I’ll be well provided for.”
“But a husband does more than just provide financially. A husband loves you and protects you.”
“My brothers love me,” Rebecca said, “and they can protect me.” Rebecca kept her voice lighthearted as she added, “Look how seriously Peter has taken that responsibility—he’s even hired a guard.”
Helena did not respond with a smile. “Your family can’t meet all your needs,” she said. “You need the companionship of a husband, Rebecca.”
“I don’t need that kind of companionship.” Rebecca reapplied the heated cloths to Helena’s hands. That’s not for me, Rebecca reminded herself. She had been dishonored—she wasn’t marriageable material, and that was the painful truth. Rebecca was determined to accept it and go on with her life.
“You may not think so, but you do.” Helena lifted a wrapped hand and placed it over Rebecca’s. She waited until Rebecca looked up, then she added, “You also need more children.”
Rebecca felt a sudden pang. She had to admit that she wanted more children. She’d always planned on having four children, maybe more, and it would be nice for Victor to have a younger brother or sister. Long-cherished dreams of a husband and a house full of children tugged at Rebecca’s heart. As her mother had, Rebecca thought the happiest time of day was when everyone gathered in the triclinium for dinner. Now she was mistress of the house and presided over family meals, but it still wasn’t the same as having a husband and family of her own. Or a house of her own.
Quickly, Rebecca stood and brushed the folds of her skirt, dismissing the painful memories as if she were brushing off bread crumbs after dinner. “It’s not meant to be, Helena. I’m never going to marry.”
“Don’t cut yourself off from happiness, dear girl. Don’t say ‘never.’”
Rebecca decided she would have to be more direct with Helena. “If—and this is a very big if—I were ever to marry,” Rebecca said, “it would not be to an unbeliever. My husband would have to be a Christian, someone as devoted to God as he was to me.”
“Someone like Galen?”
The reminder of her broken engagement wounded Rebecca, but before she could react, Helena pressed on. “Maybe that was cruel, but just because someone is a believer doesn’t mean he’s the right person for you or that he won’t hurt you.” Helena softened her voice as she reached toward Rebecca. “And just because Antony is an unbeliever doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be good to you. I think you’re trying to convince yourself that being alone the rest of your life is God’s will just because you’ve been hurt and you’re afraid.”
Rebecca wanted to defend herself, but she was struck by the fact that Helena’s charge contained a kernel of truth. She had been hurt, and she had been afraid. Perhaps it was easier to be alone, more comfortable to push people away, to not let anyone get too clos
e—especially Antony. Right now, however, it was all more than she wanted to think about.
Helena persisted in extolling the virtues of her son. “Antony has many fine qualities and would make a wonderful husband. He loves children and is very devoted to his family. In fact, he’s been devoted to Priscilla and me to the exclusion of his own happiness. But now it’s time for my son to have a family of his own. He wants that—he deserves it.”
“Yes, he deserves a family of his own,” Rebecca said. “He does not deserve to be saddled with another man’s child.”
“You know Victor is not an issue with Antony. He loves the boy and would raise him as his own.”
But Victor was the issue, and he would always be the issue. Rebecca knew she would never outlive her past. It was an obstacle that would always stand between her and a husband.
“He’s said as much to me,” Helena continued. “Antony cares about you, Rebecca.”
Enough, Rebecca thought. She steeled herself to end the discussion and put a stop to Helena’s maneuverings. “Tell Antony I’m flattered, but I’m not the one for him.”
“No.” Helena struggled to sit up, the effort leaving her winded but not speechless. “Tell him yourself. You’ll have to be the one to tell my son he’s not good enough for you.”
“That is not what I said.” Rebecca felt her cheeks flush in anger.
“It’s what you meant, though. My son is one of the finest men you’ll ever meet, but he’s not good enough for you because he’s not a believer.”
“Helena—”
“Would you be so kind as to call Priscilla for me?”
“I’ll help you,” Rebecca said, figuring Helena needed to relieve herself.
“I’d rather have my daughter,” Helena said, her voice as stiff as her limbs. Her face was bright with exertion, or perhaps fever.
Helena’s rejection of her help stung Rebecca, even though she was angry with her friend for meddling. “I’ll get Priscilla for you,” she said.
What do I do now? Rebecca wondered as she left the room. She had hurt Helena’s feelings. Evidently she was going to have to hurt Antony’s too. Yet it had to be done. Rebecca now knew he definitely had more than a brotherly concern for her, and she couldn’t go on letting him think the two of them might have some kind of future together.
18
THE NEXT MORNING ANTONY AND REBECCA visited the new warehouse. He offered to arrange for a carriage to take them; however, Rebecca insisted on walking, and since she seemed to have her mind made up about the matter, he didn’t argue.
A fine day for walking, Antony thought as they left the villa. There was an early December chill to the air, but the day was clear and sunny. Traveling on foot would give him more time alone with Rebecca, and he certainly didn’t mind that. He wanted to discuss several things with her, one of which was the troubling conversation he’d had with his mother the previous evening.
It had been too late to make the trip to the warehouse yesterday, so Antony had spent some time visiting with Helena, who seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. Not only had her pain increased in recent days, but it had been accompanied by a growing despondency that worried him. His mother was normally so animated that it was hard to keep pace with her. He’d expected the illness to slow her down; now it was destroying her spark of liveliness as well.
He asked Rebecca about it and she agreed that Helena was more subdued. “But then she’s been hurting more each day, and the fever rises more frequently. She doesn’t complain much about it, but I can tell it’s wearing her down.”
“She wants to go home. Today. I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she won’t listen.”
Rebecca immediately protested. “Helena can’t stay by herself. And it’s too much to expect Priscilla to take care of her.”
“I agree, and Mother understands all that. But Calpurnia has returned from taking care of her daughter and the new baby, so Mother wouldn’t be alone. And she’s dead set on going home.”
Antony offered a hand to Rebecca as they navigated an uneven portion of the steep Marble Way that led to the heart of the city. In addition to her cloak, Rebecca had worn a head covering, and he couldn’t help noticing how the light-blue fabric contrasted with the few strands of glossy, dark hair that had escaped. He also couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to loosen the pins and let the thick locks fall through his fingers. Rebecca wore her hair pinned up when she went out—proper decorum for a young matron—but at home she often wore it long and natural. He much preferred it that way. Antony pushed the image out of his mind and refocused on his mother’s stubborn demand. “I would still feel more comfortable if she remained with you. If that’s all right,” he added.
“Of course it is. There are plenty of people to look after her at our home. I’ve told Helena she can stay as long as she needs to.” Rebecca looked at him briefly before glancing away. “Did she say why she wanted to leave?”
Rebecca had been avoiding looking at him, he realized, and now that she had, he was unable to read the expression on her face. Embarrassment, perhaps? He couldn’t imagine why. Guilt? Perhaps she didn’t really want Helena there. Antony didn’t think that was the case. Rebecca and his mother had always enjoyed each other’s company. Still, enjoying the company of a close friend wasn’t the same as having that person under the same roof day and night— especially when that friend had become an invalid. Both Rebecca and Peter had indicated that they welcomed the imposition, but were they merely performing what they perceived as their Christian duty?
“Well?” Rebecca prompted.
Antony repeated his mother’s words. “She said she wanted to die in her own bed.” He swallowed hard, seeing in his mind the pale, pinched face as she’d spoken, the words escaping with a slight gasp through clenched teeth.
Rebecca stopped and turned to face him. She started to put a hand on his arm, then dropped it awkwardly to her side. She continued to be nervous around him, and he’d been hoping it was because she felt attracted to him but didn’t know what to do about it—which was the other thing he wanted to talk to her about. It was time to tell Rebecca how he felt.
“Is it really that bad?” Rebecca asked. “Did the doctors offer no hope for her recovery?”
Antony chided himself for selfish thoughts of marriage when his mother might be dying. He recounted for Rebecca his dealings with the two doctors he had brought in for consultations. “They made contradictory recommendations,” he said. “Special diets, one of which included disgusting animal parts and strange roots. Mother turned up her nose at that. The other doctor said to eat nothing but fresh fruits and vegetables. Hard to get at this time of year, though.
“One doctor said fresh air and moderate exercise; the other called for bed rest in a dim room. She’s had two weeks of that and has only gotten worse, so I don’t put much stock in that opinion. I’d encourage her to try the other treatment, but how can she get any exercise when it’s all she can do to get out of bed and walk a few paces?”
He frowned as he recalled his lengthy conversations with the two men. “For all their words,” he said, “neither doctor could tell me exactly what is wrong with Mother, and their hemming and hawing suggested that neither one was entirely convinced of the treatment he recommended. ‘Let the sickness run its course’ seemed to be the crux of their advice—‘she’ll either get better, or she won’t.’
“So much for highly esteemed medical experts.” He laughed ruefully, then sobered. “I even thought of sending for a doctor from Alexandria. I’ve always heard the Egyptian physicians are the best. But sailing is impossible now, and besides, Mother simply refuses to see any more doctors.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said. A worried look creased her fine forehead, and Antony regretted burdening her with all this. But whom else could he talk to about it?
“Helena has never expressed any fears that she was dying before,” Rebecca said. “Most of the time she won’t even acknowledge how bad the pain is. I
only know she’s suffering because she gets very quiet.” She paused for a moment, as if hesitating to say what was on her mind. Then she said, “I pray every day with her, and I have to believe she’ll get better, Antony. I believe God will heal her.”
Antony knew Rebecca was sincere in her belief, and he sincerely hoped she was right. “I told myself she was exaggerating,” he said, “that she isn’t really going to die from this illness, whatever it is. But who knows?” Antony sighed his frustration. “And now she wants to go home. But you know what Mother’s like—she needs to be around people. Would you talk to her, Rebecca? Ask her to stay a while longer?”
“I don’t think . . .” Rebecca’s voice trailed off. She definitely looked embarrassed this time, Antony thought as a faint blush colored her cheeks. She took a quick breath and continued, “I’m not sure she’ll listen to me. We had quite a disagreement yesterday.”
A disagreement? Antony wondered what the two of them could have possibly found to disagree about. Neither woman was prone to contrariness, although his mother could be a meddler at times. She was usually so obvious and cheerful about it, though, that people rarely found it annoying.
The pair walked in silence for a moment. They had almost reached the harbor, and Antony could see Quintus up ahead. He was standing on the street side of the wooden pier, watching two men unload a wagon. As Rebecca and Antony approached the steps to the pier, he stopped. “If you’d rather I took Mother home . . .” he said.
“It’s not that,” she said quickly, returning a wave to Quintus. “Let’s talk about it later, all right?”
Antony brooded about Rebecca’s disagreement with his mother while they inspected the new warehouse, but he couldn’t stay sullen long in the presence of Rebecca’s enthusiasm.
“Quintus, that’s ingenious,” she said when he explained the new procedure he and Peter had implemented for redirecting lost or damaged shipments to the relief effort.
“Usually we don’t have too much left at the end of a season,” Quintus said, “but it still takes up valuable space. Your father was the kind to cut his losses and clear the warehouse to make room for new inventory. Now that we’ve rented the additional space, we can salvage more items and store them for distribution to the needy. And we hired a man—one who lost his job and hasn’t been able to find work because he’s a Christian—to repair goods that were damaged but can be made serviceable.”