Avenger of Blood

by John Hagee

  “I didn’t know how to tell her about Damian,” Antony said. “It didn’t seem right to put it in a letter, and I wanted to come to Ephesus to see her, but things kept snowballing here . . .”

  “I know a lot has been happening, but you’ve neglected Rebecca— and worried her. She knows you’ve been holding something back from her, and fretting over what it was.”

  Antony sighed and said, “I will have to apologize to her for handling things so poorly.”

  “And you’ll do it in person,” Jacob insisted. When Antony agreed, Jacob said, “Now tell me what’s been going on since Damian returned.”

  “For a long time he kept a low profile,” Antony said, “but when the fires started, we suspected he was involved because he was staying with Tullia—”

  “And because he fathered my sister’s bastard child,” Tarquinius interrupted, “and Tullia has some fool notion her baby is going to grow up to be some kind of high priest or something.” He stopped, embarrassed at the outburst. “I’m sorry,” Tarquinius said after an awkward pause, his face a study in dejection. “It really grieves me that my own flesh and blood has caused so much devastation, not just in my own life but in this town.”

  Polycarp gently reassured him, “Your sister’s sins are not your responsibility.”

  “Do I have this right?” Jacob asked. “Tullia has given birth to Damian’s baby?”

  “Yes,” Antony replied, and he related the pagan prophecies that the child would be a great spiritual and political leader and Tullia’s ensuing threats against Polycarp.

  Jacob thought of Rebecca. Damian certainly had a knack for fathering illegitimate children. Jacob couldn’t help thinking that the births of both of Damian’s offspring had been accompanied by prophecies: John had foretold that Victor would be a mighty man of God, while the godless oracles had predicted that the witch’s son would be a powerful pagan priest.

  “By killing Polycarp,” Antony concluded, “Tullia thinks she can eliminate the Christian influence in the city and ensure her son’s rise to power.”

  “If the Lord wants my life,” Polycarp said evenly, “He is welcome to it. I have no use for this physical body other than His plan and purpose for me. But until He is ready to receive me into heaven— whether that be in a matter of moments or after I reach a ripe age, like my esteemed friend John—until it suits God’s purpose for me, the devil and all his minions cannot kill me.”

  Polycarp excused himself then. While the others lingered in the dining room, discussing Tullia and Damian and their nefarious schemes, Jacob mentally revisited his original decision to pursue Damian and his subsequent decision to abandon the quest to avenge his family. Jacob could not escape the thought that if he had done what he had set out to do, Damian would not be here right now persecuting the church in Smryna.

  Sergius and Plautius would still have their blacksmith business. Tarquinius would still have his inn, and his wife. So much suffering might have been avoided.

  Did I make the right choice? Jacob wondered. He wouldn’t be married to Livia now if he had killed Damian, and Jacob couldn’t imagine life without her.

  Just a few days ago John had reassured Jacob he’d done the right thing, but John hadn’t known Damian was the one causing all the trouble here.

  And what about Gregory’s prophecy that Damian would destroy himself if Jacob left vengeance in God’s hands? Jacob had walked away from Damian, but Damian had returned to continue destroying the church. Had Gregory given a false prophecy?

  Jacob abruptly left the dining room, went out into the courtyard, and threw up his dinner. A few minutes in the cool night air revived him, and he went inside to find Polycarp. Jacob needed to apologize, and he needed some answers; perhaps the bishop had them.

  What the bishop offered, however, was not an opinion, but prayer. The two men were still on their knees when the first rays of light heralded the dawn of a new day—a day that would seal their fate and bring a final, fiery end to the persecution in Smyrna.

  36

  QUINTUS AWOKE BEFORE DAYLIGHT and slipped out of bed without disturbing his wife. He would search by himself this morning; Aurora had been fussy during the night, and Agatha needed the sleep.

  He quickly dressed, picked up his long walking stick, and headed across the hills toward his destination. It was a very strange thing to be doing, and Quintus would be hard-pressed to explain it. At first it was simply something he did for his wife because he loved her. But it had become his passion as well, and scarcely a morning passed that he didn’t make the twilight trek.

  Quintus smiled as he thought of his wife and daughter. How different his life was now. And how happy. It was an amazing thing, falling in love so late in life. The time had never seemed right for him before, so he had devoted himself to business without much thought of marriage—not until Helena had suggested it to him one day, and without the least bit of subtlety, steered him in Agatha’s direction.

  From the day he’d met her, the day Peter had found her shivering under the pier, Quintus had admired Agatha’s fortitude and her fierce protection of her child. It hadn’t been easy to win her trust or her affection, but he’d done both.

  Now the two of them had a very quiet, contented life. He doted on little Aurora, and the first time she had called him Papa had been one of the happiest days of his life. If Agatha had her way, they would have more children, and that would suit Quintus just fine.

  He was mentally picturing a houseful of children when the familiar stench assaulted his nostrils. As always, he smelled his destination before he arrived.

  And as always, Quintus spent the hour before sunrise searching the city dump.

  He had a method: Approaching from the south, he started on the east side and worked his way around the perimeter, turning north, then west, and returning to the south. There was no plan to the dump, of course; it was an irregular shape, about a mile in circumference. Over time, the people who used it had worn a path around the stinking mountain of garbage. On hot days, steam rose from the rotting mess and the stench was even worse.

  The walking stick was handy if Quintus wanted to poke through the heaps of refuse for some reason, but what he was looking for was more likely to be found close to the path that circled the dump. He wouldn’t have to venture too far into the garbage; no one ever went that far to throw one out. Over the months he’d been searching with Agatha, they’d found three, but none of them had been alive. Quintus had taken each one of them home, though, and buried them in a grassy area behind the house. And he’d wept each time.

  This morning he made a complete circuit of the dump without success. It was always disappointing when the search was fruitless, and he and Agatha had prayed about this often. But they believed God was leading them to do this on a regular basis, so they continued.

  When he arrived back at his starting point, Quintus turned toward home.

  Look again. He heard the voice in his mind and stopped.

  Quintus looked back at the dump and saw a vulture swoop down. He ran toward the bird and shooed him away with the walking stick. But when he looked through the garbage near the spot where the vulture had been, Quintus found nothing but pottery shards, food scraps, and human waste. He gagged and turned back to the road.

  He’d taken only a few steps when he heard the voice a second time. Look again.

  He stopped and began to pray silently. Lord, are you telling me to keep searching today?

  Quintus did not hear the voice again, but he felt something urgent rise up inside him, so he began the laborious process of circling the dump again, searching carefully along the sides of the path and occasionally poking into the piles of garbage.

  The sun was way above the horizon by the time he neared the end of his second circuit, and still he’d found nothing. Perhaps he’d only imagined the voice telling him to look again.

  You old fool, Quintus chided himself. He should have been at the harbor long before now.

  He gave up and stepped
back on the path, and then he heard it. Not a voice this time, but a tiny, mewing cry that sounded like a newborn kitten. Quintus looked around frantically, but couldn’t see where the sound had come from.

  “Please cry again. Please,” he said softly.

  The mewing started again in reply. And finally, in a place he’d already searched this morning—recognizable by the broken barrel staves that jutted out of a heap just off the path—Quintus found the source of the cry. He saw a minuscule movement under a wad of unbleached muslin that looked like discarded scraps of a tunic. The bundle hadn’t been there earlier; he would have noticed it.

  Quintus knelt down and carefully lifted the cloth, revealing a tiny, perfectly formed baby girl.

  And this one was alive.

  Agatha balanced Aurora on her hip as she walked up the hill to the villa. She and Rebecca were going to take Livia to the warehouse at the harbor today, and perhaps make some visits to the needy. Rebecca wanted her sister-in-law to see the relief operation and wanted to start introducing her to people. It would be wonderful to have additional help for the ministry, Agatha thought, even if it were only for one day. Perhaps it would even be something Livia would want to do regularly.

  Hoping she might have a chance to talk to Rebecca alone, Agatha was arriving early. If it turned out that Rebecca was busy, then Agatha would entertain Aurora in the garden until they were ready to leave for the harbor. Aurora loved playing in the garden, where she could run free, and spending time at the villa was something Agatha always enjoyed—not because it was a mansion, but because, in a way, she regarded it as her home. She’d only lived there for a year, and she had merely been a servant, but it was the first place Agatha had truly felt welcomed and accepted. Every time she stepped over the threshold now, she had a feeling that she was coming home.

  Even though she was not very good at making conversation, Agatha enjoyed talking to Rebecca. Quintus often told Agatha she needed more friends and would have plenty of them if she would just open up and talk more. She hadmade friends with Rebecca and found her easy to talk to. Agatha had almost told her about Aurora—would have, in fact, if they hadn’t been interrupted that day by Jacob’s homecoming. That’s what Agatha wanted to talk about now. Once she had said those first few words to Rebecca that day, it had loosened something deep inside. Now Agatha thought she might burst if she tried to keep it to herself any longer. She had to tell someone, and she thought Rebecca would be sympathetic and understanding.

  When Agatha arrived at the villa, she was pleased to find Rebecca in the atrium, watching Victor play on the floor. He patted the colorful mosaic tiles and babbled as if explaining something to his mother, who listened attentively as if she understood.

  Rebecca looked up, greeted Agatha cordially, and said, “I didn’t expect you quite so early. Marcellus took Livia with him to see John this morning, and they’re not back yet. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Oh no, not at all,” Agatha said, hoping she didn’t sound too happy about the fact that Livia wasn’t there. “Actually, I came a little early because I was hoping to talk to you, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, Agatha. I’d enjoy the chance for a talk.”

  Agatha was relieved that Rebecca seemed eager for the visit, and that she also suggested they go to the garden for privacy. They took the children with them as they went from the main part of the villa into the peristyle at the back. Three sides of the house opened onto the peristyle, with its colonnaded walkway around a large garden area. The fourth side was a waist-high stone wall that afforded a view of the hills.

  Concrete benches were arranged around the two focal points of the garden: an enormous sundial and a beautiful, flowing fountain. It was a serene setting, one of Agatha’s favorite places. She had known mostly chaos in her life, and had always longed for a place of retreat; she’d finally found it here. When she’d lived at the villa, Agatha would try to finish her work early and bring Aurora to spend a few quiet minutes in the peristyle garden. Heaven, she often thought, must be something like this.

  Rebecca sat on one of the benches by the sundial and invited Agatha to join her.

  “Down!” Aurora demanded as soon as her mother sat. Agatha obliged, setting the toddler on the ground. Aurora stood in front of Rebecca, watching as she dandled Victor on her knee.

  Now that she had Rebecca’s attention, Agatha was at a momentary loss for what to say, then realized that the children gave her an opportunity to begin. That was one of the few topics she felt comfortable talking about.

  “Aurora is still tall and thin for her age,” Agatha said, “but Victor is growing so fast.”

  “And getting into everything,” Rebecca said. “I turn my head for one moment, and he’s gone.” Making a silly face at the baby in her lap, she said, “Isn’t that right, you little rascal?”

  Victor laughed and laughed, as if she’d said something uproariously funny, then he reached up and patted her face.

  Beginning to relax, Agatha joined in the laughter. Her daughter, however, felt ignored and perhaps jealous. Aurora pouted and said, “My Victor.” She stamped her foot and pointed to the ground. “Want my Victor down.”

  Victor reached for the little girl, and Rebecca put him down. Aurora gave him a big hug, which he endured for a moment before wriggling free and toddling off. Aurora chased after Victor and grabbed hold of his hand.

  “She’s very possessive of him,” Agatha said, “and protective.”

  “She’ll be a good mother someday,” Rebecca said, “like you.”

  Agatha blushed. “I love kids.” And wanted more of them, she thought to herself. She searched for a way to say just how much having more children meant to her, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Rebecca waited for a moment, then asked, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Agatha?”

  “The other day,” Agatha said slowly, “the day Jacob came home? We were talking . . .”

  “We were talking about having more children.”

  “I was going to tell you something that day, but we got interrupted.”

  “I’m sorry we never had a chance to finish our conversation,” Rebecca said. “We do now, though.”

  Agatha hated having such difficulty speaking. Rebecca was very patient with her, though, so she mustered her courage. “You said . . .”

  Both women looked up briefly as the children yelled, then resumed talking when they were satisfied that Victor and Aurora were merely shrieking in delight.

  “You said it would be good for Victor to have a brother or sister,” Agatha continued. “I’m glad Aurora and Victor are close in age and enjoy playing with each other, in case . . .” Her voice faltered momentarily, but she recovered quickly. “In case Quintus and I don’t ever have any more children.”

  “I hope you do,” Rebecca said, “since that’s what you want.”

  “I’ve always wanted children, and lots of them. But I nearly died giving birth, and now . . . now I don’t think it’s possible for me to have another child of my own. I even got up the courage to ask Marcellus about it, and he confirmed my fears. He said that if I did get pregnant again, I probably wouldn’t live through it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Agatha.” Rebecca’s voice was full of compassion. “No wonder it made you sad when I said I wanted to have a big family.”

  The children are too quiet, Agatha suddenly thought, terrified. If they’d wandered off, at least they couldn’t go very far in the enclosed garden. But when she looked up, Victor and Aurora were squatting down by some shrubbery, digging in the ground and patting small clumps of damp dirt into flat cakes. They would get filthy, but they would have fun and it would keep them occupied for a few minutes, so Agatha let them be.

  “I’m sad for Quintus too,” she said. “He’s never had children of his own, and he’s so good with Aurora. We talk about it all the time, and Quintus says we can adopt another baby—as many as we want.”

  “Adopt? A baby?” Rebecca looked
puzzled. “How?”

  “I’m sorry, adopt is not the right word.” No wonder Rebecca was confused. Agatha had been too, when Quintus first explained it to her. Emancipation and adoption was a legal means of placing an older child—a son—with a wealthy family in order to secure an inheritance or advance a political career. It did not apply to their situation; girls could not be legally emancipated from their father’s household and adopted.

  She began again. “What I meant was that Quintus said we can raise another child . . . that is, we would treat it legally as our own, even though we couldn’t . . .”

  Agatha suddenly stopped and put her hands over her face. She wanted so desperately to unburden herself, but she couldn’t do this to Rebecca. She couldn’t. Fighting back tears, Agatha stood up. She would get Aurora and leave now.

  Rebecca jumped up and put a hand on Agatha’s arm. “Don’t go, Agatha.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t want to hear this.”

  “Of course I do. I want to hear anything you have to say. That’s what friends are for—listening.”

  Agatha started crying then. “Oh, Rebecca . . . I can’t involve you in this. What we’re doing is . . . well, technically, it’s illegal. It’s the right thing to do,” Agatha said forcefully, “but it’s against the law.”

  Aurora heard her mother crying and came running over, with Victor waddling after her. She grabbed Agatha’s skirt with grubby hands and looked up. “Don’t cry, Mama.”

  Agatha knelt down and picked her daughter up. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Mama won’t cry.” She turned to Rebecca. “Perhaps I’d better go now—”

  The door from the dining room burst open and Quintus ran onto the colonnade, clutching a bundle under his cloak. “Thank God you’re here,” he called to Agatha as he stepped into the garden and came toward them. “I went home first, of course. I didn’t know you’d left . . .”