by Diaz, Debra
“Cause—what do you mean? As if Marcella caused it to happen! Why, that child of yours—”
“I am afraid I must ask you to leave, Cassia, so that I might question Rachel.”
“Well, I—of course. I trust she will be truthful about it…as she is loathe to tell a lie, but not to commit violence!”
“I’m quite sure she meant no physical harm. Thank you for bringing Rachel home.”
Confusion mixing with her indignation, Cassia took her daughter’s arm and they made a speedy departure.
Alysia turned. “Rachel, will you please explain what happened?”
“No, Mother, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Rachel tightened her lips and remained silent.
“Perhaps you will explain to your father.”
Her daughter shook her head. “Please just go ahead and punish me.”
“Rachel, this is a very serious thing. Your father and I, and you, have a responsibility to the people we lead to the Lord, and—”
“I don’t think Marcella was led to the Lord!”
“Dear, you have no way of knowing that, and it is wrong for you to say it.”
“May I go now, Mother?”
“Did she say something…about your father and me?”
Rachel glanced at her warily, and shook her head again.
“I know that you didn’t do what you did over some small thing.”
“It wasn’t small, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. Now go into the kitchen and start setting out the dishes.”
Supper was ready when Paulus arrived, tired and hungry. He seemed to know at once that something was wrong, though he asked no questions, and Alysia intentionally waited until they were finished eating before bringing up the matter. “Paulus, Rachel has something to tell you. She won’t say it in front of me.”
Paulus looked at his daughter and stood up. “Let’s go outside, then.”
Rachel had the look of one resigned to her fate as she followed her father to the back of the house, and out the door. Paulus led her toward the large rocks lining the stream, and they sat down.
“You might as well save us both time and trouble, Rachel, and just tell me…whatever it is.”
She took a deep breath. “I—poured a bowl of fish sauce on Marcella.”
“I see,” he said, with no change of expression. “And what did she say to make you do that?”
“Please, Father, don’t make me tell.”
“Something about your mother, or me?”
After a long hesitation, Rachel nodded. Then she sighed, and said, “Marcella said Mother was a—a sinful woman, only she used another word. And she said Mother hadn’t any right to be teaching children because of that and you shouldn’t have married her. And—and she said that maybe you weren’t even my real father.”
Paulus didn’t speak for a long moment, staring out at the orange-hued sun lowering behind a long line of trees. Rachel had avoided looking at him, but now she ventured to peek upward and saw that he seemed angry and was fighting to control it. At last he turned and she knew he was waiting for her to look at him, so unwillingly she raised her eyes to meet his.
“First, Rachel, your mother is more a woman of God than any other I know. It is good that you wanted to defend her, but you went about it the wrong way.”
“What was I supposed to do, Father? Just sit and listen to Marcella? She’d already been saying things before that—asking me why I had a Hebrew name, and…and things like that!”
“What do you mean, things like that?”
“It doesn’t matter, I don’t want to talk about it. Please don’t ask me any more.”
“Rachel, I’m afraid you inherited your temper from both of us, but you must learn to control it. And usually you do. I can see why this…but it was still wrong. Because, you see, you were trying to punish her and that isn’t up to you. It’s up to God. What do you suppose Jesus would have done?”
“He would have rebuked her, and called her a viper and a whited sepulcher!”
Paulus was surprised by this outburst, and then greatly amused, but he didn’t smile. “No, those are words he reserved for the worst offenders and hypocrites…not for a young girl who has been listening to her parents talk, and who decided to repeat what they said…or at least what her mother probably said. I don’t think Cassia’s husband ever talks much. Perhaps he’s afraid to.”
“They weren’t even here that night, so how do they know about what happened with you and Mother?”
“Someone told them. Believers are only human, after all. Things like this happen when we forget to try to honor God, and follow the example of his son. When Jesus was on trial, he took the worst kind of abuse you can possibly imagine, without anger or hatred, and even asked God to forgive those who were torturing him.”
“But no one can be like him.”
“No, not in the way you mean, but he is in us, and he can give us the strength to be better than ourselves. I want you to tell Marcella you’re sorry about what you did.”
“No, Father…I wouldn’t mean it!”
Paulus put his arm around her stiff shoulders. “Think about it this way, Rachel. Marcella may or may not be a believer. She and her parents profess to be so. But she knows you are one. Is this the way followers of Jesus behave?”
Rachel felt like she was going to burst.
“I believe after you’ve had time to think about things, you will be sorry. You’ll be sorry because you will realize how shallow and petty her thoughts are, and how she should rise above them, and there’s no way she can do that without God’s help.”
She bit her lip to stop its trembling, but her eyes filled uncontrollably with tears.
“Rachel, this isn’t like you. You’ve been troubled lately…is it because of what happened to Daphne?”
The fact that he knew that, and understood, was her undoing…she put her hands over her face and began to cry. “Why—” she managed to say, “why did God let that happen to Daphne and…and Tigris?”
Gently he pulled her onto his lap. “Wicked men do wicked things. Yes, God did allow it, but for a reason.”
“There’s no good reason!” she wailed.
“How can you know that? I think it helped Daphne grow stronger in her faith. But even if not, we have to trust him.”
He held her as she put her face against his neck and wept. After a while her sobbing quieted and she lay limply against him, an occasional trembling breath stirring his hair. Paulus stood up and carried her into the house. Alysia emerged from the kitchen to meet them; he left them in Rachel’s bedroom and waited in the hallway until Alysia came out, some time later.
“She’s almost asleep.”
Lamps flickered in small grooves set in the walls as they went into their own room and closed the door. “I think I know what it was about,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Paulus sat on the bed, watching as she began to unbraid her hair. “You were right about people gossiping—and I’ll leave it at that. And she’s suffering over what happened to Daphne. As we all are.”
“And you, Paulus? How much are you blaming yourself?”
He said quietly, “How could I not blame myself? But it’s done, and nothing can change it. We can only keep praying for her…and Rachel.”
Alysia sat down next to him, and reaching forward, ran her fingers lightly through his sun-streaked hair. “I’m going to have to lop off some of this mane of yours—how’s the bump?”
“Almost gone.” He caught her hand and now didn’t restrain himself from smiling. “When Rachel told me what she had done, I couldn’t help but think of you…throwing a pitcher of wine over a certain person, long ago.”
“I thought of that, too. I hope she isn’t going to have my temper!”
“Fish sauce!” he said, laughter in his voice.
“Yes,” Alysia answered. “Generously mixed with garlic.”
&n
bsp; * * *
The carriage stopped at the top of the knoll, leaving plenty of room to turn around, and its driver leaped down to open the door for its occupant. Stepping to the ground, Megara noticed the darkened windows of the house and thought, Surely they are at home! She almost stopped and turned back. Why had she come here herself, instead of letting a servant collect her installment of money? To relieve her boredom, no doubt. And she had to admit…she was curious. Curious about the kind of life Paulus led now, and the kind of people he consorted with. Tonight, though, the house looked all but deserted.
Her slippers grating against small pebbles in the drive, she climbed the few steps of the portico and knocked briskly on the door. It seemed she waited for a long time. The door opened and Paulus stood looking at her as though she’d been conjured from a sorcerer’s stick.
After a moment he said, “Come in,” and stepped back.
Behind him stood that slave, her hair tousled and her cheeks very pink. She held a lamp in her hands.
“Well,” Megara said, “I didn’t think you would have retired so early.”
“We hadn’t retired,” Paulus replied. Megara noticed that Alysia’s cheeks grew even pinker and a spasm of jealousy shot through her.
“I suppose I know why you’re here. I’ll get it.” Paulus glanced at Alysia and went into the bedroom.
Conscious of her disarray beneath Megara’s icy stare, Alysia said hesitantly, “May I get you something to…eat or drink?”
Megara was about to refuse, but it would be pleasant to have the slave wait upon her. “Yes,” she said, in her throaty voice. “Thank you.”
She followed Alysia and watched from the hallway as Alysia went into the kitchen and lit more lamps with the one she held. “Cheese and dates?” she asked Megara, looking up.
“Just dates.”
Megara continued to watch Alysia’s movements. Her black hair fell in silken waves almost to her waist; her gown was a little crooked, as if hastily donned. The lamplight fell upon her in a golden glow, and her face, touched by shadow and light, was so full of serenity that Megara felt pure hatred slash through her body. She had no right to be happy! She ought to be feeling hatred herself, hatred and resentment against her—Megara—the woman who had done her so much harm over the years. But there she stood, preparing food and drink as though for a friend. Didn’t she have any backbone? Didn’t she have sense enough to see—
“Megara,” Alysia said, “are you at peace?”
“What did you say?”
Alysia came out of the kitchen, bearing a plate of stuffed dates and a cup. “Please, sit down.” She indicated a chair next to a table in the wide hallway.
Megara sat down and looked at the dates. She was surely going to choke if she put one of those in her mouth. She took a sip of water.
“I said, are you at peace?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Alysia hesitated, and then sat across from her. “I don’t think you are, and I would like to tell you how—”
“Oh, stop it.” Megara couldn’t even bring herself to say Alysia’s name. “Don’t you dare try to convert me! I’m not interested in anything you have to say!”
Paulus came out of the bedroom, a signed draft for money in his hands. He went and stood next to Alysia, his expression sober. Then he looked down at his wife and Megara saw, in all its subtlety, how he loved and respected and cherished her. It was only the briefest look, but Megara understood it with the sheer instinct of a woman who has done nothing all her life but analyze the actions and motivations of others. Hatred surged anew, and with it, waves of the deep bitterness she had nursed over the years.
“I have to go,” she said abruptly, setting down the plate and cup and getting to her feet.
“Wait,” Paulus said. “You are obviously troubled—”
“If I am troubled, it is because of you.” Megara reached for the draft and he handed it to her. “From now on I will send a servant. Goodbye, Paulus.”
She swept haughtily to the door, her yellow gown swirling around her sandaled feet. She left the house, and her slave hastened to assist her up the little hill to the waiting carriage. She heard the door of the house close behind her.
Silently she called upon the gods to punish them. That harlot, that murderess, had stolen her husband, and reduced her to begging for what was rightfully hers. That slave had put an end to all her dreams and ambitions. It was not to be borne! It was not to be—
Megara put her hand against her galloping heart, and made an effort to rein in her equally galloping thoughts. No, it would not be borne! She would not go through the remainder of her life like this. Anything was better than this.
She knew, now, what she had to do.
CHAPTER XVIII
One more day. Now Livias was exceedingly nervous, but his manner did not betray it. He had spoken to hundreds of people, always with some plausible, harmless story about why he was seeking the man. When talking with those he knew or suspected were Nazarenes, he said he was a new believer and he wanted to right some old wrongs…he owed this man a great deal of money…had they seen him? They always gave him a peculiar look, shook their heads and walked away. Petronius’ men, who had scattered all over the city, had no better luck than he.
It was early morning. The fellow in front of him was in a hurry and Livias didn’t like to hurry, but he made himself rush forward and lightly touched the man’s shoulder.
“Your pardon, sir.” The man glanced at him impatiently; he was about thirty years of age, with receding brown hair and a receding chin. Livias gave him his usual tale, adding, “I don’t know if you are a believer, as well, but this is very important to me. I lost track of him over the years and I would like to pay my debt to this man.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall, good-looking…so my wife says…dark blond hair, blue or green eyes—not quite sure. Here, I had a sketch drawn of his likeness.” Livias pulled out the drawing.
The man squinted his eyes. “I know of a man who looks like that. I work with him on the aqueduct.”
Livias didn’t quite believe his ears for a moment. A man who looks like that…well, there weren’t many of those!
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know where Antonius lives, but I’m on the way to the aqueduct now. He might be there. If not, you can ask Martinus, the contractor—he tells him when to work.”
“So, he’s more than just a laborer?”
The man began walking again. “We laborers work hard enough.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—do you mind if I follow you? What is your name, sir?”
His unwary informant began practically running again. “Secundus,” he said.
* * *
“Yes, that sounds like Antonius. And yes, he is one of those Nazarenes, or whatever you call yourselves. He’s been talking to me about it. Several of the men have joined the—er, have joined. I don’t quite understand it myself.”
Livias avoided the eyes of the man standing inside the small wooden structure. He didn’t want Martinus to see his elation; he hadn’t shown Martinus the drawing, either, because he didn’t want the contractor to suspect how desperate he was. He had simply told his story, very humbly of course, described Paulus, and asked where he might find him.
Martinus’ eyes, and mind, were on the large sheets of parchment that lay on the table before him. “I don’t know where he lives. Or anything else about him. You might come back tomorrow. He’ll be here then—he sent word to me.”
“Thank you—I will do that, if I can. Er, where would I find him—here or—” Livias jerked his head—“out there?”
“Either place. He works with the men, and he assists me at times. He has considerable knowledge of engineering.”
Aha! Another attribute belonging to the man he sought!
Livias had to struggle to keep the thrill out of his voice. “Please don’t mention my visit to him—I would like to surprise him.”
“Certainly.” The contractor had already forgotten Livias.
He left the building and looked around the piles of dirt and sand and bricks, the partially built pillars, the groups of men working at various tasks. He caught sight of Secundus and made his way toward him. He thanked him, and repeated his wish to surprise ‘Antonius.’
Secundus nodded and walked away. Nobody seemed to like Livias much, but he was used to it. He didn’t care. He had just met one of the greatest challenges of his career and his triumph was supreme. At least, he was all but certain he had. He supposed there was the slightest chance this was not Paulus Valerius…but every hunter’s instinct within him proclaimed he had found his prey. And he wasn’t going to risk losing him either. He would send one of his underlings to watch and make sure that Paulus didn’t arrive unexpectedly, hear that someone was looking for him, and make his escape.
Now, what about the woman? He needed to know where Valerius lived…but no, he couldn’t question any of these men. It was too risky. The soldiers would just have to make Paulus Valerius tell where to find his wife. There were ways.
* * *
Megara looked with satisfaction over her handiwork. By copying Paulus’ handwriting (which she had done before, though to her detriment) she had greatly increased the amount of the bank draft, considerably depleting his resources. That much money would last her well into the future, until she could secure a wealthy husband. In a few days she would sail back to Alexandria and start her new life. No more hiding, no more worrying about how she was to live. She had convinced herself that even if Caligula heard she was still alive, he wouldn’t care after all this time. Why should he remember one imprudent remark she had made, years ago?
She handed her slave another letter, this one in her own handwriting, though she had taken care to disguise it somewhat. “Go and find that man you told me about, who was looking for Paulus Valerius,” she told him. “The one with the drawing of him. Give him this, and leave him before he reads it.”
Tertius bowed. Megara watched as he placed the letter inside his tunic and left the house. She began to pace back and forth, glancing impatiently at the water clock. In an hour’s time she would have a visit from her new hairdresser.