The Blessing Stone

by Barbara Wood

  She gasped. It was Peter! Being whipped along by a soldier until he fell to his knees and the crowd roared with approval. And there was Priscilla! And Flavius, and old Saul. “Blessed Mother Juno!” Amelia whispered. “Cornelius, I know these people!”

  When he said nothing she looked at him and was stunned to see the smug smile on his face. He did not meet her eye but kept his gaze forward on the entertainment he had taken part in organizing. The execution of the so-called perpetrators of the Great Fire.

  And then Amelia saw something that made her stomach rise and her throat tighten. Her hands flew to her mouth. She gave a cry. Rachel, down on the bloodied sand, being prodded along by the tip of a spear. Her hair was loose and streaming over her shoulders. Even from up here, Amelia could see the cuts and bruises. Her friend had been tortured.

  She sat frozen and speechless as she watched the group stumble to where crosses had been laid on the sand; as the guards knocked the old men and women and children to their knees; as they were forced to crawl onto the wooden crossbeams and lie on their backs while two hundred and fifty thousand spectators laughed and jeered, and cried, “Death to the Jews!”

  Amelia found her voice. “Cornelius, you must stop this.”

  “Hush! The emperor.”

  Amelia looked up at Nero who at that moment happened to be looking her way. When he gave a friendly wave and she saw no malice in his smile, no spite in his eyes, she realized the emperor had no idea of her connection to the people about to die.

  She looked again at Cornelius, his handsome profile presented to her like that on a coin. “Stop this,” she said again, more firmly. “You cannot allow this. Those people are innocent. They are my friends.”

  He finally turned to her with a look that chilled her to the marrow. “Why should I do as you ask? Have I not made requests of you which you chose to ignore?” His gaze flickered significantly to the blue crystal on her chest.

  Amelia was suddenly sick. “Are you doing this to punish me? You are killing innocent people because…” Nausea swept over her. “Because of your anger with me? By all that is holy, Cornelius, what sort of monster are you?”

  “The kind, dear Amelia,” he said with a smile, “that knows how to please a mob.” He waved an arm over the spectators. Their roar of approval was deafening.

  The deaths of Rachel and the others were made farcical. Those not sentenced to be crucified were dressed in wild animals’ skins and torn to pieces by dogs or lions. The crucifixions were saved for last, for sunset, so that the effect of the burning bodies was all the more spectacular. Amelia sat in shock as she watched the crosses rise into the air on ropes pulled by other condemned Christians. She heard the singing and praying and wailing of the pitiful creatures hanging from the crosses as one by one they were set afire. The audience cheered its approval as the victims screamed and writhed beneath the flames. “Die!” they shouted. “Die, you burners of our city!” Amelia saw vengeance-lust in their faces, for many had lost their homes or loved ones in the Great Fire. After this they would go home appeased, a little less grievous, a little less miserable about their lot, and rumors that Nero himself had torched Rome would gradually fade away.

  “I have to stop this!” Amelia started to bolt from her seat, but Cornelius took her arm in a tight grip.

  “Are you mad?” he hissed. “Think of your family!”

  She looked over her shoulder at Cornelia and her sister, their heads together as they pointed at someone in a magistrate’s box. The two boys, Lucius and Gaius, having gotten bored, were up on the top tier, spitting on people below. Her grown sons and sons-in-law were lounging with arms hooked over the backs of their chairs, half-watching the spectacle with wine cups in their hands.

  Amelia began to sob. As the smoke and stench of burning flesh reached her nostrils, she felt the fire from the crucifixes fly down her throat and sear her heart. She felt her soul catch flame and burn as her friends burned on the sand below. Sickness rose up in her, and pain raced along every nerve and fiber in her body. Rachel was already unrecognizable, and though her charred body still moved, Amelia prayed that it was only reflex and not because her friend was still alive.

  No one questioned the slaughter. No one stopped to think that, to put an end to the rumors of his complicity in the Great Fire, Nero had decided to blame someone else. No one questioned his choice of a group of renegade Jews called Christians, who already had a bad reputation in the city. Of the areas that had escaped the fire, one was the region across the Tiber River where a large Jewish population lived. And everyone still remembered when, only fifteen years before, Emperor Claudius had banished some upstart Jews from Rome for causing near-riots in the synagogues with their disputes about Christ.

  Her pain fading to shock and numbness, Amelia looked at Cornelius’s face while her Christian friends burned. His features held a look of such pure, undiluted hatred that it shocked her. And then she realized it was not the first time she had seen such a look on her husband’s face. It had surfaced once before, also at the arena, when they had been guests in the imperial box and the crowd had cheered for Amelia. Cornelius had raised his arms, mistakenly thinking the adulation was for him, and Nero’s mother had set him straight, calling him an idiot, and for an instant Cornelius had turned this same dark poisonous look upon Amelia—

  Suddenly she knew the truth.

  Amelia wept as she had never wept before. Not even when Cornelius had discarded her baby had she shed such anguished tears. While the household slept and all was silent, she lay prone on her bed, her face buried in her pillow, her lungs heaving great sobs, pain racking her body. For as long as she lived she would never get the image of Rachel’s death out of her mind. Nor did she want to. It would be her private memorial to her dear friend, the daily reminder of Rachel’s martyrdom.

  Other emotions flooded her besides the grief: fury, bitterness, hatred. They came out with her tears like poisons, soaking her pillow until, well past the midnight hour, her crying finally began to abate and she sat up on the bed feeling a strange new hostility in her heart. It was not directed toward Emperor Nero, nor the mob at the arena, but toward one man: a monster named Cornelius.

  She crept to his bedchamber and stood over him as he slept, questions whispering in her mind: Why did Nero punish the Christians? How had he even heard of us? There are as many religious sects in Rome as there are street corners. And we are but an offshoot of the Jews. News of our group would not have reached such lofty ears as Nero’s…unless someone named us to him. Someone who wanted to see us destroyed. Was it you, Cornelius? Was this another of your ways of punishing me? What a monster you are. Jesus, hanging on the cross, was able to forgive his tormentors. But I cannot forgive you, Cornelius.

  It occurred to her then that she could kill him in that moment, as he slept at this midnight hour. She could stab him where he lay, and then raise the alarm, rip her gown and tell the house guards that an intruder had done it. She would get away with it and be free. But she knew she would never kill Cornelius. Freedom would not come from his death, because she was already free.

  She lifted the blue crystal in the moonlight and saw the benevolent spirit housed in its bosom. The ghost of the Egyptian queen was gone. A savior was in its place.

  She had come with only one slave, a large African who was a Christian. He lighted her way with a lantern and was big enough to deter any would-be thieves and attackers in the night streets. When they reached the noisy tenement house, one of the few untouched by the Great Fire, the African led the way up narrow stone stairs filled with rank smells, scurrying rats, walls covered with angry graffiti. There were no doors in the doorways, just ragged hangings for a bit of privacy.

  Amelia was unafraid. She was a changed woman. And she had come seeking answers.

  Coming to the doorway that she had been directed to, she parted the cloth and peered in. The occupant, an old crone, looked up, startled. She was eating gruel from a wooden bowl, her only light coming from the moon.
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  Amelia drew her veil back from her face and head and brought her lantern close to her face so that the woman might clearly see her. “Do you know me, mother?” she said, using the respectful title for elderly women.

  The woman stared in fear and shock.

  “Do not be afraid. I have not come to harm you.” Amelia drew out some coins and laid them on the table. “Tell me, do you recognize me?”

  The midwife looked at the coins, then at her astonishing visitor. She lowered her bowl, wiped her fingers down her dress and said, “I remember you.”

  “You delivered me of a child, seven years ago. A girl child.”

  The old woman nodded.

  “Was the child deformed?”

  The woman bent her head. “No…”

  And so much fell into place then. Her daughter’s anger. Crying: “It’s all your fault. The baby—everything.” Cornelia had been eleven years old when the baby was born and laid at Cornelius’s feet. She had come running back into the bedchamber, fear in her eyes, demanding to know why her papa had rejected the infant. Now Amelia understood. The child had been perfect and little Cornelia, blind worshipper of her father, had not understood how her father could have done such a thing.

  Now Amelia knew the truth: it was not her mother whom Cornelia hated.

  As Cornelius arrived at his house on the Aventine Hill, he felt good about life. He had just won a court case and the crowd had cheered. His home was peaceful again and Amelia was behaving herself. Ever since witnessing the punishment of the Christians in the arena she had become quiet and docile once more. She had even stopped wearing that damned necklace for all to see.

  As he entered the atrium he wondered where the slaves were. It was the majordomo’s habit to greet him, yet Philo was nowhere to be seen. He was about to call out when he heard voices chanting in unison. He drew nearer to the garden and heard the Latin words: “Father in heaven, blessed is your name. Your kingdom comes. We do your will on earth. We pray, give us daily bread, forgive our sins, and rescue us from evil.”

  Cornelius stepped through the open doorway and peered into the garden. A group of people—mostly strangers, but his own slaves among them, Philo included—were standing with their arms held out, their heads back and eyes closed as they chanted. Then he saw Amelia, facing the group, leading them.

  When they all crossed themselves and said “Amen,” Amelia opened her eyes and leveled a direct gaze at him.

  Both knew they had reached a turning point.

  Because Rachel’s house and all her slaves and goods had been confiscated by Nero, this week’s Sabbath meeting was to be held at Phoebe’s house. But Phoebe was elderly and her arthritis was bothering her, and so she needed assistance. Amelia was in the marketplace purchasing food for the feast. Despite what had happened to Rachel and the others, more people than ever were joining the Christian faith, especially when Nero had abandoned his persecution of them, and so a good-size crowd was expected. As she selected moderately priced wine, Amelia’s thoughts were upon those sacrificed in the arena.

  Rumors had flown through the city. After the Great Fire, everyone said, Nero had tried to appease heaven. After consulting the sibylline books, prayers were addressed to Vulcan, Ceres, and Proserpina. Juno, too, was propitiated. But neither human resources, nor imperial munificence, nor appeasement of the gods could eliminate sinister suspicions that the fire had been started on purpose by the emperor himself. To suppress this rumor, Nero needed scapegoats. He chose the Christians.

  No one knew why he chose that group in particular, although Amelia had her own dark suspicions. People said it was probably because Christians were mostly rich, and Romans were always jealous of the rich, and suspicious of them, too, asking, how did they get to be so wealthy? Rumors of black magic and child sacrifice circulated. Strangely, after the arena event, the Christian persecution ended. Nero’s plan had backfired as the victims had ultimately been pitied by the people who felt innocents were being sacrificed to one man’s brutality rather than to the national interest. And anyway, no one cared about such an insignificant sect, even Nero had forgotten them because of his own personal problems. And so Christians were safe again.

  “You are the Lady Amelia, wife of Cornelius Gaius Vitellius?”

  Amelia looked up to see a member of the Prefecture Police standing over her, his face shadowed by the visor of his helmet. He was accompanied by six large guards. “I am,” she said.

  “Will you come with us, please, Lady?”

  The Roman Prefecture, which housed Rome’s main prison, stood near the Forum as an imposing presence. Outside, an impressive white marble facade with beautiful fluted columns and statuary faced the open square, but inside it was a warren of dark, forbidding corridors and cells.

  “Why have I been brought here?” Amelia demanded to know as she was led down into the bowels beneath the main building. Her escort did not respond but marched grim-faced at her side, the jingle and clank of their armor echoing off dank walls.

  They came to a halt before a heavy wooden door. The guard dragged it open and then stepped to one side, indicating that Amelia should go in. “Am I a prisoner?” she asked in disbelief. By the light of the guard’s torch, she saw a grim cell inside, small and foul smelling.

  “Please, Lady,” he said, gesturing again.

  Amelia’s impulse was to protest, to run even. But she knew it would be to no avail. Whatever mistake had been made, it would be soon cleared up. With head held high, she entered the cell as if entering a sunlit temple.

  The door clanged shut behind her and she heard the turning of keys in a lock. As the guards tramped away, taking with them the torch, darkness descended over her and Amelia was immediately gripped with panic. She ran to the door and pressed herself against it. There was a small opening just above her head, covered with bars and beyond her reach. Even on tiptoe she could not see out. But a wan light filtered in from sconces in the corridor, and presently her eyes adjusted to the dark.

  The cell was dark and smelled of mold and urine, with chains on the walls and rotten straw piled in the corners. She saw old bloodstains on the floor, she could hear the faint cries of other prisoners. Fighting the fear and panic that were threatening to grip her, she tried to think with a level head. Surely this was a mistake! But…the guards had known where to find her in the marketplace; they had identified her on sight and had known her name. That meant someone had told them. But who? And more puzzling, why?

  Suddenly she was filled with a terrifying presentiment: could they possibly keep her locked in here forever? She sank to the stone floor, her ear pressed to the thick door, and sat with her knees drawn up. The darkness closed in around her, and the myriad foul odors filled her head. She felt something run past her foot and she cried out. Surely her family would miss her and come inquiring! But she had heard of people being locked up in this prison forever, forgotten…

  She clasped her hands and began to pray.

  Cornelius Vitellius arrived at the prison wearing his purple-edged toga, a garment allowed to only a privileged few, and he wore it now on purpose, not so much to impress the prefecture guards but to remind Amelia of his position and power. “Is she here?” he demanded of the man on duty.

  “Been here since the first watch, your Lordship,” the watch commander said, giving Cornelius the kind of brief salute career army soldiers offered to civilians of importance. “That’s ten hours.”

  “No food and water?”

  “Not a drop or a bite, as you ordered. We did give her a bucket to piss in, though. How long you want us to keep her?”

  “I’ll let you know. For now, say nothing to her.”

  The watch commander had learned over the years that a silent mouth was a profitable one. The popular lawyer—the guard himself had consumed more than one of Cornelius Vitellius’s free beers—wasn’t the first man to have a pesky relative held under arrest as a way of curbing unwanted behavior. He winked and turned back to his game of dice.

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nbsp; Cornelius followed the jailer down the stench-filled corridor and paused outside the metal door to get into the right frame of mind, as he often did before a trial. Then he gave the signal to the jailer.

  “By the gods, Amelia!” he said as he rushed in, the door clanging shut behind him.

  “Cornelius!” She flew into his arms.

  “I couldn’t believe it when they told me you were being held here!”

  “Why am I here? Am I under arrest? No one will tell me anything.”

  “Now sit down. Be calm. Apparently someone named you as a Christian.”

  She stared up at him. “But Cornelius, my being a Christian is no secret. And it is not a crime to be one.”

  “I’m afraid Nero is still waging his revenge against the Christians, but he is doing it secretly, due to public antipathy.” When he saw that she believed him, for she had gone very white and looked frightened, he added, “Nero has allowed me to talk to you before the real interrogation begins.”

  “You mean…torture?” she said with a mouth so dry she could hardly speak.

  “Renounce this new faith, Amelia. Give me the names of the members, and you will go free.”

  “And if I do not tell?”

  “Then it is out of my hands.” He spread them for emphasis.

  She thought of the people who had become dear to her—Gaspar and Japheth, Chloe, Phoebe…. She began to tremble violently. Would she be able to withhold their names under torture?

  “How far—” she began. “How far will Nero pursue this?”

  He let his shoulders slump, the way she had seen them slump during a court trial. A gesture more expressive than words.

  “Cornelius, help me! I want to live! I want to see our grandchildren grow up. I want to see Gaius receive his toga of manhood.” In that moment, life had never looked so sweet. And never had she felt so desperate. “Please, Cornelius! I beg you on our children’s names. Help me!”