Avenger of Blood (40 page)

“Absolutely so.”

“Well, if it turns cloudy and rains tonight,” he said, “I don't want to hear a word of complaint.”

Livia rejoiced in his embrace, thinking she would not complain if the skies opened up and drenched them to the skin. She was happier sleeping outside on the hard ground with Jacob than she had ever been in her life.

“‘Many waters cannot quench love,'” she whispered into the night, then finished with a yawn, “‘Rivers cannot wash it away.'”

Rebecca paced the floor of the library. She was supposed to be writing a letter to Antony but didn't know what to say. After a few minutes of walking back and forth, she returned to the desk and picked up the most recent note from him. Barely more than a half dozen lines, it most certainly could not be called a letter. She quickly scanned it, then tossed it aside angrily and continued pacing.

Evidently Antony was no better at writing his mother. Rebecca had talked to Helena about it, and both women commiserated at his lack of communication. Helena had, of course, come to her son's defense. She had told Rebecca, “He's engrossed in his work, dear. That's all.”

Well, Antony had been engrossed in his work for over six months now, and Rebecca was out of patience. At first she had written him three or four letters a week, and while his letters had never been as numerous, they had been long and overflowing with love. They had also been full of news about what was happening in Smyrna. But lately he had written only one letter a week, and it was always vague and short. So short, she pictured Antony dashing it off while the courier waited.

“I love you . . . I miss you . . . I'll be home as soon as I can.” As brief as they were, Antony's letters always said the right things. But there was a distance there, and Rebecca couldn't seem to break through it. It puzzled her, saddened her, and angered her.

The courier would be there first thing in the morning to pick up her letter. It would take him all day to travel to Smyrna. He would spend the night at Polycarp's house, then return to Ephesus the following day with Antony's letter to her. Rebecca was weary of the routine, and weary of waiting for Antony.

She sat down at the desk, picked up the quill, and dipped it into the ink. But before she placed the pen to the parchment, she put it back down. What she had to say could not be put in a letter. And even if she managed to express her feelings in writing, what kind of a reply would she get from her fiancé? Three or four lines that said nothing meaningful?

With a sigh, Rebecca abandoned the attempt to write a letter and went upstairs to bed.

“No letter?” Incredulous, Antony stared at the courier, who had just arrived from Ephesus.

“No, sir,” the young man with the illustrious name of Cato replied. “No letter.”

“But Rebecca always writes a letter.”

“Not this time, sir.” Cato shifted nervously from foot to foot.

“Did you speak with her this morning?”

“Yes, and when I asked her about it, she said, ‘Just tell him there is no letter this week.'”

Antony was speechless.

“I offered to wait while she wrote something,” Cato added, “like I always do for you, I said.”

“And what did she say to that?”

Cato looked uneasy, but he did not avoid the question. “It seemed to make her mad. She sent me on my way.”

Antony dismissed Cato, so the courier could enjoy a meal and get some rest before making the round trip the next morning.

Alone in his bedroom, Antony pondered the significance of Rebecca's refusal to write. Was she simply too busy? Had she been sick? he wondered. Cato had not said anything about that, and from what he
had
said, Antony could only conclude that Rebecca was very, very angry with him.

But not to write at all . . . that was uncalled for. Antony knew he should have been better at communicating with his fiancée, but the work he was doing was vitally important—it was God's work—and it consumed his waking hours, and sometimes invaded his sleep.

The more Antony thought about it, the more his vague sense of guilt turned to righteous indignation. When he finally sat down at the desk, he wrote well into the night.

Rebecca unrolled the parchment for the hundredth time since Cato had delivered it a few hours earlier. She knew she should just go to bed and worry about answering Antony's letter in the morning. But she was too stirred up to sleep, so she sat at her father's desk in the library and poured out her frustration in a letter.

In her agitation, she dripped ink on the parchment. It didn't matter. She could copy the letter over at her leisure; Cato wouldn't deliver it until next week.

Much as she imagined Antony would approach a legal case, Rebecca set out to rebut each point in his lengthy letter. “I thought you would be more understanding,” he had written, “and a little more patient.”

She replied . . .

I
have
been understanding. I know the work you're doing is important, very important, but so am I. Our future is important; at least it is to me.

And I
have
been patient—for seven long months. When you first went to Smyrna, you promised you would come home as often as possible. You have been home once, Antony. One short visit. You originally said that by the time our house was built, your work there would be done, and then we would be married. Now the house is ready, sitting here empty, and you have not even seen it. You left the entire construction project up to my brother. Peter did not mind doing it, but he shouldn't have had to; it was your responsibility.

Rebecca consulted Antony's letter again. For the first time in several months, he had written in detail about the kinds of cases he was working on. As angry as she was, she couldn't help feeling proud of him. The Christians in Smyrna had been hit from every angle, and the legal assistance Antony provided was, without a doubt, crucial.

Still, he could not stay there forever. Some other lawyer would have to take over the work, that's all there was to it. Antony's place was here, with her, with his family.

What was it with the men in her life? Rebecca wondered. Why couldn't they seem to stay around? Galen had run away from her emotionally. Jacob had gone chasing after Damian and had not been heard from since. And now Antony had abandoned her in favor of his own personal ministry. She was sick of it.

Rebecca continued writing . . .

I know you have a trial coming up, and that you can't leave until it's finished. But as soon as the trial is over, I want you home. I'm tired of our future being suspended indefinitely. I want to get married. I want to move into our house. I want to have a life.

Over the next few days she read her letter over several times. Rebecca knew it sounded selfish and at times whining, but she didn't change a word of it. She didn't even copy it over; she sent the letter as it was, ink stains and all.

Antony stared at Rebecca's letter in disbelief. An ultimatum. She'd written him an ultimatum! There was no “or else” spelled out, but it was certainly implied.

He had even gotten a letter from his mother, who had let him know, in her peculiarly roundabout way, just how upset his fiancée was—as if he couldn't figure that out from Rebecca's letter. Helena had written a rambling non sequitur, jumping from topic to topic, yet she managed to clearly establish her point: Rebecca was terribly unhappy with his prolonged absence, and so was his mother.

Putting the two letters aside, Antony stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling. What was he going to do? He was not worried about the upcoming trial; he was well prepared. What had him worried was the one thing he had not told Rebecca about: Damian. Even if the trial were over tomorrow, Antony couldn't just pick up and leave. Not with Damian out there waging a campaign of hate and destruction.

Antony had wanted to catch Damian and turn him over to the authorities before saying anything to Rebecca or her family. And Antony had not gone to the authorities because he knew they wouldn't do anything unless he could present solid proof that Damian was the arsonist.

As he did every night, Antony lay in bed and prayed that God would deliver Damian into his hand. He also prayed for the safety of his fellow believers in Smyrna and in Ephesus, and particularly for his loved ones. He prayed that he could somehow make things right with Rebecca. Antony would have wearied God all night with his petitions, but fatigue overcame him. Soon he was asleep.

Early the next morning Linus roused him from bed. “You have a visitor,” the young disciple told Antony. “His name is Tarquinius and he says it's very urgent.”

Antony groaned and sat up. It must be important if Tarquinius had arrived at this hour. “Show him to my room,” Antony said.

He got out of bed, then quickly washed his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He seldom got a full night's sleep, and as usual his stomach felt uneasy. But the thought of food did not appeal to him this early in the morning.

Tarquinius was red faced and slightly out of breath when he entered the bedroom. He did not apologize for waking Antony. “I found out something important,” he said, “and I had to come tell you before you got off somewhere today.”

Antony pulled out a chair for Tarquinius, then unshuttered the window and perched on the sill. The sun was just coming up, but he was too tired to enjoy the beautiful sight.

“I've been keeping an eye on Tullia,” Tarquinius said, “just like we talked about, and checking up on Damian too. I've been to her house several times, and she seemed grateful for the visits. She's lonely, you know, just her and the baby. She thinks he's a special child, by the way. Sebastian, she named him. Says he's a . . . a ‘spiritual being' and has some great destiny. Started naming off a list of her goddesses . . .”

Tarquinius grinned and shook his head. “I never know what Tullia is talking about half the time. I just let her ramble, hoping she'll say something we need to know about Damian. Anyway, she finally did. She said she had made him leave because he was drinking too much and she was scared to let him stay around the baby. She is terribly afraid something is going to happen to her special child.”

“So where is Damian?” Antony hoped Tarquinius would get to the point soon.

“Tullia said she didn't know where he'd been staying, and she didn't care. But I'd seen tracks leaving her place. There's an abandoned mill down the road—”

“I know where it is,” Antony interrupted.

Tarquinius looked surprised, but he continued his narrative. “So when I left Tullia's late yesterday afternoon, I decided to snoop around the old mill. Before I even got there, though, I saw Damian coming from that direction. I followed him, and he went to Tullia's. That surprised me, because she said she had kicked him out.

“Evidently it surprised Tullia too, because I heard them yelling when I got close to the house. I crouched under the window and listened.”

Wide awake now, Antony leaned forward. “What did they argue about?”

“Damian begged her to let him come back and promised to behave himself. She didn't believe him. Then he said he loved her and wanted to prove it to her. I nearly guffawed when I heard that. He wanted a decent roof over his head, that's what he wanted—and he would've said just about anything to get it.

“They went round and round for a while, until Tullia finally said he could prove his love for her and for his son by getting rid of the enemies that would hinder Sebastian from reaching his destiny. I figured out that the enemies she was talking about were you Christians.

“‘You want me to kill them or just destroy their property?' Damian asked her.

“She told him the fires weren't working. ‘I want you to kill them,' she said, ‘but just one. Get rid of their leader, Polycarp, and the rest of them will be powerless.'”

Tarquinius paused while Antony absorbed the news. Tullia had been behind the persecution, as they had suspected all along, and Damian was definitely the arsonist. Now they were plotting murder, and the bishop was their target.

Antony stood and grabbed Tarquinius by the arm. “We have to stop them. Will you go to the authorities with me?”

The innkeeper straightened, a sober look on his square face, then he nodded. “I said I'd do whatever it takes to catch Damian. I won't back down now.”

33

WALKING THROUGH THE HILLS WITH MARCELLUS, Rebecca paid scant attention to the fact that it was a beautiful, sunny day or that the fall foliage was spectacular. She was too preoccupied with thoughts of Antony to enjoy the time outdoors. It would be almost a week before she had Antony's reply to her letter, and Rebecca didn't think she could wait that long.

Marcellus, always sensitive to her moods, let her walk a while in silence, then said, “You have that little line around your mouth that means something is on your mind today. Do you want to talk about it?”

They reached the spot along the path where the city of Ephesus came into view below them and Rebecca stopped. “You know me too well,” she said. “Something
is
troubling me.”

She told him about her letter to Antony. “I was just wishing I could go to Smyrna to see him, since he doesn't seem inclined to come home to see me. I've made the trip before . . . but it's just not practical.”

“It would be very taxing with a fourteen-month-old.”

“Yes, and I couldn't leave Victor here; I'd be away too long.” She started up the path again. “At times like these, I really wish Jacob were here. I'd ask
him
to go to Smyrna and find out what's going on with Antony. That would be a good job for a brother. I can't ask Peter, though; a trip like that would be more than he could manage.

“And I'm not asking you to go,” she added. “I know you'll offer, but you can't leave John for something as trivial as finding out why my fiancé can't find the time to write.”