Avenger of Blood (45 page)

“No, that's all right,” Tarquinius said. “I prefer to sleep out front . . . to help keep watch, I mean.”

“I see. In that case,” Polycarp said, extending his hand, “consider the courtyard your bedroom.” He shook hands with Tarquinius. “Antony told me about the firewood. Thank you for that. I appreciate your help—you're a godsend.”

Tarquinius looked surprised and pleased. “That's what Antony said.”

When Polycarp retired, Antony went to the courtyard with Tarquinius. They unlatched the wide door to the street and walked outside. It was just now dusk, and the neighborhood was quiet. Antony hoped it stayed that way all night.

He looked over at the vacant house. “When it gets dark,” he said, “look to see if there are any lamps inside.”

Tarquinius nodded. “Or anybody out on the street with a lantern.”

“Verus should be here anytime,” Antony said. “He's the church member who is on watch duty tonight.”

“We can work together, one of us inside the courtyard, watching the entrance to the house, and one of us patrolling the outside. We'd be in shouting distance of each other if something happened.”

“A good idea,” Antony said. He'd feel more comfortable if there were several men watching the outside of the house, but at least Verus wouldn't be alone tonight.

Antony wondered how many more nights they would have to watch and wait before Damian tried to burn the place down. About to close the door and go inside, Antony stopped when he heard a horse trotting around the curve in the road.

“You expecting visitors?” Tarquinius asked.

“No.” Antony watched the rider slow and pull off the road. He felt uneasy about the arrival, but told himself that it couldn't be Damian. An arsonist would not ride up to the front door.

The driver reined in the horse and dismounted. The man must have traveled a great distance; he wore some kind of foreign clothing Antony didn't recognize. But when the rider turned toward them, he greeted Antony by name.

Antony turned white as a bedsheet when he recognized the man. “Jacob!” he cried. “Jacob, is it really you?”

Jacob laughed, threw his arms around Antony, and clapped him on the back. “In the flesh, friend. In the flesh.”

Antony took a step back and Jacob turned around to pick up the horse's reins.

Tarquinius suddenly screamed, “Get down!” He ran toward Jacob and shoved him. Gravel flew as the men hit the ground, facedown, in a hard landing. An arrow whizzed over their heads, barely missing them before impaling the open door to the courtyard.

The horse reared and Antony grabbed for the reins so the animal wouldn't trample its owner. By the time he'd gotten control of the horse, Jacob and Tarquinius had gotten to their feet, and they all made a run for the courtyard as more arrows rained overhead.

Tarquinius latched the door to the street behind them, and Antony opened the door to the atrium.

“Easy, girl.” Jacob soothed the animal as he tied it to an iron ring on the wall. Before he could make it in the house with the others, yet another arrow lobbed over the courtyard wall and landed nearby.

The arrows had come from the direction of the vacant house, Antony realized. Whoever was firing at them—and Antony had no doubt who it was—was standing on the roof of the empty house across the street.

Inside the atrium, Tarquinius asked Jacob, “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he said, brushing gravel off his face and arms.

“Awful sorry I had to knock you down like that, but I'm glad I saw that arrow coming when I did.”

“I am too,” Jacob said. “I'm very grateful to you.” He turned to Antony. “I wasn't sure what kind of welcome I'd receive, but I certainly did not expect to be shot on my arrival. What's going on?”

Antony stared at Jacob. He couldn't get over the fact that Jacob was here, in Smyrna, and he'd almost been killed.

“Antony?” Jacob repeated.

“Sorry,” Antony said, running a frazzled hand through his hair. “For months I've thought you were dead.”

“For months I
was
dead, in a manner of speaking,” Jacob said.

Antony introduced the innkeeper, who had indeed been a godsend today, risking his life to save Jacob.

“We've met before,” the beefy man said, as he shook Jacob's hand. “Last time I saw you, I was worried you were going to kill a man on my property. Now I wish you had. Things wouldn't be in such an uproar around here.”

Startled into recognition, Jacob said, “The inn . . . Damian?”

“He's back,” was all Antony said. “He's back.”

“And the man we saw with him this morning, as well,” Tarquinius added. “Too many arrows coming too fast to be a single archer—”

Tarquinius stopped and cocked his ear toward the door. “Did you hear that?”

They listened to the sound of someone knocking on the outside door at the street.

“Verus—” Antony suddenly remembered they'd been waiting for Verus when everything happened.

“You stay here,” Tarquinius said to Antony. “I'll let him in.”

Tarquinius returned with Verus, who was holding a broken arrow. “I found this stuck in the door,” he said. “What happened? Hunters?”

“No,” Antony said. “It appears we're under siege.”

“Damian?” Verus asked grimly. Antony nodded.

“If it's just Damian and the other man,” Tarquinius said, “we have them outnumbered. The four of us could overpower them—”

“But we don't know for sure,” Antony said. “We could be walking into an ambush. On top of that, we don't have the kind of weapons they do, and it's dark now.”

“You're right,” Tarquinius agreed reluctantly. “We'll have to wait until morning.”

Verus said, “I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.”

Jacob was too stunned to say anything.

Verus took up his watch in the courtyard while the others left the atrium and went to find Polycarp—who, much to Jacob's relief, was overjoyed to see him again.

Jacob had felt physically ill ever since he heard the news that Damian was behind the attack, and his stomach felt no better after the hastily prepared meal Linus and Polycarp's other young pupil arranged. Over dinner, Jacob shared the sketchiest of details about his sojourn in Cappadocia and recent return, while Antony brought him up to date on what had been happening in Smyrna.

“When Damian showed up several months ago,” Antony said, “but no one had heard from you—well, I thought he must have killed you.”

“He's been back for several months and you never said anything to Rebecca about it?” His sister was right. Antony really hadn't been telling Rebecca much about what was happening in Smyrna if he'd left out that important detail.

“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.