Avenger of Blood (5 page)

Rebecca knew Galen couldn't possibly have Victor; Naomi did. Galen was a gentle man, a complete stranger to violence; he would never kidnap her son, let alone throw him off a cliff.

Yet Galen had thrown away something cherished, something Rebecca had treasured for years . . .

4

REBECCA HAD JUST CELEBRATED her twelfth birthday when she decided it was God's will for her to marry Galen. Naomi's wedding the previous year was still fresh in her mind, and Rebecca adored her new brother-in-law, Crispin, who worked with their father in the shipping business. Ever since their wedding Rebecca had been praying that God would bring the right husband into her life. She was in no rush; she wanted to wait until she was eighteen, as Naomi had, even though many girls married at thirteen or fourteen.

Even now, Rebecca could remember the precise moment she knew Galen was the one. It happened the night he came up to her and smiled—a rarity in itself—and asked if he could sit beside her at the
agape
feast. Although she had known him for several years, she looked up now as if seeing him for the first time, registering every detail: the slight cleft in his chin, the whiteness of his evenly spaced teeth, the lock of straight jet-black hair that fell over his forehead, obscuring his brooding black eyes, which were ringed with long dark lashes. Something in her twelve-year-old mind said, “This is the one.”

Galen was gifted; everyone knew it. And most of them admitted that his talent would someday surpass that of his father. But no one ever knew what Galen was thinking. His ability to express himself was found not in his voice but in his hands, as he deftly worked molten strands of silver and gold into shapes of graceful beauty.

And no one, except for Rebecca, ever knew what was in his heart. For some reason, which she could only attribute to God, she had always been able to communicate intuitively with the budding artisan, who, like her twin brothers, was two years older.

It took a while longer for Galen to realize they were meant to be together. The first time they had talked about it was two years later, when Rebecca was recovering from a serious illness. She had run a terribly high fever for days, and Galen had come to see her every afternoon, after he finished his work. As she began to get stronger, he would visit with her in the garden, sometimes sitting quietly beside her on one of the stone benches surrounding the central fountain, and sometimes making an effort at the kind of light-hearted conversation he knew she would enjoy. He described the various people who had come into the silversmith shop, and he made her laugh by imitating the accent of the Anatolian traders he'd overheard in the
agora
.

Rebecca had learned that with Galen, what he didn't say was as important as what he did say—more so, perhaps. One day she knew something was on his mind. She could tell by the intense look in his eyes when he thought she wasn't watching him.

“I had an offer for a big job,” he told her when she finally decided to pry into his secret. “But I turned it down.”

That's what I would have done too.”

Galen pushed away the long shock of hair that habitually fell across his forehead as he told her about the temple official who had wanted to commission new serving pieces for the banquet hall at the Temple of Artemis. “It would have meant a lot of money,,” he said, since I hope to be married someday, I've started thinking about what it would take to support a wife.”

Rebecca suddenly felt flushed, and it had nothing to do with her recent fever. She was proud of his principal decision and intrigued by his mention of marriage.

“Lucrative jobs like that are hard to come by,” he continued, “so it was naturally tempting.” Galen looked away quickly, staring into the fountain. When he spoke, his voice could barely be heard over the gentle roar of cascading water. “Especially when the girl I want to marry comes from a very wealthy family. I could never provide the kind of life she's used to living.”

“Perhaps material things don't matter to her as much as you think they do. Perhaps love and commitment are much more important.” This time Rebecca reached over and pushed back the hair that had already fallen over his eyebrows. “You should ask her about that sometime.”

He looked up and saw her smile, and there was no mistaking the happiness in his expression. “That's good advice,” he said.

She had intended to let him be the one to bring up the topic again, but several days after their conversation her father had received news that one of his ships had been lost at sea, and Crispin along with it. Rebecca felt deeply for Naomi, who had lost her husband after only three years of marriage. And it made her consider her feelings for Galen even more carefully.

After several days of dropping hints—all in vain—she had finally confronted the issue directly. And she had gone all the way to the silversmith shop to do it.

When she entered, Galen was putting away the hammers and tongs and other implements of his profession. She regretted not arriving a few minutes earlier; she loved watching him work. However, she had wanted to time her visit so they would have a chance to talk.

“Rebecca, what are you doing here?” Galen scowled as he pulled the heavy work apron over his head and hung it on a peg.

“Is it all right?” she asked quickly. “I . . . I thought you'd be glad to see me.” Had she come at a bad time? Why was he upset?

“Of course I'm glad. It's just that you've been sick recently, and it's an awfully long walk from your house to Harbor Street.” His face relaxed in a near smile. “I was worried about you, that's all.”

“I'm fine now—I needed the walk. I haven't been anywhere in two weeks.” She exhaled in relief. “But I am a little winded. Perhaps I should sit down.”

“Yes, but not in here. It's too hot.”

The fires, used to heat precious metals until they were pliable, had been extinguished, but it was still quite warm in the shop. Galen guided her outside and they strolled toward the waterfront, stopping to buy some fruit from one of the vendor stalls lining the colonnade.

Rebecca loved the varied noises and smells of the marketplace. Many of the merchants had already closed for the day and most of the pedestrians were headed away from the center of the city.

They found an unoccupied bench near the river and watched a cargo ship dock while they ate their snack. When the silence had deepened beyond her endurance, Rebecca prodded Galen.

“The other day,” she began, “when you said there was this wealthy girl you wanted to marry . . .” She hesitated, hoping he would pick up the cue, but he just looked at her, patiently waiting. “Anyway, I said that maybe money wasn't that important to her.”

She paused again, and still he remained silent. “I know it's only been a few days,” she continued, “but you haven't mentioned it again, and, well, with everything that's happened, I keep thinking . . .” This time she paused not for his reply but to summon her courage for the question that really mattered.

“Galen, am I that girl?”

A slow, deep smile parted his lips and a hint of amusement flashed in his eyes. “Of course. I thought you knew, Rebecca.”

“I did. Or I thought I did. I mean, I usually know what you're thinking.” She fidgeted with her tunic, arranging the skirt in folds. “I guess I just needed to hear it from you, that's all.”

“Yes,” he repeated. “You are the girl I want to marry.”

Rebecca was silent then, basking in the overwhelming relief she felt at his words and the happy sight of his smile. But then a new concern stirred her, and since she'd gone this far, she decided she might as well take things a step further.

“Have you talked to your father about it?” she asked. According to custom, Galen's father should be the one to approach her father about the union.

Galen's smile vanished. “I've talked to him about it.”

“Is he opposed to it?”

“No. But he's not enthusiastic about it, either. He doesn't think your father would find me suitable.”

“Because your family is not as wealthy as ours?” That was the obstacle he had implied earlier, when he talked to her in the garden.

“We're not even close. No family is as wealthy as yours.”

“That's beside the point,” she said. “If you follow that line of thinking, then there would never be a suitable husband for me.”

“Then I guess the question is,
would
your father approve?”

“My father wants what's best for me,” she said confidently. “And you're what's best for me, Galen.” Her voice wavered with the emotion of saying the words out loud. “I've loved you for a long time.”

“I've loved you longer.”

The statement surprised Rebecca into complete silence.

“You didn't know that?” he asked. “And here I thought you always knew what I was thinking.”

She looked at him in amazement as he continued, “I've been in love with you since almost the first day I met you.”

“But that would have been . . .” She finally found her voice, but her mind wasn't quite working yet. “I was just eight years old when your family started coming to our house for church.”

“And I was ten, and not the least bit interested in girls at the time. But then I'd never seen a girl as beautiful as you. And then I discovered you were as sweet as you were beautiful. I think it took me two years just to work up the courage to speak to you. And when I did, and you smiled at me, I thought my life had ended—or that it had just begun. I was so confused, I wasn't sure which; I just knew my life would never be the same.” He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. “And it hasn't.”

Rebecca left her hand in his after he kissed it. She couldn't remember when Galen had said so many words at once. And what sweet words they were.

“I'll speak to my father again,” he told her.

When she was seventeen, Rebecca and Galen had received their parents' blessing. But by then the Tenth Legion had arrived in Ephesus. That autumn had been a time of great uncertainty, but Rebecca and Galen continued to make plans for a wedding the following spring. They promised that nothing, not even the threat of persecution, would ever separate them. Of the two of them, Rebecca had thought it would be Galen who faced the greater danger; his shop was in the crowded marketplace that lined the main avenue of the commercial district, and soldiers were often in the area asking questions.

Of course, it turned out that she was the one who became a prisoner for her faith.

On Devil's Island her dream of marrying and raising a family with Galen had been utterly destroyed, and she had had to come to terms with the grievous loss of that dream.

But then a miracle happened. Almost one year into her life sentence, Rebecca had been released.

As she sailed home to Ephesus, Rebecca had dared to let God rekindle her dream. She couldn't wait to see Galen.

When she got home and got a good look at herself in the mirror, however, she was horrified. Her well-proportioned curves had turned into bony angles. She was thin and gaunt, her eyes sunken. Her once lovely hair was lackluster, her hands were callused and rough.

But it wasn't just the changes in her appearance that concerned her. Rebecca also had a baby, and she didn't know how her fiancé would react. Could he accept Victor and learn to love him? What if Galen hadn't even waited for her? What if he had given up hope and married someone else?

Word of their return had spread quickly. Just before noon on the day following their arrival, Galen appeared at the villa. When the steward had told Rebecca that Galen was waiting for her in the garden, she was filled with joyous anticipation as well as a good deal of apprehension.

The low noise of the fountain covered the sound of her footsteps on the tiled walkway, and she approached without his notice. She stood to one side and took a moment just to look at him. If possible, Galen was more handsome than ever. And just as preoccupied. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring intently into the fountain; but his eyes, she knew, were looking beyond the water, his subconscious mind creating objects that only he could see.

She walked into his field of vision and he slowly sensed her presence. “ I closed the shop and rushed here as soon as I heard . . .” His voice trailed off when he looked up, and his eyes clouded over as he took in her appearance. “Oh, Rebecca.”

He stood and reached for her and she fell against him, relieved. There had been love in his expression as well as shock. They clung to each other, both of them too overcome to speak.

After a while Rebecca pulled back, embarrassed. “I look awful,” she said, patting her still-damp hair. She had pinned it up before it dried completely, not wanting anyone to see how unevenly she'd had to trim it to get rid of the impossibly tangled ends. “You look beautiful to me,” he said gallantly. But Rebecca could see the pain in his eyes as he looked at her. The evidence of her suffering wounded him.

He asked her about it rather awkwardly, and she found for once that she couldn't talk about it. So she asked him questions instead, making him talk about his work, about the church.

After a few minutes, conversation with her fiancé began to seem more normal to her, and he appeared to have recovered somewhat from the initial shock of seeing her.

Tears filled her eyes as he held her hand and told her how much he had missed her. This was what she had waited for, hoped for, dreamed for—and God had brought her back for this.

Finally she was able to speak about Devil's Island, but only the less painful things. She told him about John's glorious vision of Christ, and how the Apostle had called her “Scribe” because she worked for months making copies of his letters for the churches in Asia. And she made him laugh about the previous occupants of their cave, who had remained frequent visitors even after John had tried to forcefully evict them: two rats he had named Damian and Domitian.