Man of God
Authors: Debra Diaz
Tags: #biblical, #historical, #christian, #jerusalem, #gladiator, #ancient rome, #temple, #jesus of nazareth, #caligula, #man of god
DEBRA DIAZ
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Debra Diaz
Smashwords
Edition, License
Notes
This e-book is licensed for your use only. It
may not be re-sold or digitally reproduced for use by another
person. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
This book is the standalone sequel to
Woman of Sin
. It is not necessary to have read
Woman of
Sin
in order to enjoy the reading of this book.
Click here for
other titles by this author
TABLE
OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUS, 40 AD
Tiberius Caesar was dead, supposedly of
natural causes, but it was rumored that he had been murdered. The
story began with his traveling about in Campania in defiance of an
increasing physical weakness; he finally stopped at a villa on the
southern coast of Italy, where his physician informed Sutorius
Macro, the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, that the emperor was
about to breathe his last. Hiding their exultance, Macro and the
emperor’s grandnephew, Caligula, sent out dispatches and laid their
plans…and when the old man had expired, Caligula made the “grim”
announcement to a group of his own admirers, who were also
thrilled, and didn’t hesitate to show it. The young man was still
tearfully addressing them when an irritable voice rang out from the
imperial bedchamber:
“Where is everybody? By the gods, I want
something to eat!”
Panicking, everyone scattered…but the
emperor’s recovery was short-lived. Caligula sought out Macro, who
calmly proceeded to smother the old man under a pile of his own
bedclothes.
It
was
, however, just a rumor.
The nickname, Caligula, meaning “Little
Boots”, had been bestowed upon Gaius Caesar when he was but two or
three years old by soldiers of his father’s army, when he had gone
strutting about the campgrounds in a tiny but authentic uniform.
He’d been popular even then, and now was hailed with delight as the
new emperor. At last grouchy old Tiberius was dead! Here was the
young and noble son of Germanicus…Germanicus, who had been loved by
everyone—except by whoever killed him.
True, the new emperor had an odd and feeble
appearance, with a wide forehead, wispy pale hair, high cheekbones
and a weak chin, and a sad and drooping mouth that could harden
into a line of abject cruelty. But few saw the cruelty, at first.
At the age of twenty-five, he gave the impression of great promise.
In spite of his look of frailty, he had a strong voice that served
him well onstage, for he had a passionate love of theater. He
declared, in that fine, orator’s voice, that Rome should never
again fear the sort of despotism that had taken place during the
reign of Tiberius. A year passed, during which he improved the tax
system, increased pay to the army, sponsored spectacular events in
the arena, gave free food to the masses, and brought about many
other reforms that solidified the public’s approval of him.
But the following year…something happened.
Caligula fell victim to a mysterious illness, and when he
recovered, he had changed. (Though many who knew him well said he
did not change at all; he only stopped putting on a show of
goodness.) No one could decide whether he was indeed mad, or if he
was simply running amuck, having gone in such a short time from
obscurity to being the most powerful man in the world.
He began a reign of terror that made
Tiberius’ treason trials look like the antics of schoolboys, and
embarked upon such sexual abandon that even Rome was outraged.
There was only one man who could give him pause once he set his
mind upon some frantic and incomprehensible course of action, and
that was his uncle. (His old confidant, Macro, had gone the way of
many others…stripped of his position two years ago, after which he
and his wife committed suicide.)
Uncle Claudius was as unlike his brother as
it was possible to be. Germancius had been handsome, affable, an
excellent soldier; the unfortunate Claudius was unprepossessing in
appearance, limped, stuttered and was generally regarded as a fool.
It was, however, a calculated effect, for Claudius had a keen
intelligence and did not mind if it was underrated, since if he’d
been considered a true threat to the throne he would no doubt exist
only as a heap of ashes, like most of his other relatives.
Caligula would never confess it, but in spite
of his scorn for Claudius’ physical and presumed mental
shortcomings, he had a grudging respect for the practical advice
his uncle could give him on occasion…after all, even idiots could
have a degree of common sense, could they not? Claudius was well
acquainted with politics and human nature, and had watched, with a
jaundiced eye, all the happenings in Rome from the time of
Augustus.
“Tell me, Uncle,” the emperor said one day,
pretending to yawn with boredom, “what do you think of this new
sect that calls itself the Nazarenes, or whatever it is?”
Claudius’ mouth sometimes worked and twitched
a few times before anything came out. “I—I don’t
think
anything about them. After all, they worship another god instead of
those of Rome and your Divine Maj—majesty. It is wise to ignore
them and most likely the whole thing will die out eventu—ally.”
Caligula rose from his marble, cushioned
bench and strode to the edge of the palace balcony where he struck
his habitual pose, bending a knee, grasping the finely embroidered
edge of his toga. He cocked his head and rolled his eyes
thoughtfully.
“I don’t know about that. Look at the Jews.
They worship another god and we have very graciously allowed them
to do so. Perhaps that has been a mistake. I can only imagine what
they would do if I required them to bow down to me. In fact, I
decided some time ago I would put a statue of myself in their
Temple over in Jerusalem.”
Claudius tried to conceal his horror. “It
wouldn’t be worth the consequences, your Majesty. You know they
would fight to the death before allowing such a sac—that is, what
they consider a sacrilege, my Lord Emp—orer.”
“That’s just the problem, Uncle,” Caligula
said softly, with small pouches puffing out on either side of his
mouth. “And the Nazarenes are just as stubborn. They worship the
same god, I hear, but somehow this dead Jew is mixed into it and
they think he is on equal footing with their god. I don’t like it.
It doesn’t make sense. It would be better all the way round if
everybody stopped this twaddle, and admitted there is only one
Lord, one King!”
“One Lord, One King,” Claudius intoned. It
was Caligula’s favorite appellation for himself.
Caligula turned and strode toward his uncle,
who sat beside a small potted tree and seemed to be trying to hide
behind it. “I am going to call for an assembly. Rulers and
chieftains from all over the empire. We shall see how widespread
this problem is and decide how to deal with it. Well, actually, I
have other reasons for this gathering, but that one will do well
enough. And now for that other matter that concerns me. You
remember Paulus Valerius, do you not?”
“We met several times, years ago. He was
always k—kind to me.”
“Kindness is weakness, Uncle! Paulus Valerius
Maximus is not weak. It was pity for your wretchedness you saw.
Tiberius was most anxious to find him, before his…death. And I have
often wondered what became of Valerius. He has recently been seen
here in Rome! Someone reported it to me. But we can’t find him.
When we do, you can be sure we will have some questions for him to
answer.”
“Questions?” Claudius repeated,
reluctantly.
“Yes, questions!” The emperor’s eyes became
fixed; his tone softened again. “Such as, why did he abandon his
appointment and leave Jerusalem? Why has he remained hidden these
seven years? And where is that woman he supposedly rescued, the one
who killed Magnus Eustacius?”
“Why such an interest in Valerius?” Claudius
was afraid to ask, but knew his nephew expected it.
“I liked him,” Caligula almost whispered. “He
reminds me of—someone. Why is his statue not in the Forum of
Augustus?”
“He never p—permitted it, your Majesty. It
seemed he lacked the pa-patience for such things.”
“I want him as head of my bodyguard. Flavius
will have to take second place.”
Claudius didn’t think that was a good idea.
“Even though he helped the woman escape? Even considering he has
broken his oath and is no longer a soldier?”
“We shall see about that. As for the
woman…well, who cares about Eustacius! He was a bumbling sot like
his father. But he was an aristocrat, after all—therefore, she must
die.”
Caligula jerked his head around as if
listening, then turned back to his uncle, who now sat with alarm
bells ringing in his own head. “Jupiter has spoken,” the emperor
declared, with a familiar, wide-eyed expression that Claudius could
never decide was comical, or one from which to flee as speedily as
possible.
“We will start a search for the woman. We
have a description; she is quite a beauty, I’ve heard. Indigo eyes,
hair like a black waterfall. Whoever said that is a poet! She’s
Greek, an aristocrat herself, before her father was executed and
she was sent off as a slave. I am certain that when we find her, we
will find Valerius as well. And both of their fates will be up to
me…not to the dead Nazarene, not to the unknown God, and not even
to Jupiter. Don’t tell Jupiter I said that, Uncle.
One Lord, One
King
!”
CHAPTER I
Paulus Valerius Maximus had become so
accustomed to a sense of imminent danger that he no longer trusted
his instincts. Once he had lived by them, as did most soldiers of
high rank…and though he still led men, gone were the days he had
carried them into battle. Now it was a different kind of battle,
and the danger was more subtle and ill defined. It lurked in
daylight and dark, it peered from shadows, it hid in the eyes of
those who offered friendship and intended malice. He didn’t care
about himself…it was those he loved that he sought to protect, and
yet he knew it wasn’t really himself who protected them. He had
little control over what happened in life, but he trusted the One
who did.
That didn’t, however, stop him from thinking
of all the things that could go amiss. It was a weakness he hadn’t
managed to conquer.
He tried to merge as unobtrusively as
possible into the dense throng swarming toward the harbor. His
hooded robe, combined with the heat of July radiating from the
pavement and brick buildings around him, made him feel
uncomfortably warm. At least he wouldn’t draw unwanted attention,
for dozens of other men were garbed in a similar fashion, mostly
Jews and other easterners; Roman men wore tunics, and some, who
wished to let everyone know how important they were, wore
togas.
The hood covered his neck-length mane of
wheat-colored hair, now liberally threaded with silver, and most of
a face too striking for a mere glance. His appearance had proved to
be disadvantageous for a person in hiding, as had his wife’s. Yet
in all these years they had not been recognized…himself as a Roman
legate who had resigned his post and disappeared, and Alysia as a
former slave who had killed a Roman citizen of senatorial rank, and
managed to escape before being arrested.
Paulus had aided in that escape. Alysia had
been his sister’s slave, and the man she killed was about to rape
her. With Paulus’ urging she had boarded a ship bound for Cyprus, a
ship that had been caught in a storm and sunk, leaving him to
bitterly believe he had sent her to her death. What he didn’t know
was that she had changed ships at Crete and sailed to Palestine,
where she had lived for a year before he found her again…by chance,
he had thought then, before learning that very little happened by
chance.