Man of God (24 page)

“They weren’t even here that night, so how do
they know about what happened with you and Mother?”

“Someone told them. Believers are only human,
after all. Things like this happen when we forget to try to honor
God, and follow the example of his son. When Jesus was on trial, he
took the worst kind of abuse you can possibly imagine, without
anger or hatred, and even asked God to forgive those who were
torturing him.”

“But no one can be like him.”

“No, not in the way you mean, but he is in
us, and he can give us the strength to be better than ourselves. I
want you to tell Marcella you’re sorry about what you did.”

“No, Father…I wouldn’t mean it!”

Paulus put his arm around her stiff
shoulders. “Think about it this way, Rachel. Marcella may or may
not be a believer. She and her parents profess to be so. But she
knows you are one. Is this the way followers of Jesus behave?”

Rachel felt like she was going to burst.

“I believe after you’ve had time to think
about things, you
will
be sorry. You’ll be sorry because you
will realize how shallow and petty her thoughts are, and how she
should rise above them, and there’s no way she can do that without
God’s help.”

She bit her lip to stop its trembling, but
her eyes filled uncontrollably with tears.

“Rachel, this isn’t like you. You’ve been
troubled lately…is it because of what happened to Daphne?”

The fact that he knew that, and understood,
was her undoing…she put her hands over her face and began to cry.
“Why—” she managed to say, “why did God let that happen to Daphne
and…and Tigris?”

Gently he pulled her onto his lap. “Wicked
men do wicked things. Yes, God did allow it, but for a reason.”

“There’s no good reason!” she wailed.

“How can you know that? I think it helped
Daphne grow stronger in her faith. But even if not, we have to
trust him.”

He held her as she put her face against his
neck and wept. After a while her sobbing quieted and she lay limply
against him, an occasional trembling breath stirring his hair.
Paulus stood up and carried her into the house. Alysia emerged from
the kitchen to meet them; he left them in Rachel’s bedroom and
waited in the hallway until Alysia came out, some time later.

“She’s almost asleep.”

Lamps flickered in small grooves set in the
walls as they went into their own room and closed the door. “I
think I know what it was about,” she said. “You don’t have to tell
me.”

Paulus sat on the bed, watching as she began
to unbraid her hair. “You were right about people gossiping—and
I’ll leave it at that. And she’s suffering over what happened to
Daphne. As we all are.”

“And you, Paulus? How much are you blaming
yourself?”

He said quietly, “How could I not blame
myself? But it’s done, and nothing can change it. We can only keep
praying for her…and Rachel.”

Alysia sat down next to him, and reaching
forward, ran her fingers lightly through his sun-streaked hair.
“I’m going to have to lop off some of this mane of yours—how’s the
bump?”

“Almost gone.” He caught her hand and now
didn’t restrain himself from smiling. “When Rachel told me what she
had done, I couldn’t help but think of you…throwing a pitcher of
wine over a certain person, long ago.”

“I thought of that, too. I hope she isn’t
going to have my temper!”

“Fish sauce!” he said, laughter in his
voice.

“Yes,” Alysia answered. “Generously mixed
with garlic.”

* * *

The carriage stopped at the top of the knoll,
leaving plenty of room to turn around, and its driver leaped down
to open the door for its occupant. Stepping to the ground, Megara
noticed the darkened windows of the house and thought, Surely they
are at home! She almost stopped and turned back. Why had she come
here herself, instead of letting a servant collect her installment
of money? To relieve her boredom, no doubt. And she had to
admit…she was curious. Curious about the kind of life Paulus led
now, and the kind of people he consorted with. Tonight, though, the
house looked all but deserted.

Her slippers grating against small pebbles in
the drive, she climbed the few steps of the portico and knocked
briskly on the door. It seemed she waited for a long time. The door
opened and Paulus stood looking at her as though she’d been
conjured from a sorcerer’s stick.

After a moment he said, “Come in,” and
stepped back.

Behind him stood that
slave
, her hair
tousled and her cheeks very pink. She held a lamp in her hands.

“Well,” Megara said, “I didn’t think you
would have retired so early.”

“We hadn’t retired,” Paulus replied. Megara
noticed that Alysia’s cheeks grew even pinker and a spasm of
jealousy shot through her.

“I suppose I know why you’re here. I’ll get
it.” Paulus glanced at Alysia and went into the bedroom.

Conscious of her disarray beneath Megara’s
icy stare, Alysia said hesitantly, “May I get you something to…eat
or drink?”

Megara was about to refuse, but it would be
pleasant to have the slave wait upon her. “Yes,” she said, in her
throaty voice. “Thank you.”

She followed Alysia and watched from the
hallway as Alysia went into the kitchen and lit more lamps with the
one she held. “Cheese and dates?” she asked Megara, looking up.

“Just dates.”

Megara continued to watch Alysia’s movements.
Her black hair fell in silken waves almost to her waist; her gown
was a little crooked, as if hastily donned. The lamplight fell upon
her in a golden glow, and her face, touched by shadow and light,
was so full of serenity that Megara felt pure hatred slash through
her body.
She
had no right to be happy! She ought to be
feeling hatred herself, hatred and resentment against
her—Megara—the woman who had done her so much harm over the years.
But there she stood, preparing food and drink as though for a
friend. Didn’t she have any backbone? Didn’t she have sense enough
to see—

“Megara,” Alysia said, “are you at
peace?”

“What did you say?”

Alysia came out of the kitchen, bearing a
plate of stuffed dates and a cup. “Please, sit down.” She indicated
a chair next to a table in the wide hallway.

Megara sat down and looked at the dates. She
was surely going to choke if she put one of those in her mouth. She
took a sip of water.

“I said, are you at peace?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Alysia hesitated, and then sat across from
her. “I don’t think you are, and I would like to tell you how—”

“Oh, stop it.” Megara couldn’t even bring
herself to say Alysia’s name. “Don’t you dare try to convert me!
I’m not interested in anything you have to say!”

Paulus came out of the bedroom, a signed
draft for money in his hands. He went and stood next to Alysia, his
expression sober. Then he looked down at his wife and Megara saw,
in all its subtlety, how he loved and respected and cherished her.
It was only the briefest look, but Megara understood it with the
sheer instinct of a woman who has done nothing all her life but
analyze the actions and motivations of others. Hatred surged anew,
and with it, waves of the deep bitterness she had nursed over the
years.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly, setting
down the plate and cup and getting to her feet.

“Wait,” Paulus said. “You are obviously
troubled—”

“If I am troubled, it is because of you.”
Megara reached for the draft and he handed it to her. “From now on
I will send a servant. Goodbye, Paulus.”

She swept haughtily to the door, her yellow
gown swirling around her sandaled feet. She left the house, and her
slave hastened to assist her up the little hill to the waiting
carriage. She heard the door of the house close behind her.

Silently she called upon the gods to punish
them. That harlot, that murderess, had stolen
her
husband,
and reduced her to begging for what was rightfully hers. That slave
had put an end to all her dreams and ambitions. It was not to be
borne! It was not to be—

Megara put her hand against her galloping
heart, and made an effort to rein in her equally galloping
thoughts. No, it would not be borne! She would
not
go
through the remainder of her life like this. Anything was better
than this.

She knew, now, what she had to do.

CHAPTER XVIII

One more day. Now Livias was exceedingly
nervous, but his manner did not betray it. He had spoken to
hundreds of people, always with some plausible, harmless story
about why he was seeking the man. When talking with those he knew
or suspected were Nazarenes, he said he was a new believer and he
wanted to right some old wrongs…he owed this man a great deal of
money…had they seen him? They always gave him a peculiar look,
shook their heads and walked away. Petronius’ men, who had
scattered all over the city, had no better luck than he.

It was early morning. The fellow in front of
him was in a hurry and Livias didn’t like to hurry, but he made
himself rush forward and lightly touched the man’s shoulder.

“Your pardon, sir.” The man glanced at him
impatiently; he was about thirty years of age, with receding brown
hair and a receding chin. Livias gave him his usual tale, adding,
“I don’t know if you are a believer, as well, but this is very
important to me. I lost track of him over the years and I would
like to pay my debt to this man.”

“What does he look like?”

“Tall, good-looking…so my wife says…dark
blond hair, blue or green eyes—not quite sure. Here, I had a sketch
drawn of his likeness.” Livias pulled out the drawing.

The man squinted his eyes. “I know of a man
who looks like that. I work with him on the aqueduct.”

Livias didn’t quite believe his ears for a
moment.
A man who looks like that
…well, there weren’t many
of those!

“Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know where Antonius lives, but I’m
on the way to the aqueduct now. He might be there. If not, you can
ask Martinus, the contractor—he tells him when to work.”

“So, he’s more than just a laborer?”

The man began walking again. “We laborers
work hard enough.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—do you mind if I follow
you? What is your name, sir?”

His unwary informant began practically
running again. “Secundus,” he said.

* * *

“Yes, that sounds like Antonius. And yes, he
is one of those Nazarenes, or whatever you call yourselves. He’s
been talking to me about it. Several of the men have joined the—er,
have joined. I don’t quite understand it myself.”

Livias avoided the eyes of the man standing
inside the small wooden structure. He didn’t want Martinus to see
his elation; he hadn’t shown Martinus the drawing, either, because
he didn’t want the contractor to suspect how desperate he was. He
had simply told his story, very humbly of course, described Paulus,
and asked where he might find him.

Martinus’ eyes, and mind, were on the large
sheets of parchment that lay on the table before him. “I don’t know
where he lives. Or anything else about him. You might come back
tomorrow. He’ll be here then—he sent word to me.”

“Thank you—I will do that, if I can. Er,
where would I find him—here or—” Livias jerked his head—“out
there?”

“Either place. He works with the men, and he
assists me at times. He has considerable knowledge of
engineering.”

Aha! Another attribute belonging to the man
he sought!

Livias had to struggle to keep the thrill out
of his voice. “Please don’t mention my visit to him—I would like to
surprise him.”

“Certainly.” The contractor had already
forgotten Livias.

He left the building and looked around the
piles of dirt and sand and bricks, the partially built pillars, the
groups of men working at various tasks. He caught sight of Secundus
and made his way toward him. He thanked him, and repeated his wish
to surprise ‘Antonius.’

Secundus nodded and walked away. Nobody
seemed to like Livias much, but he was used to it. He didn’t care.
He had just met one of the greatest challenges of his career and
his triumph was supreme. At least, he was all but certain he had.
He supposed there was the slightest chance this was
not
Paulus Valerius…but every hunter’s instinct within him proclaimed
he had found his prey. And he wasn’t going to risk losing him
either. He would send one of his underlings to watch and make sure
that Paulus didn’t arrive unexpectedly, hear that someone was
looking for him, and make his escape.

Now, what about the woman? He needed to know
where Valerius lived…but no, he couldn’t question any of these men.
It was too risky. The soldiers would just have to
make
Paulus Valerius tell where to find his wife. There were ways.

* * *

Megara looked with satisfaction over her
handiwork. By copying Paulus’ handwriting (which she had done
before, though to her detriment) she had greatly increased the
amount of the bank draft, considerably depleting his resources.
That much money would last her well into the future, until she
could secure a wealthy husband. In a few days she would sail back
to Alexandria and start her new life. No more hiding, no more
worrying about how she was to live. She had convinced herself that
even if Caligula heard she was still alive, he wouldn’t care after
all this time. Why should he remember one imprudent remark she had
made, years ago?

She handed her slave another letter, this one
in her own handwriting, though she had taken care to disguise it
somewhat. “Go and find that man you told me about, who was looking
for Paulus Valerius,” she told him. “The one with the drawing of
him. Give him this, and leave him before he reads it.”