“Where are you going?”
“Back to the inn,” she said, eager to escape. Before she could, he caught hold of her wrist.
“Why?”
Her breath was constricted. “Let go, Atretes. This isn’t a good time or place for us to talk about anything.”
“Because you haven’t got a baby in your arms?” He rose. “Do you feel vulnerable without your human shield?”
“Caleb isn’t a shield, but at least when I’m holding him, you see me as a mother and not as . . . as . . .”
“A woman?” He ran his thumb along the smooth, silky skin of her wrist and wondered how the rest of her would feel. His own pulse was hammering, rousing his defensive anger. “You asked me a question. How about this answer? By the time we reach Germania, my son won’t need a wet nurse.”
“He’ll still need a mother.”
“A foster mother of his own kin.” The bones of her wrist felt as fragile as a bird’s, but far less fragile than what he saw in her dark eyes. He had hurt her deeply with his cutting words. Worse, he had frightened her. He let go of her.
Rizpah sat down on the bench again because her legs wouldn’t hold her. She fought back tears.
Atretes silently cursed himself. He wanted to say he was sorry, but the words choked him. Why had he lashed out at her? To avenge himself for what others had done to him? Or for what he had felt when he saw her walking down the street toward him?
She looked up at him, her brown eyes swimming. “I have left home and country behind, Atretes. Have I done so that you might take Caleb from me when we reach yours?”
In truth, Atretes could imagine no other woman caring for his son but her. “No,” he said. “I won’t take him from you. I swear on my sword.”
She reached out impulsively and took his hand between both of hers. “I believe you without your oath.”
Leaning back against a marble pillar, he looked down at her, eyes cold, everything else hot. When she released his hand, he was disappointed—and grateful. She made him feel vulnerable, and he didn’t like it.
She rose again, disturbed by his enigmatic stare. “Come back to the inn with me, Atretes. You belong with us.”
“I think not.”
“Theophilus is with his men at the garrison,” she said, thinking that might be the reason he hesitated. “Please.” She held her hand out to him. “Don’t stay out in the cold when you’re welcome by the fire.”
When he took her hand, she smiled at him and turned to step outside of the fanum. His grip tightened, keeping her inside. “Not yet.”
She looked up at him in question and then her eyes went wide, instinctively warned even before he pulled her into his arms. She stiffened and opened her mouth to protest. Cupping the back of her head with one hand, he covered her mouth with his own, kissing her with all his pent-up passion. He pulled her body closer and felt her hands pressing for freedom. He felt as well her warmth and the wild beat of her heart against his own.
Satisfied that she was no less affected than he, he released her. “Do you still want me to come back with you?”
Rizpah stepped back, trembling and trying to get her breath. “The arrangements are the same as they were on the ship,” she said, clutching the front of her tunic and wishing she could quiet the clamor of her heart.
“What about being welcome by the fire?” He lightly brushed her burning cheek.
She slapped his hand away. “If you can’t behave properly, perhaps it would be better if you stayed here!” Swinging around, she left him alone in the fanum.
Laughing, Atretes caught up with her. “I was behaving properly,” he said, falling into step beside her. She’d never be able to outrun him. “For a barbarian. Or would you prefer I handled you like a berserker? I’ve been called that, too.”
“Don’t handle me at all.”
“Why? Because you liked it too much?”
She stopped and faced him, looking more distressed now than angry. “Because it doesn’t mean anything to you.”
“And it does to you?”
Face aflame, she left him standing in the road. He caught up again, but made no further comment. She felt his amused glance and thought she had never met a more insensitive human being.
Peter was at the inn gate, Barnabas with him. They ran to meet them and fell in alongside Atretes, affording Rizpah escape. Atretes followed her into the courtyard, muttering a curse as Tibullus and Niger came to greet him. He had thought he was rid of them. “We’ll be sleeping over there, Atretes,” Agabus said, joining them.
Atretes looked over the younger man’s head to see where Rizpah went. She joined Camella and her daughter on the opposite side of the courtyard. Removing her shawl, she knelt on the straw and picked Caleb up. He kicked his chubby legs in the air in his excitement at seeing her. She glanced in his direction, and he could almost see the relief in her face. Relief that she was away from him. Out of reach. Her shield back in place.
Not for long, Rizpah. I got over your walls once. Next time, I’m going to rip them down around your ears.
“Why’s he grinning at you like that?” Camella said softly, looking from Atretes to Rizpah, who was clearly flustered.
“To be obnoxious.”
“Did you two quarrel?”
“Not exactly.” She glanced back and watched him walk away with Tibullus and the others to the sleeping space reserved for them. Peter was running ahead of them, undoubtedly wanting to make certain there was space for him.
Atretes glanced back at her again, and she could feel her body going hot with embarrassment. Why had he behaved in such a manner? Worse, why had she made a fool of herself? Had she had any hint of what he intended in the fanum, she would have stayed out of it.
“Mind if I join you ladies?” Prochorus said, and Camella greeted him affectionately. He joined them and passed the time with his sister, his fondness for his niece apparent as he watched her play with Caleb. Rhoda joined them after a while, but the conversation became stilted with her presence. Rizpah saw that the woman’s affection for Lysia was genuine and reciprocated, but she treated Camella with pained politeness, while Camella, clearly resentful, retreated into silence.
* * *
From across the courtyard, Atretes watched Rizpah. Around him, the young men were working on memorizing Scripture. Tibullus had a copy of Mark’s Gospel and Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. All four were committing the latter to memory.
“‘Finally, brethren, be strong in the Lord and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil,’” Tibullus read. The others repeated the passage.
“Again, Niger,” Tibullus said. “You forgot ‘in the power of his might.’” Tibullus reread the passage and Niger quoted it back to him.
Passage by passage, they worked together, carving it into their minds word by word. “‘Gird your loins with truth . . . put on the breastplate of righteousness . . . shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace . . . taking up the shield of faith . . . take up the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.’”
Atretes wished he had stayed overnight in the fanum.
Tibullus began to speak again, and Atretes interrupted. “Do you really think any of that will save your lives?”
Tibullus was too surprised to answer.
“What good is truth against the sword of Rome?” Atretes said darkly. “What good are words of peace against an empire bent on shedding blood? Tell me that!”
They each looked at one another, hoping another would take up the challenge.
“A shield of faith!” Atretes mocked them. He stood, unable to sit and listen to them anymore. “A helmet of salvation! A sword can cut through both and leave you dead.”
Niger drew back from his anger.
“The body, yes, Atretes, but not the soul,” Agabus said, and Atretes fixed his anger on him.
“Therein lies the rub, doesn’t it?”
he sneered. “I have no soul.” Nor had he anything in common with these men, sons of merchants and craftsmen. He had been trained as a warrior from the time he was a boy. Ten years had hardened him even more. Would any one of these boys know what it felt like to face death?
“You have a soul, Atretes,” Bartimaeus said.
“And it cries out for God.” Another voice joined to the first.
Atretes looked at Tibullus. “If I have a soul, it cries out for vengeance.”
“Revenge will bring you death,” he replied, gaining courage from the other two.
“Maybe, but in the process, satisfaction.”
“We’ve good news for you, Atretes,” Niger said. “The Savior has come.”
“‘Savior,’” Atretes said in disgust and cast a cold look around the circle. “Are you saved?”
“Yes,” Bartimaeus said. “And you can be, too.”
“I’ve heard about your Jesus and his good news. A slave girl told me while she waited to face the lions. And now I hear about it from all of you. Day in. Day out. You never shut up about it. You speak of life, but death hovers over you like a buzzard.”
“Death has no hold over us,” Agabus said.
“No?” Atretes’ voice was cold and challenging, his gaze filled with disdain. “Then why are all of you running from it?”
* * *
Rizpah heard Atretes’ voice raised in anger. Glancing across the common, she saw him standing over the four younger men. They all rose, Bartimaeus stepping forward from the rest. His stance was one of appeal, not challenge. Atretes grabbed him by the front of his tunic and spoke right into his face. The younger man put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Atretes shoved him back contemptuously. He said something, spit on the ground, and walked away.
When Peter and Barnabas followed after him, Porcia called out to them. Barnabas stopped and protested, but Peter ignored her. She called again, more sharply this time, and the younger boy obeyed. When Atretes squatted down near the fire, Peter hunkered down beside him. Atretes said something and glowered at him. Peter said something, and Atretes jerked his head. Peter rose dejectedly and walked away. Porcia met him halfway. Glancing nervously at Atretes, she put her arm around her son’s shoulders and hurried him into their booth. Atretes watched them and then turned his head away.
Rizpah’s heart ached. She scarcely listened to the stilted conversation going on between Prochorus, Camella, and Rhoda, for she wondered what had set Atretes against the younger men. Night was upon them, and he sat down near the fire, staring into the flames, his face a hardened bronze. He looked so alone, cut off from everyone.
On impulse, she picked up Caleb from the blanket and rose. “Excuse me,” she said and stepped past the others.
“You aren’t going to go out there to him, are you?” Rhoda said. “Not in his present mood.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” Camella said.
Rhoda cast her an annoyed glance. “Because she might make matters worse,” she said in a hushed voice. “And a man like him is unpredictable.”
“You’re as afraid of him as Porcia is,” Camella said.
“Why shouldn’t we be afraid of him? Remember what he was.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t let anyone forget their past and start over.”
“I don’t think he wants to start over. He just wants to go home.”
Lysia drew back into the corner of the booth, her forehead against her raised knees.
Rhoda glared at Camella. “Besides, I wasn’t talking about you.”
“Weren’t you?”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re plain as day. You’re always aiming barbs at me.”
“Camella,” Prochorus said softly, but his sister wasn’t listening.
“Every chance you get, you—”
“I do not. It’s your own guilty conscience that makes you take offense at everything I say!”
“My brother and I were having a pleasant conversation before you joined us. Why don’t you leave?”
“That’s enough!” Prochorus said, aggrieved.
Quick tears filled Camella’s eyes. “I’m sick of being criticized and condemned by her!”
“You’re sick of me? Do you hear what she says? Do you see how she treats me?” Rhoda said, standing up. “Now do you believe me about her?” Eyes full of angry tears, she looked at her husband for reinforcement. He sat silent, looking sick. “Are you coming, Prochorus?”
“No.”
Rhoda’s face paled. “No?” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’ll be along in a few minutes,” he said, but it was too late.
“I’m your wife, but you always take her side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side.”
“No? Well, fine. Stay. I don’t care. My feelings don’t matter anyway, do they?” Tears ran down her cheeks. She looked at Camella. “We took you into our home, and you’ve done nothing but try to tear us apart.” Her mouth worked. “Well, you’ve finally won, haven’t you, Camella? I hope you’re satisfied.” Bursting into tears, she turned away.
Prochorus watched his wife run back to their booth. He looked at Camella and then put his head back against the clay brick wall. “Jesus,” he said softly and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Camella said weakly.
“You’re always sorry.” He rose slowly, looking old and worn. “It doesn’t help much, does it?”
“Maybe I should just stay here in Corinth.”
“Talking foolishness doesn’t help matters, Cam.”
“Who’s being foolish? You for thinking this would ever work! I should’ve stayed in Ephesus.”
“And how would you have lived?”
“I don’t know. I would’ve found a way.”
“You’re my responsibility.”
“Is that all I am to you? A responsibility? I’m your sister.”
“And Rhoda is my wife,” he said harshly. “What neither of you can get through your heads is I love you both. I wish to God you could love one another. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
“I’ve tried, Prochorus. I have.”
“How did you try tonight, Cam? You started it.”
Camella looked as though he had struck her. Rizpah bit her lip, embarrassed to be witnessing such an argument, yet unable to escape it.
“You’ve always given in to your emotions. It’s what got you into trouble in the first place, isn’t it?”
“Are you going to start throwing my past in my face, now, too?”
“I don’t have to, do I? You’re the one who can’t forget. You wallow in it.” He noticed Rizpah. “I’m sorry,” he said, clearly ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said again and left.
Camella looked up at her. “You think I’m in the wrong, too, don’t you?” she said, mouth jerking. “Go ahead. Blame me. Everyone does.” As Rizpah left the booth, Camella finally noticed her daughter huddled and crying silently in the back corner. “Oh, Lysia,” she said, her face crumpling.
Rizpah grieved for all of them.
What’s happening to us, Lord? We were all so close in Ephesus. Is it the strain of the journey? Or did we hide our sins so well, we only thought we knew one another? If we go on like this, we’ll be useless to you.
She came up behind Atretes. He was so still, she didn’t think he had heard her approach until he spoke.
“So you have your shield in place.”
Pushing out from Rizpah, Caleb turned and put his arms out to Atretes. “He wants to play with you,” she said, smiling.
Atretes rose and took him. Brushing past her, he strode away. Rizpah followed him to a vacant booth near the back corner of the courtyard. It was isolated from the others. The torch burned outside. Rizpah hesitated, wondering what the others might say if she went in with him.
Atretes reclined in the fresh straw and sat Caleb beside him. Caleb immediately flopped over and tried to eat a handful of dr
ied grass.
“No, no,” she said and stepped over quickly. Kneeling, she sat him up and plucked pieces from his mouth. “No, Caleb,” she said firmly when he tried to eat more. Removing her shawl, she spread it and set him on it. Uttering a sharp squeal, Caleb flapped his arms like a bird wanting to take flight and dove forward again.
Atretes chuckled. “It’s nice to know my son won’t lie back and let a woman tell him what to do.”
“I don’t want him grazing,” Rizpah said in annoyance and sat down close to Caleb, watching over him lest he stuff straw into his mouth again. He arched his back and rocked on his stomach, making funny noises. Tucking his legs under, he pushed himself up with his hands. “He’ll be crawling soon,” she said.
Atretes studied her. She had put up walls since their encounter in the fanum. “If I were a civilized man, I suppose I’d apologize for . . .”
“It’s forgotten, Atretes.”
His mouth tipped. “I can see how forgotten it is,” he said, admiring the color filling her cheeks.
His sultry look unnerved her. Rather than retreat, she spoke what was on her mind. “Why were you angry with Agabus and the others?”
A muscle jerked in his jaw. He leaned back against the partition wall. “They’re fools.”
Though he looked physically relaxed, she felt his coiled tension and the anger building in him. It was a constant presence, just beneath the surface. The lightest stirring wind was enough to roll in the highest tide. He turned his head and looked at her, his blue eyes as beautiful as they were frightening. “For all their grandiose claims, they have about as much faith in your god as I have,” he said. “None!”
She was deeply troubled by his observation. “They’re struggling against the bonds of this life, like all the rest of us.”
“They don’t believe what they preach, and I’m sick of listening to them talk endlessly about this god of yours. They talk about death having no hold over them.” He gave a dark laugh. “All I had to do was touch one of them to show the hold it has.”