Avenger of Blood (2 page)

He reflected on Rebecca's despondency as he climbed, praying silently that he would be able to encourage her. He was still wondering how to coax Rebecca out of her shell when he topped the hill and found her sitting in a clearing just off the main path.

“Hello, Marcellus,” Rebecca said evenly, with no trace of a smile.

Marcellus returned the greeting, only slightly winded by the quarter-hour climb, and sat down beside Rebecca. She rocked the infant she held swaddled in her cloak, which she had draped around her like a sling to form a carrier.

They fell into an easy silence, enjoying the spectacular view. The city of Ephesus, third largest in the Empire, sprawled below them. Off to their left, in the distance, was the busy harbor, now quiet at the end of another long workday. Marcellus shaded his eyes against the reflected glare of the sun, which was about an hour from sinking below the watery horizon. He could make out the lines of a number of cargo ships moored along the docks; several of them, he knew, belonged to Rebecca's family.

“Not so long ago we spent many hours like this, sitting on a hilltop, looking out over the water,” Marcellus finally said.

Rebecca didn't respond for a moment, then softly said, “It's why I come here, you know.”

“No . . . I didn't.” Her statement puzzled Marcellus.

“It reminds me of Devil's Island. Not the bad part,” she hastened to add as he turned toward her in surprise, “but the good part.”

“You mean there
was
a good part?” He looked in her direction and smiled. In spite of all the misery, he had enjoyed some good times with Rebecca and John, times of laughter and sharing memories of the lives and families they'd left behind. The two unlikely prisoners—an elderly preacher and a sweet, innocent girl—had also spent many hours discipling Marcellus in his newfound faith. Yes, there had been good times on Devil's Island, Marcellus recalled, and he was encouraged that Rebecca seemed to want to talk about them.

“The good part was finding you,” Rebecca said. “And finding myself, in a way.”

“What do you mean?”

Rebecca paused while she bent over and tucked her cloak around Victor, who had fallen asleep. Then she brushed her long, chestnut-brown hair back across her shoulders. “Like the work I did for John,” she said. “Copying his letters to the churches about the revelation. It seemed I had a purpose for being there, that what I was doing really mattered.”

“It did matter. And it does. We'll be delivering those letters—God's messages—to the churches soon.”

“It's more than that, though . . . it's . . . I don't know exactly.” Rebecca shrugged and grew quiet.

Marcellus sought for a way to draw her out; she was more talkative than she had been in days, and he wanted her to continue. If nothing else, he was just glad to hear her voice; more than that, he thought perhaps if she could put what was bothering her into words, she could conquer it.

“So you come here,” he said, “because it reminds you of Devil's Island and the meaningful work you did for John. Anything else?”

“The rest of it is more like a feeling . . .”

“What kind of feeling?” he prompted when she hesitated.

Rebecca looked down and stroked the baby's cheek for a moment before answering. “When I was on Devil's Island—after I recovered, anyway—I seemed to have an inner strength. Even when things were really bad, and I had no hope I would ever get off the island, I could somehow manage to be strong. But now that I'm home and everything is fine, it's like I'm falling apart inside.”

Her beautiful brown eyes moistened as she continued speaking. “I'm more scared now than when I was a prisoner, and I don't know why. I keep waiting for something else to happen, but I don't know what. Something bad, I suppose.

“I know that's not acting in faith,” she added quickly, “but I can't seem to help it.” She dropped her head, looking embarrassed. “I should be a better example. Sometimes I think I'm not much of a Christian.”

“Not much of a Christian? Let's see, as I recall the circumstances that sent you to Devil's Island, you stood in front of an entire cohort of Roman soldiers and refused to sacrifice to the emperor—proclaiming instead that Jesus Christ is Lord. I wouldn't call a person who does something as courageous as that ‘not much of a Christian.'

“You're just human, Rebecca. You've been through a lot, even since you've been home, and it's taken a toll on you.”

“I thought I would feel safe again when I got home, but I don't. The house I grew up in doesn't seem safe anymore—instead of comfortable and familiar, it just seems big and scary.”

“Perhaps your fear is understandable,” he said. “You spent almost a year in a small enclosure—spacious, as far as caves go, but still a very small place.”

Marcellus leaned backward, bracing his arms on the hard ground for support. “A Scripture passage comes to mind. The twenty-seventh psalm, I believe. ‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?'. . . You taught me that psalm, remember?”

“Yes, and I remember who taught it to me.” A brief smile flitted across her face, the first he had seen in days. It hinted at the spark of vitality that still smoldered somewhere beneath the surface of her sadness.

“As a little girl,” Rebecca said, “I never wanted the lamps to be extinguished at night. My father explained that we couldn't leave them burning because they might start a fire while we were sleeping. He said it was the job of our steward, Servius, to snuff out all the lights—but only after he had checked each room to make sure it was safe and that nothing could harm us. That comforted my fears as long as my father was in the next bedroom. I knew that if I cried, he would hear me.

“But when I was five, Papa sailed to Rome on business. He was gone for several months, and I got scared again. So Servius included me in his evening ritual while Papa was gone. He would carry me in one arm and a small clay lamp in the other. We would go from room to room, snuffing out the flickering lights of the lampstands one by one, quoting Scripture the entire time. Psalm 27 was one of his favorites. Then he would carry me upstairs to my bedroom, and I would go to sleep saying, ‘The Lord is my light. The Lord is my light.'”

Rebecca grew quiet again when she finished her story, and Marcellus knew she must miss Servius, who had died on Devil's Island a few months after being sentenced.

Marcellus gave her a moment to let the memories fade, then he said, “A few minutes ago you were talking about how you had found your purpose on Devil's Island. I'm sure there's a purpose for you here, as well. A ministry God has for you—perhaps something only you can do. But you can't find what that is if you don't look beyond yourself, Rebecca.”

She looked doubtful. “What could God possibly have for me to do?”

“Perhaps the same kind of work your mother did. Peter says she visited the sick and took food and clothing to those who needed it.”

“Mother always took care of the less fortunate.”

“Peter also said you used to go with her sometimes and that you were good with people, just like she was. I already know how you took care of John every day for the last year.”

“The truth is that neither one of us could have survived without you, Marcellus. You're the one who risked your career, and probably your life, to hide us, bring us food.”

“All of which simply proves that we need each other. And from what I understand, there are many believers in Ephesus who need help, especially the families of prisoners.”

“Helena has already talked to me about that.”

Her voice was flat but a glimmer of interest seemed to light up her eyes, and Marcellus pressed the advantage. “Evidently she could use your assistance. According to Jacob, she has the gift of confusion.”

Rebecca rewarded him with another fleeting smile. “That sounds like Jacob . . . and Helena.” The baby fussed in his sleep, and Rebecca comforted him until he quieted. “But I can't traipse all over Ephesus with Victor, and he's too young for me to leave him.”

Marcellus was ready for this objection, and he had already thought of a solution. “You could leave for a few hours. Agatha is always saying that she'll watch Victor for you.” Peter had hired Agatha, a recent convert, as part of the villa's housekeeping staff. Agatha had a young infant of her own, so she could nurse Victor if need be.

“I suppose,” Rebecca agreed, yet she looked pained and almost panicked. “But even if I weren't worried about Victor, I still couldn't do it.”

“Why not?”

“I'm afraid. Afraid of what people would say. Or what they wouldn't say. Some of the other Christians think I'm a bad person. Oh, most of them won't say it to my face, but they talk about it behind my back. I don't know who my friends are anymore.” Her face fell as she admitted, “And I'm still too sad to be around people most of the time.”

Now, there was a problem, Marcellus acknowledged silently. A few people had been upset when Rebecca returned from Devil's Island with Victor. Instead of rejoicing over a fellow believer surviving the ordeal of a brutal prison camp, they had wagged fingers at an unwed mother.
If they only knew the whole story,
Marcellus thought. He'd been the one to find Rebecca after she had been sexually assaulted and savagely beaten.

“I understand,” he said. “But hiding at home all the time won't quell the gossip. And I'm sure the people who need your help won't really care that you came back from prison with a baby but no husband.”

Marcellus stood and offered his hand to Rebecca. The brilliant fireball of sun had faded to a burnished glow that shimmered over the Aegean waves.

“Let's go home before it gets dark,” he said as he helped her stand and secure Victor for walking down the hillside. “Just promise me you'll think about it, all right?”

Rebecca had thought about their conversation for several days, then she had decided to help Helena, who urgently needed her.

For the past week Rebecca had risen early each day to help coordinate their efforts to minister to the needy. The first day she'd been so upset about leaving Victor that she'd fretted constantly and had tried to rush Helena out of every home they visited. But when she'd returned to the villa, Victor was fine, sleeping contentedly in the handcarved crib that had once been hers, with Agatha and her baby girl close by.

After a few days Rebecca was still trying to hurry Helena along, but simply because the woman had no concept of what it meant to keep to a schedule. The needs had indeed multiplied far beyond anything Rebecca's mother had overseen. In their area of the city alone, some twelve families were in dire economic situations. In households where someone was sick, they tried to visit every day, and at one place Helena had taken several children home with her because their mother was too ill to care for them.

Rebecca's worries about people being unkind or thinking she was sinful had also evaporated. In home after home she had been embraced warmly, grateful men and women telling her how much they missed her mother, what a kind person Elizabeth had been, and how glad they were to see Rebecca following in her mother's footsteps. Rebecca's spirits had lifted immeasurably, and she was beginning to feel much more hopeful about life.

One afternoon as they returned to the villa, Helena commented on the changes in Rebecca. “It's good for you to be with people,” she said.

“I enjoy your company, Helena.” It was true. In spite of the air of confusion that sometimes surrounded her, Helena brought a lot of joy to people. She was warm-hearted and generous to a fault.

“I was really talking more about people closer to your own age. In fact, I was thinking you should get to know Antony.”

Rebecca noted that Helena's hazel eyes—which were beautifully tinted but too large for her small heart-shaped face—always sparkled when she talked about Antony.

“My son is a good man,” Helena said, “even though he is not a believer—yet. He will be someday, I know in my heart. And Antony has never opposed my charitable work, though he sometimes complains that I spend so much of my household budget to feed others that my own pantry is empty. But I notice that he's taken more of an interest in good deeds since you've been helping me.”

Helena chattered on about her oldest son for a moment, and Rebecca frowned when she finally realized that her friend was trying to play matchmaker.

“Have I said something wrong?” Helena asked, then didn't give Rebecca a chance to reply. “I don't mean to be insensitive, and perhaps it's not the right time to bring this up, but you don't want to spend the rest of your life alone . . .”

She would have to think of a way to stop Helena. Antony seemed to be very nice, even though she had only met him a couple of times. An attorney, he was helping Peter and Jacob through the legal morass of getting their father's will probated. However, nice wasn't the issue. Rebecca simply was not interested. She would have to find a polite way to tell Helena.

When they arrived at the villa there was no bustle of activity as they entered the atrium, the large central room of the home. Rebecca was looking forward to a quiet hour or two. Peter and Jacob would not have returned from the harbor yet, and Marcellus was usually visiting John at this time of day. Perhaps she could even take a nap before dinner.

“We'll talk about this later, Helena,” Rebecca said firmly as she headed upstairs. “I need to check on Victor right now.”

“Oh, bring him down if he's awake,” Helena called after her. “I love that precious boy. It's been so long since mine were babies, and I do enjoy holding them . . .”

Helena's voice trailed off as Rebecca reached the top of the stairs. She was glad to get back home to her son. Until this week Victor had never been out of her sight for more than a few minutes, and she missed him.