Valeria’s Cross (30 page)

Though the women lamented their inability to spend a few short hours on the incredibly lovely island, they realized the captain’s advice was well worth taking. Instead of exploring the quaint shops and cafes of Cyprus or strolling the warm sands
of its shore, they admired it from a distance and waited for the sailors to return from purchasing supplies for the remainder of the trip.

“It is hard to believe,” one of the crew commented to another as they passed by the ladies after coming back onboard. “Do you suppose it’s true? Could the old man really be dead at last?”

Valeria’s heart lurched at the implications, and she cocked her ear to better hear the conversation.

“Could be,” answered the other sailor. “After all, Daza and Galerius are gone, so why not Diocletian? He was the oldest of the three.”

They were out of earshot by then, as Valeria pivoted toward Prisca, only to realize her mother had also overheard the exchange. The look of horror on Prisca’s face mirrored what Valeria felt in her heart. Surely it could not be true!

In moments the three women had cornered the captain and asked if there was any truth to the rumor that Diocletian was dead.

“I, too, have heard the rumor,” the captain admitted, “though I cannot say if there is any truth to it. No one seems able to confirm it.” He frowned. “Forgive me, ladies, but you appear unduly upset over the possibility. I’m surprised, since Diocletian was known for his persecution of Christians. I should think you’d be relieved at the prospect of yet one more of your tormentors having passed on to his eternal reward … or punishment, as the case may be.”

The reminder that if her father truly was dead he had most likely expired without first coming to faith in Christ nearly knocked Valeria to her knees. As she struggled to remain standing, she felt her mother take her hand, and she found strength in their shared distress.

Excusing themselves as quickly as possible, the ladies retreated to their tiny cabin, where they huddled together and prayed for mercy. Not only were they devastated at the possibility that Diocletian may have died without first receiving Christ as his Savior, they had to consider what his death would mean to their own chances of survival.

Valeria bit her lip and moaned. “What if Father truly has died? And if he has, do you suppose there is any possibility that he turned to Christ in his last moments?”

It was obvious Prisca struggled to speak as she answered. “Only God knows, my dear, though we must pray he is still alive and that we can reach him in time.”

And so the women committed themselves to pray that if Diocletian weren’t already dead, God would keep him alive until they could speak to him—or until someone else could lead him to repentance before he breathed his last.

A
few days after leaving Cyprus the captain told the women at breakfast, “Tomorrow we shall arrive in Lycia.”

“I seem to recall that St. Paul visited Lycia,” Prisca commented.

“According to the Book of Acts,” Lydia added, “Paul was on his way to Rome for his trial when his ship docked in Andriace.”

“We never pass the harbor of Andriace without stopping for a load of lumber,” the captain explained. “A large forest of cedars of Lebanon grows here. Today we are picking up lumber for a client, a coffin maker, and also some Turkish rugs for a merchant in Nicomedia. We will dock in Andriace for a day to load the lumber, so you can enjoy an excursion to the city of Myra.”

As they approached the port, Valeria and her mother admired the magnificent beauty of Myra, a city perched high on a craggy mountaintop, dotted with surrounding islands tucked into romantic coves and surrounded by snow-capped peaks.

As they disembarked the boat, the captain called out to them, “Enjoy yourselves, but please make sure you return to the boat by dusk.”

Off the boat, the women began to plan their day. “First, we should find somewhere to have breakfast,” Valeria suggested, “and then we can get directions to the church.”

“I would prefer to visit the church first,” Prisca said. “Clergymen keep abreast of the political climate, so they will know if Diocletian is still alive. I am anxious to learn my husband’s fate before we return to the boat. If he has died, we cannot go to Solano but must seek protection elsewhere.”

“But where shall we go?” Valeria asked.

“We have lived most of our lives in Nicomedia and have an abundance of friends there who can help us until we can approach Licinius to ask for protection in his court.”

Valeria had not allowed herself to consider the far-reaching implications of her father’s death. The women would be at the mercy of an Augustus again. Thankfully, Licinius and Galerius had been as close as brothers, so she felt confident that the newly named Augustus would welcome them into his court.

The women settled into a carriage pulled by donkeys that would ferry them up to the city. Valeria’s eyes climbed ahead of the donkeys, settling first on a magnificent amphitheater carved from the stone, and then the tombs on the cliff above, set into the mountain. It was a fascinating gravesite with one tomb more elaborate than the next. When her eyes reached the tip-top of the mountain, she tried to see the city, but it was hidden behind a palm-lined promenade that snaked along the edge of the cliffs. The rising sun glistened off the sea below, and the snowcapped mountains surrounding the city lit it with such brilliance that it appeared to be on fire.

Once they reached the mountaintop, they exited the carriages at a magnificent temple. The attendant explained, “This
is the Temple of Artemis, the most magnificent structure to the Greek goddess anywhere. Lycia is the birthplace of the goddess, the daughter of Zeus and Apollo’s twin sister.”

When the attendant paused, Prisca asked if he had heard the news of Diocletian’s death. When he replied that he had not, Valeria’s heart sang with relief.

As they meandered over the cobblestone paths, they enjoyed Myra’s lush green landscape, set against an artist’s canvas of blue skies that appeared to have no end.

Valeria’s rumbling stomach soon interrupted their search. “I am famished. Can we eat before looking further?”

Prisca agreed, and the group serpentined the city’s deserted streets. It was still early morning, so the Lycians were just beginning to stir about in the market. The women quickly found a charming restaurant that overlooked the sea. There on the terrace, they enjoyed a bountiful breakfast of eggs, fish, and pancakes. They also sampled a variety of plump, juicy fruits indigenous to the area—pomegranates, oranges, figs, and grapes.

Just as Prisca had predicted, the locals were eager to answer their questions and tell them tales of Lycia, including answering their queries about Diocletian. No one in the restaurant had heard of the former emperor’s death, so the women were greatly encouraged.

One young couple visited with them for a time and told them a tragic tale about Lycia’s history.

“When the Persians, under the rule of Cyrus the Great, invaded Lycia in 540 B.C., the Xanthosians put up a heroic fight,” the man explained, “but most of their warriors were slaughtered in the battle. The survivors chose for their wives and children to die by their own hand rather than surrender. The Syrians then ruled Lycia for hundreds of years until the Greeks, and then the Romans, finally overtook them.”

The travelers thanked the couple for the sad history lesson and got up to leave, but Valeria turned back to inquire if the couple knew where they could find the church.

The man told them he did, and then explained, “Bishop Nicholas was released from prison after the death of Daza. Just last month, he and some of his parishioners reopened the church.”

“What can you tell us about the bishop?” Valeria asked.

“There is not a finer man anywhere. Bishop Nicholas was born in this very country in the city of Patara. He was orphaned at an early age, but he inherited a large sum of money from his parents, who died in the epidemic. Remarkably, he kept none of it for himself, but gave most of it to the poor.”

“Apparently, he is a man who follows Jesus’ command to sell all he had and give his riches to those less fortunate,” Valeria commented. “How old is he?”

“He is yet a young man, but he has become legendary for his generosity. There were three young ladies in Lycia whose father could not afford a dowry. Without one, the young women were doomed to a life of prostitution until Bishop Nicholas threw three bags of gold into the window of their home.”

The wife added, “The bishop came to their rescue, so the girls had ample gold to marry the best of husbands. The girls and their families still live in Myra.”

At that moment, a younger man stepped up to their table. “Pardon me, but I could not help overhearing your conversation. I am a Christian—and what a miracle that I can say this now!”

Valeria’s heart leapt, but she was cautious in her response. “How severe was the Christian persecution in Lycia?”

“It was dreadful. Our leaders gave generous rewards to any citizen who would turn in their Christian friends. Once they
were arrested, the Christians were either imprisoned or executed. There were many martyrs here. But enough of this. If we go now, you can partake in the communion service at the church. I can take you there.”

Eagerly accepting the young man’s offer, they hurried off, but Prisca took Valeria’s arm and pulled her aside while Lydia kept their young guide busy with her chatter.

“You are very trusting, my dear,” Prisca whispered, “but please consider that many clergymen are corrupt. I have witnessed priests turning in their own congregation. Be very cautious when we meet this bishop.”

“May the Lord lead,” Valeria said, as she made the sign of the cross.

Although the Eastern Church in Myra had been abandoned for several years, Valeria was moved as the building came into view. Its former beauty still shone through the peeling paint and weatherworn façade, and when they walked inside, the congregants, who were still milling around in the vestibule, greeted them warmly.

After a few minutes, the music began and the bishop appeared from a side door. A handsome man with piercing blue eyes, the bishop’s snowy white hair fell to his shoulders. Although young, his beard and mustache had also turned prematurely white. When the bishop began to speak, Valeria turned her attention to Jesus.

Following the service, the bishop stood in the vestibule to greet his parishioners. When it came their turn, Valeria requested an audience with him.

Behind closed doors, Valeria dared to reveal their identity.

“Your Holiness,” she began, “I … we … are not whom we have led you to believe.”

Bishop Nicholas frowned, obviously confused. “What do you mean? If not nuns, then who are you?”

Valeria swallowed and looked to her mother for support, but it was obvious Prisca did not approve of her daughter’s decision to risk everything by revealing their secret to this man they did not know. But what other choice did they have?

Valeria took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I am … Valeria,” she said, “daughter of Diocletian and wife of Galerius.” She cut her eyes toward her mother and then Lydia before returning her gaze to the bishop. “This is Prisca, wife of Diocletian, and our friend Lydia.” Afraid to say more, she waited.

The bishop responded with disbelief. “Why have you come here?” he demanded at last, his face growing red and his eyes bulging.

Valeria began to tremble. Had she made a terrible mistake? Had her mother been right after all? Would the bishop feel obligated to turn them in to the Roman authorities?

Seemingly wary of his famous visitors, the bishop rose and walked around to the front of the desk. Standing before the ladies, he explained. “I have just been released from prison. You must understand that in my position, I cannot hide you in the church and betray the Roman emperors.”

Prisca glared at Valeria, who received the silent message that it had been a dreadful mistake to reveal their identity to the bishop. Outside the heavy cedar doors to the bishop’s office were his assistants. Another door led to the outside courtyard, where dozens of parishioners milled around the terrace. Escape appeared impossible.

“Your Holiness, please hear us out,” Valeria pleaded. “We are not seeking asylum. We have sailed from Syria for home,
and Myra just happens to be a regular stop on the ship’s itinerary.”

“Ah, so the emperors have released you from your exile in Syria?”

Valeria hesitated, not wanting to lie but only to survive. “Not exactly. After Daza died, the soldiers who guarded us became lax in their duties. Some of them ran away, abandoning their posts. Others fled the country to declare their allegiance to the new emperors. Lydia’s husband, Cyrus, suggested that we seize the opportunity to return home.”

“Yes,” Lydia spoke up. “My husband arranged passage for us, but he was murdered just before we set sail.”

Valeria jerked her head toward Lydia. So she, too, had disobeyed Prisca’s warning not to look at the corpse in the roadway.

The bishop’s voice brought her back to the present.

“Are the Roman emperors aware of your escape from Syria?”

Valeria hedged. “Why do you ask? Have you heard that they are searching for us?”

The bishop rubbed his beard. “There has been no news of you since your exile.”

“Then we have become insignificant,” Valeria surmised. “They no longer care about us, or they assumed that we could not survive or find a way of escape without a man to help us.”

The bishop smiled, visibly relaxing a bit. “One should never underestimate the power of a woman. You are both highly esteemed and loved throughout the empire. Many are aware of your Christian faith.” He turned to Valeria. “Is there truth to the rumor that Galerius made a profession of faith on his deathbed?”

Valeria nodded, smiling slightly. “I was by his side.”

“I would assume that it was your faithful prayers and kindness that ultimately brought your husband to this decision.”

Valeria blushed, thanking the bishop for his gracious words, even as she sensed they could trust him after all.

“How may I help you?” the bishop asked then. “Is it money you need?”

“Oh no, Your Holiness, we have sufficient funds to last us until we reach our destination,” Valeria assured him. “We have come to you in search of answers.”

“But what can I tell you? No one can predict how the emperors will react to your escape. I am guessing the news from Syria has not yet reached them. What are your plans?”

Valeria’s eyes filled with tears. “My father repeatedly pleaded with Daza to release us to him, but the devil’s spawn relished denying his former emperor’s request. Now that Daza has died, we are fleeing to my father’s palace in Spalatum.” Her voice cracked. “However, when we docked on the island of Cyprus recently, I heard a rumor that my father …” Valeria’s voice broke. “That my father was dying … that he might even be dead by now. Do you know if this is true?”

“I am sorry,” the bishop replied, his voice kind. “I thought you knew.”

Cries of pain and disbelief escaped the women simultaneously, and Valeria rushed to kneel at her mother’s side. They embraced, weeping, until Valeria looked up at the bishop and asked, “Do you know any details?”

“When Constantine and Licinius were in Milan, they concluded that Diocletian had to die in retribution for the Christian persecutions. Diocletian, though already quite ill, got wind of their plot and chose to die by his own hand. He drank a vial of poison.”

Outraged, Valeria cried, “My father was their benefactor! How dare they betray him?”

“I understand why you are upset,” the bishop soothed. “There were many men more evil than Diocletian, but with Galerius and Daza gone, Diocletian was the only surviving ruler of the persecution era, and therefore the sacrificial lamb to pay for all the innocent bloodshed.”

Anger warred with sorrow in Valeria’s heart, as she demanded, “Why could they not allow him to live out his life in peace? I will not argue that the persecutions were horrific, but consider all he did for the Roman Empire. Had he not divided it, there would be no Roman Empire today.”