Wayward Son (48 page)

As the prow of his ship smoothly cleft the turquoise sea, half of Cain’s heart questioned his decision to decline Jesus’s invitation in Tyre.

The other half strained with impatience to see Quintus.

CHAPTER 63

Circus Maximus, Rome: March, AD 33

WHEN CAIN REACHED ROME, the chariot festival was already beginning. As he crested the Palatine Hill, he could hear the roars of an overflow crowd at the Circus below. They were keyed up to cheer on their faction at the parade and at the races that followed, in which the charioteers would compete for the winter season championship. There was no time to stop at his estate on the way, and Cain knew that the house servants would have wheeled Quintus to a trackside seat earlier that morning. The boy would never miss an event such as this one. He wondered if his son, under the guidance of Scorpus, had begun to scout horses for the birthday present Cain had promised him.

Gaining entrance to the arena was difficult because of the jostling crowds. As he approached the dirt track, Cain glimpsed the lineup of ceremonial chariots. Recognizing him, an official gestured urgently.

“Hurry right to your chariot, sir. Middle of the seventh row. Scorpus is waiting for you.”

Thanking the man, Cain strode directly to the chariot, whose four horses were restively pawing the ground.

“I thank the gods you made it, sir,” Scorpus hollered to his master, passing him a green vest. When Cain had donned it, Scorpus wrapped the horses’ leather reins around his master’s waist in a special parade custom that symbolized the close bond between the faction owners and their charioteers. During the actual races, it was the drivers who were girdled by the leather straps. Scorpus, clad in an emerald-green tunic, leaned over toward Cain with a smile.

“We have a terrific surprise in store for you, sir!” he shouted.

“What is it, Scorpus?” Cain yelled back, but his words were drowned by the chants and cheers of a quarter of a million spectators.

After the blast of a trumpet fanfare, the heavily adorned chariot, drawn by four coal-black Arabian stallions, slowly began to move. Twenty-eight rows—each one eight chariots abreast—would process around the track for two ceremonial laps. Each faction was represented by fifty-six chariots, with horses, drivers, and owners sporting the faction’s colors. With nearly nine hundred horses processing at a majestic gait, the ceremony would take the better part of an hour.

Cain and Scorpus rounded the first turning post and headed back, waving to the crowd. Adoring spectators in the front rows of the arena were throwing thousands of flowers onto the track so that the horses could make their way over a dazzling carpet of colorful, sweet-smelling petals. The crowd’s energy reverberated through Cain’s body, creating a rush of adrenalin. All eyes were focused on the owners and their charioteers. They were the stars of the greatest spectacle in Rome.

Halfway down the track, the lead horses slowed. As Cain peered ahead, he saw why. An unusually large flock of hooded vultures had settled on the track about fifty feet ahead of the front row of chariots. The remaining rows bunched up, then ground to a complete halt, with the horses stubbornly resisting their drivers’ attempts to urge them forward. Glancing behind him for a moment, Cain could see that the stallions were nervous, flicking their ears and beating the ground with their hooves.

Cain looked forward once more. Suddenly, he spotted the reason for this dangerous interruption of the parade. The vultures had not appeared by chance. A young spectator in the front row of the stands had somehow eluded the arena officials and was tossing chunks of bloody meat from a large bag onto the track.

It was Abaddon.

Cain immediately recognized his youthful opponent in the tile game that Jesus had interrupted in Judaea four years before. The spectators surrounding him seemed oblivious to his actions. What was he doing in Rome, sabotaging the parade at the Circus Maximus?

Cain felt Scorpus’s hand on his shoulder. “Look there, sir,” said Scorpus as the murmuring crowd tried to fathom the scene. Cain traced his charioteer’s pointing finger to a position in the stands not far from where Abaddon stood. There, in the front row, was Quintus. But something was missing. There was no wheelchair. His precious son was jumping up and down and shouting to Cain, “Look at me, father!” Quintus had been healed!

Cain’s mind whirled. For an instant his attention flicked toward Abaddon, and he found the youth’s eyes locked on his own. The gamer was dressed in a scintillating black robe with red and gold flecks. The sunlight around him seemed to morph into shadow as he stared icily. Then Cain heard words that chilled him even more.

“Now you die!”

As if by command, the entire flock of vultures took flight and headed directly for the stalled procession. Their moving shadow overspread the horses and chariots. The thousand-pound Arabians, spooked by the shadow, began to bolt down the track at a full gallop. With the turning post ever closer, the riders and owners struggled helplessly to guide their steeds to make the sharp corner.

Realizing that a crash and a pileup were inevitable, Scorpus quickly reached for the knife in his belt and, at the very last second, managed to cut the leather straps encircling his master’s waist. Most of the chariots in the front rows had failed to negotiate the turn, and Cain’s plunging stallions, in total panic, charged headlong into the wreckage just as Scorpus’s knife severed the last bond. The crowd’s screams swelled with the anguished cries of men and horses, whose bodies jumbled together in a writhing mass.

Cain’s chariot plunged into the chaos and overturned, taking Scorpus with it. Cain, thrown to the track, could feel the pounding stampede of hundreds of hooves striking the earth. Then those hooves dug into his body, fracturing his limbs, and lacerating an eye. The wheels of several chariots ran over him, severing three of his fingers and almost amputating his left foot. His back felt broken.

Just before losing consciousness, Cain glimpsed the heavy metal axle of a chariot hurtling toward him like a spear. There was no escape. The young tile player was right—he was finally going to die.

Suddenly, a golden, luminous figure of a woman with wings appeared in front of him. The creature swatted the chariot axle aside with a casual flick of her left hand, while with her right hand she deflected a stumbling horse that was mere feet from falling directly on top of Cain. The axle gone, the shimmering being ran her hand gently across his bloodied face.

Cain blinked in disbelief. When he opened his eyes, the figure had vanished.

He was surrounded by horrifying carnage. Dozens of men and horses had been killed on the track, in full view of the terrified spectators. The injured resembled the casualties on a battlefield, and their tortured screams filled the air. Cain called out for Scorpus but could not discern his voice in the melee, nor could he even turn his head to locate him. Cain hazily saw an emergency team approach him. His last thought was that his life had somehow been exchanged for Quintus’s restoration.

In the comfort of that notion, Cain slipped into darkness.

CHAPTER 64

The Palatine: March, AD 33

“PLEASE, SIR, DRINK,” BEGGED Helvia, a young slave girl who cautiously touched a glass of syrupy brown liquid to her patient’s lips. “The doctor says you need this before we begin.”

Cain had just regained consciousness. Instinctively twisting his head to the side, he refused the foul-smelling mixture. Out of the corner of his good eye, he saw something glowing.

“No, leave me alone,” whimpered a half-dead Cain. “I will heal by myself.”

Circus Maximus track slaves had rushed his broken body on a stretcher to his estate on the Palatine hill, covering the short distance in minutes. Cain lay on his large kitchen table, his body a pulverized wreck.

“Brave man, but he’s delirious,” said Junius, the house physician. “Now,” he ordered Helvia, “pinch his nose and pour it down his throat!”

The tourniquets on Cain’s arms and legs were failing. Having treated many Roman soldiers after battle, the doctor knew his wealthy patient would surely bleed out if he did not act fast.

Helvia poured the opium concentrate into her master’s mouth and then held his jaw shut until he swallowed. Next, she jammed a leather bit between Cain’s shattered teeth, causing him to gag and gasp for air.

“That brew will help you soon,” she assured him. “Now, please bite down, master.”

The physician withdrew a red-hot branding iron from the oven as Helvia’s strong arms locked Cain’s bloodied head tightly against her bosom. Other nervous house slaves firmly secured their master’s limbs. Cain tried hard to free himself, but to no avail. He could barely breathe through his fractured nose.

“Sir, you must stop struggling,” urged the doctor. “You’ll only make this worse.” A slave himself, Junius wondered what punishment would befall him after the excruciating pain he was about to inflict on his master.

Junius placed a wet cloth over Cain’s good eye to prevent him from witnessing the gruesome procedure. “This is going to hurt, master,” cautioned the doctor. Knowing he could delay no longer, he pressed the glowing iron onto Cain’s hemorrhaging shoulder.

Cain felt his flesh being seared, and the stench almost made him vomit. Again and again the doctor cauterized veins and arteries in areas formerly occupied by fingers and toes. Cain’s muffled screams could be heard by the entire household staff. Curiously, when Junius moved to the wounds in Cain’s legs and feet, the screaming stopped. The doctor surmised that his patient had lost feeling in his legs due to a broken back.

Finally, the narcotic took effect. While Cain was unconscious, Junius amputated a small portion of his mangled left foot. He then sewed nearly a thousand stitches in Cain’s skin. Cain resembled a human jigsaw puzzle before they wrapped him tightly in linen bandages from head to toe.

Having done all he could, Junius considered the likely extent of Cain’s internal injuries. “His life,” the doctor sadly proclaimed, “is probably over.”

***

But of course, it wasn’t.

For several days, Cain lay in a darkened room, slipping in and out of consciousness. At one point, he heard Junius murmur discreetly that he could not survive his horrific wounds. Groggy from the pain medicine, he listened to Helvia reassure a sobbing Quintus that his father would indeed survive.

After his staff had finally stopped drugging him, Cain gradually became lucid. He had never sustained such severe injuries. According to Junius, nearly every bone in his body was broken. Yet, Cain knew he had always regenerated in the past.

On the third day, he felt the return of sensation to his lower body and with it, a dull throbbing in his left foot. Even his appetite began to return. Daring to hope, he felt his willpower surging.

He ordered the servants to bring his son to him. As Quintus entered the room, Cain could not believe that his son was now walking, with no need of a wheelchair.

Cain weakly extended a wavering hand toward his son as Quintus swiftly approached his bedside.

“Father, I knew you would make it! How are you feeling?” Quintas asked, lightly grasping the remaining two exposed fingers of his father’s right hand. Unseen by his son, under thick bandages, the nubs of Cain’s severed fingers were swiftly regenerating.

“Better each day,” Cain managed with a faint smile before changing the subject. “But look at you! How is this possible, my son? When did you recover your health?”

“It happened toward the end of January, Father, while you were away on your voyage. I woke up from my afternoon nap, and Helvia was about to place me in my wheelchair. Instead, I stood on my own, and then I simply walked by myself into the atrium!”

Junius broke in.

“He ran all over the house and garden that very afternoon, sir. This was no gradual remission. The boy’s health was completely restored. Neither I nor any of my colleagues can explain such a transformation in a case of this kind.”

“Some of the servants,” Quintus joined in, “have been speaking of a sign from the gods, Father.

“Tell me, Doctor,” asked Cain, his heart hammering in his chest, “did this happen on the twenty-fifth of January?”

“I believe it did,” replied the startled doctor after a moment’s reflection. “But how could you…”

Cain closed his eyes. It was the day he had departed from Tyre. The very same day on which Jesus had pronounced Quintus cured.

Turning to his son, he said softly, “My boy, this is not a sign from the gods. It is a gift from Judaea.”

The puzzled look on Quintus’s face gave way to eyes that were suddenly sad.

“Father, you know that Scorpus was killed in the crash?” Quintus’s voice trembled.

Cain winced. “A great and loving heart, my son. We will all miss him terribly.”

“But Father, what about his sons?” Quintus implored. “I don’t know if I could survive without you.”

Cain marveled at Quintus’s character. “We will make sure all three of his boys are well cared for,” he replied. “Perhaps you can begin teaching the oldest brother to help care for the horses and maintain the chariots.”

“Thank you, Father. I will do that.”

“I know you will be a great friend to him.” Cain reassured his son.

Just then, Felix arrived, having been summoned by one of Cain’s messengers. The sea captain had been boarding at the estate ever since the Circus disaster, out of loyal concern for his employer and in case Cain should need his services.

“How are you feeling today, sir?” Felix inquired.

“The pain is subsiding, but I can still barely move. Tell me, did Demetrius arrive safely in Rome?”

“Indeed yes, sir. After you left Ostia for the Circus, I made inquiries and located him. I knew you would want his report.”

“Have him brought to the estate by lunchtime today.”

“Very well, sir. I will see to it.”

Cain’s head slipped back onto the pillow. It was time to gather his strength. But he gave the servants strict orders to wake him when his visitor arrived.