Palace of Darkness (22 page)

“I have always felt that tolerance—”

“Weakness!” Hagiru turned the force of her anger on Rabbel and felt him bend in her hands, like clay in the hands of a potter. The difference between the king’s pliability and old Malik’s resoluteness ran across her thoughts, like a rodent scurrying out of a corner. She chose to focus on Rabbel’s malleability.

He dropped his head. “What can I do to please the gods?”

She let the question hang unanswered for a moment. Everything depended on what came next. She must not fail. “Dushara requires a sacrifice.”

He brightened and lifted his head. “I shall send a hundred bulls—”

“It is not the blood of bulls Dushara desires.”

His brow furrowed. “Calves?”

Hagiru sighed as though the truth brought her pain and lowered her head in sadness. “Dushara wishes to see that you are truly devoted to him, above all others. That you would sacrifice something of great value to gain his favor.”

Rabbel scratched his head. “Surely not the harvest. The people would not survive—”

She shook her head, then patted his thigh in feigned sympathy. “Dushara wants the boy.”

Rabbel tilted his head and looked at her, as though struck dumb. Finally his lips opened. “Obadas?”

Hagiru’s blood ran cold. “No!” She forced the hysteria from her voice. “No. Dushara feels the newly found son of Aretas has claimed more of your affection than the gods. He wishes you to prove your loyalty.”

Rabbel’s shoulders tightened and the line between his eyebrows deepened. “How?”

“At the Festival of Grain. Sacrifice the boy.”

Rabbel stood and turned away. “No.”

Hagiru waited, knowing the first answer was far from the last. After all, he was the clay and she the potter, and she felt the power in her now, the power to create anything she desired. “I hear the Roman camp in the desert grows larger every day.”

She watched her husband’s back and felt she could read every emotion that coursed through him. Anger. Horror. Then fear.

Yes, yes, that is good.

The fear melted into surrender. Then grief. When he spoke, the words were hollow. “I cannot do it, Hagiru. I cannot.”

She lifted her chin and let the power flow out of her, let it burn a hole through his resistance. The voice she loved whispered to her and she nodded.

Oh, but you will, husband. You will.

TWENTY-THREE

I
N SPITE OF THE STRAINED SILENCE IN WHICH
J
ULIAN
and Cassia had worked all morning, Julian was feeling pleased with his progress on the tomb sculpting.

He had been assigned this upper tier, seventy-five cubits above the street, while other, less-skilled workmen would carve from the street level upward. Today he would finish the last touches on the giant urn carved into the central niche at the top of the massive structure. The vine and bud ornamentation was both intricate on close inspection and lovely from the street level. More than one of the masons near the bottom had commented on its beauty, and the master builder seemed impressed.

“Where’d you learn to sculpt like that?” He had eyed Julian with some suspicion.

Julian simply shrugged. “Always been a hobby of mine.”

The master builder grunted, the only sign he found Julian’s explanation lacking.

But today he would finish the crowning glory of this tomb and begin to work on the rock-carved platform one level down. He congratulated himself not only for the beauty of the work but also for the pace he had established.

There was little need for Cassia at this stage of the carving, since he used the finest of detail tools to carve the elegant vine and floral motif around the giant urn and did not need her to carry rock chips. She worked on the platform below, beginning his work for him of chipping out crevices in the places he had marked. Later he would pound wooden pegs into these chinks, then water-swell the wood. Amazingly, with so little encouragement, the red rock would split along his prescribed lines, enough for his slim chisel to work itself into the crack and widen the split.

Julian glanced down to Cassia. The musical ching of hammer on chisel could not mask the cold silence between them since he had discovered her secret from the old gladiator in the street. His jaw clenched and he went back to work, striking the small chisel off center and pounding his thumb instead.

“Cursed rock!” He planted the thumb in his mouth, then quickly spit rock dust.

Soon enough the work was finished, and after again admiring it for several moments, Julian climbed down to the next platform.

Cassia glanced over her shoulder at him, then went back to work.

We will not speak, then.

She had already sunk several short pegs into the stone without him to the right depth.

“Who showed you how to do that?” He caught his tone of admiration too late.

Cassia shrugged and let her gaze rest on him. “No one. I watch you carefully.”

Julian avoided her eyes and studied the pegs. She had made her feelings clear.
But does she have any idea how hard she makes it?
“We should start with the water.”

Cassia bent to a filled pitcher, lifted it to her narrow hip, and waited.

“This one first.” Julian touched the left-most peg she had planted. “Pour as slowly as you can.”

She brought the pitcher near the rock but then caught his hand as he lowered it. She turned it over, dry and dusty as it was, and rubbed at a callus with her thumb. Julian watched her head bent over his hand and said nothing.

She poured water over his hand, washing the stone dust from it, then indicated he should give her the other. Her reddish, dark hair swung forward over her shoulder as she washed.

When she used her tunic to wipe them dry, all resolve drained from him. “I do not wish to be angry with you.”

She did not look up from his hands. “Then do not be.”

He pulled away. “You cannot understand.” He turned to the rock wall, but she slipped into the tiny space between.

“Then help me understand. What is it about the arena—”

Julian shook his head, cutting off her question. “Too much to explain.”

“Yehosef is a good man. Have you ever even
known
a gladiator?”

He laughed at the irony of the question and picked up the hammer and chisel she had discarded. “Yes, I knew someone who once fought in the arena.”

“Tell me.”

He began pounding at another marked spot. “It was another who should not have been there, and it caused only pain and grief.”

“Was he killed?”

“She.”

“A woman?” Cassia’s tone shifted from curiosity to dread.

Julian continued working. “My mother.”

“Your—She was killed in the arena?” Cassia’s hands fluttered to her heart. He had noticed that happened when she was greatly troubled.

“No.” He hammered on. “My mother is alive and well and living
in Rome with my father. And very few people know the arena was where they first met, so if you should ever meet her, say nothing of that.” The explanation lifted a bit of the heaviness he had felt since discovering where Cassia spent her evenings.

“And because your mother suffered as a gladiator, you are angry with me for training there.”

“Yes.”
Ching, ching.
It sounded less than logical from her lips.

“Julian, would you put down that hammer and look at me!”

He sighed and leaned against the rock. Cassia’s arms were crossed.

“I am not a gladiator. Not forced to fight, and not in any danger. At least not from the arena. And it would be well for me to learn to protect myself and my son.”

“I do not like it.”

She dropped her arms and reached for the pitcher. “It is not for you to decide.”

“I am not trying to decide! Only to speak reason, which you seem intent to ignore.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I do not need it.”

Julian exhaled, took the pitcher from her hands, and sloshed water against the rock wall. “No, you don’t need anyone, do you?”

She was silent behind him, and it was just as well. Her refusal to open up stemmed from deep hurt, he knew, but it grew frustrating. And she seemed willing to let everyone care for her except him. That truth stung, and he preferred to keep it buried.

Sometime later Cassia spoke again. “Malik says you lost someone important to you in Rome.”

Julian didn’t pause with the hammer and chisel.

“Will you tell me?”

His jaw tightened at the memory. He let the silence grow, then finally answered. “Her name was Vita.”

“Someone you loved?”

“Not well enough.”

She appeared beside him with a wooden peg and offered it with sympathetic eyes. He sighed and took the piece of wood. “We were to be married. Though I am not sure why. Her heart belonged completely to Jesus and there was no room for me in it. And I—” He pounded the peg into the wall. “I admired her devotion.”

“But you did not love her?”

“She was a sister in the Lord—”

“Julian, did you love her?”

He heard the tension in her voice and stopped working to study her face. “Not like a husband. No. But perhaps it is asking too much to find someone with whom you can share both a passion for Jesus and for each other.” The words were bold, as close to a declaration of his heart as he had yet come.

Cassia bent to search out another peg at their feet. “What happened to her?”

“She was killed in the arena.”

Cassia dropped the peg and clutched his arm. “Oh, Julian!”

He swallowed, trying to hold the memory at bay. “When the persecutions were beginning, she went willingly. Practically volunteered.” He fought to keep the bitterness from his voice. It was unfair of him. “She honored God with her dying breath.”
And I ran like a scared child.

Cassia pulled him to face her, holding both his arms. “There was nothing you could have done. And you honor her memory with your praise.” She tightened her hold on him. “You are a good man, Julian Portius Marcellus.”

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. The name she used was not even his true name, but he longed to accept the affirmation. There had been more failures in Rome than just the day of Vita’s death. He
was not the son his father desired, never wanted to follow his political footsteps. He had not even honored his family with military service as his brother had.
Restless,
his mother had called him. His father’s word was
aimless
. Carving this rock was all the success he had known.

They worked in near silence for the remainder of the day, and when the shadows grew long, Julian climbed down in relief.

They worked several more weary days, and Julian knew Cassia still went to the theatre to meet the old man. He chose to keep silent. Regardless of her antagonism, he continued to pursue his own plan to rescue Alexander, and they were nearly ready.

And when they worked side by side, Julian began to reveal, in a gentle and cautious way, the Christ and the new life that could be found in Him. Cassia asked relentless questions about the life and death of Jesus, about the followers of the Way, and about the forgiveness and redemption they had found.

On the first day of the week, when the sun had made its daily passage over the site, blending the colors until they fell into shadows, Julian walked Cassia home and left her in the street below Zeta’s home. “Tomorrow, then?”

Cassia chewed her lip. “Tonight you are meeting with the . . . the believers?” The word did not fall easily from her lips.

“Yes.”

“May I come?”

Julian looked down the street toward the amphitheatre. “You do not have other plans to attend?”

She lifted her chin to him. “Certainly you have heard of tonight’s performance?”

He scowled. “Another pantomime?” Julian saw no value in the mimes who entertained the masses with their juggling and dancing farce.

Cassia grinned. “There is more to the theatre than the mimes. Lectures, readings of verse, and rhetoric. Besides, perhaps you should see what makes the theatre so popular. They are saying there will be a panther from Egypt there tonight.”

“Ha! I have better things to do.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you truly wish to meet with us?”