Paying the small copper quadrans, Marcus entered the noisy changing room, ignoring the surprised glances of laborers. He left his folded tunic on a shelf, wondering if it would be there when he returned. It was made of the best wool and was trimmed with gold and purple thread, a garment undoubtedly coveted by some of the patrons of this chaotic establishment of commoners. He took a towel and slung it over his shoulder, entering the tepidarium.
His brows flickered slightly as he saw the baths were communal. He was unaccustomed to bathing with women, but supposed in this crowded atmosphere it made no difference. Marcus tossed the towel aside and entered the first pool, rinsing himself in the warm water and taking his turn beneath the fountain that was part of the circulation system.
He left the first pool and entered the second. The murals were chipped, mildew growing in the cracks. The water was slightly warmer than the first, and he allowed enough time for his body to adjust before entering the third pool of the tepidarium. All manner of citizenry were enjoying the baths, and the cacophony of mingled accents and topics filled the chamber. The noise was almost deafening, but he was glad of it, thankful to have his own dark thoughts drowned out by the chaos around him.
Marcus sank down and leaned his head back against the tiles. Several young men and women were having a splashing contest. A child running on the wet tiles fell and sent up a shrill, warbling wail. Two men were having a heated debate about politics, while several women laughed and gossiped among themselves.
Tiring of the noise, Marcus entered the smaller calidarium. The room had benches along the walls and a raised font in the center of which were hot stones. A Nubian slave in a loincloth ladled water over them, keeping the chamber filled with steam. There were only two others in the room, an elderly man with a balding pate and a man younger than Marcus. Sweat glistened on the man’s well-muscled body, and he scraped it away with a strigil while talking to his older companion in a low, confidential tone.
Ignoring them, Marcus stretched out on one of the benches and closed his eyes, hoping the intense heat of the place would ease his tension. He needed a night of dreamless sleep.
Unbidden, the younger man’s earnest words, his hushed voice filled with abject frustration, eased into Marcus’ awareness. “I went with the best of intentions, Callistus, and Vindacius mocked me. He used that caustic tone he takes on when he thinks he knows more than everyone else. ‘Tell me, dear Stachys,’ he said, ‘how you can believe in a god who sits on top of a topless throne, whose center is everywhere, but who cannot be measured? How can a god fill the heavens and yet be small enough to dwell in a human heart?’ And then he laughed at me! He asked why anyone with the least intelligence would want to worship a god who let his own son be crucified.”
Marcus stiffened. By the gods! Even here, he could not escape!
“How did you answer him?” the old man said.
“I didn’t. After suffering his derision, I was too angry to say anything. Why open myself to further humiliation? It was all I could do not to ram my fist down his throat. And I went to save his soul!”
“Maybe the problem was not with Vindacius.”
“What do you mean?” Stachys said, clearly dismayed by his elder’s reproof.
“When I first accepted Jesus as my Lord, I was overwhelmed with the desire to convert everyone I knew. I carried my new faith out into the world like a club, ready to batter everyone I knew into believing the Good News. I was wrongly motivated.”
“How can you be wrongly motivated for wanting to save people?”
“What brought the Lord down from heaven, Stachys?”
“He came to save us.”
“You have spoken to me often of Vindacius. And now, I ask you. Did you go to this man you’ve always considered your intellectual superior to overcome him with debate and reason? Did you want him to see your righteousness in Christ? Or did you go to him out of love, to win his heart to the Lord for his own sake?”
There was a long silence, and then the younger man answered bleakly, “I understand.”
Callistus consoled him. “We know the Truth. It’s evident to all in God’s creation. But it is the kindness of the Lord that leads man to repentance. When you speak with Vindacius the next time, remember that your struggle isn’t against him. It’s against the spiritual forces of darkness that hold him captive. Put on the armor of God—”
The slave poured water over the hot stones again, and the hissing drowned out Callistus’ next words. As the hissing softened, Marcus heard only silence. He rose, realizing the men had left the chamber. Taking up the strigil, Marcus scraped the sweat from his body angrily.