As Sure as the Dawn(109)

“Alone.”

His eyes narrowed on her. What was she hiding? “A safe answer that says nothing. I’m alone, which doesn’t say the half of what I am.”

“Perhaps we should talk of other things,” she said, heart beating dully. O God, not now. He’ll never understand. Not in his present mood or state of mind.

Atretes stood, agitated. “You gave a vow you’d never lie to me.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

She said nothing for a long moment. “How much truth do you want, Atretes?”

“All of it.”

She looked up at him for a long moment. She was tempted, sorely tempted, to fall back into old patterns of self-preservation. But if she did, wouldn’t she be turning away from the Lord as well. O God, let him be satisfied with a little of the truth and not demand all of it.

“My father drank,” she said slowly. “Heavily. Sometimes to the point where he didn’t know what he was doing. He would go into black rages like you and break things, sometimes people. My mother was one.” She took a shuddering breath, remembering. She didn’t want to talk about her father any more than Atretes wanted to discuss the arena. Clasping her hands together, she tried to keep from shaking. She watched Caleb crawling around the legs of the couch on which his father had just been reclining. “I ran away shortly after she died.” She didn’t want to remember what had happened then.

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

He frowned, thinking of a small girl fending for herself in a city like Ephesus. “Where did you live?”

“Where I could. Under bridges, in empty crates by the docks, in deserted insulae, in doorways—anywhere I could find shelter, that’s where I lived.”

“And food?”

“I stole whatever I could get my hands on and lied my way out of it when I was caught. I became very skilled at both. I survived like one of those rats you see living on whatever they can find. The one thing I didn’t do was beg.” She gave a soft, bleak laugh of remembered despair. “I was too full of angry pride to do that.”

He said nothing for a long moment. “Did you ever. . . ?”

Her hands whitened. She looked across the room at him. Her dark eyes filling with tears and pain. She knew what he wanted to ask. Even after Shimei and redemption and salvation, the things she had done still filled her with shame and anguish.

“Did I sell myself?” she said for him. “Yes. When I was so hungry and cold I didn’t think I could live through the night.”

He felt sick. “How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Shimei?”

She shook her head. “He found me unconscious in the doorway of the insula where he lived. He took me to Claudia, an old woman of deep faith who lived alone. She fed me and cared for me until I was well. Shimei came often. He taught me how to read. They both loved me. I’d never been loved like that before. They took me to the body of believers in Christ. And they loved me, too. Just as I was, wretched and lost. Ruined. Forever, I thought. When Jesus redeemed me, he became my Savior, and Shimei asked me to be his wife.”

“And that made you virtuous by their standards,” he said dryly.

“What virtue I have comes from the Lord and not from me, Atretes. When I asked Jesus into my heart, he washed me clean—”

“In the river,” he said, almost sneering.

“God made me whole again. I felt resurrected.” She saw his struggle as he took in all she had revealed about herself. He didn’t want to believe her. She wished it wasn’t all true. “I have not lied or cheated or stolen or sold myself since I entered Claudia’s house. On my life before God, Atretes, I will not do so ever again.”

He believed her, but what did that matter?

“I hoped you’d never ask certain questions,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She searched his face. “I’m sorry the truth hurts you so.”

Anguish filled him, twisting his insides. And anger, too, though at what or whom he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he felt other than at war with himself and with what she had just told him. But some things were very clear.

“Do you know what they do to women like you in Germania?” he said hoarsely. “They shave off their hair and throw them in the bog. That’s the quick way. Most of the time, the girl’s father or husband cuts off her nose and whips her. If she survives, she’s cast out of the village and left to fend for herself.”

Rizpah said nothing. Caleb crawled back to her and sat at her feet, flapping his arms happily. “Mama . . . mama . . .” She bent forward to pick him up.