“I know about the child.” Atretes’ face tautened with barely controlled emotion. “He’s my son. I thought about what you said to me that night you came to the hills, when I told you to let the child die, that I did not care.” He paused, then went on. “I sent word I wanted the child when it was born.”
Seeing Hadassah’s startled look, Atretes stood abruptly and paced restlessly. “At first, it was to hurt Julia, to take her child from her. Then I truly wanted him. I decided I’d take the child and return to Germania. I waited, and then word came. The child was stillborn.”
Atretes gave a broken laugh filled with bitterness. “But she lied. The child wasn’t stillborn. She ordered it left on the rocks to die.” His voice choked with tears, and he raked his fingers through his hair. “I told you if Julia laid him at my feet, I’d turn and walk away. And that’s exactly what she did, isn’t it? Placed him on the rocks and walked away. I hated her. I hated myself. God have mercy on me, you said once. God have mercy.”
Hadassah rose and went to him. “Your son is alive.”
He stiffened and looked down at her.
She put her hand on his arm. “I didn’t know you’d sent word you wanted him, Atretes. Had I known, I would have brought him directly to you. Please forgive me for the pain I’ve caused you.” Her hand fell limply to her side.
He took her arm. “You said he’s alive? Where is he?”
Hadassah prayed God would make right what she had done. “I took your son to the apostle John, and he placed him in the arms of Rizpah, a young widow who’d lost her child. She loved your son the moment she looked upon his face.”
His hand loosened and fell away from her. “My son is alive,” he said in wonder, and the burden of pain and guilt fell away from him. He closed his eyes in relief. “My son is alive.” His back against the stone wall, he slid down it, his knees weakened by what she told him. “My son is alive!” he said in a choked voice.
“God is merciful,” she said softly and lightly touched his hair.
The light caress reminded Atretes of his mother. He took Hadassah’s hand and held it against his cheek. Looking up at her, he saw again the bruises that marked her kind face, the thinness of her body beneath the ragged, dirty tunic. She had saved his son. How could he walk away and let her die?
He stood, filled with purpose. “I’ll go to Sertes,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes,” he countered, determined. Though he’d never fought lions—and knew there was little chance he would survive—he had to try. “A word in the right ear, and I’ll be in the arena as your champion.”
“I have a champion already, Atretes. The battle is over. He’s already won.” She held his hand firmly between her own. “Don’t you see? If you went back into the arena now, you’d die without ever fully knowing the Lord.”
“But what of you?” Tomorrow she would face the lions.
“God’s hand is in this, Atretes. His will be done.”
“You’ll die.”
“‘Though he slay me, yet will I trust him,’” she said. She smiled up at him. “Whatever happens is to God’s good purpose and for his glory. I’m not afraid.”
Looking upon her, Atretes felt an aching hunger for a faith like hers, a faith that could give him peace. He searched her face for a long moment and then nodded, struggling against the emotions raging within him. “It will be as you say.”
“It will be as the Lord wills.”
“I will never forget you.”
“Nor I you,” she said. She told him where to find the apostle John, then laid her hand on his arm and looked at him, peace in her eyes. “Now, go from this place of death and don’t look back.”
She went out into the dark corridor and called to the guard.
Atretes stood holding the torch as the guard came and unbolted the cell door. As he opened it, Hadassah turned and looked up at Atretes, and her eyes shone with warmth.
“May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace,” she said with a gentle smile. Turning away, she entered the cell.
A soft murmuring of voices greeted her, and the door was closed with a hard thud of finality.
1
Physically exhausted, pride bruised, Atretes had had enough. His patience was at an end.
As soon as Hadassah had told him his son was alive and that the apostle John knew where to find him, he had begun making plans. Because the mob adored him, he couldn’t enter the city of Ephesus at will, but had to wait for the cover of darkness. And so he had. Finding the apostle’s house hadn’t been too difficult—Hadassah had given good directions—but even in the dead of night the man of God had been about his business, comforting a sick child and then hearing someone’s deathbed confession.