As Sure as the Dawn(65)

“Again, Niger,” Tibullus said. “You forgot ‘in the power of his might.’” Tibullus reread the passage and Niger quoted it back to him.

Passage by passage, they worked together, carving it into their minds word by word. “‘Gird your loins with truth . . . put on the breastplate of righteousness . . . shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace . . . taking up the shield of faith . . . take up the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.’”

Atretes wished he had stayed overnight in the fanum.

Tibullus began to speak again, and Atretes interrupted. “Do you really think any of that will save your lives?”

Tibullus was too surprised to answer.

“What good is truth against the sword of Rome?” Atretes said darkly. “What good are words of peace against an empire bent on shedding blood? Tell me that!”

They each looked at one another, hoping another would take up the challenge.

“A shield of faith!” Atretes mocked them. He stood, unable to sit and listen to them anymore. “A helmet of salvation! A sword can cut through both and leave you dead.”

Niger drew back from his anger.

“The body, yes, Atretes, but not the soul,” Agabus said, and Atretes fixed his anger on him.

“Therein lies the rub, doesn’t it?” he sneered. “I have no soul.” Nor had he anything in common with these men, sons of merchants and craftsmen. He had been trained as a warrior from the time he was a boy. Ten years had hardened him even more. Would any one of these boys know what it felt like to face death?

“You have a soul, Atretes,” Bartimaeus said.

“And it cries out for God.” Another voice joined to the first.

Atretes looked at Tibullus. “If I have a soul, it cries out for vengeance.”

“Revenge will bring you death,” he replied, gaining courage from the other two.

“Maybe, but in the process, satisfaction.”

“We’ve good news for you, Atretes,” Niger said. “The Savior has come.”

“‘Savior,’” Atretes said in disgust and cast a cold look around the circle. “Are you saved?”

“Yes,” Bartimaeus said. “And you can be, too.”

“I’ve heard about your Jesus and his good news. A slave girl told me while she waited to face the lions. And now I hear about it from all of you. Day in. Day out. You never shut up about it. You speak of life, but death hovers over you like a buzzard.”

“Death has no hold over us,” Agabus said.

“No?” Atretes’ voice was cold and challenging, his gaze filled with disdain. “Then why are all of you running from it?”

* * *

Rizpah heard Atretes’ voice raised in anger. Glancing across the common, she saw him standing over the four younger men. They all rose, Bartimaeus stepping forward from the rest. His stance was one of appeal, not challenge. Atretes grabbed him by the front of his tunic and spoke right into his face. The younger man put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Atretes shoved him back contemptuously. He said something, spit on the ground, and walked away.

When Peter and Barnabas followed after him, Porcia called out to them. Barnabas stopped and protested, but Peter ignored her. She called again, more sharply this time, and the younger boy obeyed. When Atretes squatted down near the fire, Peter hunkered down beside him. Atretes said something and glowered at him. Peter said something, and Atretes jerked his head. Peter rose dejectedly and walked away. Porcia met him halfway. Glancing nervously at Atretes, she put her arm around her son’s shoulders and hurried him into their booth. Atretes watched them and then turned his head away.

Rizpah’s heart ached. She scarcely listened to the stilted conversation going on between Prochorus, Camella, and Rhoda, for she wondered what had set Atretes against the younger men. Night was upon them, and he sat down near the fire, staring into the flames, his face a hardened bronze. He looked so alone, cut off from everyone.

On impulse, she picked up Caleb from the blanket and rose. “Excuse me,” she said and stepped past the others.

“You aren’t going to go out there to him, are you?” Rhoda said. “Not in his present mood.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” Camella said.

Rhoda cast her an annoyed glance. “Because she might make matters worse,” she said in a hushed voice. “And a man like him is unpredictable.”

“You’re as afraid of him as Porcia is,” Camella said.

“Why shouldn’t we be afraid of him? Remember what he was.”

“That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t let anyone forget their past and start over.”