As Sure as the Dawn(95)

Atretes relished Rufus’ report. Rome was burning! What more could he ask, other than the demise of Callistus and Domitian?

“Disease will follow,” Theophilus said grimly. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

Rizpah saw how Atretes was taking the news and was disturbed by his callousness. “Don’t be pleased by this, Atretes. Innocent people are losing their homes and their lives.”

“Innocent?” Atretes said derisively. The others looked at him. “Were they all innocent when they filled the seats around the arena and screamed for blood? My blood or anyone else’s. Let them burn. Let the whole rotten city burn!” He gave a hoarse laugh and raised his goblet in salute. He didn’t care if he offended or hurt anyone present. They were Romans, after all. “I’d like the pleasure of watching.”

“Then how are you any different?” she said, appalled by his lack of pity.

His eyes went hot. “I’m different.”

“You’ve suffered. Can you feel no pity for those who are suffering now?”

“Why should I? They’re getting what they deserve.” He drained the goblet and glanced around at the others, daring anyone to challenge him.

“The Jews agree with you, Atretes,” Rufus said. “They think God has cursed Titus because of what he did to Jerusalem. First Vesuvius erupts and kills thousands, and now this fire.”

“I like your god more and more,” Atretes said and tore a leg off the cooked pheasant.

Rizpah looked at him in sorrowful disbelief.

Theophilus filled the embarrassed silence. “Perhaps this will give us the opportunity we need to leave Latium.”

Several more people arrived, most of them poor folk who lived outside the gates of the city. Some were involved in the transport services on the Appian Way while others worked in markets that catered to the hundreds of travelers who came to Rome every day. Someone began to sing, and the gathering of people began to take their places for the reading of the apostle Paul’s letter to the Romans.

Despite numerous warm invitations to join them, Atretes took a pitcher of wine and a goblet and retreated to the furthest recesses of the chamber. He was somewhat surprised to see it wasn’t Theophilus who led the worship. It was the slave who had served wine. He was younger, without the breadth of a soldier, a humble looking man, his voice gentle but somehow powerful.

“‘Therefore you are without excuse, every man of you who passes judgment, for in that you judge another, you condemn yourself; for you who judge practice the same things. And we know that the judgment of God rightly falls upon those who practice such things. And do you suppose this, O man, when you pass judgment upon those who practice such things and do the same yourself, that you will escape the judgment of God?’”

Atretes felt an inexplicable shiver of fear run through him at the words being read. It was as though whoever had written them had looked into his very heart. The words ran together, and then something would burst upon his mind, pouring hot coals upon him.

“‘There is no partiality with God. . . . God will judge the secrets of men. . . .’”

The pitcher of wine was empty, and he craved more, wanting to drown the niggling fear eating at him.

“‘. . . their throat is an open grave. . . .’”

The letter had been written to the Romans! Why then did it cut him and leave him bleeding? He pressed his palms against his ears to shut out the man’s voice.

Theophilus saw and gave thanks to God. He hears you, Father. Plant your word upon his heart and bring forth a new child of God.

Rizpah wept silently and unnoticed beside the Roman, not over hope for Atretes, but in despair of her own sin. Had she not judged Atretes when he stood in judgment of others? She had asked him how he was different. Was she not the same?

O, Father, I want to be like you, and this is what I am! Forgive me. Please, Abba, forgive me. Cleanse my wicked heart and make me your instrument of love and peace.

* * *

When all had gone and night had fallen, Atretes lay restless upon his pallet, the words he had heard still plaguing him. Men had tried to kill him with sword and spear. He had been chained, beaten, branded, and threatened with castration. Through all that, fear had not touched him as it had upon the reading of a single letter by a man he didn’t even know.

Why? What power did this scroll have to torment his mind with the heaviness of what lay ahead of him? Death. Why should he be afraid now when he had never been before? All men die.

“‘. . . be buried with him through the baptism into death. . . .’”

His goal had been to survive. Now there was a resounding echo, Live! Arise and live! Arise from what?