Sacred Scrolls; Chapter 30

 

Sacred Scrolls; Chapter 30

© 2021 by Amber Wright

SPRING, A.D. 95

Roman Province of Lydia.

It was a dark and stormy night—the night Junia Gaius survived.

Six months after Demetrius had moved to Ephesus with Elder John, there came even worse news. Demetrius and Elder John were prisoners of Rome. The noose was tightening throughout the empire for Christians and Jews alike, Emperor Domitian proclaiming himself as divine and demanding everyone to worship him. Throughout his empire, he even had temples erected to homage himself. Even though the darkest night had just passed for Junia, this breaking of a new dawn shrouded with uncertain mists.

What would happen to them all?

Who would be imprisoned next?

Who would die before the shadows of the night disappeared?

Who would survive this breaking of dawn?

Only three weeks ago, Junia had seen Demetrius. He had brought her a gift, a hand-printed scroll of the Book of John. Only three weeks ago, her tears blurred into the drizzle of rain as she shuffled down the street, sniffling back her sobs. A voice shouted her name.

Junia saw a young man approaching and she hastily rubbed the tears from her face. It was Marcus! Had he heard the horrible news yet?

“Shalom, Junia,” Marcus greeted her warmly. “Are you well?”

“It's Demetrius.”

~

Go. Find out where Demetrius has been taken. Please? Junia’s words and terror-stricken eyes still branded into his mind hours later as Marcus neared the city of Ephesus. He took an anxious breath and somehow knew. “Please God,” he shot a glance up to the April night sky, “go before us.”

Marcus entered the gate into Ephesus. Rancid laughter made him cautiously shrink into his dark blue hood. Soon he learned that the noise was coming from a newly erected temple down the street, lit up from the torches lining the outside walls. It was huge and beautiful. Beautiful, yes, but another place for the pagans to worship—the devil. But in whose honor was this temple built for? The temple of Diana’s seemed small compared to this one. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man walking past him paused. “Yes?”

“Whose temple is this one for? It is more magnificent than Diana’s.”

“Ah, a stranger to our fair city.” The man's smile looked pleasant in the torchlight. “This temple is to homage our Emperor Domitian. You did not know he has proclaimed himself divine?”

“No, I did not know.” Marcus shrank his face deeper into his hood.

“Then do not forget,” the man’s pleasant smile twisted into scorn. “Our divine Domitian is very particular about his worshipers.”

Marcus nodded in farewell, and walked on. A warning shot through him, Your journey will take you far and you will find Demetrius. Take care, Marcus. Fair weather does not last forever—but neither does the storm. He swallowed the unease that lodged in his throat, glancing up at the night sky again. Faint moonlight glowed between a broken edge of clouds. Behind him, the swollen Cayster River roared from the spring rains; before him, the uncertain future laid in the hands of his certain God. God in Heaven, let Your strength hide me under the shadow of Your wings. Though his fears were great, his peace returned.

~

Flames licked the walls and whirred into a crumbling sound. Junia clawed at the locked door, dripping with sweat, and pounded onto it with both fists.

“Junia.”

Junia whirled around to face that sneering voice, dread rising in her throat like a coiling snake wrapping its fangs of poison to choke her. She leaned forward, gasped for a mouthful of air and her eyes focused. It was he.

Demas' arms were crossed and his voice was calm, slick like oil. “I told you the gods would bless me, and they have.”

“If you are so blessed, why have you come back?” Junia felt the flames almost touch her skin. With a shiver, she backed up even more from both Demas and the fire. “Why should you want to see me?”

Demas' beady eyes turned into daggers.

“Why?” Smoke filled her nostrils; Demas came closer. “You are important now. Don’t waste your time here.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Demas' voice turned into a gravelly laugh.

Raw fear froze Junia. Demas, the Demetrius who had run Saint Paul out of Ephesus, stood before her like Lucifer himself. The man's wicked ways had come to surface, previously hidden by a cloak of self-righteousness and a web of lies. He who seemed so flawless in times past stood before her as he was, a man possessed with hate no man could cool. Please go away, her mind screamed.

“You will make me more important—you all will,” Demas' words made no sense.

The sound of a wall crumbling drove panic through her.

“Demas, we have to get out! Let me pass!”

A pile of burning ashes and broken wall met her vision from across the room. More smoke poured into the room, choking her with a burning heat and thick air. “Hurry—before we die in these flames!” Junia choked, gasping for air.

Demas did not budge, blocking her escape. “I won’t die. You all will die! Yes, even my son Demetrius.” He whipped out a glittering blade, “By sword, by fire…you will make me very important. How can I thank you? I regret to say you'll not be there to hear it.”

Junia struggled to breathe as she inched her way backwards until she felt the locked door against her back. No escape. Demas' dagger was mere inches before her, still coming closer. She said a frantic prayer, knowing his thrust of dagger would be a hard and sure one—one she could not survive. She saw the blood dripping from the point of the blade, proving the others had not survived either. There is no way to escape. My God! She wanted to scream but her voice trapped inside her throat.

The dripping blade came even closer.

Junia tried kicking the wall behind her, hoping it would crumble as the other wall had, but the wall remained solid and firm. She jerked her eyes across the room. Maybe someone could see her and help her. No one was in sight. In that room there was only the burning flames, she and her soon-to-be murderer, Demas. She clutched at her jaws, hoping to salvage a little air to breathe in. She thought about how the others would react. They would surely cry over her bier, mourn her a little while, wished she hadn't had died so young. Her whole life was ahead of her, they'd say.

Perhaps she had lived out all of her destined days.

At that moment, Junia admitted her defeat. There was no escape. Demas and death loomed before her. It was only a matter of seconds now until the blade would strike. The fear shocked her awake. Air rushed into her lungs in a torrent of hope, her tongue loosening, her mind screaming along with her words. “Demas, no! Don’t do this! You can’t! Think of your conscience!”

Demas’ reply was a gravelly laugh, his dagger silently dripping with blood, coming closer to kill her.

Junia felt the point of his blade touch her robe, pierce into her. Pain rose as high as her scream. “God!”

…Junia's heart pounded as she awoke, gasping for air as she sat in her bed. The dream had seemed so real, so vivid—the noise, the pain, the burning smell, everything.

Her insides jarred, Demas? Is he here in this room? A wild glance around the dark room confirmed he was not, but the shadows on the walls danced towards her in a creepy way. With a shiver, she realized Demas was not there, only the shadows of the night and her fears. Her gasping stopped, the breath squeezed back into her, and the sweat on her forehead began to dry. Of course, she smirked, I was in a very hot fire. I was almost burned alive! Imagine if it had all been real, I wonder what I'd be doing right now. I'd probably be a heap of blood and smoking ashes, never mind the bier! There wouldn't be enough of me to put in one. A tap on the door interrupted her raging thoughts. Time to go back to reality—and calm down, Junia! She scuttled out of bed and opened the door.

Andronika held Little Andronika wrapped in a blanket who kept kicking her feet out from the folds of the cloth, squalling away. “I’m sorry to wake you,” Andronika sounded exhausted, “but she has an upset stomach.”

Light poured from the hallway, blinding Junia.

“I thought you might—”

“Know of something to give her? Yes,” Junia stifled a yawn and pulled a fresh robe over her white tunic.

They found their way through the dim hallway, moonlight streaming through the cracks of the shutters. Will she stop crying? Junia was on the verge of a headache as Little Andronika squalled away. From nowhere, a light flickered on her face. She stifled a gasp, Demas has come! Will he kill them all like he had promised in the dream?

A woman's face appeared in the circle of light. Only Martha.

“Meh’tehr!” Andronika turned to Junia. “I thought she was a ghost, silly me.”

Junia silently agreed. Silly her, Junia Gaius! Still, her heart thumped a storm inside her. Demas had not come. If only she could shake the fear of it all from her now. Nighttime gave a person so many scary illusions, most of which were only the figments of imagination.

“I heard noises so I decided to take a look around,” Martha eyed the girls with sleep-squinting eyes, looking worried.

“Yes, and it’s only us.” Andronika did a short laugh, but sounded shaky nonetheless.

Junia felt her pulse relax as her eyes focused onto Martha. A yawn poured from her, as her dream seemed to have drained all the energy from her. She had lost a lot of breath during that horrific nightmare. Perhaps it had even effected her heart. She blinked fiercely, both to shut her negative thoughts and the sleep from her sticky-feeling eyelids. She could probably go to sleep on her feet just then, she felt that tired. It was indeed a strange night.

“Little Andronika...upset stomach,” Andronika's words muffled.

Junia felt like she was floating along, still half asleep. She hoped she would not trip on the steps so she clung to the wall as she walked down them. Somehow, she found herself in the kitchen and Martha was lighting an oil lamp on the table. A soft glow filled the room. More dancing shadows to scare me, she moaned as the shadows flickered against the wall and a shudder ran through her. So like my dream. Do I want to be reminded?

Another lamp appeared in the doorway and her mother’s face relaxed when she saw them. Eunice looked as worried as Martha had looked. Why was everyone so worried tonight? Perhaps she did have a reason to worry then, Junia was on the verge of worrying yet again. What was happening? She felt an odd feeling pass through her, one she could not explain. Why could she not put her thoughts together tonight? Where were those herbs? The baby's screaming pierced into her skull.

Andronika explained about the baby to her mother.

“Meh’tehr, which one is the ginger?” Junia stared up at the dried bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling. She would distract herself and make that baby quiet before she felt the world cave in on her. “Which, Meh'tehr?”

“That one,” Eunice pointed and turned to Martha. “Now that we’re up, we should eat a little. Tomorrow is a big day.”

“I don’t feel like going.” Junia crumpled a pinch of dried ginger leaves into a cup of water. How could she celebrate tomorrow when Demetrius could be dying or dead?

“Thank you, Junia.” Andronika took the cup from her.

Junia smiled in reply and yawned again, mostly to refuel her lost oxygen. She hoped her eyes would not be puffy tomorrow. Wouldn’t I be the beauty of the day then? Humph! But maybe that would be a reason for me not to go. I wouldn't want to be the reason nobody enjoyed themselves. She broke into a scowl. How she hated to be the reason of somebody's day being ruined. But sometimes she said things or did things that did ruin people's days. Like the time she had to prove Demetrius' innocence and ruined everyone's day by exposing Deacon Demas. But then, it had to be done, even Elder John had insisted it.

“What a beautiful week for Deacon Abner’s daughter to be married,” Martha sipped her water.

Deacon! Junia humped silently to herself. My father used to be a deacon—so what makes her so special? She found a growl tearing into her stomach. No, she was not hungry, just angry. She did not want to go to Dorcus’ wedding. Not that she disliked Dorcus; they were friends. It was because Junia did not feel like smiling and staring at precious Bishop Diotrephes while he did the ceremony, and she did not feel like celebrating when her world had turned upside down. Would it be turned upside down for good?

“Yes, it is a beautiful week.” Eunice set a bowl of raisins on the table. “Thinking about all the food we’re going to make is making me very hungry.”

Junia poured herself a cup of water, adding a pinch of ginger leaves. Just in case I do go tomorrow, I'll need a calm stomach. She frowned. Tomorrow, in just a few short hours, the wedding would start. How could she get out of going? Her unpleasant thoughts returned, and she gulped her ginger water by the mouthfuls. Was Demetrius still alive—or dead already? And what of Elder John? Marcus? What would happen to her mind if they all died? She dared not think of that one.

Junia silenced her thoughts for the time being, being rotten as they were. They were not even worth being thought, she told herself firmly. She turned to listen to the conversation that was going on, mundane as it was.

“Raisins?” Andronika sounded chirpy as she bounced her now happily gurgling baby on her knee.

“Thank you,” Junia sat on a reed-woven chair, growing worse tired, “but I’m not hungry. So, is Nika’s stomach better now?”

“Nika?”

“Oh, a slip of the tongue. I'm sorry.”

“But,” Andronika had a look of wonder on her face, “it sounds like the Greek word Nike which means victory. Thank you.”

“You were wondering how to shorten Little Andronika’s name, weren’t you?”

“Yes, and now I have it. Nika. Victory.”

Junia smiled. At least she had found something good to replace the bad of that day. Good thoughts returned to her weary mind, of which she was very grateful.

“Nika says she wants Aunt Junia,” Andronika handed over the black-eyed baby.

“She can’t even talk,” Junia chuckled as Nika grabbed onto her fingers. “She’s only seven months old!”

“But old enough to make my arm ache.” Andronika scooped up a handful of raisins as Nika gurgled away in the language of babies.

~

The pounding on the door started again, this time louder. Lucius' chest pounded as he leaped from his bed. Who would come at this time of the night? Unless... His chest exploded with fear. Had his father's old debtors finally caught up with the household? Now that his father had been gone for six months now? How unfair! What would happen to his poor mother? They had no money to pay off his father's thieving debts. Lucius paused to listen to a coarse shout as the man kept pounding on the door.

“Am I a stranger to my own home?”

The man’s voice sounded strangely familiar.

“Open up, I say!” The shout turned into a growl, “Lucia!”

Lucia, the man knew his mother? Lucius' tongue dried. So his father had come home, at such a time, in such a state. The drunken bellow of his voice carried out into the night. He hoped it would not wake up the entire neighborhood, or he would be ignored even worse. Already he felt like a leper, an outcast from among the rest.

His father shouted again.

Lucius blinked the sleep that caked his eyes. What was his father doing there? He would never forget the threat his father had given at that meeting six months ago as he left the house. And now he was back!

He heard his mother unbolt the door and speak to his father in hushed tones. His father's voice bellowed from time to time, but he could not make out what they were saying. He only feared what would happen. Demas was a ruthless man sober. What would he be like drunk? Panic choked him. But his feet planted to the floor, the blanket from his bed in one hand, fear in the other. What would happen to them? He sank onto his bed, sick with apprehension.

His foggy brain cleared and he began to piece the muffled words together. Elder John is captured, taken to Rome? My own father is a Roman spy? Roman pig! He grew sicker at the thought. Now nobody would speak to him from the church. Being the son of a liar and cheater was bad enough, wait till they heard his father had turned both spy and traitor. His insides coiled. It was unfair!

“No, Demas! Please, no,” his mother begged his father in a loud voice. “They are my brothers and sisters. You can't do this!”

“I can,” Demas’ voice shook angrily, “and I will!”

“No! Demas?” Lucia went into a wild scream.

Lucius sprang to his feet, tugging into his robe. The front door slammed and horses jingled away. There must have been a group of Romans who had come with his father. His head pounded as he stumbled through the dark into the entry where he had heard his mother scream. A burning candle flickered from a hand on the floor. His breath sucked in. Why was his mother laying on the floor? In an instant, he was kneeling on the floor beside her, prying the melting candle from her trembling fingers. He hastily stood, lit the lamp with the stub of the candle and turned back to her. Perhaps she had only fainted from the shock of it all.

There his mother lay, awake, looking at him imploringly—gripping a bloody stomach. He gave a sharp cry, thoughts mangling into gasps. He sank to the floor and reached for her, the wetness of blood brushing against his fingers. He took her by the shoulders and tried to hold her up a little. She groaned in pain, her jagged breathing in his ear. It was too much.

“How, Meh'tehr?” Lucius already knew but his words tumbled out, as if he was lost in a nightmare. “Who did this to you? What happened?”

He bit onto his lips to keep from crying out. His father might return at that, call him a weak woman, stab him next. He tasted the salt of his tears as his mother's jagged breathing grew less, quieter. It was only a matter of seconds now. God, no! Don't kill her!

“Warn the Christians,” Lucia spoke between wheezing gasps. “They will be killed...tonight. Hide. Romans...coming.”

“But Meh’tehr, I need to find help for you. I can’t leave you!”

“No!” Lucia clutched his arm with sudden force, voice raspy, fading with each word. “Warn the Christians... my brothers... sisters.”

Lucius fought back a scream, hearing his mother’s lungs gurgle under his arms. He had no time to lose. Meh’tehr, I need to help you. Let me help you, please!

“Tell them John…has been taken. Tell them—” she began to cough. “Go now!”

“I can’t leave you!” Lucius buried his wet face into his mother’s hair. She did not know what she asked of him!

“Nothing shall separate us from the love of Christ. Love, my son. No hate.”

“I hate him!” Lucius groaned bitterly, spitting out the words. “I hate my father, Demas!”

“No, son. Love.” Lucia's breathing grew weaker, fainter, slower. “Find Elder John. He speaks truth.”

“Meh’tehr?”

“I shall see you again,” Lucia smiled up at him with a look of peace settling across her pain-twisted face, whispering now. “Don't be afraid.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“Jesus is always there for you. He loves you. He'll show you the way.”

“How can He love me when He takes away everything I want?” Lucius hated how his mother only had breath enough to whisper, her lungs gurgling, filling with blood.

“He was stripped of His riches and glory to be your sacrifice, Lucius.” His mother's eyes pierced into his as she took a shaky breath, “Son, listen to me—”

Lucius waited to hear the rest, heart pounding into his ears. The gurgling stopped and she did a short gasp. He felt her body stiffen in his arms. “No, God. No!”

Demas killed his mother.

Lucius cradled his mother's head, sobbing, not caring if his father came back and killed him, too. His mother had been taken from him—taken in the dead of night, taken when he had no one else, taken by his father who was a traitor. How could God possibly love him? How he could believe in love anymore? But her words screamed in his mind, Lucius, warn the Christians! Find Elder John! He speaks the truth. Go…now! He awoke as if from a deep sleep, finding purpose in that dark, lonely hour.

The truth dawned on him. “Demetrius, my Adher’fos…now we are the same, with no mothers and only one evil father.”

Lucius carefully covered his mother with a blanket, said a trembling prayer over her and commended her body to the dust, her soul to heaven. With a bitter sigh, he had no choice but to leave her on the entry floor, without a proper burial. There was no time to lose. He must fulfill her dying wish. He must warn the Christians.

“Please God,” his body crumpled to his knees, weakly, “let me find Your prophet, Elder John. Let me help him escape. Let the Christians escape. Let me find hope. Let me know You love me!”

He stood to his feet, wiped his tears and inhaled a breath of strength. Even though he felt as empty as before he had prayed, he knew. Tomorrow would come—and with it, hope.

A Few Greek Words:

Fil'os: friend

Meh'tehr: mother

Pah'tehr: father

Adher'fi: sister

Adher'fos: brother