Sacred Scrolls; Chapter 33

 

Sacred Scrolls; Chapter 33

© 2021 by Amber Wright

THE DEAD

“Yes, John was successfully captured and is on his way here,” the officer told him stiffly.

Domitian, emperor of the great Roman Empire, stirred on his couch and placed one jeweled hand on the table piled with fruit. He inhaled a breath of satisfaction. His enemy had been captured and was now in his hands. He could do with him as he wished.

“We have disguised soldiers for thicker guard in case the Christians should try to rescue him.”

“Good,” Domitian flecked a hand of dismissal and picked up a grape, chewing it slowly, thoughtfully.

Soon he would deal with the one who claimed such powers, the leader of the relatively new sect called Christians. They had spread throughout the empire as fast as his predecessors had tried to stamp their lives out by all manners of persecutions and deaths. But they would die—by his hand, the great and divine Titus Flavius Caesar Domitianus Augustus. He would perform this final act with precision. With their leader captured, the Christians would soon fizzle out.

When the officer had gone, Domitian clapped twice.

A servant appeared.

“Tell that daughter of yours to bring me in my wine.” He leaned back against his pillows, swinging one finger lazily. “I would have it. Now!”

A very sober girl entered the room, pale and thin with the fair Grecian looks of her blood. “Sire,” she set the tray of wine onto the table beside him.

He watched her pour him a full gold goblet and hold it up to him with trembling fingers, never blinking, her posture erect and stiff like one of the marble statues that plagued his palace. Cold as ice, Domitian felt a cruel smile edge his mouth. “First, you will taste it.”

The girl's face paled even more, her eyes looking like huge sockets as they stared down at him. “But sire—” she dared to argue with him.

“If there is poison, you will die—yes.”

The girl swallowed, still staring at him.

“If there is not,” Domitian lowered his head to watch her tremble from the corner of his eye, “you will not die. Quite simple.”

The servant girl still defied him.

Domitian’s impatience snapped him into the ruthless demon he was, “I am your divine emperor! Drink!” His tone changed into a slippery one, “You, my dear, are only a mere slave. Now drink it.”

~

Julia felt the breath evaporate from her. How many cup bearers had died in the course of this emperor’s reign? Too many to count. Would she be next? She did not want to die. Not yet. Not when her whole life was before her. Her thoughts paralyzed. The emperor's eyes had turned stony, dark and treacherous, his lips forming into a snarl. What could this mean? She was, after all, only a mere servant girl who should mean nothing to the emperor of the Roman Empire.

“Drink!” Emperor Domitian flung one finger towards the goblet she held in her shaking hands. “Drink it or I'll call the guards!”

Julia gripped the goblet and brought it to her lips. Had the other cup bearer felt this way when he had drank?

Domitian watched with evil eyes as she sipped down a mouthful. A bitter taste rolled over her tongue and slid down her throat. Had the other cup bearer felt this way, too? She handed the goblet to the emperor as he still watched her with evil eyes.

Her throat dried.

Her stomach twisted in pain.

Her eyes froze. The look on Emperor Domitian’s face etched into her as she took those final breaths. He looked angry, afraid, doomed.

~

She's dying—for me! Domitian sat there, hearing the raspy gasp of the servant girl, doing nothing to stop the slave girl from dying. Slaves died every day, he reminded himself, on the verge of softening. The goblet of wine tipped into his lap as the girl fell to the floor beside his couch and his violent character returned.

He was the divine emperor. He need not feel for the subjects who were fortunate to serve him. If they died, they died. If they lived, he could work them as he pleased. This was the fate of those who had been privileged to have been born in the Roman Empire.

Domitian glanced down. The girl lay there, silently, stiffly—dead. Uneasiness stirred inside his dulled conscience but still he stifled his mortal feelings. He was the emperor. The empire would have their divine ruler to rule them, and to wipe away the dirt from the empire. What he would do shortly would tell the world so.

The girl's marble-like aqua eyes stared up at him blankly from a chiseled face with light hair sprayed out on the floor, framing her face and twisted shoulders as she lay there in a heap. He stared back at her, finding his throat powdery dry. Had he unconsciously drank the cup as she was falling onto the floor? Suddenly, the wine drenching his lap enraged him and he threw the empty goblet onto the floor with a crash, leaping past her silent form on the floor.

He grabbed a towel to wipe his drenching tunic, clapping twice. “Erastus!”

The servant Erastus came running into the room and, when he saw his daughter on the floor, he gave a sharp cry.

“Don't stand there gaping, man!” Domitian roared at him, wiping his tunic with little jerks. “Take her away. Away! Guards!”

The servant sank to the floor beside his daughter.

Domitian stared at the opening doors to the room, followed by a clomp of feet. What a time for this. Ah, yes, I forgot—the prisoner called John.

“Sire!” the officer saluted. “We have brought to you John of Ephesus, last living disciple of Jesus the Galilean.”

“What timing!” Domitian clasped his hands, his mouth folding into a sneer. He paced the floor by his couch, eying the servants beside it—the living one and the dead. He turned to the old man called John. “I need some magical tricks performed just now. Turn my poisoned wine into good wine in this pitcher. Ah, yes, see this girl who lies dead—poisoned by the drink I was supposed to drink.”

“I do no magical tricks, Emperor Domitian.” John crossed his hands in his chains. “But it is by the power of the resurrected Jesus Christ Who heals the sick, opens blind eyes, raises the dead and saves man from his sins.”

A strange prickle ran through Domitian which he stifled with a snort, followed by a chilly anger sweeping through him. What this man won't do once I am through with him. He will be begging me for life—me, his divine emperor!

Domitian saw the servant's wife enter the room, gasp at the sight of her dead daughter and rush over to her. The woman pulled the stiff upper body of the dead girl into her arms, sobbing like a hyena. The sound pierced his nerves but he watched the woman nonetheless. The woman's tears dripped onto the girl's creamy white chiseled face. He found the droplets fascinating as he watched them drizzle, drip down, disappear. He felt no remorse. If this slave girl had not drank the poisoned wine, he would have been the one dead now. No, the emperor must not suffer from its loss of their divinity—me, his chest puffed with pride, thinking on this.

Words broke him from his thoughts. His servant Erastus stared up at the prisoner John with red, watery eyes. “John, can you help us?”

Domitian heard John's chains jingle as the old man walked over to the slaves on the floor. To the dead slave girl who had drank the poisoned wine. A strange feeling came into the room, a feeling he could not place. Something in him warred, grew shaky, made him feel powerless. Domitian shuffled from the room in a state of confusion. His powers would not be conquered by a mere prisoner from an illiterate province. Besides, he was spent. The questioning could wait until tomorrow.

~

Mediterranean Sea.

At daybreak, Lucius boarded the ship to Rome. From casual questioning, he had learned that Elder John had been taken more than a week ago while ministering to Christians in a small village and was now probably in a prison in Rome. It was too late to help him now. Elder John would be in Rome in strong fortress walls where he could never escape, perhaps even dead. He sighed, dropping into the lower bunk in the lowest class passage on the ship.

Since Lucius had little money to spend, he'd ended up on a lumpy bed where the sick smells wafted through. He lay there, thinking of what all had happened. Faces and scenes scrolled through his mind. His father beating on the door. His mother clasping her bloody stomach, gasping out her last words. Running to the Gaius' house, warning them. The Romans passing him on the road, on their way to the city to kill and destroy. The smell of smoke and the fires in the distance, coming from the city. How many had died that night? Now he had even been too late to help Elder John escape. He shut his eyes, silenced his mind. The memories were too painful—he could not think about them. Turning his face to the wall, the ship rollicked beneath him and his silent tears drove his thoughts away. Rest seeped into him like a warm blanket on a cold night.

Through his sleep, his mother's words pierced into him, “Find Elder John.” He stirred in his sleep, struggling to comprehend it all. One thing he knew, if it was the last thing he would ever do on this earth, he would find Elder John.

~

Junia opened her eyes, expecting to find the morning sun pouring through her half-closed windows in their villa. Instead, pale morning light streaked through cracks of a huge rock vault. Dripping noises echoed against rock walls. She had slept in a cave. “What!”

Voices rumbled through her sleep-groggy brain.

Junia sat up, blinking sleep from her gooey feeling eyes. Why was the floor crowded with people, some sleeping and others sitting or standing? “Where am I?”

“Junia, breakfast time.” Andronika smiled down at her, holding her cooing baby who waved her hands happily. “The storm is over.”

A rush of sadness swept through her. Yes, the storm. Who survived that storm? Who is now dead? The storm we went through as we fled our homes from the Romans. Ah, that was when we met the shepherds. As if the thought produced them, she heard the bleating of sheep. She saw them nestled on the other side of the cave, safely in their own circle, their woolly coats looking warm against the backdrop of the cold, bare rock walls of the cave. Hungry, she wriggled out of the dry blanket she had shared with Tiria, ready to eat.

“Tiria?” Junia nudged the girl's shoulder with her foot. “Wake up! Breakfast.”

Tiria sat up, rubbing her eyes with a sleepy yawn that stretched her face into an odd expression. “But I hardly slept—horrid dreams,” her complaint turned into a growl.

“Tiria,” Junia lowered her voice with a grin. “The shepherds, remember?”

Tiria's eyelids snapped open. “Where?” She followed her words with a leap to her feet, raking back her messy honey-colored hair and trying to smooth it down. There were still a few horn-like chunks of hair sticking out.

They rushed to the bucket of water to wash their faces, using their veils for a towel. After they pinned their veils into place, Tiria's horns disappeared under the cloth.

“Clean face at least,” Tiria rolled her eyes as a sigh of relief.

Junia agreed. Although their clothes were rumpled, their faces were washed and they could begin the day looking somewhat fresh. She felt for the hair lining her forehead, making sure she had no horn-like hairs as Tiria had had. Her hair was nicely smoothed down, thankfully.

“Now that it's light,” Junius Gaius smiled at the shepherds cooking around the cook-fire, “let me introduce ourselves properly. I'm Junius and this is my wife, Eunice, and my daughter, Junia.”

Junia smiled, hoping her eyes did not look puffy from just waking up.

“And this is our other daughter, Tiria,” her father dared to add.

Junia was shocked. She had to be sisters—with Tiria? Life was so unfair. To be precise, Pah'tehr, she is your son's sister-in-law. She gave Tiria a discreet twisted expression that was a mixture of a smile. Tiria smiled in return, making Junia feel ashamed of herself. Tiria was not being Tiria today.

~

Tiria took Junia’s faint smile as a silent truce. That they had their good days; they had their bad days. But through it all, they were sisters without question. She knew each of them would give a leg to save each other. They just would never admit it.

Actually Junia, I should be frowning. Only six months ago you turned the church upside down! Oh well, at least it was exciting, she talked to herself before comprehending that Junius Gaius was introducing her to the handsome shepherds. She blinked, mentally kicking herself. What had she missed?

“Oh yes! It’s very nice to meet you all, too.” Tiria pointed to each of the shepherds with a pause, “Simon. Elias. Noah. Dalmatia. Philippi.”

“You have an excellent memory,” Dalmatia smiled with sparkling dark eyes. “Shalom.”

Junia began talking to Dalmatia, so Tiria turned to Philippi and Noah.

“I think it would be fascinating to be a shepherdess,” Tiria bubbled away in her normal talkative way. She was excited about life again! She reached down to pet a furry lamb with the tips of her fingers. “Just as long as they don’t bite me. Do sheep bite?”

“No,” Noah looked amused. “At least, as long as you treat them right, they don’t.”

“Fascinating!” Tiria gave him one of her Tirias smiles, the chirpy kind with no thoughts of romance. “I suppose that goes for humans as well. Or does it?”

~

Junia watched Tiria from the corner of her eye, smirking inside. Well, at least if Nicolas does die, Tiria won’t mourn herself to death. I’m glad we’ve decided to be friends. After all, she is such a cheerful creature nowadays. She hoped Dalmatia would not think her rude for not speaking just now. Cheer—something we’ll all need when days grow long and gray. Nika stiffened her back and made funny gurgles. “Yes Nika, I’m bringing you back to your mother.” She gave Dalmatia an apologetic smile, “Please excuse me.”

Junia met Andronika at the rack that was drying all their wet things from last night’s downpour. She held Nika by under her arms and wrinkled her nose. “Woman, take your baby!”

Hearing Tiria shriek with laughter reminded Junia of Nicolas. Where was he and was he still alive? A shiver ran through her. How many were dead?

~

The smell of smoke burned his throat as he stood there in heap of what the Romans had left. This house in ashes and blood, falling apart, vultures hopping around among the mess. His vision blurred, smoke burning his eyes with a numbness. The pain in his chest would not weaken. Pain beat his body with a strength he hoped he could endure. Why did this happen?

It should be his wedding day, not the day of the dead.

He saw them.

He smelled them.

He could hear their silent voices still speaking to him through his blurred mind. But they were dead. They could not speak. They did not know he was there, watching their dead bodies lay in silence—among the ashes, among the vultures. The pain inside him began to burn a hole into his heartbroken heart.

Polycarp wiped the bottom of his nose, made a long sniff. He could not take his eyes off her. There lay his betrothed, marble eyes staring up past him, silently. It was a picture of beauty, frozen into his mind for endless years to come. He would never forget that moment. How could he? It was his wedding day.

“Polycarp?” Matthias' voice broke into his numbed mind.

Still, Polycarp stared at her, half seeing the flies buzzing around him. A fat black vulture started towards her and his mind flipped. He tore at the vulture, tearing out its feathers until the bird flew away in a blur of black.

It should be his wedding day. His bride should be greeting him with a happy face, not with blank eyes staring past him. Not by laying stiffly cold upon an ash-heaped floor where the crumbling flames of Emperor Domitian’s men had left its wreck. A fly landed on Dorcus' nose, a name he swallowed down his throat with a silent scream. God, he raised his eyes to the bright sunlight filtering through the smoldering roof as smoke curled up in lazy puffs. How did this happen? How? Why? His mind blanked, tears falling from his face onto the ashes below him. It should be his wedding day, not the day of the dead.

But one day, he too would die. What difference did it make to him now? Tomorrow or eighty years, one day he would die. There was no way out. God had chosen her to be taken earlier than him—for some reason, for some purpose he would never know.

As he knelt there, he could hear the voices echoing through the city—the voice of the dead...the dead Christians...his brethren. His betrothed. His family-to-be. They were all dead for he, Matthias and Nicolas had searched the houses and found only ashes and half burnt bodies. Words stole through his mind like a faint whisper, Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine head; ye shall lie down in sorrow... The words of Isaiah made him choke with even more pain. Had he turned his back on God and this was his reward? His tears poured into his mouth as he gripped his face, trying to shut out the images he had seen and still now saw.

The Lord will comfort Zion, the words continued. He will comfort all her waste places. Joy and gladness shall be found... thanksgiving, and the voice of melody. Hearken unto Me, my people. Lift up your eyes to the heavens. He dropped his dripping wet, gritty hands and raised his face to the sky. The roof still smoldered but the sun shone brightly, as if telling him the sun would rise within him as well. He must endure.

“Polycarp,” Nicolas reminded him quietly, “the roof will fall on us if we don't leave now. Come.” He took him by the arm.

Polycarp stood but his voice protested, “We have to bury the dead. Those...who...” His voice cracked inside him, not able to finish his sentence, Those who haven't been burnt up beyond recognition.

“There's no time,” Matthias' voice was firm. “They would understand. We have to go. Please come?”

Polycarp had no choice but to obey, blinking fiercely to prevent more tears from falling. It should be his wedding day, not the day of the dead.

He followed them through a maze of smoke, broken walls, alleys, burnt up vineyards and gardens, until they passed the Christian section which lay in a rubbish heap. The wind whispered through the broken cityscape, broken landscape, his broken heart. Somehow they reached the north gate without being stopped.

Polycarp took one last look back at the smoky nightmare where they were leaving the dead bodies for the vultures to prey upon. Let the dead bury the dead, Jesus' own words. A hiccup broke the numbness from him, shocking him back into reality. Polycarp, let yesterday pass. Let tomorrow come. God's will be done. But the pain inside him would not leave. It only lodged inside him more deeply, silently. My God, how...? His fingers became ice as they hung limply at his sides. He flexed them, a scream ripping his insides, How can I start—go on—live tomorrow? How can I do this without a vision of hope? Without them? His scream turned into a prayer, one without words, one spoken from the depths of his heart.

A Few Greek Words:

Fil'os: friend

Meh'tehr: mother

Pah'tehr: father

Adher'fi: sister

Adher'fos: brother