Broken Vessels (volume 2 of Jars of Clay) (6 page)

“Half of the wood he burns in the fire and over it he prepares
his meal, he roasts his meat and eats his fill. He also warms himself and says,
‘Ah! I am warm; I see the fire.’

“From the rest he makes a god, his idol; he bows down to it and
worships. He prays to it and says, ‘Save me; you are my god.’ They know
nothing, they understand nothing; their eyes are plastered over so they cannot
see, and their minds closed so they cannot understand.”

Cassius bounced his leg nervously. There was an explanation, a
response to this man’s recitation. Yet, he was disturbed by the implications,
and he was frustrated by his inability to give a convincing rebuttal.

Saturus continued,

“No one stops to think no one has the knowledge or
understanding to say, ‘Half of it I used for fuel; I have baked bread over its
coals, I roasted meat and I ate. Shall I make a detestable thing from what is
left; shall I bow down to a block of wood?’”

“It’s not like that!” Cassius shouted, then embarrassed by his
outburst, continued weakly, “I mean, our gods are powerful, and meaningful.
Perhaps we do bow down and worship at a carved image, but our gods are more
than that. Besides, what can a mere man, this Jesus, do to compare with the
might of Jupiter or Minerva?”

“Jesus was a man, this is true, but not only a man,” said
Priscilla. “He was the Son of God. God became man in order to save us from our
sins.”

“I don’t understand. You speak in riddles.”

Saturus explained, “Cassius, you, and I, since we were born,
did we need to be told what is right or wrong? Our conscience told us. It is
this state of wrong-ness that keeps us separated from God.”

“What is right? What is wrong? These are moral values unique to
each person.”

“No, that is false. Those who can no longer discern the
difference between right and wrong have had their consciences seared by their
sins. God’s standards do not change.”

“So how then does Jesus save us from this state of sinfulness
you describe?”

“He died on the cross, a living sacrifice,” answered Priscilla.

“We too, sacrifice to the gods, daily.”

“Cassius,” said Saturus, “Jesus was the final sacrifice. His
death was the penalty for the sins of all who would believe. One man died for
all.”

“But still he died. He was just a man. Perhaps a good man who
would die for his friends, but dead now, none the less.”

“No, Cassius,” said Priscilla. “He’s not dead, he’s alive!
After three days he rose from the dead and ascended into heaven. He sent his
spirit to live in us. No longer do we need to go to a temple to meet with God,
for he has made us all temples of his Holy Spirit.”

“That is outrageous. Forgive me, Priscilla, but you are
deluded. These are all stories, fine to entertain, but they cannot satisfy the
longing for the divine.”

“Would you believe if Jesus told you himself?” asked Saturus.

“How is that possible? He’s not here.”

“Oh but he is. Why don’t you ask him if he is real for
yourself?”

Cassius laughed. “Right now? You mean right here?”

Saturus nodded, “Yes.”

“Like a prayer?”

“If you want to think of it like that. Priscilla and I will
pray with you. And if Jesus is silent, you can leave, knowing you did your best
to convince us to return to paganism, and, if he is not... then you will know
the Truth.”

“Is this a trick?” Cassius said, looking around himself,
ensuring that they were alone.

“It’s not a trick. Just a quest. A quest for Truth.”

Cassius scratched his head and laughed again. This would be
simple. He would do as they asked, and he would prove their theory wrong. Jesus
was dead. The divine was found in the gods of Rome. He hated the thought of
humiliating them in this manner, for he cared deeply for Priscilla, and
respected her father, but it was their request.

“Okay. I’ll do as you wish.”

He closed his eyes, and spoke aloud, “Jesus, the God of Saturus
and Priscilla, if you are real and alive as they claim, show yourself to me.”

He breathed in and exhaled. There, it was over. His friends
were silent, but he submitted to the wait. Soon they would ask him if Jesus
spoke and he could say no and go home.

Then, in an instant, Cassius was flat on his back as if struck
by lightning. He could hear the prayers of Priscilla and Saturus, and was
mortified that he had somehow lost his balance. He pressed his hands against
the floor in an effort to lift himself up, but to no avail. His arms and legs
were like cedars he could not lift them! Every effort to move failed, and the
air surrounding his body grew heavy. He struggled like a man whose neck had
been broken, and he was afraid suddenly that he had been hit somehow and was
suffering from paralysis. He strove to call out for help, but, like in a dream,
his tongue felt thick and heavy and would not move.

His heart pounded, blood raced through his veins; he had not
died, he assured himself, for a moment had flashed when he thought he had
entered the other world.

He felt a rush of peace, unlike anything he had experienced.
Though it seemed like only minutes, Cassius learned that he spent more than two
hours plastered to the floor, creating a puddle with his tears.

And when he finally arose, he was a new and different man.

Chapter Eleven

GORDIAN

Gordian had arrived at his father’s house for a visit shortly
after his sister returned to live there. He scoffed at the news of her
separation from Vincentius, although it had been obvious to him at the wedding
feast that Vincentius was a homosexual. He was therefore forced to consider his
father an opportunist. It seemed he was indeed willing to sacrifice his own
beloved daughter for financial advantage.

That he now claimed to have been duped by Vincentius was ludicrous.

Restless and bored with the tediousness of life at his father’s
villa, Gordian intended to make a trip into Carthage. Perhaps he would visit a
temple prostitute. However, his choice to cut through the fields at the back
past the well provided another suitable opportunity to satisfy him.

He spotted the slave girl Felicity. There was something enticing
about the way the sun shone off her long dark braid, and the way she glided
when she walked, her long white tunic smooth over a tall, slim body, a leather
belt tucking in a narrow waist.

He didn’t think twice about taking her. She was just a slave
after all, and hadn’t he raped dozens of women when they had rampaged through
villages in battle? Women were nothing more than livestock, simply put on this
earth by Jupiter to satisfy the needs of men. But still, he was careful not to
bruise her in any place that would not be covered by her tunic.

Chapter Twelve

HELENA

Where was Felicity? Helena watched for her in the fields as she
made her way back to the villa. She called out for her once inside. None of the
kitchen staff had seen her. When she inquired of her mother, Virina complained
harshly that Annia had not remained with her long enough today, and no she
hadn’t seen Felicity either.

It was unlike Felicity to be unavailable to her. Helena could
not think of one time when Felicity had not been in the shadows waiting to be
called upon, or had not known with some kind of sixth sense that she was needed
by her mistress.

The fact that she was missing caused Helena a good amount of
concern. She scouted the grounds in her view from a second floor balcony,
looking vainly for her familiar form.

Finally, she went directly to Felicity’s quarters, where she
lived with Annia and Protobius. Her knock was answered by Annia whose face,
normally bronzed by the sun, was white and drawn.

“Is something wrong, Annia?” Helena asked.

She nodded, “Yes, my lady.”

“What is it? Is it Felicity? Is she ill? Why has no one
informed me of her condition?”

“She is not ill, she is, uh, injured.”

“Injured? Well, what happened? I wish to see her.” Helena
pushed passed Annia, into a small, dark, yet impeccable room.

Annia hesitated, which perplexed and angered Helena even more.
“Lead the way.”

She followed the elderly woman to an even darker smaller room
at the back. The shutters were drawn.

“Felicity?” Helena could see her slave’s silhouette curled up
on a mat in the corner. She heard a muffled sob, and the girl covered her face
with her arms.

“What happened? Did you fall? I can’t see you in this light.”
Helena took two swift strides to the window and threw the shutters open.
“There, that’s better. Now let me look at you.”

The slave refused to look in her eyes. Helena noticed straw and
wild grass stuck in Felicity’s hair, and a bruise forming on her forearm. She
was shivering.

“Is there not a blanket to be found?” Helena called out.

When she saw the blood, small red patches staining the white
tunic that was pushed up between her legs, she suddenly knew what had happened.

“Oh, to the gods, who did this to you?”

Felicity, shivering, curled into a tighter ball, but remained
silent.

“I demand that you tell me. Annia?”

Helena turned to look again into Annia’s face. Her eyes were
large and sunken. “Do you know who did this?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Well, then tell me. Who?”

“Master Gordian.”

Helena’s jaw dropped. Gordian? She breathed deeply, shutting
her mouth firmly, and said nothing. It would not do to show disapproval of a
family member in front of the slaves. As a Roman citizen, Gordian had legal right
to do whatever he wished with any slave in his Father’s house. But Felicity
belonged to her.

“See to her Annia. I will send over a nurse.” She left as
abruptly as she had arrived. She was furious with her brother yet helpless to
do anything about it. He would just laugh if she confronted him; brush her off
as he stuffed his face, feasting after his latest conquest. Her father would be
disappointed in his son, and not for the first time, but he would not require
retribution. What was done was done. As a slave, Felicity had no rights.

Helena had disliked Gordian for many years, but as of today she
simply loathed him. Now she could only pray to the gods that his seed would not
take.

Helena couldn’t stand to remain home, or chance another
accidental meeting with Gordian. She blessed the gods of the doorway and
exterior gates, then acknowledging the imprudence of walking to the city alone,
reluctantly returned to acquire a slave to escort her.

Finally, she was on her way with a tall, dark Egyptian, who
carried a large palm to shade her. She could have taken one of her father’s
carriages and a driver, but she needed to walk off her anger.

She fussed and fumed and carried on animated conversations in
her head of all the terrible things she would like to say to her brother, and
yes, Father, for not siding with her. If worse came to worse, she would have to
seek out an abortion for her slave, and unfortunately for Felicity, marriage
was no longer an option. She had no idea how to discreetly find a suitable
physician who could perform the operation. However, it was likely that Tatiana
or her mother could help her with that.

Gradually she slowed her pace. She was now well within the
bustle of the city, and only blocks from the Forum.

When the crowds became too heavy, the tall Egyptian moved ahead
of her to make way, and the people separated as if for royalty. Helena had
become accustomed to the respect shown to her because of her father, and chose
to ignore the whispering that picked up behind her back on account of her
short-lived marriage.

Through the throngs she thought she glimpsed someone she
recognized.

“Cassius!” she called out, though her voice blended with the
city noise, and he could not hear her.

Oh, how she longed to unload her grievances with someone, and
she knew that Cassius shared her black opinions of their older brother.

“Cassius!”

Still he could not hear her. She instructed the slave to move
in his direction. Then she saw with whom he was speaking. It was the temple
prostitute she had often spotted at past festivals and sacrifices. How could
anyone mistake that red hair?

“Oh,
not him too,” she thought to herself. Hadn’t he shown himself to be different
than the others? Had she been wrong about him all these months?

“Cassius!”
Finally, he heard her voice and turned around. Seeing her, he spoke softly to
the girl and she left him.

“Helena.”

“Brother.
I thought you at least would show enough propriety and respect for your father
to do the things that should be done in private, in private.”

“It’s
not like that, Helena. It’s not what you think.”

“Oh,
come on. Her plain manner of dress is little disguise. You play me for a fool.”

“You
are no fool, Helena.”

She
paused, surprised by the respect she heard in his voice. Yet she challenged
him. “Is she not a temple prostitute?”

“Was.”

“Was?”
she replied incredulously. “Once a prostitute always a prostitute.”

“That’s
not always true.”

“Tell
me how. What power is there so great it could change and redeem someone like
her?”

“There
is a Power greater than anything you have yet to experience, sister. One who is
able to change, redeem, and forgive.”

“You
talk in riddles.”

“I
wish to speak plainly, but this is not the place. I can take you somewhere
quieter, if you wish to hear.”