Marcus felt a sudden pang. Slowly, his hand dropped from the hilt of his sword. “You doubt the integrity of my resolve?”
Alexander looked up at him, his honest eyes overshadowed by soldierly contriteness. “I see I have offended you. My apologies, my tribune.”
“No.” Marcus closed the gap between them, studying Alexander’s quiet face. “I wish to understand you fully. What do you mean?”
Alexander seemed strangely unable to look at him. “Your hatred for the man who would defile our sister in the faith is understandable. It is your passion to buy her that I do not understand. Perhaps I wonder what it is you will do with her.”
Marcus felt the blood drain from his face.
He could understand the question coming from any other Christian brother, but not Alexander. The full depth of the young man’s seeming accusation sank slowly into him, so sharp he could scarcely swallow the sudden smarting lump that rose in his throat.
He could feel the veins in his neck constrict. Despite his best efforts, pain tightened his voice. “I will sign her freedom papers in your presence if that is what you desire. And I swear upon my honor as a believer,” and his eyes narrowed, inches away from Alexander’s unblinking ones, “I will preserve her purity.”
Slow apology filled Alexander’s face. Contritely, he began to bend in the rare custom of pressing his commander’s hand to his lips. “I did not mean to accuse you. Nor would I challenge my own tribune’s honor, Marcus. My concern for Moriah–”
“I understand. Do not humble yourself.” Marcus forced himself to speak lightly, though the thought of resuming his inexorability as a commander crossed the back of his mind. Punishing this legionary’s rashness would be an easy vent to his humiliation.
But it would not be fair.
Alexander had spoken as his friend and brother, and he himself could not deny he deserved some measure of suspicion. He was not really angry at Alexander’s boldness as compared to hurt by his mistrust. He felt sensitized, doubtless from Moriah’s recent rejection and the stirred-up memories of his past.
Still, he knew Alexander’s honest heart well enough to understand his sincerity. Swallowing his pride, he maintained his position as a friend. “I am a man and a military tribune. Your mistrust has its grounds.”
Alexander’s face relaxed visibly. “You are always more than understanding with me. I am grateful, Marcus.”
Marcus’s hand rested atop his shoulder. “Say nothing of it.” He paused. “When you are relieved of your duties tonight, go to the brethren. Tell them Marcus Virginius Aeneas will do everything within his power to save Moriah. Tell them to pray.”
“Yes, sir.” Alexander sensed the conclusion of their meeting. Snapping again into his military formality, he brought his arm against his chest. “As you command.”
Marcus watched him turn and stride towards the door. He felt drained. A cloud of mixed emotions settled over him, rendering him strangely subdued. Unexpectedly, he heard his own voice.
“Legionary.”
Alexander turned. “Sir?”
“Pray for me.”
Alexander’s eyes softened. Ever so slightly, he nodded. Wordlessly, he exited the room.
Marcus stood motionless a moment. Slowly, feeling overwhelmingly helpless, he began to pace the room.
His heart felt sick within him. The tables had turned so suddenly against him, against the woman he loved more than life. Moriah’s perilous predicament was worse than his most vivid nightmare.
Was it possible God would allow her to be forever snatched from him? Or, worse still, heartlessly defiled and shamed?
The thought sent the blood tingling back into his pallid cheeks.
He would save her. No craven, lustful hand would harm her. And, if one did, the owner’s life was forfeit. At that moment, he no longer cared about the laws of Rome, Moses, or anyone else.
He would kill the man who tainted her.
God help me. Keep her pure until I can save her.
Drawing himself sternly erect, Marcus strode from the room. Thankfully, the meeting with his centurions had been the last duty of his day. He was free to take his leave.
Out in the dusty courtyard, he blinked under the glare of the late afternoon sun. The heat was intense, worse than usual.
Or was it own enflamed feelings?
A quick glance revealed three or four legionaries standing idle. Marcus swiftly approached them, recognizing their startled apprehension. “Bring me a horse.”
“Yes, tribune.” Like an echo, all four men saluted and set off at running speeds.
Marcus watched them go. In his current mood, their swift pace had been their wisest choice.
They returned, one of them leading a well-bred mare. Marcus snatched the leather reins from him and swung into the saddle. The legionary nodded at him.
“The gods go with you.”
Marcus raised his hand in swift acknowledgment, then, spurred his mount forward. In a quick dash of dust, the mare cantered forward.
The ride through the bustling maze of streets and pedestrians to the mansion of Aeneas was strangely short.
Marcus moved his lips in wordless petition. His very soul was sore, aching with the ceaseless worry hanging over him. Would he be able to rescue Moriah from the heartless jaws of the lion prowling in want of her?
Before his father’s mansion, he quickly threw himself from the saddle. Almost running, he strode up the steps and into the welcome relief of the cool atrium.
Philip met him. “Greetings, Marcus.”
“And to you, Philip.” Marcus made no attempt to hide his hurry. “Is my father in?”
“Yes, in his own apartments. Can I bring you anything? Some wine?”
“Later perhaps. Thank you.” Marcus stepped quickly past him. Breaking almost into a jog, he stepped up the stairs to the apartment of Cleotas. Not bothering to knock, he swept into the room.
“All hail, Cleotas.”
Loosely clad in a tunic, Cleotas was lying indolently on a couch, an open scroll in his hand. Startled, he half-started up. “By the gods, Marcus!”
“Father, I will be brief.” Marcus didn’t bother to apologize. There was but one thought in his mind, overflowing into words. “I may need to borrow some money. Have I your permission?”
Cleotas blinked. “How much?”
“Up to eight thousand denarii if necessary.”
Cleotas’s jaw went slack. “Eight thousand denarii! Boy, are you mad? By Pollux, what could you possibly need such a sum for?”
Marcus bit his lip. Any explanation he might make was certain to be awkward. He felt Cleotas’s eyes rest with suspicion on him.
“Have you been gambling or running up debts in my name, Marcus? Don’t hesitate to tell me the worst; I am accustomed to the pranks of young men.”
Marcus felt the color rise in his face. “I have been doing no such things, Cleotas. Surely you know me well enough for that.”
“Then out with it. What have you been up to?”
Marcus hesitated. “To be blunt, I want to purchase a female slave tomorrow night. She goes for a high price.”
Cleotas stared at him. Without warning, he laughed aloud, the frown speeding from his features. “Ah, Venus has finally claimed you, Marcus! There–do not color so. I know and understand. So you want a female slave, eh? And a beautiful one? By Bacchus, you shall have her.”
Marcus felt the blood sweep through his neck up to his forehead. He had meant to clarify himself, but, instead, he had given the exact opposite impression he had meant to make.
A stammered explanation rose to his lips, nearly choking him. “You have always been generous with me, sir, but I fear you misunderstand me. My intentions–”
Cleotas interrupted him with a swift gesture. “Make no excuses, Marcus. If you want this woman, have her. I care little about your intentions. Tell my steward to give you my note for whatever amount you wish. Does that please you?”
“Yes, naturally. But–”
“Then get out of here. I dislike young men who burst without the proper permission into my chambers. Remember that in future, Marcus.”
Scarlet-faced and feeling decidedly helpless, Marcus raised his hand in farewell and left the room.
Outside, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. His heart pounded fast and hard against his chest, mortified. He would have to explain later. Cleotas must never think he had gone back on his principles.
Still, beyond his embarrassment, new peace enshrouded him
Even if he was outbid with his own gold, he had the note of Cleotas to ensure he would win Moriah’s freedom. The match was fairly set between him and Thallus Quinctia.
Dusk had fallen over Rome.
The street corners were lit by blazing torches, dimly lighting the way for the nighttime pedestrians–drunken patricians, beggars, slaves hurrying homewards, and women of ill-repute.
Marcus swung his scarlet cloak across his broad chest and around one arm. He had completed his day’s work too late to exchange his military armor and tunic for his toga. Still, he had no fear of his note being rejected at the auction. The name of the Tribune Marcus Virginius Aeneas was not unknown.
He glanced down at the female stola and cape slung over his arm. Slave auctions were generally indecent spectacles at best, and he had no idea how he might find his intended purchase. At one time, he would have thought nothing of it. Now, he breathed a prayer of gratitude.
How much You delivered me from, Father.
Gradually, the increase of fiery torches and the indistinct murmur of male voices signified his approach to the forum. A well-lit auction room appeared on his right, and Marcus turned in.
The auction ring was a bustle of activity. A line of miserable wretches were stationed around the block, awaiting their turn to be sold. The auctioneer himself stood leaning against the accounting table, speaking with the scribe charged with recording the revenue.
The room itself was stifling hot, humid with the mingled heat of dozens of swarming bodies. Greasy plebians, haughty patricians, and soldiers loitered about, awaiting the sale’s commencement.
Marcus looked keenly around the ring, searching for Thallus. It was not long before he found him, standing near the block, and chatting freely with a fellow patrician.
He felt his blood begin to wax warm. Somehow, the mere sight of Thallus always aroused twin passions of indignation and contempt in his very soul. He moved forward, intent upon gaining an adjacent place near the block.
As he pushed through the milling buyers, Marcus saw Thallus turn. His cool eyes lifted, meeting Marcus’s. His gaze instantly narrowed, a noxious expression stealing over his careless one.
“Almighty Jupiter.” Marcus heard his low, spatted curse. “The mendicos are in.”
Marcus glared stonily at him. He knew Thallus was well-aware of his wealth and status, but the pompous dog still dared to insult him as a beggar. It was a taunt that would not serve him.
Knowing his taunt had been heard, Thallus addressed him a louder key. “Hail, tribune. Are you looking today or buying?”
“Buying.” Marcus kept his tones short.
“Male or female?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” The eyes of Thallus narrowed. “However, assuming from your vast command, I dare say you do not need any further service from male attendants.”
“Nor do I need your incessant probing.” The corners of Marcus’s mouth twitched in disgust. “How I spend my money is my own affair.”
“Provided you have the money, that is. They say officers drink and gamble without restraint. I, to the contrary, have a well-laden purse.”
Marcus glanced contemptuously at him, refusing to answer. His pointed warning was none too inconspicuous. Boast loudly, Thallus. Humiliation would be a nice touch to top the success of snatching Moriah away from his claws.
A sudden blow fell on the gong, its reverberated peal silencing the murmuring buyers. Marcus felt his breathing quicken, tightening his chest.
The time was at hand.
Clearly, Thallus had been at pains to see that the auction was conducted to his personal satisfaction. Moriah was the first lot to be sold. Fleetingly, Marcus wondered how much he had paid to ensure he would not be out uncomfortably late.
His throat constricted as Moriah was half-pushed to her position on the block. The flickering light of the oil lamps danced over her, and he felt an immediate pang stab his aching heart.
Beauty was only a shaming curse for a slave.
The auction masters had evidently been at pains to accent her loveliness. Her hair was loose and unveiled, flowing over her bare shoulders. Though attired, her thin garment was boldly revealing–scandalously so for a virtuous, modest woman like Moriah.
A murmur of appreciative whispers swept through the cluster of men. Several uncouth remarks were laughingly shouted out, and Marcus felt the tingle of raging anger sweep up his spine.
Thallus himself had been among the brazen speakers.
Marcus saw Moriah’s eyes rest on Thallus, saw her visible shudder. Thallus laughed aloud, his grating chuckle paling Moriah’s already ghostly countenance even more. The pleasure he took by her terror was sickeningly clear.
Marcus’s fists clenched until the strong fingers bit into the palm. The burning temptation to strangle Thallus were he stood was growing increasingly desirous. Silently, he prayed for resistance.
Heavenly Father! Let this be over quickly.
The auctioneer mounted the block beside Moriah, extending one hand to the crowd, the other closing around her fair white arm.
“Silence, citizens! I have here a fair lady, a talented companion for a noble family! She can sing and play as an entertainer; she can labor in your domus. Consider her, gentlemen. She is of child-bearing age, if that suits you.”
Marcus had never so despised the sing-song prattle of an auctioneer before. Hearing Moriah’s virtues spoken in so flippant a manner fairly maddened him, coloring his bronzed cheeks. What was she? An animal to be traded, a plaything of a man’s lust and whim?
God forbid.
Christian charity was quickly failing to be one of his virtues.
The ceaseless whine of the auctioneer’s voice continued. “By the command of our divine emperor, the bidding shall start at seven thousand denarii for this crowning beauty. Step up, gentleman! Who will start the bidding?”
The finger of Thallus arose. “I take it.”
“Excellent! Any higher?”
Marcus glanced sidelong at his opponent. The sneering expression of Thallus’s face was enough to launch a violent stream of bids from his lips, but he prudently remained silent.
Several more bids were placed, amounting to seven thousand and five hundred denarii. The price was clearly too exorbitant already to go much higher.
The auctioneer rubbed his hands together, surveying his bidders. “Come, gentleman! Have we any higher bids? Surely, this lovely woman is worth more!”
Thallus again raised his finger. “Seven thousand, six hundred denarii.”
“Ah, hah! Any more?”
Marcus lifted his finger for the first time. “Seven thousand, eight hundred.”
“Very good! Any higher?”
Thallus raised his finger. His glaring expression bristled the hairs on Marcus’s arm, forming a visible tension between them. “Eight thousand.”
Marcus felt a slow smile of amusement curl around the corners of his mouth. He alone could discern the slight ring of desperation that had bordered on Thallus’s voice. Little wonder. The bidding was already outrageous.
He took a slight step forward. “Nine thousand.”
A murmur swept like a rolling wave through the crowd.
Thallus’s expression remained frigid, icy in its mingled disbelief and rage. Several patricians sent curious glances his way. Obviously, it was a well-known fact he intended to buy this lot.
The auctioneer looked from him to Marcus. “The bid i
s nine thousand denarii. Have you any higher bid, my noble friend?”
Thallus opened his mouth, then, shut it. He shook his head, his teeth visibly clenched.
“Sold to the noble tribune for nine thousand denarii!”
Marcus felt a chill of relieved satisfaction run through him. He refused to look at Thallus. He knew already that the young nobleman’s face was black with enraged mortification. The tension between them could be fairly felt, bristling, weighting the air.
Its snap would not be scenic.
Stepping forward, Marcus laid his own and his father’s note on the revenue table. The scribe glanced carelessly over them both, nodding.
“Tribune Marcus Virginius Aeneas. Your name is known and trusted, sir. You may take your new purchase home tonight and a collection will be made on your notes tomorrow.”
“Good. Release the woman.”
The scribe turned, gesturing carelessly to the guards. “Give her to her master.” Then, bristling, “Gently there! This man paid a fortune.”
Assuming a respectful carriage, the guards brought Moriah down from the block. White-faced and shaking, she seemed ready to drop. Subservient, she would not look at Marcus, hiding her drawn countenance with her tresses.
Marcus felt a pang of concern. She was clearly exhausted, doubtless overexerted by fear and her tortured shame. Quickly, he tossed a guard a coin.
“Open that room there.”
The man obeyed, unbolting the door of a small room used for guarding slaves. Inside, a dozen scantily-clad women sat in shivering apprehension, awaiting their turn to be sold.
Quietly, Marcus led Moriah to the door and laid the modest clothing he had carried with him over her arm. “Go in and put these on, then come out to me.”
Moriah’s hands quivered as they closed around the clothing. Silently, she disappeared into the dusky abyss of the room.
Marcus waited for her, guardedly blocking the open door. The suspicion that Thallus might attempt to steal back his lost prize was a strong one, and his hand crept over the hilt of his gladius.
His keen eyes drifted over the noisy, crowded room. Another auction had begun, and three or four men were avidly bidding for a poor slip of a Greek on the block.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 30