“Never mind,” Julia said. “I don’t care about them.” The last thing she had come for was to hear the troubles of others when her own were so burdensome. “When will she return?”
“She usually returns at dusk.”
Utterly dejected, Julia wanted to weep. She couldn’t wait that long. Dusk was hours away yet, and Calabah would want to know why she was so long in returning from the haruspex. If she admitted she had come to see her mother, she risked Calabah’s further displeasure.
She pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples.
“You look pale, my lady,” Iulius said. “Would you like some refreshment?”
“Wine,” she said, “and I’ll have it in the peristyle.”
“As you wish.”
She walked along the marble corridor and went beneath one of the arches. She sat in the small alcove on the far side. Her heart beat fast, as though she had been running. She had sat here the day her father died, crying inconsolably while the others had gathered around him. She hadn’t been able to bear seeing him so emaciated with illness, his sunken eyes full of pain and sorrow. She hadn’t been able to face his disappointment in life. In her.
Tears of self-pity filled her eyes. In the end, it hadn’t mattered anyway. During those last precious moments of his life, he had called for Hadassah and not his own daughter. He had given his blessing to a slave rather than his own flesh and blood.
She clenched her hand, angry again. None of them understood her. They never had. She had thought Marcus understood. He had been just as hungry for life as she, and he still would be if he hadn’t been fool enough to fall in love with a homely Christian slave girl. What had he ever even seen in her?
Julia sighed. Maybe Calabah was right. Maybe no one was capable of understanding her, of comprehending the hunger that drove her, the desperation she felt, the terrible yearning and fear that were her constant companions. They were satisfied with their simple, placid lives, comforted by their dull routines, self-righteous in their conventional mores. They had crushed her beneath their expectations.
Just as Calabah and Primus are now crushing me beneath theirs.
The unbidden thought came as a shock to Julia, and she fought the wave of nausea and light-headedness that washed over her. Calabah and Primus both professed to love her. But did they? How had they shown their love lately?
“You’ve become quite a bore, Julia. You impose your gloom on every feast you attend.”
“There is but one rule in this world. Please yourself.”
Julia closed her eyes and sighed wearily. Perhaps it was her illness that roused such disloyal thoughts.
Or was it?
Sweat beaded her forehead, and she dabbed at it with the back of her hand.
She had thought she was safe with Calabah, that Calabah was her only true friend. She thought Calabah, and only Calabah, loved her for who she was. But of late Julia wondered if Calabah was capable of love at all, and wondering made her insecure and afraid. What if she had made a terrible mistake?
Since the argument over her mother, Julia had become increasingly aware of the way Calabah and Primus looked at everyone, including one another, including her. It was as though they were ever hunting for that careless word or expression that might reveal some hidden distaste for their way of life. And when something did emerge, in truth or their fertile imaginations, the attack was immediate and ferocious. Primus unleashed words so acrimonious and vitriolic that his listeners winced, thankful they were not the target he shredded. Calabah used intellectualism to overwhelm those who questioned her ethics and morality, and contempt when she failed, dismissing anyone with an opposing viewpoint as obtuse or archaic. Ever on the defensive, Primus and Calabah were armed for offense. Why was it so necessary if they were truly in the right?
Julia’s mind was clouded with nameless dreads. What if they were wrong. . . ?
Iulius entered the peristyle, rescuing her from her grim contemplations. “Your wine, my lady.”
She took the silver goblet from the tray and glanced up at him. “Has my mother had any word from Marcus?”
“He visits her several times a week, my lady. He was here yesterday.”
Julia felt as though she had been struck in the stomach. “I thought he went to Rome,” she said, forcing her voice to sound normal.
“Oh, he did, my lady, but he returned within a few months. It was a pleasant surprise for your mother. She didn’t expect to see him for several years.”
Julia pressed the goblet between cold hands and looked away. “When did he arrive?”
Iulius hesitated, fully aware of the scope of Julia Valerian’s question. “Several weeks ago,” he said, wondering what her response would be. She had the habit of venting her wrath on the bearer of ill tidings.
Julia said nothing. Several weeks. Marcus had been back for several weeks and not even bothered to let her know. His silence was a cold proclamation that nothing was forgotten. Or forgiven. Julia’s hands shook as she raised the goblet to her lips and sipped.
Surprised and relieved, Iulius lingered. She looked unwell. “May I bring you anything else, Lady Julia? I purchased cherries from Pontic Cerasus and some Armenia peaches this morning.” They had always been her favorite.
“No,” Julia said, warmed slightly by his consideration. How long had it been since a servant had spoken to her in that gentle way?
Not since Hadassah.
The traitorous memory sent a shaft of pain through her. “I don’t want anything.”
He took a small bell from the tray and set it on the bench beside her. “If you need anything, ring for me,” he said and withdrew.
Julia drank her wine and wished she hadn’t come. The emptiness of the villa made her own loneliness all the more unbearable. Her throat constricted and she blinked back tears.
Marcus was here in Ephesus.
Before he had gone back to Rome, she had sent him message after message, and each was returned, seal unbroken. She had even gone to his villa once. One of his servants came to her. He said, “The master said he has no sister” and closed the door in her face. She had pounded and screamed that Marcus did have a sister and there had been a misunderstanding and she must speak to him. The door remained closed. All her efforts to see Marcus and talk with him had availed nothing.
She wondered if it would make any difference if Marcus knew she was ill. She could find one of his friends and send word that way. Perhaps then he would come to her. He would beg her to forgive him for sending her letters back and refusing to see her. He would tell her she was his sister again, that he would take care of her, that he still adored her. She would make him suffer briefly before forgiving him, and then he would tease her and laugh with her and tell her amusing stories like he always had back in Rome.
Tears slipped down Julia’s pale cheeks.
A wonderful dream, but she knew the true situation. Marcus had made it clear enough. If he did learn of her illness, he would say it was only what she deserved. He would say she brought it on herself. He would say again, “May the gods curse you!”
And so they had.
She could only try to forget everything. She had to wipe yesterday from her mind. Today was already too much for her to bear. She could not bring herself to contemplate tomorrow.
Her hands tightened around the goblet. She sipped the wine again, hoping to strengthen herself. As she lowered the goblet, she looked into the ruby liquid. It looked like blood. Casting it from her, she stood shakily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Iulius heard the crash and entered the peristyle. “Are you all right, my lady?” He glanced at the wine splattered across the marble tiles and bent to pick up the goblet.
“I should not have come,” she said, her words directed to herself rather than him. Jannes would tell Primus, and Primus would tell Calabah.
And without Calabah, Julia was terrified her life would shatter completely.
4
Marcus dismisse
d his servant and removed the seal from a parchment that had arrived that morning. He read through it quickly, frowning. The epistle was from Ishmael, an Egyptian with whom he had dealt frequently in the past. All the man said in his letter still held true. Sand was more in demand now than ever as the addiction for the games grew. Ishmael reminded Marcus that he had made his first million aurei of gold in transporting sand from Egypt to Roman arenas. There were markets for sand in Ephesus and Corinth and Caesarea as well. Respectfully and with admirable tact, Ishmael sought the reason for Marcus’ long silence.
Crumpling the parchment in his hand, Marcus tossed it into the brazier. His father’s voice echoed in his memory. “Rome needs grain.” Ah, but he, Marcus Lucianus Valerian, in his youthful lust and zeal for life’s pleasures—and in his arrogance that he knew better than his father—had imported what Rome wanted instead: Sand to soak up blood.
An image of a gentle girl lying in her own blood on sand he had sold made him rake his hands back through his short hair. He rose from his chair and went to the window overlooking the harbor.
One of his ships had come in from Sicily laden with goods. He watched the sacrarii shouldering sacks of grain, bundles of hides, and crates of fine woodwork. One of his overseers, a Macedonian slave named Orestes, who had been trained by his father, stood watching and checking quantities and products against the bill of lading. Orestes knew as much about the comings and goings of Valerian ships as he did, and he was as trustworthy and loyal to the memory of Decimus Valerian as Sextus in Rome. So, too, were several others who had labored under the Valerian banner, including Silus, who stood by the scales with mensores overseeing the weighing of the grain. His father had been a good judge of character.
The harbor was a hive of activity, ships arriving and departing, men scrambling up and down gangplanks loading and unloading cargoes. Two of his ships were scheduled to leave before the end of the week, one for Corinth and the other for Caesarea. Marcus felt the pull to board the latter. Perhaps his mother was right. He should go in search of Hadassah’s god. Hadassah had said her god was loving and merciful. Marcus’ hand clenched. He would like to find out why a supposedly loving god would allow a devoted worshiper to suffer such a merciless, humiliating death.
Banging the iron lattice with his fist, Marcus left the window and returned to his worktable.
He stared at the parchments strewn across it, each a record of goods brought into Ephesus on one of his ships over the past months: From Greece were articles of bronze; from Tarshish, silver, iron, tin, and lead; from Damascus, wine and wool; from Rhodes, ivory and ebony. Beautiful garments, blue fabric, embroidered work, and multicolored rugs were transported by caravan from the East and loaded onto his ships bound for Rome. Arabia yielded lambs, rams, and goats; Beth Togarmah, horses for the races and war-horses and mules for the Roman army.
Angrily, he swept his hand across the documents, scattering them onto the floor. What he needed was sound and activity, anything to drown out his own grim thoughts. Rejecting the thought of riding on a litter to the private baths he usually frequented, he headed on foot instead for one frequented by the populace. They were closer to the docks and something beyond his usual experience. Anything for distraction.
Paying the small copper quadrans, Marcus entered the noisy changing room, ignoring the surprised glances of laborers. He left his folded tunic on a shelf, wondering if it would be there when he returned. It was made of the best wool and was trimmed with gold and purple thread, a garment undoubtedly coveted by some of the patrons of this chaotic establishment of commoners. He took a towel and slung it over his shoulder, entering the tepidarium.
His brows flickered slightly as he saw the baths were communal. He was unaccustomed to bathing with women, but supposed in this crowded atmosphere it made no difference. Marcus tossed the towel aside and entered the first pool, rinsing himself in the warm water and taking his turn beneath the fountain that was part of the circulation system.
He left the first pool and entered the second. The murals were chipped, mildew growing in the cracks. The water was slightly warmer than the first, and he allowed enough time for his body to adjust before entering the third pool of the tepidarium. All manner of citizenry were enjoying the baths, and the cacophony of mingled accents and topics filled the chamber. The noise was almost deafening, but he was glad of it, thankful to have his own dark thoughts drowned out by the chaos around him.
Marcus sank down and leaned his head back against the tiles. Several young men and women were having a splashing contest. A child running on the wet tiles fell and sent up a shrill, warbling wail. Two men were having a heated debate about politics, while several women laughed and gossiped among themselves.
Tiring of the noise, Marcus entered the smaller calidarium. The room had benches along the walls and a raised font in the center of which were hot stones. A Nubian slave in a loincloth ladled water over them, keeping the chamber filled with steam. There were only two others in the room, an elderly man with a balding pate and a man younger than Marcus. Sweat glistened on the man’s well-muscled body, and he scraped it away with a strigil while talking to his older companion in a low, confidential tone.
Ignoring them, Marcus stretched out on one of the benches and closed his eyes, hoping the intense heat of the place would ease his tension. He needed a night of dreamless sleep.
Unbidden, the younger man’s earnest words, his hushed voice filled with abject frustration, eased into Marcus’ awareness. “I went with the best of intentions, Callistus, and Vindacius mocked me. He used that caustic tone he takes on when he thinks he knows more than everyone else. ‘Tell me, dear Stachys,’ he said, ‘how you can believe in a god who sits on top of a topless throne, whose center is everywhere, but who cannot be measured? How can a god fill the heavens and yet be small enough to dwell in a human heart?’ And then he laughed at me! He asked why anyone with the least intelligence would want to worship a god who let his own son be crucified.”
Marcus stiffened. By the gods! Even here, he could not escape!
“How did you answer him?” the old man said.
“I didn’t. After suffering his derision, I was too angry to say anything. Why open myself to further humiliation? It was all I could do not to ram my fist down his throat. And I went to save his soul!”
“Maybe the problem was not with Vindacius.”
“What do you mean?” Stachys said, clearly dismayed by his elder’s reproof.
“When I first accepted Jesus as my Lord, I was overwhelmed with the desire to convert everyone I knew. I carried my new faith out into the world like a club, ready to batter everyone I knew into believing the Good News. I was wrongly motivated.”
“How can you be wrongly motivated for wanting to save people?”
“What brought the Lord down from heaven, Stachys?”
“He came to save us.”
“You have spoken to me often of Vindacius. And now, I ask you. Did you go to this man you’ve always considered your intellectual superior to overcome him with debate and reason? Did you want him to see your righteousness in Christ? Or did you go to him out of love, to win his heart to the Lord for his own sake?”
There was a long silence, and then the younger man answered bleakly, “I understand.”
Callistus consoled him. “We know the Truth. It’s evident to all in God’s creation. But it is the kindness of the Lord that leads man to repentance. When you speak with Vindacius the next time, remember that your struggle isn’t against him. It’s against the spiritual forces of darkness that hold him captive. Put on the armor of God—”
The slave poured water over the hot stones again, and the hissing drowned out Callistus’ next words. As the hissing softened, Marcus heard only silence. He rose, realizing the men had left the chamber. Taking up the strigil, Marcus scraped the sweat from his body angrily.
Armor of God, the older man had said. What armor? Marcus wondered bitterly. If Hadassah’s unseen god had given her armor to
wear, it hadn’t saved her from a horrifying death. Nor would it save them. He wanted to warn the young man not to preach a faith that would bring him death.
What good was this god to his followers? What protection did he offer? Marcus rose from the bench, intent on going after Stachys and confronting him with the truth. This god of kindness and mercy deserted his believers when they most needed him!
Marcus left the calidarium and entered the frigidarium. The temperature drop was stunning. Standing on a tiled mural, his gaze swept across the pool, searching for the two men. They were gone. Annoyed, Marcus dove into the cold water and swam to the end of the pool. He lifted himself out with the lithe grace of an athlete. Shaking the water from his hair, he took a towel from a shelf and wrapped it around his waist as he headed for one of the massage tables.
Stretched out on the table, he tried to empty his mind of everything and let the vigorous pounding and kneading of his muscles give him ease. The masseur poured olive oil into his palm and worked it into Marcus’ back and thighs, instructing him to turn over. When he was finished, Marcus stood, and a slave scraped the excess oil away with another strigil.
Passing men exercising and women gathered around board games, Marcus headed for the changing rooms. Surprisingly, his clothing was where he had left it. Marcus shrugged on his tunic and fitted the bronze sash. He left the baths as restless as when he had entered.
Booths lined the street, hawkers promulgating a variety of goods and services to patrons going in and out of the baths. Marcus wove his way through the crowd. Earlier he had craved the chaotic noise of the populace to drown out his own thoughts, but now he wanted the solitude and silence of his own villa in order to give them full reign.
A young man shouted a name and ran by to catch up with someone. As he did so, he bumped Marcus, who fell back a step and muttered a curse as he collided with someone behind. At a woman’s soft cry of pain, he turned and looked down at a small figure shrouded in heavy gray veils. She stumbled back, her small hand gripping a walking stick as she tried to regain her balance.
An Echo in the Darkness Page 6