He caught hold of her arm and steadied her. “My apologies,” he said briskly. She lifted her head sharply, and he felt rather than saw her staring up at him. He could make out no face beneath the dark gray mantle that covered her from the top of her head to her feet. She lowered her head quickly as though to hide from him, and he wondered what terrible deformity her veils covered. She might even be a leper. He took his hand from her arm.
Stepping around her, he walked away through the crowd. He felt her watching him and glanced back. The veiled woman was turned toward him, still standing in the midst of the river of people. He paused, perplexed. She turned away and limped cautiously down the street, through the crowd, away from him.
Marcus was strangely pierced by the sight of that small, shrouded figure being jostled as she made her way through the throng of people crowding the narrow street before the baths. He watched her until she entered one of the physicians’ booths, undoubtedly seeking a cure. He turned away and headed for his villa.
Lycus, his Corinthian slave, greeted him and took his cloak. “Your mother has invited you to sup with her this evening, my lord.”
“Send word I won’t be able to see her. I’ll stop by and visit tomorrow.” He entered his private chamber and opened the iron lattice to his private terrace. The view of the Artemision was breathtaking. He had paid a fortune for this villa because of it, intending to bring Hadassah here as his wife. He had imagined spending each morning with her on this sunny terrace overlooking the indescribable beauty of Ephesus.
Lycus brought him wine.
“What do you know of Christians, Lycus?” Marcus said without looking at him. He had bought Lycus upon his return to Ephesus. The Corinthian had been sold as a manservant and was reputed to have been educated by his previous master, a Greek who had committed suicide when faced with financial ruin. Marcus wondered if his servant’s education had included religious matters.
“They believe in one god, my lord.”
“What do you know about their god?”
“Only what I’ve heard, my lord.”
“Tell me what you’ve heard.”
“The god of the Christians is the Messiah of the Jews.”
“Then they are one and the same.”
“It’s hard to say, my lord. I am neither Jew nor Christian.”
Marcus turned and looked at him. “Which religion do you embrace as your own?”
“I believe in serving my master.”
Marcus laughed wryly. “A safe reply, Lycus.” He looked at him solemnly. “I’m not testing you. Answer me as a man and not a slave.”
Lycus was silent so long, Marcus didn’t think he would answer at all. “I don’t know, my lord,” he said frankly. “I have worshiped many gods in my lifetime, but never this one.”
“And have any of them helped you?”
“It helped me to think they might.”
“What do you believe in now?”
“I’ve come to believe that each man must come to terms with his own life and situation and make the most of whatever it may be, slave or free.”
“Then you don’t believe in an afterlife such as those who worship Cybele or those who bow down to this Jesus of Nazareth?”
Lycus heard the edge in his master’s voice and answered cautiously. “It would be comforting to believe it.”
“That’s not an answer, Lycus.”
“Perhaps I don’t have the answers you seek, my lord.”
Marcus sighed, knowing Lycus would not be completely honest with him. It was a simple matter of survival that a slave keep his true feelings secret. Had Hadassah kept her faith secret, she would still be alive.
“No,” Marcus said, “you don’t have the answers I need. Perhaps no one does. I suppose, as you imply, each person has their own religion.” He drank his wine. “For some, it’s the death of them,” he said and set it down. “You may go, Lycus.”
The sun set before Marcus left the terrace. He had changed his mind about visiting his mother. It seemed imperative that he speak with her tonight.
Iulius opened the door when he arrived. “My lord, we received word you weren’t coming this evening.”
“I take it my mother has gone out for the evening,” he said in dismay, entering the hall. Removing his woolen cape, he tossed it heedlessly on a marble bench.
Iulius took it up and put it over his arm. “She’s in her lararium. Please, my lord, make yourself comfortable in the triclinium or peristyle and I’ll tell your mother you’re here.” He left Marcus and went down the tiled corridor that opened into the peristyle. The lararium was nestled in the west corner, situated there for privacy and quiet. The door stood open, and Iulius saw Lady Phoebe sitting on a chair with her head bowed. She heard him and glanced his way. “I apologize for interrupting your prayers, my lady,” he said sincerely.
“It’s all right, Iulius. I’m simply too weary this evening to concentrate.” She rose, and in the lamplight, Iulius saw new lines of fatigue in her lovely face. “What is it?”
“Your son is here.”
“Oh!” Smiling, she hurried past him.
Iulius followed and watched Phoebe embraced by her son. He hoped Marcus would notice her exhaustion and speak to her about spending so much of her strength in caring for the poor. She had been gone from dawn this morning until only a few hours ago. He had overstepped himself once in trying to suggest she allow him or the other servants to deliver whatever food and clothing she wanted taken to the poor. Phoebe had insisted it was her pleasure to do so.
“Athena’s son wasn’t well when I saw her this morning. I want to see if he’s better tomorrow,” she had said, speaking of a woman whose husband had sailed for a number of years on one of Decimus Valerian’s ships and been swept over the side during a heavy storm. Since the master’s death, Phoebe Valerian had befriended all the families who had lost husbands or fathers while laboring on Valerian ships or docks.
Iulius always accompanied her during her visits to various families in need. One young woman, newly widowed and terrified that she would find no way to provide for her children, had prostrated herself before Phoebe when she arrived at the dreary tenement. Dismayed, Phoebe had quickly drawn the young woman up and embraced her. A widow herself, Phoebe understood grief. She remained for several hours, talking with the younger woman, sharing her anguish and offering comfort.
Iulius revered his mistress, for she gave out of love rather than a sense of responsibility or fear of the mob. The widows and orphans in the rat-infested tenements near the Ephesian docks knew she loved them and so loved her in return.
Now Iulius watched as her affection for her son lit her tired face. “Your servant sent word you weren’t coming this evening, Marcus. I thought you were otherwise occupied,” Phoebe said.
Marcus did notice her fatigue but made no remark. He had encouraged her to rest more the last time he had visited with her, and it had done little good. Besides, he had other things on his mind this evening.
“I had some things I wanted to think over.”
She didn’t press him. They entered the triclinium, and Marcus took her to her couch before reclining on another. He declined the wine Iulius offered. Phoebe whispered instructions to Iulius to bring bread, fruit, and sliced meat for him and then waited patiently for Marcus to speak, knowing that her questions would be deflected. Marcus had always hated being interrogated about his life. She would learn more by listening. For now, he seemed content to pass the time with news of ships coming in and the cargoes they brought.
“One of our ships came in from Caesarea and brought in some beautiful blue cloth and embroidered goods from an Eastern caravan. I can bring you whatever you want.”
“I’ve little need for embroidered goods, Marcus, but I would like some of the blue cloth—and wool if you have it.” With it, she could make dresses for her widows.
“Some came this morning from Damascus. The finest quality.”
She watched him pick at the meal as he ta
lked about imports and exports, his routine, people he had seen. And all the while she listened, she knew he had not spoken what was really on his mind.
Then he said, surprising her, “Did Hadassah ever discuss her family with you?”
Surely he knew more than she. He had been deeply in love with the slave girl. “You never talked with her about her family?”
“It never seemed important. I assumed they died in Jerusalem. Did she ever tell you anything about them?”
Phoebe thought back for a long moment. “If I remember correctly, her father was a potter. She never told me his name, but she said people came from other districts to watch him work and talk with him. She had a brother and a younger sister as well. Her sister’s name was Leah. I remember because I thought it such a pretty name. Hadassah said she died when they were taken into the ruins of the Jewish temple and held captive in the Women’s Court.”
“Did her father and mother die in captivity also?”
“No. Hadassah said her father went out into the city to teach about Jesus. He never returned. Her mother died later of starvation, and then her brother was killed by a Roman soldier when the city fell.”
Marcus remembered how thin Hadassah had been the first time he saw her. Her head had been shaved, and her hair was just beginning to grow back. He had thought her ugly. Perhaps he had even said so.
“The daughter of a potter in Jerusalem,” he said, wondering if that knowledge would help him in any way.
“Her family was from Galilee, not Jerusalem.”
“If they were from Galilee, what were they doing in Jerusalem?”
“I’m not sure, Marcus. I seem to remember Hadassah saying something about her family returning to Jerusalem once a year during the Jewish Passover. They came to celebrate Communion with other believers of the Way.”
“What’s Communion?”
“It’s a meal of wine and bread partaken by those who embrace the Christ as their Lord. It’s eaten in memory of him.” It was so much more than that, but Marcus wouldn’t understand. She saw the question growing in his eyes and the darkening of his countenance. Did he suspect?
“You seem to know a great deal about Christian practices, Mother.”
She didn’t want to alarm him and so took the easier way. “Hadassah was in our household for four years. She became very dear to me.”
“I can understand how Father might have grasped for immortality with his last breath, but—”
“Your father sought peace, Marcus, not immortality.”
Marcus stood, agitated. He sensed the change in his mother and was afraid of what it meant. He didn’t want to ask. He had already lost Hadassah because of her uncompromising faith in her unseen god. What if his mother now worshiped the same god? His stomach knotted at the mere thought.
“Why are you asking all these questions, Marcus?”
“Because I’m thinking of taking up your suggestion and going in search of Hadassah’s god.”
Phoebe drew a soft gasp, her heart lighting with joy. “You will pray?”
“No, I’m going to Judea.”
“Judea!” she said, stunned by his answer. “Why must you go so far away?”
“Where better to find a Jewish god than in a Jewish homeland?”
She tried to recover from the shock of his announcement, grasping at the small flame of hope in what his words implied. “Then you believe Hadassah’s god does exist.”
“I don’t know if I believe in anything,” he said flatly, crushing her. “But maybe I’ll understand her better and feel closer to her in Judea. Maybe I’ll find out why she embraced this religion of hers with such tenacity.” He leaned against a marble column and stared out into the peristyle where he had spoken with Hadassah so often in the past. “Before I left Rome the first time and came here with you and Father, my friends and I used to sit for hours drinking wine and talking.”
He turned to face her again. “Two subjects were guaranteed to rouse passionate debate: politics and religion. Most of my friends worshiped gods that gave free reign to their pleasures. Isis. Artemis. Bacchus. Others worshiped out of fear or need.”
He began to pace as he spoke, as though walking helped him mull through various ideas while he sought some fleeting conclusion that eluded him. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Soldiers bow down to Mars. Pregnant women appeal to Hera for safe delivery. Physicians and their patients lift their hands to Asklepios to bring healing. Shepherds turn to a god of mountains and lonely places, like Pan.”
“So what are you saying, Marcus? That man creates gods according to his needs and desires? That Hadassah’s god never existed except out of her need for a redeemer from her slavery?”
Her quietly spoken questions made him defensive. “I’m saying that the land man dwells on molds the way he lives. Is it so inconceivable then that man would mold a god to fulfill his needs?”
Phoebe listened to his theories with breaking heart. Both of her children were lost, both tormented, and there seemed nothing she could do except let them find their own way. Decimus’ efforts to control Julia’s impetuous high spirits had met with disaster, and it had been Hadassah who had brought Marcus closer to the family hearth. Now, sitting here in the triclinium with an appearance of calm, listening to her son, she wanted to cry out and scream and tear her hair. She felt she was standing on a safe shore while her son was drowning before her eyes in a dark, swirling sea.
What do I say, Lord? Her throat closed tightly, and she could utter nothing.
What would become of her son if he continued on his present course? If Hadassah, with all her wisdom and love, had been unable to reach him, how could she? O God! she cried out in her heart, my son is as stubborn as his father, as passionate and impetuous as his younger sister. What do I do? O Jesus, how do I save him?
Marcus saw his mother’s distress and went to her. He sat on her couch and took one of her hands between his. “It wasn’t my desire to cause you more grief, Mother.”
“I know that, Marcus.” She had watched him go back to Rome, thinking she wouldn’t see him for several years, and he had returned more deeply distressed than when he had left. Now he was saying he had to leave again and this time to go to a war-torn country that hated Rome. “But Judea, Marcus. Judea . . .”
“Hadassah’s homeland. I want to know why she died. I have to find out the truth, and if there is a god, I’ll find him there. I’ve no answers, Mother, and I can’t seem to find the ones I need here in Ephesus. I feel as though I’m standing on sinking sand. The sound of the mob still rings in my ears.”
She had seen the pain in his eyes before he lowered his head, and she wanted desperately to comfort him, to hold him in her arms and rock him as she had when he was a small child. But he was a man now, and something beyond even that held her back and told her she had said enough.
His hands tightened on hers. “I can’t explain what I feel, Mother. I want you to understand, and yet I don’t even understand it for myself.” He looked into her eyes again. “I hunger for the peace of hillsides I’ve never walked over and the smell of an inland sea I’ve never seen.” His eyes filled with tears. “Because she was there.”
Phoebe thought she understood what her son was saying to her. She knew how Hadassah would have grieved to know Marcus had placed her on an idol’s pedestal. Hadassah had been the moon reflecting the sun’s light in everything she said and did; she was not the light herself and never claimed to be. And yet, that was what she had become to Marcus. His life had risen in his love for her. Would it set there as well?
She wanted to say something, to spring forth with some wisdom that would turn him from the path he was on, but nothing came. What choice did she have except to let him go and trust the Lord to guide him? The apostle John had told the gathering that Jesus promised, If you seek, you shall find.
Jesus said.
Jesus.
Phoebe laid her hand tenderly against Marcus’ cheek, fighting back her own tears and drawing Christ�
�s words of hope around her as a protective shield against the darkness that held her son prisoner.
“Marcus, if you believe you’ll find your answers only in Judea, then to Judea you must go.” They embraced. She held him for a long moment and then released him, praying with silent fervor,
O Jesus, blessed Savior, I give my son to you. Please watch over him and protect him from the evil one. O Lord God, Father of all creation, overcome my fear for my son and teach me to rest and trust in you.
Clinging to that, she kissed Marcus’ cheek in blessing and whispered, “Do whatsoever you must.” Only she knew the words were not spoken to her son, but to the unseen God she trusted with all her heart.
5
Alexander Democedes Amandinus lounged back on the bench in the calidarium while his two friends continued their debate over the practice of medicine. He had not seen either of them since leaving Phlegon’s tutelage, where all three had been studying beneath the master physician. Vitruvius Plautus Musa had always had difficulty keeping up with the written work Phlegon required, while Celsus Phaedrus Timalchio took every word the master physician said as the final authority. After a year of study with Phlegon, Vitruvius had decided he was an empiric and sought a master physician who shared his views. Cletas apparently sufficed. Alexander had reserved his comments about him, deciding that whatever he would say would fall on deaf ears anyway.
And now, Vitruvius sat across from him, his back against the wall, his strong legs stretched out in front of him, declaring that true physicians received their healing abilities directly from the gods, a view undoubtedly touted by Cletas. Alexander smiled to himself, wondering if young Celsus had grasped yet that Vitruvius was boasting out of a sense of inferiority. Phlegon had frequently congratulated Celsus on his quick grasp of medical concepts, especially those he himself favored.
“So, now you think you’re a gift from the gods,” Celsus said from where he stood near the steaming font. He was pale, perspiration dripping from his body, and in no mood for Vitruvius’ boasting. “Pray to the gods all you want, but I hold with what Phlegon teaches. He’s proven that illness comes from an imbalance of the humors and elements, all of which are rooted in fire, air, earth, and water.”
An Echo in the Darkness Page 7