She controlled her fury. He was baiting her again, but she dared not leave, afraid he might really know something. She wanted to order him out of her villa, but knew in doing so she would open herself to his cunningly malicious tongue. He would expose her deeds to everyone. Worse, he would expose the foulness of the disease that feasted on her secret flesh.
“Very well, Primus.” Spew your venom, you miserable snake. Someday, someone will cut the head from the body. “I’m listening. What have you to tell me about my brother?”
“Marcus is leaving Ephesus. That should cheer you, my dear.” His mouth curved as what little color she had left drained from her face. “Think of the advantages. You’ll no longer have to find plausible excuses when others ask you why your highly esteemed, much sought-after brother refuses invitations to any gathering where you might be present.”
She tilted her chin, pretending his words had no effect on her. “So he’s returning to Rome. So what?”
“Rumor has it he’s sailing on one of his own ships. But not to Rome.”
Clenching her hands, she watched Primus select another cow’s teat and devour it with disgusting relish. He sucked the grease from his fingers and reached for another while she waited.
Primus felt her impatience radiating across the room. He relished it almost as much as the feast he was eating. He possessed her full attention, and that’s what he wanted. He could almost hear the heavy beat of her heart tolling in dread. He fingered the rich foods, caressing them, selecting another tidbit.
Sickened at having to watch him eat, Julia strove for control of her roiling emotions. “Sailing where, Primus?” she said with measured calm. “Rhodes? Corinth?”
He filled his mouth with another teat and dabbed his greasy fingers on a fold of his toga. “To Judea,” he said around the food.
“Judea!”
He swallowed and licked his full lips. “Yes, to Judea, homeland of his little Jewess. And it would seem he plans on staying for a long, long time.”
“How would you know how long he’s planning to stay?”
“Deduction. I learned Marcus sold his interests in Rome, except for your family’s villa, which he has given over to your mother’s disposal. Do you know what she did? She sent word to have the property rented and the proceeds used as an alimenta for the poor of the district. Can you imagine all that money going to feed the ragged unwashed? What a waste! It would’ve been put to better purpose replenishing our dwindling coffers.”
“My coffers.”
“As you wish. Your coffers,” he said with a shrug and dipped a strip of ostrich tongue in spiced honey sauce. Little did his Julia realize, he thought smugly, that most of her money had already been filtered into his own hands and secreted away for the future. And it was all done without her being aware. Her illness had helped him in the process; she was so obsessed with her various ailments that she paid little attention to her financial situation. She trusted her agents to protect her.
Amazing the power a bribe can give one, he thought, smiling to himself. And a little knowledge that could prove embarrassing should it come to light.
But her agent had sent word to him this morning that she was demanding a full accounting be done. Primus had known he had better give Julia something else to occupy her mind besides the condition of her estate.
To that end, he went on, weaving his web. “Giving away all that money,” he said again and shook his head. “It’s unimaginable. Unless . . . Do you suppose your mother was corrupted by that little Jewess of yours and has become a Christian?”
Julia winced inwardly at the suggestion. Her mother, a Christian? If that were so, she knew another door was closed against her.
Primus saw her expression alter subtly and knew he was cutting into her little by little, deeper and deeper. He wanted to lay her wide open and let carrion birds feast upon her flesh. “As for your brother’s interests here in Ephesus, the ships and warehouses, he has put them under the management of trusted servants of your father. He has put everything he owns into the hands of two stewards, Orestes and Silas.”
He chewed the expensive delicacy and, with a grimace, spit it onto a platter. He poured himself Falernian wine, the finest from Capua, and swished some around in his mouth to wash away the taste. He swallowed and continued. “It all suggests your brother has no plans to return any time soon, if ever. I suppose he’s making a pilgrimage to the memory of his beloved, departed Hadassah.” Lifting the gold goblet in a toast, he taunted Julia with a smile. “May his departure bring you a respite from your guilt, my dear,” he said, savoring her torment. He relished the pain he saw in her eyes. His news had hurt her deeply. She could no longer hide it.
Julia left the triclinium. When she reached her bedchamber, she sank down on the divan and took the small scroll from the folds of her shimmering tunic. Trembling all over, she fingered the seal. It was firmly in place. Her eyes blurred with tears. Marcus probably hadn’t even touched the epistle.
Judea! Why would he go so far and to such a terrible place unless Primus was right and it had something to do with that wretched slave girl?
She drew in a ragged breath. Why couldn’t he forget Hadassah? Why couldn’t he forget what had happened? She bit her lip, wanting to cry out in anguish. But to whom? No one cared what happened to her.
Had she known what would happen, she wouldn’t have done what she did. Why couldn’t Marcus forgive her? She was his sister, his own flesh and blood. Didn’t he know how much she had always loved him, how much she loved him still? She had only wanted things to be the way they were when they were children, when it had seemed as though they were together against the world. Had he forgotten how close they were, how they could talk to one another about everything? She had never trusted anyone the way she had trusted him.
Except for Hadassah, a small voice whispered inside her.
The unwelcome thought lanced her with pain. She shut her eyes, willing herself to obliterate the memories that swept over her . . . memories of what it had been like to be loved, really loved. “No. No. I won’t think of her. I won’t!”
Silence closed around her, bringing darkness with it.
She clutched the small scroll in her hand. “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered brokenly. “You promised me once you would love me no matter what I did.” The lonely silence of her bedchamber became a crushing weight. “You promised, Marcus.” Filled with hopelessness, she crumpled the final plea to her brother and threw it into her brazier. The parchment caught flame and was quickly reduced to ashes.
Julia sat watching her last hope for her brother’s forgiveness disintegrating.
“You promised. . . .” Covering her face, she rocked back and forth, weeping.
7
“It is a great honor for us to have you aboard, my lord,” Satyros said, studying the younger man as he gestured for him to take the honored place on the couch. A simple but deliciously prepared meal was placed on the small table between them.
“The honor is mine, Satyros,” Marcus said, nodding for the captain’s servant to pour his wine. “You’re considered a legend upon the seas. Few survive a shipwreck.” He tore off a piece of bread and replaced the loaf on the silver tray.
Satyros nodded solemnly. “You speak of the shipwreck on Malta. I was not a captain then, but a mere sailor on that ship. And it was not only I who survived. There were 276 people aboard that ship. None was lost.”
Someone knocked at the captain’s door. The servant answered and spoke briefly with one of the sailors. He relayed the message concerning the winds to Satyros, who gave instructions to be passed on to the helmsmen. The Minerva was making good headway.
Satyros returned his attention to Marcus and apologized for the interruption. They discussed the cargo; the hold was filled with marble and timber from the Greek isles, materials destined for use in expanding Caesarea. A profusion of other crates was also packed below, some purchased by Marcus in speculation, others fulfilling orders dispatched by various merc
hants in Judea. Loaded into every available space were hides from Britain, silver and gold from Spain, pottery from Gaul, furs from Germany, fine wines from Sicily, and drugs from Greece. Most of the goods would be unloaded in Caesarea.
“We will only remain in Caesarea long enough to unload the cargo and then take on passengers destined for Alexandria,” Satyros said.
Marcus nodded. In Alexandria, the corbita would dock and his representatives would meet the ship. The Minerva would take on valuable items for the Roman market: tortoise shell and ivory from Ethiopia; oil and spices from eastern Africa; pearls, dyes, and citron from the West. Within a few months, the Minerva would sail back to Rome, her starting point for the trade route Decimus Andronicus Valerian had established over twenty years ago.
Satyros gave a rueful laugh. “Eliab Mosad will take his time haggling over the merchandise. It always takes a few weeks to get things sorted out in Egypt before we can set sail for Rome again.”
“He will want you to take on slaves,” Marcus said. “Don’t. Nor sand. No matter the price. I’ve already been in contact with him and informed him I won’t deal in those commodities any more.”
“We’ll need ballast, my lord.”
“Egyptian grain will do for ballast.”
“As you wish,” Satyros said. He had heard the rumors about Marcus Valerian’s change in thinking—rumors that were now confirmed. He studied the younger man surreptitiously. What had happened to change Marcus Valerian’s well-known axiom of giving Rome what it wanted? Marcus had amassed a fortune by trading in sand and slaves. Now he wanted no part in either cargo. Perhaps he felt enough to have his father’s scruples . . . but why now and not before? What had changed?
“I’ll be leaving the ship in Caesarea,” Marcus said.
Again, Satyros covered his surprise with an effort. He had expected Marcus to remain aboard until Alexandria or perhaps Rome. The elder Valerian had sometimes traveled the full trade route to meet with his representatives and gain firsthand information on how his operations were being conducted.
“You’ll find Caesarea an interesting departure from Ephesus, my lord. Though it lacks the elements of grandeur, it has its arenas and beautiful women.” Marcus was reputed to enjoy both to the fullest.
“I intend to remain in Caesarea only long enough to outfit myself for travel.”
Satyros gray brows rose a fraction. “There is little in Judea to commend it to a Roman. What is it you want to see?”
“Jerusalem.”
Satyros gave a soft exclamation. “Why on earth would you of all people choose the most depressing place in all the known world to visit?” Too late, he realized the rude intrusiveness of his thoughtless question. “From all reports I’ve heard, Jerusalem is nothing but a pile of rubble, my lord,” he added hastily. “Antonia and Mariamne towers might still be standing for defensive purposes, but I doubt it. Titus’ orders were to not leave one stone standing upon another.”
“I am well aware of that, Satyros,” Marcus said coolly.
Satyros frowned, realizing belatedly that Marcus would, of course, know all this for himself. As owner of the Valerian ships and trade routes, he would have to keep well informed as to the circumstances in all regions of the Empire. His level of success bespoke his astuteness in this regard. Yet Satyros could not curb his own curiosity at such a surprising announcement.
“Why are you interested in such a desolate place?”
Marcus decided to answer frankly. “It’s not the place that interests me as much as the god that resided there.” Over the rim of his goblet, he watched the man’s face, waiting for the inevitable question to come forth. Why would a Roman be interested in the Jewish God? He was unsure what he would answer to that. He was not fully aware of all the reasons himself.
However, Satyros surprised him. “Perhaps therein lies the reason for the disaster that befell the city.”
“What reason do you mean?”
“Their God cannot be contained in a building.”
Satyros’ words so closely reflected those Hadassah had once said that Marcus’ interest sharpened. “What do you know of the Jewish god?”
“Only what I learned from a prisoner long ago, on the very ship you referred to earlier. But it would hardly interest you.”
“It interests me greatly.”
Satyros considered this for a moment. “The man was a Jew. An insurrectionist by all reports. Everywhere he went he caused a riot. When I met him, he was under the custody of an Augustan centurion named Julius and on his way to Rome to face Caesar for his crimes. I heard later he was beheaded. His name was Paul, and he was from Tarsus. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Marcus had, but only from those who reviled him and mocked his claims of an all-powerful, loving god.
“What did this Paul tell you?”
“He said God had sent his only begotten Son to live among men and be crucified for our sins so that we might be restored and live in the heavens with the Father-God. Through this Christ, as he called him, Paul said all men can be saved and have eternal life. Nobody listened to him until the Euraquilo hit us.”
Marcus was aware of the feared winds that had sunk many ships.
“Paul had warned us beforehand that we’d suffer great loss and damage, not only to the ship and cargo but in human life,” Satyros said.
“You said earlier that no one was killed.”
“That’s true, but I’m convinced it’s because Paul prayed for us. I think his God gave him what he asked for—our lives.” He poured himself some wine. “We were caught in the violent winds and being driven along. We managed to take shelter at Cauda long enough to hoist the ship and undergird it with ropes. Not that it did us any good. When we got underway again, the storm hit harder. We jettisoned the cargo. By the third day, we threw the ship’s tackle overboard. We couldn’t see any stars, so we had no way of navigating. We didn’t know where we were. We were sailing blind. There was not a sailor or passenger aboard who was not terrified for his life. Except Paul.”
Satyros leaned forward and tore off a piece of bread.
“It was during the worst of the storm that he stood among us and said only the ship would be lost. He had to shout to be heard above the storm, but he was absolutely calm. He said an angel of his God had been sent to assure him of what he was telling us. He told us not to be afraid. He said we would run aground on an island but that no one would be killed.”
Smiling slightly, he shook his head, bemused. “It seemed his God wanted him to live in order to speak to Caesar, and in the process of saving him, his God decided to save the rest of us as well.”
“It could’ve been coincidence.”
“Perhaps, but I’m convinced it wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“You would have to have been there to understand, my lord. Never before then or since have I seen such a storm. Destruction and death were certain, yet Paul was absolutely calm. He had no fear of death. He told us to have no fear. He took bread, gave thanks to God, and ate. Can you imagine such a thing? He ate in the midst of that chaos.” He shook his head, still amazed as he remembered. “I’ve never seen anything like his faith before, and few times since.”
Satyros dipped the bread in his wine.
Marcus remembered Hadassah walking calmly across the sand of the arena, unaffected by the screaming mob or the roar of lions.
Satyros took up a slice of brined meat. “When you see faith like that, you have to believe there’s something to it.”
“Perhaps it was only his own delusions.”
“Oh, it was more than that. Paul knew. God had revealed events to him. Paul said the ship would be destroyed. It was.” He ate the soaked beef.
“Go on,” Marcus said, his own appetite gone in his eagerness to hear more.
“The ship began to break up, and the soldiers were set to kill the prisoners rather than let them escape,” Satyros went on. “Their own lives would’ve been forfeit if they did. Julius stopped them. As
it happened, those who could swim jumped overboard, and the rest of us floated in on planks and whatever else was available on the ship. The island was Malta. Not one person perished. Not one, my lord. That is truly amazing.”
“Perhaps,” Marcus said. “But why credit this Jewish Christ with saving everyone? Why not give thanks to Neptune or some other exalted member of the pantheon?”
“Because we were all crying out to our gods for help. Brahma! Vishnu! Varuna! None of them answered. And then even more amazing things happened on Malta to confirm for me and everyone else that Paul was a servant of an all-powerful God.”
He saw Marcus’ acute interest and sought to explain.
“The natives received us kindly. They built a fire for us, but as soon as we settled before it, a viper came out and sank its fangs into Paul’s hand. He shook the snake off into the fire. Everyone knew it was poisonous and that he would shortly die of the bite. The people were convinced he was a murderer and the snake had been sent as punishment from the gods.”
“Obviously, he didn’t die. I was in Rome when he was brought there under guard.”
“No. He didn’t die. He didn’t even get sick. His hand didn’t swell. Nothing. The natives waited all night. By morning, they were convinced he was a god and worshiped him as such. Paul told them he was not a god, but merely a servant of one he called Jesus, the Christ. He preached to them what he had told us.”
Satyros took several dried figs from the tray. “Our host, Publius, was leader of the island. He entertained us for three days, and then his father became very ill. Paul cured the old man just by laying his hands on him. One minute Publius’ father was ready for death, the next he was up and in perfect health. Word spread, and the sick came from all over the island.”
“Did he cure them?”
“All of them that I saw. The people honored all of us for Paul’s presence. They made arrangements for us to continue our journey and even supplied us with what was needed. Paul sailed on an Alexandrian ship that had Castor and Pollux for its figurehead. I put out on another ship. I never saw him again.”
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