Marcus remembered only too well the hundreds of Christians Nero had ordered put to death. He had even doused some in pitch and bitumen and set them aflame to serve as torches for the games. The mob had been hungry for Christian blood following the emperor’s claims that the cult had set fire to Rome, ostensibly to fulfill their prophecy that the world would end in fire. But the mob hadn’t known of Nero’s own dreams of a new city named after himself.
Watching men and women die without a fight had left Marcus with a vague feeling of unrest, a disquiet that gnawed at him. Patrobus called them cowards; Marcus wasn’t sure he agreed with that assessment. A coward would run before a charging lion, not stand firm in facing it.
Antigonus leaned toward Marcus, grinning. “Fair Arria arrives,” he whispered.
Arria came in from the gardens, laughing with two other young women. Her white stola was elegantly wrapped around her slender body, her narrow waist encircled by a wide gold and jewel-studded belt fashioned after one she had seen a gladiator wearing in the arena. She had taken to bleaching her dark hair with Batavian foam, and her now-blonde tresses were braided and ringed intricately on her proud head. Small curls were left to frame her delicate face. Marcus smiled faintly. Purity and fragile womanhood. How many men had been fooled by that sweet image when beneath lay a voracious and sometimes bizarre appetite?
She glanced around until she saw him. She smiled. He knew that look very well, but he no longer responded to it as he had in the beginning of their affair. Though he smiled back at her, he almost wished that she were absent. The freedom he had felt a moment before dissolved as she crossed the room.
“Marcus, ever loyal,” she said, a faint bite in her dulcet voice as she reclined gracefully on his couch. “We heard the music change in the gardens. I take it you have saved our dear Antigonus from financial ruin.”
Wondering at her sharp tone, he took her small white hand and kissed it. Her fingers were cold and trembling. Something was amiss. “Only for the time being,” Marcus said. “Until he can gain a seat in the senate and begin partaking of the public treasury.”
Her mouth softened. “The evening air is refreshing, Marcus.”
“Ah, yes, by all means, enjoy it while you can,” Antigonus said, mouth curving in wry amusement. Only this afternoon at the baths, Antigonus had been probing about Arria. “Why is it, Marcus, that as a woman’s passion for a certain man grows, his for her wanes?” It seemed apparent to all but the lady involved that Marcus was growing weary of her.
Marcus rose and placed Arria’s hand on his arm. They went out into the gardens and strolled along the marble pathway in the moonlight. Marcus didn’t underestimate Arria. She wouldn’t be discarded easily. She’d been with him longer than with all her other lovers. He knew it had less to do with his prowess than his nature. While he had been infatuated from the beginning, he had never completely fallen beneath her spell, an experience to which young Arria was unaccustomed.
“Did you see Antigonus’ latest statue?” she said.
“Aphrodite?” Though Antigonus was more than satisfied with the work of his Greek artisans, Marcus had been unmoved by the completed work. He didn’t think Antigonus would make much profit from the fulsome creation. His father was right in his evaluation of Antigonus’ works of art. A snort of derision was about all they merited.
“Not a god this time, my love. I think this work is the best he has done. He should ask a fortune for it, but he’s hidden it away for himself. He showed it to me earlier this evening, but no one else has seen it.” She took him along the pathway to the far end of the gardens. “It’s back this way, behind the copse.”
Set in a bed of flowers near the high marble wall was a statue of a man standing behind a beautiful young girl with long, flowing hair. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes downcast. The man’s hands were on her shoulder and hip. The sculptor had put strength into those hands so that it seemed the man was trying to turn the girl and embrace her. Her youthfully delicate body emanated resistance and innocence. Yet, there was restrained passion in her as well. Her eyes were hooded and her lips parted as though trying to draw breath. The conflict seemed to be less with the man than within herself.
“Look at the man’s face,” Arria said. “You can feel his desire and frustration. Quite . . . moving, isn’t it?” She fanned her face.
Astonished to find anything so magnificent among Antigonus’ collection, Marcus stood impassively studying the work. Arria’s evaluation was acute. This was a masterpiece and worth a good price. However, he knew that whatever he said now would be repeated to Antigonus and would serve to drive his price up should he decide to sell it. Marcus took in the pure and elegant lines of the white marble with an air of indifference. “It is somewhat better than his usual.”
“Have you no eye at all, Marcus?”
“I suppose he will get a better price for this than most of the trash he sells,” he said. Were this his, he wouldn’t part with it, but then, his income didn’t depend upon a crew of carvers creating stone gods and goddesses for rich men’s gardens.
“Trash! This is a masterpiece and you well know it.”
“I’ve seen a dozen others exactly like it in half the gardens on Palatine.”
“But none so evocative.”
True, Marcus had to admit. The girl was so lifelike he felt that if he touched her, she’d be warm.
Arria’s mouth curved. “Antigonus said he had the man carved behind her for modesty’s sake.”
Marcus laughed low. “When did Antigonus become concerned with modesty or with the censors?”
“He doesn’t want to offend the traditionalists at such a sensitive time in his political career,” Arria said. “You like it, don’t you? I can tell by that avaricious gleam in your eyes. Do you own any of Antigonus’ statues?”
“Hardly. His artisans have a common eye and my taste has never run toward corpulent women.”
“Antigonus never carves corpulent women, Marcus. They are voluptuous. Surely you know the difference.” She looked up at him. “Fannia is corpulent.”
So little Arria had heard the rumors about his brief encounter with the senator’s wife. He didn’t like the proprietary look on her face. “Generously curved is a far better description of her, Arria, and far more accurate.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “She looks like an overfed pigeon!”
“Arria, my sweet, it is regrettable you believe everything you hear.”
Arria’s chin rose. “Most rumors don’t begin without a basis of truth.”
“Isn’t it amazing how you know so much more about my activities than I do?”
“Don’t mock me, Marcus. I know it’s true. Fannia was here and was quite smug about it.”
“By the gods,” he said, temper rising. “What’d you do? Question her before Patrobus?” It was at moments like this that Marcus found women in general a cursed bother.
“Patrobus was so busy stuffing his mouth with goose livers he paid no attention whatsoever.”
“He pays little attention to Fannia. That’s part of her problem.”
“And one of the reasons she was so ripe for your plucking. Is that it? I suppose you’ll tell me that you met with her in the Gardens of Julius only out of pity for her sad plight.”
“Lower your voice!” He had done no plucking. It was Fannia herself who had approached him during one of the games. It wasn’t until later that he had met her in the gardens and spent a long and ardent afternoon with her.
“She’s a sow.”
Marcus gritted his teeth. “And you, my dear Arria, are a bore.”
Stunned by the unexpected attack, she froze for a brief instant before her pride erupted and she tried to slap him. Marcus caught her wrists easily and laughed at her fit of temper.
“A bore, am I?” Quick tears came, enraging her even more. “You unfaithful dog!”
“You’ve had your moments of infidelity, my dear. That retiarius, for example. Remember? You couldn’t wait to
tell me all about it.”
“I did it to make you jealous!”
It would please her to know he had burned with fury when she related every detail of her encounter with a gladiator. He let her go, disgusted by her display and his own swift temper.
Arria bit her lip as she studied him for a moment. “What’s happening to us, Marcus? There was a time when you couldn’t bear to be away from me.” And now, she was the one with insatiable hunger for him.
Marcus almost told her the truth and then decided it was better to appeal to her vanity. “You’re like the goddess Diana. You love the hunt. You captured me some time ago.”
She knew he was trying to pacify her. “But I don’t have you anymore, do I, Marcus?” she said quietly, feeling the sharp pang of loss. Her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t try to stop them. Perhaps tears would soften him as they had others. “I thought I meant something to you.”
“You do,” he said and drew her into his arms. He tipped her chin up and kissed her. She turned her face away and he felt her tremble. He turned her face back and kissed her again, feeling her grow less resistant.
“I’ve always admired you, Arria. Your beauty, your passion, your free spirit. You want to feast on life, and that’s the way it should be. You want to try everything. So do I.”
“You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, Marcus.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Arria pushed out of his arms and glared up at him, tears forgotten. “How can you laugh when I’m telling you I love you?”
“Because you’re such a sweet little liar. Have you so quickly and conveniently forgotten Aristobulus, Sosipater, Chuza, and several others? Even Fadus, poor fellow. I think you just wanted to see if you could win him away from his gladiator. There were bets going on over that little episode. Fortunes were lost when you actually succeeded in making him fall in love with a woman.”
Her mouth curving, Arria sat on the bench and crossed her legs. Gazing up at him petulantly, she said, “But Fannia, Marcus. I must object. It’s simply too humiliating. She’s at least ten years older than I and not nearly as beautiful.”
“Nor as experienced.”
She lifted her head. “Then you weren’t particularly pleased with her.”
“That’s none of your business.”
Her mouth tightened. “Are you meeting her again?”
“That’s none of your business either.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “You are unfair, Marcus. I tell you everything.”
“Because you’re indiscreet.” His mouth tipped wryly. “And cruel.”
Her sultry eyes widened. “Cruel?” she said innocently. “How can you accuse me of cruelty when I’ve done nothing but please you from the beginning?”
“When a man thinks himself in love with a woman, he doesn’t want to hear every detail of her affairs with others.”
“And were you in love with me?” She rose and came to him. “Did I hurt you, Marcus? Did I really?”
He saw the satisfaction in her eyes. “No,” he said frankly, watching her expression fall. She had enraged him, yes. Impassioned him frequently. Yet, she had always missed the mark of his heart. She was not alone, either. He had never felt an all-consuming passion for anyone or anything.
She ran the tip of her fingernail along his jaw. “So you don’t love me?”
“I find you a pleasing distraction.” Seeing her displeasure, he bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. “At times, more than distracting.”
She looked troubled. “Did you ever love me, Marcus?”
He ran his finger lightly down her smooth cheek, wishing the subject of love had been avoided. “I don’t think I’m capable of it.” He kissed her slowly. Familiar territory.
Perhaps that was what was wrong between them. There was no mystery anymore, no great passion on his part. The feel of Arria’s smooth skin, the scent of her hair, and the taste of her mouth no longer drove him mad. Even their conversations had become boring repetitions. All Arria really wanted to talk about was Arria. All the rest was subterfuge.
“I’m not ready for it to end,” she said breathlessly, tilting her head back.
“I didn’t say it had to.”
“I know you better than Fannia.”
“Will you forget about Fannia?”
“Can you? Oh, Marcus, no one will be as exciting as I am.” Her hands moved over him. “I was at the temple of Astarte today and the priestess let me watch what she did to one of the worshipers. Shall I show you what she did, Marcus? Would you like that?”
Aroused, yet inexplicably disgusted, Marcus pressed her away from him. “Another time, Arria. This is hardly the place.” He was too aware of other things. Laughter came from the house. A gay melody was being played on a pan flute. He wanted to drown himself in wine tonight, not a woman.
Arria looked distressed, but try as he might, Marcus could feel nothing for her.
The torchlight flickered, drawing his gaze back to the statue. Watching him, Arria tried to control her tumultuous emotions. Her mouth tightened as she saw Marcus study Antigonus’ statue of the young lovers with far more interest than he had looked upon her. She longed to hear him beg the way Chuza did.
But Marcus was not like Chuza, and she didn’t want to lose him. He was rich, he was handsome—and there was something about him, a restlessness and deep passion, that appealed to her.
Swallowing her pride, Arria slipped her arm through his. “You do like the statue, don’t you? It’s quite good. I doubt Antigonus will part with it. He’s in love with them.”
“We’ll see,” Marcus said.
They returned to the house and rejoined the party. Pensive, Marcus reclined on the couch near Antigonus. The wine flowed freely as they talked politics. Bored, Arria mentioned Marcus’ fascination with the statue of the lovers. Antigonus’ brows dropped and he changed the subject. Marcus suggested the possibility of future financial needs, bemoaning the cost of putting on games for the mob, parties for the aristocracy, and other expensive obligations of political office. Antigonus soon saw the need for generosity.
“The statue will be in Valerian gardens by the end of next week,” he offered grandly.
Marcus knew the way Antigonus’ mind worked. He conveniently forgot promises when he was drunk. Smiling slightly, Marcus poured himself and Antigonus more wine. “I’ll take care of the arrangements,” he said and signaled one of the slaves.
Antigonus’ countenance fell as Marcus gave orders to have the statue removed to the Valerian villa within the hour.
“You are generous, Antigonus,” Arria said. “Especially to Marcus, who has so little regard for true beauty.”
Leaning back indolently, Marcus smiled at her mockingly. “True beauty is rare, and seldom recognized by the one who possesses it.”
Flushed with anger, Arria rose gracefully. Smiling, she placed a slender jeweled hand on Antigonus’ shoulder. “Go carefully, dear friend, lest you sell yourself to a plebeian’s ambition.”
Antigonus watched her walk away and then grinned at Marcus. “Fair Arria has heard about your tryst with Fannia.”
“One woman is a pleasure, two a curse,” Marcus said and turned the conversation back to politics and eventually to building contracts. He might as well make use of Antigonus’ advent into the senate. By sunrise, he had all the guarantees he needed to spread his own name as a builder throughout Rome and fill his coffers with gold talents.
His goal would be achieved. Before he reached the age of twenty-five, he would surpass his father’s wealth and position.
Chapter 5
Hadassah stood straight among the long line of Jewish men and women as richly dressed Ephesian slavers walked through the captives, looking for the healthier prospects. Some measure of protection had been offered the Jewish captives as long as they marched with Titus, but now that he had departed for Alexandria, slavers fell upon them, picking over them like vultures looking for carrion to devour.
&nb
sp; Seven hundred of the fittest and most handsome men had gone with Titus, marching south again with his legions to see the remains of Jerusalem before the journey to Egypt. From there, they’d sail to Rome. Titus would present his captives in the Triumph and send them into the games in the arena.
One woman cried out as a Roman guard stripped her of her ragged tunic, allowing the slaver a closer examination. When she tried to cover herself with her hands, the guard struck her. Sobbing, she stood still beneath the two men’s perusal.
“She isn’t worth a sesterce,” the slaver said in disgust and moved on. The Roman threw the torn tunic against her.
The most beautiful women had long since been used by the Roman officers and then sold off in the cities through which they marched. It was a motley group that was left: old women and children mostly, and others who were too unattractive to have drawn attention from the Roman soldiers. Yet, though they weren’t beautiful, they had a quality about them. They had survived months of grueling marches and hardship. In every city through which Titus passed, games had been held and thousands of captives had died. Yet these few remained alive.
When Titus had taken the Herodian princess Berenice as his mistress, there had been a brief time of hope that the Jews would be spared more games. They prayed that Berenice would deliver them as Queen Esther had done centuries before. However, Titus’ love for the beautiful young princess did not bring salvation to her people. Arenas in Caesarea Philippi, Ptolemais, Tyre, Sidon, Berytus, and Antioch ran with Jewish blood. Of the thousands to leave Jerusalem, these few gaunt women remained.
Hadassah had suffered as the others. Death traveled with the captives on the road, taking them through heat, dust, meager rations, sickness, and Roman victory celebrations. When Titus’ legions and the captives reached Antioch, less than half of those who had been taken from the Holy City remained alive.
The people of Antioch poured from the city to welcome Titus as a god. Doe-eyed women followed the handsome emperor’s son, their children trailing after them. Recently, the free Jews of Antioch had been fighting amongst themselves, fanning the hatred of the Syrians. Clods had struck Hadassah and the others as they walked, while Syrians shouted insults at the captives and demanded they be destroyed. Roman guards finally drove the attackers back. Word spread that the Syrians wanted Titus to take the free Jews of their city along with him, but Titus refused and grew annoyed at their unceasing demands. After all, what was he to do with more Jews on his hands? Their country was destroyed, their Holy City in ruins, and he had all he needed for the games. Who wanted them?
A Voice in the Wind Page 8