“Is it true you’re to marry Claudius Flaccus?” Octavia asked after a long description of a festival she had attended and the adventures she had had there.
Julia’s gaiety died. “Yes,” she said miserably. “It’s all arranged. How could Father do such a thing to me? Claudius Flaccus is almost as old as he is.”
“Your father is an Ephesian and covets good Roman blood.”
Julia’s chin tilted and her dark eyes flashed. It was no secret that Octavia’s father, Drusus, was distantly related to the Caesars through an illegitimate sister of one of Augustus’ offspring. Octavia liked to remind Julia that there was a spoonful of royal blood in her veins—a small stab to make Julia aware how fortunate she was to have a friend with such illustrious connections. “There’s nothing wrong with our blood, Octavia.” Julia’s father could buy Drusus with the snap of his fingers. What the family lacked in royal blood, they more than made up for in wealth.
“Don’t take offense at everything, Julia,” Octavia laughed. “If my father could marry me off to Claudius Flaccus, he would. Claudius comes from a long line of Roman aristocrats, and he still retains some of his family fortune because he’s been cunning enough to avoid political office. It may not be all that bad being married to him.”
“I don’t care anything about his royal bloodline. It makes me feel sick to even think of him touching me.” Blushing, she shuddered and looked away.
“You’re such a child.” Octavia leaned forward, putting her hand over Julia’s. “Just close your eyes and it will be over in a few minutes.” She giggled.
Chagrined, Julia changed the subject. “Marcus took me to the games again. It was so exciting. My heart raced and there were moments I could scarcely breathe.”
“Celerus is wonderful, isn’t he?”
“Celerus! Ho! I don’t understand why you are so taken with him. There are others far more beautiful.”
“You should attend the feast the night before the games. Up close, he’s magnificent.”
“I think he’s ugly with all those scars all over him.”
Octavia laughed. “All those scars are what make him so exciting. Do you know how many men he has killed? Fifty-seven. Whenever he looks at me, that’s all I can think about. He’s unbearably exciting.”
Chilled and shocked by their every word, Hadassah stood silent nearby, head down and eyes tightly closed. She wished she was blind and deaf so she wouldn’t see their animated faces and hear their calloused words. How could they speak so casually of men dying, or be so cavalier about their own precious innocence? Octavia seemed proud to have lost hers, and Julia seemed only too eager to throw her own away.
They rose. “Tell me what Marcus is up to these days,” Octavia said, looping her arm through Julia’s again, seeming only casually interested.
Julia was not fooled. Smiling slightly, she talked of Arria and Fannia as she and Octavia wandered through the garden. For all Octavia’s professed adoration of Celerus, Julia knew she would forget him in an instant if Marcus but smiled at her once.
Restless, Marcus rose from his bed and stood in the open doorway to the peristyle. Listening to the sound of crickets in the pale moonlight, he ran his hand over his bare chest and stared out at the courtyard. He couldn’t sleep and could put no reason to his disquiet. The building project was going well. Money was pouring in. Arria had gone to the country for a few weeks, freeing him of her cloying presence and jealousy. He’d spent an evening with his friends, enjoying enlightening conversation and the attentions of Antigonus’ slave girls.
Life was good, and it was getting better as his wealth grew. So why this gnawing restlessness and vague dissatisfaction?
He went out to take some fresh air. Even the peristyle felt confining, and he went through the arched doorway at the north end of the courtyard to the gardens beyond. He wandered the pathways, his mind leaping from one thing to another—the shipments of timber from Gaul, Arria and her sudden and vastly irritating possessiveness, Father and his disapproval of everything he did. His nerves were stretched taut.
Pausing beneath the rose-covered trellis, he inhaled the sweet scent. Maybe he was worried about Julia, and that was why he was so on edge. She was fighting the marriage arrangements. She had burst into tears this evening and screamed at Father that she hated him. He had ordered her to her room, and she had remained there all evening with that strange maid of hers.
Movement caught his attention and he turned slightly. Julia’s little Jewess came out from the doorway of the peristyle. His eyes narrowed as she walked along the pathway not far from the trellis, where he stood unnoticed. What was she doing outside the house? She had no business in the gardens at this late hour.
He watched her walk up the pathway. He knew she wasn’t intending to run away, for she was heading in the opposite direction of the door in the western wall. She stopped at the wide junction of two cobbled paths. Drawing her shawl over her head, she knelt on the stones. Clasping her hands together, she bowed her head.
Marcus’ eyes widened in amazement. She was praying to her unseen god! Right here in the garden. But why in darkness, hidden from others’ eyes? She should be worshiping with Enoch at the small synagogue where he and other Jews gathered. Curious, Marcus moved closer. She was so still, and her profile was clear in the moonlight.
She was distressed. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved, though she spoke not aloud. Tears ran down her cheeks. With a soft moan, she stretched out facedown on the stones, arms outstretched, and he could hear her then, murmuring words in a language he didn’t understand. Aramaic?
Marcus moved closer, stirred strangely by the sight of the girl prostrating herself before her god. He had often seen his mother praying to the household deities in the lararium, where her shrines and altars were located, but she had never prostrated herself. Devoted to them, she went each morning to place salt cakes in offering and ask their protection over her loved ones. His father hadn’t set foot in the lararium since Marcus’ two younger brothers had died of fever. Marcus himself had little faith in gods, though he worshiped money and Aphrodite. Money suited him; Aphrodite appealed to his senses. Marcus believed whatever real power a man possessed came from within himself, from his own will and effort, and not from any god.
The slave girl arose.
She was small and slender, not at all like Bithia with her luscious curves, full mouth, and sultry eyes. The little Jewess stood for a long moment in the moonlight with her head bowed, seemingly reluctant to leave the peaceful garden. She tilted her head back so that the moonlight spilled over her face. Her eyes were closed and a soft smile curved her mouth. Marcus saw in her uplifted face a peace he had never felt, a peace for which he hungered and searched.
“You shouldn’t be in the garden at this time of night.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice and looked ready to faint when she saw him walk toward her. Her body tensed, and she went very still again, her fingers tightening in the thin shawl that was now down about her shoulders.
“Is this your usual practice?” He tipped his head slightly to one side, trying to read what was in her face. “To pray to your god every night when the household sleeps?”
Hadassah’s heart pounded. Had he guessed she was a Christian, or did he still suppose her a Jew? “The lady said it was permitted.” Her voice trembled noticeably. It was a warm evening, but she was suddenly cold, then hot again as she saw he wore only a loincloth.
“My mother or Julia told you this?” he said, stopping within a few feet of her.
She looked up at him and then lowered her eyes quickly in obeisance. “Your mother, master.”
“Then I suppose it is permitted, as long as your worship does not interfere with your duties to my sister.”
“The lady Julia was sleeping well when I left, master. I wouldn’t have left her otherwise.”
Marcus studied her for a long moment. What was it about these Jews that they could prostrate themselves before a god they couldn�
��t see. It made no sense to him. Except for Enoch, Marcus had no fondness for them anyway, nor did he trust them. He was not sure he trusted this girl or wanted her in the household. She was a product of the destruction of Jerusalem and therefore had reason, if not the right, for enmity against Romans. He wanted Julia safe.
Yet the girl looked harmless enough, even timid. Appearances, however, could be deceiving. He raised one brow.
“Rome tolerates all religions save those that preach rebellion,” he said, testing her. “The Jewish cry for Roman blood has been a common one for years and is the reason your Holy City lies in ruin today.”
Hadassah did not respond. What he said was true enough.
Marcus saw only dismay in her expression. He moved closer so he could better read her face, and she reacted then. Her chin lifted just a fraction, and he saw his nakedness mortified her. He grinned, amused at her discomfort. How long had it been since he had seen a girl truly embarrassed by anything?
“Have no fear, girl. I haven’t the least desire to touch you,” he said, though he found himself studying her. She had gained weight over the past weeks, and her hair now lay softly about her small face like a dark cap. She was far from beautiful, but no longer ugly. She glanced up at him when he didn’t speak, and Marcus was struck by the darkness of her eyes, the mysterious depth of them. He frowned slightly.
“May I return to the house now, master?” she said, not looking up at him again.
“Not yet.” He remained firmly planted in her path. His words had come out more harshly than he intended, and she looked ready to flee from him. To do so, she would have to step into the flower garden to get around him, and he doubted she had the courage to try.
Something about this girl intrigued him. Perhaps it was the heady combination of fear and innocence. She reminded him of the statue he had bought from Antigonus, which now stood barely fifty feet up the hill from where they stood. He thought of fair Bithia stealing whatever time she could to be with him. This girl clearly wished to be anywhere but here in the garden with him. He saw she was afraid of him and wondered if it was only because he was a Roman, an enemy of her people. Or was it something more basic? They were alone, he less than fully attired.
“Your name,” he said. “I’ve forgotten it.”
“Hadassah, master.”
“Hadassah,” he said, testing it.
Hadassah trembled. It sounded strange and foreign the way he said it. And beautiful, somehow. “Hadassah,” he said again and, like a caress, the sound of his deep voice aroused emotions in her she had never felt before.
“Why do you persist in worshiping a god who has deserted you?”
Surprised by his question, she looked up at him. Why would he wish to speak with her of anything? He stood before her, virile and beautiful, representing Rome itself: powerful, rich, and full of frightening temptations.
“You should choose another,” he said. “Walk up the Sacra Via and take your pick of gods. Choose one who’s kinder to you than the unseen one before whom you prostrated yourself a moment ago.”
Her lips parted and her face flamed with hot color. How long had he been watching her? She’d sought the solitude of the garden at night, thinking she would have privacy, that no one would see her there. To think of him watching her the whole time made her body go cold.
“Well? Can’t you speak?”
She stammered her reply. “My God has not deserted me, my lord.”
He laughed sardonically. “Your Holy City is rubble, your people are scattered across the face of the earth, and you’re a slave. And you say your god has not deserted you?”
“He’s kept me alive. I have food, shelter, and good owners.”
Marcus was astounded at her quiet acceptance, her gratitude. “Why do you suppose your god granted you such bounteous favor?”
His sarcasm stung, but she answered simply anyway. “That I might serve.”
“Do you say that because you think it’s what I expect of you?” She lowered her head. “Look at me, little Hadassah.” When she did as he commanded, he was struck again by her eyes, dark and wonderful in that small oval face. “Doesn’t it matter to you that you have lost your freedom? Tell me the truth. Come on, now, girl, speak!”
“We all serve someone or something, my lord.”
He smiled. “An interesting supposition. And whom do I serve?” When she seemed too timid to respond, he used his charm to cajole. “I mean you no harm, little one. You can answer without fear of retribution from me. Whom do you think I serve?”
“Rome.”
He laughed at that. “Rome,” he said again and grinned down at her. “Foolish girl. If we all serve something, I serve myself. I serve my own desires and ambitions. I fulfill my own needs my own way without the help of any deity.” He wondered even as he spoke why he admitted this to a mere slave girl to whom such things could never matter. He wondered even more why she should look so saddened.
“It is the purpose of life, is it not?” he said mockingly, annoyed that a slave girl should look at him with something akin to pity. “To pursue and grasp happiness wherever you can. What do you think?” She stood silent, eyes once again downcast, and suddenly he wanted to shake her. “What do you think?” he said again, commanding her this time.
“I don’t believe the purpose of life is to be happy. It’s to serve. It’s to be useful.”
“For a slave, perhaps that is true,” he said and looked away. He felt weary. Weary to his very bones.
“Are we not all bond servants to whatever we worship?” Her words brought his head up and around to her again. His handsome face was rigid with arrogant disdain. She had offended him. Frightened, she bit her lip. How had she dared speak so freely to a Roman, who could have her killed by mere whim?
“So, by your own words, since I serve myself, I am a slave to myself. Is that what you are saying?”
She took a step back, the blood draining from her face. “I plead your pardon, my lord. I’m no philosopher.”
“Don’t retreat now, little Hadassah. Tell me more that I might be amused.” But he didn’t look amused.
“What am I that you would ask me anything? Have I any wisdom to impart to you? I am a mere slave.”
What she said was true. What answers did a slave have to offer him and why had he stayed in the garden with her? Something nagged at him. He did want to know something from her. He wanted to ask what exchanges she had made with her unseen god to have gone through what she’d been through and still have the look of peace he had seen and envied. Instead, he said briskly, “Was your father a slave also?”
Why was he tormenting her? “Yes,” she said quietly.
“And what was his master? What did he believe?”
“He believed in love.”
It was so trite, he winced. He had heard it from Arria and her friends often enough. I believe in love, Marcus. It was, he supposed, why she spent so much time at the temples, partaking of it, satiating herself with it. He knew all about love. It left him exhausted and empty. He could lose himself in a woman, drown in sensation and pleasure, but when it was over and he left, he found himself still hungry—hungry for something he couldn’t even define. No, love wasn’t the answer. Maybe it was as he always supposed. Power brought peace, and money bought power.
Why had he thought to learn anything from this girl? He already knew the answer for himself, didn’t he? “You may return to the house,” he said curtly, moving aside so she could pass.
Hadassah looked up at him. His handsome face was deeply lined, reflecting his troubled thoughts. Marcus Valerian had everything the world had to offer a man. Yet, he stood there, silent and oddly bereft. Was all his arrogance and affluence only an outward sign of an inner affliction? Her heart was moved. What if she told him about the love she meant? Would he laugh or have her sent to the arena?
She was afraid to speak of God to a Roman. She knew what Nero had done. She knew what was happening every day in the arena. So she kept what
she knew secret.
“May you find peace, my lord,” she said softly and turned away.
Surprised, Marcus glanced at her. She had spoken so gently, as though to comfort him. He watched her until she was out of sight.
Chapter 9
Marcus found himself watching the young Jewess every time he was at home. He wondered what it was about her that fascinated him so much. She was devoted to his sister and seemed to sense Julia’s every mood and need, seeing to her with gentle humility. Bithia had served Julia before Hadassah, but the Egyptian had had no fondness for her. Julia was high-strung and difficult. Bithia obeyed. This young Jewess served. Marcus could see it in the way she put her hand on Julia’s shoulder when his sister was in one of her restless moods. He had never seen anyone but his mother touch Julia in that way. What was most amazing was that Hadassah’s touch seemed to soothe his sister.
Father’s announcement of Julia’s marriage had put the home in an uproar, and Hadassah to the test. As soon as the words were out of Father’s mouth, Julia had flown into a fit of hysteria, and it had been hovering near the surface ever since.
“I won’t marry him! I won’t!” she screamed at their father the evening he had told her. “You can’t make me! I’ll run away! I’ll kill myself!”
Father slapped her across the face. He had never done such a thing before, and Marcus was too surprised to do anything but sit up from the couch and slam his goblet on the table.
“Decimus!” his mother gasped, clearly as shocked as he was that Father would do such a thing. Not that Julia didn’t deserve it. Even so, to slap her in the face was unpardonable.
Julia stood in stunned silence, her hand pressed against her cheek. “You hit me,” she said as though she couldn’t believe it either. “You hit me!”
“I will have none of your hysterics, Julia,” their father said through his teeth, his face ashen. “You speak to me in that tone of voice, and I will slap you again. Do you understand?”
Her eyes filled with tempestuous tears as she clenched her hand at her side.
A Voice in the Wind Page 15