A Voice in the Wind

by Francine Rivers

  “What I do, I do for your own good if you but had the sense to understand it. You will marry Claudius Flaccus. He is well respected and he holds considerable property in the Apennines, which you profess to love even more than Rome. And he was a considerate and faithful husband to his wife before she died. He will be so to you as well.”

  “He’s old and decrepit.”

  “He is forty-nine and in good health.”

  “I won’t marry him, I tell you! I won’t!” Julia cried out again and burst into tears. “I’ll hate you if you make me. I swear it. I’ll hate you until I die!” She ran from the room.

  Marcus started after her, but his mother’s gentle voice stopped him. “Marcus, leave her be. Hadassah, see to her.” Marcus watched the girl hurry from the room.

  “Was that necessary, Father?” Marcus grated, his own temper simmering despite his coldly polite calm.

  Decimus stared down at his hand, his face pale and strained. Clenching his fingers into a fist, he closed his eyes, then left without a word.

  “Marcus,” his mother said, laying her hand firmly on his arm when he started to rise and follow, “leave him alone. It will not help Julia if you take her side in this.”

  “He had no right to strike her.”

  “He had the right of a father. Much of what is going wrong with the Empire has to do with fathers who have not disciplined their children. She had no right to speak to your father the way she did!”

  “Perhaps not the right, but certainly the reason! Claudius Flaccus. By the gods, Mother! Surely you are against this match.”

  “Indeed not. Claudius is a fine man. Julia will have no cause of grief from him.”

  “Or pleasure.”

  “Life is not about pleasure, Marcus.”

  Marcus shook his head angrily and left the room. He paused, then turned toward Julia’s room. He wanted to see for himself that Julia was all right. She was still crying, but not so hysterically, and the young Jewess was holding her like a mother, stroking her hair and speaking to her. He stood unnoticed in the doorway watching them.

  “How could my father think of marrying me off to that wretched old man?” Julia whined, clutching the girl like a talisman.

  “Your father loves you, mistress. He desires only your good.”

  Cautiously Marcus backed out, but remained in the corridor, listening.

  “No he doesn’t,” Julia cried. “He doesn’t care about me at all. Didn’t you see him hit me? All he cares about is having control over me. I can’t do anything without his express approval, and I’m sick of it. I wish Drusus were my father. Octavia can do anything she pleases.”

  “Sometimes that kind of freedom doesn’t come from love, my lady, but lack of care.”

  Marcus expected another outburst from Julia at that quiet, volatile statement. A long silence followed. “You say the strangest things, Hadassah. In Rome, if you love someone, you let them do whatever they wish. . . .” Julia’s voice trailed off.

  “What do you wish to do, mistress?”

  Marcus eased forward and saw Julia sit quiet for a moment, confused and troubled. “Anything,” she said, frowning. “Everything,” she amended and stood in agitation. “Except marry flaccid Claudius Flaccus.”

  Marcus’ mouth twitched at her estimation of Claudius. He watched his sister cross the chamber to her vanity. She picked up a small Grecian vial of expensive perfume. “You can’t understand, Hadassah. What can you know? Sometimes I feel I’m more a slave than you are.” With a soft cry of frustration, she threw the vial across the room, shattering it against the wall. The perfume splattered and ran down the mosaic tiles of children gamboling in a profusion of flowers, filling the chamber with its cloying scent.

  Julia sat down heavily and wept again. Marcus expected Hadassah to see him in the doorway when she fled his sister’s rage, but she never turned around. She rose and went to his sister. Kneeling down, she took Julia’s hands and spoke to her softly, too softly for him to hear.

  Julia stopped crying. She nodded as though in answer to something Hadassah asked. Still holding her hands, Hadassah began to sing softly, in Hebrew. Julia closed her eyes and listened, though Marcus knew she didn’t understand the language. Nor did he. Yet, standing in the shadows, he found himself listening, too—not to the words, but to Hadassah’s sweet voice. Troubled, he left.

  “Has Julia calmed down?” his mother asked when he joined her by the fountain.

  “So it would appear,” Marcus said, distracted. “That little Jewess is casting a spell over her.”

  Phoebe smiled. “She is very good for Julia. I knew she would be. There was something about her that day Enoch brought her to us.” She ran her hand through the clear water of the pool. “I hope you will not fight your father in his decision.”

  “Claudius Flaccus is hardly exciting for a girl of Julia’s temperament, Mother.”

  “Julia doesn’t need excitement, Marcus. She breeds it within herself. It could burn her up like a fever. She needs a man who will steady her.”

  “Claudius Flaccus will do more than steady her, Mother. He’ll put her to sleep on her feet.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s a brilliant man and has much to offer.”

  “Indeed, but has Julia ever shown an interest in philosophy or literature?”

  Phoebe sighed heavily. “I know, Marcus. I’ve thought of the difficulties ahead. But whom would you have your father choose? One of your friends? Antigonus, perhaps?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She laughed softly at such a quick response. “Then you must agree. Julia needs maturity and stability in a husband. Those traits are not usually found in a younger man.”

  “A young girl wants things other than maturity and stability in a man, Mother,” he said dryly.

  “A young girl with any common sense realizes that character and intelligence far outlast charm and handsome features or build.”

  “I doubt such wisdom will mollify Julia.”

  “Despite the histrionics, Julia will bend to your father’s decision and be the better for it.” She folded her hands and looked up at him. “Unless you provoke her to rebel.”

  His mouth tightened. “She doesn’t need provoking, Mother. She has a mind of her own!”

  “You aren’t blind to the influence you have over your sister, Marcus. If you were to speak with her—”

  “Oh, no. Don’t drag me into this. If I had any say, Julia would choose whom she pleases.”

  “And whom would your sister choose?”

  His mind flashed to the handsome young rogue at the arena. A peasant most likely. He was annoyed to be reminded of the episode. A muscle tightened in his jaw. All young girls were fools for handsome faces; his sister no exception. Even so, that didn’t alter his opinion. “Claudius Flaccus is not suitable for her.”

  “I think you’re very wrong, Marcus. You see, what you have not been told is that your father didn’t go to Claudius Flaccus. He came to us. Claudius is in love with her.”

  Claudius Flaccus and Julia exchanged wafers of wheat called far before the watchful eyes of two senior priests of the temple of Zeus. Julia was pale and emotionless. When Claudius took her hand and kissed it lightly, she looked up at him, her cheeks blooming red. Decimus stiffened, expecting an outburst. He saw tears filled her eyes, and he knew his daughter was capable of making a fool of herself before them all.

  There was a stillness in the temple chamber, the marble idols seeming almost watchful. Marcus’ face was a grim mask, his dark eyes flashing. He had argued long and hard against this marriage. He had suggested coemptio, or bride-purchase, a marriage easily dissolved by divorce. Decimus refused to consider it.

  “You will not make such a suggestion to Claudius and bring shame on our family! Haven’t you considered it far more likely he’d want to divorce your sister in the long run? For all of Julia’s beauty and delightful high spirits, she is vain, selfish, and volatile. Such a combination quickly wears on any man. Or haven’t
you learned that with Arria?”

  Marcus paled in anger. “Julia is nothing like Arria.”

  “Marriage by confarreatio to a man like Claudius will assure that she doesn’t become like her.”

  “Have you so little confidence in your own daughter?”

  “I love her more than my own life, but I am not blind to her faults.” Decimus shook his head sadly. He knew that beauty faded quickly when embodied by selfishness, and Julia’s charm was a tool of manipulation. Marcus saw only what he wanted to see in his sister—a high-spirited, willful child. He didn’t see what she could become if allowed free rein. On the other hand, with the proper husband, Julia could mature into a woman like her mother.

  Julia needed stability and direction. Claudius Flaccus would provide both. Granted, Decimus agreed, he was not a young girl’s dream, but there were more important things: honor, family, duty. Decimus wanted to assure a respectable future for his daughter, and no amount of rationalization on the part of his hot-tempered son would dissuade him from it. Freedom without license bred destruction. Someday, perhaps both of his children would understand and forgive.

  Decimus watched his daughter raise her chin slightly and give Claudius a brave smile. He felt a surge of pride and relief. Perhaps she had the sense to realize what a good man she had just married, and perhaps her adjustment would go more smoothly than anyone expected, himself included. By the gods, he loved her so. Perhaps she wasn’t the fool he feared she was. He took Phoebe’s hand and squeezed it lightly, satisfied to witness Julia married before the priests by confarreatio, the more traditional union, which couldn’t be dissolved and would last until death. His eyes burned with tears, remembering his own marriage day and the love he had felt for his frightened bride. He loved her still.

  Octavia was the first to embrace Julia after the ceremony as guests surrounded the couple, congratulating them. Their voices mingled and rose in the holy chamber, echoing. The priests approached Decimus, who paid them and took the document declaring the marriage verified. Phoebe pressed several more coins into their hands, quietly asking them to burn incense and make sacrifices to bless the marriage. Decimus had been generous, and they promised to do so. They went on their way, coins jingling in their pouches.

  Decimus watched with a twinge of pain as his beautiful young daughter accepted the congratulations and good wishes of their guests. Claudius would take Julia for a brief trip after the feasting tonight. After a few weeks, he planned to take her to his country estate near Capua, where they would live. Of course, Decimus approved, knowing it was best for her. Ensconced there, Julia would be far from the destructive influences of young women like Octavia and Arria with their modern ideas of independence and immorality. She would be far from Marcus.

  But, oh, how he would miss her, his only daughter.

  “So, it’s done,” Phoebe said quietly, smiling up at him through her tears. “All the battles are over and the war is finally won. I think they’ll prosper, Decimus. You’ve done well for her. Someday she’ll thank you.”

  They joined their guests and went outside into the sunlight. Claudius was assisting Julia onto the flower-covered sedan chair. Decimus knew Claudius would be an attentive and patient husband. He watched Claudius join Julia and take her hand. That he adored her was obvious, yet she looked so young, so vulnerable.

  As their procession moved slowly through the thronging streets of Rome, people called out to the newly married couple. Some uncouth youths shouted ribald remarks that brought stinging color to Phoebe’s cheeks as she reclined beside Decimus. Cosseted behind the high walls of their home, she was protected from much of the licentious and ill-mannered behavior of the citizenry.

  Decimus longed for the quiet of the country. He longed for the clean blue waters of the Aegean Sea. He longed for the hills of his homeland. He was weary of Rome.

  Phoebe sat beside him beneath the canopy, her hip against his. All these years together and he still felt strong desire for his wife, even though thoughts of death depressed him, and the pain that had come intermittently in the beginning was now a constant companion. He took her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. She smiled up at him. Did she suspect what he knew—that his illness was getting worse?

  The guests gathered in the triclinium for the celebration feast. Decimus had kept the number small; no less than the Graces, nor more than the Muses. Phoebe had seen to decorating the room with a profusion of colorful aromatic flowers. Decimus held no confidence in her belief that the sweet scent of the blossoms would neutralize the fumes of the lamps—nor the effects of the wine, which would pour freely this evening. He was tired, the ever-present pain sapping him of his strength. The cloying scent of the flowers nauseated him.

  Claudius and Julia removed their shoes and reclined on the first couch, while the others took their places on couches around them. Leaning close, Claudius spoke to her softly. She blushed. With the marriage ceremony behind her, Julia seemed in better spirits.

  Decimus hoped Claudius would get her with child quickly. With a child at her breast, Julia would settle more easily into being a proper Roman wife. She would see to her hearth fire and run her home as Phoebe had trained her to do. Her mind would be occupied with the early education of her children and caring for her family rather than on the games and lewd gossip.

  Enoch stood at the doorway. Decimus nodded for him to have the servants bring in the gustus, the hors d’oeuvres.

  In the kitchen, Hadassah watched Sejanus arrange the lavish appetizers on silver platters. The aroma of exotic and delicious foods filled the hot room and made her mouth water. The cook carefully placed each sow udder until there was a starburst pattern, adding generous dollops of jellyfish and roe and sprigs of herbs to expand the design. Another platter displayed a goose-liver sculpture of a nesting bird, and wedges of eggs were arranged to look like white feathers. Hadassah had never seen such food before, nor inhaled such heavenly aromas. The servants chattered about the marriage between Claudius and Julia.

  “The master is probably giving a sigh of relief to have her married off.”

  “Flaccus will have his hands full.”

  “She can be a delight when she’s not in one of her moods.”

  The conversation went on around Hadassah. Most of the servants hoped that Julia would be unhappy, for they disliked her arrogant manners and outbursts of temper. Hadassah took no part in the gossip. She watched in fascination as Sejanus worked.

  “I’ve never seen food like this,” she said, awed by the creations he made.

  “Not like the palace cooks, but the best I can do.” He glanced up as Enoch came in. He dabbed the perspiration from his brow and looked over the platters with a critical eye, making a few last minor changes.

  “Everything smells and looks so wonderful, Sejanus,” Hadassah said, feeling privileged to have watched him make the final preparations.

  Pleased, he was generous. “You can taste whatever they leave.”

  “She’ll touch none of it,” Enoch said tersely. “Pig udders, lampreys, sea urchins, fish eggs, calf boiled in its mother’s milk,” he said, and shuddered with distaste as he looked over the elegant display. “Our law forbids us to eat anything unclean.”

  “Unclean!” Sejanus said, insulted. “Your Jewish god would suck the pleasure from the poorest orphan’s mouth. Bitter herbs and bread without leaven! That’s what Jews eat.”

  Enoch ignored Sejanus and signaled to several slaves to take platters. He looked down at Hadassah with an air of paternal sternness. “You’ll have to cleanse yourself after serving this evening.”

  Cringing inwardly at such an insensitive remark regarding Sejanus’ culinary perfection, she gave Sejanus an apologetic look. His face was mottled red in anger.

  “Take that one,” Enoch commanded, pointing with distaste to the pig’s udders. “Try not to touch any of it.” She lifted the platter and followed Enoch from the kitchen.

  As Hadassah set the platter before her, Julia was laughing with Oc
tavia. Waving Hadassah away, she dipped her fingers into the jellyfish and roe while Claudius took a sow’s udder stuffed with shellfish. Enoch poured the honeyed wine into silver goblets while several musicians played softly on pan flute and lyres.

  Hadassah moved back against the wall. She was relieved to see Julia laughing and talking again, though she suspected it was more to impress her friends rather than with any real joy. For all her brightness and gaiety, there was an emptiness in Julia that hurt Hadassah. She could soothe her. She could serve her. She could love her. But she could not fill that emptiness.

  God, she needs you! She thinks all the stories I tell her are only for her amusement. She hears nothing. Lord, I am so useless. Hadassah felt such a tenderness toward Julia, a tenderness akin to what she had felt for Leah.

  Hadassah soaked in the beauty of the evening as she served silently. The sound of pan flute and lyres drifted sweetly in the room as the musicians played quietly in the corner. Everything was so beautiful, the people in their togas and jewels, the flower-decorated room, the colorful pillows, the food. Yet, Hadassah knew, for all the celebration and lavishness of this evening, there was little joy in the room.

  Decimus Valerian looked drawn and pale. Phoebe Valerian was clearly concerned about him, but trying not to annoy him with any inquiries. Octavia flirted boldly with Marcus, who looked bored with her advances, not to mention the gathering itself. There was an edge of overbrightness to Julia’s laughter, as though she was determined to look happy for the sake of appearances, more for Octavia’s benefit than her own family. No one but Claudius was fooled, and he was in love, oblivious of everything but the beauty of his youthful bride.

  Hadassah had grown to care deeply for this family she served. She prayed for each of them unceasingly. In this gathering, they looked so close, and yet they were pulled in opposing directions, each struggling with one another as well as with themselves. Was it in the Roman nature to be constantly at war? Decimus, a self-made man who had built his wealth, strove now to right what his own affluence had wrought upon his children. Phoebe, ever loyal and constantly loving, sought solace and blessing from her stone idols.