A Voice in the Wind

by Francine Rivers

She paled again and looked ready to faint. “It was my fault.”

  “Your fault?” he said, angry that she would defend him. “And what horrible thing did you do to deserve such a beating?”

  She clenched the wool of her ruined tunic and lowered her head again. “I disobeyed him.”

  Marcus knew of men who beat their slaves for minor infractions, such as moving too slowly or being clumsy. Disobedience was another matter. If what Hadassah said was true, it was within Urbanus’ right to kill her. Yet he knew Hadassah would do nothing without cause. “What was Julia’s part in it?”

  She looked up at him in dismay. “She would have stopped the beating if she could have, my lord. She saw that I was tended afterwards and sent me here for my safety.”

  It was uncharacteristic of Julia to do such a kindness without some ulterior motive of her own. Besides, Hadassah’s answer came too quickly, as though she’d known she’d face the question and had prepared an answer beforehand. There was more to it than what she said, and Julia had something to do with it. He didn’t press Hadassah, knowing her loyalty would keep her silent.

  When he went to Julia’s villa the next day, he half expected to be told again that she was visiting friends, but she was home, looking more beautiful than he had seen her. “Blue becomes you.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she said, pleased by his compliment. “I love colors, myriad colors. I designed this palus myself,” she said, turning so he could admire the rich blue wool and the trims of bright reds and yellows. A rose among wild flowers. The wide leather-and-brass belt reminded him of something Arria had worn. The thought made him uneasy.

  “Caius isn’t well,” Julia said. “Let’s walk in the garden so we won’t disturb him.” She looped her arm through his. “I’ve missed you so much, Marcus. Tell me what you’ve been doing lately. Tell me everything. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you.”

  “Not that I haven’t tried, little sister. Every time I stop by, you’re visiting friends.”

  She laughed a bit too brightly, but there was little change in her expression. She told him about the plays she’d seen with a friend and the feasts she’d attended. She didn’t mention Anicetus and talked little of Caius. Marcus tired of playing games.

  “There’s a rumor abroad about you and Anicetus,” he said and saw her cheeks turn red.

  “What sort of rumor?” she said cautiously, avoiding his eyes.

  “That you let him use you in order to cancel Caius’ debts,” he said bluntly.

  Her eyes sparked. “I would say it was the other way around,” she said defiantly. “He didn’t use me. I used him.”

  “For a few sesterces?”

  “For fifty thousand sesterces,” she said with a tip of her chin.

  “The price hardly matters, little sister. An aureus or a talent of solid gold—you sold yourself. Will Caius allow you to handle his other debts in the same manner?”

  “Who are you to question my behavior? You know nothing of my life. You know nothing of what’s happened!”

  “Then tell me what brought you to this!”

  She turned her back on him, rigid with anger. “It’s none of your business what I do with my life. I’m sick of people imposing their will on me.”

  He jerked her around to face him. “I want to know what happened to Hadassah,” he said, unable to keep the hard edge from his tone.

  Her eyes narrowed warily. “So your concern is not for me at all, but for a slave.”

  “What happened to her concerns you,” he said, growing angrier.

  “What did she tell you happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then how do you know she was beaten?”

  “I saw her back.”

  She smiled faintly, mocking him. “Do you use her like Bithia?”

  Marcus let go of her. He glared at her, feeling a sudden uncomfortable dislike for what his sister had become. She met his look for a moment, stiff and rebellious, then her face dissolved into a tremulous smile, and he saw his beloved little sister again.

  “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. Hadassah is nothing like Bithia,” she said, a hand to her temple. She looked up at him beseechingly. “I had to send her away, Marcus. If she remained here, Caius would kill her. And she means more to me than I can explain. I don’t know why . . .”

  Marcus thought he understood. Perhaps Hadassah affected everyone the way she affected him. Her serene presence somehow became essential. “What happened?” he said more gently.

  Julia sighed. “Caius didn’t approve of my methods in handling his debt to Anicetus anymore than you do. He lost his temper. Hadassah intervened and took the punishment meant for me.”

  Marcus felt a burst of heat so intense he felt he was burning up inside. “Has he ever laid a whip to you?”

  “Do I look as though he has?” When he turned toward the house, she put a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t think of revenge, Marcus. Swear to me you’ll do nothing. Don’t interfere in any way. Believe me, you’d make matters a hundred times worse.” She dropped her hand to her side again. “Besides, it’s over. Caius is no threat to me as sick as he is.”

  “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for him.”

  She looked up at him with an expression he couldn’t fathom— satisfaction, pain, uncertainty, resignation—they all seemed to be there in the depths of her eyes. She looked away again. “I wish I could tell you everything.” She began to walk again along the pathway. She paused and picked a flower.

  “Do you still love him?”

  “I can’t help myself,” she said and glanced at him with a rueful smile. “Perhaps I’m like Arria. She’s never stopped loving you, you know.”

  Marcus smiled sardonically. “Is that what she claims?”

  Julia plucked a white petal from the flower and let it float to the ground. “Have you ever thought her promiscuity a sign of desperation? Or despair?”

  Was she speaking of Arria or herself? He watched her pluck petal after petal until the flower was destroyed.

  “I had such great hopes, Marcus. Life is so unfair.”

  “Life is what you make of it.”

  She looked at him with a bleak smile. “I suppose you’re right. Up to now, I’ve allowed others to run my life. Father, Claudius, Caius. Not anymore. I’ll do what’s necessary to be happy.” She looked at the pollen on her hands and then lightly brushed it away. “I should look in on Caius.” She looped her arm through his as they headed back. “Perhaps a little wine will bring some improvement.”

  Chapter 24

  The May celebrations brought with them a jubilation in Rome. Priests called pontifices, or bridge builders, threw bundles of rushes resembling men bound hand and foot into the River Tiber. Spring festivals abounded one after another in an orgy of revelry. During Lupercalia, aristocratic youths ran nude up and down the Via Sacra, striking bystanders with strips of goatskins in a rite hinting at fertility. Liberalia, honoring Liber, the god of wine growing, coupled festivities with Dionysus—or “Bacchus,” as the god was more commonly called in Rome—culminating in a drunken celebration. Bacchus, represented by a handsome, effeminate young man, rode with a debauched Silenus in a cart drawn by leopards, while boys of sixteen all over Rome officially donned the toga virilis and assumed the authority of men free of parental authority.

  Games were held. The Ludi Megalenses opened with trumpets for Cybele—the Phrygian goddess of nature and consort of Attis, the god of fertility—and was followed swiftly by the Ludi Cereales, which opened with a ceremony for Ceres, goddess of agriculture. Atretes made his hundredth kill at the Ludi Florales, while hundreds of amoratae cried out his name and threw flower garlands down to him.

  At the ludus, Bato poured wine into a silver goblet. Atretes was always deeply depressed following the pulse-pounding excitement of the arena. The fire in his blood grew cold as ice. In the silence of the ludus, his mind cleared of bloodlust, he grew morose and bitter. Unlike Celerus, who had reveled in his fame and position,
Atretes felt chaffed. Some men never adjusted to slavery, no matter how golden the cage. Atretes was such a man.

  “Sertes is in Rome to see you fight,” Bato said and handed Atretes the goblet.

  Atretes lounged back on the couch, a seemingly relaxed pose that didn’t hide his tension. The room fairly crackled of it. “Who is this Sertes, that I should be impressed?” he asked dryly, drinking his wine, his blue eyes burning. His knuckles were white.

  “An extremely wealthy and powerful Ephesian who deals in gladiators. He’s come specifically to see you, and at a time when the emperor’s patience has reached its limits. If you survive the games this week, he may sell you to Sertes and see you shipped off to entertain the Turks.”

  “Is a slave in Ephesus any better off than one in Rome?” Atretes asked sarcastically.

  Bato poured himself a goblet of wine. He admired Atretes. Though he was sleek and had the polish of a professional Roman gladiator, the heart of a barbarian still beat strongly within him.

  “It depends on what you want,” Bato said. “Fame or freedom.” He saw he had Atretes full attention. “Last year, during the Ludi Plebeii, Sertes held elimination matches. They started with twelve pairs and pitted the last three men against one another.” He sipped his wine, Atretes’ eyes riveted to him. “The survivor received his freedom.”

  Atretes sat up slowly.

  “It will all depend on what you do during the next games. Vespasian has turned them over to Domitian.”

  Atretes knew the threat that information held. “How many will I have to fight?”

  “One. A captive.”

  Surprised, Atretes frowned. “A captive? Why such an easy kill? So I won’t make a good enough show to gain Sertes’ interest?”

  Bato shook his head. “You underestimate your adversary,” he said grimly, knowing more of the details than he could share with Atretes. Domitian was shrewd. He was also cruel.

  “Why would Domitian pit me with a captive, knowing I’ll have the advantage?”

  For all his time in Rome, Atretes still did not know the subtlety of a Roman mind. “It’s not always training or the strength of a man’s body or even the weapon in his hand that gives a man the advantage. It’s how he thinks. Every man has his Achilles’ heel, Atretes.”

  “And what is mine?”

  Bato looked at him over the rim of his goblet, but didn’t answer. He couldn’t without risking his life. Domitian would know if he had prepared Atretes beforehand.

  Atretes frowned heavily, thinking tactically, wondering where his weakness lay.

  “Remember the young Roman aristocrat you almost disemboweled the first few weeks you were here?” Bato said finally, risking all he dared. “He has not forgotten his humiliation at your hands, nor lost the ear of Domitian. Between them, they think they’ve found an amusing way to destroy you.”

  “Amusing?”

  Though friendship was not possible between them, they had developed a mutual respect. Atretes knew Bato had revealed all he could about the upcoming games and tried to grasp what wasn’t spoken.

  “Don’t forget that Domitian’s greatest accomplishment was a successful campaign on the Germanic frontier,” Bato said.

  Atretes gave a sardonic laugh. “Whatever he chooses to think, we’re not defeated. The rebellion will live as long as a single German draws breath.”

  “A single German can do nothing, and what unification you had between your tribes was short-lived,” Bato said pointedly.

  “We are brothers against a common enemy, and we’ll rise up again soon. My mother prophesied a wind from the north will bring the destruction of Rome.”

  “A wind that may never blow in your lifetime,” Bato said. He set his goblet down and put both hands flat on the table between them. “Spend the next few days praying to whatever god you believe in. Ask for the wisdom to prevail. Domitian has read you well, Atretes. Freedom may come at a price higher than you’re willing to pay.” He dismissed him.

  Decimus relaxed on the couch and took Phoebe’s hand. He listened to Hadassah strum the small harp and sing of cattle on a thousand hills, of a shepherd tending his flock, of the sea and sky and a voice in the wind. All the tension seeped from him and he found himself drifting. He was tired, tired of the struggles of life, tired of pain, tired of his illness. In a few months, he and Phoebe would return permanently to Ephesus, where his holdings would support the two of them quite well for the remainder of their lives. All of the assets he had in Rome he’d turn over to Marcus. He worried about Julia, but there was nothing he could do. She had a husband to look after her, her own life to live. She was beyond his reach any longer.

  Phoebe sensed his mood and wanted to relieve him of his depression. The sweet music only seemed to make his reverie deeper this evening. “Tell us a story, Hadassah,” she said.

  Hadassah laid the small harp in her lap. “What kind of story would you like to hear, my lady?” Julia liked stories of battles and love, David and the mighty men, Samson and Delilah, Esther and King Ahasuerus.

  “Tell us a story about your god,” Phoebe said.

  Hadassah bowed her head. She could tell them of Creation. She could tell them of Moses and how God used him to give his people the law and bring them out of Egypt to the Promised Land.

  She could tell them of Joshua and Caleb and the destruction of Jericho. She raised her eyes and looked at Decimus. A rush of compassion filled her as she noted the deep lines in his face, his troubled countenance, and heartsick spirit.

  The words came to her as clearly as though her father spoke them, as he had done so many times at his small shop in Galilee, clay on his potter’s wheel, repeating a parable the Lord had told. Lord, speak through me that they might hear your voice, she silently prayed.

  “A certain man had two sons,” she began, “and the younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the estate that falls to me.’ And the father divided his wealth between them. And not many days later, the younger son gathered everything together and went on a journey into a distant country. There he squandered his estate with riotous living.”

  Phoebe moved uncomfortably, thinking of Marcus. She glanced at Decimus, but he was listening intently.

  “Now when he had spent everything, a severe famine occurred in that country, and he was in need. So he attached himself to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into the fields to feed the swine. He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the swine were eating, for no one was giving anything to him. Then he came to his senses and said, ‘How many of my father’s hired men have more than enough bread, but I am dying here with hunger! I’ll get up and go to my father and say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in your sight; I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me as one of your hired men!”’ And he got up and went to his father.”

  She paused and folded her hands, then went on. “While the son was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion for him. He ran to him, and embraced him, and kissed him. And the son said, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’”

  Hadassah knew it was against every unspoken rule of slavery to look into the face of her master, but she couldn’t help herself. She raised her eyes and looked straight into those of Decimus Vindacius Valerian. She saw his pain and felt it as her own. “But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly! Bring out the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand and sandals on his feet; and bring the fatted calf, kill it, and let us eat and be merry; for this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again; he was lost, and has been found . . . ’”

  Stillness fell over the room. Hadassah lowered her head again.

  Phoebe looked at Decimus and was dismayed at the look on his face. His eyes were moist with tears. In all their years of marriage, she had never seen him cry. “You may leave, Hadassah,” she said, wishing she hadn’t asked her to tell a story. This one had pierce
d her heart and filled her with a terrible, inexplicable yearning. The girl rose gracefully.

  “No, wait,” Decimus said slowly, and gestured for her to sit again. “The father is your god,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Your country is destroyed and your people enslaved.”

  Hadassah felt a swelling warmth for her master; he was so much like his son. She remembered Marcus speaking the same words in the garden so many months ago. If only she was wiser. If only she knew the Scriptures as her father had. “Calamity is blessing when it brings one to God.”

  Enoch entered the room with a tray of wine and fruit. He set it down before the Valerians and began to pour the wine.

  “But what of the older son who remained with his father?” Phoebe said.

  She glanced shyly at Enoch. “He was in the field and when he came in, he heard music and dancing. He summoned one of the servants and asked what had happened. The servant said, ‘Your brother has come home, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has received him back safe and sound.’ The older son became very angry and was not willing to go in, and so his father came out and began entreating him. But he answered and said to his father, ‘Look! For so many years I have been serving you, and I have never neglected a command of yours, and yet you have never given me a kid, that I might be merry with my friends; but when this son of yours came, who has devoured your wealth with harlots, and you killed the fatted calf for him.’ And he said to him, ‘My child, you have always been with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we have to be merry and rejoice, for this brother of yours was dead and has begun to live, and was lost and has been found.’”

  Enoch handed a goblet to Phoebe and poured another. Decimus glanced up at his rigid face as he took it. “Which son are you, Enoch?” he said.

  “I am not familiar with this story,” Enoch said stiffly. “May I bring you anything else, my lord?”

  Decimus dismissed him and smiled faintly as he watched him leave the room. “I would guess the older son to be a righteous Jew who obeys the law.”