An Echo in the Darkness

by Francine Rivers

  He stepped back from her, wondering if every mother could look into the soul of her child as his own could. “I’ve given management of the warehouses to Sextus,” he said briskly. “He’s capable and trustworthy.”

  Phoebe followed his lead. “You’ve always had your father’s instincts about people,” she said quietly, watching him.

  “Not in all cases,” he said heavily and then veered his thoughts away from his sister. “Iulius informed me you were taken with fever for several weeks.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine now.”

  Marcus assessed her more closely. “He said you still tire easily. You are thinner than last I saw you.”

  She laughed. “You need not worry about me. Now that you’re home again, I’ll have more appetite.” She took his hand. “You know I always worried when your father was on one of his long journeys. I suppose, now, I will be the same with you. The sea is so unpredictable.”

  She sat on the bench, but he remained standing. She saw he was restless and thinner, his face lined and harder. “How was Rome?”

  “Much the same. I saw Antigonus, with his retinue of sycophants. He was whining about money, as always.”

  “And did you provide him with what he required?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he wanted three hundred thousand sesterces, and every coin of it would go to sponsor games.” He turned away. Once he would have agreed without qualm and, in fact, enjoyed witnessing them for himself. Of course, Antigonus would have shown his gratitude in government building contracts and referrals of rich aristocrats who wanted bigger, more elaborate villas.

  A politician like Antigonus had to court the mob’s favor. The best way to do that was by sponsoring the games. The mob cared nothing about what a senator stood for, as long as they were entertained and distracted from the real issues of life: an imbalance of trade, civil unrest, starvation, disease, slaves flooding in from the provinces and taking the jobs of freemen.

  But Marcus no longer wanted part in any of it. He was ashamed he had given hundreds of thousands of sesterces to Antigonus in the past. All he had thought about then was the business advantage of having a friend in high places. Never once had he thought of what his actions meant in terms of human lives. In truth, he hadn’t cared. Financing Antigonus had been expedient. He had wanted the contracts to build in the burned-out wealthier sections of Rome, and lining Antigonus’ pouch with sesterces had been the quickest avenue to financial success. Bribery had bought him opportunity; opportunity had brought him wealth. His god: Fortuna.

  Now, as though looking in a mirror, he saw himself as he had been: bored and drinking wine with friends while a man was nailed to a cross; eating delicacies served by a slave while men were pitted against one another and forced to fight to the death. And for what reason? To entertain a bored, hungry mob, a mob of which he had been a paying member. Now he was paying an even higher price: the knowledge that he had been as much a part of Hadassah’s death as anyone.

  He remembered laughing while a man ran in terror, trying to escape a pack of dogs when no escape was possible. He could still hear the thousands screaming and cheering wildly as the lioness tore Hadassah’s flesh. What had been her crime other than having a sweet purity that had smitten the conscience and roused the jealousy of a foul harlot. A harlot who was Marcus’ sister. . . .

  Phoebe sat silently on the bench in the shade and studied her son’s bitter face. “Julia asked when you would return.”

  The muscles in his jaw clenched at the mention of his sister’s name.

  “She wants to see you, Marcus.”

  He said nothing.

  “She needs to see you.”

  “Her needs are the very least of my concern.”

  “And if she wants to make amends?”

  “Amends? How? Can she bring Hadassah back to life? Can she undo what she’s done? No, Mother. No amends are possible for what she did.”

  “She is still your sister,” she said gently.

  “You may have a daughter, Mother, but I swear to you, I have no sister.”

  She saw the fierceness in his gaze, the uncompromising set of his jaw. “You cannot set the past aside?” she pleaded.

  “No.”

  “Or forgive?”

  “Never! I tell you I pray every curse under heaven falls on her head.”

  Tears filled his mother’s eyes. “Perhaps if you try to remember how Hadassah lived instead of the way she died.”

  The words struck his heart, and he turned slightly, angry that she should so remind him. “I remember all too well,” he said hoarsely.

  “Perhaps we don’t remember in the same light,” Phoebe said softly. She raised her hand to feel the pendant concealed beneath her palus. On it was the emblem of her new faith: a shepherd carrying a lost lamb across his shoulders. Marcus didn’t know. She hesitated, wondering if this was the time to tell him.

  It was strange that in watching Hadassah, Phoebe had found the path her own life must take so clearly before her. She had become a Christian, baptized by water and the Spirit of the living God. It had not been a struggle for her, not like it had been for Decimus, who had waited to the very end to accept the Lord. Now it was Marcus, who was so like his father, who fought against the Spirit. Marcus, who wanted no master over his life and would acknowledge none.

  Looking at his stance, his hand clenching and unclenching, Phoebe knew this wasn’t the time to speak of Jesus and her faith. Marcus would be angry. He wouldn’t understand. He would be afraid for her, afraid he would lose her the same way he had lost Hadassah. Oh, if only he could see that Hadassah was not lost at all. He was.

  “What would Hadassah have had you do?”

  Marcus shut his eyes. “Had she done things differently, she would still be alive.”

  “Had she been different, Marcus, you would never have loved her the way you do, with all your heart and mind and soul.” Like he would love God, but he couldn’t see that it was the Spirit within Hadassah that had drawn him.

  Seeing his pain, she ached for him. Rising from the bench, Phoebe went to her son. “Is your monument to Hadassah going to be your unrelenting hatred for your own sister?”

  “Leave it be, Mother,” he said hoarsely.

  “How can I?” she said in sorrow. “You are my son, and no matter what Julia’s done, she remains my daughter. I love you both. I love Hadassah.”

  “Hadassah is dead, Mother.” He glared down at her. “Did she die because of any crime she committed? No! She was murdered out of petty jealousy by a whore.”

  Phoebe laid her hand on his arm. “Hadassah’s not dead to me. Nor to you.”

  “Not dead,” he said bleakly. “How can you say that? Is she here with us?” He moved away from her and sat on the bench where Hadassah had often sat in the quiet of the evenings and the stillness before dawn. He looked exhausted, his back against the wall.

  She came and sat on the bench beside him and took his hand. “Do you remember what she told your father just before he died?”

  “He took my hand and placed it over Hadassah’s. She belonged to me.” He could still see the look in her dark eyes as he had closed his hand firmly around hers, taking possession. Had his father known then she was in danger? Had he been telling him to protect her? He should have taken her from Julia then and there rather than await her convenience. Julia had been with child at the time, her lover gone. He had felt pity for her situation, never realizing the danger. Had he been wise, Hadassah would still be alive. She would be his wife.

  “Marcus, Hadassah said that if you but believe and accept God’s grace, you will be with the Lord in paradise. She told us that whosoever believes in Jesus will not perish but have eternal life.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Words to comfort a dying man who saw his life as meaningless, Mother. There’s no life after death. Just dust and darkness. Everything we have is right here. Now. The only kind of eternal life anyone can expect is in
the heart of another. Hadassah is alive, and she’ll remain so as long as I live. She’s alive in me.” His eyes hardened. “And because of my love for her, I will never forget how she died and who brought it to pass.”

  “Will you ever understand why she died?” Phoebe said, eyes glistening with tears.

  “I know why. She was murdered out of jealousy and spite. Her purity exposed Julia’s impurity.” He took his hand from hers, tense and fighting the emotions raging within him. He didn’t want to take it out on his mother. It was no fault of hers that she had birthed a poisonous snake. But why did she have to speak of these things now when he felt so raw?

  “Sometimes I wish I could forget,” he said, lowering his head into his hands and kneading his forehead as though his head ached with memories. “She told me once that her god spoke to her in the wind, but I hear nothing except the faint echoing of her voice.”

  “Then listen.”

  “I can’t! I can’t bear it.”

  “Perhaps what you need to do is seek her God to receive the peace of which Hadassah spoke.”

  Marcus raised his head sharply and gave a harsh laugh. “Seek her god?”

  “Her faith in him was the essence of who Hadassah was, Marcus. Surely you know that.”

  He stood and moved away from her. “Where was this almighty god of hers when she faced the lions? If he exists, he’s a coward, for he abandoned her!”

  “If you truly believe that, you must find out why.”

  “How do I do that, Mother? Do I inquire of the priests in a temple that no longer exists? Titus destroyed Jerusalem. Judea is in ruin.”

  “You must go to her God and ask.”

  He frowned, his gaze penetrating. “You’re not beginning to believe in this accursed Jesus, are you? I told you what happened to him. He was nothing more than a carpenter who got on the wrong side of the Jews. They handed him over to be crucified.”

  “You loved Hadassah.”

  “I still love her.”

  “Then isn’t she worth your questions? What would she have wanted you to do, Marcus? What one thing mattered to her more than life itself? You must seek her God and ask him why she died. Only he can give you the answers you need.”

  Marcus’s mouth twisted sardonically. “How does one seek the face of an unseen god?”

  “As Hadassah did. Pray.”

  Grief filled him, followed closely by bitterness and anger. “By the gods, Mother, what good did prayer ever do her?”

  At her surprised look and fallen expression, he knew he had hurt her deeply. He forced himself to relax, to be rational. “Mother, I know you’re trying to comfort me, but there is no comfort. Don’t you understand? Maybe time will change things. I don’t know. But no god will do me good.” He shook his head at her, his voice growing angry again. “From the time I was a child, I remember you placing your offerings before your household gods in the lararium. Did it save your other children from fever? Did it keep Father alive? Did you ever once hear a voice in the wind?” His anger died, leaving only a sense of terrible emptiness. “There are no gods.”

  “Then everything Hadassah said was a lie.”

  He winced. “No. She believed every word of what she said.”

  “She believed a lie, Marcus? She died for nothing?” She saw his hand clench at his side and knew her questions caused him pain. But better pain now than death forever.

  She rose and went to him again, laying her hand gently against his cheek. “Marcus, if you truly believe Hadassah’s God abandoned her, ask him why he would do such a thing to one such as she was.”

  “What does it matter now?”

  “It matters. It matters more than you know. How else will you ever be at peace with what happened?”

  His face grew pale and cold. “Peace is an illusion. There is no true peace. If I ever go looking for Hadassah’s god, Mother, it wouldn’t be to praise him as she did, but to curse him to his face.”

  Phoebe said no more, but her heart cried out in anguish. O Lord God, forgive him. He knows not what he says.

  Marcus turned away from comfort, believing all he had left was the sweet echo of Hadassah’s voice in the darkness that had closed around him.

  3

  “That one over there,” Julia Valerian said, pointing to a small brown goat in the stall just outside the temple. “The dark brown one. Is he perfect?”

  “All of my goats are perfect,” the merchant said, pushing his way through the herd crowded into the pen and grasping the one she demanded. He looped a rope around its neck. “These animals are without defect,” he said, lifting the struggling animal and making his way back to her as he named his price.

  Julia’s eyes narrowed angrily. She looked from the scrawny beast to the avaricious merchant. “I will not pay you so much for such a small goat!”

  His gaze swept pointedly over her fine woolen palus and lingered on the pearls in her hair and the carbuncle necklace about her neck. “You appear able to afford it, but if it’s a bargain you’re looking for, may it be on your head.” He set the goat down and straightened. “I will not waste my time in haggling, woman. Do you see this mark on the ear? This animal is anointed for sacrifice by one of the haruspices. This concession is provided by the seers for your benefit. The money you pay for this animal goes to the haruspex and the temple. Do you understand? If you want to buy a cheaper goat somewhere else and try to bring it before the gods and their ordained representatives, do so at your own peril.” His dark eyes taunted.

  Julia trembled at his words. She was fully aware she was being cheated, but she had no choice. The dreadful man was right. Only a fool would try to fool the gods—or the haruspicex, whom the gods had chosen to read the sacred signs hidden in the sacrificed animals’ vital organs. She looked at the small goat with distaste. She had come to find out what ailed her and if that meant she had to purchase a sacrificial animal at an outrageous price, then she would do so. “My apologies,” she said. “I will take him.”

  Julia removed her bracelet and opened the compartment built into it. She counted three sesterces into the merchant’s hand while trying to ignore his smugness. He rubbed the coins between his fingers and slipped them into the pouch at his waist. “He is yours,” he said, handing her the rope, “and may he bring you improved health.”

  “Take him,” Julia ordered Eudemas tersely and stepped aside so her slave girl could drag the bleating, struggling animal from the crowded stall. The merchant watched and laughed.

  As Julia entered the temple with Eudemas and the goat, she felt faint. The heavy cloying scent of incense failed to overwhelm the smell of blood and death. Her stomach turned. She took her place in the line behind others waiting. Closing her eyes, she swallowed her nausea. Cold sweat beaded her forehead. She couldn’t stop thinking about the night before and her argument with Primus.

  “You’ve become quite a bore, Julia,” Primus said. “You impose your gloom on every feast you attend.”

  “How kind of you, dear husband, to think of my health and welfare.” She looked to Calabah for sympathy, but saw her motion to Eudemas to bring the tray of goose livers closer. Selecting one, she smiled in a way that made the slave girl blush and then pale. Waving her away, Calabah watched the girl carry the tray to Primus. Calabah hadn’t noticed until then that Julia was watching her. When she did, she merely arched a brow, her cold, dark eyes empty and indifferent. “What is it, dear?”

  “Don’t you care if I’m ill?”

  “Of course I care,” Calabah said, her quiet voice tinged with impatience. “It’s you who seems not to care. Julia, my love, we have talked about this so many times before it’s becoming tedious. The answer is so simple you refuse to accept it. Set your mind on being healthy. Let your will heal you. Whatever you set your mind upon you can, by your own will, bring it to pass.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried, Calabah?”

  “Not hard enough, my dear, or you would be well. You must center your thoughts on yourself each morning
and meditate as I taught you to do. Empty your mind of everything but the one realization that you are your own god, your body merely the temple in which you dwell. You have power over your temple. Your will be done, Julia. The problem is you lack faith. You must believe, and in believing, you will bring forth whatever you want.”

  Julia looked away from the woman’s dark eyes. Morning after morning, she had done exactly as Calabah said. Sometimes the fever came upon her in the midst of her meditations, and she trembled with weakness and nausea. Overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness, she spoke quietly. “Some things are beyond anyone’s will to control.”

  Calabah gazed at her disdainfully. “If you have no faith in yourself and your own inner powers, perhaps you should do as Primus suggests. Go to the temple and make a sacrifice. As for me, I have no faith in the gods. All I have achieved came by my own efforts and intellect, not through leaning on some supernatural, unseen power. However, if you truly believe you have no power of your own, Julia, what other logical course have you but to borrow what you need from elsewhere?”

  After their months of intimacy, Julia was stunned by Calabah’s disdain and callous indifference to her suffering. She watched Calabah eat another goose liver and then ask Eudemas to bring her the scented water to wash her hands. The girl did as she was bade, gazing at Calabah with rapt adoration and blushing when those long jeweled fingers stroked her arm before she was dismissed. Julia saw the dark speculation in Calabah’s eyes as she watched the servant girl withdraw. A faint, predatory smile played on the older woman’s lips.

  Julia felt sick. She knew she was being betrayed before her very eyes, and she knew equally well that there was nothing she could do about it but boil in her own blood. Primus noticed also and took cruel amusement in letting her know.

  “The proconsul goes frequently to the haruspices to inquire of the gods,” he said into the stifling silence. “They’ll know if there’s been an outbreak of disease. At least you’ll know if what ails you is something that has been ordained by the gods.”