An Echo in the Darkness

by Francine Rivers

  “We heard you were back in Ephesus, but saw no sign of you,” one said.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself, Marcus?”

  “No doubt he’s been at his emporium poring over his ledgers to see how much money’s been made during his absence.” They all laughed.

  “I heard you went to Palestine.”

  “Palestine!” one exclaimed. “By the gods, why would anyone in their right mind go to that wretched country?”

  Their exuberant company grated rather than soothed Marcus’ nerves. He laughed with them, but his heart wasn’t in it. He felt as though he was back in Rome with Antigonus, wishing he was anywhere else. Was he the only one who had changed? Was he the only one who sensed the foul corruption eating away at the world?

  “You should come to the games tomorrow.”

  “I’m bringing Pilia with me.”

  “Ah, Pilia,” another groaned, rolling his eyes as though in ecstasy.

  The others laughed and made ribald remarks of how Pilia implanted herself upon the memory of any man with whom she spent a night, especially after the games.

  Marcus thought of Arria.

  He thought of his sister.

  He dove into the pool, thankful when the water closed over his head and shut out the sound of his friends’ voices. Friends? He didn’t know them anymore. He swam to the far end of the pool and lifted himself out. Striding between the pillars, he entered the calidarium, where he remained until the sweat was pouring from his body. Skipping the tepidarium, he dove into the frigidarium, thankful for the shock of cold water that drove all thought from his head.

  Only briefly.

  He submitted to a vigorous massage before leaving the club. He walked down the street, one more body among the impersonal chaos of the crowds that milled around near the Artemision. He stopped to look up at the temple. It was garishly beautiful, an immense monument to man’s engineering.

  With his acute mind, he saw it as the grandest money-making venture in Ephesus. Idol makers surrounded the massive complex, taking in money for crude statues of the goddess who supposedly inhabited the temple. Others raked in gold coin for sacrificial animals. Still others sold amulets and secret spells enclosed in expensive lockets. Incense was sold by the pinch and at prices to test a worshiper’s depth of faith. Prayers were bought.

  Inside were the temple prostitutes, male and female, at prices on a sliding scale—depending on the wealth of the man or woman who had come to pay proper homage to the goddess.

  Marcus shook his head sadly. How much did a priest charge these days for a blessing? How much for hope that would prove empty?

  Marcus looked down a street lined with inns that catered to those who had come far distances to see the temple and worship Artemis. Most came, worshiped, and departed, while others remained for months, delving into the volumes written by the priests on the sacred Ephesian letters carved into Artemis’ headpiece. Did anyone really know what they meant? Did they mean anything at all?

  He stood looking up at the Artemision. How many came to this building to find hope and went away in despair, their questions unanswered, their needs unfulfilled? How many felt the same aching emptiness and driving need he had felt for so long and were destined to remain that way to death and beyond?

  Suddenly, in the midst of his contemplation, he sensed someone staring at him. He turned. An Arab stood across the street. People milled around him, moving steadily toward the Artemision or entering the shop behind him. The man didn’t move, nor did he avert his gaze. Marcus felt warning in his stare and wondered at it. He didn’t recognize the man and so could not understand the intensity of his perusal. Then the Arab seemed to vanish among the throng of people.

  Perplexed, Marcus started walking again, trying to spot the man among the crowds moving to and from the Artemision. Had he entered an idol maker’s shop?

  Someone bumped him hard from the side, almost knocking him down. He lost his breath and stumbled, catching himself before falling. He swore, knowing it had been a deliberate action, perhaps intended as a way to strip him of his purse. He turned to see who had bumped him and saw the Arab again, moving quickly away in the direction of the Artemision. He mingled with the crowd so fast, Marcus couldn’t catch up.

  Shaking his head, Marcus turned back and went up Kuretes Street toward home.

  His side began to burn with pain. When he put his hand to it, he felt moisture. His eyes widened as he looked at his bloody hand, and he swore. Feeling the blood dripping down his side, he hurried his pace toward home. Wincing, he pushed the gate open and went up the steps. As soon as he entered the villa, he threw off his cape. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he went up the steps.

  Iulius came out of the Lady Phoebe’s bedchamber. “My lord!” he said in concern, seeing the blood staining Marcus’ tunic.

  “I was attacked,” Marcus said grimly, shaking off his support. “It’s nothing more than a cut.”

  At Iulius’ call, Lavinnia came running. “Get water and bandages. Lord Marcus has been attacked,” he said, following Marcus. “Move, girl. Quickly!”

  Hadassah came out of Julia’s bedchamber and watched Iulius help Marcus into his room. Alarmed, she followed, but when she appeared in his doorway, he waved her off angrily. “Tend to Julia. I’ll tend to myself.”

  She ignored him. Iulius immediately stepped back so she could see the wound. Marcus heard her soft gasp.

  “It’s nothing,” he said and gave a laugh as she swayed slightly. “Does the sight of blood bother you?”

  Only the sight of your blood, she wanted to say. “Not usually, my lord.” She came closer, trembling as she looked at the slash along his ribs. “How did this happen?”

  “An Arab, I think. God knows why.”

  She drew back as though stunned. Lavinnia arrived with a pan of water and bandages. He sucked in his breath as Hadassah began to cleanse the wound. “Let Iulius see to it,” he said, seeing how her hands shook. He laughed softly. “I think I know why you left that physician,” he said, amused.

  “A little lower and he might have struck a vital organ,” Iulius said, taking over.

  Feeling faint, Hadassah left the room.

  43

  Alexander knew something was wrong the moment Hadassah was ushered into his atrium. She was greatly agitated.

  “Where is Rashid?”

  “He’s not here,” he said, alarmed. “What’s happened?”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “Because an Arab attacked Marcus this evening, and I must know if it was him.”

  Alexander made no attempt to suggest it was someone other than Rashid. The Arab had made no secret that he thought Marcus Valerian was a threat to Hadassah’s life and should be killed. Rashid was nothing if not single-minded in his loyalty to Hadassah, whether she wanted it so or not.

  “He went to find out how Julia’s illness was progressing. . . .”

  “Progressing?” Hadassah said in dismay, knowing full well that Rashid wished for Julia’s swift demise.

  Alexander’s mouth tightened. “He learned from Prometheus that she had been taken to her brother’s villa. He also informed Rashid that you went with her.”

  “By my own choice. What is he thinking?”

  “He wouldn’t have done anything unless he saw Marcus Valerian as a threat to your life.”

  Alexander’s evasiveness only served to convince her. “Marcus is no threat to me. None of the Valerians are a threat to me.”

  “Rashid thinks otherwise.”

  “Then correct his thinking!”

  Alexander was surprised. “I’ve never heard you speak in that tone. Do you think I condone Rashid’s behavior? Don’t blame me for his bloodthirsty nature. You were the one who chose him from all those left on the temple steps. Remember?”

  “God chose him.”

  “Then it’s God who is directing his steps.”

  “God does not direct a man’s p
ath to murder!”

  Rashid entered the chamber, effectively silencing them both. As he threw off his cloak, Hadassah saw the hilt of a knife tucked expertly into his belt. Rashid’s face darkened, his eyes blazing. “Valerian?”

  She shuddered, her fears confirmed. “Alive, thank God,” Hadassah said.

  “Next time he will not be so fortunate,” Rashid said with dark promise.

  Hadassah came to him. “If you hold me in any esteem at all, Rashid, you will make no further attempts on Marcus’ life.”

  His face hardened.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Please, Rashid. I beg of you. I would rather God strike me dead now than that you take the life of another.”

  “I told you I would protect you, and I will.”

  “At what cost to me, Rashid?”

  “His blood be on my head, not yours.”

  “If you kill Marcus, it will cost my heart.”

  Rashid frowned, not understanding. “Your heart?”

  Alexander stood, staring at her. “You love him,” he said in amazement.

  “You love him?” Rashid said, astounded.

  “Yes, I love him,” she said softly. “Since before the arena. And afterward. For as long as I live.”

  Alexander turned away, pain washing over him at her fervent words.

  Rashid shook her hand off his arm and stepped away. He looked back at her, eyes dark with contempt. “Only a fool woman could love a man who tried to have her killed!”

  “I don’t know that Marcus had anything to do with it. It was Julia.”

  “The woman you now serve,” Rashid said in disdain.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How can you?” he demanded, filled with wrath at what had happened to her, and at her for not wanting retribution.

  “Christ loved us in the same way. While we were yet sinners, he died for us that we might be saved. How can I do less?”

  “Ah, then you speak of another kind of love.”

  “I speak of a woman’s love for a man as well, Rashid,” she said. “Please. Do nothing to harm Marcus Valerian.”

  Alexander stood on the far side of the room beneath the archway. “Do as Hadassah asks, Rashid,” he said tonelessly, looking out over the city. “Trust in God to take his own vengeance.”

  Rashid drew himself up, the blood of the warrior pounding in his veins. “Have you not said yourself that I was chosen to protect her?”

  Alexander turned. “You know as well as I that God has set his hand upon the mother and daughter. Be assured, Rashid. The son is in God’s hand as well.”

  Rashid stood silent, dark eyes enigmatic.

  Hadassah limped near again. “Please, my friend,” she whispered. “Give me your promise.”

  Rashid swept the veils up from her face and studied the terrible scars openly. “You plead mercy for those who did this to you?”

  She blushed. “Yes.”

  He let go of the veils as though they burned him. “You are a fool!”

  “That may be, but promise me anyway, Rashid. I know if you give me your word, you will never break it.”

  Her words of confidence and trust in him gave him pause. He glanced at Alexander and saw the rueful look on the physician’s face. Alexander thought he knew him better. Rashid’s face hardened as he looked down again at the diminutive woman who stood before him, crippled and scarred. Her eyes were clear, confident. Against his will, his heart softened. It didn’t seem to matter that he would never understand her. She understood him.

  “I promise to withhold my hand from him until he raises his against you.”

  Hadassah took his hand. “I wished for more, but will be content with that.” She smiled, her eyes softening with affection. “God will have his way with you, my friend.” She drew the veils down over her face again.

  Alexander gave her the herbs she needed to treat Marcus Valerian’s wound. He instructed her to cauterize the wound before applying a poultice and binding it. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “I know what to do.”

  He walked with her to the litter and lifted her in. “Take care,” he said, afraid for her. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her veiled cheek. When she released him, he drew the curtains closed and stepped back. The servants lifted her and bore her away. Alexander had never felt more lonely in his life.

  He found Rashid cleaning his knife. “Will you keep your word?”

  Rashid’s hand stilled. He lifted his head slowly and looked at him. Alexander felt chilled by the dark depths of those eyes. Without a word, Rashid returned to cleaning his knife.

  44

  “Where is she?” Julia said, distressed when Lavinnia came at her summons rather than Azar.

  “She left the house, my lady. She didn’t say where she was going.”

  “When will she return?”

  “She didn’t say, my lady.”

  “By the gods, do you know nothing at all? What’s happened that she would leave me?”

  “Your brother was attacked, my lady.”

  Julia’s eyes went wide. “Attacked?” She started to rise from her couch, but her head swam and she sank down again, a trembling hand to her forehead.

  “He will be all right, my lady. Do not distress yourself.”

  “How can I not be distressed? Who would dare attack my brother?”

  “He said it was an Arab, my lady.”

  “Did Marcus know him by name?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She wanted to go to Marcus to see for herself that he was all right, but she was too dizzy to do so. Even if she were able to go to him, he would not admit her to his chamber. “Azar said she wouldn’t leave me,” she said plaintively.

  “I’m sure she will return, my lady.” Lavinnia straightened the covers for her. “Perhaps she’s gone to the physician.”

  “A cool cloth,” Julia said. “My head aches.”

  Lavinnia dipped a clean cloth into the basin of water and wrung it before placing it gently over Julia’s forehead and eyes.

  “See what you can find out,” Julia said and waved her away.

  When Lavinnia didn’t return within a few minutes, Julia became restless and worried. She brushed the cloth aside and sat up slowly, clutching the edge of the sleeping couch until her head stopped spinning. Once it did, she rose and walked unsteadily to the doorway. The house was very quiet. Had Marcus’ wound been more serious than Lavinnia said? Had Marcus died?

  Julia went out into the open corridor. She leaned heavily against the wall. The marble was cold. She wished she had put on her wrap, but would not waste strength now to go back for it. She had to find out about Marcus.

  Sliding her hand along the wall, Julia walked shakily down the corridor toward Marcus’ chambers. She could hear voices. She reached the doorway and looked in. Iulius was leaning over the sleeping couch. She saw Marcus’ leg, half-raised. On the floor was a discarded tunic stained with blood.

  “How bad is it?” she said, her voice trembling. She gathered what strength she had and entered the room.

  Marcus saw Julia just inside his bedchamber doorway. Clearly, she had come from her bed, for she was dressed in a rumpled gown that did little to conceal her gaunt body. Tangles of dark hair framed a white face. She was trembling, whether from fear or weakness he didn’t know.

  Nor did he care.

  “Are you all right?” she said, staring at the blood-soaked bandage on his side.

  “I won’t die.”

  “I was afraid for you.” She swayed slightly, her thin white hand against her breasts. “Would you like me to sit with you awhile?”

  Marcus lay back on the couch. “See her to her room,” he said, refusing to respond to her tremulous request. Iulius went to her. Marcus had spoken loudly enough for her to hear, and she made no protest when he supported her as he took her from the room.

  Gritting his teeth, Marcus fought the rise of pity for her and remorse that he had turned her away s
o coldly. She was so wan and thin, as though she diminished each time he saw her. She had always prized her beauty. What must she feel now when she looked in a mirror and saw that gaunt, white face? Once, she would have taken pains to dress and have her hair braided and curled before leaving her room or receiving guests. Yet, tonight, she came straight from her sickbed to see what had happened to him.

  Iulius returned. He didn’t mention Lady Julia. Marcus started to ask, but sucked in his breath as the servant peeled the bloodsoaked bandage from his ribs. “The wound is still seeping, my lord.”

  “Wash it again with wine and then bind it. If I die, I die,” he said, annoyed.

  “Drink some wine, my lord,” Iulius said grimly, handing Marcus a full goblet. As Marcus propped himself up, the wound began to bleed again. He lay back once more, and Iulius soaked a cloth in the fine red vintage. Marcus’ body stiffened as the slave washed the wound and then bound it again. He gave Marcus another goblet of wine, noting that his eyes were dark and clouding.

  “Don’t look so worried, Iulius,” Marcus said drowsily. “Whatever liquid has seeped out, you’ve poured back in.” His body relaxed as he passed out. Iulius bent over him, unsure whether it was loss of blood or too much wine that had so affected him.

  Hadassah entered. Iulius hurried to her to take the small bundle she carried. “The wound still seeps, Lady Azar.”

  “Bring the brazier,” she said, taking the bundle from him as she reached the bed. Leaning down, she touched Marcus’ shoulder. He didn’t rouse. She laid a trembling hand against his chest and felt the slow, firm beat of his heart.

  Opening the bundle, she laid out the small packets of herbs and a cautery. She placed the end of it in the hot coals of the brazier. “We must seal the wound and pack it with herbs,” she told Iulius. “You will need to hold him still.”

  She took the cautery from the fire and drew the hot metal along the wound, searing it closed. Marcus groaned, rousing slightly, only to faint again. The smell of burning flesh nauseated Hadassah, but she reheated the cautery and finished the task.