A Voice in the Wind

by Francine Rivers

  Marcus assessed her and then nodded, proud of her. Father had said she was too weak for the games. He was wrong.

  Julia was a true daughter of Rome.

  Chapter 8

  Enoch knew he was at risk in what he had done. While his master had approved the purchase of seven slaves, he’d said nothing about buying Jews. Enoch had made that decision himself, despite the fact that he knew his master preferred Gauls and Britons. But having watched his people brought by the hundreds from Judea to Rome and sent into the arenas to die, Enoch couldn’t throw away the one opportunity he had to save even a few.

  All Jews suffered, not just those who were part of rebellion. The half-shekel previously collected from Roman Jews for the upkeep of the temple in Jerusalem was now collected to finance the building of a colossal amphitheater. Jewish slaves were carrying the stones, Jewish captives would be among the first to die on the sand, Jewish citizens paid the heaviest share of finance.

  Enoch struggled between rage and grief at what had become of his homeland and his people. Up until this morning he’d been helpless to do anything to save even one member of his race. Now, he had seven in his care. But he was afraid. Not one of them was suited for the hard labor that would be required on the estate. Even washed, shaved, and dressed in fresh tunics, they were pathetic and spiritless. Four hundred sesterces each, and not one was worth half that.

  He looked at the girl, wondering why he’d risked buying her at all. Of what possible use was she? Yet, one look in her eyes and he’d felt God’s hand on him, had heard a still, soft voice: Save this one. Enoch had purchased her without question, but now wondered and worried what his master would say. His master was expecting Gauls and Britons, and he was bringing back seven broken Jews, one a small girl with the eyes of a prophetess. Enoch prayed fervently for God’s protection.

  Opening the lock to the western gate, Enoch brought the seven slaves within the high walls of his owner’s property. He led them along the pathway and into the back of the house. Lining the seven up in the receiving room, where his master doled out pensions each morning, he gave them instructions to stand straight and silent, to keep their eyes downcast, to speak only if the master directed a question at them personally.

  “You’ll wait here while I speak with the master. Pray he will accept each of you. Decimus Vindacius Valerian is kind for a Roman, and if he agrees to your purchase, you’ll be well treated. May the God of our fathers protect us all.”

  Decimus was with his wife in the peristyle, where she twirled a daisy between her graceful fingers and listened to her husband. Enoch thought his master looked drawn and in poor humor, but taking in a deep breath and gathering his courage, he approached them. He waited for his master to acknowledge his presence and nod permission to speak.

  “My lord,” he said, “I’ve returned with seven slaves for your inspection.”

  “Gauls?”

  “No, my lord. None were available. Nor were there any Britons.” He hoped the lie wouldn’t bloom on his face. “They’re from Judea, my lord,” he said and saw his master’s mouth tighten into a hard line.

  “Jews are the most treacherous race in the Empire, and you would bring seven into my house?”

  “Enoch is a Jew,” Phoebe said with a smile, “and he has served us faithfully for fifteen years.”

  Enoch thanked God she was present.

  “In this, he has served himself,” Decimus said, staring coldly at his overseer. If the slave thought to defend himself, he changed his mind and remained silent. “Are these slaves suited for hard labor?”

  “No, my lord,” he said truthfully, “but with food and rest they will be.”

  “I have neither the time nor inclination to pamper rebels.”

  The Roman’s wife touched her husband’s arm. “Decimus, would you fault a man for compassion?” she asked softly. “They are his people. Enoch has served us loyally. At least let us look at them and see if they are suitable for our purposes.”

  They weren’t. “By the gods,” Decimus said under his breath. He’d seen many captives from many nations, but none so pathetic as these weak, despondent, and spiritless survivors of the destruction of Jerusalem.

  “Oh,” Phoebe said, her gentle heart touched with pity.

  “They were bound for the arena, my lord, but I swear by my God, they’ll serve you as I have served you,” Enoch said.

  “She’s little more than Julia’s age,” Phoebe said, her attention all on the young girl whose eyes were dark with suffering and a knowledge of things unspoken. “The girl, Decimus,” Phoebe said quietly. “Whatever you decide about the others, I want her.”

  He frowned slightly and looked down at his wife. “For what purpose?”

  “To serve Julia.”

  “Julia? She’s not suitable for Julia.”

  “Trust me in this, Decimus. Please. This girl will do very well for Julia.”

  Decimus looked at the girl again, studying her more closely and wondering what it was about her that made his wife take her after rejecting so many others. Phoebe had been searching for a maid for their daughter for some time. Dozens of slave girls had been presented, but none had been what Phoebe wanted. And now, without the least hesitation, she selected an emaciated young Jewess who was ugly beyond words and probably the daughter of a murderous zealot.

  Marcus and Julia entered the courtyard, laughing and in high spirits. They quieted when they saw the slaves. Marcus looked the seven over with distaste. “Jews newly arrived from Judea?” he said in surprise. “What’re they doing here?”

  “I need slaves for the estate.”

  “I thought you preferred Gauls and Britons?”

  Decimus ignored him and told Enoch to have the six men sent to the estate in Apennines. “The girl will remain here.”

  “You actually bought them?” Marcus said, stunned. “Even her?” he said flicking a derisive glance at the girl. “I’ve never known you to waste money, Father.”

  “The girl will serve Julia,” Phoebe said again.

  Julia looked from her mother to the girl and back again. “Oh, Mother, you can’t mean it. She’s terribly ugly. I don’t want an ugly slave to serve me! I want a servant like Olympia’s!”

  “You’ll have no such thing. Olympia’s slave may be beautiful, but she’s arrogant and deceitful. A slave like her can’t be trusted.”

  “Then Bithia! Why can’t Bithia serve me?”

  “Bithia won’t do for you,” Phoebe said firmly.

  Marcus smiled wryly. He knew very well why his mother wouldn’t have Bithia serve Julia and he suspected he knew her reasons for purchasing this particular slave as well. His mouth curved without humor. Jewish morality didn’t amuse him, but a slave to watch over and protect his sister would be good.

  “What’s your name, child?” Phoebe said gently.

  “Hadassah, my lady,” she said quietly, shamed by the young Roman’s derisive perusal and the whining protest of the young girl. Her life hung in the balance of their conversation. She clasped her hands in front of her and kept her eyes downcast, all too aware that if the lady of the house weakened and had her returned to the slave market, she’d die in the arena.

  “Just look at her,” Julia said in disgust. “Her hair is cut like a boy’s and she’s so thin!”

  “Proper food will put weight on her and her hair will grow back,” Phoebe said calmly.

  “It’s not fair, Mother. I should be able to choose my own personal maid. Octavia chose hers. She has a very exotic Ethiopian whose father was a tribal chieftain.”

  Marcus laughed. “Tell fair Octavia this one is related to Princess Berenice.”

  Julia sniffed. “She would never believe it. One look at that girl and Octavia would know she couldn’t be related to the woman who captured Titus’ heart.”

  “Then tell her your slave is the daughter of a high priest. Or say she was born a prophetess for her unseen god and has powers to foretell the future.”

  Hadassah stole a
glance at the mocking young Roman. He was very handsome; his dark hair was cut short and curled slightly on his brow. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he was dressed in a white tunic with an intricately worked leather-and-gold belt. The leather straps of his expensive sandals wove securely around strongly muscled calves. His hands were strong and beautifully made, their only adornment a gold seal ring on his first finger. Every inch of him bespoke an arrogance of breeding and affluence.

  In contrast to the young man’s physical strength, his sister was delicate. Hadassah was charmed by her ethereal beauty. Even complaining, the girl’s voice was cultured and dulcet, and the angry flush in her cheeks merely added color to her pale skin. She wore a pale blue toga with gold trim. The weight of her dark hair was piled in curls on her head and was held in place by gold-and-pearl prongs that matched her earrings. Around her neck was a heavy pendant of a pagan goddess.

  Marcus noticed the slave girl’s study of his sister. He saw no bitterness or enmity in her expression, rather an awed fascination. She watched Julia as though his sister was a beautiful creature never seen before. Marcus was secretly amused and thought perhaps his mother was right after all. For all the ravages of a Judean holocaust the girl had survived, there was a sweetness in her face, a gentleness that might soothe Julia’s wild and restless spirit.

  “Keep her, Julia,” he said, knowing a word from him would sway his sister more quickly than anything his mother and father might say.

  “Do you really think I should?” Julia said in surprise.

  “She has some mysterious quality about her,” he said, keeping a straight face. He could feel his father’s ire. He kissed Julia and his mother as he took his leave.

  As his mocking eyes grazed her, Hadassah’s heart lurched. She was relieved when he departed. At his word, the girl capitulated, studying her more closely and bringing hot color into Hadassah’s pale cheeks.

  “I’ll keep her,” Julia said grandly. “Come with me, girl.”

  “Her name is Hadassah, Julia,” Phoebe said softly in reproof.

  “Hadassah, then. Come with me,” Julia said imperiously.

  Hadassah followed obediently, taking in the wonders of the great house. The floors were brightly tiled mosaic, the walls of marble. Grecian urns were placed beside the doorways, and Babylonian curtains hung on the walls. They crossed an open court lush with flowering shrubs and plants and adorned by marble statues. The soothing sound of water running in a fountain was close by. Hadassah blushed hotly as she saw the statue of a nude woman standing in the midst of the small pool.

  Her mistress led her into a chamber strewn with garments. “All those things need to be put away,” Julia said as she reclined on a bed.

  Hadassah set to work, gathering togas and tunics and shawls from the floor and low stool. She felt her mistress watching her as she worked, and she folded the garments carefully before putting them away.

  “Jerusalem is said to be a holy city,” Julia said.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Is anything left of it?”

  Hadassah straightened slowly and smoothed a soft tunic over her arm. “Very little, my lady,” she said quietly.

  Julia looked into the girl’s dark eyes. Slaves didn’t usually look their mistresses in the face, but Julia felt no offense that this girl did. Perhaps she didn’t know any better. “My father was in Jerusalem once many years ago,” she said. “He saw your temple. He said it was very beautiful. Oh, not as beautiful as the temple of Artemis in Ephesus, of course, but a marvel to see nonetheless. It is unfortunate that it’s gone!”

  Hadassah turned away and began to straighten the vials and cups on the vanity.

  “What became of your family, Hadassah?”

  “They’re all dead, my lady.”

  “Were they zealots?”

  “My father was a humble merchant from Galilee. We were in Jerusalem for Passover.”

  “What is Passover?”

  Hadassah told how God had taken the firstborn of all the Egyptians because Pharaoh wouldn’t let Moses and his people go, but God had passed over all the Israelites. Julia listened and then drew the prongs from her hair.

  “If your god is so powerful, why did he not intervene and save your people this time?”

  “Because they rejected him.”

  Julia frowned, not understanding. “Jews are very strange,” she said and dismissed the subject with an indifferent shrug. She turned away and shook her hair loose about her shoulders. She raked her fingers into it, loving the feel of its softness. She had beautiful hair. Marcus said so. “It’s ridiculous to believe in something you cannot see,” she said and picked up a tortoise shell comb. She worked it through her luxuriant black hair and forgot about the slave girl.

  When would Marcus take her to the games again? She had loved watching them today and wanted to go again as soon as possible.

  “What would you have me do now, mistress?”

  Julia blinked, annoyed with the interruption of her sweet thoughts. She glanced at the wretched girl and then around at the room. Everything was put neatly away. Even the bedcovers were smoothed, the cushions arranged. “Do my hair,” she said and saw the girl pale as she held out the comb to her. “You do know how to arrange hair, don’t you?”

  “I-I can braid your hair, mistress,” the girl stammered.

  “I don’t know why Mother bought you. What use are you to me if you can’t even arrange my hair?” She tossed the comb at the girl in vexation and stormed to the door. “Bithia! Bithia! Come here at once.”

  The Egyptian girl hurried into the room, a closed look in her eyes. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Teach this imbecile to arrange hair. As I am stuck with her, she must at least learn how to carry out her duties.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “She can braid,” Julia said with enough sarcasm to cut to the quick. Hadassah watched the Egyptian girl work expertly. She thought the arrangement wonderful, but her mistress was not satisfied. “Do it again.” After the second time, Julia yanked the golden pins from her hair and shook her head angrily. “It’s worse than before. Go away! You’re worse than this imbecile.” Tears of emotion filled her dark eyes. “It’s not fair I don’t get to choose my own maid!”

  “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen, my lady,” Hadassah said sincerely.

  “And no wonder, considering what they’ve done to yours,” Julia said bitingly, thinking the girl only meant to flatter her. She glared at her. The young Jewess looked hurt and lowered her eyes. Julia frowned, feeling a twinge of regret at her harshness. The girl made her uncomfortable. She looked away. “Come over here. I want a maid who can arrange my hair like Arria, my brother’s mistress, and you’re going to learn how, starting now!”

  Shocked and blushing at her young mistress’s careless words, Hadassah took the comb in shaking fingers and did exactly as she was told.

  They went to the bathing room and Julia ordered scents stirred into the tepid water. “I’m so bored,” Julia said. “Do you know any stories?”

  “Only those from my people,” Hadassah said.

  “Tell me one then,” Julia said, desperate for any entertainment within the confines of her mundane life. She leaned her head back against the marble and listened to the girl’s quiet, thickly accented voice.

  Hadassah told the story of Jonah and the whale. It seemed to bore her mistress and so, when she finished it, she told of the young shepherd boy David fighting the giant Goliath. That one pleased her mistress far more. “Was he handsome? I like that story,” she said. “It’ll amuse Octavia.”

  Hadassah sought to please her young mistress, but it was difficult. The girl was consumed with herself, worrying over her hair, her skin, her clothing, and Hadassah knew nothing about the refined tending of such things. Out of necessity, though, she learned quickly. She had only heard of scented oils and paints used to enhance a woman’s beauty, she had never seen them used. It fascinated her to watch Julia rub scented oil in
to her pale skin. She arranged and rearranged her mistress’s hair until Julia tired of sitting. Nothing was ever exactly the way she wanted it.

  When the family gathered in the triclinium for their meals, Hadassah stood by Julia’s couch, replenishing her goblet with watered wine and holding a bowl of warm water and a towel for Julia to rinse and dry her fingers. The conversation moved from politics to festivals and on to business. Hadassah stood silent and still, listening with avid interest, though she was careful not to show it.

  The Valerians fascinated her with their heated discussions and obvious differences of opinion. Decimus was dogmatic and rigid, growing angry easily with his son, who agreed with him about nothing. Julia teased and provoked. Phoebe was the peacemaker. She reminded Hadassah of her own mother: quiet, unassuming, but with a strength that pulled the family together again when the discussions became too heated.

  Later on, Octavia came to call. “She’s so ugly,” Octavia said, looking at Hadassah with distaste. “Why ever did your mother choose her for you?”

  Julia’s pride was stung and she tipped her chin. “She is ugly, but she tells wonderful stories. Come here, Hadassah. Tell Octavia about King David and his mighty men. Oh, and tell her about the man with six fingers.”

  Hadassah obeyed, blushing with shyness.

  “She knows others, as well,” Julia said when she finished. “She told me about a tower of babble that explains where all the languages came from. Utterly ridiculous, of course, but amusing.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something,” Octavia conceded. “My maid speaks only rudimentary Greek.” She and Julia walked arm in arm along the pathways. They sat on a bench near a statue of a nude Apollo. Hadassah remained close by in attendance while the two young women leaned together, whispering and laughing. Octavia’s beautiful Ethiopian said not a word, but every now and then her haughty eyes would rest with dark loathing on Octavia.

  As she listened, Hadassah was embarrassed by Octavia’s free talk. However, she was even more distressed over Julia’s rapt attention and clear desire to absorb every word and idea the girl had to offer.