His name was splashed across walls all over the city. Flowers and coin were thrown down to him before and after he fought, and gifts from amoratae poured into the ludus daily. He couldn’t appear anywhere outside the ludus without a dozen trained guards around him. Visits to Pugnax’s inn were no longer allowed because of the riots they caused. His mere presence at a feast often made women faint. When he was on the sand, his name was shouted over and over by thousands until it sounded like the deep pulsing heartbeat of a primeval beast.
Only in his dreams did he have the vague memory of what it was like to be a free man in the forests, to know the tenderness of his woman, to hear the free laughter of children. His humanity was slowly being taken from him each time he faced an opponent and won.
Atretes looked at his hands. They were powerful and callused from hours of practice with a weighted sword . . . and they were weighted even more by the blood on them. He remembered Caleb’s face as he waited without fear for the killing stroke as the blood-maddened mob screamed, “Jugula!” Sweat had poured down Atretes’ forehead into his eyes. Or had it been tears?
“Free me, my friend,” Caleb had said, swaying from loss of blood. He had placed his hands on Atretes’ thighs and tipped his head back. When Atretes made the stroke, the mob rose with exultant screams.
Atretes opened his eyes, trying to obliterate the memory, but it remained, like a cancer eating at his soul.
Now the door was unbolted and he filed out into the courtyard for exercises. He gained some relief from the activity, concentrating on the rigorous physical training.
Bato stood on the balcony, guests of the ludus with him. It was not uncommon for visitors to view the gladiators during training sessions. Some came to buy, others to watch. Atretes paid them no attention until two young women appeared beside Bato. He recognized Octavia immediately, for she was frequently at the feasts given before the games and was known to have a passion for any gladiator willing to give her a second look. It was the other girl who attracted his attention. She was dressed in a blue palus with yellow-and-red trim. She was young and very beautiful, with pale skin and dark hair and eyes.
He tried to focus his attention entirely on his training, but he could feel the girl staring at him so intently it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. A woman with dark hair and eyes . . . His mother’s words in the dream. He glanced up at her again. Octavia was whispering to her, but her attention was so fixed on him that she seemed not to be listening. She was Roman, and his mother’s prophecy came to him like a blow.
What decent woman would come to a ludus? Was she, like Octavia, inflamed by lust for men who drew blood? His mind cried out against her even as he found himself attracted to her.
She stood like a goddess above him, uncaring and untouchable. Desire and anger filled Atretes. He stopped his practice. Turning, he faced her boldly, his eyes meeting hers. Raising one eyebrow, he held her gaze, then, mockingly, held out a hand to her. His meaning was clear, but rather than laugh and call down encouragement as Octavia did, the girl in blue put a hand to her heart and drew back in embarrassment. Bato spoke to the two women and they turned away and went inside the main building.
Bato joined Atretes in the baths. “Octavia was delighted that you noticed her today,” he said, leaning against a stone pillar, one towel wrapped around his waist, another slung over his powerful shoulder.
“The gesture was not meant for her,” Atretes said, coming out of the water and taking a towel from a shelf.
“The Lady Julia is beautiful enough to make a man forget himself and his hatred of Rome,” Bato said with wry humor.
A muscle tightened in Atretes’ cheek, but he made no answer.
“She’s married to Caius Polonius Urbanus, a man who hovers on the edge of high circles. I’ve heard he has a questionable bloodline and even more questionable character. His fortune came through her. Her first husband was old and died within months of their marriage. Her father relinquished his rights to her inheritance and turned the management over to his son, Marcus, a shrewd investor, but now Urbanus is said to be donating her fortune to the chariot races.”
Atretes pulled a fresh tunic over his head and glowered at him as he tied a belt around his waist. “Why regale me with the lady’s private life?”
“Because it’s the first time I’ve seen a woman turn your head. A Roman woman.” He straightened and smiled sardonically. “Don’t let it dismay you, Atretes. Her father is an Ephesian who bought his citizenship with gold and influence.”
He dreamed of his mother again that night and, as she prophesied, it was the Lady Julia in blue who came to him through the mists of the black forest.
Hadassah returned to the marketplace, seeking out a particular stall she had visited yesterday with her mistress. The Roman proprietor sold fruit, and Julia had purchased grapes to eat on her walk to the temple of Hera. Hadassah had noticed a small symbol carved in the counter. She had traced the fish and looked up. The proprietor had looked straight into her eyes and nodded once as he continued his bargaining with Julia. Hadassah had felt a surge of joyous hope swell within her.
Eager to return to the stall, she wove her way among the throng of people. When she found it, she stood aside while the merchant sold apples to a Greek servant. “I will have plums for you tomorrow, Callistus.”
“At a better price than last week, I hope, Trophimus.”
Trophimus waved him off good-naturedly and smiled at her. “Have you returned for more grapes for your mistress?”
She hesitated, searching his eyes. Had she misunderstood yesterday? He waited without pressing her further. She looked at the counter and didn’t see the sign. Then, moving a basket of figs to one side, she found it. She glanced up at him and traced the small carving of the fish. Her heart pounding, she whispered, “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.”
Warmth filled his expression. “Jesus is Lord,” he said and put his hand over hers. “I knew the moment you came yesterday that you were of the body.”
She let out her breath, the rush of relief so great it almost overwhelmed her. Tears filled her eyes. “Praise God. It has been so long . . .”
Trophimus glanced around and then leaned closer. He told her the place and time believers gathered together each night. “Knock once, wait, and then three times. The door will be opened to you. Your name?”
“Hadassah, slave of Julia Valerian, wife of Caius Polonius Urbanus.”
“Hadassah. I will tell our brothers and sisters to expect you.” Filled with joy and anticipation, Hadassah returned to the villa in renewed spirits. Julia always went out, leaving her free to pray in the garden. Tonight, she would worship among friends.
Late in the afternoon, Caius entered Julia’s chambers as Hadassah helped her prepare to go out for the evening. A heated argument began.
“If you’ve time enough to spare Octavia, you can spare me a few hours of your precious time tonight!” Caius said. “Anicetus will be insulted if you don’t attend his birthday celebration.”
Julia sat before her mirror watching Hadassah arrange her hair, pretending indifference to her husband’s anger. Only the rigidness of her back acknowledged his demands.
“I don’t care if Anicetus is insulted,” she said. “Make whatever excuse you like, Caius. Calabah has invited me to attend a play.”
“To Hades with Calabah!” he said, furious. “I have asked very little of you lately. I need you tonight.”
Julia met his gaze in her mirror. “You need me? How exquisite.” Fueled by information agents had brought her only that afternoon, Julia turned slowly, hands folded lightly in her lap. Let him beg. “Why tonight, Caius?” she said, daring him to tell her the truth. She knew why he needed her at the feast. She wondered if he had the audacity to admit it himself.
“Anicetus admires you,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “He’s a business associate of mine. It wouldn’t harm you to offer him a smile or occasional harmless flirtation.” He poured himself some wine.
She smiled faintly, enjoying his torment. It wasn’t her fault he was such a fool. Let him boil in his own blood. “I’ll not have that foul cretin pawing me because you owe him money.”
Caius turned and stared at her. “You’ve been spying on me.” His hand whitened on the goblet. “Calabah’s suggestion, my sweet?” he said dryly.
“I’ve a mind of my own, Caius. It was a simple matter to learn what was going on.” She gave a mocking laugh. “Your lack of luck at the races has become legend. It seems everyone in Rome knew of your losses. Everyone but me, that is.” Her voice rose. “You’ve gone through two hundred thousand sesterces of my money in less than a year!”
Caius set the goblet down slowly. “Leave us,” he ordered Hadassah in a tone full of venom. As she started for the door, Julia spoke. “And if I don’t wish her to go?”
“Then let her stay and see what I do to her.”
Julia gestured for her to leave. “Wait in the corridor. I’ll summon you in a few minutes.”
“Yes, my lady.” Hadassah closed the door quietly behind her, thankful Julia hadn’t tested Urbanus’ patience any further. She doubted her mistress knew the level of his brutality. Their angry voices could be heard clearly in the corridor.
“Seeing as you are so well informed, Julia, you’ll understand why it’s paramount for you to attend this evening!”
“Let Anicetus have his pound of flesh, Caius. Your heart might weigh that much!”
“You will attend tonight whether you like it or not. Now go get ready!”
“I will not!” Julia stormed in response. “Take one of your other women if you are so eager for someone to take to Anicetus’ feast. Or even another man if you so prefer. I do not care what you do! But I will go nowhere with you, tonight or any other night!”
Glass shattered and Julia screamed in rage. “How dare you break my things!”
She cried out again, this time in pain. Caius spoke again, his tone dripping with mockery, taunting her. Her response was full of defiance. She cried out again.
Biting her lip, Hadassah clenched her hands, feeling helpless, wanting to flee their madness.
Urbanus spoke again, low and cold this time. More glass shattered, and then the door burst open and he stormed out, his face livid with rage. He grabbed Hadassah and flung her toward the open door. “See that your mistress is ready to leave in an hour or I’ll have the skin flogged off of your back.”
Hadassah hurried into the room, afraid of what he had done to Julia. “My lady . . . ”
Julia was sitting with amazing calm on the end of the big bed she had shared with Caius during the first months of their marriage. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“My lady, are you all right? Your mouth . . . you’re bleeding.”
Julia raised shaking fingers to her lips and dabbed at the blood. She stared at it. “I hate him,” she said with a chilling intensity. “I wish he were dead!” She clenched her fist, staring darkly into space. “May the gods curse his black heart.”
Hadassah was horrified at such words, almost as horrified as she was by the look in Julia’s eyes. “I’ll get you water.”
“Get me nothing!” Julia said fiercely, rising to her feet. “Just be silent and let me think!” Face white and rigid, she began to pace. “He’s not going to get away with treating me like this.” She waved her hand impatiently. “Go and have a message sent to Calabah that I can’t attend the play with her this evening. I’ll visit her tomorrow and explain everything.”
When Hadassah returned, Julia was standing at her cosmetics table, running her fingers along the colored glass pots. More than half lay shattered on the floor, along with expensive amphoras of scented oils. Julia looked at the destruction in silence, her eyes burning with a fierce anger. She looked over what remained and picked up one.
“Anicetus finds me desirable,” she said, her knuckles whitening on the small pot. “Caius used to be jealous at the way he stared at me. He used to say if Anicetus ever so much as touched my hand, he would slit his throat.” She ran her fingertip around the rim of the pot, a faint smile curving her mouth. “Bring me the red palus with gold-and-jeweled trim. Caius says I look like a goddess when I wear it for him, and I will look like a goddess this evening. Bring me the gold brooch he gave me as a wedding present.”
“What do you mean to do, my lady?” Hadassah said, afraid for her.
She dipped her finger into the pot of red. “Caius wants me to be charming and beautiful this evening,” she said and ran the rich, sensual color along her full lower lip. She pressed her lips together and looked at her reflection. “I’m going to give him what he wants, and more.”
By the time Caius came back, Julia was more dazzling than Hadassah had ever seen her. When Caius saw her, his mood changed. He looked her over with unconcealed admiration. “So you’ve decided to help me as a wife should,” he said, sliding his hand down her arm.
Julia turned before him coquettishly. “Do you think Anicetus will approve?”
“He will be panting at your heels.” He caught hold of her and kissed her. “Had we time, I’d keep you here with me all night . . .”
“As you used to,” Julia purred and then turned her face away when he tried to kiss her. “You’ll smear my makeup.”
“Later. We’ll put in an appearance, charm Anicetus out of his foul mood, and come home.”
She kissed him lightly on the throat. The mark of her lips was like a slash of blood. Moving out of his arms, she stood for Hadassah to rearrange the folds of her veils and clasp the gold broach securely. Hadassah looked into her eyes and again felt a stab of fear for her. Surely she knew whatever vengeance she planned on Urbanus would rebound on her.
Praying under her breath, Hadassah watched them go down the stairs. She returned to Julia’s chambers. She swept up and discarded the shattered amphoras. Opening the doors into the peristyle, she aired the room while washing the scented oils from the marble floor. When her work was done, she draped her shawl over her hair and went out into the night to find the house where believers in Jesus gathered.
The streets of Rome were like a maze, made even more confusing by the darkness. She knew many of the streets well since her sojourns to the marketplace for Julia were frequent. She found the house without much difficulty. Ironically, it was not far from the temple of Mars, Rome’s god of war.
She knocked once, waited, and then knocked three times. The door opened. “Your name, please.”
“Hadassah, slave of Julia Valerian, wife of Caius Polonius Urbanus.”
The woman smiled and opened the door for her to come in. “You are welcome. Trophimus is here with his family. He said to expect you. Come.” She ushered her into a room crowded with people of all ages and social stations. Hadassah saw the merchant among them. Smiling, he came to her, took her firmly by the shoulders, and kissed her on both cheeks in greeting. “Sit with my wife and me, little sister,” he said. He took her arm and led her between other curious guests to his family. “Eunice, this is the girl I told you about.” Eunice smiled and kissed her in greeting. “Brothers and sisters,” he addressed those assembled, “this is Hadassah, of whom I spoke.”
Others greeted her. Geta, Basemath, Fulvia, Callistus, Asyncritus, Lydia, Phlegon, Ahikam . . . their names ran together. Hadassah felt embraced by their love.
Asyncritus took control of the gathering. “Silence please, brothers and sisters. Our time together is brief. Let us begin by singing praises to our Lord.”
Hadassah closed her eyes, letting the music and words of a hymn she had never heard wash over her and renew her. It spoke of hardship and faith, of God’s deliverance from evil. She felt revived and far removed from the troubled lives of Decimus and Phoebe, Marcus and Julia. Caught in the mire of gods and goddesses, in the quest for happiness and the satiation of their own ambitions, they were dying. Here, in this small, modest room, among these people, Hadassah felt the presence of God’s peace.
Hadassah saw
freemen among slaves, rich sitting beside the poor, the old with small children on their lap, all raising their voices in harmony. She smiled and wanted to laugh with joy. Her heart was so full, her sense of homecoming so powerful, she could only rejoice.
One hymn among the many was familiar to her, a beloved psalm of David that she had sung often to Decimus and Phoebe during her brief time as their servant. Eyes closed, hands open with palms up in offering to God, she sang from her heart, unaware of others around her stopping to listen. Only when she finished did she realize. Blushing, she lowered her head, embarrassed that she had drawn attention to herself.
“God has blessed us with a sister who can sing,” Trophimus announced in good humor, and others laughed. Eunice took her hand and squeezed it gently.
Asyncritus spread his hands, “Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!” he said with a great gladness, and the others joined in, “Serve the Lord with gladness; come before His presence with singing. Know that the Lord, He is God; it is He who has made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture . . . ”
Hadassah raised her head again and spoke the well-remembered words of David’s psalm, “Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise. Be thankful to Him, and bless His name. For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting, and His truth endures to all generations.”
A worn scroll was unrolled by an elder. “We will continue our reading of Matthew’s memoirs tonight.” Hadassah had never heard the memoirs of the apostles before, for she had been reared on the Jewish Scriptures and her father’s memory of Jesus’ teachings. To hear the written words of Matthew, who had walked for three years with the Lord, made her tremble. She drank in the Word and took sustenance from it.
After the reading, the scroll was rolled again and placed carefully in the hands of another elder. Unleavened bread and a cup of wine were passed among those gathered. Christ’s words were whispered over and over as each partook of and passed the Communion feast from hand to hand. “This is my body . . . This is my blood . . . Take and eat in remembrance of me. . . .” When all had been served, they sang a solemn hymn of the redeeming love of Christ, the deliverer.
A Voice in the Wind Page 37
