A Voice in the Wind

by Francine Rivers

  Atretes told him.

  “You can purchase an amulet when we finish our devotions,” Sertes said and nodded toward several beautiful, richly garbed young women who moved in the cool shadows of the columned corridor. “Take your pick,” Sertes said. “The women are beautiful and skilled, the young men strong and vigorous. There’s no faster or better way to achieve connection with Artemis than by enjoying the many erotic pleasures she gives us.”

  Four years of brutality and being treated like a pampered animal had crushed the gentler side of Atretes. Without embarrassment, he looked over those soliciting and stared at a voluptuous girl dressed in veilings of red, black, and gold.

  “I’ll take her,” Atretes said, and Sertes gestured to her. She walked toward them, every step a movement of provocation. Her voice was low and husky. Two denarii, she said. Atretes handed her the coins and she took him down the steps, across the white marbled plain, and into the cool shadows of a brothel.

  He had found his goddess. And yet, long after he came back out into the sunlight, darkness lay heavy upon his soul.

  Hadassah thought the Valerians’ new home was even more beautiful than the villa in Rome. It was built on a slope facing out onto Kuretes Street, the most privileged section near the heart of Ephesus on the declivity of Mount Bulbul. Each house served as a covered terrace for the one next to it, offering a view of the beautiful city.

  The villa had three floors, each opening around a columned central peristyle that allowed sun and moonlight into the inner rooms. A well was in the center of the peristyle, paved round in white marble and decorated by mosaics. The inner chambers also had mosaic floors, and walls covered with appallingly erotic frescoes.

  Julia’s spirits rose the moment she saw them. Laughing, she spread her arms and turned about in her chamber. “Eros wearing a crown!” she said in delight. In the western corner was a statue of a man, naked except for a wreath of laurel leaves on his head. In one hand he held a bunch of grapes, in the other a goblet. Julia went to it and ran her hands over it. “Perhaps the gods will be kind to me after all,” she said, laughing as Hadassah turned her head away in embarrassment. “Jews are so prudish, it’s a wonder they beget so many children,” Julia said, taking pleasure in teasing her.

  The family gathered in the triclinium. Hadassah served the meal, all too aware of the licentious frescoes covering the three walls—Greek gods and goddesses in various amorous escapades.

  During the first weeks in Ephesus, Decimus seemed much improved in health. He even took Phoebe and Julia for carriage rides along the western slopes of Mount Panayir Dagi. Marcus went to the Valerian offices near the harbor to make certain that all of the arranged transfers of money had been conducted according to his specifications.

  Hadassah remained in the house with the other slaves, unpacking and tidying Julia’s possessions. When her duties were complete, she went out to explore the city an hour at a time; Julia wanted to know where jewelry and cloth shops were located. As Hadassah walked along the marble-paved streets, she passed one fane after another, all dedicated to one god or another. She saw baths, public buildings, a medical school, a library. She turned a corner, and there ahead of her, on a street lined by idol vendors, loomed the Artemision. Despite its amazing beauty, Hadassah felt her spirit recoil.

  Yet, curious, she approached and sat in a shady portico to watch people mill about the temple. Many who passed her carried small shrines and idols they had purchased. Hadassah shook her head in disbelief. Hundreds of people were going up and down the steps to worship a stone idol that was without life or power.

  The young Jewess felt an aching sadness and loneliness. She looked up at the beauty and immensity of the Artemision and felt small and helpless by comparison. She looked at the hundreds of worshipers and was afraid. Rome had been frightening enough, but something about Ephesus oppressed her spirit.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed. God, are you here in this place that is teeming with pagan worshipers? I need to feel your presence, but I don’t. I feel so alone. Help me find friends like Asyncritus and Trophimus and the others.

  She opened her eyes again, gazing at the crowds without really seeing them. She knew she should return to the villa, but the quiet voice within her bade her stay a few minutes longer. So she obeyed and waited. Her eyes casually scanned the milling people . . . then she frowned. She had glimpsed someone among a group of men—someone familiar—and her heart leaped. She rose and stood on tiptoe, peering intently. She had not been mistaken! Filled with joy, Hadassah ran, pressing her way through the crowd with a boldness she had never shown before. When she broke through the last followers, she cried out his name and he turned, his face alight with surprise and joy.

  “Hadassah!” cried John, the apostle, and opened his arms.

  Hadassah went into them weeping. “Praise be to God!” she said, clinging to him and feeling she was home for the first time since she had left Galilee five years before.

  Marcus returned early from meeting with solicitors and merchants. The house was cool and quiet. Brooding, he stood outside his bedchamber on the second floor and leaned against a column, staring down into the peristyle. A maid was at work scrubbing the tiles of the mosaic depicting a satyr in pursuit of a naked maiden. The girl looked up at him and smiled. She was new to the household, one of his father’s purchases upon their arrival. Marcus suspected his father had bought the girl in the hopes that her dusky beauty and full curves would distract him from his obsession with Hadassah.

  His father might as well have saved his money.

  Straightening, Marcus went back into his chamber to pour himself some wine. Taking a drink, he went out onto the terrace, looking below at the people thronging the street. With an uncanny sense of swift recognition, Marcus saw Hadassah weaving her way up Kuretes Street. Her hair was covered with the striped shawl she habitually wore, and she carried a basket of peaches and grapes on her hip; fruit to satisfy Julia’s whim while his own needs went unanswered. Hadassah lifted her head slightly, but if she saw him watching her, she gave no outward sign.

  Marcus frowned. She’d seemed different over the past few days. Elated. Full of joy. A few nights ago, he’d come in late and heard her singing to his father and mother, and her sweet voice had been so rich and pure it had made his heart ache. When he went in to sit with them, she’d been more beautiful to him than ever before.

  Leaning against the wall, Marcus watched Hadassah come up the street to the house. She glanced up once and then not again. She disappeared below him as she reached the entryway.

  His mood darkening, he went back inside the villa and stood in the coolness of the corridor on the second floor, listening for the door to open. Quiet voices murmured in the lower hall, then one of the kitchen servants crossed the peristyle with a basket of fruit. He waited.

  Hadassah came into the stream of sunlight below him. She removed the shawl that covered her hair, leaving it draped loosely back over her shoulders. Dipping her hands slowly into the basin of water, she pressed the moisture to her face. Odd how such an ordinary act could show her grace and simple dignity.

  The house was so quiet, Marcus heard her sigh.

  “Hadassah,” he said, and she stilled. His hand clenched the iron railing. “I want to talk to you,” he said rigidly. “Come upstairs to my chambers. Now.”

  He waited for her in the doorway of his chambers, sensing her reluctance to enter. When she did, he closed the door firmly behind her. She stood subservient, her back to him, waiting for him to speak. For all her seeming calm, he felt her tension like the cut of a knife. It hurt his pride that he had had to command her to come into his presence. He walked past her and stood between the columns to his terrace. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

  Turning slightly, he looked back at her. His own longing was mirrored in her eyes, mingled with confusion and fear. “Hadassah,” he breathed, and everything he felt for her was in her name. “I have waited—”

  �
�No,” she said in a soft cry and moved to flee.

  Marcus caught her before she could open the door. Forcing her around, he pressed her back against it. “Why do you fight your feelings? You love me.” He cupped her face.

  “Marcus, don’t!” she said in anguish.

  “Admit it,” he said and lowered his mouth to take hers. When she turned her head away, he pressed his mouth to the warm curve of her throat. She gasped and tried to struggle free.

  “You love me!” he said fiercely and this time captured her chin and lifted her face to him. He covered her mouth with his, kissing her with all the intense passion that had been growing in him for months. He drank of her like a man dying of thirst. Her body melted gradually into his, and he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Catching her up in his arms, he carried her across the room to his couch.

  “No!” she cried and began to struggle again.

  “Stop fighting me,” he said hoarsely. He saw the darkness of her eyes and the flush of her skin. “Stop fighting yourself.” He caught her wrists. “I left Rome to be with you. I’ve waited for you longer than I’ve ever waited for any woman.”

  “Marcus, don’t bring this sin upon yourself.”

  “‘Sin,’” he sneered and took her mouth again. She clutched at his tunic, half-pushing, half-clinging. She kept begging him to stop, and her pleas only made him more determined to prove her desire was no less than his own. She trembled beneath his touch, and he could feel the heat of her skin—but he also tasted the saltiness of tears.

  “God, help me!” she cried.

  “God,” he said, suddenly furious. All gentleness was forgotten in an explosion of frustration. “Yes, pray to a god. Pray to Venus. Pray to Eros that you might behave like a normal woman!” He felt the neckline of her tunic tear in his hand and heard her soft, frightened cry.

  Swearing, he suddenly drew back. Breathing heavily, he stared down at the damage he’d done, the ripped tunic still clenched in his hand. A coldness swept over him and he let go of it. “Hadassah,” he groaned, filled with self-loathing. “I didn’t mean—”

  He broke off, stunned into silence by the sight of her still, white face. Her eyes were closed and she was not moving. All the breath went out of him as he looked at her still form. “Hadassah!” Cradling her in his arms, he brushed the hair back from her face and laid his hand over her heart, terrified that her god had struck her dead to save her purity. But her heart beat against his palm, and relief flooded him—until it came to him with a sickening blow that he had been about to rape her.

  She began to rouse and, unable to face her, he laid her back on the couch and stood. He went to the decanter and poured wine, tossing it down his throat. It tasted like gall. Shaking violently, he looked back and saw her sitting up. Her face was ashen. He poured more wine and brought it back to her.

  “Drink this,” he said, pushing the goblet into her hand. She took it with unsteady hands. “It would seem your god wants you to remain a virgin,” he said, wincing inwardly at the callousness of his words. What was he becoming that he could rape the woman he loved? “Drink all of it,” he said bleakly and felt the tremor in her fingers as they brushed his. Full of remorse, he put his hands around hers and knelt in front of her.

  “I lost control . . . ,” he said, his voice choked with pain, knowing it was no excuse. She didn’t look at him, but tears slipped down her pale cheeks—a silent river of them—and his heart twisted. “Don’t cry. Hadassah, don’t cry. Please.” He sat beside her wanting to pull her into his arms, but afraid to. “I’m sorry,” he said, touching her hair. “Nothing happened. You needn’t cry.” The goblet dropped on the floor, splattering red wine like blood across the marble tiles. She covered her face, her shoulders shaking.

  Marcus rose and moved away from her, cursing himself. “My love is neither kind nor patient,” he said in self-condemnation. “I never meant to hurt you. I swear! I don’t know what happened. . . . I’ve never lost control like that before.”

  “You stopped,” she said.

  He glanced back at her, surprised she had even spoken to him. Her gaze was steady, despite the trembling in her body.

  “You stopped, and the Lord will bless you—”

  Her words roused a fury in him. “Don’t speak to me of your god! A curse upon him!” he said bitterly.

  “Don’t say that,” she whispered, her heart full of fear for him.

  He came back and forced her to look at him. “Is this love I have for you what you would call a blessing?” He saw his grip was hurting her and let her go. He moved a few feet away, fighting his emotions. “How is it a blessing to want you as I do and not be able to have you because of some ridiculous law? It’s unnatural to fight our basic instincts. Your god takes pleasure in inflicting pain.”

  “God wounds that he might heal.”

  “So you don’t deny it,” he said with a harsh laugh. “He plays games with people just like any other god.”

  “No games, Marcus. There is no other God but the Almighty God, and what he does, he does according to his good purpose.”

  He closed his eyes. Marcus. She blessed his name as she said it, and his rage evaporated—but not the frustration. “What good purpose can come from my love for you?” he asked hopelessly, looking at her. Her eyes shimmered with tears. He thought he would drown at the look of hope in her eyes.

  “It may be God’s way of unlocking your heart for him.”

  He stiffened. “For him?” He gave a harsh laugh. “I’d rather be dead than bow down to this god of yours.” He had never seen such a stricken look of hurt and sorrow on her face and was sorry he had spoken. He saw how he had ripped the seam of her slave dress with his hands and knew now that he had torn at her heart as well with his angry words. And as he looked into her eyes, he knew that in doing so he had torn himself apart.

  “I want to know what it is in you that makes you cling to this unseen god of yours. Tell me.”

  Hadassah looked up at him and knew she loved him as she would never love another. Why, God? Why this man who doesn’t understand? Why this man who willfully rejects you? Are you cruel, as Marcus says?

  “I don’t know, Marcus,” she said, deeply shaken. She still trembled with a strange, heavy longing for him and was afraid at how easy it would be to surrender to the sensations Marcus stirred in her. God had never made her feel this way.

  Oh, God, give me strength. I have none of my own. The way he looks at me makes me melt inside. He makes me weak.

  “Make me understand,” Marcus said, and she knew he would wait until she answered.

  “My father said the Lord chose his children before the foundation of the world, according to his kind intention.”

  “Kind intention? Is it kind to keep you from enjoying what’s natural? You love me, Hadassah. I saw it in your eyes when you looked at me. I felt it when I touched you. Your skin was so warm. You were trembling, and it wasn’t with fear. Is it kind that your god makes us suffer this way?”

  When he looked at her like that, she couldn’t think. She lowered her eyes.

  Marcus came to her and tipped her chin up. “You can’t answer, can you? You think this god of yours is everything. That he’s enough. I tell you he isn’t. Can he hold you, Hadassah? Can he touch you? Can he kiss you?” His hand spread gently against her cheek, and when he saw how her eyes closed, his pulse jumped. “Your skin is hot and your heart is pounding as fast as mine.” He looked into her eyes, beseeching her. “Does your god make you feel the way I do?”

  “Don’t do this to me,” she whispered and took his hand between both of hers. “Please don’t do this.”

  He knew he had hurt her again, but he didn’t know why. He couldn’t understand anything and it filled him with grief and frustration. How could someone so gentle, so fragile, be so unbending?

  “This god can’t even speak to you,” Marcus said raggedly.

  “He does speak to me,” she said softly.

  Marcus took his hand from hers. Search
ing her face, he saw she spoke the truth. Others had made such claims before: the gods said this, the gods said that. Whatever the gods said was to their own purpose. But now, as he looked into Hadassah’s eyes, he had no doubt—-and he was suddenly, inexplicably, afraid. “How? When?”

  “Do you remember the story I told once about Elijah and the Baal prophets?”

  He frowned slightly. “The man who called down fire from the heavens to burn his offering and then afterwards butchered two hundred priests?” He remembered. He had been amazed that Hadassah could tell such a bloody tale. He straightened and put distance between them. “What of it?”

  “After Elijah destroyed the priests, Queen Jezebel said she would do the same to him, and he ran away because he was afraid.”

  “Afraid of a woman?”

  “Not just any woman, Marcus. She was very evil and very powerful. Elijah ran away into the wilderness to hide from Jezebel. He asked God that he might die, but God sent an angel to minister to him instead. The food the angel of the Lord gave him enabled Elijah to travel forty days until he reached Horeb, the mountain of God. Elijah found a cave there and lived in it. It was then that the Lord came to him. A strong wind came and broke the rocks, but God wasn’t in the storm. Then an earthquake and a fire came, but the Lord was not in them, either. And then, as Elijah was protected in the cleft of a rock, he heard God speak.”

  She looked up at Marcus, and her eyes were soft and radiant, her face strangely aglow. “God spoke in a gentle whisper, Marcus. A still, small voice. A voice in the wind . . .”

  Marcus felt a strange tingling sensation down his spine. Defensive, his mouth curled. “A wind.”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “There’s a breeze today. If I stand outside on the terrace, could I hear the voice of this god of yours?”