A storm blew the ship off course and renewed Julia’s seasickness. She moaned with every dip of the vessel, cursing when her stomach lurched and emptied. Her sleep was fitful at best and filled with nightmares. Listless and pale, she complained constantly when awake.
It was cold and damp in the small cabin. Hadassah tried to keep Julia warm by covering her with heavy woven blankets. Shivering herself, she soothed her mistress.
“The gods are punishing me,” Julia said. “I’m going to die. I know I’m going to die.”
“You won’t die, my lady.” Hadassah stroked the limp hair back from Julia’s pale brow. “The storm will pass. Try to sleep.”
“How can I sleep? I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to dream. Sing to me. Make me forget.” When Hadassah obeyed, Julia cried out, “Not that one! It hurts me. I don’t want to hear songs about your stupid god and how he sees and knows everything! Sing something else. Sing something to amuse me! Something about the affairs of the gods and goddesses. Ballads. Anything.”
“I don’t know any songs such as those,” Hadassah said.
Julia wept bitterly. “Then go away and leave me alone!”
“My lady . . . ,” Hadassah said, wanting to comfort her.
“Get out, I tell you,” Julia screamed. “Get out! Get out!”
Hadassah went quickly. She sat in the tight, dark corridor, the cold wind seeping in from above. Pulling her knees up against her chest, she tried to keep warm. She prayed. After a long while, she dozed to the dip and sway of the ship. She dreamed of the galley slaves moving back and forth in unison to the pounding of the drum. Dip, swoosh, lift, dip, swoosh, lift. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Marcus almost tripped over her as he came down from helping the sailors. He hunkered down and touched her face. Her skin was icy. He swore softly and smoothed the tendrils of dark hair back from Hadassah’s forehead. How long had she been sitting in the corridor with the wind blasting down from above? She didn’t awaken as he lifted her in his arms and made his way to his cabin.
He laid her down carefully on his sea bunk and covered her with fur blankets from Germania. He brushed the dark strands of wet hair back from her pale face. “Is this the way your god of love takes care of his own?”
He sat on the edge of the bunk and watched her sleep, an aching tenderness welling up inside and choking him. He wanted to hold and protect her—and he didn’t welcome those feelings. Better the fierce passion he had felt for Arria, passion that burned hot and then went cold . . . better that than these new and disquieting feelings he had for Hadassah. They had come gradually, growing slowly, spreading like a vine that worked its way into the mortar of his life. She was becoming part of him; his thoughts were consumed with her.
His mind kept going back over all the things she had said about her god. He couldn’t make sense of any of it. She said her god was a god of love, and yet he let his people be destroyed and watched his temple turned to rubble. She believed the Nazarene was the son of her god, a Messiah to her people, and yet this same god-man, or whatever he was, had died a felon’s death on a cross.
Her religion was full of paradoxes. Her faith defied all logic. Yet she clung to it with a quiet stubbornness that surpassed the devotion of any temple priestess.
He had grown up on stories of gods and goddesses. His mother worshiped half a dozen. From the time he could remember, he’d watched her place wafer offerings beside her idols every morning and make her visits to the temple once a week.
Devotion wasn’t limited to his mother. There was Enoch, the Jew his father had bought upon arrival in Rome. Good old faithful Enoch. More than once, Marcus had seen him turn away with a shake of his head as Marcus’ mother went into her lararium to take offerings to her idols. Enoch had disdained Roman idols, though he hadn’t shared his own beliefs with the Valerians. Was Enoch’s silence out of respect and tolerance for the religious practices of others, or was his silence a mark of possessiveness and pride? He had heard it said that the Jews were the chosen race. But chosen for what and by whom?
He looked at Hadassah sleeping peacefully and knew that if he asked, she would open herself to him. Rather than remain a sealed jar, she sought only to pour herself out to others. Everything she did mirrored her faith. It was as though every waking hour of every day she was devoted to pleasing her god by serving others. This god that she worshiped consumed her. It didn’t ask for a brief visit to a temple, or a small votive offering of food or coin, or a few prayers every now and then. This god wanted all of her.
And what did she get from him? What reward had she received for her devotion? She was a slave. She had no possessions, no rights, no protection other than what her owners gave her. She couldn’t even marry without her master’s permission. Her life depended on the goodwill of her owners, for she could be killed for any or no reason at all. She received one small coin a day from his father, and that she frequently gave away.
He remembered the peace on her face as she had stood with her face to the wind. Peace . . . and joy. She was a slave and yet she seemed to possess a sense of freedom he had never felt. Was that what drew him?
The storm was dying down. With a shake of his head Marcus knew he needed to be away from her to think more clearly. He left his quarters.
Standing at the bow where he had talked with Hadassah two days before, Marcus gazed out at the dark sea before him. Neptune’s dominion. But Neptune wasn’t the god he needed now. With a wry smile, he uttered a prayer to Venus that she would send a winged Cupid to strike Hadassah’s heart with love for him.
“Venus, goddess of eros, let her burn as I do.”
A gentle wind rippled through the sails. Love is kind. Love seeks not its own.
Marcus grimaced, annoyed that Hadassah’s words should come back to him now, in the wake of his own appeal to Venus, like a soft whisper in the wind. He looked out at the vast expanse of sea and felt an aching loneliness. A vast darkness closed around him, pressing in on him from all sides, heavy, oppressive.
“I will have her,” he said into the stillness and turned to go below.
Julia was standing in the corridor. “I told Hadassah to sit out here and wait until I called her, and she’s gone! She’s probably with Mother and Father, singing to them.”
He caught her arm. “She’s in my quarters.”
She jerked her arm from him, glaring up at him as though he had betrayed her. “She’s my slave, not yours.”
Marcus held his temper. “I’m only too aware of that, and she’s not lying on my bunk for the reasons you suppose. You should take better care of what belongs to you, little sister.” He tried to remember that Julia had been suffering from constant seasickness and couldn’t be expected to be herself. “I tripped over Hadassah outside your door. She was wet to the skin and half-frozen. A sick slave is hardly of much use to you.”
“Well, who’s going to attend to my needs?”
The arrogance of her selfishness struck him on the raw. “What do you need?” he said brittlely.
“I need to feel better. I need to get off this ship!”
“You’ll feel better as soon as your feet touch dry land,” he said, curbing his impatience, ushering her back into her cabin.
“And when will that be?”
“In two or three days,” he said, helping her lie back on her rumpled bunk. He drew a blanket over her.
“I wish I’d never agreed to this voyage! I wish I’d stayed in Rome!”
“Why did you agree?”
Her eyes filled. “I didn’t want to be surrounded by reminders of what’s happened over the last two years. I wanted to get away from all of it.”
Marcus felt sudden pity for her. She was his only sister and he loved her, despite her petulance and dark moods. He had pampered and indulged her from the time she was a newborn. He wouldn’t stop now. Sitting down on the edge of her bunk, he took her hand. It was cold. “Time will take the bad memories away, and other things will come along to occupy your mind. Ephesus is su
pposed to be an exciting city, little sister. I’m sure you’ll find something of interest there.”
“Atretes is in Ephesus.”
He raised his brows. “So that’s the star that guided you. It’s fine to ogle the gladiators, Julia, but don’t even think about getting involved with one. They’re a different breed of men.”
“Octavia said gladiators make the best lovers.”
His mouth curved cynically. “Octavia, giver of great wisdom.”
“I know you never liked her.”
“Rest,” he said and rose. She caught his hand.
“Marcus? What star guided you?”
Marcus saw a coolness in her expression that was far removed from the sister he dearly loved. “You,” he said, “Mother, Father.”
“Nothing else?”
“What other reason might there be?”
“Hadassah.” She looked back at him, frowning slightly and studying him intently. “Do you love me, Marcus?”
“I adore you,” he said sincerely.
“Would you still love me if I did something horrible?”
Leaning down, he tipped her chin and kissed her lightly on the mouth. He made her look into his eyes. “Julia, you could never do anything so terrible I would stop loving you. I swear it. Now rest.”
Julia searched his eyes and then leaned back, still troubled. “I want Hadassah.”
“When she awakens, I’ll send her to you.”
Her face tightened. “She belongs to me. Awaken her now.”
Marcus’ temper roused as he remembered Hadassah lying in the damp, cold corridor.
“I’m here, my lady,” Hadassah said from the doorway, and Marcus glanced back. She was still very pale and drawn with weariness. It was on his tongue to tell her to go back to bed until he saw Julia’s face. “I had another bad dream,” Julia said, forgetting he was there at all. “I awakened and you weren’t here. I remembered you were outside, but I couldn’t find you.”
Marcus had never seen that look in his sister’s eyes before. The minute she had seen Hadassah, a wave of relief seemed to sweep away the anger and fear and trembling desperation.
He spoke quietly, tenderly. “She’s here with you now, Julia.”
Julia held out her hands to the slave girl, and Hadassah took them, kneeling beside the narrow bunk and pressing her forehead to her mistress’s hands. “You should’ve been here when I called to you,” Julia said petulantly.
“Don’t take Hadassah to task for something over which she had no control or knowledge,” Marcus said.
Julia glanced at him, a question in her eyes—a question that burned him. With a wry smile, Marcus went out, closing the door behind him. Leaning against it, he put his head back and shut his eyes.
Chapter 28
Two guards brought Atretes above deck and to the bow, where Sertes waited for him. The trader smiled in greeting and made a grand gesture, drawing Atretes’ attention beyond him to a glittering temple at the head of the harbor.
“The temple of Artemis, Atretes. She was born in the woods near the mouth of the Cayster and has been worshiped here for over a thousand years. Your goddess, Atretes, the goddess whose image you have in your cell.”
“The idol was in my cell in Capua when I arrived.” It was bad luck to throw a stone idol away, whether you worshiped it or not.
“However you came by her, I knew when I saw her shrine in your chamber at the ludus that she had chosen you to come to Ephesus.” Sertes turned, holding his hand out with great pride. “What you see before you is the greatest temple ever built for any god. It houses a sacred stone hurled to us from the heaven, which was a sign that Artemis chose our city as her neocoros.”
“Neocoros?” Atretes said, the word unfamiliar.
“‘Temple sweeper,’” Sertes said. “The term once referred to the most menial of laborers, who was devoted to the care of the sacred temple. A term of humility that has become a title of honor.” Sertes took a coin from a pouch at his waist and turned it over for Atretes to see. “Neocoros,” he said, thumbing the writing on it. “Our city is thus exalted.”
Atretes raised his head and looked at Sertes with cold eyes. “The idol was in the cell in Capua when I arrived.”
Sertes’ smile became sardonic. “And you think that was by accident? Nothing happens by accident, Barbarian. However you came by her image doesn’t matter. The gods of your father deserted you in the forests of Germania, but Artemis has kept you alive. Pay homage to her as she deserves and she will continue to protect you. Disdain her, and she’ll turn on you and watch as you are destroyed.”
He waved his hand again. “Artemis is not the virgin huntress Diana, as the Romans think she is. Artemis is the sister of Apollo, daughter of Leto and Zeus. She is a mother-goddess of the earth who blesses man, beast, and our land with fertility. The stag, the wild boar, the hare, the wolf, and the bear all are sacred to her. Unlike Diana, who is a goddess of chastity, Artemis is sensuous and orgiastic, not prudish and purely athletic.”
Atretes looked across the harbor at the great temple. All the beasts Sertes mentioned were plentiful in the Black Forests of his homeland. The temple—a magnificent structure, more magnificent than even the most glorious temples of Rome—glistened in the sunlight. Atretes felt it was almost beckoning him.
“The marble came from Mount Prion,” Sertes told him. “All the Greek cities of Asia sent offerings to help build the temple honoring our goddess. There are 127 columns, each 60 feet high, each the gift of a king.” Sertes’ dark eyes glowed with pride. “Embellishments are added continually by the greatest artists of our time. What other goddess can make such a claim?”
Atretes wondered if Artemis was related to Tiwaz, for she shared some of his attributes. “Will I be allowed to worship her?” he asked, wondering what form celebrating the goddess might take.
Sertes nodded, pleased. “Of course. As is proper,” he said magnanimously. “Go below. Water and a clean tunic will be brought to you. Prepare yourself. I will take you to the temple myself so that you may bow down before the sacred idol before you are taken to the ludus.”
As soon as the ship docked, Sertes sent two guards for Atretes. Two more waited above decks. The colonnade that led to the Artemision, as the temple was called, was paved with marble and interspersed with shaded porticoes. People turned to stare and whisper as Atretes walked the course. Sertes was obviously well known, and his presence, as well as that of four armed guards, made it clear that the blond giant was a gladiator of importance. Atretes ignored the awed stares he received while wishing Sertes hadn’t chosen to march him down the main thoroughfare of the city during the busiest time of day. Clearly, the merchant had done it to create a stir among the populace.
The number of shops that sold wood, silver, and gold shrines increased as they came closer to the Artemision. Small replicas of the temple were everywhere to be seen, and it appeared that every visitor wanted to buy a memorial of Artemis and a model of her temple to take home as a reminder of his or her pilgrimage. Atretes noted that small idols were in the hands of almost everyone who passed by him.
He stared up at the edifice ahead of him, awed by its immensity and grandeur. Columns of green jasper and white marble rose to the horizontal entablatures, which were intricately carved in every manner of scene. Many of the columns were painted in vivid colors and pictures, some explicitly erotic.
Huge folding doors of cypress stood open and, as Atretes passed through them to enter the holy shrine, he saw that sections of the cedar roof were open to the sky. The gladiator looked around slowly, his trained eye missing little.
“I see you have noticed the guards,” Sertes said. “The temple houses the treasury; the lion’s share of wealth for all of western Asia is stored here and in the surrounding buildings.”
The inner temple was swarming with priests and priestesses, all humming like worker bees around their queen. Sertes inclined his head toward them. “The megabuzoi are the priests who conduct the ce
remonies within the interior of the temple. They are all eunuchs and in subjection to the high priest.”
“And what of the women?” Atretes asked, his mouth tipping at the sight of so many beautiful girls.
“Virgins, all of them. The melissai are priestesses consecrated to service of the goddess. They are divided into three classes, all of which are subject to one head priestess. There are also temple prostitutes who await your later pleasure . . . but first, the Most High Goddess.”
They entered the smoky chamber that held the sacred image of Artemis. She stood in a haze of incense, hands extended outward, a surprisingly rude and rigid image of gold and ebony. Her upper body was festooned with sagging breasts with extended nipples, her hips and legs covered with carved reliefs of sacred beasts and bees. Her base was shapeless black stone, probably the one Sertes said had fallen from heaven.
As Atretes studied the goddess’s image, he saw the engraved symbols upon her headdress, girdle, and base. Suddenly he drew in his breath—the symbol crowning Artemis’ headpiece was the rune for Tiwaz! With a hoarse cry, Atretes prostrated himself before the image of Artemis and gave thanks to her for her protection through four years of bloody games.
Incantations of the megabuzoi and the melodious chanting of the melissai surrounded him and pressed down upon him. The scent of incense had become so overpowering that he felt sick. Gagging, he rose and half stumbled from the cloistered chamber. Leaning heavily against one of the massive columns, he dragged in a deep breath of air, his heart pounding in beat with the drums and cymbals behind him.
After a moment, his head cleared, but the heaviness within his spirit remained, dark and suffocating.
“She called to you,” Sertes said, eyes glowing with satisfaction.
“She bears the rune for Tiwaz,” Atretes said in amazement.
“The ‘Ephesian Letters,’” Sertes said. “Pronounced aloud they will be a charm for you. The Letters have great power and, if worn as an amulet, will ward off evil spirits. The building you see over there houses an archive of books about the Letters. The men who write them are the most brilliant minds of the Empire. Which Letter was of special significance to you?”