“Book?” Marcus said and gave a sardonic laugh. “I didn’t know Arria could write her name, let alone string enough words together to make a sentence.”
“Obviously, you know nothing of what she’s written or you wouldn’t be making light of it. It’s hardly a laughing matter. Our little Arria had secret talents unbeknownst to us. She’s become a woman of letters, or more precisely, erotica. A do-all, tell-all collection of stories. By the gods, it’s stirred up trouble in high places. One senator lost his wife over it. Not that he minded the loss of the woman, but her family connections cost him dearly. Rumor has it he may be forced into suicide. Arria has never been what you would call discreet. Now, I think she’s addicted to scandal. She has scribes working night and day making copies of her little tome. The price for one copy is exorbitant.”
“Which you undoubtedly paid,” Marcus said dryly.
“But of course,” Antigonus said with a laugh. “I wanted to see if she would mention me. She did. In chapter eleven. To my dismay, it was a rather cursory mention.” He glanced at Marcus with an amused smile. “She wrote about you in detail—and at length. No wonder Sarapais was so enamored of you at the games the other day. She wanted to see if you were all Arria said you were.” He grinned. “You should buy a copy for yourself and read it, Marcus. It might bring back a few sweet memories.”
“For all her exquisite beauty, Arria is crass and best forgotten.”
“A rather cruel assessment of a woman you once loved, isn’t it?” Antigonus said, measuring him.
“I never loved Arria.” Marcus turned his attention to the dancing girls undulating before him. The bells on their ankles and wrists jingled, grating on his nerves. Rather than be aroused by the boldness of their sensual dance and transparently veiled bodies, he felt discomfited. He wished their performance would end and they would depart.
Antigonus reached out to grasp one of the women and pulled her down onto his lap. Despite her struggling, he kissed her passionately. When he drew back, he laughed and said to Marcus, “Pick one for yourself.”
The slave girl cried out, and the sound sent Marcus’ insides instinctively recoiling. He had seen the look on the girl’s face before—in Hadassah’s eyes when he had let his own passions burn out of control.
“Let her go, Antigonus.”
Others were watching Antigonus, laughing and calling out encouragement. Drunk and provoked, Antigonus became rougher in his determination to have his way. The girl screamed.
Marcus found himself on his feet. “Let her go!”
The room fell silent, all eyes staring at Marcus in astonishment. Laughing, Antigonus raised his head and looked at him in mild surprise. His laughter died. Alarmed, he rolled to one side, releasing the girl.
Weeping hysterically, she stumbled to her feet and scrambled away.
Antigonus regarded Marcus quizzically. “My apologies, Marcus. If you wanted her that badly, why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Marcus felt Arria’s eyes fixed on him like hot coals, burning with jealousy. He wondered fleetingly what punishment the slave girl would receive at Arria’s hands for something that had nothing to do with her. “I didn’t want the girl,” he said tersely. “Nor any other in this room.”
Whispers rippled. Several women glanced at Arria and smirked.
Antigonus’ countenance darkened. “Then why intrude upon my pleasure?”
“You were about to rape the girl.”
Antigonus laughed dryly. “Rape? Given another moment, she would have enjoyed it.”
“I doubt that.”
Antigonus’ humor evaporated, his eyes flashing at the insult. “Since when did a slave’s feelings matter to you? I’ve seen you take your pleasure in like ways a time or two.”
“I don’t need to be reminded,” Marcus said grimly, downing the remainder of the wine in his cup. “What I do need is a breath of fresh air.”
He went out into the gardens, but found no relief there, for Arria followed him, Merula at her side. Gritting his teeth, Marcus bore their presence. She talked about their love affair as though it had ended yesterday and not four years before. Merula glared at Marcus, who felt pity for the man. Arria had always enjoyed tormenting her lovers.
“Have you read my book, Marcus?” she said, her voice dripping honey.
“No.”
“It’s quite good. You’d enjoy it.”
“I’ve lost my taste for trash,” he said, his gaze flickering over her.
Her eyes flashed. “I lied about you, Marcus,” she said, her face contorted with rage. “You were the worst lover I ever had!”
Marcus grinned back at her coldly. “That’s because I’m the only one who walked away from you with blood still in his veins.” Turning his back on her, he strolled away.
Ignoring the names she called him, he left the garden. Returning to the banquet, he looked for distraction in conversations with old acquaintances and friends. But their laughter grated; their amusement was always at someone else’s expense. He heard the pettiness behind the amusing remarks, the relish as new tragedies were recounted.
Leaving the group, he reclined on a couch, drank morosely, and watched people. He noticed the games they played with one another. They put on masks of civility, all the while spewing their venom. And then it hit him. Gatherings and feasts such as this had once been a large part of his life. He had relished them.
Now, he wondered why he was here . . . why he had ever returned to Rome at all.
Antigonus approached him, his arm thrown carelessly around a richly clad, pale-skinned girl. Her smile was sensual. She had the curves of Aphrodite, and for an instant his flesh responded to the dark intensity of her eyes. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman.
Antigonus noted Marcus’ appraisal and smiled, pleased with himself. “You like her. I knew you would. She’s quite luscious.” Removing his arm from around the woman, he gave her a gentle nudge, though she needed none. She fell lightly against Marcus’ chest and gazed up at him with parted lips. Antigonus smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “Her name is Didyma.”
Marcus took hold of Didyma’s shoulders and set her back from him, smiling wryly at Antigonus. The woman looked from him to her master in question, and Antigonus shrugged. “It would appear he doesn’t want you, Diddy.” He waved his hand carelessly in dismissal.
Marcus set his goblet down firmly. “I appreciate the gesture, Antigonus—”
“But . . . ,” he said ruefully and shook his head. “You perplex me, Marcus. No interest in women. No interest in the games. What happened to you in Ephesus?”
“Nothing you would understand.”
“Try me.”
Marcus gave him a sardonic smile. “I would not entrust my private life to so public a man.”
Antigonus’ eyes narrowed. “There’s a bite in your every word these days,” he said softly. “How have I offended you that you take on such a condemning air?”
Marcus shook his head. “It’s not you, Antigonus. It’s all of it.”
“All of what?” Antigonus said, baffled.
“Life. Damnable life!” The sensual pleasures Marcus had once savored were now dust in his mouth. When Hadassah had died, something within him had died with her. How could he explain the wrenching, profound changes within himself to a man like Antigonus, a man still consumed and obsessed with fleshly passions?
How could he explain that everything had lost meaning to him when a common slave girl had died in an Ephesian arena?
“My apologies,” he said flatly, rising to leave. “I’m poor company these days.”
He received other invitations over the next month but declined them, choosing to immerse himself in his business enterprises instead. But no peace was to be found there, either. No matter how frenetically he worked, he was still tormented. Finally, he knew he had to be clear of the past, of Rome, of everything.
He sold the rock quarry and the remaining building contracts—both at sizable profit
, though he felt no pride of satisfaction in his gain. He met with managers of the Valerian warehouses on the Tiber and reviewed the accounts. Sextus, a longtime associate of his father’s, had proven himself loyal to Valerian interests over many years. Marcus offered him the position of overseer to the Valerian holdings in Rome, with a generous percentage of the gross profits.
Sextus was stunned. “You’ve never been so openhanded, my lord.” There was subtle challenge and unspoken distrust in his words.
“You may distribute the monies as you see fit, without answering to me.”
“I wasn’t speaking of money,” Sextus said bluntly. “I speak of control. Unless I misunderstand, you’re handing me the reins of your business holdings in Rome.”
“That’s correct.”
“Have you forgotten I was once your father’s slave?”
“No.”
Sextus assessed him through narrowed eyes. He had known Decimus well and had been long aware that Marcus had brought his father little but grief. The young man’s ambition had been like a fever in his blood, burning away conscience. What game was he playing now? “Was it not your goal to control your father’s holdings as well as your own?”
Marcus’ mouth curved into a cold smile. “You speak frankly.”
“Would you not have it so, my lord? Then by all means tell me so that I might flatter you.”
Marcus’ mouth tightened, but he held his temper. He forced himself to remember this man had been a loyal friend to his father. “My father and I made our peace in Ephesus.”
Sextus’ silence revealed his disbelief.
Marcus looked straight into the older man’s eyes and held his gaze. “The blood of my father runs in my veins, Sextus,” he said coolly. “I haven’t made this offer lightly, nor do I have ulterior motives that threaten you. I’ve given it a great deal of thought over the last few weeks. You’ve handled the cargoes that have been brought into these warehouses for seventeen years. You know by name the men who unload the ships and store the goods. You know which merchants can be trusted and which cannot. And you’ve always given a solid accounting for every transaction. Who better for me to trust?” He held out the parchment. Sextus made no move to take it.
“Accept or decline, as you see fit,” Marcus said, “but know this: I’ve sold my other holdings in Rome. The only reason I haven’t sold the ships and warehouses is because they were so much a part of my father’s life. It was his sweat and blood that built this enterprise. Not mine. I offer this position to you because you are capable—but more important, you were my father’s friend. If you refuse my offer, I will sell. Have no doubts about that, Sextus.”
Sextus gave a harsh laugh. “Even if you were serious about selling, you couldn’t. Rome is struggling to survive. Right now, no one I know of has the money to buy an enterprise of this size and magnitude.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Marcus’ eyes were cold. “I’m not against disposing of my fleet ship by ship, and the dock holdings building by building.”
Sextus saw he meant it and was stunned by such opportunistic thinking. How could this young man be the son of Decimus? “You have over five hundred people working for you! Freemen, most of them. Do you care nothing about them and the welfare of their families?”
“You know them better than I.”
“If you sell now, you’ll make a fraction of what all this is worth,” he said, alluding to Marcus’ well-known love of money. “I doubt you would carry this through.”
“Try me.” Marcus tossed the parchment onto the table between them.
Sextus studied him for a long moment, alarmed by the hardness in the younger man’s face, the determined set of his jaw. He wasn’t bluffing. “Why?”
“Because I’ll not have this millstone around my neck holding me in Rome.”
“And you would go so far? If what you said is true and you made your peace with your father, why would you tear apart what took him a lifetime to build?”
“It’s not what I want to do,” Marcus answered simply, “but I will tell you this, Sextus. In the end, Father saw it all as vanity, and now I agree with him.” He gestured toward the parchment. “What is your answer?”
“I’ll need time to consider.”
“You have the time it’ll take me to walk out that door.”
Sextus stiffened at such arrogance. Then he relaxed. His mouth curved faintly. He let out his breath and shook his head on a soft laugh. “You are very much like your father, Marcus. Even after he gave me my freedom, he always knew how to get his own way.”
“Not in everything,” Marcus said cryptically.
Sextus sensed Marcus’ pain. Perhaps he had made his peace with his father after all and now regretted the wasted years of rebellion. He took up the parchment and tapped it against his palm. Remembering the father, Sextus studied the son. “I accept,” he said, “on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I’ll deal with you the same way I dealt with your father.” He tossed the parchment onto the burning coals in the brazier and extended his hand.
Throat closing, Marcus grasped it.
The next morning, at sunrise, Marcus sailed for Ephesus.
Over the long weeks of the voyage, he spent hours standing on the bow of the ship, the salt wind in his face. There, at last, he allowed his thoughts to turn again to Hadassah. He remembered standing with her on a bow like this one, watching the soft tendrils of her dark hair blowing about her face, her expression earnest as she spoke of her unseen god: “God speaks . . . a still, small voice in the wind.”
Just as her voice seemed to speak to him now, still and small, whispering to him in the wind . . . beckoning him.
But to what? Despair? Death?
He was torn between wanting to forget her and fear that he would. And now it was as though, having opened his mind to her, he couldn’t close it again.
Her voice had become an insistent presence, echoing throughout the darkness in which he now lived.
2
Disembarking in Ephesus, Marcus felt no sense of homecoming or relief that the voyage was over. Leaving his possessions in the hands of servants, he went directly to his mother’s villa set in a hillside not far from the center of the city.
He was greeted by a surprised servant, who informed him that his mother was out but expected home within the hour. Weary and depressed, he went into the inner courtyard to sit and wait.
Sunlight streamed down from the open roof into the atrium, casting flickering light on the rippling water of the ornamental pool. The water sparkled and danced, and the comforting sound of the fountain echoed through the lower corridors. Yet there was no comfort for him as he sat in the shadows of a small alcove.
He leaned his head back against the wall, trying to let the musical sound wash over and ease his aching spirit. Instead, haunted by his memories, his grief grew until he felt almost suffocated by it.
It had been fourteen months since Hadassah had died, yet the anguish of it swept over him as though it had been yesterday. She had often sat on this same bench, praying to her unseen god and finding a peace that still eluded him. He could almost hear her voice—quiet, sweet, like the water, cleansing. She had prayed for his father and his mother. She had prayed for him. She had prayed for Julia!
He shut his eyes, wishing he could change the past. If only that was all it took to bring Hadassah back again. Wishing. If only, by some stroke of magic, the agony of the past months could be wiped away, and she would be sitting here beside him, alive and well. If only he could speak her name, as an incantation, and make her, through the power of his love, rise from the dead.
“Hadassah . . . ,” he whispered hoarsely, “Hadassah.” But instead of her rising from the mists of his imagination, there came the obscene, violent images of her death, followed by the turmoil of his soul—the horror, grief, and guilt, all of which were collapsing into a deep and relentless anger that now seemed his constant companion.
What good did p
rayer do her? he wondered bitterly, trying to obliterate the vision in his mind of her death. She had stood so calmly as the lion charged her. If she had screamed, he had not heard it above the din of cheering Ephesians . . . one of whom had been his own sister.
His mother had said before he left for Rome that time healed all wounds, but what he had felt that day as he watched Hadassah die had only grown heavier and harder to bear, not easier. Now his pain was a constant solid mass within him, weighing him down.
Sighing, Marcus stood. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the past. Not today when he was so tired, bone-weary from the long monotonous sea voyage. Going to Rome had done nothing to obliterate the inertia he felt; it had only made life worse. Now here he was, back in Ephesus, no better off than the day he had left.
Standing in the peristyle of his mother’s hillside villa, he was filled with an aching, unspeakable sadness. The house was filled with silence, though there were servants in the household. He sensed their presence, but they had wisdom enough to keep their distance. The front door opened and closed. He heard soft voices and then hurried steps coming toward him.
“Marcus!” his mother said, running to him and embracing him.
“Mother,” he said, smiling and holding her at arm’s distance to see how she had fared in his absence. “You look well.” He bent to kiss both cheeks.
“Why are you back so soon?” she asked. “I thought not to see you for years.”
“I finished my business. There was no reason to linger.”
“Is everything as you hoped it would be?”
“I’m richer than I was a year ago if that’s what you mean.”
His smile lacked heart. Phoebe looked into his eyes, and her expression softened. She lifted her hand gently to his cheek, as though he were a hurt child. “Oh, Marcus,” she said, full of compassion. “Your journey didn’t make you forget.”