“Very good, my lord.”
His mouth curved slightly as he closed his eye again, intending to doze until Hadassah came.
A servant entered. “My lord, a young man is downstairs asking to speak with you.”
Alexander groaned. “Didn’t he read the sign? No patients until tomorrow morning.”
“He can’t read, my lord.”
“Then read it to him.”
“I did, my lord.”
“Tell him to come back tomorrow.”
Rapha entered the room, and he propped himself up. He could tell how tired she was by the way she limped. She sank down onto the couch opposite him and put her walking stick aside. Her shoulders drooped, and she rubbed at her bad leg.
“I’ll tell Andronicus you are ready to dine,” Rashid said and left the room.
Alexander rose. “I’m eager to see what Andronicus has prepared this evening,” he said, grinning at her. “The man is a genius with food and I’m starving. Here. Let me help you.” He braced her back, and she gasped in pain as she reclined. “You’ve overdone it again.” He took hold of her bad leg and carefully straightened it. She caught her breath again. “Sitting for long periods of time makes the muscles cramp.” He began to knead her leg gently.
“I needed to finish making the entries.”
“We’ll hire a scribe to do it.” He bore down with his thumbs and saw her fingers whiten on the cushion. “You need a good soak in the calidarium.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Tonight,” he said firmly. “As soon as we finish eating.”
Rashid entered with a large silver tray on which were displayed two succulent partridges artfully arranged in a nest of cut fruit and greens. The aroma made Alexander’s stomach cramp with hunger and his mouth water.
Rapha gave silent thanksgiving and lifted her veils. The partridge was so perfectly roasted that she was able to remove a leg with ease. It was delicious. She had been so intent on her work that she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. As she ate, she watched Alexander in amusement. He was obviously enjoying the meal.
Alexander finished one partridge leg and removed another. “Clementia left another pouch of coins for you this afternoon,” he said, tearing the meat from the bone with his teeth.
Hadassah’s eyes lifted in dismay. “I told her not to do that.”
Swallowing the meat, he wagged the leg at her. “Don’t make your usual objections. She’s grateful to you. Giving you a gift makes her happy. What harm is there in that? Orestes did the same thing.” He took another bite.
Frowning, she took another bite of partridge. She was troubled. She hadn’t objected to Orestes’ gift because she had known of a need for the money at the time. Now, cut off by the overwhelming number of patrons and amount of work, she had had little time to find those in need—and a surfeit of gold coins was piling up in her money box.
Alexander saw she was distressed. He shouldn’t have told her about Clementia. Not until she finished eating. He knew the expensive gifts and pouches of money bothered her, and he knew why. He thought her reasons foolish. “Their gratitude belongs to God,” she often said, but he saw nothing wrong in her receiving the bounty.
A week ago, she had entered the antechamber, and a man had bowed down to her. Alexander had never seen her angry before. “Get up!” she had cried out, and the man had jumped to his feet in fright.
“Rapha,” he had said gently, trying to intercede, but she had turned on him as well.
“Am I a god that he should bow down to me?”
She had limped toward the man, who drew back from her, his face pale with fear. She had held out her arm. “Touch me,” she said. The man had raised his hand, but it had been clear he didn’t dare to do what she told him. She took his hand firmly and placed it on her arm, putting her own hand over his. “Flesh and blood. Never, never bow down to me again. Do you understand?” The man had nodded, but as she turned away, Alexander saw the look on his face.
Alexander had seen the same look in others’ eyes as well. The man revered her.
“Think of the money as a fee,” he said now, trying to calm her concerns.
“You know very well Clementia already paid the fee you named. Let her take her offering to God.”
“You’re making too much of this,” he said, only to be interrupted as the servant entered again. “What now?”
“The man said he will wait, my lord.”
Alexander’s mouth tightened. Rain was pounding on the roof tiles. “So be it,” he said, determined to enjoy his meal.
“Who will wait?” Hadassah said.
“Someone who wants to speak to me.”
“It’s raining.”
“I told him to come back tomorrow. If he insists on waiting, he can get wet!”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.” He tossed a leg bone onto the platter in annoyance.
“Is he ill?” she said to the servant.
“No, my lady. He looks very healthy.”
“Does he seem upset?”
“No, my lady. He’s very calm. When I told him he would have to wait until morning, he thanked me and sat down by the wall.”
Annoyed, Alexander split his partridge in half. Why couldn’t people understand that physicians needed rest just like any other human being? He could feel Hadassah looking at him in silent appeal. “Obviously, it’s not urgent,” he muttered.
She still looked at him.
“It’s a warm rain, Rapha.”
Amazing how silence could speak volumes.
“Very well!” he said, resigned. He gave a slight wave to the servant. “Invite the wretch in and let him dry off in the antechamber.”
“Yes, my lord. Will you speak with him tonight?”
“No. I’m too tired.” He saw Hadassah start to rise. “Don’t even think about it!” he said in a tone that eliminated argument.
Rashid moved closer to her couch. Hadassah glanced up at him and then looked back at Alexander with a rueful smile.
“You’re not going to do anything more today except eat that bird and go to the baths.”
She saw he meant it and reclined again.
“The man can wait,” Alexander said to her and then looked at his servant again. “If the brazier is still lit, add fuel. And give him a dry tunic.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He looked at Hadassah. “Satisfied?”
She smiled at him. “He might be hungry.” She broke her partridge in half and held one part up toward the servant. “And he’ll need a bedroll since he must wait through the night.”
Alexander gave a nod. “Let it be done as she says.”
Prometheus was surprised when the servant opened the door to him and said he could come inside and wait. A fire had been prepared, and he was given a towel and dry tunic. The servant left and then came back a short while later with a tray on which was half a roasted partridge, bread, and a pitcher of fine wine. A big, dark-skinned man gave him a bedroll. “The physician will see you in the morning,” he said. “You may sleep here.”
Giving thanks to God, Prometheus marveled at the delicious meal. Warmed by the fire in the brazier and the good wine, he stretched out on the bedroll. He slept comfortably for the night.
The big Syrian prodded him awake in the morning. “Get up. The physician will speak with you now.”
Prometheus followed him up the stairs and down a corridor into a bibliotheca. A young man stood behind a writing table, reading a scroll. He glanced up as Prometheus entered behind the servant. “Thank you, Rashid,” the man said, and the Syrian left. “What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”
Prometheus was surprised to be speaking to so young a physician. He had expected someone elderly, of long experience. “I’ve come to plead with you for the sake of my mistress. She is gravely ill, my lord.”
“There are many physicians in the city. Why do you come to me?”
“She’s seen many physicians, my lord. She
has been to priests. She’s given votive offerings to numerous gods. I was told by her maid that she spent a night in the abaton.”
Alexander found himself curious. “How does her illness manifest itself?”
Prometheus told him all he had observed.
“Can she be brought here?”
“I’d have to carry her, my lord, and though she doesn’t weigh a great deal, it’s a long distance.”
Alexander frowned. “Very well,” he said. “I have people to see today, but I’ll find time to come and examine her this evening. Where does she live?”
Prometheus told him.
Alexander’s brows flickered. “Hardly the neighborhood of the impoverished,” he said dryly, wondering why she couldn’t have a litter carry her.
“Her illness has impoverished her, my lord.”
“Oh,” he said and gave a nod. The young man turned to leave. “One moment,” Alexander said. “Make sure she understands I make no promises. If I can help her, I will. If I can’t, her fate will be left in the hands of the gods.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“I hope I can help her.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Prometheus said. “May God bless you for your kindness.”
Alexander’s brows rose. He glanced up again as the slave left the room.
Hadassah entered. She paused in the doorway, looking after the young man. “Who was he?”
Alexander glanced up. “That was the young man who wanted to speak with me last night. Remember?” He gave her a wry smile. “The one to whom you sent half your partridge.”
“Yes, my lord, but what was his name?” Though she hadn’t gotten a good look at him, he seemed familiar.
He shrugged, returning his attention to the scroll. “I didn’t ask his name.”
Later that night, Alexander would have grave cause to wish he had.
25
Marcus heard a knock on the door. Ignoring it, he continued to lie on the mat and stare at the beamed ceiling. Sunlight shone in through several breaks. The house was already in disrepair. Another few years of rain and weather and the roof would begin to crumble. How many years before the wind and storm destroyed it completely?
The knock came again, louder this time, insistent.
Irritated, Marcus rolled to his feet. He crossed the dim chamber with its dusty columns of light. Perhaps the intruder would have the good sense to depart before he reached the door. He opened it and found the old woman who had spoken to him in the marketplace. She was leaning heavily on her walking stick.
“So,” she said, “you are still here.”
“So it would appear,” he said tonelessly. “What do you want?”
She considered him from head to foot. “Why do you take up residence in the house of the dead?”
He flinched as though she had struck him in the face. He had come to feel close to Hadassah, not be reminded she was dead. His hand whitened on the door. “Why do you bother me, old woman?” he said, glowering down at her.
“This house doesn’t belong to you.”
Who but an old woman near death would dare challenge a Roman for taking possession of a deserted house? His mouth curved into a hard smile. “Have you come to try to throw me out?”
She put both hands on her walking stick and set it before her. “I’ve come to find out why you’re here.”
Annoyed, he stood silent.
She stared back. “What do you hope to find in this place, Roman?”
“Solitude,” he said and slammed the door.
She knocked again, three hard raps.
“Go away!” he shouted at the closed door and sat down at the table. He raked his fingers through his hair and held his head in his hands. She knocked again, three more hard raps. Marcus swore under his breath.
“Go away!”
She spoke through the closed door. “This is not your house.”
Marcus set his jaw, his heart beating with hard, angry thumps. “Tell me the name of the owner and I’ll buy it!” A long moment passed, and he let out his breath, thinking she had given up and left.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
He slammed his fist on the table and rose. Throwing open the door, he glared down at her again. “What do you want, old woman? Tell me and then leave me in peace.”
“Why are you here?” she said with dogged patience.
“That’s my business.”
“This is my village. I was born here eighty-seven years ago. And this house belonged to a man I knew and respected.” She looked him in the eyes. “I don’t know you.”
Marcus was stunned by her audacity. “This wretched country belongs to Rome! I can take what I want, and I want this house.” Even as he spoke, he heard the arrogance ringing out in every word that came from his lips. His eyes fell away from hers. “Just go away,” he rasped and started to shut the door.
She lifted her walking stick and hit the door with the end of it. “I won’t go away until I have an answer that satisfies me. Why are you here?”
Weary, Marcus considered her for a long moment, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy her and send her on her way. He could think of none. How could he? He wasn’t even sure why he was here anymore. The emptiness of the house crushed his spirit.
“I don’t know,” he said bleakly. “Satisfied?” He turned away and went back into the house. Hearing the scrape of her walking stick, he turned and saw she had followed him inside. “I didn’t invite you in,” he said coldly.
“The same one who invited you in, invited me,” she said testily and planted herself several feet inside the door.
Sighing heavily, he ran his hand through his hair and sank down at the table again. He said nothing more. She was silent so long, he glanced up. She was looking slowly around the room.
“I haven’t been in this house since they left,” she said and looked up at the light coming through the roof. She shook her head sadly. “Hananiah would have repaired those breaks.” She looked at him again and waited.
Marcus met her steady gaze in obstinate silence.
“I already know the answer to my question,” the old woman said finally. “You’re here because of Hadassah. What happened to her?”
“If I tell you, will you go away?” he said dryly.
“I might.”
“She was murdered. In an Ephesian arena.”
The old woman came closer. “Why should the death of one more Jew matter so much to a Roman?”
His eyes flashed. “She was a handmaiden in my father’s house.”
“And for that reason alone, you travel so many miles to see where she lived?” She smiled.
Unable to bear her scrutiny, Marcus rose and walked to the window. Sighing, he stared up at the hot, blue sky. “It’s a private matter, old woman.”
“Not so private that the whole village doesn’t know of it.”
He turned. “What do they know?”
“That a Roman came looking for the home of Hadassah. And, now that he’s found it, he’s closed himself up in it as one would close himself up in a tomb.”
Stiffening, he stared at her in anger. “What matter my reasons to anyone? Let them go about their own business, and leave me to mine.”
“My legs grow tired. Ask me to sit.”
“I’d rather ask you to leave!”
Sighing wearily, she leaned more heavily on the walking stick. “I suppose I must suffer your inhospitality.”
Marcus’ only reply was a rude snort.
“Of course, it would be too much to expect even a small act of kindness from a Roman.”
“Oh, very well! Sit! And after you’ve rested, go.”
“Thank you,” she said, a glimmer of humor lighting her expression. “How can I resist such a gracious invitation?” She eased herself onto the stool. She was silent for a long time, studying him. He grew uncomfortable.
“Is this your Jerusalem, Roman?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is Nain your holy
city? Are you here on a pilgrimage to honor a slave you loved?”
Her question dissolved his anger and roused anew his grief. He sat heavily on the bench beneath the window. Struggling against the emotions surging up in him, he leaned back against the wall. “Why don’t you leave me in peace, old woman?”
“What peace will you find here in this house? The peace of death?”
He closed his eyes. “Leave.”
She remained, rooted to the stool. “How long since you’ve eaten?”
He gave a bleak laugh. “I don’t remember.”
She rose with difficulty. “Come with me. I’ll give you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I am. Come with me and we will talk about why you’re here.”
“A kind offer I regret to refuse.”
“You regret a great deal, don’t you?” Her dark eyes pierced him. “Was it because of you Hadassah died?”
Marcus came to his feet. “You press too hard.”
She leaned upon her walking stick and looked at him somberly. “What will you do? Throw a poor crippled old woman into the street?” She smiled faintly at his look of consternation. “I’m too old to be afraid of anything.” She tapped her stick lightly, reminding him of the shepherd boy in the hills. “Come with me, Roman, and I’ll tell you all I remember about Hadassah.”
It was a calculated comment and he knew it. “How well did you know her?”
She walked laboriously to the door and paused there, the sunlight at her back so he couldn’t read her expression. “I knew her from the moment of her birth until the day she left with her family to go to Jerusalem for Passover.” She walked out into the sunlight.
Marcus followed her out into the street and measured his pace with hers. A few doors down the street, she entered another house much like the one they had just left. He stood at the open doorway and peered in at the interior. Everything was clean and in its place.
“Come inside,” she said.
“Your house will be defiled if I enter it.”
She gave a surprised laugh. “You know something of our law.”
“Enough,” he said darkly.
“If our Lord ate with tax collectors and harlots, I suppose I can eat with a Roman.” She pointed to a stool. “Sit there.” Marcus entered and sat. Breathing in the aroma of cooking food, his stomach growled. She pushed a small bowl of dates toward him. “Take as many as you want.” He set his mouth, watching her. She had planned this ahead.