CHAPTER 1
Alexander Democedes Amandinus stood at the Door of Death
waiting for the chance to learn more about life. Never
having enjoyed the games, he had come reluctantly. Yet now
he was transfixed by what he was witnessing, amazed into
his very marrow. He stared at the fallen girl and felt an
inexplicable triumph.
The mad intensity of the mob had always filled him with an
unrest. His father had said some found release in watching
violence done to others, and Alexander had thought of this
when he had seen, on occasion, an almost sick relief in
faces among the crowd. In Rome. In Corinth. Here, in
Ephesus. Perhaps those who beheld the horrors were
thankful to the gods that it was not they who faced the
lions or a trained gladiator or some other more grotesque
and obscene manner of death.
It was as though thousands came to find a catharsis in the
bloodletting, that this embracing of planned mayhem
protected each of them from the growing chaos of an
increasingly corrupt and arbitrary world. No one seemed to
notice that the stench of blood was no less strong than
the stench of lust and fear permeating the very air they
breathed.
Amandinus’ hands gripped the iron bars as he looked out
upon the sand where the young woman now lay. She had come
out from among the other victims—those who walked to their
deaths—calm and strangely joyful. He could not look away
from her, for he had seen in her something extraordinary,
something that defied description. She had sung and, for
the briefest moment, her sweet voice had drifted on the
air.
The mob had overwhelmed that sweet sound, rising en masse
as she had continued forward, walking across the sand
serenely, straight toward Alexander. His heart had pounded
harder with each step she took. She had been rather plain
in appearance, and yet there had been a radiance about
her, an aura of light surrounding her. Or had it just been
his imagination? When the lioness had hit her, Alexander
had felt the blow himself.
Now, two lions fought over her body. He winced as one
beast sank its fangs deeply into her thigh and began to
drag her away. The other lioness sprang, and the two
rolled and clawed at one another.
A little girl in a ragged, soiled tunic ran screaming past
the iron-gridded gate. Alexander gritted his teeth, trying
to harden himself against the sound of those terrified
cries. In trying to protect the girl, the child’s mother
was taken down by a jewel- collared lioness. Alexander’s
hands whitened on the iron-grated door as another lioness
raced after the child. Run, girl. Run!
The sight of so much suffering and death assaulted and
nauseated him. He pressed his forehead against the bars,
his heart pounding.
He had heard all the arguments in favor of the games. The
people sent to the arena were criminals, deserving of
death. Those now before him belonged to a religion that
encouraged the overthrow of Rome. Yet he couldn’t help but
wonder if a society that murdered helpless children did
not deserve to be undone.
The screams of the child sent a chill through Alexander’s
body. He was almost grateful when the lioness’ jaws closed
upon that small throat, extinguishing the sound. He let
out his breath, hardly aware he had been holding it, and
heard the guard behind him laugh harshly.
"Hardly a mouthful in that little one."
A muscle jerked in Alexander’s jaw. He wanted to shut his
eyes to the carnage before him, but the guard was watching
now. He could feel the cold glitter of those hard dark
eyes shining through the visor of the polished helmet.
Watching him. He would not humiliate himself by showing
weakness. If he was to become a good physician, he had to
overcome his sensibilities and aversions. Hadn’t his
teacher, Phlegon, warned him often enough?
"You have to harden yourself against those tender feelings
if you are to succeed," he’d said more than once, his tone
ringing with disdain. "After all, seeing death is part of
a physician’s lot in life."
Alexander knew the older man was right. And he knew that,
without these games, he would have no opportunity to
further his studies of the human anatomy. He had gone as
far as he could by studying drawings and writings. Only by
performing vivisection could he learn more. Phlegon had
been well aware of his aversion to the practice, but the
old physician had been adamant, closing him in a trap of
reason.
"You say you want to be a physician?" he had
challenged. "Then tell me, good student, would you have a
physician perform surgeries without firsthand knowledge of
human anatomy? Charts and drawing are not the same as
working on a human being. Be thankful the games give you
such opportunity!"
Thankful. Alexander watched as, one by one, the victims
went down until the horrific sounds of terror and pain
were deadened by the relative quietude of feeding lions.
Thankful? He shook his head. No, that was one thing he
would never feel regarding the games.
Suddenly another sound more dangerous than the lions began
to hum. Alexander recognized it quickly—the ripple of
boredom, the growing swell of discontent among the
spectators. The contest was over. Let the beasts gorge
themselves in the dark interiors of their cages rather
than tax the crowd with tedious feasting. A dark
restlessness swept through the stands like a fire in a
cheap tenement.
The warning was quickly heeded by the editor of the games.
The beasts heard the gates swing open and dug in their
claws and teeth more fiercely as armed handlers came out
to drive them back into their cages. Alexander prayed to
Mars, that the men would work quickly, and to Asklepios
that there might be the flicker of life in at least one of
the victims. If not, he would have to remain here until
another opportunity presented itself.
Alexander was not interested in the drama of separating
feeding animals from their kills. His gaze swept across
the sand, searching for a survivor, any survivor, holding
little hope that there was one. His eyes fell upon the
young woman again.
No lion was near her. He found that curious, since she was
far from the men driving the animals toward the gates. He
saw a flicker of movement. Leaning forward, he squinted
his eyes against the glare. Her fingers moved!
"Over there," he said quickly to the guard. "Near the
center."
"She was the first one attacked. She’s dead."
"I want to take a look at her."
"As you wish." The guard stepped forward, put two fingers
to his lips, and gave two quick, sharp whistles. The guard
made a signal to the plumed visage of Charon, who danced
among the dead. Alexander watched the costumed actor leap
and turn toward the fallen girl. Charon leaned down
slightly, his feathered, beaked head turned as though
listening intently for some sound or sign of life, all the
while waving his mallet around in the air theatrically,
prepared to bring it down if there was. Seemingly
satisfied that the girl was dead, he grabbed her arm and
dragged her roughly toward the Door of Death.
At the same moment, a lioness turned on the animal handler
who was driving her toward a tunnel. The crowd came to its
feet, shouting in excitement. The man barely managed to
escape the animal’s attack. He used his whip expertly to
drive the enraged lioness back away from the child she had
been eating and toward the tunnel to the cages.
The guard took advantage of the distraction and swung the
gate at the Door of Death wide. "Hurry up!" he hissed and
Charon ran, dragging the girl into the shadows. The guard
snapped his fingers and two slaves hurriedly grasped her
by her arms and legs and carried her into the dimly lit
corridor.
"Easy!" Alexander said angrily as they tossed her up onto
a dirty, bloodstained table. He brushed them aside, sure
that these oafs had finished her off with their rough
handling.
The guard’s hard hand clamped firmly on Alexander’s
arm. "Six sesterces before you cut her open," he said
coldly.
"That’s a little high, isn’t it?"
The guard grinned. "Not too high for a student of Phlegon.
Your coffer must be full of gold to afford his tutelage."
He held out his hand.
"It’s emptying rapidly," Alexander said dryly, opening the
pouch at his waist. He didn’t know how much time he had to
work on the girl before she died, and he wasn’t going to
waste any haggling over a few coins. The guard took the
bribe and withdrew, three coins in reserve for Charon.
Alexander returned his attention to the girl. Her face was
a raw mass of torn flesh and sand. Her tunic was drenched
in blood. There was so much blood, in fact, he was sure
she was dead. Leaning down, he put his ear near her lips,
amazed as he felt the soft, warm exhalation of life. He
didn’t have much time to work.
Motioning to his own slaves, he took a towel and wiped his
hands. "Move her back there away from the noise. Gently!"
The two slaves hastened to obey. Phlegon’s slave, Troas,
stood by watching as well. Alexander’s mouth tightened. He
admired Troas’ abilities, but not his cold manner. "Give
me some light," Alexander said, snapping his fingers. A
torch was brought close as he bent over the girl on the
slab in the dim recesses of the corridor.
This was what he had come for, his one purpose for
enduring the games: to peel back the skin and muscle from
the abdominal area and study the organs revealed.
Stiffening his resolve, he untied the leather case and
flipped it open, displaying his surgeon’s tools. He
selected a slender, razor-sharp knife from its slot.
His hand was perspiring. Worse, it was shaking. Sweat
broke out on his forehead as well. He could feel Troas
watching him critically. Alexander had to move quickly and
learn all he could within the space of the few short
minutes he would have until the girl died of her wounds or
his procedure.
Silently, he cursed the Roman law that forbade dissection
of the dead, thus forcing him to this grisly practice. But
how else was he to learn what he had to know about the
human body? How else could he achieve the skill he had to
have to save lives?
He wiped the sweat from his brow and silently cursed his
own weakness.
"She will feel nothing," Troas said quietly.
Clenching his teeth, Alexander cut the neckline of the
girl’s clothing and tore the bloodstained tunic to the
hem, laying it open carefully and exposing her to his
professional assessment. After a moment, Alexander drew
back, frowning. From breasts to groin, she was marked only
by superficial wounds and darkening bruises.
"Bring the torch closer," he ordered, leaning toward her
head wounds and reassessing them. Deep furrows were cut
from her hairline down to her chin. Another cut scored her
throat, just missing the pulsing artery. His gaze moved
slowly down, noting the deep puncture wounds in her right
forearm. The bones were broken. Far worse, however, were
the wounds in her thigh where the lioness had sunk in her
fangs and tried to drag her. Alexander’s eyes widened. The
girl would have bled to death had not sand clogged the
wounds, effectively stanching the flow of blood.
Alexander drew back. One swift, skillful slice and he
could begin his study. One swift, skillful slice and he
would kill her.
Perspiration dripped down his temples, his heart pounded
heavily. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the
faint pulse in her throat, and felt sick.
"She will feel nothing, my lord," Troas said again. "She
is not conscious."
"I can see that!" Alexander said tersely, flashing the
servant a dark look. He stepped closer and positioned the
knife. He had worked on a gladiator the day before and
learned more about human anatomy in the space of a few
minutes than in hours of lectures. Thankfully, the dying
man had never opened his eyes. But then, his wounds had
been far worse than these.
Alexander closed his eyes, steeling himself. He had
watched Phlegon work. He could still hear the great
physician speaking as he cut expertly. "You must work
quickly. Like this. They are nearly dead when you get
them, and shock can take them in an instant. Don’t waste
time worrying about whether they feel anything. You must
learn all you can with what little time the gods give you.
The moment the heart stops, you must withdraw or risk the
anger of the deities and Roman law." The man on whom
Phlegon had been working had lived only a few minutes
before bleeding to death on the table to which he was tied
down. Yet, his screams still rang in Alexander’s ears.
He glanced at Troas, Phlegon’s invaluable servant. The
fact that Phlegon had sent him along spoke loudly of the
master physician’s hopes for Alexander’s own future. Troas
had assisted Phlegon many times during the past and knew
more about medicine than most practicing free physicians.
He was an Egyptian, dark of skin and with heavy-lidded
eyes. Perhaps he held the mysteries of his race.
Alexander found himself wishing he hadn’t been afforded so
great an honor.
"How many times have you overseen this done, Troas?"
"A hundred times, perhaps more," the Egyptian said, his
mouth tipping sardonically. "Do you wish to stand aside?"
"No."
"Then proceed. What you learn here today will save others
tomorrow."
The girl moaned and moved on the table. Troas snapped his
fingers, and Alexander’s two servants stepped
forward. "Take her by the wrists and ankles and hold her
still."
She uttered a rasping cry as her broken arm was drawn
up. "Yeshua," she whispered, and her eyes flickered open.
Alexander stared down into dark brown eyes filled with
pain and confusion, and he couldn’t move. She was not just
a body to work on. She was a suffering human being.
"My lord," Troas said more firmly. "You must work quickly."
She muttered something in a strange tongue and her body
relaxed. The knife dropped from Alexander’s hand and
clattered onto the stone floor. Troas took a step around
the slab table and retrieved it, holding it out to him
again. "She has fainted. You may work now without concern."
"Get me a bowl of water."
"What do you mean to do? Revive her again?"
Alexander glanced at that mocking face. "You dare question
me?"
Troas saw the imperiousness in the young, intelligent
face. Alexander Democedes Amandinus might only be a
student, but he was free. No matter the Egyptian’s own
experience or skill, he acknowledged resentfully that he
himself was still a slave and dared not challenge the
younger man further. Swallowing his anger and pride, Troas
stepped back. "My apologies, my lord," he said without
inflection. "I only meant to remind you that she is
condemned to die."
"It would seem the gods have spared her life."
"For you, my lord. The gods spared her that you might
learn what you need to become a physician."
"I will not be the one to kill her!"
"Be rational. By command of the proconsul, she is already
dead. It’s not your doing. It was not by word of your
mouth that she was sent to the lions."
Alexander took the knife from him and put it back among
the other tools in his leather case. "I’ll not risk the
wrath of whatever god spared her life by taking it from
her now." He nodded to her. "As you can clearly see, her
wounds have damaged no vital organs."
"You would rather condemn her to die slowly of infection?"
Alexander stiffened. "I would not have her die at all."
His mind was in a fever. He kept seeing her as she walked
across the sand, singing, her arms spreading as though to
embrace the very sky. "We must get her out of here."
"Are you mad?" Troas hissed, glancing back to see if the
guard had heard him.
"I don’t have what I need to treat her wounds or set her
arm," Alexander muttered. He snapped his fingers, issuing
hushed orders.
Forgetting himself, Troas grasped Alexander’s arm. "You
cannot do this!" he said in a firm, barely restrained
voice. He nodded pointedly toward the guard. "You risk
death for us all if you attempt to rescue a condemned
prisoner."
"Then we’d better all pray to her god that he will protect
us and help us. Now stop arguing with me and remove her
from here immediately. Since you appear afraid of the
guard, I’ll handle him and follow as soon as I’m able."
The Egyptian stared at him, his dark eyes unbelieving.
"Move!"
Troas saw there was no arguing with him and gestured
quickly to the others. He whispered commands in a low
voice as Alexander rolled the leather carrier. The guard
was watching them curiously. Taking up the towel,
Alexander wiped the blood from his hands and walked calmly
toward him.
"You can’t take her out of here," the guard said darkly.
"She’s dead," Alexander lied. "They’re disposing of the
body." He leaned against the iron-grated gate and looked
out at the hot sand. "She wasn’t worth six sesterces. She
was too far gone."
The guard smiled coldly. "You picked her."
Alexander gave a cold laugh and pretended interest in a
pair of gladiators. "How long will this match last?"
The guard assessed the opponents. "Thirty minutes, maybe
more. But there will be no survivor this time."
Alexander frowned with feigned impatience and tossed the
bloodstained towel aside. "In that case, I’m going to buy
myself some wine."
As he walked past the table, he picked up his leather
case. He strode along the torchlit corridors, curbing the
desire to hurry. His heart beat more quickly with each
step. As he came out into the sunlight, a gentle breeze
brushed his face.
"Hurry! Hurry!" Startled, he glanced behind. He had heard
the words clearly, as though someone whispered urgently in
his ear. But no one was there.
His heart pounding, Alexander turned toward his home and
began to run, urged on by a still, small voice in the wind.
1
ONE YEAR LATER
Marcus Lucianus Valerian walked through a maze of streets
in the Eternal City, hoping to find a sanctuary of peace
within himself. He couldn’t. Rome was depressing. He had
forgotten the stench of the polluted Tiber and the
oppressive, mingled humanity. Or maybe he had never before
noticed, too involved in his own life and activities to
care. Over the past few weeks since returning to the city
of his birth, he had spent hours wandering the streets,
visiting places he had always enjoyed before. Now the
laughter of friends was hollow, the frenetic feasting and
drinking exhausting rather than satisfying.
Downcast and needing distraction, he agreed to attend the
games with Antigonus. His friend was now a powerful
senator and held a place of honor on the podium. Marcus
tried to still his emotions as he entered the stands and
found his seat. But he could not deny he felt
uncomfortable when the trumpets began blaring. His chest
tightened and his stomach became a hard knot as the
procession began.
He hadn’t been to the games since Ephesus. He wondered if
he could stomach watching them now. It was painfully clear
that Antigonus was more obsessed with them than he had
been when Marcus left Rome, and he was betting heavily on
a gladiator from Gaul.
Several women joined them beneath the canopy. Beautiful
and voluptuous, they made it apparent within moments of
their arrival that they were as interested in Marcus as in
the games. Something stirred in Marcus as he looked at
them, but disappeared as quickly as it came. These women
were shallow, tainted water to Hadassah’s pure, heady
wine. He found no amusement in their idle, vain
conversation. Even Antigonus, who had always amused him,
began to shred his nerves with his collection of ribald
jokes. Marcus wondered how he had ever thought such
obscene stories amusing or felt any pity for Antigonus’
litany of financial woes.
"Tell another one," one of the women laughed, obviously
enjoying the crude joke Antigonus had just related to them.
"Your ears will burn," Antigonus warned, eyes dancing.
"Another!" everyone agreed.
Everyone but Marcus. He sat silent, filled with disgust.
They dress up like vain peacocks and laugh like raucous
crows, he thought as he watched them all.
One of the woman moved to recline beside him. She pressed
her hip against him enticingly. "The games always stir
me," she said with purring softness, her eyes dark.
Repulsed, Marcus ignored her. She began to talk of one of
her many lovers, watching Marcus’ face for signs of
interest. She only sickened him further. He looked at her,
making no effort to hide his feelings, but she was
oblivious. She simply continued her intended seduction
with all the subtlety of a tigress pretending to be a
housecat.
All the while, the bloody games went on unabated.
Antigonus and the women laughed, mocked, and shouted
curses down on the victims in the arena. Marcus’ nerves
stretched tight as he watched his companions . . . as he
realized they relished the suffering and death going on
before them.
Sickened by what he was seeing, he turned to drink for
escape. He drained cup after cup of wine, desperate to
drown out the screams of those in the arena. And yet, no
amount of the numbing liquid could hold off the image that
kept coming to his mind . . . the image of another place,
another victim. He had hoped the wine would deaden him.
Instead, it made him more acutely aware.
Around him, the masses of people grew frenzied with
excitement. Antigonus caught hold of one of the women, and
they became entangled. Unbidden, a vision came to
Marcus . . . a vision of his sister, Julia. He remembered
how he had brought her to the games her first time and
laughed at the burning excitement in her dark eyes.
"I won’t shame you, Marcus. I swear. I won’t faint at the
sight of blood." And she hadn’t.
Not then.
Not later.
Unable to stand more, Marcus rose.
Shoving his way through the ecstatic crowd, he made his
way up the steps. As soon as he was able, he ran—as he had
in Ephesus. He wanted to get away from the noise, away
from the smell of human blood. Pausing to get his breath,
he leaned his shoulder against a stone wall and vomited.
Hours after the games were over, he could still hear the
sound of the hungry mob screaming for more victims. The
sound echoed in his mind, tormenting him.
But then, that was all he had known since Hadassah’s
death. Torment. And a terrible, black emptiness.
"Have you been avoiding us?" Antigonus said a few days
later when he came to pay Marcus a visit. "You didn’t come
to Crassus’ feast last night. Everyone was looking forward
to seeing you."
"I had work to do." Marcus had thought to return to Rome
permanently, hoping against hope that he would find the
peace he so desperately longed for. He knew now his hopes
had been in vain. He looked at Antigonus and shook his
head. "I’m only in Rome for a few more months."
"I thought you had returned to stay," Antigonus said,
clearly surprised by his statement.
"I’ve changed my mind," Marcus replied shortly.
"But why?"
"For reasons I’d rather not discuss."
Antigonus’ eyes darkened, and his voice dripped with
sarcasm when he spoke. "Well, I hope you’ll find time to
attend the feast I’ve planned in your honor. And why do
you look so annoyed? By the gods, Marcus, you’ve changed
since going to Ephesus. What happened to you there?"
"I’ve work to do, Antigonus."
"You need distraction from these dark moods of yours." He
became so cajoling, Marcus knew he would soon be asking
for money. "I’ve arranged entertainment guaranteed to
drive away whatever black thoughts plague your mind."
"All right, all right! I’ll come to your bloody feast,"
Marcus said, impatient for Antigonus’ departure. Why
couldn’t anyone understand that he just wanted to be left
alone? "But I’ve no time for idle conversation today."
"Graciously said," Antigonus said mockingly, then rose to
leave. He swept his robes around himself and made for the
door, then paused and looked back at his friend in
annoyance. "I certainly hope you’re in a better humor
tomorrow night."
Marcus wasn’t.
Antigonus had neglected to tell him that Arria would be in
attendance. Within moments of arriving, Marcus saw her. He
gave Antigonus an annoyed look, but the senator merely
smiled smugly and leaned toward him with a sly
expression. "She was your lover for almost two years,
Marcus." He laughed low. "That’s far longer than anyone
has lasted since." At the expression on Marcus’ face, he
raised a questioning brow. "You look displeased. You did
tell me you parted with her amicably."
Arria was still beautiful, still intent on gaining the
adoration of every male in the room, still amoral and
eager for any new excitement. However, Marcus saw subtle
changes. The soft loveliness of youth had given way to a
harder-edged worldliness. Her laughter held no exuberance
or pleasure—rather, it carried a quality of brashness and
crudity that grated. Several men hovered around her, and
she alternately teased each, making jokes at their expense
and offering whispered suggestive observations. She
glanced across the room then, looking at Marcus in
question. He knew she was wondering why he hadn’t been
caught by the smile she had cast him when he came in. But
he knew that smile for what it was: bait for a hungry fish.
Unfortunately for Arria, Marcus was not hungry. Not any
longer.
Antigonus leaned closer. "See how she looks at you,
Marcus. You could have her back with a snap of your
fingers. The man who’s watching her like a pet dog is her
current conquest, Metrodorus Crateuas Merula. What he
lacks in wit, he more than makes up for in money. He’s
almost as rich as you are, but then our little Arria has
money of her own these days. Her book created quite a
furor."
"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.