A Voice in the Wind (25 page)

Nothing interested Julia, except perhaps the gladiatorial ludi that populated the Capuan area. She wanted to visit one of those barbarous places and see how the gladiators were trained. She wanted to know everything about them. Whenever he tried to steer the conversation to other avenues of more enlightening thought, she drove the conversation back to those poor wretches behind the high walls and thick bars.

Perhaps he expected too much of her. She was young and inexperienced. She had a quick mind, but her interests were far too narrow. His Helena had been cerebral; Julia was physical. While he took some pleasure in Julia’s lovely young body, the pleasure was growing briefer, the aftermath more disheartening. With Helena, he had shared passion and tenderness. Sometimes they even laughed and talked until they slept. Julia suffered his possession in martyred silence. He never remained in her chamber longer than necessary.

The unbearable loneliness of surviving Helena remained with him. He had thought to overcome it by marrying the young and vibrant Julia. How wrong could a man be? They had nothing in common. What he had mistaken for love had only been the physical need of a foolish man.

How Cupid must be laughing, having shot his arrow so straight and true. Claudius had lost his head, but not his heart, and now had the rest of his life to repent his foolishness.

He unrolled the scroll further and lost himself in his studies of religions of the Empire. It was a worthy enough subject to keep him occupied until Hades, the god of the underworld, claimed his soul.

The next morning, he saw his young wife walking through the gardens with her maid. Julia sat on a marble bench and plucked flowers while her maid stood, speaking. Julia glanced up once and made a brief remark, then gestured for the maid to continue. He watched for long moments as the slave girl spoke, then went out to join them, curious to hear what she was saying.

Julia saw him coming and her countenance fell. Hadassah saw him as well and left off telling her story. Julia chewed her lower lip. She wondered if he would reprimand her for refusing to join him in the bibliotheca last evening, but he said nothing of it as he joined her. Hadassah stood in proper silence at the approach of her master. Julia hoped whatever Claudius wanted to say, he would say and go.

He sat beside his wife on the bench. “Your maid was speaking to you.” He saw the flush of red spread across the slave girl’s face.

“She was telling me another of her stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“About her people.” Julia plucked another flower. “The stories help pass the time when there is little else to do.” She lifted the blossom to her nose and inhaled the sweet, heavy scent.

“Religious stories?” Claudius said.

Julia glanced at him through her lashes. She laughed softly. “To a Jew, everything is religious.”

Claudius looked at Julia’s maid with more interest. “I would like to hear some of her stories when you can spare her, my dear. I’m doing a comparative study of religions. It would be interesting to hear what your maid has to say about the foundations of a Jew’s faith in an unseen god.”

And so it was that the next time Claudius sent Persis to summon his wife, Julia sent her fond regards and regrets—and Hadassah in her place.

11

Contents
-
Prev
/
Next

Marcus held tight to the bridle of his new white stallion as he led it through the crowd near the city gates. The horse was a majestic beast, just recently arrived from Arabia, and the noise and confusion made the animal nervous. Marcus soon saw he was making little headway on foot, so he mounted. “Move aside or be trampled!” he shouted to several men in front of him. The stallion tossed its great head and bounced in agitation. Marcus urged him forward and watched those on foot make way quickly.

Outside the walls of Rome, the road was thronged with travelers wanting to enter the city. The poorest were on foot, carrying everything they owned in a sack on their backs, while rich men were held aloft on fancy sedan chairs or drawn in elaborate gilt carriages with red curtains. Four-wheeled, four-horsed
raeda
were packed tight with passengers, while the faster and lighter
cisium
, with two wheels and two horses, pushed ahead. The drivers of the ox-drawn wagons, which were loaded with merchandise, were in no hurry, knowing they’d have to wait until after sunset before the ban on their vehicles was lifted.

Marcus rode south along Via Appia, proud of his new acquisition. He allowed the animal to canter, its head proud and high as it jerked angrily, wanting to run. The road was busy with ambassadors from far provinces, Roman officials, legionnaires, merchants, tradesmen, and slaves from a dozen conquered principalities. He rode through the suburbs and passed a construction party of slaves, prisoners, and soldiers, all at work improving a section of road that led into new villas in the hills. New developments were cropping up like weeds on every slope around the city.

He breathed easier the further he went. He needed to get away from the rush of the city, from the unceasing noise and annoying obligations. He was almost finished building the
insulae
—huge high-rise tenements, each of which filled a city block—near the Field of Mars and the cattle market. People were already lining up for a place in his apartments, since they were better built than most and less likely to burn down. The rents would soon be pouring in. The villa on Capitoline was only half complete, yet he had already had four offers on it, each better than the one before. He had accepted none. Once completed, he planned to open the villa to a special few affluent guests and then hold a private auction, driving the price up even higher.

Father was putting pressure on him to take more responsibility in the shipping business, but his own enterprises were going so well and taking so much of his time that Marcus balked. What challenge was there in taking over what was already established? He wanted to build his own name and his own small empire within the Empire. And he was doing it. His reputation had grown steadily with the contracts Antigonus had arranged through his political connections.

Antigonus was another reason Marcus wanted to leave Rome for a few days. He was tired of listening to him whine about his troubles and beg for money. And he spoke too freely in criticism of those in power.

He also wanted some distance between himself and Arria. He had ceased seeking her company, but she still sought his. She told him Fannia was divorcing Patrobus and telling everyone she had a lover, and he didn’t want that trouble added to his shoulders as well. He grimaced, remembering Arria’s hurt and angry tones.

“Is it you, Marcus?”

“I have not seen the fair Fannia since the banquet Antigonus threw before the Apollinare games,” he had answered truthfully. “You were there, don’t you remember? You swam naked in Antigonus’ fountain to the Satyrs.” She had been drunk and wildly angry when she saw him in the gardens with Fannia. He had tossed her into the fountain, but doubted she remembered.

Now Arria attended every festival and banquet he did, a constant burr in his side. Piqued by his rejection, she told her friends she had tired of him, though it was all too obvious she still wanted him. Her persistence was embarrassing.

There was a measure of relief in his unattached status. He could do what he pleased, when he pleased, with whom he pleased. For a few brief days, he had enjoyed Mallonia, a woman who was a friend of Titus, the emperor’s son. Through her, Marcus had been introduced to Titus. The younger Flavius had been depressed over the termination of his love affair with the Jewish princess, Berenice. Though his captive, she had captivated him. Marcus had wondered at the rumors circulating through the Empire that Titus wanted to marry a Jew. He hadn’t believed it until meeting Titus. Were it not for Vespasian ordering the affair ended, Titus might actually have done it.

Titus should never even have considered marrying a woman of such a heathenish race. Perhaps it was a combination of too many months of campaigning and too long a time beneath the hot Judean sun. Women were meant to be conquered and enjoyed, not turn a man’s life inside out or set the Empire to rebellion.

Marcus thought of Hadassah and then pressed the image of her gentle face away.

He turned his thoughts to the rock quarries. He had purchased interest in two of them within a day’s journey of Rome after hearing a rumor passed on to him by one of his agents. One of Vespasian’s palace slaves had overheard a conversation between the emperor and several senators concerning Nero’s lake near the Golden House. Vespasian was mulling over the idea of draining the lake and making it the site for an amphitheater large enough to seat more than one hundred thousand plebeians.

Tons of stone would be needed, and where better to buy it than from quarries closest to Rome? Granted, Marcus only owned a very small share in the quarries, but even a small share would be worth a fortune once the colossal project got underway.

Grinning, Marcus gave the stallion his head and galloped down the road. The speed and power of the animal under his control exhilarated him, and his blood raced in response. The stallion slowed his pace after several milestones. Marcus drank in the fresh country air.

He wondered how Julia fared with her aging Claudius. He hadn’t seen her in months. She wasn’t expecting him, and the prospect of completely surprising her pleased him.

He purchased food from an open-air market in one of the small
civitates
and continued on his way. He passed by a rich traveler ordering his slaves to pitch a tent for the night. With the size of the man’s retinue and the frequency of Roman legionnaires on the road, there was less likelihood of an attack in the open. Spending a night at a local inn was an invitation to robbery or worse.

Marcus had friends along the way, but chose not to stop. He wanted to be alone, to hear silence and his own thoughts. He chose a place to bed down well off the road and hidden by a formation of granite.

The evening was warm, and he needed no fire. He removed the saddle and blanket from his horse, then brushed him down. There was a small stream and plenty of grass for grazing. He hobbled the stallion within reach of both and stretched out beneath the stars.

The sweet silence sang in his ears as though sirens were nearby. He drank it in, savoring the peace. However, all too soon, that peace left him as his mind filled with the dozens of business decisions he had to make over the coming weeks. It seemed the more successful he was, the more complicated his life became. Even escaping for a few days took a monumental effort.

At least he was not in the social position of his father. He did not have to sit in a curule chair early each morning and dole out denarü to twenty or more clients who stood with their hats in their hands. They always lingered, asking advice, offering flattery, bowing their insincere thanks.

His father was a generous man, but there were times when even he begrudged the doled-out coin. He said it took away the desire in men to work for themselves. For a few denarü, they sold their self-respect. Yet, what choice did Romans have when the population became glutted from every conquered province and foreign goods dominated the marketplace? Free Roman laborers demanded higher pay than provincial slaves. Romans thought themselves above the common pay. Ephesians like his father had grasped every opportunity.

Born and educated in the Eternal City, Marcus felt himself torn by allegiances. He was more Roman than Ephesian. Yet, his father still felt his roots were deep in Ephesus. A few nights ago, his father had said in wrath, “Roman I may be by purchase, but in my blood I am and always will be an Ephesian—as are you!”

Marcus wondered at his father’s vehemence. “Once it mattered to be a Roman, to ensure protection and opportunity,” Decimus had said, explaining his reasons for becoming a citizen. “It took time and effort. It was a thing of honor bestowed on a select few who earned it. These days, any man with the price can be a Roman, be he ally or enemy! The Empire has become like a common whore, and like a whore she is diseased and rotting from within.”

His father had seemed driven and talked with irritating rapidity of the homeland he had left over two decades ago. Even Vespasian’s able leadership of the Empire did not quiet his dire suppositions. It was as though some unknown force within the elder Valerian sought to draw him back to Ephesus.

Marcus sighed and thought of more pleasing and less disturbing things. Mallonia with her green eyes and practiced wiles; Glaphyra and her smooth, voluptuous curves. Yet, when he slept, the woman who filled his dreams was a young Jewess, her hands raised heavenward to her unseen god.

Julia was deliriously happy to see her brother. She threw herself into his arms, laughing and saying how thankful she was that he’d come. He lifted her and kissed her fondly, then set her on her feet again, putting his arm around her as they went out into the courtyard. She had grown up some in the months since he had seen her, and she was more lovely than ever.

“Where is your doting husband?”

“Probably in his bibliotheca poring over his scrolls again,” she said with an indifferent shrug and dismissive wave of her hand. “What brings you to Capua?”

“You,” he said, proud of how beautiful she was. Her eyes were bright and shining, all for him.

“Will you take me to one of the ludi? Claudius hasn’t the time with his studies, and I have been simply dying to see how they train the gladiators. Will you, Marcus? Oh, please. It would be so much fun.”

“I see no problem in that. Was there one in particular you wanted to visit?”

“There’s one not far from here. It belongs to a man named Scorpus Proctor Carpophorus. I’ve heard it’s one of the best training facilities in the province.”

Claudius’ gardens were extensive and beautiful. Numerous slaves were pruning and trimming and weeding to keep the pathways manicured. Birds flitted and sang from the high branches of mature trees. Claudius’ family had owned this villa for many years. His wife Helena had died here. Marcus saw no sign that her ghost had dampened Julia’s marital happiness. She seemed happier now than on the day the vows were said.