A Voice in the Wind (36 page)

Even when Marcus Valerian didn’t look at her, she was in turmoil when he was present. She wanted him to glance her way, and when he did, she was clumsy and embarrassed. Sometimes she wished he would stay away from the villa. But when he did, she longed to see him again just to know he was well.

Her father had spoken of a girl’s infatuation for physical beauty. He warned her even as a child to look at the man behind the handsome face, to seek the soul. “A beautiful face can mask great evil,” he said.

Marcus was beautiful, like one of the statues near the marketplace. Sometimes she looked at him and forgot all about his soul. Marcus didn’t believe he had one, nor did he believe in an afterlife as his father and mother did. She had overheard him say to his father that when a man died, he died. He said.that was the reason he wanted to have as much from life as he could.

The only god in Marcus’ life was his own intellect. He laughed at Hadassah’s faith and scoffed at her “unseen god.” He believed a man made himself by grasping whatever opportunity came his way.

Bithia boasted she had power over Marcus, that with the right incantation and sacrifice, she could make him want her. Hadassah didn’t believe her, but she had seen Bithia in the garden early in the morning, standing in the scented smoke drifting from her incense burner. And Marcus did go to her. Often.

Hadassah pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She had no right to feel anything for Marcus Valerian. She had prayed that God would remove the confusing feelings she had for him and open her eyes that she might better serve. But Marcus had only to appear for her heart to feel as though it would jump from her chest.

Bithia said Marcus was the best lover she had ever had. The Egyptian girl said many things that Hadassah didn’t want to hear. She didn’t want to know what went on between the slave girl and her master.

She prayed Marcus Valerian would fall in love and marry a good woman like his mother. She didn’t want to see him fall beneath Bithia’s black spells. Bithia was like Egypt in the Scriptures, seductive and beguiling, beckoning a man to his destruction. Bithia seemed wise in the ways of the world, but she was completely ignorant of what she brought upon herself. Commerce with the powers of darkness might gain her what she desired for the moment, but at what cost in the end?

Phoebe Valerian believed Bithia had healing powers and often summoned the slave girl to the master’s bedchamber. Yet, even after all these weeks, Decimus Vindacius Valerian was no better.

The master believed in religious tolerance and, therefore, everyone in the household was allowed to worship their gods in their own way. Many of the slaves worshiped at various shrines and temples. Bithia was allowed to go daily to the shrine of Isis near the Field of Mars, just as Enoch was allowed to go to morning prayers in a small synagogue near the river where many free Jews lived and worked. The unspoken rule between the slaves in the Valerian household was live and let live. However, when Bithia began using her spells and potions on the master, Enoch’s tolerance evaporated like rain in a desert.

“I pray God strikes her dead before she can do more harm to the master with her black arts,” he said as he accompanied Hadassah to the marketplace one morning.

“Enoch, she really believes in her heart that what she is doing will cure the master. She fasts and prays and meditates in order to earn powers she believes have been promised to her.”

“And that’s an excuse for what she is practicing on him?”

“No, but—”

“She is a deceiver and a sorceress.”

“She is the one deceived, Enoch. She believes in false gods and false teachings because she has never heard the truth.”

“You are too young to understand the evil that’s in the world.”

“I have seen evil in the midst of Jerusalem, long before the Romans ever ascended the walls.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

“If Bithia knew the Lord, things would be different for the master and for her.”

His eyes flashed in astonishment. “What are you suggesting? That I make an Egyptian harlot a proselyte?”

“Scriptures say Ruth was a Moabitess, and yet through her came our King David and from the line of David, the Christ.”

“Ruth had a heart for God.”

“How do we know Bithia does not? How would Ruth have come to know God unless her husband and her mother-in-law first told her of him?”

“I will not stand here and argue Scripture with an ignorant child, Hadassah. What can you know? Forgive me if I seem abrupt, but your tender heart will not change the ways of the world, or of a harlot like Bithia!”

She laid her hand on his arm. “I don’t mean to argue, Enoch.” She looked up at his dear face, knowing that if God hadn’t sent him to buy her that day in the slave market, she would have long since perished in the arena. “Israel is God’s chosen witness to the world. How can we be witnesses of the one true God if we hold the truth as our own possession? God meant his truth for the world.”

“You would give away what is holy even to unclean Gentile dogs?” Enoch said and shook his head in sad disbelief. “Listen well to me, Hadassah. Stay away from Bithia. Stop up your ears against her. She is evil. Do not forget that tolerance of evil is what destroyed our nation. Be careful it doesn’t destroy you as well.”

Hadassah had wanted to weep. Not once had she spoken of Jesus. Not one word had she uttered of how the Lord had raised her own father from the dead. It was as though her tongue were a heavy weight in her mouth, and now her heart was even heavier for having kept silent. Would Enoch have listened? She told herself he wouldn’t have. Yet, the question lay unanswered. Bithia didn’t know God; Enoch didn’t know his Messiah. And why? Because her fear of rejection and persecution kept the truth locked in her heart. The knowledge she had was hidden treasure meant for both of them, and she clung to it, gaining her strength from it, but too afraid to give it away.

Now, a small bird flittered into the peristyle and perched on the statue Marcus called “Passion Spurned.” Hadassah pressed her fingers against her temples and rubbed gently. The open courtyard was full of light and color and the soothing sounds of the fountain, and yet she felt the darkness all around her, closing in. She longed for the company of others who shared her beliefs. She ached for someone to talk to about God the way she used to talk to her father.

She felt so alone. Enoch had his law and tradition, Bithia her false gods and rituals. Julia had her hunger for life, Marcus his ambition. Decimus believed in nothing, while Phoebe bowed down to stone idols. In a sense, they were all alike, each using religion to give them what they thought they needed—power, money, pleasure, peace, righteousness, a crutch. They obeyed their individual laws, made their sacrifices, performed their rituals, all the while expecting to have their desires fulfilled. Sometimes it seemed as though they succeeded, and then she would see the empty longing in their eyes.

God, why can’t I cry out the truth from the rooftops? Why don’t I have the courage to speak as my father did? I love these people, but I haven’t the words to reach them. I’m afraid to speak out and say they are wrong and I’m right. Who am I but a slave? How do I explain to them that I’m really the one who is free, and they are the captives?

She thought of Claudius and all the hours they had spent together as he had asked about God. Everything she had said had only tickled his ears, not a word had changed his heart. Why did the Word sink in and transform some and seem to bounce off of others? God said to sow the seed, but why didn’t he soften the soil?

Lord, what must I do to make them hear?

Phoebe came out into the peristyle. She looked so tired and strained that Hadassah forgot Marcus’ admonition and approached her. “May I bring you something, my lady? Cool wine or something to eat?”

“Some wine, perhaps,” Phoebe said in a distracted tone. She trailed her fingers through the water.

Hadassah went inside quickly and brought the wine out to her. She was still sitting the same way. Hadassah set the tray down and poured some wine for her. Phoebe took the goblet and set it down untouched on the bench. “Julia is resting?”

Hadassah froze. She bit her lip, wondering what to answer. Phoebe glanced up at her and understanding was clear in her eyes. “Never mind, Hadassah. Where is Bithia?”

“She went to the temple of Isis just after you and the master left.”

Phoebe sighed. “Then she won’t be back for hours.” Her hand trembled as she took the goblet. “My husband needs distraction. His illness…” She set the goblet down again and took Hadassah’s hand. Hers were cool. “I heard you singing to Julia the other evening. Something in Hebrew, I think. It was beautiful. Your master is tired, but he can’t sleep. Perhaps if you sing to him, he’ll be able to rest.”

Hadassah had never sung for anyone in the household but Julia and was nervous. Phoebe led her inside, where she handed her a small harp. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered and crossed the room to her husband. Decimus Valerian was reclined on his couch and looked older than his forty-eight years. His face was drawn and pale, even after a morning in the sunlight. He hardly noticed Hadassah as she obeyed Phoebe’s silent command to sit near him. “All is well?” he said quietly.

“Everything is fine. Julia doesn’t need Hadassah at the moment and I thought it would be pleasurable to hear her sing.” She nodded to Hadassah.

Hadassah’s mother had taught her to play. She caressed the instrument, allowing the memories of her family to rise up and bring back the melody of their worship and praises together. Plucking several simple chords, she established the notes and began to sing softly. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” She sang in Hebrew first and then again in Greek and finally in Aramaic, the language she had spoken all her life. When she finished, she lowered her head and thanked God silently for the peace King David’s psalm gave her.

When she looked up again, she found Phoebe watching her. “He’s asleep,” she whispered. Touching a fingertip to her lips, she made a gentle gesture of dismissal. Hadassah placed the small harp on a stool and quietly left the room.

Phoebe placed a blanket over Decimus. Then she went to the stool and picked up the harp Hadassah had played. She clutched it to her and went back to sit near her husband, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Calabah Shiva Fontaneus was the most fascinating woman Julia had ever met.

“All life is but a stage of becoming a new being,” Calabah said to her small gathering of women. “As women, we have the greatest potential for godhood, because it is the female who is the pro-creator of life.”

Julia listened raptly to Calabah’s rebellious ideas. Calabah spoke eloquently, presenting new and enticing philosophies that tickled Julia’s imagination.

Octavia had told her a great deal about Calabah on their way from the Field of Mars. “She’s rich, has several lovers, and conducts all her own financial affairs, which include several lucrative businesses.”

“What sort of businesses?”

“I don’t have any idea, and it would be rude to ask. Whatever she does, she does well because she lives a lavish life-style.”

Julia wasn’t sure what she expected to find when she met Calabah, but everything about her seemed unique. She was tall and athletically built. Rather than wear her hair up in an intricate style as most Roman women did, she wore hers, which was a lovely shade of auburn, down in a simple braid. She wasn’t beautiful. Her eyes were a murky shade of green, her skin too tan, and her jaw too firm, but her vitality and personality made her stunning. She seemed to fill a room with her presence.

Octavia said no one really knew anything about her background. Rumor claimed she met Aurius Livius Fontaneus at a feast where she was a dancer. He was taken with her gymnastic abilities; she, with his money.

Whatever the woman’s history, within a few minutes of meeting Calabah, Julia admired her greatly. Here was a woman who was everything Julia longed to be: rich, sought-after, independent.

“All life is born through woman,” Calabah said to her guests and received soft
ayes
in response. “When a man dies, does he cry out for his father? No! He cries out for his mother. In each of us is the untapped possibility of who we really are, goddesses who have forgotten our true identities in our prelife. Woman is the fountain of life and only she has the seeds of divinity that can grow and lift her to heavenly plains. We are the bearers of eternal truth.”

Julia could imagine what Marcus would say to such ideas. It made her smile slightly thinking of it. Calabah looked her way and raised a dark brow in question. “You don’t agree, Sister Julia?”

Julia felt uneasy beneath Calabah’s steady stare and asked a question to avert it. “I haven’t decided, but I’d like to hear more. How do we attain this godhood of which you speak?”

“By not giving away our power to men,” Calabah said simply, her smile patient rather than patronizing. She rose and moved around the occupied couches in the room. “We must achieve our full potential in all spheres to earn our godhood,” she said. “We must train our mind, exercise our body, commune with the gods through meditation and sacrifice.” She stopped beside Octavia and caressed her shoulder. “A little more time marching and less pursuing pleasure.”

Octavia blushed as the others laughed. Her hand whitened on the golden goblet. “You mock me, Calabah? I’m not a chattel like others I know,” she said and looked pointedly at Julia. “I have a life of my own and am free to do as I please. No one tells me when I shall get up and when I shall get down.”

“We’ve all been chattels at some time, dear Octavia.” Calabah smiled slightly. “Do you control your own purse strings?”

Octavia’s eyes glittered as she glanced up at the older woman. Calabah was well aware of her true financial situation. They had discussed it during a private moment a few days before. How could Calabah bring it up now in front of Julia and the others? “A kind and cutting question,” she said, feeling betrayed.

Calabah gave her a condescending smile. “Better that you use your head and marry than waste yourself on barley men,” she said, referring pointedly to Octavia’s numerous alliances with gladiators.