A Voice in the Wind (9 page)

“His life is becoming so aimless,” Phoebe said.

“Not aimless, my love. Self-centered. Indulgent.” Decimus rose, drawing his wife up with him. “He’s like so many of his young aristocratic friends. He considers life a great hunt; every experience prey to be devoured. There is little thought these days of what is good for Rome.”

They walked out into the
peristyle
, a large corridor that encircled the courtyard. They strolled along beneath the white marble columns and went out into the garden. It was a warm evening and the stars shone in the clear sky. The pathway meandered among trimmed shrubs and flowering trees. The marble statue of a nude woman stood in the flower bed, her male counterpart on the other side of the walkway. Perfect forms glistening white in the moonlight.

Decimus’ mind wandered to the day Marcus had shaved for the first time. Together they had taken the whiskers to the temple of Jupiter. Marcus made his offering and became a man. It seemed like yesterday—and a lifetime ago. During the intervening years, Decimus had seen the boy through rhetorics and military training. Yet, somewhere along the way, he had lost control. He had lost his son.

“I was hoping to convince Marcus that a new order could bring much-needed changes to the Empire,” he said, putting his hand over Phoebe’s as it rested on his arm.

“Isn’t it a worthy pursuit to want to rebuild Rome?” Phoebe asked gently, putting her other hand over his. He seemed so troubled, and he had not been well lately, though he did not speak of what ailed him. Perhaps it was only concern over Marcus’ future. And Julia’s.

“Rome needs rebuilding,” Decimus said, but he knew Marcus cared little about the Empire, except as it affected him personally. Marcus had no altruistic reasons for wanting to rebuild Roman houses. His only motivation was to increase Valerian wealth. One cannot rape life without the means to do so, and money was what gave one those means.

Decimus supposed he was to blame for Marcus’ preoccupation with money. Most of his own life had been spent in building the Valerian fortune through various enterprises. He had begun in Ephesus, part owner of one small ship. Now he made his home in Rome itself, overseer of an entire merchant fleet. His ships traveled all the known seas and returned with cargoes from most every country in the Empire: cattle and wool from Sicily; slaves from Britain; wild beasts from the coasts of Africa; rare essences, gems, and eunuchs from Parthia and Persia; grain from Egypt; cinnamon, aloes, and laudanum from Arabia.

Valerian caravans journeyed as far as China to bring back silk, dyes, and drugs; others traveled to India, returning with pepper, spices, and herbs along with pearls, sardonyx, diamonds, and carbuncles. Whatever Roman markets wanted, Valerian caravans and ships would supply.

From boyhood, Decimus had been aware of Marcus’ brilliance. He had a gift for making money. His ideas were shrewd, his intuition solid. Even more important, he could see into men’s souls. Decimus took pride in his son’s natural abilities, yet he recognized a side of his son’s character that grieved him greatly. For all his charm and intelligence, Marcus used people.

Decimus remembered the first time he realized how callous Marcus had become. It’d been three years ago, when Marcus was nineteen.

“There is more gold in sand than grain, Father.”

“The people
need
grain.”

“They want the games, and you cannot have the games without the sand to soak up the spilled blood.”

“There are hundreds starving and in need of food. We must think of what is best for our people.”

For the first time, his son challenged him. “Bring in two ships, one loaded with grain and one with sand, and see which cargo is paid for and unloaded first. If it’s grain, I’ll do whatever you ask for the next year. But if it’s sand, you’ll give me management over six ships, to do with them as I wish.”

Decimus had been so sure need would outweigh want. Or perhaps he had only hoped.

In the end, Marcus had his six ships. It sat ill with Decimus to admit to himself he was relieved now to know that Marcus would fill them with lumber and stones and not more sand or victims for the arena.

The father sighed. Phoebe was wrong to say that Marcus was aimless. Marcus was single-minded in his pursuit of wealth and pleasure—all that he could get.

At the front door, Marcus swung on his cloak and kissed Julia on the forehead. “I’ll take you to the games when you’re a little older.”

Julia stamped her daintily sandaled foot. “I despise you when you patronize me, Marcus,” she said. When he opened the door, she quickly clung to his arm. “Please, Marcus. You promised me.

“I did no such thing,” he said, amused.

“Well, you sort of promised. Oh, Marcus. It isn’t fair. I’ve never been to the games and I’ll simply
die
if I don’t get to go.”

“You know Mother would have my head if I took you.”

“She would forgive you anything and
you
know it. Besides, Mother doesn’t have to know. You could say you were taking me out for a ride in your new chariot. Just take me to the theater for an hour or two. Please. Oh, Marcus. It’s so humiliating to be the only one of my friends who hasn’t seen a gladiatorial contest.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Julia knew he was putting her off. She drew back slightly and tilted her head. “Glaphyra told me you take Arria. She’s only three years older than I.”

“Arria is Arria,” he said.

“It isn’t Roman to not attend the games!”

Marcus put a quick hand over her mouth and shushed her. “Any more outbursts like that and you can forget it.” Quick tears filled her eyes and he relented. “Whether I agree with you or not, now is not the best time for me to be taking you anywhere.”

“Because you disappointed Father with your lack of noble ambition?” she mocked.

“I see nothing noble in politics. Nor in marriage.”

Julia’s eyes widened. “Father wants you to get married? To whom?”

“He only hinted and made no suggestions.” While Julia delighted him with her endless gossip, he didn’t want word of his rejection of Olympia arriving at the Garibaldi door via one of Julia’s infantile friends. Besides, it was not Olympia he had rejected as much as marriage itself. The mere thought of spending the rest of his life with one woman was daunting.

He had briefly considered marrying Arria during the height of their passionate affair. Good sense had kept him silent. Arria, beautiful exciting Arria. In the beginning, just thinking about her had given him an edge of excitement. Sometimes he felt his blood stir just watching her screaming over two gladiators fighting it out in the arena. Arria was still pleasing, still charming and witty— but for all her considerable charms, she had begun to bore Marcus.

“You and father were together more than an hour. You just don’t want to tell me who it is. No one ever tells me anything. I am not a baby anymore, Marcus.”

“Then stop acting like one.” He kissed her cheek. “I have to leave.”

“If you don’t take me to the theater, I’ll tell Mother what I heard about you and Patrobus’ wife.”

Stunned, he could only laugh. “You didn’t overhear that in this house,” he said. “One of your foul little friends, I’ll wager.” He swung her around and laid a firm slap on her backside. She let out a yelp of pain and jerked free, her dark eyes flashing with fury.

He grinned down at her. “If I do agree to take you…” Julia calmed instantly at his capitulation, her pretty face blooming with a triumphant smile. “I said
if
, you little witch. If I agree, it won’t be because you threaten to repeat rumors about a senator’s wife!”

She pouted prettily. “You know I wouldn’t really.”

“Mother wouldn’t believe you if you did,” he said, knowing his parent had never believed the worst of him.

Julia knew, too. “I’ve wanted to go to the games for so long.”

“You’ll probably faint at your first sight of blood.”

“I promise I won’t shame you, Marcus. I won’t even flinch, no matter how much blood there is. I swear it. When shall we go? Tomorrow?”

“Not that soon. I’ll take you the next time Antigonus hosts them.”

“Oh, Marcus, I love you. I love you so much,” she said, hugging him.

“Yes, I know.” He smiled affectionately. “As long as you get your own way.”

4

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Marcus stepped out into the street and breathed deeply of the night air. He was glad to be out of the house. He loved his father, but he had new ways of thinking about things. Why work unless you intended to enjoy the fruits of your labor?

He had observed his father’s life. The elder Valerian arose at seven and spent two hours in the
atrium
, the central courtyard, doling out pensions to clients, most of whom had not worked in years. He ate a meager breakfast and left for the warehouses. Late in the afternoon, he exercised in the
gymnasium
and relaxed in the baths, conversing with aristocrats, politicians, and other wealthy merchants. He returned home to dine with his wife and family and then retired to his books. The next day was the same as the one before. Day after day after day.

Marcus wanted more from life. He wanted to feel his blood rushing through his veins as it did at the chariot races, or when he witnessed a good gladiatorial contest or when he was with a beautiful woman. He enjoyed the lassitude of being drunk on good wine, or of sharing a night of passion and pleasure. He enjoyed tasting new and rare delicacies. He liked watching dancers, listening to singers, and attending plays.

Life was a hunger meant to be sated. Life was meant to be swallowed, not sipped. But living cost money… lots of money.

For all his father’s speeches and posturing, Marcus was sure it wasn’t honor that ran Rome and the world. It was gold and coin. Money bought alliances and trade agreements; money paid for the soldiers and war machines that expanded the boundaries of the Empire. Money purchased
Pax Romana
.

Marcus walked with purposeful steps down Aventine Hill. The city was full of thieves awaiting a careless victim to fall upon. Marcus was watchful. His reflexes were quick, his dagger sharp. He would almost welcome an attack. A good, bloody fight might vent the frustrations his father aroused with his demands and expectations. Why this sudden disdain on his father’s part for money when the man had spent his life accumulating it? Marcus gave a harsh laugh. At least he was honest in his quest for riches.

He didn’t pretend to despise that which gave him the life-style he wanted.

The rumble of wheels on stone became louder as Marcus neared the thoroughfares. Carts and wagons laden with merchandise clambered through the city, creating a head-splitting din greater than most battles. He should have left the house earlier, before the ban lifted on wheeled vehicles entering Rome.

Marcus cut through the alleyways and followed the meandering streets, trying to avoid the traffic. He stayed close to the walls so he wouldn’t be doused with the slops being dumped from upstairs windows. Crossing a main avenue, he saw a cart overturn. Wine barrels broke free of their ropes and rolled. Men shouted; horses screamed. The Greek driver used his whip on a man who tried to roll a barrel away. Two more men began fighting in the street.

Marcus was jarred by a street seller carrying a flagon of wine and a basket of bread and shouldering a ham. Swearing, Marcus pushed him aside and shoved his way through the crowd. Breaking through, he headed for the Tiber bridge. The stench of excrement was powerful. By the gods, he longed for a breath of fresh country air! Maybe he would invest in land south of Capua. The city was growing and prices would rise.

Striding across the bridge, he walked south toward the Gardens of Julius. Antigonus’ home was not far away, and the walk had done him good.

A Negro slave opened the door. The Ethiopian was over six feet tall and powerfully built. Marcus looked him up and down and decided he must be one of Antigonus’ new African acquisitions. Antigonus had spoken of purchasing a trained gladiator to serve as his bodyguard. Marcus thought it an unwarranted expense since the young aristocrat was not yet in a position to have his life threatened.

“Marcus Lucianus Valerian,” Marcus told the slave.

The Negro bowed deeply and led him toward the large banquet room off the atrium.

A depressing atmosphere hung over the dimly lit room. Two well-built young men dressed in loincloths and wearing laurel leaf crowns played melancholy music on a pan flute and lyre. Antigonus’ friends spoke in low voices. Some reclined on couches, drinking and eating. Patrobus was occupying a couch, a platter of delicacies beside him. Marcus didn’t see the senator’s wife, Fannia, and wondered if she’d gone to their country estate as planned.

He spotted Antigonus, reclining and enjoying the ministrations of a lovely Numidian slave girl. Marcus approached. Crossing his arms, he leaned casually against a marble column, his mouth curving in a mocking grin as he watched them for a few moments.

“Ah, Antigonus, when I left your august presence this afternoon, you were contemplating a journey across the River Styx. And here I find you worshiping Eros.”

Antigonus opened his eyes and tried to focus. Disentangling himself, he dismissed the girl with a light shove and stood shakily, clearly drunk. “Have you come for a funeral or for a celebration, my dear Marcus?”

“A celebration, of course. I gave you my word, didn’t I? You’ll have what you need within the week.”

Antigonus let out his breath in great relief. “May the gods be praised for their generosity.” Noting Marcus’ sardonic look, the young aristocrat added hastily, “And your family, of course.” He clapped his hands, startling half a dozen guests from their lethargy. “Stop playing that dirge and give us something more lively!” He motioned impatiently to a slave. “Bring us more wine and food.”

Antigonus and Marcus sat and began discussing their plans for the games Antigonus would hold in honor of the emperor. “We must have something new and exciting to entertain our noble Vespasian,” Antigonus said. “Tigers, perhaps. You told me that one of your caravans arrived a few days ago.”