His smile lacked heart. Phoebe looked into his eyes, and her expression softened. She lifted her hand gently to his cheek, as though he were a hurt child. “Oh, Marcus,” she said, full of compassion. “Your journey didn’t make you forget.”
He stepped back from her, wondering if every mother could look into the soul of her child as his own could. “I’ve given management of the warehouses to Sextus,” he said briskly. “He’s capable and trustworthy.”
Phoebe followed his lead. “You’ve always had your father’s instincts about people,” she said quietly, watching him.
“Not in all cases,” he said heavily and then veered his thoughts away from his sister. “Iulius informed me you were taken with fever for several weeks.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine now.”
Marcus assessed her more closely. “He said you still tire easily. You are thinner than last I saw you.”
She laughed. “You need not worry about me. Now that you’re home again, I’ll have more appetite.” She took his hand. “You know I always worried when your father was on one of his long journeys. I suppose, now, I will be the same with you. The sea is so unpredictable.”
She sat on the bench, but he remained standing. She saw he was restless and thinner, his face lined and harder. “How was Rome?”
“Much the same. I saw Antigonus, with his retinue of sycophants. He was whining about money, as always.”
“And did you provide him with what he required?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wanted three hundred thousand sesterces, and every coin of it would go to sponsor games.” He turned away. Once he would have agreed without qualm and, in fact, enjoyed witnessing them for himself. Of course, Antigonus would have shown his gratitude in government building contracts and referrals of rich aristocrats who wanted bigger, more elaborate villas.
A politician like Antigonus had to court the mob’s favor. The best way to do that was by sponsoring the games. The mob cared nothing about what a senator stood for, as long as they were entertained and distracted from the real issues of life: an imbalance of trade, civil unrest, starvation, disease, slaves flooding in from the provinces and taking the jobs of freemen.
But Marcus no longer wanted part in any of it. He was ashamed he had given hundreds of thousands of sesterces to Antigonus in the past. All he had thought about then was the business advantage of having a friend in high places. Never once had he thought of what his actions meant in terms of human lives. In truth, he hadn’t cared. Financing Antigonus had been expedient. He had wanted the contracts to build in the burned-out wealthier sections of Rome, and lining Antigonus’ pouch with sesterces had been the quickest avenue to financial success. Bribery had bought him opportunity; opportunity had brought him wealth. His god: Fortuna.
Now, as though looking in a mirror, he saw himself as he had been: bored and drinking wine with friends while a man was nailed to a cross; eating delicacies served by a slave while men were pitted against one another and forced to fight to the death. And for what reason? To entertain a bored, hungry mob, a mob of which he had been a paying member. Now he was paying an even higher price: the knowledge that he had been as much a part of Hadassah’s death as anyone.
He remembered laughing while a man ran in terror, trying to escape a pack of dogs when no escape was possible. He could still hear the thousands screaming and cheering wildly as the lioness tore Hadassah’s flesh. What had been her crime other than having a sweet purity that had smitten the conscience and roused the jealousy of a foul harlot. A harlot who was Marcus’ sister. . . .
Phoebe sat silently on the bench in the shade and studied her son’s bitter face. “Julia asked when you would return.”
The muscles in his jaw clenched at the mention of his sister’s name.
“She wants to see you, Marcus.”
He said nothing.
“She needs to see you.”
“Her needs are the very least of my concern.”
“And if she wants to make amends?”
“Amends? How? Can she bring Hadassah back to life? Can she undo what she’s done? No, Mother. No amends are possible for what she did.”
“She is still your sister,” she said gently.
“You may have a daughter, Mother, but I swear to you, I have no sister.”
She saw the fierceness in his gaze, the uncompromising set of his jaw. “You cannot set the past aside?” she pleaded.
“No.”
“Or forgive?”
“Never! I tell you I pray every curse under heaven falls on her head.”