An Echo in the Darkness(100)

Phoebe’s hand fluttered slightly, her fingers lightly brushing Julia’s hair.

“Oh, Mother, what will I do now? What will I do?” Her mother tried to speak again, but Julia couldn’t bear the garbled sounds that made no sense. Her mother sounded mad. Julia lifted her head and saw the tears that streamed down her mother’s cheeks. With a cry, she fled.

She almost ran across the balcony and out of the room. When Iulius tried to intercept her, she ordered him out of her way and hurried down the steps and out the door.

She wandered the streets of Ephesus. Though the sun was shining, she felt an oppressive darkness around her. She was hungry but had no money to buy bread. It was dusk when she returned to her own villa. Didymas greeted her dutifully and took her shawl. Julia entered the triclinium. Exhausted, she reclined on one of the couches. The room pulsed with cold silence.

Tropas brought in a tray. He set it before her with his usual ceremony and poured her a full goblet of posca. She said nothing to him, and he left the room. She stared at the meal he had prepared for her: one small roasted dove, a thin loaf of grainy bread, and a wrinkled apricot. A bitter smile curved her mouth. Once she had dined on the richest delicacies the Empire could offer, and now, this was her feast.

She picked the meat from the dove until only the small bony carcass remained. Dipping the bread in the wine, she ate it as well. She had fallen so low that even this pauper’s meal tasted good to her.

A small knife lay on the tray. She picked it up and toyed with it, her thoughts turning to Octavia’s father. Perhaps she should cut her vein as he had done and end this slow, painful fall into complete ruin. She was going to die anyway. The unnamed disease was slowly sapping her strength and eating her up inside. Better to die quickly with a little pain than to linger and suffer unknown agonies.

Her palms began to sweat. The hand holding the knife trembled. She positioned the blade over the blue lines that ran beneath the pale flesh of her wrist. Her hand shook harder. “I must do it. I must. There’s no other way. . . .” She closed her eyes, trying desperately to gather the courage to end her own life.

With a soft moan, she leaned forward, the knife dropping from her fingers. It clattered to the marble floor, the sound echoing out into the peristyle.

Curling up on the long couch, Julia covered her face with her trembling hands and wept.





21

Marcus stood on the roof with Ezra Barjachin for the last time. Though his strength had not fully returned and his wound was not fully healed, he felt driven to continue his quest. He had informed Ezra last night that he would leave this morning, requesting clothing for his journey with a promise to repay him.

“Accept these as a gift,” Ezra said and presented Marcus with a new seamless, ankle-length tunic, a sash of colorful striped cloth, a heavy mantle to serve him as a cloak and bedding, and a pair of new sandals.

Marcus was deeply touched by the Jew’s generosity and kindness and was even more determined to see that Ezra was properly recompensed for his inconvenience. He had asked Taphatha to find him a Roman messenger. He gave the man a letter and promised him payment when he arrived at his destination. It took some convincing, but the messenger finally agreed to ride to Caesarea Maritima on trust and contact Marcus’ representatives. As soon as they read his instructions and saw his signature, Marcus knew they would send what he demanded and all would be done as he instructed.

Marcus looked at the older man standing by the roof wall. Ezra wore the tallis draped over his head, and Marcus knew he was praying. He felt a mingling of impatience and envy. The older man was as disciplined and tenacious as Hadassah had ever been. Would he share the same fate? What good were all his prayers? What good had hers ever been?

And why had Ezra become so hungry to learn about Jesus?

Marcus had been surprised at how intently Ezra had listened to every bit of information he could relate of what Hadassah had said about the man she had worshiped as a god. Marcus hoped telling Ezra would bring the truth to light. Perhaps this learned Jew would see the impossibilities and discrepancies of the strange story of a homely carpenter-turned-magician who proclaimed himself the Son of Adonai and who, some claimed, had arisen from the dead.

But something strange had transpired on the rooftop over the past few days. Marcus had witnessed a change in Ezra. Subtle, indescribable, yet undeniable. Marcus couldn’t put words to it. He only sensed it with his inner being. It was as though he was with someone completely different from the Ezra Barjachin who had found him in the wadi half-dead.

Marcus looked at Ezra, studying him. The older man was gazing distractedly into the street. He had to know for certain. “You believe Jesus is your Messiah, don’t you, old man?”