His silence was like an anguished cry in the room. She felt it. She saw it, too. His eyes were moist. He didn’t speak, but she knew he wanted to plead. Yet, he stood silent, rigid with self-control. Oh, how he must wish he had never returned.
Something long forgotten was awakened within her. Compassion stirred soft wings within her breast. She felt his anguish and, for the briefest moment, shared in it. He wanted to run away again, and who, least of all her, could blame him?
“You have no liking for that fate, do you?” she said very quietly.
“No, my lady,” he said, voice trembling.
“Would you rather I sold you to the editor of the games? They would make a gladiator out of you.”
He looked defeated. “I won’t fight.”
“Surely you can fight. You look strong enough. They would train you before sending you into the arena. You would have a chance of survival.”
“I didn’t say I can’t fight, my lady. I said I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s against my religious beliefs.”
She stiffened, torturous memories of Hadassah returning to haunt her again. Why now? She clenched her hands. “You would fight if your life depended on it!”
“No, my lady. I would not.”
She looked at him again, closely, and insight came. He was exactly like Hadassah. “Did the gods send you here to torment me?” Her head began to throb again. Pain blurred her vision. She gave a soft cry. “Ohhhh . . .” She pressed her hands against her temples. “Why do you come to me now?” She couldn’t think past the pounding in her head. Feeling faint and struggling against nausea, she stumbled across the room and sank down on the end of her sleeping couch. “Why did you come?”
“To serve you.”
“How can you serve me?” she said with biting sarcasm.
“I will serve you however you need, my lady.”
“Can you cure me of this affliction?” she cried with bitter mockery.
“No, but I’ve heard of a doctor in the city . . .”
She clenched her hands into white fists. “I’ve seen so many doctors, I’m sick of them! I’ve been to every temple there is! I’ve prostrated myself and pled for mercy before a dozen idols. I’ve impoverished myself with buying votive offerings from bloodsucking merchants. What good has it done me? What good, I ask you! What good?!”
He came closer, speaking gently. “This doctor of whom I have heard is said to have an assistant who has worked miracles.”
She gave a cynical laugh and looked up at him. “How much does a miracle cost these days?” Her lips twisted bitterly. “Take a look around you, Prometheus. Is there anything of any real value left?” She looked around the barren room herself, ashamed. “All I have left is this villa, and it’s already encumbered by debt.” Even as she revealed the facts to him, she wondered why she admitted her utter humiliation to a slave.
“What is your life worth to you, my lady?”
Her anger evaporated at his question, fear taking its place. She looked up at him again and was filled with misery. “I don’t know. I don’t know if my life is worth anything at all. No one cares what happens to me. I don’t even know if I care anymore.”
Prometheus went down on one knee before her and took her cold hand in his. “I care,” he said very quietly.
She stared at him, amazed. She wanted desperately to grasp hold of the hope he offered her, and, for one brief instant, she almost did. Then she was afraid to believe him. After all, why should he care? She had never been kind to him. In fact, she had always treated him with disdain and disgust. It made no sense that he would care about her now. What if this was some terrible trick . . . ? She felt fear gnawing at her.
Out of her fear came anger.
Oh, she knew why he cared! She could almost hear Calabah’s voice echoing in her head, reminding her of the way things really were. “Naturally, he cares,” she would say. “He’s worried about his own skin.” The echo of Calabah’s dark, mocking laughter rang in her ears.
Julia removed her hand from his. “How touching,” she said brittlely, glaring down at him. She stood shakily and moved away, head high, heart racing, as she allowed anger to rule her thinking. But she did not have the strength to sustain her anger, and it quickly gave way to despair, and despair to self-pity.
“Don’t think I believe you. Not for a minute,” she said, her back to him. “No one cares,” she whined, her lip trembling. “You’re just like all the rest. Smiling and pretending when you really hate me and wish I was dead. Every time Didymas walks into this room, I can see the look in her eyes. I know what she’s thinking. She’ll dance on my tomb.” Perhaps she would have her killed before that day came!