An Echo in the Darkness(14)

“I don’t feel up to going anywhere, Calabah.”

Calabah’s brow arched again. “I didn’t ask you.”

Julia stared at her. “Have you no consideration of my feelings?”

“I have considered your feelings. I knew you’d say no and saw no reason to include you. You’ve never liked Sapphira, have you?”

“But you do,” Julia said in accusation.

“Yes,” Calabah said with a cool smile, her answer a twisting knife thrust. “I like Sapphira very much. You must understand, my dear. She’s fresh, innocent, full of a world of possibilities.”

“The way you said I was once,” Julia said bitterly.

Calabah’s smile grew mocking. “You knew what you embraced, Julia. I have not changed.”

Julia’s eyes shone with angry tears. “If I have changed, it is because I wanted to please you.”

Calabah laughed softly. “Ah, Julia, beloved. There is but one rule in this world. Please yourself.” Calabah’s cold gaze moved over Julia’s face and down her slender body. “You mean as much to me now as you ever did.”

Julia took little comfort in those words. Calabah tilted her head slightly and assessed her with dark, unblinking eyes, daring her to respond. Julia remained silent, knowing the challenge had to go unanswered. Sometimes she felt Calabah was simply waiting for her to do or say something that would give her the excuse to desert her completely.

“You do look pale, my dear,” Calabah said with damning insouciance. “Rest this evening. Perhaps you will feel better about everything tomorrow.” She walked gracefully from the room, pausing briefly to lightly brush her fingertips against Eudemas’ cheek and say something for the servant’s ears only.

Helpless to stop her from leaving, Julia clenched her hands. She had thought she could trust Calabah with her heart. Now she was filled with fury.

All her life she had suffered at the hands of men. First, her father had structured and controlled her life, dictating her every move up until he married her off to Claudius, a Roman intellectual who owned land in Capua. Claudius had bored her to distraction with his intellectual pursuits into the religions of the Empire, and she had been thankfully saved from a life of drudgery with him by his accidental death.

She had been madly in love with her second husband, Caius, sure this was the union   that would bring her all she had hoped for: pleasure, freedom, adoration. Then she found him worse by far than Claudius could ever have been. Caius opened the purses of her estate, spending thousands of her sesterces on races and on other women while venting his ill luck and dark moods on her. Julia had stood the abuse for as long as she could. Finally, with Calabah’s guidance, she had made sure Caius would never hurt her again. She recalled with a shiver his slow death, a result of the poison she had slipped into his food and drink.

Then there was Atretes . . . her one great passion! She had given her heart to him, making herself totally vulnerable, asking only that he not ask her to give up her freedom. And he had deserted her because she turned from his marriage proposal and married Primus to ensure her financial independence. Atretes had refused to understand why it had been necessary to do so. The pain of their last, angry encounter stabbed through her momentarily, and she gave an angry shake of her head. Atretes had been nothing more than a slave taken in the Germanic revolt, a gladiator. Who was he to dictate to her? Did he think she would marry him and relinquish all her rights to an uneducated barbarian? Marriage by usus to Primus had been the more intelligent course open to her—it gave her the freedom of being a married woman but none of the risk, for Primus would have no claim on her finances or estate—but Atretes had been too uncivilized to understand.

Even Marcus, her beloved, adored brother, had betrayed her in the end, cursing her at the games because she saved him from making a fool of himself over a slave girl. The pain of his defection had been the greatest blow of all. His words, filled with disgust and anger, still rang in her ears. She could still see the cold fury on his face as he had turned from her to Calabah.

“You want her, Calabah?”

“I’ve always wanted her.”

“You can have her.”

He had refused since then to speak with her or see her.

Father, husbands, and brother had failed her. So she had given herself into Calabah’s keeping, trusting her absolutely. After all, wasn’t it Calabah who swore undying love for her? Wasn’t it she who had pointed out and finally opened her eyes to the frailties and infidelities of men? Wasn’t it Calabah who had nurtured, spoiled, and guided her?