Tonight, he was weary. He had spent most of the afternoon with Mother. He was tired of the sound of his own voice, exhausted with trying to think of pleasant things to say to amuse her. She gazed at him in a way that made him wonder if she understood his deeper feelings, those he tried so desperately to hide.
As he passed by Julia’s bedchamber to go downstairs to the triclinium for a simple evening meal, he felt the urging within him again. The door was open, and he heard a soft voice. He paused and glanced in.
His sister was sitting sideways on her sleeping couch while the veiled woman sat behind her, brushing Julia’s hair with long, smooth strokes. She was speaking to his sister. He shut his eyes tightly, for the scene reminded him piercingly of Hadassah. He opened his eyes again and watched Azar minister to Julia. He had seen Hadassah brushing Julia’s hair with those same unhurried strokes while singing some psalm of her people. His heart ached with longing.
God, will I never forget her? Is this your way of punishing me for my part in it?
He stood in the doorway, filled with dismay that something so commonplace should rouse such pain. How long would it take before the love faded and the memories became bearable? Did Julia feel any remorse at all?
The veiled woman turned her head slightly. Seeing him, she lowered the brush to her lap. “Good evening, my lord.”
Julia turned sharply, and he saw how pale she was.
“Good evening,” he said, keeping his voice cool and under control.
“Come in, Marcus,” Julia said, eyes pleading.
He almost did as she asked and then stopped himself. “I’ve no time this evening.”
“When will you have time?”
He raised his brow at her peevish tone and directed his attention to her servant. “Have you all you need?”
“Why don’t you ask me, Marcus? Yes, most gracious lord, we have all the physical comforts we could possibly want.”
Ignoring her, he spoke coolly to Azar. “When you’ve tucked your mistress in for the night, come to the bibliotheca. I’ve some questions that need answering.”
“What questions?” Julia demanded.
Hadassah wondered as well, her heart beating even more rapidly. Marcus stood rigidly in the doorway, staring at her with hard, dark eyes.
Julia sensed Azar’s tension. “You don’t have to tell him anything, Azar. You’ve nothing to do with my brother.”
“She’ll answer or leave this house.”
At his coldness, Julia’s tenuous control snapped. “Why did you bring me back here, Marcus?” she cried out. “To make my life more unbearable than it already is?”
Angry at her accusation, Marcus left the doorway and headed down the corridor.
“Marcus, come back! I’m sorry. Marcus!”
He kept going. How many times before had she wept to get her own way? Not this time. Not ever again. Closing his heart off to her, he went down the steps.
The cook had prepared a succulent meal, but Marcus had no appetite. Annoyed, he went to the library and tried to lose himself in reviewing some of the documents his representatives had left with him. Finally, he brushed them aside impatiently and sat staring glumly ahead, his emotions in turmoil.
He wished he hadn’t brought Julia back here. He could’ve paid her debts, seen she had the servants she needed, and left her in her own villa.
“My lord?”
Marcus saw the veiled woman standing in the doorway. He turned his mind from the dark memories to the problem at hand.
“Sit,” he commanded and gestured to the seat facing him.
She did so. He found it surprising that a cripple could move with such grace. She sat straight-backed, her body turned slightly so that she could extend her bad leg.
“Iulius tells me your name is Rapha, not Azar,” he said pointedly.
Hadassah bit her lip, wishing she could still the fluttering in her stomach whenever she was in Marcus’ presence. She had tried to prepare herself for this interview, but sitting here in this small room with him so close filled her with trepidation.
“Rapha is what I was called, my lord. It means ‘the healer’ in Hebrew.”
She spoke in a soft rasping voice that reminded him pleasantly of Deborah. Was it the accent?
“Then you are a Jew. It was my understanding from Julia that you were a Christian.”
“I am both, my lord. By race, I am a Jew, by choice, a Christian.”
Ever defensive, he took offense. His mouth curved in a cool smile. “Does that place you on a higher plane than my mother, who is a Gentile Christian?”
Stunned by his accusing question, she was filled with dismay. “No, my lord,” she said, explaining quickly. “In Christ, there is neither Jew nor Roman, slave nor free, male nor female. We are all one in Christ Jesus.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice softening as though to reassure him. “Your mother’s faith makes her as much a child of Abraham as I, my lord. Anyone who chooses becomes an heir to the promise. God is impartial.”