An Echo in the Darkness(152)

“You should come to the games tomorrow.”

“I’m bringing Pilia with me.”

“Ah, Pilia,” another groaned, rolling his eyes as though in ecstasy.

The others laughed and made ribald remarks of how Pilia implanted herself upon the memory of any man with whom she spent a night, especially after the games.

Marcus thought of Arria.

He thought of his sister.

He dove into the pool, thankful when the water closed over his head and shut out the sound of his friends’ voices. Friends? He didn’t know them anymore. He swam to the far end of the pool and lifted himself out. Striding between the pillars, he entered the calidarium, where he remained until the sweat was pouring from his body. Skipping the tepidarium, he dove into the frigidarium, thankful for the shock of cold water that drove all thought from his head.

Only briefly.

He submitted to a vigorous massage before leaving the club. He walked down the street, one more body among the impersonal chaos of the crowds that milled around near the Artemision. He stopped to look up at the temple. It was garishly beautiful, an immense monument to man’s engineering.

With his acute mind, he saw it as the grandest money-making venture in Ephesus. Idol makers surrounded the massive complex, taking in money for crude statues of the goddess who supposedly inhabited the temple. Others raked in gold coin for sacrificial animals. Still others sold amulets and secret spells enclosed in expensive lockets. Incense was sold by the pinch and at prices to test a worshiper’s depth of faith. Prayers were bought.

Inside were the temple prostitutes, male and female, at prices on a sliding scale—depending on the wealth of the man or woman who had come to pay proper homage to the goddess.

Marcus shook his head sadly. How much did a priest charge these days for a blessing? How much for hope that would prove empty?

Marcus looked down a street lined with inns that catered to those who had come far distances to see the temple and worship Artemis. Most came, worshiped, and departed, while others remained for months, delving into the volumes written by the priests on the sacred Ephesian letters carved into Artemis’ headpiece. Did anyone really know what they meant? Did they mean anything at all?

He stood looking up at the Artemision. How many came to this building to find hope and went away in despair, their questions unanswered, their needs unfulfilled? How many felt the same aching emptiness and driving need he had felt for so long and were destined to remain that way to death and beyond?

Suddenly, in the midst of his contemplation, he sensed someone staring at him. He turned. An Arab stood across the street. People milled around him, moving steadily toward the Artemision or entering the shop behind him. The man didn’t move, nor did he avert his gaze. Marcus felt warning in his stare and wondered at it. He didn’t recognize the man and so could not understand the intensity of his perusal. Then the Arab seemed to vanish among the throng of people.

Perplexed, Marcus started walking again, trying to spot the man among the crowds moving to and from the Artemision. Had he entered an idol maker’s shop?

Someone bumped him hard from the side, almost knocking him down. He lost his breath and stumbled, catching himself before falling. He swore, knowing it had been a deliberate action, perhaps intended as a way to strip him of his purse. He turned to see who had bumped him and saw the Arab again, moving quickly away in the direction of the Artemision. He mingled with the crowd so fast, Marcus couldn’t catch up.

Shaking his head, Marcus turned back and went up Kuretes Street toward home.

His side began to burn with pain. When he put his hand to it, he felt moisture. His eyes widened as he looked at his bloody hand, and he swore. Feeling the blood dripping down his side, he hurried his pace toward home. Wincing, he pushed the gate open and went up the steps. As soon as he entered the villa, he threw off his cape. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he went up the steps.

Iulius came out of the Lady Phoebe’s bedchamber. “My lord!” he said in concern, seeing the blood staining Marcus’ tunic.

“I was attacked,” Marcus said grimly, shaking off his support. “It’s nothing more than a cut.”

At Iulius’ call, Lavinnia came running. “Get water and bandages. Lord Marcus has been attacked,” he said, following Marcus. “Move, girl. Quickly!”

Hadassah came out of Julia’s bedchamber and watched Iulius help Marcus into his room. Alarmed, she followed, but when she appeared in his doorway, he waved her off angrily. “Tend to Julia. I’ll tend to myself.”

She ignored him. Iulius immediately stepped back so she could see the wound. Marcus heard her soft gasp.