Tears of self-pity filled her eyes. In the end, it hadn’t mattered anyway. During those last precious moments of his life, he had called for Hadassah and not his own daughter. He had given his blessing to a slave rather than his own flesh and blood.
She clenched her hand, angry again. None of them understood her. They never had. She had thought Marcus understood. He had been just as hungry for life as she, and he still would be if he hadn’t been fool enough to fall in love with a homely Christian slave girl. What had he ever even seen in her?
Julia sighed. Maybe Calabah was right. Maybe no one was capable of understanding her, of comprehending the hunger that drove her, the desperation she felt, the terrible yearning and fear that were her constant companions. They were satisfied with their simple, placid lives, comforted by their dull routines, self-righteous in their conventional mores. They had crushed her beneath their expectations.
Just as Calabah and Primus are now crushing me beneath theirs.
The unbidden thought came as a shock to Julia, and she fought the wave of nausea and light-headedness that washed over her. Calabah and Primus both professed to love her. But did they? How had they shown their love lately?
“You’ve become quite a bore, Julia. You impose your gloom on every feast you attend.”
“There is but one rule in this world. Please yourself.”
Julia closed her eyes and sighed wearily. Perhaps it was her illness that roused such disloyal thoughts.
Or was it?
Sweat beaded her forehead, and she dabbed at it with the back of her hand.
She had thought she was safe with Calabah, that Calabah was her only true friend. She thought Calabah, and only Calabah, loved her for who she was. But of late Julia wondered if Calabah was capable of love at all, and wondering made her insecure and afraid. What if she had made a terrible mistake?
Since the argument over her mother, Julia had become increasingly aware of the way Calabah and Primus looked at everyone, including one another, including her. It was as though they were ever hunting for that careless word or expression that might reveal some hidden distaste for their way of life. And when something did emerge, in truth or their fertile imaginations, the attack was immediate and ferocious. Primus unleashed words so acrimonious and vitriolic that his listeners winced, thankful they were not the target he shredded. Calabah used intellectualism to overwhelm those who questioned her ethics and morality, and contempt when she failed, dismissing anyone with an opposing viewpoint as obtuse or archaic. Ever on the defensive, Primus and Calabah were armed for offense. Why was it so necessary if they were truly in the right?
Julia’s mind was clouded with nameless dreads. What if they were wrong. . . ?
Iulius entered the peristyle, rescuing her from her grim contemplations. “Your wine, my lady.”
She took the silver goblet from the tray and glanced up at him. “Has my mother had any word from Marcus?”
“He visits her several times a week, my lady. He was here yesterday.”
Julia felt as though she had been struck in the stomach. “I thought he went to Rome,” she said, forcing her voice to sound normal.
“Oh, he did, my lady, but he returned within a few months. It was a pleasant surprise for your mother. She didn’t expect to see him for several years.”
Julia pressed the goblet between cold hands and looked away. “When did he arrive?”
Iulius hesitated, fully aware of the scope of Julia Valerian’s question. “Several weeks ago,” he said, wondering what her response would be. She had the habit of venting her wrath on the bearer of ill tidings.
Julia said nothing. Several weeks. Marcus had been back for several weeks and not even bothered to let her know. His silence was a cold proclamation that nothing was forgotten. Or forgiven. Julia’s hands shook as she raised the goblet to her lips and sipped.
Surprised and relieved, Iulius lingered. She looked unwell. “May I bring you anything else, Lady Julia? I purchased cherries from Pontic Cerasus and some Armenia peaches this morning.” They had always been her favorite.
“No,” Julia said, warmed slightly by his consideration. How long had it been since a servant had spoken to her in that gentle way?
Not since Hadassah.
The traitorous memory sent a shaft of pain through her. “I don’t want anything.”
He took a small bell from the tray and set it on the bench beside her. “If you need anything, ring for me,” he said and withdrew.
Julia drank her wine and wished she hadn’t come. The emptiness of the villa made her own loneliness all the more unbearable. Her throat constricted and she blinked back tears.
Marcus was here in Ephesus.
Before he had gone back to Rome, she had sent him message after message, and each was returned, seal unbroken. She had even gone to his villa once. One of his servants came to her. He said, “The master said he has no sister” and closed the door in her face. She had pounded and screamed that Marcus did have a sister and there had been a misunderstanding and she must speak to him. The door remained closed. All her efforts to see Marcus and talk with him had availed nothing.