She wondered if it would make any difference if Marcus knew she was ill. She could find one of his friends and send word that way. Perhaps then he would come to her. He would beg her to forgive him for sending her letters back and refusing to see her. He would tell her she was his sister again, that he would take care of her, that he still adored her. She would make him suffer briefly before forgiving him, and then he would tease her and laugh with her and tell her amusing stories like he always had back in Rome.
Tears slipped down Julia’s pale cheeks.
A wonderful dream, but she knew the true situation. Marcus had made it clear enough. If he did learn of her illness, he would say it was only what she deserved. He would say she brought it on herself. He would say again, “May the gods curse you!”
And so they had.
She could only try to forget everything. She had to wipe yesterday from her mind. Today was already too much for her to bear. She could not bring herself to contemplate tomorrow.
Her hands tightened around the goblet. She sipped the wine again, hoping to strengthen herself. As she lowered the goblet, she looked into the ruby liquid. It looked like blood. Casting it from her, she stood shakily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Iulius heard the crash and entered the peristyle. “Are you all right, my lady?” He glanced at the wine splattered across the marble tiles and bent to pick up the goblet.
“I should not have come,” she said, her words directed to herself rather than him. Jannes would tell Primus, and Primus would tell Calabah.
And without Calabah, Julia was terrified her life would shatter completely.
4
Marcus dismissed his servant and removed the seal from a parchment that had arrived that morning. He read through it quickly, frowning. The epistle was from Ishmael, an Egyptian with whom he had dealt frequently in the past. All the man said in his letter still held true. Sand was more in demand now than ever as the addiction for the games grew. Ishmael reminded Marcus that he had made his first million aurei of gold in transporting sand from Egypt to Roman arenas. There were markets for sand in Ephesus and Corinth and Caesarea as well. Respectfully and with admirable tact, Ishmael sought the reason for Marcus’ long silence.
Crumpling the parchment in his hand, Marcus tossed it into the brazier. His father’s voice echoed in his memory. “Rome needs grain.” Ah, but he, Marcus Lucianus Valerian, in his youthful lust and zeal for life’s pleasures—and in his arrogance that he knew better than his father—had imported what Rome wanted instead: Sand to soak up blood.
An image of a gentle girl lying in her own blood on sand he had sold made him rake his hands back through his short hair. He rose from his chair and went to the window overlooking the harbor.
One of his ships had come in from Sicily laden with goods. He watched the sacrarii shouldering sacks of grain, bundles of hides, and crates of fine woodwork. One of his overseers, a Macedonian slave named Orestes, who had been trained by his father, stood watching and checking quantities and products against the bill of lading. Orestes knew as much about the comings and goings of Valerian ships as he did, and he was as trustworthy and loyal to the memory of Decimus Valerian as Sextus in Rome. So, too, were several others who had labored under the Valerian banner, including Silus, who stood by the scales with mensores overseeing the weighing of the grain. His father had been a good judge of character.
The harbor was a hive of activity, ships arriving and departing, men scrambling up and down gangplanks loading and unloading cargoes. Two of his ships were scheduled to leave before the end of the week, one for Corinth and the other for Caesarea. Marcus felt the pull to board the latter. Perhaps his mother was right. He should go in search of Hadassah’s god. Hadassah had said her god was loving and merciful. Marcus’ hand clenched. He would like to find out why a supposedly loving god would allow a devoted worshiper to suffer such a merciless, humiliating death.
Banging the iron lattice with his fist, Marcus left the window and returned to his worktable.
He stared at the parchments strewn across it, each a record of goods brought into Ephesus on one of his ships over the past months: From Greece were articles of bronze; from Tarshish, silver, iron, tin, and lead; from Damascus, wine and wool; from Rhodes, ivory and ebony. Beautiful garments, blue fabric, embroidered work, and multicolored rugs were transported by caravan from the East and loaded onto his ships bound for Rome. Arabia yielded lambs, rams, and goats; Beth Togarmah, horses for the races and war-horses and mules for the Roman army.
Angrily, he swept his hand across the documents, scattering them onto the floor. What he needed was sound and activity, anything to drown out his own grim thoughts. Rejecting the thought of riding on a litter to the private baths he usually frequented, he headed on foot instead for one frequented by the populace. They were closer to the docks and something beyond his usual experience. Anything for distraction.