Armor of God, the older man had said. What armor? Marcus wondered bitterly. If Hadassah’s unseen god had given her armor to wear, it hadn’t saved her from a horrifying death. Nor would it save them. He wanted to warn the young man not to preach a faith that would bring him death.
What good was this god to his followers? What protection did he offer? Marcus rose from the bench, intent on going after Stachys and confronting him with the truth. This god of kindness and mercy deserted his believers when they most needed him!
Marcus left the calidarium and entered the frigidarium. The temperature drop was stunning. Standing on a tiled mural, his gaze swept across the pool, searching for the two men. They were gone. Annoyed, Marcus dove into the cold water and swam to the end of the pool. He lifted himself out with the lithe grace of an athlete. Shaking the water from his hair, he took a towel from a shelf and wrapped it around his waist as he headed for one of the massage tables.
Stretched out on the table, he tried to empty his mind of everything and let the vigorous pounding and kneading of his muscles give him ease. The masseur poured olive oil into his palm and worked it into Marcus’ back and thighs, instructing him to turn over. When he was finished, Marcus stood, and a slave scraped the excess oil away with another strigil.
Passing men exercising and women gathered around board games, Marcus headed for the changing rooms. Surprisingly, his clothing was where he had left it. Marcus shrugged on his tunic and fitted the bronze sash. He left the baths as restless as when he had entered.
Booths lined the street, hawkers promulgating a variety of goods and services to patrons going in and out of the baths. Marcus wove his way through the crowd. Earlier he had craved the chaotic noise of the populace to drown out his own thoughts, but now he wanted the solitude and silence of his own villa in order to give them full reign.
A young man shouted a name and ran by to catch up with someone. As he did so, he bumped Marcus, who fell back a step and muttered a curse as he collided with someone behind. At a woman’s soft cry of pain, he turned and looked down at a small figure shrouded in heavy gray veils. She stumbled back, her small hand gripping a walking stick as she tried to regain her balance.
He caught hold of her arm and steadied her. “My apologies,” he said briskly. She lifted her head sharply, and he felt rather than saw her staring up at him. He could make out no face beneath the dark gray mantle that covered her from the top of her head to her feet. She lowered her head quickly as though to hide from him, and he wondered what terrible deformity her veils covered. She might even be a leper. He took his hand from her arm.
Stepping around her, he walked away through the crowd. He felt her watching him and glanced back. The veiled woman was turned toward him, still standing in the midst of the river of people. He paused, perplexed. She turned away and limped cautiously down the street, through the crowd, away from him.
Marcus was strangely pierced by the sight of that small, shrouded figure being jostled as she made her way through the throng of people crowding the narrow street before the baths. He watched her until she entered one of the physicians’ booths, undoubtedly seeking a cure. He turned away and headed for his villa.
Lycus, his Corinthian slave, greeted him and took his cloak. “Your mother has invited you to sup with her this evening, my lord.”
“Send word I won’t be able to see her. I’ll stop by and visit tomorrow.” He entered his private chamber and opened the iron lattice to his private terrace. The view of the Artemision was breathtaking. He had paid a fortune for this villa because of it, intending to bring Hadassah here as his wife. He had imagined spending each morning with her on this sunny terrace overlooking the indescribable beauty of Ephesus.
Lycus brought him wine.
“What do you know of Christians, Lycus?” Marcus said without looking at him. He had bought Lycus upon his return to Ephesus. The Corinthian had been sold as a manservant and was reputed to have been educated by his previous master, a Greek who had committed suicide when faced with financial ruin. Marcus wondered if his servant’s education had included religious matters.
“They believe in one god, my lord.”
“What do you know about their god?”
“Only what I’ve heard, my lord.”
“Tell me what you’ve heard.”
“The god of the Christians is the Messiah of the Jews.”
“Then they are one and the same.”
“It’s hard to say, my lord. I am neither Jew nor Christian.”
Marcus turned and looked at him. “Which religion do you embrace as your own?”
“I believe in serving my master.”