Silence closed around her, bringing darkness with it.
She clutched the small scroll in her hand. “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered brokenly. “You promised me once you would love me no matter what I did.” The lonely silence of her bedchamber became a crushing weight. “You promised, Marcus.” Filled with hopelessness, she crumpled the final plea to her brother and threw it into her brazier. The parchment caught flame and was quickly reduced to ashes.
Julia sat watching her last hope for her brother’s forgiveness disintegrating.
“You promised. . . .” Covering her face, she rocked back and forth, weeping.
7
“It is a great honor for us to have you aboard, my lord,” Satyros said, studying the younger man as he gestured for him to take the honored place on the couch. A simple but deliciously prepared meal was placed on the small table between them.
“The honor is mine, Satyros,” Marcus said, nodding for the captain’s servant to pour his wine. “You’re considered a legend upon the seas. Few survive a shipwreck.” He tore off a piece of bread and replaced the loaf on the silver tray.
Satyros nodded solemnly. “You speak of the shipwreck on Malta. I was not a captain then, but a mere sailor on that ship. And it was not only I who survived. There were 276 people aboard that ship. None was lost.”
Someone knocked at the captain’s door. The servant answered and spoke briefly with one of the sailors. He relayed the message concerning the winds to Satyros, who gave instructions to be passed on to the helmsmen. The Minerva was making good headway.
Satyros returned his attention to Marcus and apologized for the interruption. They discussed the cargo; the hold was filled with marble and timber from the Greek isles, materials destined for use in expanding Caesarea. A profusion of other crates was also packed below, some purchased by Marcus in speculation, others fulfilling orders dispatched by various merchants in Judea. Loaded into every available space were hides from Britain, silver and gold from Spain, pottery from Gaul, furs from Germany, fine wines from Sicily, and drugs from Greece. Most of the goods would be unloaded in Caesarea.
“We will only remain in Caesarea long enough to unload the cargo and then take on passengers destined for Alexandria,” Satyros said.
Marcus nodded. In Alexandria, the corbita would dock and his representatives would meet the ship. The Minerva would take on valuable items for the Roman market: tortoise shell and ivory from Ethiopia; oil and spices from eastern Africa; pearls, dyes, and citron from the West. Within a few months, the Minerva would sail back to Rome, her starting point for the trade route Decimus Andronicus Valerian had established over twenty years ago.
Satyros gave a rueful laugh. “Eliab Mosad will take his time haggling over the merchandise. It always takes a few weeks to get things sorted out in Egypt before we can set sail for Rome again.”
“He will want you to take on slaves,” Marcus said. “Don’t. Nor sand. No matter the price. I’ve already been in contact with him and informed him I won’t deal in those commodities any more.”
“We’ll need ballast, my lord.”
“Egyptian grain will do for ballast.”
“As you wish,” Satyros said. He had heard the rumors about Marcus Valerian’s change in thinking—rumors that were now confirmed. He studied the younger man surreptitiously. What had happened to change Marcus Valerian’s well-known axiom of giving Rome what it wanted? Marcus had amassed a fortune by trading in sand and slaves. Now he wanted no part in either cargo. Perhaps he felt enough to have his father’s scruples . . . but why now and not before? What had changed?
“I’ll be leaving the ship in Caesarea,” Marcus said.
Again, Satyros covered his surprise with an effort. He had expected Marcus to remain aboard until Alexandria or perhaps Rome. The elder Valerian had sometimes traveled the full trade route to meet with his representatives and gain firsthand information on how his operations were being conducted.
“You’ll find Caesarea an interesting departure from Ephesus, my lord. Though it lacks the elements of grandeur, it has its arenas and beautiful women.” Marcus was reputed to enjoy both to the fullest.
“I intend to remain in Caesarea only long enough to outfit myself for travel.”
Satyros gray brows rose a fraction. “There is little in Judea to commend it to a Roman. What is it you want to see?”
“Jerusalem.”
Satyros gave a soft exclamation. “Why on earth would you of all people choose the most depressing place in all the known world to visit?” Too late, he realized the rude intrusiveness of his thoughtless question. “From all reports I’ve heard, Jerusalem is nothing but a pile of rubble, my lord,” he added hastily. “Antonia and Mariamne towers might still be standing for defensive purposes, but I doubt it. Titus’ orders were to not leave one stone standing upon another.”