An Echo in the Darkness(95)

So why was life now so unbearable? What had she done wrong?

Her hand trembled as she raised her goblet again, swallowing the bitter wine while trying to swallow the feelings that rose in her. She felt as though she was choking.

She would not think of anything unpleasant today. She would think of things that made her happy.

What had made her happy?

She remembered how she had always run to her brother, Marcus, when he came home to the villa in Rome. He had teased her and pampered her and adored her. Blinking back tears, she forced herself to remember that he had broken his promise to love her no matter what she did. She reminded herself that when she most needed him, he had turned his back on her.

Pushing Marcus from her mind, she began to chronicle the relationships in her past: her father and mother, Claudius, Caius, Atretes, Primus, Calabah. Every name roused regrets and anger, resentment and self-pity—all followed by self-defense and self-justification. No one had a right to tell her how to live. No one! Yet that’s what everyone had always tried to do.

Her father had expected her to be who he wanted her to be rather than who she was. Claudius wanted another wife like the one who had died. He had been a fool to chase after her when she had run away one night. It wasn’t her fault he fell off his horse and broke his neck. Caius had been cruel. He had used her body and her money for his own pleasures and then, when circumstances turned against him, he had beaten and blamed her. Caius had poisoned her life. What better retribution could she have made than to poison him in return?

Her heart ached as she thought of Atretes. Atretes, oh, most beautiful of men . . . how she had loved him. Never had there been such a gladiator. He had looked like a shining god to her with his perfect features and blazing blue eyes and his beautiful, powerful body. Throngs of women had wanted him—and men, as well—yet all Atretes had wanted was her. At least until she had chosen to protect herself against his complete dominance by refusing his offer of marriage, making instead a marriage of convenience with Primus. Then even Atretes, whose plebeian barbaric morality had defied reason, had deserted her.

She frowned as images of the past swirled in her mind. If she had it to do over again, what would she have done differently? How could she have changed anything and retained control over her own life?

One by one, in each case and with each person, Julia sat in the judgment seat, acquitting herself of all blame. Yet, the niggling doubt remained and fed upon her heart: Was it the things done to her that had made the course of her life, or was it things she had done to herself?

She sipped again, trying to dull the pain in her breast. It only intensified.

If she hadn’t married Primus, everything might be different now. She might still have Atretes. Hadn’t he bought a villa for her? Hadn’t he wanted her to be his wife?

She thought of the child she had borne him, and the pain deepened, raw and cold, gripping her heart. She could still hear the faint echo of a soft, helpless cry and her own words coming back to haunt her. “Put him on the rocks. Let him die.”

She closed her eyes tightly, her knuckles whitening on the wine goblet. It wasn’t her fault. Atretes had said he hated her. He had said he didn’t want the child. He had said he wouldn’t claim it as his own. What else was she supposed to do with it?

Hadassah had entreated her. “Look at your son, my lady.”

Atretes’ son.

Her own son.

She moaned, struggling to press the emotions down into the deepest recesses of her being where she could forget them. The pain within her became heavy and unbearable.

It was all Calabah’s fault. Calabah with her cunning lies, her mastery at manipulation. “You can forget about it now. It’s over and done with. Put it behind you.” Calabah’s words echoed in Julia’s mind. Over and over she heard Calabah, with her seductive words, reminding her that every man Julia had ever known had hurt her . . . Calabah with her seductive reassurance that no man could possibly understand and love a woman the way another woman could.

“With me, you’ll always have your freedom. You can do whatever you want.”

Calabah with her empty promises. Calabah, a woman who embodied a stone tomb.

“I’ll always love you, Julia. I’ll never try to make a slave of you the way a man would.”

But a slave she had become, in ways she had never fathomed possible. A slave to others’ expectations, a slave to her own passions . . . to circumstances, to fear.

A slave to guilt.

Groaning, Julia rose from her couch. Her stomach lurched, and she gritted her teeth against the rising nausea. Perspiration broke out on her pallid skin. Swaying, she set the wine goblet down and leaned against a marble pillar to steady herself. The nausea subsided slightly.