A Voice in the Wind (17 page)

Eyes and mouth wide open, Julia absorbed all of it. Marcus drew her attention away from the
amoratae
, as the devotees of the gladiators were called, and pointed out the finer points of the other gladiators. Her attention kept drifting back however. As Celerus came full circle and passed by their box, women stood and cried out his name over and over again, each trying to out-shout the others in order to draw his attention. To Marcus’ dismay, Julia rose with them, caught up in the hysteria. Annoyed, he pulled her down beside him.

“Let go! I want a better look at him,” she said in protest. “Everyone is standing and I can’t see anything!”

Marcus relented. Indeed, why not let her have a little excitement for a change? She’d spent most of her life cooped up in the house under the watchful and overly protective eye of their parents. It was time she saw some of the world outside the high walls and sculptured gardens.

Julia stood on her seat and stretched up onto her toes. “He’s looking at me! Wait until I tell Octavia. She’ll be so jealous!” Laughing, she waved and called his name along with the others. “Celerus! Celerus!”

The women screamed louder, but suddenly Julia froze, mouth open. Her eyes grew wider, her face bloomed with hot color. Marcus grabbed her hand and she sat quickly beside him, eyes closed tightly as the women’s screams rose to a near frenzy.

Marcus laughed at the look on his sister’s face. Celerus was notoriously proud of his body and enjoyed showing it off to the crowd—all they wanted. Marcus grinned. “So,” he said with all the tactlessness of an older brother, “Did you get a
good
look at him?”

“You might have warned me!”

“And spoil the surprise?”

“I hate it when you laugh at me, Marcus.” Tipping her chin, she ignored him. The women were screaming so loudly, she was getting a headache. Whatever was that horrid man doing now? A great protest came from them and then, one by one, they sat down. She caught a glimpse of Celerus again, striding away. He rejoined the others standing before the emperor’s platform, who, extending their right arms, called out the creed of the gladiator.

“
Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant
!” Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!

Despite all Octavia had said, Julia didn’t think Celerus was handsome at all. In fact, several of his teeth were missing, and he had one ugly scar on his thigh and another across the side of his face. But there was something about him that made her heart pound and her mouth go dry. She was uncomfortable sitting beside her watchful, amused brother. To make matters worse, the young man several rows below was watching her as well, his expression tying her stomach in knots.

“Your face is red, Julia.”

“I hate you, Marcus!” she said, near tears of anger. “I hate you when you make fun of me!”

Marcus’ brows rose slightly at her vehemence. Perhaps he had become too immune to the coarse displays of some of the
bustuarü
, or funeral men, as they were called. Nothing surprised him anymore, while everything would shock and excite Julia. He put his hand over hers. “I apologize,” he said sincerely. “Take a deep breath and calm down. I suppose I’m so used to these spectacles that they’ve ceased to shock me.”

“I’m
not
shocked,” she said. “And if you laugh at me again, I’ll tell Father and Mother you brought me to the games against my will!”

His own swift temper rose at her imperious tone and ridiculous threat. Julia had been pleading to attend the games for the past two years. Marcus looked at her through narrow, sardonic eyes. “If you’re going to act like a spoiled child, I’ll take you home where you belong!”

She saw he meant it. Her lips parted, and tears welled and pooled in her dark eyes.

Marcus swore beneath his breath. He had seen that crushed look before and knew her capable of bursting into tempestuous tears and making him look the abusive lout. He clamped his hand around her wrist. “If you cry now, you’ll humiliate us both before the entire Roman populace, and I swear I’ll never attend the games with you again.”

Julia swallowed her tears and protest. Turning her head away, she grew rigid with the effort to regain control of her emotions. Marcus could be so cruel at times. It was fine for him to tease her, but if she defended herself he threatened to take her home. She clenched her hands.

Marcus watched her for a moment and frowned. He’d looked forward to introducing her to Rome’s favorite recreation. Julia was high-strung and easily excited, but surely she wasn’t like some of these women who became so overwrought they fell into wanton hysteria.

Julia pressed her lips together as she felt her brother studying her. If he was waiting for an apology, he’d wait forever. He didn’t deserve one after laughing at her. “I shall behave, Marcus,” she said with great solemnity. “I won’t shame you.”

Marcus’ better judgment told him to take her home now, before the bloodletting started. She’d be angry, she’d even avoid speaking to him for a few days… but he dismissed the idea. He didn’t want to disappoint her. She’d waited far too long for this experience. Perhaps that accounted for her highly emotional state.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “If it gets to be too much for you, we’ll go,” he said grimly.

Relief flooded her. “Oh, it won’t, Marcus. I swear.” She looped her arm through his. Leaning against him, she looked up with a bright smile. “You won’t be sorry you brought me. I won’t even flinch when Celerus slices through someone’s throat.”

The trumpets blared, announcing the second-rate bloodless displays, which were meant to warm up the crowd. However, Julia was delighted with the
paegniari
, the mock fighters. She clapped and called out encouragement, drawing amused attention from the more experienced attendees who found her more entertaining than the display. Appearing next, the
lusorü
fought in earnest, but could do little vital damage to one another with their wooden weapons.

The sun was already high and hot. No wind stirred in the arena, and Marcus saw perspiration beading on Julia’s pale forehead. He touched her hand and found it cool. “I’m going to purchase a wineskin,” he said, worried that she’d faint from the heat. She needed something to drink and a sunshade. He’d been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t made proper preparations. Usually Arria brought along wine, food, and a slave to hold a shade over them. “Stay here and don’t talk to anyone.”

Within minutes, the young Roman who had stared at her took Marcus’ seat. “Your lover has deserted you,” he said in Greek, his accent common.

“My brother has not deserted me,” she said stiffly, her cheeks burning. “He’s gone to purchase wine and will return shortly.”

“Your brother,” he said, pleased. “I am Nicanor of Capua. And you are… ?”

“Julia,” she said slowly, remembering what Marcus had said, but wanting to have something to tell Octavia.

“I love your eyes. Eyes like that could make a man lose his head.”

She blushed, her heart racing. Her whole body felt hot with embarrassment. He was not dressed suitably for her class, but there was an earthiness about him that excited her. His eyes were brown and thickly lashed, his mouth full and sensuous. “My brother told me not to speak to anyone,” she said, lifting her chin again.

“Your brother is wise. There’are many here who would wish to take advantage of such a youthful and lovely woman.” His deep voice caressed as he went on. “You’re a true daughter of Aphrodite.”

Flattered and fascinated, Julia listened. He spoke long and fervently, and she drank in his words, deliciously aroused. But when his calloused hand touched her bare arm, the spell was broken. With a soft gasp, she drew back.

Nicanor looked past her and departed quickly.

Marcus sat down beside her and plunked the heavy wine bag in her lap. “Making new friends?”

“His name was Nicanor. He just came and sat down beside me and started talking to me, and I didn’t know what to do to make him go away. He said I was beautiful.”

“By the gods, Julia, you’ve been kept under lock and key too long. You are gullible.”

“I rather liked him, common though he was.” She looked up over her shoulder. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“If he does, Antigonus’ll have extra meat to throw to his lions.” Marcus poured wine into a small copper cup and handed it to her.

The war trumpets blared, announcing the first contests with sharp weapons. Julia forgot Nicanor, swallowed her wine quickly, and thrust the cup back at Marcus so she could lean forward in her seat. Antigonus had hired musicians and, as the fighters battled, trumpets and horns blasted. Blocking several blows, the defender took the offensive, and pipes and flutes trilled. The crowd shouted encouragement and advice to their favorites. The contest continued for some time, and even Julia grew disappointed. “Do they always take so long?”

“Often.”

“I want the retiarius to win.”

“He won’t,” Marcus said, watching the contest without much interest. “He’s already tiring.”

“How can you tell?”

“The way he’s holding the trident. Watch closely. See how it dips and swings to one side. He’s leaving himself wide open. The Thracian will end this soon.”

One trainer hounded the Thracian, while another whipped the retiarius and shouted for him to fight harder. The crowd was hissing and shouting insults, impatient for a kill. The retiarius’ trainer chose the wrong moment to swing his whip, for it tangled across the fork of the trident just long enough to give the Thracian the opening he needed. His sword went true and deep, and the retiarius dropped.

“Oh!” Julia said in dismay as the crowd screamed and cheered. “You were right, Marcus.”

The retiarius was on his knees, his hands clutching his middle, blood pouring down over his breechcloth. “He’s had it!” people shouted, turning their thumbs down. “
Jugula! Jugula
!” The Thracian looked to the emperor. Vespasian pointed his thumb down, hardly pausing in his conversation with a senator. The Thracian turned back and put his hand on the retiarius’ head. Tilting it back, he made a quick slice and opened the man’s jugular. A fountain of blood splashed him before the dying man fell back, twitched, and then lay still in a pool of blood.

Marcus glanced at Julia and saw that her eyes were shut, her teeth clenched. “Your first kill,” Marcus said. “Did you even watch it?”

“I watched.” Her hand clutched the front of her tunic. She opened her eyes again as an African man dressed as Mercury danced across the sand toward the fallen man. As the divine guide of dead men’s souls to the infernal regions, he dragged the body through the porta. The victorious gladiator was presented with a palm branch while other African boys raked the bloodstained sand, then darted away as the next pair was presented.

Julia was pale and trembling. Her brother brushed his fingertips across her damp forehead and found it cool. “Maybe we should leave.”

“No. I don’t want to leave. I was only queasy for a moment, Marcus. It’s passed now.” Her dark eyes were bright and dilated. “I want to stay.”

Marcus assessed her and then nodded, proud of her. Father had said she was too weak for the games. He was wrong.

Julia was a true daughter of Rome.

8

Contents
-
Prev
/
Next

Enoch knew he was at risk in what he had done. While his master had approved the purchase of seven slaves, he’d said nothing about buying Jews. Enoch had made that decision himself, despite the fact that he knew his master preferred Gauls and Britons. But having watched his people brought by the hundreds from Judea to Rome and sent into the arenas to die, Enoch couldn’t throw away the one opportunity he had to save even a few.

All Jews suffered, not just those who were part of rebellion. The half-shekel previously collected from Roman Jews for the upkeep of the temple in Jerusalem was now collected to finance the building of a colossal amphitheater. Jewish slaves were carrying the stones, Jewish captives would be among the first to die on the sand, Jewish citizens paid the heaviest share of finance.

Enoch struggled between rage and grief at what had become of his homeland and his people. Up until this morning he’d been helpless,to do anything to save even one member of his race. Now, he had seven in his care. But he was afraid. Not one of them was suited for the hard labor that would be required on the estate. Even washed, shaved, and dressed in fresh tunics, they were pathetic and spiritless. Four hundred sesterces each, and not one was worth half that.

He looked at the girl, wondering why he’d risked buying her at all. Of what possible use was she? Yet, one look in her eyes and he’d felt God’s hand on him, had heard a still, soft voice:
Save this one
. Enoch had purchased her without question, but now wondered and worried what his master would say. His master was expecting Gauls and Britons, and he was bringing back seven broken Jews, one a small girl with the eyes of a prophetess. Enoch prayed fervently for God’s protection.

Opening the lock to the western gate, Enoch brought the seven slaves within the high walls of his owner’s property. He led them along the pathway and into the back of the house. Lining the seven up in the receiving room, where his master doled out pensions each morning, he gave them instructions to stand straight and silent, to keep their eyes downcast, to speak only if the master directed a question at them personally.

“You’ll wait here while I speak with the master. Pray he will accept each of you. Decimus Vindacius Valerian is kind for a Roman, and if he agrees to your purchase, you’ll be well treated. May the God of our fathers protect us all.”

Decimus was with his wife in the peristyle, where she twirled a daisy between her graceful fingers and listened to her husband. Enoch thought his master looked drawn and in poor humor, but taking in a deep breath and gathering his courage, he approached them. He waited for his master to acknowledge his presence and nod permission to speak.

“My lord,” he said, “I’ve returned with seven slaves for your inspection.”