Flame Within, page 12
Disgusted, Moriah focused on a stall lined with baskets of cooing doves and pigeons. She watched as a man purchased a pair of doves, probably to offer as a sacrifice at one of the nearby temples.
Flavia chattered happily, visiting one stall after another, bartering with the tradesmen and adding to her collection of finery. Moriah silently followed, Aidan beside her.
“Behold!” Flavia lifted a whisper-thin piece of green silk and held it to her ample bosom. “Is it not perfect, Moriah?”
The tradesman, his brown face split in a huge smile, nodded enthusiastically. “You would surely rival all the goddesses of the universe by displaying your rare beauty in such a garment.”
Flavia’s brow winged upward at the glib remark. She looked down at the piece of transparent silk, then her eyes turned toward Aidan, a gleam lighting their depths. She smiled. “Yes. Yes, I think I may have need of this soon. What is your price?”
For the next few minutes the two bartered until Flavia walked away, satisfied, the green silk tucked under her arm.
Moriah wanted nothing more than to return home. Flavia looked at her. “Are you not going to make a purchase, Moriah? Paulus has a birthday in two weeks, does he not?”
Moriah’s eyes widened at Flavia’s reminder. How could she have forgotten? Though she had no idea if Paulus would return by then, she hastened to a nearby stall selling amulets and charms and began eyeing its wares.
“Do you seek a potion, my lady?” the tradesman suggested with an avaricious grin. “Or perhaps an amulet to grant good fortune to its wearer?”
Moriah gave a slight shake of her head, trying to ignore the exuberant little man. A tiny jade figurine of an Abyssinian cat caught her attention, reminding her of her cat, Claudius, Paulus’s long-ago present to her. She picked up the statuette, studying it with a critical eye, pleased to note its quality.
It was perfect. Special and sentimental—yet not so much so—a gift a woman would give to a man she loved as a brother. Of course, Moriah knew it was possible that Clophelius might agree to a match between her and Paulus, with or without her consent.
Hesitant, Moriah looked toward Aidan, who stood to the side of her a short distance away. He stared directly at her, his gaze tender.
The jade carving slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the flagstones with a sharp crack. The tradesman issued a loud groan.
Hurriedly, Moriah bent to retrieve the figurine, almost bumping heads with Aidan, who did the same. Simultaneously, they reached for the tiny statue. A powerful jolt, like nearby lightning, traveled through Moriah when his fingers brushed hers.
Startled, she withdrew her hand. Her head snapped up and her face went hot. Dark blue eyes filled with undisguised longing stared into hers an eternal moment, and Moriah drew a swift breath.
Flavia cleared her throat. Aidan quickly averted his gaze and picked up the jade cat, placing it in Moriah’s hand. “It appears unharmed, my lady.”
His low, unstable voice sent tremors of warmth through Moriah. Yet he did not look her way again.
Hastily, she stood and paid the hawker the exorbitant price he asked. Confused, she wanted only to leave this place and return to the house. There she could take time to dwell on what had happened if, indeed, anything had happened. Perhaps she had imagined the powerful connection she experienced with Aidan when she looked into his eyes—as well as the love she had seen there.
Once Moriah moved from the stall of the pleased tradesman, Flavia hissed, “Really, Moriah, you are so naive! Even when it comes to the purchasing of goods. Consider this. You could have bought that statue for half the price had you bartered, and likely you might have found it cheaper elsewhere.”
Moriah barely listened, still shaken from her encounter with Aidan. Once they were within the privacy of the litter, Flavia thoughtfully studied Moriah.
“Or perhaps you are not as naive as I supposed. I saw what happened between you and your father’s slave when you dropped that statue. A person would have to be blind not to have noticed. So tell me, Moriah, have you sought his pleasure?”
Remembering the passionate kiss she had shared with Aidan on the temple steps, Moriah felt her cheeks burn and hurriedly looked away. “Really, Flavia, you exasperate me! Does nothing else cross your mind?”
Flavia gave a coarse laugh. “What else is there, my friend?”
When Clophelius’s house came into view, Moriah was glad. Yet once they walked through the door, her relief metamorphosed into burgeoning disquiet.
Servius Antonus strode from the bibliotheca, obviously having just visited Clophelius. A gleam entered his eyes when he caught sight of them. “Greetings, Moriah. Flavia.” He gave a curt nod toward the blond, who quickly made her farewells and left as though she had received some sort of signal from the man.
Wary, Moriah appraised the unwanted guest.
He focused his attention on her, his gaze roaming her form before returning to her face in the same manner he always ogled her. “I have petitioned your father. Soon, Moriah, you will be mine.”
“Yours?” Her voice came out hoarse.
“My wife.”
Moriah’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. Revulsion filled her at the thought. How could Clophelius betray her like this? And what of Paulus?
She looked beyond Servius’s shoulder, searching out Aidan. He stood at the portal, his expression one of helpless frustration. Clearly he was against the match, and that thought gave Moriah a measure of comfort. Though he evidently wanted no deeper relationship with her, perhaps he would speak to Clophelius on her behalf since Paulus was not here to do so. Clophelius regarded Aidan highly. He might listen to him.
“Tomorrow night, Moriah,” Servius murmured seductively. Reaching for her fingers, he trapped them.
She snatched her hand from his sweaty grasp and looked at him, unable to hide her aversion.
He frowned, then smiled stiffly. “Tomorrow night shall be the start of our life together.”
Nine
Moriah stepped inside the bibliotheca, smoothing her clammy hands down the sides of her stola. She had decided to approach Clophelius herself rather than ask Aidan to do so. There was no telling how the master of the house would respond, and she did not wish to put Aidan in a position that might lose him favor.
Clophelius looked up from the scroll on which he was writing, his brows raised in surprise. “You wish to speak with me?”
In all the years she had been raised in his household, Moriah had never dared enter his presence unless summoned. In the past month, she had done so twice. Clearing her throat, she began, “I am greatly disturbed by the news Servius Antonus shared with me upon my return from the market.”
Clophelius frowned and straightened. “Go on,” he said formidably.
Moriah swallowed past the lump in her throat, her gaze leaving his stern face and focusing on the statue of Apollo sitting in a nook of the room. Even paralyzed, Clophelius had the ability to frighten her.
“He told me that you have given consent to a match between us.” Just saying the words left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“And if I have?”
Moriah’s heart plummeted at his detached tone. “I do not think you would do such a thing,” she whispered, her wide gaze going to his at the mounting possibility that it was so, and Servius had, indeed, been telling the truth. “Before Mother died, you promised her that you would care for me—she told me this.”
“I have not broken my vow!” His eyes burned with anger. “Dare you deny it?”
“No,” she said quickly. “You have given me the best of everything, though I am not your true daughter. For that, I am grateful.”
Clophelius nodded, satisfied. “You have spoken well.” He paused, studying her as she picked at the folds of her stola. She made a deliberate effort to cease her nervous movements.
“I have not given my final word on the match,” he said, “regardless of what Antonus has told you. True, he is a man of power, but I hold a measure of the same. However, consider this. Servius Antonus is a man of great wealth. His cousin recently married a man distantly related to the emperor, and Servius himself is related to Senator Valerius.”
When he paused, Moriah nodded for him to go on, the great beast of dread looming over her.
“Paulus informed me that you are aware of your unfortunate parentage. It has come to light for others, as well. Servius is willing to overlook the matter since he believes it only a rumor. A match to him would be in the best interest for you. He will soon journey to his villa in Naples. There is a distinct possibility that the truth has reached the ear of Nero, and a marriage to Servius Antonus may be an acceptable way to protect you and remove you from Rome—”
“Protect me?” Moriah broke in. “How can marrying such a vile man as Servius be of any protection to me?”
“Silence, Woman! I do not care for your insolent tongue.” When Moriah submissively dropped her gaze, Clophelius continued. “It is true that Servius has certain. . .vices, but they are no different from any other Roman’s. Consider this as well, Moriah. He is a powerful citizen of enormous influence. As his wife, you would want for nothing.”
Miserable, she studied the mosaic tiles. “And what of Paulus? Surely he could offer me any protection I might need?”
At her faint words, Clophelius slammed the scroll down, hitting the edge of the marble table. The rolled parchment clattered to the floor. Moriah winced but dared not look up.
“So, Paulus told you of his plans, though I distinctly remember telling him not to do so. How dare he defy me a second time! First, by telling you the truth about your parentage and now this. I am still head of this household—a fact that seems to have escaped his knowledge as well as yours!”
Despair flooded Moriah. There was nothing more to be said. She had tried and failed. With bowed head, she clasped her hands in front of her. “If there is nothing more, I will take your leave.”
Clophelius relaxed, obviously pacified by her sudden obeisance. “Antonus spoke out of turn. I never agreed to a match on the morrow.” He continued to study her. “Perhaps I shall give you a short time to grow accustomed to the idea.”
Moriah stared, baffled that he would consider her feelings. “I–I would be grateful for such an action on my behalf. Though I know I could never grow to love him.”
“Love?” Clophelius scoffed. “Neither did I love Lydia when first we exchanged wafers at the marriage ceremony. Yet I came to regard her fondly as the years passed, though she bore me no heir. It was because of my regard for her that I agreed to her supplication to raise you as a member of this household.”
Moriah remained silent, uncertain how to respond. Never had Clophelius spoken to her in such an open manner.
“I made a promise to Lydia to see to your welfare, and I intend to keep my vow. You cannot help what your parents were, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
Something in her expression at the reference to her parents must have alarmed him, for he straightened, his face sober. “You must never speak of the matter, Moriah. Forget what Paulus told you. You are a Roman. Even now, the fledgling of truth that has hatched can sprout wings no longer accepted as rumor, which in turn could become the bane of our existence. Lately Nero has not taken kindly to those who call themselves Christians.” He said the last as though the word were leprous. “I do not wish it to appear that I am on the opposing side.”
“I shall do as you ask,” Moriah said quietly, though she did not fully understand all he said about fledglings of truth hatching and sprouting wings and rumors. She would dwell on it another time. Only one thing mattered to her at the moment. She gathered courage. “And as to the matter of Servius?”
Clophelius waved his hand in barely concealed annoyance, obviously weary of the subject. “I shall think more on the matter, as I have stated. Perhaps there is another way. Then again, perhaps not.”
Moriah was grateful for any reprieve, however uncertain. Paulus might soon return and could then talk to Clophelius and get him to realize that it would be a mistake to match Moriah to Servius. All was not lost. So much could happen between now and then.
“You may go.” Clophelius leaned over and picked up the discarded scroll from the floor. Frowning, he began to peruse it.
Summarily dismissed, Moriah strode to her cubiculum, hopeful that something could be done before it was too late.
❧
Listening to the gentle melody Sinista produced as she whisked her fingers over the strings of the cithara, Moriah stood beside the couch on her enclosed terrace and looked out at the city of Rome, preparing to bed for the night.
The tradesmen who sold their wares in the marketplace had gone. Carts and wagons would rumble down the thoroughfares once darkness had completely fallen and the ban was lifted on four-wheeled conveyances in the city. In the valley below, a group of richly dressed citizens entered a temple, leading an ox up the stairs. Nearby, a group of beggar children combed the ground for scraps of food, a lost coin—anything they could find.
In the west, thick clouds blushed crimson, as though ashamed of the city they watched, and produced a bold backdrop of color against the mammoth stone temples that soared to the sky in seeming defiance. A small group of expensively dressed citizens hurried past, evidently late to wherever they journeyed from what Moriah could understand of their quarrel heard faintly from her position at the lattice window. In all directions she looked, someone seemed to be going somewhere, doing something. The sight made her restless, and she turned her back to it. Suddenly she found the lilting music irritating.
“You may go,” Moriah told the slave. “And tell Hermes to send loaves of bread to those children outside.”
Sinista stood with her instrument, bowed, and hurried away. Moriah again faced the window, wishing she could order feelings of restlessness and discontent to go as well and be as quickly obeyed. She let out a weary sigh.
If only Aidan cared. . .or Clophelius changed his mind. . .or Servius found another victim. If only she belonged to someone who loved her. To someone she, in turn, could love.
The people below appeared assured, striding boldly to their destinations, all in the company of those whom it appeared they were satisfied to be with. Even the beggar children stayed close, drawing comfort from one another’s presence.
Moriah lifted tear-glazed eyes to the darkening sky. Dim pinpoints of stars were becoming visible, clusters and clusters of them. Did any of them feel lonely in their existence though they were surrounded by thousands of others?
She blew out an exasperated breath. What foolishness! Stars had no feelings. Only people did. And Moriah felt the loneliness stronger tonight than in all her twenty-two years on the earth. Aidan rejected her love. Deborah, though attentive as always, seemed to have emotionally distanced herself from Moriah since their conversation on this terrace. Paulus was in Antium, and she rarely saw him when he was in Rome because of his imperial duties. And if Clophelius decreed it, she was to marry a man whom she despised. Twice this week, Servius had come to the house to speak with Clophelius. On the first occasion he left angered; today he departed with a satisfied smirk, the reason for which Moriah feared would bode her ill.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She dashed it away impatiently and wove her fingers through the lattice window, gripping it until her knuckles turned white. Was she forever doomed to a life of unhappiness?
Memory of the night she attended the Christian meeting floated to her with the warm breeze. The people there belonged, knit together as one family. She remembered what the apostle Peter spoke about Jesus, the One who called Himself the Christ. The Anointed One. And though she did not fully understand everything the apostle had said that night, Moriah knew what she must do. What she suddenly wanted to do.
Looking up at the stars in the dusky purple twilight, she dashed any remaining tears from her eyes. Her stance was almost defiant, though within she trembled.
“God of Aidan and others who call themselves Christians, I do not know You. I do not understand Your teachings or Your ways. They are so foreign to all I’ve been taught as a Roman.” She lowered her lashes and bit the inside corner of her mouth, trying to frame her words. She did not want to make this God angry.
“I am aware that You must be real, having witnessed the strong faith and love of Your people and having heard the message Your disciples preached.” Moriah paused, needing to swallow over the sudden lump that inexplicably rose to her throat. More tears blurred her vision.
“And if You will allow it,” she whispered, “I wish to belong to Your family. I–I realize it was my father who put You to death on the cross. But if You will pardon that and not hold it against me. . .”
She fell to her knees, the power of her tightly held emotions making her body tremble. Desperately she clutched the lattices and lifted her gaze toward the violet sky. “God of the Christians—Jesus the Christus—I’m truly sorry for what my father did. Rufus said that You forgave both Peter for his betrayal and Paul for his persecution of Your people and accepted them into Your family. And that You accepted my parents, as well. If this is so, then I also wish to know You. I wish for You to be my God.”
Moriah released the window and collapsed to the floor. Fierce emotion wracked her body. Hot tears rushed between her clenched eyelids, and she thought she might die from the sensations tearing through her.
Why should this God accept her—a pagan, a Roman, the daughter of the man who had put Him to death? Why should He forgive her or her father?
As Moriah quieted, something peculiar happened. Soothing warmth began to course through her midregion, spreading its glow throughout her insides like a growing flame until she felt immersed in the most astounding peace. It was as though invisible arms wrapped themselves around her, cradling her, loving her.
