Flame Within, page 2
Aidan grimaced, his hand flexing against the drape. He strongly suspected that Flavia’s insistence concerning Moriah’s attendance at the games could lead to no good. After the head servant Hermes had accompanied Moriah and Flavia to the forum last week, he’d told Aidan that Servius Antonus—a powerful man in Rome and also one of Flavia’s former lovers—had approached, displaying a strong interest in Moriah. It was said the middle-aged man had an appetite for beautiful virgins.
Aidan clutched a fistful of the crimson curtain. Yet what could he do? He was a slave, powerless in his role. He could not say or do a thing. . . . No, that was not entirely true. He did have one effective weapon, a weapon he had learned the value of many times.
Aidan stealthily moved to a small, secluded arbor at the back of the garden against the wall. Kneeling on the ground, he lowered his head to his hands clasped on the stone bench. Often he prayed for Moriah, but never before had he felt the need so strongly, as he did today.
“Heavenly Father, I ask You to shield my lady and protect her from the evils of this wicked empire,” he whispered. “Help her to stay pure in the midst of such moral decay. I ask that You open her eyes to Your truth, Lord, and open her heart to receive Your Word—”
A snap cracked the air nearby. Aidan stopped midsentence and hurriedly stood, realizing the danger if someone discovered him praying. Though Roman law did not prohibit Christianity, tensions flared in opposition to it, and each day that passed, the hatred increased. Many considered his faith a form of treason against the empire. In this household, especially, his master thought ill of Christians, and Aidan continually had to guard his tongue.
He exited the arbor, taking careful note of his surroundings. Everything appeared normal. Likely it had been a squirrel scampering through the bushes or perhaps Moriah’s cat. Yet what if it had not been something so harmless—and bore not four feet, but two? Troubled, Aidan went to seek out his master before Clophelius sent someone to find him.
❧
Moriah moved along the colonnaded walkway to the two shallow steps leading into her cubiculum, her sandals clicking on the mosaic tiles. Barely offering a glance around the simple luxury of the quarters that comprised her bedchamber, she moved across the room and pulled aside the crimson drape with an impatient tug. She took the three wide steps to the enclosed terrace—another addition her mother had insisted on for each bedroom, much like their country estate in Capua, with its many balconies.
Placing one knee on the couch beneath the window, Moriah leaned her forehead against the lattice screen and put up a hand to touch the diagonal strips of wood that covered the opening.
Rome. Her city. So why did she feel as though she didn’t belong? Had never belonged. Even more peculiar was the sense that she didn’t feel a part of this household, either.
Moriah exhaled loudly in irritation and lowered her hand, weaving her fingers through the lattices at waist level. Certainly her tumult of emotions left much to be desired this day! Brooding, she threw open the screen and scanned what she could see of the busy streets far below.
Numerous Corinthian columns and arches decorated the many limestone buildings scattered throughout the Seven Hills of Rome. The carved marble blazed ivory in the noonday sun, which burned against a cloudless sky of pale blue. Bold colored marble ornamented some of the temples with red, yellow, and black, and terra cotta eaves adorned many rooftops.
In the valley, Moriah could see part of the Forum Romanum in the distance, where people strolled to exchange news and gossip. Opposite the capitol, at the end of the road called Via Sacra, the marketplace bustled with activity as storekeepers hawked their wares. Scrolls of books, precious metals, jewelry, silks, wines, leathers, fruits, and more—everything anyone could possibly desire—was found there. Columns of a temple high on the opposite hill gleamed golden in the sunlight, as though promising wealth and good fortune to all who visited. Moriah watched as a group of people, appearing like tiny insects, climbed wide stone stairs to make offerings to their god.
“My lady?”
Moriah started at the soft voice. She turned and offered a faint smile to the petite woman who was more sister than servant, though they were not related by blood. Noticing the sleepy look in the sepia-brown eyes, Moriah shook her head. “Deborah,” she chided, “you are weary. You must rest.”
The Jewess studied Moriah closely. “Perhaps you are the one in need of rest, my lady. You look as though you are under great strain.”
Miserable, Moriah glanced at the people crowding the streets. “Flavia told me she secured Father’s permission for my attendance to the games. But I do not wish to go! However, if Father says I must, I have no choice in the matter.” Again, she whisked her gaze to Deborah’s. “Is that not so?”
At the hopeful plea in Moriah’s voice, the servant put her dusky arm around Moriah’s shoulders. “Perhaps if I rub scented oil into your temples and sing for you, it would help, my lady?”
“Yes. Please do. If I can think more clearly, I might be able to establish some method to approach Father and not have him refuse me.”
Deborah retrieved an alabastron of perfumed oil. She sat on the rose velvet cushion of the narrow couch, instructing Moriah to lay her head in her lap.
Moriah did so. At once, Deborah’s firm yet gentle fingers pressed into her temples, massaging, comforting. The spicy-sweet perfume from Arabia permeated the air, making Moriah wonderfully drowsy.
Softly Deborah began to sing one of many songs she often did—songs that stemmed from her faith. This one, Moriah noted, was about a young boy named David who fought a giant named Goliath and saved his people from tyranny.
As Moriah slipped closer into blissful nothingness while listening to Deborah’s melodic voice, her mind envisioned the scene, and the face and form of the courageous David took on the image of a male slave from Britain.
Two
Clutching the sides of her stola, Moriah hurried along the corridor and down the few steps to another corridor. Her nap had caused her to be late for the evening meal, something that was sure to displease Father. What terrible timing! She would need Father in an agreeable—or at least approachable—mood before she asked him to reconsider her attendance at the games.
Swiftly moving into the triclinium, Moriah saw that her parents reclined around the low circular table. Ignoring her father’s frown, she hurried to one of the empty bronze-ornamented couches that could easily hold three people and also reclined upon her side. Here, as in all the rooms of the house, boldly colored blocks of marble in geometric patterns and numerous frescos of gods and goddesses, satyrs, and cherubs decorated the walls. Sensing her father’s continued disapproval, Moriah focused on the colorful wall painting directly across from her—this one of a sacrificial calf being brought before Apollo and Artemis, who watched with approval.
A servant approached with sweet figs. Moriah selected one from the platter while another slave filled her goblet with watered wine. Moriah flicked her lashes briefly in her father’s direction. Solemnly he stared at her, and her mother seemed in no better spirits. Heaviness settled over the atmosphere, not relieved by the sweet sound of the lute and panpipes played by two Greek slaves in the corner of the room. It was a relief when the guard and doorkeeper, Jacabar, came at the beginning of the second course to announce the arrival of Centurion Paulus Seneca.
“Paulus!” Moriah abandoned the cushions of her couch, unable to contain her excitement. Her handsome cousin strode into the room, his red cape billowing behind him. Like a little child, she ran to him and threw her arms about his leather armor before he’d walked halfway into the room.
“Oh, Paulus! It has been so long,” she chided, “and not even a word! Did you forget us?”
He laughed, pulling her arms from around his neck, and gently set her from him. “I plead innocent, little dove. We have only just returned.”
“Moriah,” her father reprimanded. “Come away and let Paulus catch his breath.” He looked at his nephew. “Stay, eat with us. You must tell me the latest news. I hear so little of it these days—only what Senator Valerius tells me when he visits.” He motioned for a slave to bring another goblet and plate.
Paulus strode to the couch where his lame uncle reclined, with his aunt next to him. “Greetings, Uncle Clophelius, Aunt Lydia.” He clasped his uncle’s thin arms in a fond gesture, then bent to deliver a kiss upon Lydia’s pale cheek. “I would be honored to eat cena with you after I divest myself of my armor.”
Fondly, Moriah watched Paulus move toward a small anteroom. The months had been good to him. Lines around his mouth had deepened, but he looked as hearty as ever, and his wavy hair still showed no signs of gray. Looking back on her childhood, Moriah was certain she’d been an awful pest to Paulus, since she had idolized her older cousin. Yet he treated her as a doting brother might have. Now Paulus was a centurion in the Praetorian Guard, assigned to protect the emperor, and had little time to visit. Still, Moriah was proud of him and his accomplishments in the most elite branch of the military.
Once a slave removed Paulus’s cape and the rest of his armor, leaving him clad in his short tunic and sandals, Paulus returned to the table and reclined next to Moriah. He took a long look at her and smiled.
“You are as lovely as ever, Cousin,” he murmured for her ears alone. “Venus herself must look with envy upon one so beauteous as you, and surely she turns her head away in shame.”
Moriah’s face warmed. “You mock me, Paulus.”
“Never. I speak only words of truth.” Paulus’s gaze softened and rested on her a little longer than usual.
Perplexed, Moriah shook her head. “What is it, Paulus?”
“What?” He seemed addled. “It is nothing.” Quickly he took a long drink from his goblet and set it down. He then proceeded to tell the family what he knew of the latest news concerning their emperor.
According to Paulus, Caesar had spent much time in Antium, writing prose and resting his voice upon the urgings of his senators. On several occasions, he gave performances in the cities—Naples and others—to the people’s delight. That Nero presented himself as a ridiculous buffoon rather than the highly gifted artisan he supposed himself to be was a fact all who valued their lives kept to themselves.
Still, Moriah pitied their emperor. He had recently lost his only heir, an infant daughter, to a sudden illness. From Flavia, whose father was often summoned to Nero’s court, Moriah had learned how ecstatic Nero had been at his daughter’s birth and how devastated he’d been by her death. His wife Poppaea, a former harlot despised by the citizens of Rome, was convinced the babe died from an enchantment placed on her head.
Moriah puzzled over this as she picked the tender flesh off her honeyed squab. She had long ago lost faith in the power of the gods and goddesses. Had not Mother visited the household idols in the lararium and given wafer offerings each morning, praying for favor and protection for her household? She gave offerings at the temples, as well, for the healing of Father’s paralysis and for her own health, especially to Aesculapius, god of healing. And still Father was lame and Mother was often ill.
No matter what the people did, it appeared as though the deities rarely showed favor, being difficult to please—if in fact they existed. Moriah was uncertain what to believe anymore and wondered if Poppaea’s theory of enchantment was well founded or if there were supernatural powers at work in people’s lives at all.
“You’re not listening, Cousin.”
Startled out of her musings, Moriah looked over at Paulus and blinked. “What?”
He laughed and held his goblet out for a slave to refill with the weak, honeyed wine. “I asked what you have been doing of late.”
She hesitated only a moment. Here was her chance.
“Flavia petitioned Father that I be allowed to attend the games. And Father has agreed.” Her gaze flicked down to her barely touched food, making it obvious to all present that she shared no such desire.
Paulus looked across the table at his uncle. “Perhaps Moriah is not yet ready—”
“Nonsense!” the older man boomed. “As a daughter of Rome, she has a duty to fulfill.”
“A duty?” Paulus asked, confusion evident in his tone. “Since when is it a duty to attend the games?”
“We will talk no more of this,” Moriah’s father commanded. “I have made my decision.”
Paulus’s mouth narrowed. He turned to Moriah, the expression in his eyes going gentle. “Would you feel more at ease if I arrange it so that I can go with you?”
“I would appreciate that—yes.” Hope flickered but was just as quickly doused. “It is not possible. Flavia told me that she will be sending her litter for me. The arrangements are made.”
He waved his hand in careless dismissal. “I will send a messenger to inform her of the change of plans. We can take my chariot.”
“But Paulus, what of the ban?” Wheeled conveyances were not allowed on the city streets during daylight hours. Had Paulus forgotten in the months he’d been away?
“The ban does not include a soldier’s chariot, Moriah,” he said with an indulgent smile. “It applies to lumbering wagons and carts of merchants.”
“Oh.” Slightly embarrassed at her ignorance concerning such matters, she grinned. The prospect of her beloved cousin’s company appealed to Moriah much more than an afternoon with the surly Flavia. Still, it would not be wise to annoy her friend. Because Flavia’s father was close to Nero, he wielded power—and Flavia wielded power over her father. He gave her anything she asked of him.
That realization made Moriah think of Flavia’s interest in Aidan, and she hastily spoke. “Nevertheless, I do not wish to cause offense—though I would much rather go with you. Perhaps we should at least sit with her.” Sudden memory of the conflict between Flavia and her cousin hit Moriah, and she rued her thoughtlessness. “That is—if you are agreeable?”
Paulus gave a distracted nod, his gaze going to the platter of grapes in front of him. “I am agreeable.” Yet his expression had become dour.
No more was said, and Moriah looked away. She wished now she had never spoken.
❧
Late in the night, Moriah rose from her bed, unable to sleep. She slipped a silken robe over her short tunica and padded to the entrance of her room. Pulling aside the drape, she glanced at the quiet peristylium, then moved down the colonnaded walkway to the garden door. When slumber evaded her, the peaceful arbor, bathed with the delightful scent of exotic flowers, lulled her into rest.
Before she could reach the garden, raised voices inside the bibliotheca alerted her to an argument. Moriah recognized her father’s commanding voice and her cousin’s equally authoritative tone. Curious, she moved to the entrance of the library and put her ear to the curtain. Becoming conscious of the fact that she was acting childish by eavesdropping on a private conversation, Moriah turned to go, but the mention of her name stopped her. Now more than a little interested, she stepped close and again put her ear to the drape.
“You have no right to speak to me thus concerning Moriah,” her father shouted. “Her affairs are not your concern!”
“What possible difference could it make whether she attends the games or not?” Paulus questioned just as angrily. “You know how she sorrows to see anything harmed—a bird, an animal, especially a person! Why would you force her to do this thing?”
“I have my reasons, and I repeat, Paulus, they do not concern you. So leave it be.”
“Nay, Uncle, I cannot do so. I love Moriah and only want her happiness. Can you say the same?”
Tears pricked Moriah’s eyes at the silence that followed. It was no secret to her or to anyone else in the household that her father never had held her dear, though he’d always provided well for her. She could not fault him that.
“Paulus, there has been much talk. Every month another edict is issued for some poor soul to cut open his veins or fall upon his sword under Caesar’s orders.”
“Senator Valerius has shared this with you?”
“Yes, and more as well. It seems word of Moriah’s beauty has reached those on the consul, including an important patrician by the name of Servius Antonus. Need I say more?”
“Antonus,” Paulus spat. “What I would do to him if I were able. May Pluto take him to rot in the underworld! I’ve heard much concerning his reputation.”
“His reputation is no worse than that of countless other citizens in Rome.”
“Which says much for our fair city,” Paulus responded cynically. “But enough of the snake Antonus—what has he to do with Moriah?”
“Servius has asked questions of Valerius concerning her. You will remember that he and Valerius are related, though not by blood. And Servius knows the senator and I are friends.”
“And Valerius’s daughter is Moriah’s friend, as well—and a former lover of Antonus, who is likely the one behind this sudden interest for Moriah to go to the circus. By all that is sacred, Uncle! You cannot seriously consider allowing as rare a gem as Moriah to mingle with such company. Allowing her to be in the presence of Flavia, I understand, though only marginally. I know her father is your friend. But Servius Antonus?”
“Your defense of Moriah is admirable. But tell me, Paulus, do I detect a note in your voice of a more personal nature?”
Moriah’s ears burned. Yet she couldn’t leave now if her life depended on it.
“She is my cousin. And as dear as a sister to me,” Paulus said more quietly.
“But you know, Paulus, she is neither of those things.”
Moriah gasped, then put a hand to her mouth to avoid detection. What did this mean?
“I am an officer of the Praetorian Guard. I cannot marry.”
“Yes, it is so. Still, I sense that you do not intend to make guarding our emperor a lifelong career.”
