Marcus entered the chamber from where he’d been relaxing in the courtyard. A breeze followed him, rustling the gossamer drapes at each side of the tall doorway.
Taking a seat on the silk covered couch, he picked up a dish of honeyed almonds from a nearby table and stuffed several into his mouth.
Tiberia pitied him. The horror he’d suffered on his way to Rome was too vile to contemplate. Marcus had arrived the day after her wedding, told her of the attack and his brother’s murder. How Pelonia had been kidnapped.
Tears formed in her eyes when she thought of her cousin. Poor Marcus had reluctantly shared how he’d fought for Pelonia’s freedom, done everything in his power to keep her from being stolen. If not for his injuries, he’d said, he could have saved her.
“Are you well, my dear?” Marcus asked.
“It’s Pelonia. I can’t believe she’s lost to me forever.”
Setting the almonds aside, he cast his gaze to the woven carpet. “We must accept what the gods will. It’s not for us to question.”
She folded into a chair, feeling weak and far from her usually tenacious self. “I know. I’m just grateful I’ve had Antonius to lean on. I don’t think I could have endured this without him.”
“Yes, Fortuna has blessed you.” He knelt before her. “You must remember that and focus on your new life. You’re a senator’s wife now with many responsibilities.”
“How can I when I feel as though a hole has been gouged in my heart?”
“I understand, my dear. Who feels the loss of Pelonia and her father more than I? You and your husband are all the family I have left in this world and even that connection is solely by marriage.”
She chose a linen square from the table beside her and dabbed her eyes. “No, Marcus, you must think of yourself as our true family. I may have been related to Pelonia through her mother, while you claimed paternal ties, but if blood cannot bind us together, surely this shared misfortune makes us kin.”
“You are most kind.” Marcus lowered his head. “If only I’d been able to save my brother and precious niece.”
Her heart broke for the grieving man. Guilt washed over her. Had it not been for her wedding, Pelonia and her household would still be alive.
Vowing to do all she could to help Pelonia’s last paternal relative, she patted Marcus’s shoulder. “I should never have invited our loved ones to see me wed. Iguvium is too far north and the journey is perilous. Had I not, they—”
“No, you mustn’t blame yourself.” Marcus’s hand strayed to her knee. “It’s tragic to be sure, but my brother and his household courted punishment. What other fate could they expect when they turned from our ancestors and forsook our gods? I believe I yet live because the gods protected me.”
Discomfited by his familiar manner and harsh opinion of his brother and Pelonia, Tiberia left the chair and walked to the window where a kestrel balanced on the edge of the sill. For years Pelonia had written about her faith in the crucified Jew, Jesus. She’d often feared her cousin would be found out and sentenced to suffer some heinous punishment. Perhaps the gods had taken matters into their own hands after all.
Marcus came to stand close behind her. His knobby fingers clutched her shoulders. “I apologize if I upset you. Let us speak of it no more and remember my brother’s house with nothing but fondness.”
“Agreed,” she said, oddly alarmed by his nearness.
“Good. You’re very amiable.” He fingered a curl by her temple before moving back to the bowl of almonds. “I can see you will make a fine senator’s wife.”
“Thank you.” A glance over her shoulder revealed the old man’s intense scrutiny. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, willing her husband to return home quickly. “Excuse me, I must see to the evening’s meal.”
“By all means.” He patted the seat beside him on the couch. “Then return soon and we shall reminisce for a time.”
Hurrying from the chamber, Tiberia shuddered and hoped with all her heart she’d only imagined the lust flickering in the old man’s eyes.
Chapter Five
Pelonia pulled open the door of the storage room she’d been ordered to clean. Dim light filtered through the slats in the closed shutters, exposing a mountain of dirt and clutter.
Stepping into the narrow cell, she leaned her broom against the wall and set down her bucket of water. She stretched the tight muscles of her back, her ribs burning from the day’s strenuous labor. This room was her last. As soon as she finished, she planned to seek out her pallet before Lucia concocted more aimless chores for her to do.
With a fortifying breath, she adjusted her tunic, detesting the coarse brown material scratching her skin from her neck to her ankles. She longed for the soft linen and brightly colored silks she’d always worn at home. Hoping a breeze would alleviate the itching discomfort of her slave’s garb, she went to the window and threw open the shutters.
Positioned on the upper story, the storage room provided a lofty view of the training field. Below, Caros shouted at the men gathered around him. His sharp hand motions and livid countenance testified to his fury though the distance between them kept her from discerning his words.
Had some calamitous misfortune befallen them or did Caros Viriathos entertain a perpetually black mood?
No, that wasn’t fair. Over the previous week, he’d shown his capacity for kindness by having her cared for while she recuperated. He hadn’t turned vicious until she’d refused to accept his ownership.
As the group of gladiators disbanded, she rejected all benevolent thoughts of the lanista. She couldn’t afford to soften toward him. Caros had declared war against her in the garden. He’d threatened her, frightened her, ridiculed her.
Hate, an emotion she’d never sampled before coming to Rome, crept into her heart. In that moment, all the lessons she’d learned about faith and compassion rang hollow. How could anyone possibly follow all of Christ’s commands? Would she ever be able to forgive and love her enemy?
She watched Caros return indoors. As though a violent tempest had passed, an atmosphere of calm descended. The gladiators returned their weapons to the guards and filed into their quarters.
She picked up a rag she’d brought with her and began to dust. A vision of Caros plagued her. No one had ever affected her quite like the gladiator. When she looked at him, she saw a compelling, world-weary man, too proud for his own good. Worse, the sense of helpless fascination she experienced in his presence mortified her.
If she were the righteous person she ought to be, she’d pray for him, but the faith to pray eluded her for the first time in her memory. Never before had God seemed so distant. The wrath marking Caros’s face when he’d mocked God’s ability to protect her filled her with fear. What if Caros were right? What if her heavenly Father could no longer protect her? What if He simply chose not to?
Exhausted from wrestling with unanswered questions, she finished cleaning and headed downstairs. At the end of a long corridor, she came to a partially opened door. She knocked hard enough to push it wider. The room was empty, but something about the restful space drew her inside.
A wooden sword hung prominently on one wall. Small ancestral statues, three women and a man, sat atop a shelf beneath it. A couch and two chairs crafted of rich wood and the finest, deep blue coverings partially hid the mosaic masterworks of various animals and lush vegetation that covered the floor. On the wall opposite the sword, a fresco of mountains against the backdrop of a fiery setting sun, lent the space a haunting, solitary air.
Crossing