An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
She looked presentable. But only presentable. Once she had been beautiful. Everywhere she had gone, men had stared at her in admiration. Women had envied her dark brown eyes and creamy skin, her full red mouth, high cheekbones, and sleekly curved body. Now her eyes were glassy, her skin sallow, her mouth red, but painted so. The high aristocratic cheekbones jutted with the prominence of ill health.
Forcing her lips into a smile, she tried to instill some life into her face, but the image in the mirror became a caricature. She looked what she was: a woman who had lost all innocence.
Turning away from her reflection, Julia rose. Unwinding her toga, she dropped it on the floor and took up the blue palus. Didymas had put the silver belt out for her, and Julia hooked it. It hung loosely about her waist. How much weight had she lost since the last time she wore it?
“Didymas!”
The girl came quickly at her summons. “Fix this belt and put on my sandals.” Didymas adjusted the silver belt and put it on Julia again. Then she knelt and put the silver sandals on Julia’s feet. “The pale blue shawl,” Julia said coldly and held her arms out. Didymas brought it to her and arranged it expertly over her shoulders.
Julia took a coin from her money box and held it out to Didymas. “Tell Tropas to rent a litter for me.”
“He will need more money than this, my lady.”
Julia felt the heat rise into her face and slapped the girl. “Give me the coin!” She snatched it back, shaking with anger and resentment. “I’ll walk,” she said with a jerk of her chin. “It’s a beautiful day and it’s not that far to my mother’s villa.” She put the coin in the box and slammed the lid, putting her hands on top of it. “I know exactly how many coins are in this box, Didymas. If even one is missing when I return, I’ll hold you to account. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady.” The girl stood placid, her face reddened with the print of Julia’s hand.
“While I’m gone, air out this room and find some flowers for the vase by my bed. Steal them if you have to. Or trade favors for them. I don’t care what you do to get them, but get them! Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I can’t bear this dreary place.”
She walked to the main thoroughfare and rested in one of the pretty vine-covered marble fana. The street was crowded with people on their way to and from the Artemision. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the marble pillar and listened to the hum of life passing her by. She was thirsty, but hadn’t thought to bring any money with her, not even a copper to buy a cup of watered wine from one of the street vendors.
She rose and went on.
It had been weeks since she had had any word from her mother. Usually she received a message through one of her mother’s servants: “Would you care to come for the evening meal?” A cordial invitation from a dutiful mother. Julia always sent polite regrets. Yet now she realized how she had grown to count on those invitations. Even though she had refused them, they represented a last gossamer line of connection with her mother and her past life.
Perhaps now that connection, too, was broken.
She had to know.
Having rested, she rose and went on. When she reached her destination, she paused at the base of the stone steps. Julia looked up at the formidable structure of the beautiful villa. Her father had never needed to count the cost of anything, and this house set into the hillside bespoke wealth and position. It was not unlike the villa Marcus owned not far away. Naturally, his was a little closer to the center of the city and hub of commercial activity. How many emporiums did her brother own now? Two? Three? Undoubtedly more than the last time she had spoken with him.
Gathering her courage, Julia went up the steps. She was breathless when she reached the top and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she knocked again, her heart beating rapidly within her breast. What would her mother say to her after all this time? Would she be glad she had come to pay a call? Or would that pained look of disillusionment and disappointment seep into her expression?
She recognized the slave who opened the door, but couldn’t put a name to him. Her father had purchased him shortly after arriving in Ephesus. “Lady Julia,” he said in surprise, and she stepped past him, entering the antechamber. As she looked around, the feeling of homecoming weighed heavily on her.
“Tell my mother I’ve come to see her. I’ll wait for her in the peristyle.”
He hesitated, a strange look on his face.
At his hesitation, she lifted her chin imperiously. “Did you hear what I said to you, slave? Do as you’re told.”
Iulius didn’t move, amazed at the young woman’s arrogance and insensitivity. “Your mother is unwell, my lady.”
Julia blinked. “Unwell? What do you mean ‘unwell’?”
He wondered if she was concerned about her mother or simply annoyed with the inconvenience to her. “She cannot move or speak, Lady Julia.”
Julia glanced up the stairway in alarm. “I want to see her. Now!”
“Of course,” he said, gesturing for her to proceed up the stairs as she wished. “She’s on the balcony that faces the harbor. I will show you the way in case you don’t remember.”
Sensing a reprimand, she glared at him. She wanted no reminders of how long it had been since she had entered this house. “I know where it is.”
Julia entered her mother’s bedchamber and saw her mother outside on the balcony. She was sitting in the sunshine near the railing. Julia crossed the room quickly and went out through the archways. “Mother? I’m here,” she said. Her mother didn’t turn to her in happy greeting, but sat unmoving. Nervous at such a lack of welcome, Julia came around in front of her.
Julia stared, stunned at how her mother looked. How was it possible for anyone to change so much in only a few weeks? Her hair had gone white, and her hands were veined. Her face sagged on one side, and her mouth hung slightly open. Despite all this, someone had taken great care to comb her hair and dress her in a white palus. She looked so pitifully dignified.
Fear filled Julia. What would she do without her mother? She glanced at the servant. “How long has she been like this?”
“The seizure came upon her forty-six days ago.”
“Why wasn’t word sent to me?”
“It was, my lady. Twice.”
Julia blinked and tried to remember when she had last received an epistle from her mother. Hadn’t someone come one evening several weeks ago? She had sent them away. Of course, she had been drunk—understandably so, for she had just learned the full details of her financial situation and Primus’ perfidy. Another messenger had come a week later, but she had been ill that time and not emotionally able to receive words that might rouse intense feelings of guilt. Calabah had always said guilt was self-defeating.
“I don’t remember any messengers.”
Iulius knew she was lying. Lady Julia had never been a good liar. Her face became pinched, and she would look away as the words were uttered. He felt sorry for her, for she looked frightened and distressed. He wanted to believe her concern was for Phoebe, but he was almost certain it was for herself. “She knows you’re here, my lady.”
“Does she?”
“I’m sure she’s happy you’ve come.”
“Happy?” She gave a bleak laugh. “How can you tell?”
Iulius didn’t answer. His mouth tightened. Why had the girl come? Had she no deep feelings for her mother? She stood staring down at her. The look on Julia Valerian’s face annoyed him. He thought what a delight it would be to pitch her off the balcony into the street below. But knowing Julia Valerian, she would, like a cat, land on her feet and have him sent to the arena.
He hunkered down beside Phoebe’s chair. “My lady,” he said gently, wishing heartily that he had better news for her. “Your daughter Julia has come to visit with you.”
Phoebe’s hand moved slightly. She tried to speak, but the sound that came from her lips was little more than a deep garbled groaning.
Julia drew back, repulsed. “What’s been done for her?”
He glanced up and saw the look of disgust on Julia’s face. He rose, standing between the girl and her mother. “All that can be done.”
“Will she improve?”
“Only God knows.”
“Meaning she won’t.” Julia released a soft, defeated breath and turned away, staring out across the city toward the harbor. “Now what will I do?”
Phoebe tried to speak again. Julia closed her eyes tightly, hunching her shoulders at the pathetic sound of it. She wanted to press her hands over her ears and shut out the sound completely.
Iulius understood what Phoebe wanted.
“I will leave you alone with her, my lady,” he said grimly. “It would be kind of you to speak to her,” he told Julia and left the balcony.
Julia kept staring out across the city through eyes now blurred with tears. Speak to her, he had said. Not that her mother could possibly understand anything in her condition. Not now.
“You were my last hope, Mother.” She turned and looked down at her sadly. “Oh, Mother . . .” With a soft cry, she went down on her knees, put her head in her mother’s lap, and wept. She clutched the soft linen of her mother’s palus. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair all the things that’ve happened to me. And no one’s even left to care anymore what suffering I have to endure. And now, you, like this. I tell you, the gods are against me.”
Phoebe’s hand fluttered slightly, her fingers lightly brushing Julia’s hair.
“Oh, Mother, what will I do now? What will I do?” Her mother tried to speak again, but Julia couldn’t bear the garbled sounds that made no sense. Her mother sounded mad. Julia lifted her head and saw the tears that streamed down her mother’s cheeks. With a cry, she fled.
She almost ran across the balcony and out of the room. When Iulius tried to intercept her, she ordered him out of her way and hurried down the steps and out the door.
She wandered the streets of Ephesus. Though the sun was shining, she felt an oppressive darkness around her. She was hungry but had no money to buy bread. It was dusk when she returned to her own villa. Didymas greeted her dutifully and took her shawl. Julia entered the triclinium. Exhausted, she reclined on one of the couches. The room pulsed with cold silence.
Tropas brought in a tray. He set it before her with his usual ceremony and poured her a full goblet of posca. She said nothing to him, and he left the room. She stared at the meal he had prepared for her: one small roasted dove, a thin loaf of grainy bread, and a wrinkled apricot. A bitter smile curved her mouth. Once she had dined on the richest delicacies the Empire could offer, and now, this was her feast.
She picked the meat from the dove until only the small bony carcass remained. Dipping the bread in the wine, she ate it as well. She had fallen so low that even this pauper’s meal tasted good to her.
A small knife lay on the tray. She picked it up and toyed with it, her thoughts turning to Octavia’s father. Perhaps she should cut her vein as he had done and end this slow, painful fall into complete ruin. She was going to die anyway. The unnamed disease was slowly sapping her strength and eating her up inside. Better to die quickly with a little pain than to linger and suffer unknown agonies.
Her palms began to sweat. The hand holding the knife trembled. She positioned the blade over the blue lines that ran beneath the pale flesh of her wrist. Her hand shook harder. “I must do it. I must. There’s no other way. . . .” She closed her eyes, trying desperately to gather the courage to end her own life.
With a soft moan, she leaned forward, the knife dropping from her fingers. It clattered to the marble floor, the sound echoing out into the peristyle.
Curling up on the long couch, Julia covered her face with her trembling hands and wept.
21
Marcus stood on the roof with Ezra Barjachin for the last time. Though his strength had not fully returned and his wound was not fully healed, he felt driven to continue his quest. He had informed Ezra last night that he would leave this morning, requesting clothing for his journey with a promise to repay him.
“Accept these as a gift,” Ezra said and presented Marcus with a new seamless, ankle-length tunic, a sash of colorful striped cloth, a heavy mantle to serve him as a cloak and bedding, and a pair of new sandals.
Marcus was deeply touched by the Jew’s generosity and kindness and was even more determined to see that Ezra was properly recompensed for his inconvenience. He had asked Taphatha to find him a Roman messenger. He gave the man a letter and promised him payment when he arrived at his destination. It took some convincing, but the messenger finally agreed to ride to Caesarea Maritima on trust and contact Marcus’ representatives. As soon as they read his instructions and saw his signature, Marcus knew they would send what he demanded and all would be done as he instructed.
Marcus looked at the older man standing by the roof wall. Ezra wore the tallis draped over his head, and Marcus knew he was praying. He felt a mingling of impatience and envy. The older man was as disciplined and tenacious as Hadassah had ever been. Would he share the same fate? What good were all his prayers? What good had hers ever been?
And why had Ezra become so hungry to learn about Jesus?
Marcus had been surprised at how intently Ezra had listened to every bit of information he could relate of what Hadassah had said about the man she had worshiped as a god. Marcus hoped telling Ezra would bring the truth to light. Perhaps this learned Jew would see the impossibilities and discrepancies of the strange story of a homely carpenter-turned-magician who proclaimed himself the Son of Adonai and who, some claimed, had arisen from the dead.
But something strange had transpired on the rooftop over the past few days. Marcus had witnessed a change in Ezra. Subtle, indescribable, yet undeniable. Marcus couldn’t put words to it. He only sensed it with his inner being. It was as though he was with someone completely different from the Ezra Barjachin who had found him in the wadi half-dead.
Marcus looked at Ezra, studying him. The older man was gazing distractedly into the street. He had to know for certain. “You believe Jesus is your Messiah, don’t you, old man?”
Ezra lifted his head and looked at the heavens. “It is as you say.”
“As I say? Don’t credit me with that story. I didn’t say Jesus was your Messiah, or God, or anything other than a man. I told you what Hadassah believed he was.”
“Yes, but with every word you spoke, I remembered the Scriptures’ foretelling of him.” He looked at Marcus. “My uncle was stoned because he believed Jesus was the Messiah. On his last visit here, I overheard him tell my father what Jesus said to those close to him, ‘I am the Way and the Truth and the Life. The only way to the Father is through Me.‘”
“Any man alive could say that.”
“Only one can fulfill it. In the midst of his suffering, Job said, ‘Surely even now my witness is in heaven, and my evidence is on high.’ Man needs someone to speak for him before the Lord. Job said also, ‘I know that my Redeemer lives, and He shall stand at last on the earth.’ A redeemer who sacrificed himself for our sake. Only God himself is pure and without sin, Marcus. I believe Jesus is the Redeemer I’ve been waiting for all my life.”
“Think with reason. You’ve waited so long for your Messiah you want this Jesus to be the one. But what stand did he take other than to die on a cross between two other criminals?”
“He presented himself as the Passover Lamb. He was sacrificed as an atonement for the sins of all mankind.”
“You’re saying he gave up his life and became a symbol.”
“No, not a symbol. Truth. I believe he did arise from death. I believe he is God the Son.”
Marcus shook his head. Was it possible that all he had said to make this man see the fallacy in Hadassah’s faith had only convinced him it was true? “Why? How can you?”
“You have told me many things over the past few days, Marcus. Events I remembe
“And what’s that?”
“A personal relationship with the Lord.”
“Be careful what you wish for, old man. Jesus is the pathway to death. Believe me. I know. He will demand your life’s blood.”
“He can have it.”
Marcus looked away, disturbed. What had he done to him? He should never have spoken. He tried to block out the memory of Hadassah standing in the center of the arena. “I hope what you have come to believe will not prove to be the death of you.”
“Why do you harden your heart against God, Marcus Valerian? Who do you think it was that led me to you on that road from Jerusalem?”
Marcus gave a brittle laugh. “It was the vultures who led you to me. Remember?” He saw Ezra wanted to say more and held up his hand. “But let’s not argue about something over which we can never agree.” He didn’t want his last conversation with Ezra to end in anger. “It is time I left. I want to walk as long as possible before nightfall.”
“So be it.”
Ezra walked down the steps and out of the house with Marcus. He accompanied him all the way to the city gates. And then he blessed him. “May the Lord shine his face upon you and give you peace, Marcus Lucianus Valerian.”
Marcus grimaced at the blessing. “I’ve much for which to thank you, Ezra Barjachin, and I fear what I’ve given you will cause you great harm.” He extended his hand.
Ezra clasped his arm. “You have given me a gift beyond price.”
Marcus’ mouth curved wryly. “You are a good man. For a Jew.”
Well aware Marcus meant no insult, Ezra laughed. “Perhaps one day you will overcome your Roman blood,” he said in kind.