A Voice in the Wind by Francine Rivers
“Your sister’s future does not concern you.”
Julia had chosen that moment to come into the room, thus preventing Marcus from venting his opinion on that statement. Who knew Julia better than he? She was like him, chafing under the restrictions of a morality that no longer existed anywhere in the Empire.
On the ride to the arena, he had given Julia the reins and let her send the horses into a wild gallop. She is barely fifteen years old. . . . Let her feel the wind of freedom in her face before Father hands her over to Flaccus and she is locked behind the high walls of an Aventine Palace, he thought glumly. The same hot blood that ran in his own veins ran in Julia’s, and the thought of her fate sickened him. It was half in his mind to allow his sister any adventure she wanted, but the family honor and his own ambition wouldn’t allow it.
His father’s warning had been clear, though unspoken: Keep your sister away from your friends, especially Antigonus. The warning was unnecessary. Besides the need of protecting Julia’s purity in order to protect the family reputation, Marcus didn’t want to further complicate his relationship with Antigonus. He knew his friend, the aristocrat, far too well to trust him with Julia. Antigonus would seduce Julia and marry her just to guarantee himself future access to the Valerian coffers. Marcus was no fool. A substantial investment in Antigonus’ career had been necessary to gain the building contracts he coveted, but Marcus had no intention of allowing a marriage that would permanently obligate him.
Now that he had the contracts, he could prove his own abilities on a broader scale. In three or four years, Antigonus would be useless to him. For while Marcus found Antigonus amusing and somewhat intelligent, he was wise enough to know Antigonus wouldn’t last in the Senate. He ran through money and wine too quickly and ran off at the mouth too much. One day, Antigonus would have one party too many, get too drunk and speak too freely, seduce the wrong patrician’s wife, then end up with an imperial order to slit his own wrists. Marcus intended to have some political distance between them before that time came.
Julia’s exclamation drew him back to the present. “Oh, Marcus, it’s so exciting, I can hardly bear it!” The stands were filling up with men, women, and children. The noise rose and fell like the ebbing surf. Marcus saw little to interest him and leaned back indolently, resolved to suffer through the morning tedium. Julia sat, back straight and eyes wide with fascination, taking in everything that was happening around her.
“A lady is staring at you, Marcus.” His eyes were half-closed against the sunlight.
“Let her stare,” he said indifferently.
“Perhaps you know her,” she said. “Why don’t you open your eyes and look?”
“Because it’s pointless. If she is beautiful, I might wish to pursue her, and I must remain and protect my beautiful and innocent sister.”
Giggling, she hit him. “And if I weren’t here?”
He opened one eye and sought the woman mentioned. He closed it again. “No further discussion necessary.”
“There are others looking,” Julia said, proud to be sitting by him. The Valerians could claim no royal Roman bloodlines, but Marcus was very handsome and he had an air of masculine confidence about him. Men, as well as women, noticed him. This pleased Julia, because when they looked at him, they ended up looking at her as well. She had made special preparations today and knew she looked her best. She felt the bold look of one man a few rows away and pretended not to notice. Did he suppose she was Marcus’ mistress? The thought amused her. She wished she looked sophisticated and aloof, but knew the hot color flooding her cheeks gave her innocence away.
What would Arria do under the circumstances? Pretend she didn’t feel the man’s open stare? Or return it?
Trumpets blared, startling her. “Wake up, Marcus! The gates are opening!” Julia said excitedly and leaned forward in her seat.
Marcus yawned widely as the tedious preliminary proceedings began. Usually he came late in order to avoid the boring pronouncements of whom to credit for funding the day’s games. Today Antigonus would lead the parade with his banners flying. No one really cared who paid, as long as the games went on. In fact, sometimes insults were shouted at sponsors who took too long to advertise their part in the production.
Julia clapped wildly as the chariots bearing the sponsors and duelists appeared. “Oh, look! Aren’t they wonderful!” Her excitement amused him.
As primary sponsor of the events to come, Antigonus led the parade. He was splendidly dressed in white and gold with his hard-earned edging of purple denoting his new, but tenuous, rank of senator. He waved to the crowd while his driver struggled to keep the pair of majestic stallions under control. As they made a full circle and a half, the driver turned the chariot and halted it before the emperor’s platform. Antigonus, with all the dramatic flare of an actor, presented the speech Marcus had written the evening before. The crowd approved the brevity; the emperor, its eloquence. Antigonus signaled grandly and the duelists climbed down from the chariots to display themselves before the cheering multitude.
Julia gasped and pointed at a gladiator stripping off a brilliant red cloak. Beneath it, he wore polished bronze armor. “Oh, look at him! Isn’t he beautiful!” His helmet held dyed ostrich plumes of bright yellow, blue, and red. He marched around the arena so that the spectators could get a good look at him. Marcus’ mouth curved wryly. For once, he agreed with Father. Celerus looked like a cock on the walk. Julia, on the other hand, stared in fascination and seemed to think him the most beautiful man she had ever seen—until the next half-dozen gladiators stripped off their cloaks and joined him.
“What is he?” Julia asked, pointing.
“Which one?”
“The one with the net and trident.”
“He’s a retiarius. They will put him up against a mirmillo, the ones with fish-shaped crests on their helmets, or a secutor. You see that man over there, the fully armed one? He is a secutor. They are supposed to chase down their opponents until they are worn down enough to finish off.”
“I like the mirmillo,” Julia said, laughing. “A fisherman against a fish.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining brighter than he’d ever seen them. He was glad he’d brought her. She clapped her hands as trumpets blared again. “Is that one a Thracian?” she asked, pointing to a tall gladiator carrying an oblong shield and wearing a plumed helmet. He had a gladius and lance and a sleeve on his right arm. “Octavia said the Thracians are the most exciting!”
“That one’s a Samnite. The one with the curved dagger and the small round shield is a Thracian,” Marcus said, unable to arouse much enthusiasm for either.
Celerus had stopped before a box of richly dressed women and rolled his hips at them. They shrieked in lustful approval. The more explicit his antics, the louder they laughed and screamed, others around them joining in. Several men clambered down over the rows, pushing past people to reach the ledge, so they could lean over and toss flowers down to the famous gladiator. “Celerus! Celerus! I love you!” One shouted down at the gladiator.
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 outshout 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?
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 bustuarii, 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 lusorii 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 con
“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.”