A Voice in the Wind by Francine Rivers
“She saved your life once! Or have you forgotten Caius almost killed you? And yet you sent her to her death?”
“She’s a slave, Marcus. When she protected me, she only did what she was supposed to do. Should I be grateful for that? Her life means nothing.”
Marcus felt desperation rise within him, making it almost impossible to breathe. “Her life means everything to me! I love her!” he cried.
Suddenly the crowd screamed wildly, and Marcus turned to see that the lions had entered the arena. He surged to his feet. “No! She’s innocent! She’s done nothing wrong!”
“Nothing?” Julia rose with him, clutching at his arm. “She put her god above you. She put her god above Rome! She’s a foul stench in my nostrils. She’s a thorn in my side, and I want her plucked out, destroyed. I hate her! Do you hear me?” She looked back at the arena. “Yes! Drive the lions from the wall!”
“No!” He shook Julia off. “Go back, Hadassah! Go back!”
“Drive the lions out!” Julia screamed again, more wildly.
“No!” Marcus tore his sister’s hands from him. “Go back, Hadassah!”
The sound of the screaming mob rose as Hadassah walked calmly toward the center of the arena. The lioness crouched. Hadassah lifted her hands slowly, spreading her arms as though to welcome the beast as it charged.
“No!” Marcus cried out again, his face convulsing as the lion hit her. He turned his face away as she went down—and something inside of him died.
“There,” Julia said triumphantly. “It’s finished.”
The sound of ecstatic pleasure rose as spectators cheered wildly. More lions roared. Screams of fear and pain rang out, and someone laughed near Marcus. “Look at them scatter now!” Another hooted. “Look at those lions fighting over the carcass of that first girl!”
And in that instant, God answered Hadassah’s prayer.
Marcus looked back, and his eyes were suddenly opened as he stared down at Hadassah, lying crumpled on the sand, her tunic shredded and bloodstained. Two lionesses were fighting over her body, ripping at one another. One bit into Hadassah’s leg and tried to drag her away. The other attacked again.
“I paid her back for what she did to us,” Julia said, clutching at Marcus. “We can forget her now.”
“I’ll never forget her,” he said hoarsely and grasped Julia’s wrists tightly, looking at her as though she were something foul and hateful. “But I will forget you.”
“Marcus,” she said, frightened by the look in his eyes. “You’re hurting me!”
“I’ll forget I ever had a sister,” he went on, pushing her away from him. “May the gods curse you for what you’ve done!”
She stood staring at him, her face white, her eyes wide with shock. “How can you say such cruel things to me? I did it for you! I did it for you!”
He turned from her as though she hadn’t spoken, as though she didn’t exist. “You want her, Calabah?” he asked, his voice low, filled with loathing.
“I’ve always wanted her,” Calabah said, eyes glowing with black fire.
“You can have her.” And Marcus turned his back on Julia, pushing his way past Primus, who was just returning with the wine bags. “Get out of my way!”
“No!” Julia cried out. “Stop him! Marcus, come back!”
Calabah caught hold of her hand, her grip strong and unrelenting. “It’s too late, Julia. You’ve made your choices.”
“Let go of me,” Julia cried, weeping hysterically. “Marcus!” She struggled to go after her brother. “Let go!”
“He’s gone,” Calabah said, satisfaction in her voice.
Julia looked back at Hadassah on the bloodstained sand. A great emptiness opened within her as she looked at the still form. Gone, too, was the salt that had kept her from complete corruption.
“Marcus!” Julia screamed. “Marcus!”
Desperate to get out, to get away, Marcus shoved past screaming spectators. The sound of the mob swelled around him in wanton passion, drunk on human blood and suffering, craving more, frenzied. Fighting his way through them, Marcus reached the top of the steps and fled down the other side. He ran through the gates out into the open, tears blinding him. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t care. He ran to get away from the sound, the smell, the sight that was branded into his mind. He ran to get away from the image of Hadassah crumpled on the sand, the beasts fighting over her body as though it was just another piece of meat.
His lungs burned as he ran harder. He ran until his strength gave out, then stumbled aimlessly along a marble street lined with marble idols that couldn’t help him. The city was almost empty; most of the citizenry was at the arena enjoying the games. Legionnaires stood at each corner, preventing looting. They stared at him as he passed.
Leaning heavily against a wall, Marcus looked up at the writing brazenly announcing the games. Staring at it, Marcus remembered the countless times he had sat in the stadium, watching innocent blood be spilled and thinking nothing of it. He remembered the times he had laughed as people fled for their lives, or shouted profanity when a blood match took too long. He remembered sitting, bored, as prisoners were fed to beasts or nailed to crosses.
And as he remembered, he saw his part in Hadassah’s death.
Marcus heard the familiar rumble in the distance . . . unsated humanity. He covered his ears, and a sound came up from deep inside him, a cry of pain and despair, a cry of remorse and guilt. It tore from him and rose, echoing down the empty street.
“Hadassah!”
He fell to his knees. Hunching over, he covered his head and wept.
Epilogue
“But the eyes of the Lord are watching over those who fear him, who rely upon his steady love.
“He will keep them from death. . . .”
Psalm 33:18
Alexander Democedes Amandinus stood at the Door of Death waiting for the chance to learn more about life. Never having enjoyed the games, he had come reluctantly. Yet now he was transfixed by what he was witnessing, amazed in the deepest part of his being.
The mad intensity of the mob had always filled him with an instinctive unrest. His father had said there was release in watching violence done to others, and Alexander had seen, on occasion, an almost sick relief on faces among the crowd as they observed the destruction of the games. Alexander frowned. Perhaps those who sat watching the horrors were, in some sense, thankful that it was not they who faced the lions or battled a trained gladiator—or fell victim to some other more grotesque and obscene manner of death.
It was as though thousands came to find a catharsis in the bloodletting, as though this embracing of planned mayhem somehow provided a buffer between each of the spectators and their increasingly corrupt and arbitrary world. Yes, terrible things were happening in the Empire, but—for this brief moment—they were not happening to the elite, to the faithful, to those who truly belonged to Rome. Alexander smiled wryly, aware that few who sat in the stands noticed what was obvious to him: that the stench of blood on the sand was no less strong than the stench of lust and fear surrounding everyone in the Empire. It was in the very air they breathed.
Today, though . . . today, something startling had happened. Something that had moved the young man as he’d seldom been moved before. And now he turned his eyes toward the fallen young woman and felt an inexplicable sense of triumph.
His hands gripped the bars as he looked out upon the sand where the woman now lay dead. She had walked out apart from the others, calm and strangely joyful. Alexander remembered how his attention had fastened on her immediately. As an aspiring physician, he had been trained to notice anything unusual, anything different in a person, and he had seen in her something extraordinary . . . something that defied description.
And then she had begun to sing, and the sweet sound had pierced through him.
The screams of the mob had quickly overwhelmed the sound of her voice, but she had continued forward, walking across the sand serenely, heading
The lioness had hit her with a sickening thud, and Alexander had felt the blow himself.
He closed his eyes, a shudder running though his body, then he looked at her again. Two lionesses were fighting over the still body. He winced as he watched one beast sink its fangs deeply into the young woman’s thigh and attempt to drag her away. The other lioness sprang, and the two rolled and clawed at one another, fighting over the kill.
Just then, a screaming child ran by the iron-gridded gate where Alexander stood, a jewel-collared lioness in pursuit. The young man gritted his teeth and leaned his forehead against the cool bars, his knuckles whitening with the intensity of his inward struggle. The sight of so much suffering and death assaulted and nauseated him.
For as long as he could remember, he had heard the arguments in favor of the games. Those sent to the arena were criminals, he was told, deserving of death. He knew that the people who were on the sand now belonged to a religion that encouraged the overthrow of Rome.
Yet he could not help but wonder if a society that murdered helpless children should not be undone.
When the child’s terror-filled screams were suddenly silenced, Alexander let out his breath, hardly aware he had been holding it. The guard behind him laughed harshly.
“Hardly a mouthful in that little one.”
Alexander made no response. He wanted to shut his eyes, to close out the carnage before him, but the guard was watching him now. He could feel the cold glitter of those hard eyes as they observed him through the visor of the polished helmet. Alexander would not humiliate himself by showing weakness. If he was to become a good physician, he must learn to overcome his emotions. Phlegon had warned him often enough that he had to harden himself if he was to succeed in his life pursuit. After all, Alexander’s learned teacher had told him, death was a part of a physician’s lot in life.
Alexander drew a calming breath and forced himself to look out at the sand again. Without the games, he knew he would have no opportunity to study human anatomy. Phlegon said Alexander had gone as far as he could in his studies with scrolls and illustrations. Now, if he was to learn what he needed to know to save lives, he must perform vivisection. Recognizing Alexander’s aversion to this fact, the old physician had been adamant, closing the younger man in a net of reason. How could he hope to perform surgeries without firsthand knowledge of human anatomy? Charts and drawings were not the same as working on a human being. And in Rome there was only one way to do that.
Silently, Alexander cursed the Roman law that forbade dissection of the dead, thus forcing physicians into the grisly practice of working on those who were near death. And the only place one could do such a thing was at the games, where the injured were criminals.
Now, one by one, the victims went down, until the horrific sounds of terror were replaced by the relative quiet of feeding lions. Then another sound informed Alexander that his time was at hand: the sound of the crowd’s growing boredom and discontent. The contest was over, their entertainment at an end. Let the beasts gorge themselves in the dark interiors of their cages rather than tax the spectators with their tedious feasting.
The crowd’s wishes were quickly heeded by the editor of the games. Gates swung open and armed handlers approached the animals, who dug in their claws and teeth more fiercely to protect their downed prey. Right behind the handlers came a man dressed as Charon, the guide who ferried the souls of the dead over the river Styx. As Alexander watched the costumed actor dance from one body to the next, he prayed that there might be a flicker of life in at least one of the victims. If not, he would have to remain here until another opportunity presented itself.
Alexander’s gaze swept across the sand, searching for any survivors, yet holding little hope of finding even one. He glanced again at the young woman. No lion was near her, and he found that curious as she was far from the men driving the animals toward the gates. Eyes narrowing, he scanned her still form, then felt a shock of excitement. Had he seen a flicker of movement? Leaning forward, he peered intently against the glare of the sun. Her fingers did move!
“Over there,” he said quickly. “Near the center.”
“She was the first one attacked. She’s dead,” the guard responded flatly.
“I want to take a look at her,” Alexander insisted.
The guard shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, stepping forward and giving two quick sharp whistles. Alexander watched as Charon leapt and turned toward the fallen girl, then leaned down slightly, his feathered, beaked head turning as though listening intently for some sound or sign of life. He waved his mallet around in the air theatrically, prepared to bring it down if judgment had not been done and the victim was still alive. But, seemingly satisfied that the girl was dead, he grabbed her arm and dragged her roughly toward the Door of Death.
Suddenly, a lioness turned on the handler who was driving her toward a tunnel. The crowd in the stands rose to its feet, shouting in excitement. The handler barely managed to escape the animal’s attack, using his whip expertly to drive the enraged beast back toward the tunnel to the cages. The guard took advantage of the distraction and swung the gate wide.
“Hurry!” he snapped at Charon, who ran, dragging the girl into the shadows. The guard snapped his fingers, and two slaves hurriedly grasped the girl by the arms and legs and carried her into the dimly lit corridor.
“Easy!” Alexander said angrily as they tossed her up onto a dirty, bloodstained table. He pushed the slaves aside, sure that even if the girl had been alive, these oafs had finished her off with their rough handling.
The guard’s hard hand clamped firmly on Alexander’s arm. “Six sesterces before you cut her open,” he said coldly.
“That’s a bit high, isn’t it,” Alexander asked, raising an aristocratic eyebrow.
The guard grinned. “Not for a student of Phlegon. Your coffer must be full of gold if you can afford his tutelage.” He held out his hand.
“It’s emptying rapidly,” Alexander replied dryly, opening the pouch at his waist. He didn’t know how much time he had to work on the girl before she died, and he wasn’t going to waste time haggling over a few coins. The guard took the bribe and withdrew.
Alexander returned his attention to the girl. Her face was a bloody mass of torn flesh, and her tunic was drenched in blood as well. There was so much blood, he was sure she must be dead. Leaning down, he put his ear near her lips and was amazed to feel the soft, warm exhalation of life. He didn’t have much time to work.
Motioning to his own slaves, he took a towel and wiped his hands. “Move her back there, away from the noise. Quickly!” The two servants hastened to obey, as Troas, Phlegon’s slave, stood by watching. Alexander’s mouth tightened. He admired Troas’ abilities—the slave had assisted Phlegon many times during the past and knew more about medicine than most practicing free physicians—but not his cold manner.
“Give me some light,” Alexander said, and a torch was brought close as he bent over the girl who now lay on a slab in the dim recesses of the corridor. Alexander had come for one purpose: to peel back the skin and muscle from the abdominal area and study the organs that were revealed. Stiffening his resolve, he untied a leather case and flipped it open, displaying his surgeon’s tools. He selected a slender, razor-sharp knife from its slot.
His hand was perspiring. Worse, it was shaking. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he could feel Troas watching him critically. He did not have much time; he had to move quickly and learn all he could.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and silently cursed his own weakness.
“She will feel nothing,” Troas said quietly.
Clenching his teeth, he cut the neckline
“Bring the torch closer,” he ordered, leaning toward her head wounds again, reassessing them. Deep furrows were cut from her hairline down to her chin, and then from her collarbone to her sternum. The young physician’s gaze moved slowly down, noting the deep puncture wounds and broken bones in her right forearm. Far worse, however, were the wounds in her thigh where the lioness had sunk in her fangs and tried to drag the girl.
Alexander’s eyes widened as he realized that the girl hadn’t bled to death because sand clogged the wounds—probably the result of being dragged—effectively stanching the flow of blood. Alexander’s breath caught in his throat. One swift, skillful slice and he could begin his study. One swift, skillful slice . . . and he would be the one to kill her.
Perspiration dripped down his temples, his heart pounded heavily. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the faint pulse in her throat, and felt sick.
“She will feel nothing, my lord,” Troas said again. “She is not conscious.”
“I can see that,” Alexander said tersely, flashing the slave a dark look. He stepped closer again and positioned the knife. Just the day before he had worked on a gladiator. He had learned more about human anatomy from those few minutes than in hours of lectures. Thankfully, the dying man had never opened his eyes, but his wounds had been far worse than those of the girl lying before Alexander today.
He closed his eyes, steeling himself. He tried to focus on what Phlegon had taught him when he’d watched the physician work once. “You must cut quickly. Like this,” his teacher had said as he sliced expertly. “They are nearly dead when you get them, and shock can take them in an instant. Don’t waste time worrying about whether or not they feel anything, for the moment the heart stops you must withdraw or risk the anger of the deities and Roman law.” The man Phlegon had been working on had only lived a few minutes before bleeding to death . . . yet his screams still rang in Alexander’s ears.