An Echo in the Darkness Read online

  At the same moment, a lioness turned on the animal handler who was driving her toward a tunnel. The crowd came to its feet, shouting in excitement. The man barely managed to escape the animal’s attack. He used his whip expertly to drive the enraged lioness back away from the child she had been eating and toward the tunnel to the cages.

  The guard took advantage of the distraction and swung the gate at the Door of Death wide. “Hurry up!” he hissed and Charon ran, dragging the girl into the shadows. The guard snapped his fingers and two slaves hurriedly grasped her by her 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 brushed them aside, sure that 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 little high, isn’t it?”

  The guard grinned. “Not too high for a student of Phlegon. Your coffer must be full of gold to afford his tutelage.” He held out his hand.

  “It’s emptying rapidly,” Alexander said 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 any haggling over a few coins. The guard took the bribe and withdrew, three coins in reserve for Charon.

  Alexander returned his attention to the girl. Her face was a raw mass of torn flesh and sand. Her tunic was drenched in blood. There was so much blood, in fact, he was sure she was dead. Leaning down, he put his ear near her lips, amazed as he felt 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. Gently!” The two slaves hastened to obey. Phlegon’s slave, Troas, stood by watching as well. Alexander’s mouth tightened. He admired Troas’ abilities, but not his cold manner. “Give me some light,” Alexander said, snapping his fingers. A torch was brought close as he bent over the girl on the slab in the dim recesses of the corridor.

  This was what he had come for, his one purpose for enduring the games: to peel back the skin and muscle from the abdominal area and study the organs revealed. Stiffening his resolve, he untied the 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 as well. He could feel Troas watching him critically. Alexander had to move quickly and learn all he could within the space of the few short minutes he would have until the girl died of her wounds or his procedure.

  Silently, he cursed the Roman law that forbade dissection of the dead, thus forcing him to this grisly practice. But how else was he to learn what he had to know about the human body? How else could he achieve the skill he had to have to save lives?

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and silently cursed his own weakness.

  “She will feel nothing,” Troas said quietly.

  Clenching his teeth, Alexander cut the neckline of the girl’s clothing and tore the bloodstained tunic to the hem, laying it open carefully and exposing her to his professional assessment. After a moment, Alexander drew back, frowning. From breasts to groin, she was marked only by superficial wounds and darkening bruises.

  “Bring the torch closer,” he ordered, leaning toward her head wounds and reassessing them. Deep furrows were cut from her hairline down to her chin. Another cut scored her throat, just missing the pulsing artery. His gaze moved slowly down, noting the deep puncture wounds in her right forearm. The bones were broken. Far worse, however, were the wounds in her thigh where the lioness had sunk in her fangs and tried to drag her. Alexander’s eyes widened. The girl would have bled to death had not sand clogged the wounds, effectively stanching the flow of blood.

  Alexander drew back. One swift, skillful slice and he could begin his study. One swift, skillful slice and he would 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 servant a dark look. He stepped closer and positioned the knife. He had worked on a gladiator the day before and learned more about human anatomy in the space of a few minutes than in hours of lectures. Thankfully, the dying man had never opened his eyes. But then, his wounds had been far worse than these.

  Alexander closed his eyes, steeling himself. He had watched Phlegon work. He could still hear the great physician speaking as he cut expertly. “You must work quickly. Like this. They are nearly dead when you get them, and shock can take them in an instant. Don’t waste time worrying about whether they feel anything. You must learn all you can with what little time the gods give you. The moment the heart stops, you must withdraw or risk the anger of the deities and Roman law.” The man on whom Phlegon had been working had lived only a few minutes before bleeding to death on the table to which he was tied down. Yet, his screams still rang in Alexander’s ears.

  He glanced at Troas, Phlegon’s invaluable servant. The fact that Phlegon had sent him along spoke loudly of the master physician’s hopes for Alexander’s own future. Troas had assisted Phlegon many times during the past and knew more about medicine than most practicing free physicians. He was an Egyptian, dark of skin and with heavy-lidded eyes. Perhaps he held the mysteries of his race.

  Alexander found himself wishing he hadn’t been afforded so great an honor.

  “How many times have you overseen this done, Troas?”

  “A hundred times, perhaps more,” the Egyptian said, his mouth tipping sardonically. “Do you wish to stand aside?”

  “No.”

  “Then proceed. What you learn here today will save others tomorrow.”

  The girl moaned and moved on the table. Troas snapped his fingers, and Alexander’s two servants stepped forward. “Take her by the wrists and ankles and hold her still.”

  She uttered a rasping cry as her broken arm was drawn up. “Yeshua,” she whispered, and her eyes flickered open.

  Alexander stared down into dark brown eyes filled with pain and confusion, and he couldn’t move. She was not just a body to work on. She was a suffering human being.

  “My lord,” Troas said more firmly. “You must work quickly.”

  She muttered something in a strange tongue and her body relaxed. The knife dropped from Alexander’s hand and clattered onto the stone floor. Troas took a step around the slab table and retrieved it, holding it out to him again. “She has fainted. You may work now without concern.”

  “Get me a bowl of water.”

  “What do you mean to do? Revive her again?”

  Alexander glanced at that mocking face. “You dare question me?”

  Troas saw the imperiousness in the young, intelligent face. Alexander Democedes Amandinus might only be a student, but he was free. No matter the Egyptian’s own experience or skill, he acknowledged resentfully that he himself was still a slave and dared not challenge the younger man further. Swallowing his anger and pride, Troas stepped back. “My apologies, my lord,” he said without inflection. “I only meant to remind you that she is condemned to die.”

  “It would seem the gods have spared her life.”

  “For you, my lord. The gods spared her that you might learn what you need to become a physician.”

  “I will not be the one to kill her!”

  “Be rational. By command of the proconsul, she is already dead. It’s not your doing. It was not by word of your mouth that she was sent to the lions.”

  Alexander took the knife from him and put it back among the other tools in his leather case. “I’ll not risk the wrath of whatever god spared her life by taking it from her now.” He nodded to her. “As you can
clearly see, her wounds have damaged no vital organs.”

  “You would rather condemn her to die slowly of infection?”

  Alexander stiffened. “I would not have her die at all.” His mind was in a fever. He kept seeing her as she walked across the sand, singing, her arms spreading as though to embrace the very sky. “We must get her out of here.”

  “Are you mad?” Troas hissed, glancing back to see if the guard had heard him.

  “I don’t have what I need to treat her wounds or set her arm,” Alexander muttered. He snapped his fingers, issuing hushed orders.

  Forgetting himself, Troas grasped Alexander’s arm. “You cannot do this!” he said in a firm, barely restrained voice. He nodded pointedly toward the guard. “You risk death for us all if you attempt to rescue a condemned prisoner.”

  “Then we’d better all pray to her god that he will protect us and help us. Now stop arguing with me and remove her from here immediately. Since you appear afraid of the guard, I’ll handle him and follow as soon as I’m able.”

  The Egyptian stared at him, his dark eyes unbelieving.

  “Move!”

  Troas saw there was no arguing with him and gestured quickly to the others. He whispered commands in a low voice as Alexander rolled the leather carrier. The guard was watching them curiously. Taking up the towel, Alexander wiped the blood from his hands and walked calmly toward him.

  “You can’t take her out of here,” the guard said darkly.

  “She’s dead,” Alexander lied. “They’re disposing of the body.” He leaned against the iron-grated gate and looked out at the hot sand. “She wasn’t worth six sesterces. She was too far gone.”

  The guard smiled coldly. “You picked her.”

  Alexander gave a cold laugh and pretended interest in a pair of gladiators. “How long will this match last?”

  The guard assessed the opponents. “Thirty minutes, maybe more. But there will be no survivor this time.”

  Alexander frowned with feigned impatience and tossed the bloodstained towel aside. “In that case, I’m going to buy myself some wine.”

  As he walked past the table, he picked up his leather case. He strode along the torchlit corridors, curbing the desire to hurry. His heart beat more quickly with each step. As he came out into the sunlight, a gentle breeze brushed his face.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” Startled, he glanced behind. He had heard the words clearly, as though someone whispered urgently in his ear. But no one was there.

  His heart pounding, Alexander turned toward his home and began to run, urged on by a still, small voice in the wind.

  1

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Marcus Lucianus Valerian walked through a maze of streets in the Eternal City, hoping to find a sanctuary of peace within himself. He couldn’t. Rome was depressing. He had forgotten the stench of the polluted Tiber and the oppressive, mingled humanity. Or maybe he had never before noticed, too involved in his own life and activities to care. Over the past few weeks since returning to the city of his birth, he had spent hours wandering the streets, visiting places he had always enjoyed before. Now the laughter of friends was hollow, the frenetic feasting and drinking exhausting rather than satisfying.

  Downcast and needing distraction, he agreed to attend the games with Antigonus. His friend was now a powerful senator and held a place of honor on the podium. Marcus tried to still his emotions as he entered the stands and found his seat. But he could not deny he felt uncomfortable when the trumpets began blaring. His chest tightened and his stomach became a hard knot as the procession began.

  He hadn’t been to the games since Ephesus. He wondered if he could stomach watching them now. It was painfully clear that Antigonus was more obsessed with them than he had been when Marcus left Rome, and he was betting heavily on a gladiator from Gaul.

  Several women joined them beneath the canopy. Beautiful and voluptuous, they made it apparent within moments of their arrival that they were as interested in Marcus as in the games. Something stirred in Marcus as he looked at them, but disappeared as quickly as it came. These women were shallow, tainted water to Hadassah’s pure, heady wine. He found no amusement in their idle, vain conversation. Even Antigonus, who had always amused him, began to shred his nerves with his collection of ribald jokes. Marcus wondered how he had ever thought such obscene stories amusing or felt any pity for Antigonus’ litany of financial woes.

  “Tell another one,” one of the women laughed, obviously enjoying the crude joke Antigonus had just related to them.

  “Your ears will burn,” Antigonus warned, eyes dancing.

  “Another!” everyone agreed.

  Everyone but Marcus. He sat silent, filled with disgust. They dress up like vain peacocks and laugh like raucous crows, he thought as he watched them all.

  One of the woman moved to recline beside him. She pressed her hip against him enticingly. “The games always stir me,” she said with purring softness, her eyes dark.

  Repulsed, Marcus ignored her. She began to talk of one of her many lovers, watching Marcus’ face for signs of interest. She only sickened him further. He looked at her, making no effort to hide his feelings, but she was oblivious. She simply continued her intended seduction with all the subtlety of a tigress pretending to be a housecat.

  All the while, the bloody games went on unabated. Antigonus and the women laughed, mocked, and shouted curses down on the victims in the arena. Marcus’ nerves stretched tight as he watched his companions . . . as he realized they relished the suffering and death going on before them.

  Sickened by what he was seeing, he turned to drink for escape. He drained cup after cup of wine, desperate to drown out the screams of those in the arena. And yet, no amount of the numbing liquid could hold off the image that kept coming to his mind . . . the image of another place, another victim. He had hoped the wine would deaden him. Instead, it made him more acutely aware.

  Around him, the masses of people grew frenzied with excitement. Antigonus caught hold of one of the women, and they became entangled. Unbidden, a vision came to Marcus . . . a vision of his sister, Julia. He remembered how he had brought her to the games her first time and laughed at the burning excitement in her dark eyes.

  “I won’t shame you, Marcus. I swear. I won’t faint at the sight of blood.” And she hadn’t.

  Not then.

  Not later.

  Unable to stand more, Marcus rose.

  Shoving his way through the ecstatic crowd, he made his way up the steps. As soon as he was able, he ran—as he had in Ephesus. He wanted to get away from the noise, away from the smell of human blood. Pausing to get his breath, he leaned his shoulder against a stone wall and vomited.

  Hours after the games were over, he could still hear the sound of the hungry mob screaming for more victims. The sound echoed in his mind, tormenting him.

  But then, that was all he had known since Hadassah’s death. Torment. And a terrible, black emptiness.

  “Have you been avoiding us?” Antigonus said a few days later when he came to pay Marcus a visit. “You didn’t come to Crassus’ feast last night. Everyone was looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I had work to do.” Marcus had thought to return to Rome permanently, hoping against hope that he would find the peace he so desperately longed for. He knew now his hopes had been in vain. He looked at Antigonus and shook his head. “I’m only in Rome for a few more months.”

  “I thought you had returned to stay,” Antigonus said, clearly surprised by his statement.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Marcus replied shortly.

  “But why?”

  “For reasons I’d rather not discuss.”

  Antigonus’ eyes darkened, and his voice dripped with sarcasm when he spoke. “Well, I hope you’ll find time to attend the feast I’ve planned in your honor. And why do you look so annoyed? By the gods, Marcus, you’ve changed since going to Ephesus. What happened to you there?”

  “I’ve work to do, Antigonus.�
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  “You need distraction from these dark moods of yours.” He became so cajoling, Marcus knew he would soon be asking for money. “I’ve arranged entertainment guaranteed to drive away whatever black thoughts plague your mind.”

  “All right, all right! I’ll come to your bloody feast,” Marcus said, impatient for Antigonus’ departure. Why couldn’t anyone understand that he just wanted to be left alone? “But I’ve no time for idle conversation today.”

  “Graciously said,” Antigonus said mockingly, then rose to leave. He swept his robes around himself and made for the door, then paused and looked back at his friend in annoyance. “I certainly hope you’re in a better humor tomorrow night.”

  Marcus wasn’t.

  Antigonus had neglected to tell him that Arria would be in attendance. Within moments of arriving, Marcus saw her. He gave Antigonus an annoyed look, but the senator merely smiled smugly and leaned toward him with a sly expression. “She was your lover for almost two years, Marcus.” He laughed low. “That’s far longer than anyone has lasted since.” At the expression on Marcus’ face, he raised a questioning brow. “You look displeased. You did tell me you parted with her amicably.”

  Arria was still beautiful, still intent on gaining the adoration of every male in the room, still amoral and eager for any new excitement. However, Marcus saw subtle changes. The soft loveliness of youth had given way to a harder-edged worldliness. Her laughter held no exuberance or pleasure—rather, it carried a quality of brashness and crudity that grated. Several men hovered around her, and she alternately teased each, making jokes at their expense and offering whispered suggestive observations. She glanced across the room then, looking at Marcus in question. He knew she was wondering why he hadn’t been caught by the smile she had cast him when he came in. But he knew that smile for what it was: bait for a hungry fish.

  Unfortunately for Arria, Marcus was not hungry. Not any longer.

  Antigonus leaned closer. “See how she looks at you, Marcus. You could have her back with a snap of your fingers. The man who’s watching her like a pet dog is her current conquest, Metrodorus Crateuas Merula. What he lacks in wit, he more than makes up for in money. He’s almost as rich as you are, but then our little Arria has money of her own these days. Her book created quite a furor.”