Avenger of Blood (35 page)

Livia uncrossed her long legs and stood up from the table. “I'll wait outside while you . . . you
men
sit here and decide my future for me.”

Before either of them could say a word, she bolted from the room and climbed down the ladder. Outside, she gulped in the fresh air and tried to let it soothe her frazzled nerves. When she heard the chestnut whinny, Livia walked over to the shed where Jacob had tied the animal.

“I just don't know how it's done,” Livia told the horse as she stroked its muzzle. “I don't know anything about being in love, or about marriage, or—or why men think they rule the world.”

Jacob's horse neighed sympathetically, and Livia chuckled. “They do rule the world, of course. It doesn't mean we have to like it, though.”

In a few minutes Jacob came outside to the shed. He stood on the opposite side of the chestnut and let the animal nibble the bite of food he offered in his hand.

“So, how much did I bring?” Livia asked, keeping her voice light.

“I'm sorry,” Jacob said. “I seem to have made a mess of things, and I really wanted to do this right.”

“No,
I've
made a mess of things.” Livia attempted to smile but wasn't sure if she succeeded. “I'm not very good at social proprieties, as you've noticed.”

“You're good at knowing what you want and speaking your mind. That's one of the things I love about you, actually. And I
do
love you, Livia.”

She blinked back tears at his words. “I love you too,” she said. “But you already know that.”

“Yes, I know.” He stretched his arm across the horse and found Livia's hand. “Your love was what finally reached through all my anger.”

She clasped his hand tightly, so grateful that she had found the courage to wrap her feelings in a tiny box and give it to him. How very different things might have been if she hadn't.

The chestnut lowered her head and Jacob lifted Livia's hand up high and walked around the horse, their fingers still twined together, until he stood in front of Livia. “I know that bride-prices and dowries and such are old-fashioned, almost a thing of the past,” he said, “but my family still follows the tradition where a prospective husband approaches a girl's father, or her closest relative—”

“Closest
male
relative,” Livia muttered with a smile.

Jacob returned the smile and continued, “—and requests permission to ask for a woman's hand in marriage. He demonstrates his worthiness and makes all kinds of promises to take care of his bride and to provide for her and . . . well, all the usual things a man is supposed to do.”

“I see. And what is the woman's role in all this?”

Jacob shook his head in mock dismay. “If she loves the man, she's supposed to be patient and let him work out all the details.”

Hand in hand, they walked out of the shed and stood in the late afternoon sunlight, their silhouettes casting long shadows on the exterior of the house carved out of the towering tufa cone.

“By chance did you just have such a conversation with my ‘closest male relative'?” Livia asked.

“No,” Jacob said, grinning at the impatient look that crossed her face. “I tried,” he quickly added, “but Gregory told me not to even mention it until I had talked things over with you.”

Livia burst out laughing.
Bless Gregory's heart,
she thought. He knew her so well, and loved her in spite of all her idiosyncrasies. As did Jacob.

“I'm not the patient kind,” she told him. “And as you know, I'm not accustomed to doing things the proper way. So . . .” She looked down at their clasped hands and then back at that handsome face she loved so much. “So let me ask you a question, Jacob of Ephesus. Will you marry me?”

His answer was written in his eyes before he opened his mouth to speak. “It would be my great honor to marry you, Livia of Caesarea.”

She sighed and leaned forward slightly, pressing her forehead against his cheek. Jacob released her hand and slipped his arms around her. He started to kiss her then, but she pulled back, suddenly realizing that Gregory could see them from the window if he had a mind to keep an eye on them. Her uncle may have been tolerant of her unconventional ways, but Livia did not want to seem
too
improper.

“Not now,” she said. She took Jacob's hand again and they strolled toward the house. When they reached the base of the ladder, she turned and said, “So, how does Sunday sound to you?”

“For what?” Jacob asked, a puzzled look on his face.

“For getting married.”

This time it was Jacob's turn to burst out laughing. “Now that,” he said, “is something we should talk over with Gregory.”

Antony and Rebecca stood on a level spot on Mount Koressos about a quarter of a mile below the villa. They could not see the harbor from here, but the location offered a pleasant view of the rolling hillside and the southern district of Ephesus, which lay another half-mile or so below them. It was the first truly mild spring day, and Antony was grateful that the brisk March winds had decided to take a respite.

A lot had happened in the ten days since Rebecca had accepted his second marriage proposal. He intended to tell her everything but wanted to do it in a logical fashion, and he had chosen this spot to make his case.

Rebecca looked around, obviously puzzled. “I don't see whatever it is you brought me here to see. There's nothing here, and the city looks the same as it always does.”

“There's nothing here
now
. But there could be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A house,” he said, noting with pleasure how the idea lit up her face.

“A house—for us?” Excitement raised the pitch of her voice and Antony couldn't help smiling in spite of his qualms.

He nodded. “A big house, with plenty of room for children . . . and for Mother and Priscilla. I need to provide a home for them too, and I can't maintain two households.” He couldn't afford to build the kind of house he was talking about, either—not without help. But that had already been offered.

“Of course. Oh, Antony, it would be perfect.” She extended her arms and twirled around. “My very own house!”

Peter had been right, Antony thought, when he'd said that Rebecca should have a house of her own and had offered this land, which was part of the estate, as a wedding present. Antony really preferred to wait a few years, until he could afford to build a small villa for them. In the meantime they would be comfortable enough in his family home, which was spacious by city standards, although nothing on the scale of her family's villa. Seeing her reaction, however, Antony knew he should reconsider his hesitation to accept Peter's offer, not just of the land, but of the money to build. He had urged Antony to use part of Rebecca's inheritance, an idea which did not set well with Antony.

“It's very important to you, having a house of your own?” he asked.

Rebecca noted his somber look and made a visible effort to temper her enthusiasm. “I do dream about it,” she said.

The excitement had faded from her voice, but he could see the spark of that dream still alive in her eyes.

Rebecca placed her hand in his. “But I'll be happy living anywhere, as long as it's with you.”

“I want you to have your dream house,” Antony said. “It's just that we would have to use part of your inheritance to build it, unless we waited a few years. My law practice is mushrooming, and I've saved quite a bit, but not enough for the kind of house you're thinking about.”

“Ah,” Rebecca said, comprehension dawning, “and you'd rather not use
my
money to build a home for
us
.”

It sounded so lame when she put it that way. “Well . . .”

“So in your mind the marriage vows only work in one direction. I expected much better of you, Antony.”

He bristled. “What do you mean by that?”

“I'm just playing the lawyer here.” She grinned up at him. “Marriage is a covenant, right? And in a covenant, what belongs to one party becomes the property of the other party, and vice versa.”

“But I'm not marrying you for your money.”

“Of course not. But you can't get around the fact that I
do
have money. And when you marry me, then that money is yours too. All of it.”

Antony didn't reply immediately. Stubborn masculine pride was holding him back from using her inheritance, and he knew it.

“If we didn't have the resources,” she said, “it would be different. I don't have to have a big house to be happy, but I do want a house of my own, whatever size it is.” She hesitated a moment, her soft-brown eyes appealing for his understanding. “It's hard to explain why it's so important to me.”

“You've done a good job of making your case so far. Try to enlighten me.” He issued the challenge in a gentler voice.

“There's more than enough room for us to live at the villa. Helena and Priscilla too. And Peter wouldn't mind, I'm sure of it.”

Antony agreed. “He's already told me that.”

“We could live in your family home too. I'm sure your mother would welcome us there.”

“She loves the idea, of course.”

“It's just that your house will always be Helena's, the same way the villa will always be my mother's, even though she's gone now. I want a home of my own, one that is mine from the beginning, one where I can leave my own imprint.”

Her smile weakened his resistance even further. They were setting a precedent here, Antony knew. For the rest of his life, he was going to find it difficult to deny Rebecca anything she wanted.

“It's silly, I suppose, wanting my own space so much.”

“No, it's not silly. It's normal for you to want that, and normal for me to want to be able to provide it for you. If you don't mind using your inheritance to build it, then I'll swallow my pride.”

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, thank you, Antony.”

Her happiness was palpable, and as he hugged her close Antony thought he would gladly have sacrificed the last vestige of his self-dignity to build her Caesar's palace, if that's what she wanted.

After a moment, he released the embrace. “Let's find a place to sit down,” he said. “There's another decision we need to make today.” And this one would be more difficult, he thought.

They found a smooth rock large enough to sit on, and Antony brushed off the surface dirt to clear a place for them. After they sat down, he took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I have an opportunity to take on some interesting legal work,” he said. “Not very lucrative work, I'm afraid, but the kind of work that really matters.”

“It sounds exciting,” Rebecca said.

“It is, but there are some drawbacks. And I want you to fully support the decision before I agree to take it on. If you have any reservations, I won't make the commitment.”

“What kind of drawbacks?”

“For one thing, it would mean spending a lot of time in Smyrna. And that would mean spending time away from you—not something I look forward to.” The timing could not have been worse, Antony thought. Here he had asked Rebecca to marry him, and before they could even set a wedding date he was considering a temporary move to Smyrna, a full day's journey away from his fiancée.

“In Smyrna? You've never had clients there before, have you?”

“No, and it's not the kind of legal work I've done before either.” Most of Antony's work had been the sort of services he had rendered to Rebecca's family in the probate of their father's contested will. He wasn't sure what all the new cases would entail, but they would be vastly different—and a lot grittier.

“So what would you be doing?”

“I don't know exactly, but a few days ago I received another letter from Polycarp—”

“The bishop? He's been writing you letters?” The look on her face was one of pleasant surprise.

Antony figured he'd better start at the beginning. “Back in January I sent a letter to Polycarp. I wanted him to know that I had become a Christian. I told him all about my mother's healing, and I told him what an impact being in his home last fall had made on me. I closed by saying that if there was ever anything I could do for him, to let me know.

“I sincerely meant that offer to help, of course, but I didn't really expect there would ever be anything I could do for the bishop. In a recent letter, however, he implored my help. Polycarp remembered that I'm a lawyer, and he wrote that quite a few people in his congregation desperately need the advice of an attorney. They've been plagued with lawsuits and various legal harassments.

“Do you remember Plautius and Sergius?” he asked. “The two brothers who helped us find Victor?”

“How could I forget? I recall every detail of that harrowing time.”

“The authorities are trying to close their blacksmith shop—something about operating without a permit. They
had
a permit, of course.

Only now it's been deemed invalid for some flimsy reason, and the officials refuse to issue a new one. Another church member is in danger of losing his property over a baseless boundary dispute. Another man is facing a criminal trial on a trumped-up charge. And those are just a few examples.

“Polycarp says it's like the persecution has never ended, only the arena has now shifted to the courtroom.”

“That's terrible.” A look of genuine concern lined her face as she asked, “Can you help them?”

“I think so. I'd have to know more about the cases, of course. But there's bound to be something I can do. I can certainly provide some legal research, anyway.”

“Then you should do it.”

“There's more.” Antony hesitated to tell her the next part, but he wanted no secrets between them, and she had a right to know. He took a deep breath before speaking. “They suspect that Tullia is behind all this.”