Samara hurried through the Syrian marketplace. It could be a dangerous area for a woman alone, and she was beginning to regret that she’d been too proud to let Valerius escort her. Lord, just let me get home as quickly as possible and leave these narrow streets behind me.
She pressed her way past vendors who thrust cackling chickens and slippery eels in her face. A half-dozen Syrian men loitered outside a booth selling fabrics, and as she walked by, one of them blocked her path. “Come inside,” he said, “and let us show you our goods.” He seized her arm.
Her disgust and rage turned to surprise when she saw a heavy arm descend on the Syrian’s, breaking the man’s grip on her. She looked up to see Valerius. The Syrian quickly retreated.
She said, “You should know by now that I can take care of myself.”
“I wouldn’t feel right letting you make your way home alone from here.”
She was relieved and thankful, yet was determined not to show it. “I agreed to meet you in two days. Leave me alone now.”
“No, I shall escort you home. I’ll leave you at the corner of your street so I’m not seen by anyone at your father’s house.”
“Where are your bodyguards?”
“I sent them to the palace. Now, it’s you who can protect me.”
They both laughed.
As they crossed a broad boulevard, a pack of children ran up to them, aggressively begging for money. To Samara, the older ones looked about twelve, while some of them didn’t look any more than three or four. One girl was carrying an infant.
Samara took Valerius’ elbow to make him stop and look at them as she gave them a few coins. The children were dirty and ragged. Some of them had dark rings drawn in charcoal around their eyes.
Valerius told the children, “Go, now. You’ve gotten all you shall from us. Go!” They quickly melted into the crowd.
Samara motioned Valerius to a street-bench. “Sit with me, Roman, so we can talk about what you’ve just seen.”
She said, “These children are a consequence of your occupation here, Sir Roman. They’re Mithra babies. Did you notice the dark charcoal rings around their eyes, the Mithra amulets around their necks and the beads around their upper arms?”
“I know about these types of street children,” said Valerius.
“Well, then you also know that in the Mithra temples all over your Empire, pitiful people go to chant and kneel before pictures of Mithra as he slays the bull. They give sacrifices to him, thinking he’s their savior. Almost all the men of the Mithra temples are Roman soldiers, as you know. Desperate women flock to the temples, under the spell of the chance for some affection, and perhaps a few shekels of support, from your legionaries.”
Samara’s anger and sorrow flung her words at Valerius like stones from a catapult. All he could do was nod.
“Real romance is rare, and marriage for them is non-existent. Those women are lucky if they’re kept as mistresses. However, when they conceive, if they don’t have abortions, they, because of the demands put on them, usually abandon their children to the streets. Legionaries almost never offer them any support. And these are the legionaries’ own children!”
She could see that Valerius wished he were somewhere else, but she couldn’t stop.
“Many of those legionaries have wives and children back home. The women who take up with them hope they can be seductive enough to win them away from their families. Some women who aren’t willing to prostitute themselves are drugged with potions that numb the will. These drugs are part of an accepted temple ritual used on recalcitrant women. They often become so drug-addled that they forget who they are.
“So, wise Valerius, do you see why there are so many homeless children flocking through the streets? What do you suppose is going to become of them? How do you intend to help them? It’s obvious you haven’t done much so far.”
“We have orphanages,” Valerius said, “but they’re too crowded and have little money to operate.” He was clearly embarrassed.
She said, “You Romans spread the idea that pleasure is all there is to life, and outcast children like these are the result. You have wreaked such havoc amongst peaceful people here, and you don’t even realize it! I can’t say that I blame the rebels for trying to get rid of you.”
His eyebrows went up. “You don’t blame them? Are you actively supporting them? Are you one of them? Because what you did in the Temple of Jupiter seemed to me to be more than the act of a disgruntled merchant.”
“Believe what you like. I’m no Zealot.”
“You may have to prove it to me some day.”
“Don’t change the subject. Tell me, Valerius, don’t you Romans respect women at all? Do Roman men court their women?”
“Court them? What do you mean, exactly?” She was glad she could distract him so easily from her indiscreet comment about the rebels.
“Court them! Try to earn their affection. Show respect for them. Give them a pleasant time.”
“Well, as far as I know, some of our men do so. I myself did, even though my marriage was arranged by my family. I thought it would be the right thing to do to court my wife before we married. She seemed to enjoy it, yet I was told I was unusual. Most Roman men reserve their courting behavior for women outside their marriages.”
“So.” Again she felt her anger rising hot inside her. “You’re telling me that you yourself are married – and that Roman men are only romantic about adultery.”
“No, no. That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this, Sir Roman: to me, to any decent woman, adultery is not romantic.” She glared at him and stood to leave.
He grasped her hand, and his touch threw another shock through her. He pleaded, “You don’t understand me. I’m not in favor of adultery. I don’t practice it. I don’t have a wife. She divorced me.”
She withdrew her hand and looked at him scornfully. “Divorced you, did she? You must be a real prize.”
“Like I told you, it was an arranged marriage. Roman marriages among the high-born are arranged, often at birth. They’re designed to further business dealings between families.”
She sighed and sat down. “Not so different from the Hebrew way. What was her name?”
“Thalia. She was a normal Roman aristocratic girl. She was twenty and very determined to have what Roman women want. Status. Luxury. We were never close.”
“Was she pretty?”
“I suppose so. Yet she didn’t have that inner fire that makes true beauty.” He gave Samara a long look. “The fire that burns so brightly in you.”
She felt her face flushing. She couldn’t let this Roman’s flattery get to her.
“Thalia would have been content to play wife and stay in the house while I hobnobbed with Senators or whatever. But I was a soldier, not an average aristocrat. My life was at the Dacian front. I would only be in Rome a few weeks before I left again for months at a time. I’m only grateful that before she bore any children, her father ordered her to divorce me.”
“Why?”
“He had a better candidate for her and for his family. A stable official, well born, rich, one who stayed in Rome all the time. As of now, she’s borne him four sons. Everyone in her family is ecstatic with her for that accomplishment.”
“She’s been serviceable,” said Samara ironically.
“You could say so,” he said. “Some people take quite naturally to this type of marriage. I’ve not heard of any people, any country in the world, without arranged marriages.”
“I know. The men everywhere think they have to be in control. As you know, bound by our customs, my father is preparing to marry me off. The man is named Hod ben Omri.”
“And when are you going to marry this Hod?”
She laughed. “Never, I wish. Probably soon. I was supposed to meet with him at my father’s house yesterday – ‘get to know him,’ as my father put it. I went out early and made sure he was gone before I returned. My father is determined to marry me to the man. If I refuse, I’ll be my father’s housekeeper. Of course, I’ll no longer be allowed to work in our family business. As for my poor father, he has no idea what a wicked woman I am.”
“You’re not wicked. What do you mean?”
She felt a surge in her heart, and the words came tumbling out: “I must be wicked if I’m thinking about being with you.”
His jaw dropped.
She leaned towards him. “It’s just that you’re not a Hebrew. It’s wicked for me to have any interest in a man who is not a Hebrew. Don’t you understand?”
She examined his face. He looked fascinated, but she didn’t know what he was really feeling.
She went on, “I’m also wicked by their standards because I was once engaged to a rabbi’s son, and the engagement ended badly.”
“What happened?” he asked.
The question agitated and dismayed her. How could she tell him about her fiancé Caleb without him realizing that Caleb was the so-called terrorist arrested by the Romans ten years ago? “Let us not discuss that just now. Suffice it to say that I’m not a wife, nor am I a widow.”
Valerius exhaled. “I’m relieved. I’ve had a wife, you’ve had a fiancé. You and I are not that far apart.”
She shook her head vehemently. “You’re wrong! We’re very far apart. Now I must go. I have inventory to do, because tomorrow my father and cousin and I are going to the Egyptian Market. I shall see you at our appointed meeting in two days about an expedition to Africa.”
She rose, nodded stiffly, and strode away, little concerned that the streets were rough and she was alone. Again, her pride was more important to her than her safety.
She stole a glance behind her, and sure enough, he was still following her.
He stayed behind her until she reached her home and he saw her slip inside the street-gate safely.