“And you, of course, are right?” Gaius’s tone was belligerent.
Father Petros shook his head. “I am only a poor minister to such children as seek my counsel. The only Son of God was crucified and returned from the dead to save us; that is all I need to know. Those who believe in Him will live eternally in glory.”
It was the usual childish oriental legend, Gaius thought, remembering what he had heard about the cult in Rome. He supposed he could see why the story appealed to slaves and even a few women of good family. Suddenly it occurred to him that this fellow’s ramblings might interest Julia, or at least give her something to think about. He set down his cup.
“I thank you for your wine, Father, and for your story,” he said. “May my wife call upon you? She is devastated with grief for our daughter.”
“She will be welcome whenever she comes,” Father Petros replied graciously. “I am only sorry I have not convinced you. I haven’t, have I?”
“I’m afraid not.” Gaius was a little disarmed by the man’s regret.
“I am not much of a preacher,” said Father Petros, looking somewhat crestfallen. “I wish Father Joseph were here; I am sure he could convince you.”
Gaius thought it highly unlikely, but he smiled politely. As he turned to go, there was a knock at the door.
“Ah, Senara? Do come in,” the hermit said.
“I see you have someone with you,” a girl’s voice replied. “I’ll come another time, if I may.”
“It’s all right, I’m just leaving.” Gaius pushed aside the flap of leather that covered the door. Before him was one of the prettiest young girls he had seen at least since his first sight of Eilan, so long ago. But of course he too had been very young then. She was about fifteen, he thought, with hair the color of copper filings in a blacksmith’s fire and eyes very blue, dressed in an undyed linen gown.
Then he looked at her again and realized where he had seen her before. Despite the Celtic coloring, there was a distinct look of his father’s old secretary Valerius in the line of her nose and jaw. That would explain her knowledge of Latin.
It was not until he was untying his horse that he realized he could have asked—what was it the hermit had called her, Senara?—how he might arrange a meeting with Eilan. But by that time the doorflap had closed behind her, and one of the few things he knew about women—not that he knew that much, and since his marriage he felt he knew even less—was that it was never wise to ask one woman about another.
It was well past sunset by the time Gaius reached the villa, but Julia’s greeting, if subdued, was friendly. Licinius was already awaiting them in the dining room.
Macellia and Tertia were playing with a toy chariot on the veranda; they had dressed Julia’s pet monkey in baby clothes, and were trying to stuff it into the chariot. He rescued the little animal and handed it to Julia. Sometimes he wondered how three small girls and one woman, with only seven servants, could make so much chaos in one house.
The little girls screamed, “Papa! Papa!” and Quartilla came running to join them. Gaius hugged them all round, called for Lydia to take charge of them, then went into the dining room with Julia.
She still had the monkey on her shoulder; it was about the size of a baby, and for some reason, seeing it dressed in baby clothes annoyed him. He couldn’t imagine what Julia wanted with the creature; it was a hot-weather animal and had to be cosseted as if it really were a child. Of all places to keep such a pet, Britain was certainly the worst; even in summer, he supposed, it was too cold for the little animal. “I wish you’d get rid of that wretched beast,” he snapped irritably as they sat down to the meal.
Her eyes watered. “Secunda was so fond of it,” she whispered.
The comment made him wonder, not for the first time, if Julia had lost her mind. Secunda had been six years old when she died, and he didn’t think she had ever paid the slightest attention to the monkey. Still, if it pleased Julia to think so…Seeing Licinius’s warning glance from across the table, he sighed and abandoned the subject.