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“The Flame Within” 
Release date:  Dec. 2002

Ancient Rome--64 a.d. . .
Moriah never has felt as though she belongs. Not to decadent Rome, from which she's been sheltered most of her life, and not to the wealthy House of Dinoculus. With the exception of her cousin, a centurion in the Roman legion, those she feels closest to are slaves. Yet her loyal Jewish maidservant, Deborah, confuses Moriah with her sudden distance. And Aidan, the handsome slave from Britain, confuses her heart, causing her to feel things she knows she shouldn't.
Aidan has long adored the beautiful Moriah from afar but held his tongue, realizing a patrician's daughter can have little to do with a slave. When Moriah learns of Aidan's faith, she's alarmed. She wonders if the terrible rumors about the people who call themselves Christians are true, and realizes Aidan could be in peril if his secret is discovered. A disquieting secret about her own life is revealed, and Moriah, though shaken, is determined to uncover the truth--which she's told will lead to her destiny. At every turn, danger lurks, and Aidan and Moriah encounter obstacles that could destroy them.
Will the flame within lead them together toward the path of light? Or will one man's dark hatred set afire their every dream?

"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."
  -- (Psalm 32:7)

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  Heartsong

prologue

41 a.d.

The slight figure escaped through Rome’s meandering streets, a wrapped bundle clutched against her wool tunic. Hearing the steady approach of hobnailed sandals, she darted into a side street and pressed her back against the cool marble of a temple.

            Sweat beaded her forehead while she waited for the soldiers to pass. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and her chest heaved with the tortured breaths she barely contained. After agonizing minutes, the sounds of marching trailed into the distance. Night insects again took up their incessant chirps.

            She darted away from the wall, her bare feet stinging as they slapped the jagged flagstones. At another narrow road, she turned a corner and rushed up a short flight of stone stairs, through an archway, and across the main street known as Via Appia to yet another side street. The house of Dinoculus could not be much farther. Surely she would find it before anyone could stop her!

            Nighttime was her ally, its thick darkness enfolding her in a shielding cloak. Yet the sliver of moon etched against the sky reminded her of something sharp and ominous—not unlike the shape of a weapon the gladiators used in the arena during the games.

            She shivered and drew the bundle closer. Her weary legs moved with more speed, though her muscles throbbed and her feet bled. In her haste, she had left her sandals behind.

            At last she reached a set of stone stairs cut into the ground. They led up a steep incline to an imposing building—a symbolic structure revealing the wealth and stature of the family who resided there. She hurried up the hill but tripped on a step. Alarmed, she flung out her hand to break her fall, twisting her body around to protect the bundle. She lay still for a moment, breathing hard, heart racing. Ignoring the stabbing pain in her side, she forced herself to rise and resume her climb.

            At the top, a burly servant appeared out of nowhere and barred her way to the entrance of the house. Dancing light from a torch anchored high on the rock wall cast his face into eerie shadow. “Why have you come? What business have you at this late hour?” He reached for his curved scythe hanging from a wrapped belt at his waist and gripped the handle in a most threatening manner.

            “Oh, please,” she gasped, wresting the hood of a man’s cloak from her head. “I must speak to your mistress! Have mercy!”

            A scowl covered his features. From beneath his jeweled turban, he looked at her with black bottomless eyes. His frightening gaze dropped to the wrapped bundle clutched to her chest, and his bushy brows drew down farther.

            The girl swallowed, seeing she was about to be denied entrance. “I beg you, if you will only tell your mistress that Helena has sent me. . . .”

            He stood silent as though considering. “Wait,” he commanded before turning away.

            She exhaled a shaky breath of relief at his curt order. She was not being refused. If she had been, she had no idea where she would have gone. Certainly not back to the insulae belonging to former tribune Rexus Caspus. It was no longer safe at the tenement.

            An eternity seemed to pass while she waited, fearful, her gaze repeatedly going to the dark street with every noise she heard. If her petition were denied. . .then surely death would be her reward.

one

Twenty-three years later

Lost in thought, Moriah strode along the corridor that surrounded the peristylium, allowing her fingers to brush the marble columns along its open sides. She approached the center of the roofless courtyard and sank to one of the stone benches. A two-tiered fountain bearing the sea god Neptune riding seven golden dolphins stood nearby.

            Leaning closer to it, Moriah trailed her fingers through the cool water and glanced at the lotus blossoms floating atop the surface. Beyond the open arched door at the rear of the house, a more elaborate garden had been added at her mother’s request, and Moriah lifted her gaze to its entrance. There, thick shrubs, stately trees, and myriad flowers saturated the sun-drenched outdoors with color and greenery. Here in the courtyard, plants also grew in abundance, complementing the frescos of outdoor scenes along the walls. From the branches of a fig tree, a dove cooed.

            Moriah sighed. Why was she not happy? She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Rome, and though her father held no place on the senate as Flavia’s father did, he was a well-respected author of highly acclaimed books. Even the emperor was said to enjoy her father’s writings.

            Noticing that the ends of her dark hair now brushed the ground, Moriah straightened. She flicked back her one, ropelike braid of thin braids intertwined with the pearls Sahara had woven into the strands, so that it again hung down her back and to her hips. It confused her that Flavia Valerius Decima, a family friend whom she’d known since childhood, seemed so much happier all the time.

            Brow wrinkled in reflection, Moriah watched a red-and-blue butterfly, its wings as beautiful as rare jewels, land on a nearby grapevine. Perhaps “happy” was not the word she sought—though Flavia most assuredly possessed an insatiable desire to enjoy life to its fullest.

            “Tell me, Butterfly,” Moriah lamented. “Why can I not be more like Flavia? Why am I so dissatisfied with life and what it has to offer?”

            The lovely winged being flitted away through the garden door as though it did not care to listen to her self-pity another moment. Moriah could hardly blame the creature.

            With an impatient sigh, she traced the circular pattern of the mosaic tiles with the toe of one sandal. Perhaps she should go to the games at the amphitheater with Flavia one time—merely to see what all the excitement was about. Her friend constantly tried to persuade her to attend them. Flavia always seemed to be talking about this gladiator or that one, always in love with the hero of the day, the one with the most kills to his credit.

            Moriah shivered though the flower-scented breeze flowing throughout the courtyard was warm. The games had long been the way of Rome’s entertainment, and the chariot races at Circus Maximus were no better. It seemed the people never tired of watching endless parades of criminals, gladiators, and charioteers spill their blood for Rome’s pleasure in gruesome feats of which Flavia had excitedly informed her friend.

            Moriah closed her eyes at the memory. No. She would not go to the games. She could not fathom how watching someone die could be pleasurable, though she would never divulge such an admission to Flavia. The woman already thought Moriah too naive, and Moriah supposed she was right.

            Moriah seldom left her father’s house. When she did, it was to journey to the market with her maid or to the forum with Flavia. As a child, she also had visited the villa in the country with her parents, though such outings were now rare. Mother had been ill for years and required her daughter to stay close by, despite the fact that she did have personal servants to attend her. Surprisingly, Father allowed it, though Moriah was two years past the age limit for being wed. Most Romans were fined if they were not married by the age of twenty, but Moriah knew that her father had used his influence with Senator Valerius so that any fee was waived.

            Moriah further pondered her existence. She supposed she did prefer her life, even if it was dull compared to Flavia’s reckless mode of living. At least it was safe within these high walls, and she did not have to concern herself that Father might accept, on her behalf, any unwanted offers of marriage to the crude men she’d met at the forum. Such as the man Flavia had introduced her to last week.

            At the memory, Moriah again shivered.

            As if thoughts of her friend conjured her up, Flavia breezed through the curtain hanging over the arched portal and into the courtyard. “Greetings, Moriah.”

            “Flavia!” Moriah rose from the bench. Flustered, feeling as if the woman had actually known what was running through her mind, she spoke. “Why are you here?”

            “Do I need an excuse to visit?” The blond pouted. “Moreover, is that any way to greet a friend?”

            “No—no, of course not,” Moriah said. Flavia always did have the ability to make Moriah feel infantile with a few words or a look. “My apologies.”

            “Never mind. I have fantastic news. Your father has given permission for you to attend the games!”

            “The games?” Moriah repeated, horrified. She slowly sank back onto the marble bench. Was it coincidence she’d been thinking about Rome’s entertainment only moments ago? Or a terrible omen? “No. . .” Her response came out in a whisper.

            “Yes—is it not exciting?” Flavia took a place beside her, seeming oblivious to Moriah’s distress. “Now that your mother is faring well, your father told me it is time to introduce you to the world of Rome.” She gave a bright laugh, clearly enjoying Moriah’s stunned reaction.

            Moriah blinked, uncertain how to respond. She saw no way to escape the situation, since her father had declared it and she was duty bound to abide by his wishes. Yet there must be some means to refuse the invitation without risking his ire.

            “Would you care for refreshment?” she offered weakly when she became aware of Flavia’s fixed gaze.

            The blond gave a disinterested toss of her head. “I prefer stronger wine than what you have. Besides, I cannot stay. I am traveling to the ludus for a private showing. . . . Would you care to come with me, Moriah?” she added sweetly, a wicked gleam lighting her eye. “I am certain it can be arranged.”

            “No. Perhaps another time,” Moriah added when her friend’s thin brow arched. The words sounded weak, a ploy to change the subject, and Flavia likely knew it. Moriah had no desire to accompany her to the training camp of the gladiators—now or at any time in the future. The school was open to visits from fans and citizens who had money and power, as Flavia did. With her, nothing proved impossible.

            At twenty-five, Flavia was twice divorced and once widowed. She had long worshiped at the temple of Venus, goddess of physical love and beauty, and was involved in numerous liaisons—some with the gladiators, who were given a pregame feast on the night before their death matches. Flavia often insisted that Moriah accompany her, but Moriah offered her excuses each time, as she did for all the other questionable events to which Flavia invited her.

            “Hmmm. Well, if you are certain.” Flavia gave a careless shrug. Catching sight of the handsome slave Aidan coming toward them with a platter in his hands, she rose from the bench and cast a knowing look at Moriah. “Then, too, if I had such a slave attending my needs, I would rarely leave my father’s estate.”

            Annoyed, Moriah watched Flavia study Aidan’s muscular arms and legs—displayed to perfection by the short white tunic he wore—then lift her gaze to his broad shoulders and deep chest. A tooled leather-and-studded-brass belt adorned his trim waist, and a silver slave bracelet encircled his upper arm.

            Knowing Flavia as well as she did, Moriah could almost hear the thoughts revolving inside her head: How had one such as he escaped being sold as a gladiator? He has the face of Apollo and the body of Mars. What I wouldn’t give to spend an afternoon with him. . . .

            At Flavia’s close scrutiny, Moriah felt herself redden, as Aidan was presently doing. Flavia let out an incredulous laugh.

            “A man who blushes—what an amusing rarity. I may have to buy him from you, Moriah. He piques my interest.” She ran her pale ringed hand lightly over the front of his tunic.

            “He’s not for sale!” Moriah blurted. Seeing Flavia’s look of shocked surprise at her uncharacteristic outburst, she added, “What I meant to say is, he’s not mine. He is Father’s slave, as are most of the slaves in this household. You would have to consult him, and I doubt Father would part with Aidan. He has served him well for many years.”

            “Hmmm. A pity,” Flavia murmured thoughtfully, lowering her hand to her side and looking intently into his eyes, which stared at the fountain beyond her. She turned with a shrug. “I must be going. Five days and the games begin. I will send my litter for you one hour after sunup.”

            Moriah gave a distracted nod, and Flavia disappeared through the curtain. Something about the expression that had been in her eyes troubled Moriah. What was Flavia planning? Would she use the fact that their fathers were best friends to her advantage and try to purchase Aidan by asking her father to intervene? Knowing Flavia as well as she did, Moriah realized her purposes in securing him would be for her own pleasures.

            At the thought, a hot shaft of pain burned through her heart. Moriah looked up at Aidan. He stood, holding a platter with a silver goblet and narrow-necked pitcher.

            “My lady.” His deep voice warmed Moriah and sent shivers down her spine at the same time. “Deborah asked that I see to your refreshment and thought you would care for something to drink.”

            “Yes, please.” Moriah studied him while he set the platter on the bench and poured honeyed water into the goblet. Her mouth was dry but not from thirst. Her mind clouded as it often did from his nearness, and she did not even think to ask why Deborah was not attending her.

            Flavia’s earlier interest in Aidan caused Moriah to look anew at his features—appearing as though they’d been sculpted from marble. His deep blue eyes seemed to hold hidden secrets, and his hair of burnished gold was not cropped short like that of the men of Rome but rather grew to his shoulders. He had the body of an athlete—lithe, muscular, strong—and curiosity overcame her usual shyness for a moment.

            “Aidan, how came you to be in my father’s household?”

            He looked surprised by the question. After handing her the goblet, he stared past her, focusing on a nearby fluted white column twined with ivy. “The servant in charge of the slaves purchased me nine years ago from the slave auction, intending to use my services for the master in equestrian forms. When the master had the accident and could no longer sit a horse. . .” He paused, as if sensing Moriah’s discomfort over her father’s crippled state. “I was made into a house servant.”

            Moriah took a sip from her goblet while studying him. She wished the rule her father had issued for his household—stating a slave could not look into his master’s or mistress’s eyes—had been banned. She did not consider it a form of disrespect as he so obviously did. How she longed for Aidan to look at her! To truly look at her. . .

            Embarrassed by her thoughts, she lowered her gaze. “You may go.”

            “My lady.” He bowed in deference.

            Moriah watched him walk away, his stride like that of a lion. Regal, assured, with an air of quiet grace. Who was Aidan? He was different from any slave Moriah knew. Strange. He had been in this household a long time, and only in recent years had she begun to take notice of him. Was it because she was now a young woman and looked at everything with eyes of love?

            Irritated with the endless stream of unanswered questions her mind had formed this day, Moriah set her goblet down with a bang and stood to her feet. Restless, she moved through the garden door and began to stroll along one of the paths, allowing the sun to warm her shoulders.

            Once girlhood left and her body took on a womanly form, Moriah had received offers from the men she met at the forum. Yet they were frequently crude and deserved no serious consideration. Neither did Moriah engage in tawdry affairs, so common among the people of Rome. It was odd. She was born a citizen yet despised the wickedness of the city, though she’d seen little of its practices. Still, Moriah knew the lewd acts that Flavia had described could in no wise be called love. But surely not everyone in the city was corrupt, frequently traveling from one relationship to another as the butterfly did from flower to flower. There must be someone out there who felt as Moriah did and sought only one person with whom to share his life.

            Yet to this day, no man of Rome had caused Moriah’s heart to pound erratically from his nearness, while at the same time giving her a feeling of comfort in his presence. No man, that is, except for a slave from Britain.

            Was she mad?

            Moriah exhaled a weary breath and stopped to pluck a rose from a nearby trellis. Twirling the velvety petals against her cheek, she returned to the peristylium deep in thought.

***

From the dark recesses of a nearby portal, Aidan stood hidden behind a gathered curtain and watched Moriah, his heart full. The linen material of her ankle-length white stola was draped in elegant folds about her slender form, giving Moriah an added air of grace.

            She had unusual-colored eyes for a Roman; they sparkled as clear and blue as the Mediterranean Sea and held a tinge of violet. Her hair reminded Aidan of the coat of a panther, black and shiny, and her complexion was as fair and smooth as ivory from Ethiopia. Often he witnessed envy in women’s eyes when they looked upon Moriah. Yet her true beauty lay in her innocence, her purity, her sweetness—qualities so seldom seen in Rome. The woman Flavia was also physically lovely, in a harsh way, but could not begin to compare to Moriah. At least not in his estimation.

            Aidan grimaced, his hand flexing against the drape. He strongly suspected that Flavia’s insistence concerning Moriah’s attendance at the games could lead to no good. After the head servant Hermes had accompanied Moriah and Flavia to the forum last week, he’d told Aidan that Servius Antonus—a powerful man in Rome and also one of Flavia’s former lovers—had approached, displaying a strong interest in Moriah. It was said the middle-aged man had an appetite for beautiful virgins.

            Aidan clutched a fistful of the crimson curtain. Yet what could he do? He was a slave, powerless in his role. He could not say or do a thing. . . . No, that was not entirely true. He did have one effective weapon, a weapon he had learned the value of many times.

            Aidan stealthily moved to a small, secluded arbor at the back of the garden against the wall. Kneeling on the ground, he lowered his head to his hands clasped on the stone bench. Often he prayed for Moriah, but never before had he felt the need so strongly, as he did today.

            “Heavenly Father, I ask You to shield my lady and protect her from the evils of this wicked empire,” he whispered. “Help her to stay pure in the midst of such moral decay. I ask that You open her eyes to Your truth, Lord, and open her heart to receive Your Word—”

            A snap cracked the air nearby. Aidan stopped midsentence and hurriedly stood, realizing the danger if someone discovered him praying. Though Roman law did not prohibit Christianity, tensions flared in opposition to it, and each day that passed, the hatred increased. Many considered his faith a form of treason against the empire. In this household, especially, his master thought ill of Christians, and Aidan continually had to guard his tongue.

            He exited the arbor, taking careful note of his surroundings. Everything appeared normal. Likely it had been a squirrel scampering through the bushes or perhaps Moriah’s cat. Yet what if it had not been something so harmless—and bore not four feet, but two? Troubled, Aidan went to seek out his master before Clophelius sent someone to find him.

***

Moriah moved along the colonnaded walkway to the two shallow steps leading into her cubiculum, her sandals clicking on the mosaic tiles. Barely offering a glance around the simple luxury of the quarters that comprised her bedchamber, she moved across the room and pulled aside the crimson drape with an impatient tug. She took the three wide steps to the enclosed terrace—another addition her mother had insisted on for each bedroom, much like their country estate in Capua, with its many balconies.

            Placing one knee on the couch beneath the window, Moriah leaned her forehead against the lattice screen and put up a hand to touch the diagonal strips of wood that covered the opening.

            Rome. Her city. So why did she feel as though she didn’t belong? Had never belonged. Even more peculiar was the sense that she didn’t feel a part of this household, either.

            Moriah exhaled loudly in irritation and lowered her hand, weaving her fingers through the lattices at waist level. Certainly her tumult of emotions left much to be desired this day! Brooding, she threw open the screen and scanned what she could see of the busy streets far below.

            Numerous Corinthian columns and arches decorated the many limestone buildings scattered throughout the Seven Hills of Rome. The carved marble blazed ivory in the noonday sun, which burned against a cloudless sky of pale blue. Bold colored marble ornamented some of the temples with red, yellow, and black, and terra cotta eaves adorned many rooftops.

            In the valley Moriah could see part of the Forum Romanum in the distance, where people strolled to exchange news and gossip. Opposite the capitol, at the end of the road called Via Sacra, the marketplace bustled with activity as storekeepers hawked their wares. Scrolls of books, precious metals, jewelry, silks, wines, leathers, fruits, and more—everything anyone could possibly desire—was found there. Columns of a temple high on the opposite hill gleamed golden in the sunlight, as though promising wealth and good fortune to all who visited. Moriah watched as a group of people, appearing like tiny insects, climbed wide stone stairs to make offerings to their god.

            “My lady?”

            Moriah started at the soft voice. She turned and offered a faint smile to the petite woman who was more sister than servant, though they were not related by blood. Noticing the sleepy look in the sepia-brown eyes, Moriah shook her head. “Deborah,” she chided, “you are weary. You must rest.”

            The Jewess studied Moriah closely. “Perhaps you are the one in need of rest, my lady. You look as though you are under great strain.”

            Miserable, Moriah glanced at the people crowding the streets. “Flavia told me she secured Father’s permission for my attendance to the games. But I do not wish to go! However, if Father says I must, I have no choice in the matter.” Again she whisked her gaze to Deborah’s. “Is that not so?”

            At the hopeful plea in Moriah’s voice, the servant put her dusky arm around Moriah’s shoulders. “Perhaps if I rub scented oil into your temples and sing for you, it would help, my lady?”

            “Yes. Please do. If I can think more clearly, I might be able to establish some method to approach Father and not have him refuse me.”

            Deborah retrieved an alabastron of perfumed oil. She sat on the rose velvet cushion of the narrow couch, instructing Moriah to lay her head in her lap.

            Moriah did so. At once Deborah’s firm yet gentle fingers pressed into her temples, massaging, comforting. The spicy-sweet perfume from Arabia permeated the air, making Moriah wonderfully drowsy.

            Softly Deborah began to sing one of many songs she often did—songs that stemmed from her faith. This one, Moriah noted, was about a young boy named David who fought a giant named Goliath and saved his people from tyranny.

            As Moriah slipped closer into blissful nothingness while listening to Deborah’s melodic voice, her mind envisioned the scene. . .and the face and form of the courageous David took on the image of a male slave from Britain.  

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