The Thief (24 page)

He ignored her, both hands landing on her shoulders. “I’m giving you a choice. You don’t have to—”

“A choice?” She shrugged off his hands. “You think I have a choice?” Between Gilad, Gestas, and this centurion, she had no
choice at all. She launched herself at him. Her fists battered at his chest, his freckled arms. “I don’t have a choice.”

Longinus didn’t flinch, didn’t protect himself.

She hit higher, her feeble blows landing on his shoulders. “I either keep—” She caught herself.
Stealing, under the thumb of Gestas and blackmailed by Gilad.
“Or become your mistress.” She hit higher, blows buffeting his face.

He ducked his head to avoid her flying hands. “Nissa, not my mistress.”

Not his mistress? What else could she be? She pounded on his chest. It wasn’t fair. He was too strong. They were all stronger than her.

“Nissa, stop. I’m not asking you to be my mistress.” He caught her flying hands in his. “I’m asking you to be my wife.”

She jerked back.
His wife? The wife of a Roman centurion?
Looking up into his eyes, she saw something in them . . . Was it hope? Or surprise at what he’d just said? The answer to all her problems stood in front of her, red hair in wild spikes, blue eyes guarded. Waiting. Cedron called him their enemy, but was he? What kind of man was willing to marry a woman like her? A woman he thought was a prostitute?

“Why would you want to marry me?”

He looked away, then dropped her hands and stepped back. “I know I’m older than you, but when I’ve finished my service . . .”

She folded her arms over her chest. He hadn’t answered her question.

“. . . I’ll have land. Just ten more years.” His gaze went to the smoking fire pit, her sandals, everywhere but her face.

She chewed on her lip and watched him until he finally looked at her.

“I can take care of you, Nissa. You never have to go back there.” He swallowed like he had a lump of dry bread in his throat.

He was right. He could take care of her. Marriage. Safety for
her and Cedron. Gilad would have no claim against her. Gestas wouldn’t threaten her again, not as the wife of a Roman centurion. And with a centurion’s pay, they’d never want for food or shelter. Cedron would object—of course he would—but her father wouldn’t. A few pieces of silver would buy his blessing.

Take it. Say yes.
The dark voice spoke so strongly she almost jumped.

She couldn’t think. Not with those blue eyes staring at her, not with the voice in her head clamoring to be heard.

Amit brayed from the lean-to.

Nissa stumbled to the corner of the house and scooped up a cracked water jar. “I need water . . . I need to think.” She rushed toward the gate.

Longinus stopped her with a hand on her elbow. “I’ll wait.”

Her throat closed, and she nodded, then slipped through the gate and into the busy midday street. She ran, the jar bumping against her side, all the way back to Siloam. She staggered up the steps, set the jar on the platform, and waded in.

Marry a Roman? The centurion who had grabbed her in the marketplace, who hunted her still? She ducked under. Cold silence enveloped her as the water closed over her head.
He’s the answer to all my problems.
No more stealing. No more fear.

She would be a good wife to him. He’d never have to know what she had been. She’d keep her secret. She’d marry the man who had saved her and Cedron. The man who was undaunted by her temper or sharp tongue. The man strong enough to protect her, but who’d never lifted a hand against her. A good man.

She came up, gasping for air.

Nissa waded out of the pool and filled her jar. Could she lie to him forever? Have his children, grow old with him, and keep this lie wedged between them? She was already a thief and a murderer. If she married this good man, this man who wanted to help her, could she live with herself?

She dragged her feet down the steps and up the street. She stopped at the doorway where Gestas had threatened her and
kicked at the broken shards of pottery on the ground. She was broken. Worthless.

Why would Longinus want her? He couldn’t even answer that question.

She plodded past the brothels, past the taverns. When she’d watched the priest die in front of her, she’d thought she’d plumbed the depths of disgrace. She’d thought she could go no lower. But she could. If she agreed to marry Longinus, she’d be so deep in the darkness that she’d never see light again.

She reached her home and paused outside the gate. Could she sink that low? She pushed the gate open.

Longinus sat on the stool in front of the fire, now stoked and crackling. His elbows rested on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. He jumped to his feet as she entered. His bearing, always so sure, was full of uncertainty.

Nissa set the water jar beside the house. Longinus didn’t speak, and she was glad. Whatever he said, it wouldn’t change her mind, but it might make what she had to say harder.

She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. She had to make him leave and never come back. He deserved nothing less, and so much more than her.

She stood before him, her eyes on his freckled feet. “Get out.”

He sucked in a breath like he’d been hit.

She looked up at his stricken face and spit out the words, fast and cruel. “I could never marry you.”

His face showed confusion. “You’d rather keep working there?” He motioned in the direction of the brothels.

She swallowed hard. If that’s what it took to get him to leave. It was better than the truth. “Yes.” She looked him in the eye. He had to believe her. “I’d rather be a whore than your wife.” She almost choked on the words.

His jaw hardened, and his body tensed. His throat worked convulsively.

She dropped her gaze to his feet, unable to witness the pain
in his face. She was just what her Abba had always called her: worthless. She deserved his hatred, his contempt, and nothing more.

He walked stiffly across the courtyard, his back as straight as a spear, and wrenched open the gate. He didn’t turn, but his last words cut like a knife to her heart. “I just wanted to help you, Nissa.”

He shut the gate with a soft thud and was gone, the tap of his sandals fading into the noise of the street.

Nissa sank to the ground, burying her face in her knees.
No one can help me now.

LONGINUS BARGED THROUGH
the streets, scarcely seeing the midmorning crowds scatter before him, barely feeling shoulders slap against him when a merchant or pilgrim failed to get out of his way fast enough. He saw only Nissa’s face, her look of loathing, like he was a leper. A fierce ache twisted through his gut.

What had he been thinking, asking her to marry him? He’d been as surprised as she to hear those words come from his mouth. But while he’d waited for her to come back from Siloam, he’d almost convinced himself that it would work. She was a handful, but she’d never be dull. They could go to Gaul together, raise a family. And he had
some
kind of feelings for her. By Jupiter, he’d wasted the past month trying not to think about her! Wasted effort for a woman who would rather sell her body than marry him.

I’m pathetic, an idiot. Thank the gods she said no.

Longinus cursed through the lower city, past the Pool of Siloam, and up the Stepped Street.
Remember who you are—and who your father was.
His allegiance was to Caesar. Not to Nissa. Not to a Samaritan scholar or a Jewish healer. It was time to win the wager with Silvanus and to get out of this dung heap of a city and far away from Nissa.

Part Three

The Passover

Chapter 21

L
ONGINUS CAUGHT UP
with Marcellus as the young legionary left the carcer. “Who’s guarding the Samaritan?” he said in Aramaic. They had to be careful. Silvanus had eyes and ears all over camp.

“Petras. Don’t worry, we can trust him.” Marcellus answered him in the same language but more fluently, no doubt from the hours he’d spent playing tabulah with his prisoner. He stopped walking and surveyed Longinus from the top of his unkempt hair to the hem of his dingy tunic. “You look terrible.”

Longinus grunted and ran a hand over his stubbled chin. As winter had warmed into spring, he had driven his men hard and himself harder, falling into bed each night aching with exhaustion. He’d lost weight, lost sleep, and lost more than a few practice bouts to Cornelius, but throbbing joints and aching muscles were nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He felt as though someone had cut out his heart with a dull sword.

He’d done his duty. Kept his men miserable with extra training and drills, sent reports to Caesarea, and ensured that not a whisper of revolution drifted through the city without his knowledge. He’d looked for the thieves with every spare moment. Even rounded up and questioned the beggars at the temple.

He had found nothing but dead ends—with the thieves, with Stephen, and with his search for the Jewish troublemaker. And no matter how hard he drove himself, he couldn’t expel
thoughts of Nissa. He looked for her every time he rode through the city, both hoping and dreading that he might catch a glimpse of her small form.

Longinus eyed the gate where Cornelius stood guard. Next week, Pilate and the rest of the legion would return for the Passover. His back was against the wall. “We can’t keep Stephen much longer.”

Marcellus crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “You can’t crucify him.”

“What else can I do? If I let him go and Silvanus finds out, he’ll tell Pilate. You know what they’ll do to me.”

“What about Cedron?”

“Cedron.” Longinus snorted. He’d kept a careful eye on Nissa’s worthless brother. The man spent more time with his bunch of would-be revolutionaries than he did asking questions about the thieves. As if the ragtag bunch of Zealots were any threat to Rome. “He couldn’t find a wolf in a sheepfold.”

Marcellus let out a long breath. “Release him, today, before it’s too late.”

“It’s already too late.”

“I’ve kept it quiet. No one will talk.”

Longinus ground his teeth together. A year ago, he’d relished the thought of crucifying Stephen. Three months ago, when he’d found him at the Pharisee’s house, he would have tied the crossbeam on himself. But now? Marcellus was right. He couldn’t order him crucified, not for defending a woman. And the bargain with Cedron had failed miserably, just like everything else he’d done in Jerusalem.

He left Marcellus outside the latrine and went to the stable for Ferox. It was time to report to the Sanhedrin, as he had each week for the past two months. He’d rather muck out the stable with his own mess kit.

He rode slowly to the temple, entered the Court of the Gentiles, and dismounted. He shouldered his way past the money-changing booths and the merchants selling lambs and
pigeons. His breath caught as a slight woman in a soft green tunic and nut-brown hair darted in front of him. She turned, but her lips weren’t soft and full and her eyes were green instead of inky black. He growled under his breath and pushed past her.

Don’t think of her.

But he did. Every day. Every hour. And on some days, it seemed like every minute. Each time, his stomach twisted in sick knots. Since he’d carried her in his arms, felt her small body lean against his in what only could have been trust, he’d felt a connection with her, as strong as if they were bound together. He’d break it if he could; he just didn’t know how.

What was she doing now? How many filthy men had she entertained since his outrageous proposal weeks ago? More than once, he’d found himself riding Ferox through the squalid streets outside the brothels, loathing both her choice and his inability to forget her.

His hands tightened on his vitis, and he pushed a slow-moving pilgrim aside. He was a Roman—a centurion, by the gods. Women lined up to be with him. She was plain, poor, worthless. He had offered her all he had, and she’d thrown it in his face.

Face it, centurion. She’d rather be a whore than marry you. Forget her.