The Thief (6 page)

Marcellus had fallen asleep on guard last month in Caesarea. Longinus had assigned the young legionary latrine duty for a year and docked him so much pay he wouldn’t see a denarius before spring. Silvanus wouldn’t be so lenient.

Inside the carcer, narrow stone stairs descended to a dim
lower-level anteroom. Three heavy doors reinforced with iron bars and locks led to three damp, musty cells. Two doors were open, the rooms behind them empty. From the third door, closed and guarded by Cornelius, came shouted curses and the slap of a vitis on flesh. Silvanus.

Maybe he could talk some sense into Silvanus before he got his hands—and his whip—on Marcellus.

Cornelius stepped aside, and Longinus entered the cramped cell, barely big enough for three people. A narrow, barred window let in the weak morning light.

Marcellus lay on the dirt floor, his hands tied, one eye swollen, and blood trickling from his mouth. Silvanus stood over him, his vitis already stained with blood.

Longinus smoothed his face into a mask of indifference. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “Silvanus.”

Silvanus’s breath rasped from his throat. He’d removed his helmet and armor, and his tunic was dark with sweat. “About time you showed up. I suppose you want me to go easy on him again?”

Marcellus was one of Longinus’s men, but Silvanus didn’t care. Longinus shrugged. “If we were in the field, on campaign, I’d execute him myself.”

Marcellus flinched.

Longinus kept his voice even. “But we’re not on campaign. He deserves a good beating. Looks like you’re doing that.” He turned to go.

Silvanus threw down his vitis. “A beating? He’s not getting off so easy. He needs to be taught a lesson. You’re too soft on him—docking his pay, giving him extra duty. A flogging will teach him to be a legionary.”

Longinus inclined his head. “Or kill him. Dead legionaries can’t serve Rome.”

Silvanus kicked Marcellus in the ribs. “If it does, so be it. I’ve already told the prefect.”

Longinus’s gut wrenched. He was too late. A flogging was
standard punishment for falling asleep on duty, and if the prefect had already agreed, it would be done. But Marcellus wouldn’t survive Silvanus.

Longinus took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “You’re right. He needs to be taught a lesson. And I’m the one who should it.”

Silvanus jutted his chin forward. “You’ll do it?”

“He’s one of mine.”

Silvanus’s upper lip curled. “You’ll go easy on him.”

“No.” Longinus looked at the young man lying on the floor. He’d be a bloody mess, but he’d have a chance. “I won’t.”

Silvanus dragged Marcellus up the stairs and out the door. He summoned one of the guards. “Assemble the men.” He kicked Marcellus into the open square and looped his bound arms over a wooden pillar. “Move, and I’ll run my sword through you.” Then, to Longinus, “I’ll get the whip.”

Longinus bent to check that Marcellus’s hands were securely tied. He gripped the young man’s shoulder—hard. “Remember you’re a Roman, not some cowardly Jew.”

Marcellus met his eyes and nodded.

Longinus stepped back, his throat tight.
Hercle, Marcellus. Why did you have to fall asleep?

The Roman Empire was only as strong as its army, and the army was only as strong as its discipline. He’d been beaten himself when he was a new recruit. Beaten for losing his mess kit, for not moving fast enough, for a spot of rust on his armor, but he’d never been flogged. He’d seen it enough to know that the result depended on the man doing the flogging. Someone just a little too good at his job ended up with a dead legionary.

Silvanus reappeared with a
flagrum
. Longinus took it from him, grasping the short leather handle with damp hands. Jagged sheep bones stained with decades of blood weighted the tips of three long leather thongs.

The legion—those who weren’t on leave or on duty—assembled in the open square in silence. There wasn’t a man there who
hadn’t dozed off at least once. The only difference was they hadn’t been caught.

Longinus turned his shoulder to Marcellus. The first few would be the worst. Then, if the gods were merciful, he’d pass out from the pain. Silvanus stood close by, breathing hard. Longinus pulled his arm back and let the whip fly. Marcellus jerked when it hit but didn’t cry out.
Good. Just twenty-nine more.
When he pulled back the whip, it left three bright red stripes on Marcellus’s back.

The second lash drew more blood. By the tenth, Marcellus’s tunic was crimson and hung in torn ribbons. Longinus’s tunic and arms were speckled with blood that flew from the whip.

Silvanus walked among the first few rows of men. If he caught a legionary looking away, he hit him with his vitis.

Longinus concentrated on counting. He wouldn’t do one more than the thirty prescribed lashes, but he had to make each one convincing. Silvanus would know if he was going easy, and so would his men.

At twenty lashes, Marcellus went limp and slumped into the dirt.
At least he’s not feeling them anymore.

At thirty, Longinus threw down the blood-soaked whip. He strode forward, his gut clenched tight. He stepped around the post and pulled out his dagger. After cutting the ropes on Marcellus’s limp hands, he pointed to two legionaries in the front line. “Get him to the hospital tent.”

Longinus stalked down the Via Praetoria, his breakfast roiling in his gut. Silvanus couldn’t fault him. The men respected him.

Marcellus still might die.
I gave him a chance. I did what I could.

Suffering and death were the way of life for a Roman legionary, but since he’d watched Scipio bleed to death in Caesarea, a specter had haunted his days and nights. Death. An invincible enemy that stalked closer each day. He’d felt the pain of watching young men die in battle, of seeing his friends cut down before
him. He’d been surrounded by death for fifteen years, but he’d never feared it. Until now.

He ducked behind an empty tent and retched up the remains of his breakfast. Wiping his sleeve over his mouth, Longinus closed his eyes, trying to blot out the memory of the young legionary’s slack face. Marcellus might live; he prayed to the gods he would. But in the end—whether in Judea, Rome, or a quiet farm in Gaul—death would defeat them all.

Chapter 5

N
ISSA WAS SILENT
as she led Cedron through the streets in the early-morning light. She had woken with a knot in her stomach as the blasts of the silver trumpets rang out over the city, announcing the last day of the Feast of Tabernacles, a joyful feast of water and light. But not for her family. Almost two weeks of surviving on Cedron’s daily handful of coins had left her stomach empty and Cedron’s cheeks hollow.

Humiliation ate at her like a worm at a fig. After her father took the shekel, she’d begged Gilad for more time to pay the rent. He hadn’t flirted—and he surely hadn’t talked of marriage—but he’d agreed not to throw her family out of their home. “As the Most High is merciful, so am I,” he’d announced. “But there is a limit to my mercy.” If she didn’t have the full rent by tomorrow, the day after Tabernacles, they would be sleeping in the street by nightfall.

The din of clattering hooves and braying donkeys echoed off the stone walls. She took a deep breath, tasting the dust and promise of heat. Where would they be after tomorrow? They had no one to turn to in the city. Her parents had lost their friends when they’d succumbed to gambling and wine. Her father’s family was long buried. Her mother’s people in Bethany hadn’t spoken to them in years.

Cedron persevered in prayer each day. “
The Lord is my strength and my shield,
” he sang. “
My heart trusts in him and I am helped.
”

But Nissa knew better.

She guided Cedron past the Pool of Siloam, rounded a corner, and arrived at the doors of the synagogue where Cedron said the morning Shema. It was crowded with pilgrims, already singing songs of thanksgiving. Women and children lined the walls, waiting to hear the word of the Almighty. She had been like that once.

As a child, she had memorized the words of the Tehillim, the songs of praise and thanksgiving. The songs had filled her with joy, and the praise of the Lord had filled her with peace. But no more.

She pushed through the crowd, ignoring grunts of displeasure from shabbily dressed men. When Cedron was positioned near the front, she left him and joined the women.
Why should I praise the one who abandoned me? And what is there to be thankful for?

She’d been hopeful when the Feast of Tabernacles began. For ten days, the city was filled with pilgrims. At night, they lived in tents in the olive groves and vineyards outside the city. Each morning, the high priest, followed by the people, fetched water from the Pool of Siloam, carrying it in a golden pitcher to the altar of the temple. Surely, with all the feasting and goodwill, she would find work.

She’d walked the streets of the upper city until her feet bled, knocking on doors. She offered to scrub their marble floors, clean their stables, carry water. They took one look at her and shooed her away with words she wouldn’t use on her donkey.

Abba watched others at dice. Mama disappeared most days. Nissa and Cedron shared Amit’s barley and drank water from the Pool of Siloam to fill the emptiness in their bellies.

Nissa slumped against the wall and surveyed the men in front of her. If she had a husband, life would be better. But it was too late for that. Several men in this very synagogue had come to her father when she was young, shopping for a wife. But none had wanted her.

Beg or whore, her mother had said as her hopes of marriage dwindled. Those were her choices if a man didn’t speak for her. Begging didn’t bring in enough to keep her and Cedron fed. And selling her body in the brothels of the lower city? Cedron would die of shame, and they would both die of starvation.

It’s not my fault. It’s because Abba is one of the am-ha-arez.
She couldn’t remember the last time Abba had prayed the Shema or tithed to the temple. Yes, it was his fault they were despised, but they would starve just the same.

The bleak voice whispered between the murmurs of prayers around her.
There is another way.

No.
She shook her head to dispel the voice.
No more stealing.
The idiot centurion was still looking for Mouse. Perhaps Abba would come to his senses tomorrow when his family had nowhere to lay their heads. Perhaps he’d take Amit outside the city and gather wood to sell at the market, like he’d done before he’d surrendered to the lure of the dice. She’d do it herself, but no one would buy wood from a woman.

When the prayers and songs ended, she found Cedron outside the doors of the synagogue easing toward a loud group of men, their faces flushed with excitement.

A man in a worn robe spoke out. “There is no master but our God. The Romans defile our city. We’ve been under their rule for long enough.”

Another man, a pilgrim from the country, pushed forward. “But the Sadducees, the traitors, they’re in bed with the Romans. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep their money and power, even support the pagan occupation of our land.”

“The Pharisees are no better. We must fight the Romans, not compromise with them!”

A scruffy young man stepped forward. “I’ve heard there’s a man who calls himself the Messiah.”

A man as old as Noah grumbled, “Another messiah?”

The youth nodded. “The Sadducees hate him. So do the Pharisees. But the people love him.”

The pilgrim spoke up. “Yes, and he performs miracles. Heals the sick. Makes the lame walk. Thousands flocked to hear him in Galilee.”

The youth lowered his voice. “He’s in the city for the feast. He speaks in the temple almost every day.” He glanced to each side. “Perhaps he is the one to overthrow the Romans. If we can get enough men and some weapons—”

“Come on, Cedron.” Nissa dragged her brother away from the group. “This can only lead to trouble.” No good would come from the Zealots plotting against the Romans. Enough of them had already been crucified.

Cedron turned his sightless eyes to her, his brows raised. “Nissa. Bring me to the temple. I want to hear this man. Perhaps he is all they say. If he can cure the sick, heal the lame . . .”

Nissa’s chewed on her lip. How many miracle workers had they seen? How many times had Mama brought Cedron to a man claiming to be a prophet, a healer? Too many to count. Magic men curing lame beggars who were never lame to begin with. So-called prophets full of promises. Frauds. This one would be no different. She guided him toward the street. “We need food more than we need a prophet.”

“Perhaps he is the one who will deliver us from the Romans.”

How could he think about overthrowing the Romans when they didn’t even have bread? “Today is the last day of the festival. There will be plenty of pilgrims coming through the Dung Gate. Maybe you’ll get enough to buy barley.” They passed through the dyers’ district in the southernmost edge of the city.

“The Dung Gate? Nissa, I need to be at the temple. And it’s the Sabbath.”