CHAPTER IX

 

“It is breathtaking, isn’t it?” Alysia said, spreading her arms and lifting her head as though she were seeing it again for the first time. She stood on the narrow road from Bethany on the sloping shoulder of Mount Olivet, looking across the valley at the city of Jerusalem. Crowning a high, rocky plateau, it seemed to have risen out of the earth by some primordial enchantment. The palatial homes of the wealthy spread out in elegant lines throughout the upper city, nestled in the rolling hills and interspersed with the majestic architecture of Herod the Great. The Temple Mount gleamed white and gold in the fading sunlight...more splendid than anything she had seen in Rome.

She, Lazarus and Mary were returning from a visit to the lower city where they’d spent an enjoyable afternoon in the market. Lazarus had bought a wagonload of supplies, which would be delivered to his house in the next day or two. They’d eaten salted fish, fruit and even a pastry at one of the taverns before leaving for home, and as they always did before reaching the distinct curve in the road, turned to look back at the view.

“You are not the first to stop and marvel at it,” Lazarus said, smiling at her enthusiasm.

“If only it weren’t so noisy and crowded,” she added, as they began walking again.

“Jerusalem is flawed, yes, but its history is so interesting,” Mary began. Alysia gave her an indulgent smile but her mind wandered as Mary began to talk about the origins of the Holy City. Mary seldom spoke, but if there was one thing she was qualified to speak of it was history, for she read it constantly. Besides, Alysia now knew most of it. Just after her formal betrothal to Nathan six months ago…and in spite of the fact that she’d been going to the synagogue almost since she’d arrived in Bethany…she had confessed to Mary that she knew practically nothing about their beliefs. Because, she had said, her family was not religious. Shocked, Mary hastened to rectify the matter and had been instructing her.

She had learned that the Jews believed in one God, and that he created the world and mankind. There were beings of the spirit realm that God had also created, called angels, and one of them had rebelled against God’s authority, gathered together untold numbers of followers, and instigated a war in heaven, the abode of God. As a result, this enemy of God, whom they called Satan, had been cast out of heaven along with his followers…but in the spirit realm he still plotted and devised ways to destroy the human race, which God loved.

Satan had encouraged the first man and woman to follow his example and rebel against God. Hundreds of years later the earth had become so corrupt that God decided to destroy it with a flood, saving only one family… a righteous man named Noah, his wife and three sons and their wives.

These stories were very old, Mary told her; some of the ancient Greek and Roman myths were based on these actual events. There were other stories: of Moses, who had led the Jews out of their bondage in Egypt; of a mighty king named David, who had seized Jerusalem from his enemies and made it his capital; of Abraham, whom God had designated to be the father of this race, the Jews. There were tales of violence, bloodshed, lust, and the wrath of God toward an unfaithful people; but also of love and beauty, the everlasting love of a God promising to save and bless his people in spite of their unfaithfulness…though not without punishment.

That love was the single, main thread woven into the beliefs of the Jews, the undisputed core of their religion, and that love was in the form of a Deliverer. God would send a man to rescue them from all the troubles that had plagued them for so many centuries. They called him “Messiah”, or “Christ” in the Greek, and believed that he would eventually rule the world in a kingdom of peace and good will.

It all sounded strange to Alysia, but something about it made sense, unlike the wild and improbable escapades of the Greek gods. It was singularly comforting to immerse herself in this remarkable education. It gave her new things to think about, opened a new world for discovery.

The day had grown steadily hotter. Alysia tugged at the mantle covering her head…a requirement for a betrothed woman. It was a way of letting others know she was spoken for. She thought for a moment about the day she had promised to marry Nathan. They’d gone into the house and Lazarus had read aloud the marriage contract, wherein Nathan had promised to protect and provide for her. Nathan had given her a gold ring and they had shared a cup of wine. Her acceptance of the cup was a symbolic way of accepting his proposal. And suddenly, they were betrothed.

Alysia hadn’t seen much of him since then; it was the custom for a man to immediately begin to prepare a bridal chamber for his intended bride, and they were to remain apart until the wedding. Nathan was adding a room to his house for her, but he did manage to visit Lazarus and his sisters on occasion, especially when it was time for supper. Sometimes Alysia remained in her bedroom, and sometimes Lazarus came to her with a wink and asked her to join them.

When Lazarus, as her guardian, decided that the bridal chamber was satisfactorily completed and that the time was right, he would tell Nathan to come for his bride. Usually this occurred late at night, about a year after the betrothal, so Alysia was supposed to remain ready at all times. Her wedding clothes were to be laid out; the blankets and linens she sewed (with Martha’s help) were to be packed and waiting. It was meant to be a time of anticipation and excitement. And sometimes she did feel excited…sometimes she did look forward to leaving Lazarus’ house and having a home of her own.

As long as she didn’t let herself think about Paulus.

Lazarus and Mary were still discussing some aspect of history involving a woman named Esther when Lazarus stopped suddenly and held up his hand as if listening.

“What is it?” Alysia asked.

“Horses. Don’t you hear them?”

They all stopped and listened, and presently the sounds of rhythmic hoof beats and men’s voices were clearly audible.

“Get back from the road,” Lazarus said quickly.

Alysia felt a familiar revulsion as she saw the group of Roman soldiers top the rock-strewn incline before them, each one close behind the other. There were five of them, with their bowl-shaped helmets reflecting the dying sun’s rays and their short, red mantles blowing out behind them. They were all drunk it seemed, and the centurion in front was no less drunk than his men…perhaps more so. They halted as they observed the three people on the side of the road, drawing their swords with comical unsteadiness.

“What! An unlikely band of highwaymen!” roared the centurion, sheathing his sword with difficulty. “Two girls and a scrawny man!”

“Be wary, sir,” said one of the soldiers, with a lopsided leer. “Perhaps it is three scrawny men in disguise!”

A bellow of laughter met that remark, and the centurion said, “No, Servius. Have you not eyes?”

The men crowded their horses about the women and inspected each minutely. Their stares returned to Alysia, who breathed rapidly with suppressed anger.

“She’d be a fine one to take to the barracks, wouldn’t she?” commented the man named Servius. “Remember, Marcus, we wagered the others on who would bring back the prettiest wench—and the new commander is not due for another week.”

Lazarus stepped to her side. “She is not going anywhere.”

“Show some respect to Rome, Jew,” growled the centurion, only momentarily diverted.

“I show no disrespect, sir, though your authority is perhaps only temporary.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He means that one day we shall fall and his people will be in authority!” shouted one of the other soldiers.

Servius raised his brows. He was a thin, dark man with a prominent nose and small, shrewd eyes. “It seems that we have a Zealot on our hands.”

“Perhaps they are all Zealots, out to set an ambush as we passed!” cried the other man and guffawed at his own words.

“Let’s take both the women,” suggested another soldier eagerly.

The centurion, who had a handsome but dissipated face, glanced at Mary. “She’s too scared to be any fun.” He said to Alysia, “What say you to our invitation to Jerusalem? We’ll show you a good time and pay you well.”

Mary gasped and Lazarus pressed closer to Alysia, his body tense with outrage.

“I would say, sir, that I would rather be torn asunder by jackals than to play the harlot for a lot of drunken fools.”

She had spoken so mildly and with such gravity that at first the men merely stared at her, their grins frozen on their faces. Then the centurion’s brows drew down in a scowl.

“I say you come with us!”

“I will not!”

The centurion’s face suffused with red and he seemed to have trouble gathering his thoughts. Servius leaned forward and said coldly, “Will you come, or must we take your Zealot friend and have him executed?”

“I am not a Zealot,” said Lazarus. “You have no evidence of such a claim.”

“We need no evidence.” Servius chuckled. He gave Alysia a raking glance and said, “Is it a bargain? Your company, for his life?”

“She will not go with you. If you think her to be a harlot for hire you are mistaken. She is my ward, and I will take this matter before the law.”

Lazarus’ words seemed to have no effect on the soldiers; in fact, only the centurion seemed to hear them for he said thickly, “We are the law here.”

Alysia thought, Perhaps I will soon have a chance to escape them. She couldn’t let them kill Lazarus, and she had no doubt they could, and would.

Her voice was steady. “I will come.”

“No, Alysia!” Lazarus reached out to grasp her arm. Mary screamed as one of the soldiers hefted his sword.

“We’ll take her anyway,” Servius announced, “and what use will you be to her, dead?”

He shoved his fist into Lazarus’ chest, knocking him to the ground. Before he could get to his feet and stop her, Alysia moved toward the centurion, who pulled her up to sit before him. She managed to poke her elbow in his ribs before he urged the horse forward with a grunt, and they started up the stony path. She caught a glimpse of Mary’s shocked, white face and heard Lazarus shout, “I’ll find Nathan—we’ll come for you!” and then there were only the sounds of clattering hooves and men laughing and jeering.

The pathway descended at a steep incline through the Kidron Valley, then began to rise as they traversed the long, Roman-built row of steps leading up the hill to the southeastern gate. One by one the horses trotted through the gate, which was dim and cool within the thick city wall. On the other side, a publican gathered up his day’s collection of coins and gave them a look of bored curiosity.

For the second time that day Alysia passed through the lower section of the city with its hills and slopes and streets running in every direction, its bazaars and shops of all manner of craftsmen…potters, weavers, bakers, carpenters, perfume-makers. Here stood the close-packed houses of the poor and those of moderate means. The heavy traffic of the morning and afternoon had all but disappeared; there were few pedestrians and a pack of half-wild dogs snarled at them from a foul-smelling gutter. A bridge spanned yet another deep valley and they ascended into the upper section…the well laid-out streets, many of them paved, the homes of Roman officials, the mansions of wealthy and powerful Jews.

Alysia rode in icy silence, though her heart pounded sickeningly and she tried to be alert for any possible means of escape. But her skirts were caught under the centurion’s legs and he kept one arm tight around her. The men had tried to draw her into conversation and, failing that, fell to giving lusty appraisals of her face and figure. Cringing inwardly, she wondered what horrors the night would hold for her. Was there no one to help her? If only Nathan would come, but he was away on one of his mysterious trips…it wasn’t possible that Lazarus would find him in time. And what could he or Lazarus or anyone do against these brutish soldiers?

Passing beneath an arched viaduct, they went around the huge platform on which sat the Temple, and began climbing a wide ramp that ascended sharply to the Roman fortress. It was almost dark now, and Alysia could see nothing but the vast outer wall. The centurion guided his horse onto the ramp and she saw a colossal wooden door that began to swing open as they approached.

They entered a courtyard, riding beneath another arched bridge that connected the fortress to what she assumed was the Temple area. Looking up, she could barely see the sentries on the wall between the battlements as another door opened; they climbed another ramp to an area enclosing the soldiers’ barracks and several other buildings.

A deep panic gripped Alysia, much like the feeling she’d had when she’d first been taken from her home in Athens. That familiar sense of unreality—that this couldn’t be happening. She felt the centurion slide off the horse, then reach up and pull her toward him. Distantly she heard the men arguing, haggling over her; she lashed out and scratched one of them. The centurion grabbed her arm and pulled her into one of the buildings. It seemed almost like a palace, with a long flight of stairs leading to other rooms. The foyer was empty and dimly lit by a single lamp hanging from the ceiling.

The centurion may have been drunk, but he was strong. When he began to pull her toward the stairs Alysia came alive, struggling, kicking and scratching, but either he was too intoxicated to feel her efforts or his body was made of iron, for he gave her little heed. She tried to grasp his dagger but he laughed and twisted her hand away. Could she bring herself to kill another man? She would never escape without being killed herself.

They stumbled into another room, a bedroom. The soldier slammed the door shut and shoved a bolt into place. Alysia ran to the opposite side of the room. He turned and with a leering grin started toward her. Seeing a heavy oil lamp beside the bed, she plunged toward it, her hand closing over the thick handle. It flew through the air to graze the side of his graying head. He yelped with pain; his grin turned into a grimace and he lurched forward.

Alysia retreated until she felt the wall at her back. She could smell the heavy, fermented drink on his breath. Then he grunted loudly, hiccupped, and with a slow, weaving motion dropped to the floor. His eyes closed and he began to snore.

She stared at him for a moment, hardly daring to breathe lest she wake him from this unexpected repose. He didn’t move, and she finally forced her shaking limbs to step over the inert form. She tried the door, but it didn’t budge against her wildly pressing hands. Someone had barred it from the outside to prevent her escape. Casting her gaze frantically around the room she saw there was no window, and there was nothing she could use for a weapon. Except…one of the clay shards of the broken lamp had a jagged edge. She picked it up gingerly.

She felt overcome with weariness. Every bone and muscle ached from tension and the long ride through the city. She dragged a blanket from the bed and sat down in a corner of the room, concealing her improvised weapon underneath the blanket. She didn’t know if she would be able to use it, but it gave her a small sense of satisfaction.

She whispered, and didn’t know if she meant it, “God of Abraham, if you are really there, protect me and see me safely home.”

 

* * * *

 

A strange moaning sound woke her. The centurion sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, with a chamber pot on the floor before him. He slowly ran his hands through his thinning gray hair and turned to look at her through swollen eyelids. Alysia shrank from his gaze and pulled the blanket up to her chin, clutching the shard of pottery in her other hand. He made a noncommittal sound and turned away, as if annoyed by her presence.

She’d been terrified during the night when she heard someone knocking at the door; she’d heard voices and then one of the other soldiers had called, “Marcus, let us in! You’ve had her long enough!” She waited in horrific suspense, but the centurion snored on and never moved. She heard the men mumbling and clattering back down the stairs. They had not returned and somehow she had slept.

She rose hesitantly, quickly adjusted her garments, and ran her fingers through her tangled black hair. Her mantle had long since been ripped from her and she felt strangely bare without it, though she held onto the blanket. Her movements brought the centurion’s eyes back to her and she stopped, paralyzed.

Could it be that he looked—ashamed? He refused to look directly into her eyes, and a slow red crept into the greenish tint of his face. Reaching up, he unhooked his red cloak and dropped it onto the floor, then promptly heaved the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot. Alysia’s eyes widened and she shrank still further into the blanket, which she held against her as if it were a magic shield.

After a while, the soldier shifted position, wiped his face with the cloak, and cleared his throat.

“Young woman, it occurs to me you have been somewhat—misused. My men had no right to force you to come with us.” He paused and peered painfully at her. “For whatever happened last night you have my genuine apology.”

She could only stare at him with her mouth open. The centurion continued, with great effort, “I must get you out of this fort. Not only for your own protection, but—for other reasons. If I agree to see that you are escorted safely home, do I have your word you will say nothing of this to anyone?”

Alysia saw no need to make promises to him, since obviously he had to get her home somehow. “I—I cannot say that I will not discuss it with anyone, but I will not seek to charge any of you with a crime. Nothing good would come of making this widely known. I should not like for anyone to know about it.”

“I am not exactly—rational—when I am drunk. And I remember very little. Weren’t you with someone when you were taken?”

“My family.”

“What will they do?”

“The man to whom I am betrothed will be very angry.”

The centurion winced. “I believe we must have thought you were a prostitute. You are…uncommonly beautiful. Again, I apologize.”

She looked down and said nothing.

“Please, I must have your word. There is a man I know, a diplomat, who can take you home and perhaps reassure your family. But he is at Herod’s palace. If I take you there, you must remain silent and allow me to explain the situation to him. If you break your word, we will all swear you are lying; we will say that you propositioned us. Do you understand?”

“I understand very well, Centurion.”

He waited a moment, then drew himself up with a grimace and staggered to the door. He slid back the bolt and bellowed for a sentry, holding his head as if it might fall off at any moment. The door was unbarred, and without a backward glance the centurion left the room.

It seemed a long time later that he returned and escorted her from the upper hall into one of the reception rooms below. He had washed himself and straightened his uniform. Three of the other men had gathered there; she supposed the fourth was lying insensible in his quarters. They were subdued and eyed her gloomily as if she were responsible for the present situation.

“Go and make yourself presentable,” the centurion said irritably. “And get rid of that,” he added, snatching away the blanket she still held against her. With a disgusted air he threw it on the floor.

Alysia saw her mantle lying on the tiled floor near the blanket. She retrieved it and stalked angrily toward the room indicated by the soldier. It proved to be a washroom, with a large basin of water on a marble pedestal, linens and a bronze mirror hanging on the wall. She washed her hands and face and tried to improve her appearance.

In the other room, the centurion looked from one surly face to another. “Don’t tell me you’re unhappy because I barred the door! You would be in far worse trouble had I not done so.”

Servius said, “Are you not overly concerned, Marcus? Just send her home and be done with her.”

“This is your fault, Servius, and by the gods I’ll never listen to you again! First I let you talk me into visiting Herodium, and then drinking all the way back! The Jews in her town could bring trouble over this. It will require more diplomacy than I can offer. I will leave her with a friend of mine, one of Herod’s advisors whose task it is to smooth things over with the Jews. He will see to her well-being. And some monetary recompense may be necessary—more than I can provide.”

“You are making too much of this,” said the other man coldly. “She is not important—it is nothing. Send her home, or get rid of her somehow. Don’t involve anyone else.”

“As I said, Saltus is a friend. He will know the best course of action.”

“You’ve grown soft over the girl,” Servius muttered, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The centurion allowed the remark to pass. “This is a serious problem. The new commander is due to arrive in the next few days and this must be resolved beforehand. Pontius Pilate doesn’t mind making trouble for the Jews, but this Paulus Valerius has a reputation for exacting justice no matter who it involves, and he will not let the incident go without an investigation. Where would we stand then? We could only say we were too drunk to know what we were doing. I doubt that will exonerate us in his eyes!”

No one said anything. Alysia came back into the room.

“She has given her word that she will say nothing, in exchange for being returned safely home.”

“And you believe her?” Servius almost sneered.

“She has her own reputation to protect,” Marcus replied. He looked at Alysia. “Let’s go.”

She fell in step behind him, only too glad to be leaving the company of the other soldiers, who stared after her like dogs thwarted of a bone. The centurion now wore a crested helmet and a fresh mantle over his uniform. Alysia followed him down a flight of stairs, across a courtyard, and this time went through a less conspicuous doorway to the street below. Other soldiers and guards watched them curiously, and she was careful to draw her mantle over her head and half over her face.

It was a cloudy day, and uncomfortably warm. Marcus told her to walk in front of him. “And don’t try to run away,” he growled. “Keep walking straight ahead until I tell you to stop.”

A viaduct ran directly from the Temple area to Herod’s palace, but the soldier chose not to use it. Instead they walked on the street level, mingling with many others who hurried here and there and paid them no mind. They passed several houses of exquisite design, some of which looked like palaces. On they went until they came to another upraised platform, similar to the one the Jewish Temple had been built upon. It, too, was walled all around, with towers standing at each end. They were now in a large market area, quite different from that of the lower city; here were the gold and silversmiths, the jewel and silk merchants, the master tailors. The people were obviously aristocrats, well-dressed, moving about more sedately than those she had seen yesterday.

Suddenly the centurion stopped and stood completely still for a moment, staring up at the entrance gate. He seemed to be debating upon his course of action. Alysia held her breath, then his heavily creased face took on a look of resignation and he gestured for her to precede him. She climbed a steep flight of steps, and stopped short as she came in direct view of a long row of Roman guards. Paralyzed, she saw the centurion speak to one of them. He nodded toward her, frowning, and she followed him through the gate.

Alysia’s mouth dropped open. Never in her life had she seen anything so magnificent, even in Rome. An immense courtyard spread out before them, with a Roman-tiled floor decorated by mosaics of pomegranate leaves. Groves of trees and clipped hedges surrounded it, along with marble benches and bronze fountains. A huge pond dominated its center. At either end stood two villas, all marble and gold; between them were other stately buildings. Columned porticoes lined the other two sides of the pavilion. Sentries stood at their appointed places, and slaves in their native dress hurried importantly on their errands. Here and there groups of people were gathered in conversation.

“Yes,” said Marcus, noticing her stunned expression. “Rich as Croesus.”

Alysia swallowed and whispered nervously, “What if this friend of yours has better things to do than taking care of me?”

“There is little choice in the matter. And he owes me a favor.”

Alysia forced herself to remain still and clasped her hands together. Marcus spoke to one of the other guards. The guard consulted briefly with a man who sat at a desk beneath the portico across from them, then returned at a brisk pace.

“Ambassador Saltus has left for Caesarea, Centurion. He sails for Rome tomorrow.”

Alysia’s heart sank and she looked quickly at Marcus, sensing his quandary. “I will return to Bethany alone.”

“That is absurd. Do you know your way through this city? If something were to happen to you my men and I would be worse off than before.”

She had had enough of him thinking only of himself, as if she were responsible for his predicament! As always, her patience ended abruptly and her temper soared out of control.

“Then what do you propose, my gallant Roman?” she gritted out, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

The centurion shrugged his shoulders, unaware of her foul mood. “We will return to the fort and make other arrangements. Perhaps we could—”

“No!”

Looking at her face, Marcus was filled with alarm. All activity stopped at the sound of the angry and vehement voice.

“I will not return with you to your men! And you cannot force me!”

“You are mad,” he said, glancing uneasily at the spectators now staring at them with amused interest.

“Leave me alone! I will find my own way back.” Alysia whirled, then felt him grab her arm.

“Have you no gratitude, woman?” he snarled, and she saw a trace of the meanness in him that had been so manifest the day before.

“Grateful!” Her voice rose in pitch. “After what you have done?”

Her words reverberated throughout the courtyard. Alysia stopped, aware that she had become the center of attention. She saw out of the corner of her eye that several people were coming toward her.

“Now see what you’ve done!” Marcus whispered harshly, but Alysia only snatched her arm out of his grasp.

“What goes here, Centurion?”

Marcus abruptly came to attention. Alysia saw a rather short man, surrounded by slaves or bodyguards, with a florid face in which were set small brown eyes. His graying hair fell in oily curls; he wore a scarlet robe over which hung a black cloak, heavily embroidered with gold threads. Jewelry adorned his thick neck, arms and fingers. His gray-streaked beard came to a point on his chin.

“What have you done to put this young woman into such a fine rage?”

“My, er, slave—”

“Slave!” Alysia cried. She was too indignant to care who discovered what had happened to her. “This Roman and his contemptible soldiers took me against my will from my friends on the road to Bethany.”

The oily man fixed the centurion with a stern look. “Is this true?”

Marcus licked his lips. “With respect, Herod Antipas, this matter does not fall within your jurisdiction.”

Herod smiled benignly. “Quite true, Centurion, but perhaps you would not like the incident to come before the new commander. I am certain I can be of service.” He turned to a guard and ordered crisply, “Escort these two to my receiving chambers.”

The ruler of Galilee marched sedately ahead, followed by his retinue. Marcus and Alysia were obliged to trail after him. The people around them had gone back to their own pursuits, as if such occurrences were not unusual. She was regretting her outburst, although she did hope the centurion was suitably anxious for his own welfare.

They reached the massive building at the north end of the great court and found themselves in a marble-walled chamber furnished with chairs and couches, statues, tapestries, and a thick Persian carpet. Herod seated himself in a throne-like chair in the center of the room. His attendants disappeared, but two more emerged from an arched doorway to stand over him and wave huge palm leaves, stirring the still, warm air.

Herod regarded his visitors with a sober eye. “And what is the complaint, Centurion?”

Marcus opened his mouth, but Alysia had already begun. She told the story in detail, with a vivid description of the state of Marcus and his men when they abducted her. The centurion groaned inwardly, then widened his eyes in surprise. She was taking care to tell of his consideration toward her after he had regained his senses.

“I cannot blame you, Centurion, for your rashness when under the influence of strong drink…and such beauty. However, neither can I condone your actions. You did well to bring her to me. I shall say nothing to Pontius Pilate, nor to your superior officers. I shall see that the matter is handled with tact. There is no reason for you to remain here.”

Alysia was surprised when Marcus hesitated, and she saw him glance at her with almost a look of pity. But then he moved with a clatter of his sword, bowed briefly, and left without another word.

“What is your name, child?”

She told him.

“Where is your family?”

“I have no real family. I am living with friends in Bethany.”

“And they, I presume, will be looking for you?”

“Yes.”

“My dear, you must not hold the actions of a few simple-minded soldiers against the entire garrison. The important thing is that you are quite safe now, and you must allow me to…compensate you in some way.”

She supposed he meant money. Before she could haughtily refuse, he said, “There is a storm coming in from the west. A bit early this year for storms, but as you can see, it is already raining.” His head moved smoothly toward the window; there was indeed a fine sheet of rain spattering onto the pavement outside. Thunder rumbled with the threat of more to come.

“You must stay overnight as my guest. I have a stepdaughter about your age whom you will enjoy meeting.”

His words caught her off guard. “No—I will not trouble you. Could you send a messenger to Bethany so my friends may come for me?”

“I will send a messenger, yes—to say that you are safe and will arrive in the next few days. Neither your friends nor you should venture out in this storm. As for my messenger—he is used to such danger. And he has a very fast horse.”

Without waiting for a reply Herod smiled and clapped his hands. The heavy bronze door swung open and a bald, Germanic-looking slave waited expectantly.

“Show this young woman to a room near Salome’s. Have one of the women find her some clothes. Of course, Alysia, you must keep whatever they give you as your own.”

Alysia perceived that she was being bribed, and there was something else…she didn’t like the way he looked at her; in fact, she didn’t like anything about this king, or whatever he called himself. He might be rich and important, but that didn’t mean she had to obey him. Especially since he governed Galilee, not Judea.

The slave bowed. As Alysia opened her mouth to protest, Herod said, “There will be a feast tonight—I have invited many guests, most of them are already here. I wish you would attend. I would deem it a returned favor.”

A burst of thunder startled her, and before she could speak Herod turned away and left the room, swift as a fox into its den. She gave a sigh of frustration and followed the slave.

The apartments to which she was led proved no less magnificent than the rest of the palace. The bedroom was brightly lit against the darkness of the approaching storm. A jewel-studded, purple silk canopy covered the enormous bed. Small cedar boxes reposed on an ornately-carved table drawn close to the window. When she looked inside she saw they were filled with scented balsam, powdered rouge, kohl for lining the eyes and salve to redden the lips. Clothes in the Roman fashion and shoes of every description stuffed the closets.

Beyond the bedroom was a large sitting room, with a lounge for reclining and benches to accommodate guests. To the left, hidden by a screen made of reeds, stood a huge marble bathtub. An open cedar chest revealed thick towels and bottles of lotions.

Alysia caught her breath. The shutters had been closed at the window and she pushed them slightly open. Rain was pouring down now, but she could still see the vague outline of the Judean mountains in the distance.

She closed the shutter and returned to the bedroom where she sat upon the bed. Something wasn’t right. She should not have agreed to stay here…although, with all this luxury, it was certainly tempting…

She was incredibly tired. Her powers of reasoning seemed to have deserted her, nor did she feel capable of analyzing the situation in which she now found herself. She would think about it later, after she’d had just a few moments’ rest…

 

* * * *

 

The first rain of the season had wet the city as Paulus and his wife arrived in Jerusalem. It had been a four-day journey over roads that left much to be desired; the Jews were not road-builders and only a few had been paved by the Romans. As they entered the city through one of the north gates, the smell of wet, dirty streets and gutters, food and the smoke from extinguished cooking fires filled the air. This, and the sight of the skull-shaped hill where executions were carried out, were unfortunately the first impressions Megara received of her new home. The splendid sight of the Temple was hidden behind the Antonia Fortress from this angle, and not until they had proceeded some distance could she see the buildings erected by Herod the Great, the father of Antipas. Her indignant frown began to lift somewhat as they drew near to Herod’s palace, where she was to reside.

Some miles back (and soon to her chagrin) she had abandoned her carriage, choosing to arrive in a fashionable, covered litter carried by slaves. Paulus rode on horseback, as he had the entire way, and behind them marched a detachment of legionaries in full military dress…but bearing no standards. Their shields were plain but prominently displayed, along with their swords and javelins. Without wanting to antagonize the Jews, Paulus felt it wise to emphasize the strength and readiness of his troops.

An unexpected storm had spoiled Megara’s grand entrance, for her slaves were now wet and bedraggled and her canopy was sodden and drooping. The dampness had even found its way inside the litter and her hair had fallen as limp as her clothes. Paulus’ uniform had been soaked but his hair was almost dry, and he hadn’t minded the rain since it had cooled the air considerably.

He dismounted from his horse and handed the reins to a servant. He helped his wife emerge from her litter and restrained a smile at her puffed lips and glowering eyes. As they entered the courtyard they were greeted by a rush of dignitaries and staff.

Megara said in a low voice only he could hear, “I am afraid this city has a most unpleasant odor.”

“It’s an affliction common to large cities—Rome especially, if you’d ever been away and then returned. You might as well smooth out that patrician nose of yours. Besides, you can’t deny that some of these buildings overshadow anything we have in Rome.”

Megara answered him with a glare. He treated her like a child. He had changed. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was different, but she was convinced it had something to do with that Greek slave who had drowned.

He, of course, had told her nothing, but Megara had very efficient spies. She knew that, after Alysia had murdered Magnus, Paulus had spirited her away on a ship that had sunk somewhere between Crete and Cyprus. Where once he had been merely quiet and reserved, he had become taciturn and brooding. Except when he was conversing with that Cyrenian slave, Simon, to whom she had taken an active dislike. Paulus never knew how to put slaves in their place.

Their entourage stopped in one of the great halls of the palace, and after seeing that Megara was ushered off to her apartments, Paulus took his leave before Herod Antipas himself made an appearance. He would meet the tetrarch soon enough and as usual had no patience for political posturing.

On horseback and accompanied by the legionaries, he turned back toward the Antonia, built by Herod the Great and fawningly named after the Roman general, Mark Antony. The fort was highly visible even from several blocks away, so tall and formidable looking that it appeared to be one single tower, though each of three corners boasted its own tower, while the fourth—overlooking the Temple area—reared up higher than all.

A huge ramp spanned a ravine on the west side, which was the main entrance to the fortress. Paulus went up first, accompanied by twelve rows of legionaries marching four abreast. These men would stay overnight, then return to Caesarea. There were six thousand men stationed here, now under Paulus’ authority. During the periods of Jewish festivals there was ample room to host hundreds more, who came from Caesarea and other forts to “enforce” the peace.

He entered the main courtyard, noting the bridge as well as a set of stairs that connected the fort to the Temple. He went through a wooden doorway, up another, much narrower ramp, to the area above. It looked like a small city.

Along each wall were the soldiers’ barracks; there were residences for visitors, baths, a parade ground, a temple, the judgment hall where criminals were brought (and its whipping post), and in the midst stood the praetorium, almost a small palace. Paulus knew that underneath the fort were dungeons to house prisoners; there was also, somewhere underneath, a secret passage connecting the fort with the interior of the Temple. All around were trees growing in pots, well-tended shrubbery and statues of Roman athletes.

Immediately a servant took his horse and led it away to the stable. A young man introduced himself as Metellus, the temporary commander, explaining that he had been away and only just returned but would Paulus like to inspect the troops…he had just lined them up on the parade ground.

Paulus answered affirmatively and took his measure of the troops, thinking that for all their smart appearance he detected a certain lack of discipline that would have to be dealt with promptly. The soldiers regarded Paulus with respect and some unease, for his reputation had preceded him. He was known as being rigid but fair, ruthless in battle, outspoken regarding military matters and close-mouthed about everything else. This Paulus Valerius Maximus did not strut about and shout his orders as the former commander had done (before he drank himself to death), but he had a naturally compelling air that seemed to make a silent demand for obedience.

And he was liked by Tiberius and disliked by Sejanus, a lethal combination…yet he was still alive. The question as to why he had been appointed to command a fort in a Jewish province, under the governorship of a man who was not even his social equal, had already provoked much speculation.

Paulus gave them a short, improvised speech (he hadn’t anticipated doing so until tomorrow) and finally was able to retire to the praetorium, where his living quarters would be. Simon helped him remove his cuirass; he got into a dry tunic, found a comfortable chair, sat back with a sigh and propped his feet on a stool. A servant brought a tray of fresh figs stuffed with pistachios, a slab of goat cheese and a pitcher of wine.

He motioned for Simon to sit down. “Here, have some figs—they’re delicious. Tell me, Simon, have you ever been here before?”

“No, sir. My father was Greek, so we never made the pilgrimages. It’s rather like Rome, is it not, sir?” Simon did sit, but very straight, and he only partook of two figs. Although he liked Paulus he never forgot he was a slave.

“I can see why you would think so. Herod tried to turn it into a Roman city. You won’t find much of the—decadence, shall we say, that you find in Rome. At least it doesn’t show outwardly, among the Jews. And you will find no statues of gods and Caesars, except in the Roman quarters. Graven images, you see. Their God would not approve. Most of them take their religion very seriously, and to make jokes about him as we do our gods would be blasphemy.”

“Do you know much of their religion, sir?”

Paulus leaned his head on the back of the cushioned chair and stared meditatively at the gilded ceiling. “I know that there is a reverence about it that I find impressive.” After a pause he added, looking at his slave with a gleam of amusement in his eyes, “But don’t misunderstand me, Simon. I speak of the people, not their leaders. The Sadducees are more political than religious, and would kiss the back end of a donkey to retain their current position of importance.

“And as for the Pharisees…they won’t even associate with anyone who doesn’t observe their so-called rules of purification. They would rather walk into a wall than look at a woman on the street, which makes you wonder if their thoughts are as they should be to begin with! They’re forever counting up their good deeds to make sure they outnumber any sins they may have unwittingly committed. And you will see some, Simon, who display such humility they look as if their beards are growing to their chests.”

Simon was chuckling, and Paulus grinned. “It would be interesting to see someone of their own faith take them down a peg or two. But it would take a very brave man.”

“You paint an interesting picture, sir, but I’m not very familiar with the functions of these—whatever you called them. In fact, though my mother was Jewish, she died when I was very young, so I know little of Jewish ways or their past.”

“Well, I will give you a brief lesson, then.” Paulus put a fig in his mouth. “I think they have soaked these in honey and lemon juice—here, have another. Now where shall I begin?”

“How about when Pompey conquered the land a hundred years ago? I do know Roman history.”

“Very well. You may be aware that the word ‘Palestine” comes from ‘Philistine’, which was the name of the original inhabitants—as far as our historians have discovered. Then the Israelites, or Jews as we call them, moved in—and believe me, their history has been anything but peaceful. At any rate, Rome made the first Herod king over the whole country; he was very shrewd politically and had many powerful friends.

“But the Jews hated him. He was an Edomite; we Romans call the region Idumea. The Edomites are of mixed races, so naturally the Jews despise them, and Herod had an Arabian mother—so he was doubly cursed. You are probably familiar with the antics of Herod. He committed as many murders as any good throne-seeker in Rome, and many of them were of his own family.”

“But obviously,” Simon said, with a droll look, “a master builder.”

“Indeed. The Jewish Temple, this fortress, all those palaces…you should see the one near Bethlehem. Amphitheaters, too, and race courses. He wanted to impress the Jews and at the same time seduce them into the Roman way of life.

“He died at last, and Rome divided his kingdom between three of his sons. Archelaus had Samaria and Judea, Antipas has Galilee and Perea, and Philip has a territory east of the Sea of Galilee. But Archelaus turned out to be too much like his father and so Judea is now ruled by procurators. Though Pilate is just a prefect because of his lack of military experience.”

“But you were called prefect, sir.”

“That, Simon, is a complicated situation that I’ll have to pass over for now. Back to your original question—Rome allows the Jews a great deal of freedom, both political and religious. Their government is presided over by a supreme council called the Sanhedrin. There are about seventy men or so on this council; their headquarters are here in Jerusalem. And these seventy are composed of Sadducees, who are aristocrats, and Pharisees, who are of the middle classes. They have beliefs that differ somewhat from each other, so there are often conflicts and squabbles. One thing they all agree on, though, is that they enjoy their freedom and don’t want to give Rome any reason to take it away.”

“It is surprising to me, sir, that Rome tolerates this self-government.”

Paulus shrugged. “They’re impossible to rule otherwise. They’d rather be slaughtered than make concessions regarding their religion. The people I mean…I’m not too sure about the priests. And I forgot to mention the elders and the scribes, the scribes being experts in Jewish law, and the elders are supposedly descendents of the ancient ruling families. Most of them are quite wealthy.”

“And so this council governs all of Palestine?” Simon asked.

“Well, there are local courts throughout the provinces, but they all answer to the Sanhedrin. It’s when they can’t handle their own affairs that Rome must get involved, but that’s Pilate’s problem, not mine.”

A curt knock on the door interrupted them. The guard opened it to admit a centurion, who saluted briefly. Paulus got to his feet and acknowledged the salute, as Simon rose to stand across the room.

“Welcome to Jerusalem, sir. The cohort commander asked that I make a report.” He was nervously grasping two sheets of heavily scribbled on papyrus.

“Thank you, Centurion. Your name?”

“Marcus Terentias, sir. I am the senior centurion. I regret that I wasn’t present at the inspection earlier. I was occupied elsewhere.”

Paulus wondered at the man’s obvious unease, and noticed that Marcus’ hands were shaking. His bloodshot eyes and red face indicated a possible habituation to strong drink.

“I will serve on your administrative staff, sir, as we are short of tribunes here. We will be ready to assemble at your command. I understand you’re particularly interested in Zealot activity.”

“That is correct. The staff will meet in the morning an hour after sunrise. I would like to see all the reports you have, as well as a map of known meeting places and recent attacks.”

“I am afraid not much is known, sir, as they strike without warning and then disappear. Their leaders are unknown to us.”

“Do we have any in prison?”

“No, sir.” The centurion looked uncomfortable, but then brightened. “There is a man you may wish to interview. Herod has him in prison at the fort in Machaerus. He claims not to be a Zealot, but he has amassed a strong following.”

“What is his claim, then, that others should follow him?”

“He is said to be a religious prophet.”

Paulus raised an eyebrow. “For what reason did Herod imprison him?”

The centurion succeeded in looking even more uncomfortable. “That is largely a matter of gossip, sir. It is said that Herod’s wife was enraged because this man openly denounced her, and the tetrarch, for committing adultery.”

“Ah,” Paulus said, with a wry look at Simon. “As I recall, she divorced his brother, Philip, to marry Antipas. This prophet had better look out, if Herodias’ temper is all it’s rumored to be. What is his name? I might be interested in speaking with him.”

“John, called the Baptizer, because he baptizes his disciples in the Jordan River. Our sources say his followers number in the thousands. There is another man, called Jesus of Nazareth, who is also gathering a following. So far he has confined himself to Galilee.”

“I will, of course, adhere to the Roman custom of allowing certain religious liberties, but you may continue to watch these men and include their activities in your reports. I suspect, though, that this baptizer’s days are numbered. Is that all, Centurion?”

“Sir, a messenger was sent to say that Herod Antipas extends his welcome and would like you and your wife to attend a feast tonight to celebrate your arrival. He is very sorry he was not able to greet you earlier today.”

“You may send word we will be present, providing my wife is feeling well.”

When the centurion had gone, Paulus looked at his slave with humor. “Sounds as if Herod had better get himself back to Galilee, if only to make sure he’s not overrun with prophets. Or at least send Herodias. She’ll make short work of them, no doubt.”

Simon stifled a laugh, not sure if he should go so far as to imply mockery of the tetrarch’s wife; it was all very well for the legate to do so. Instead he said, “It sounds as though you will have a busy evening, sir.”

Paulus sighed. “One I’m not looking forward to, Simon, I assure you.”