CHAPTER XXV

 

Lucius peered over the heads of the men seated in the fortress’ dining hall. Spotting the one he sought, he entered the room and dragged out a bench. Pulling a platter toward him, he grabbed a hunk of goat meat and began chewing on it.

“Tribune,” said Servius, looking surprised.

“Greetings, Servius. You may well show your astonishment, but my stepbrother is not here to throw me out. I’ve heard he’s left Jerusalem and I’d like to know why.”

“I’m not privy to information concerning the commander,” Servius said, but with a hint of a smug smile on his face. “However, the word seems to be going around that he has resigned.”

“ Paulus has resigned his post?”

Servius nodded, and abandoned his pretence of ignorance. “He went to Caesarea, allegedly to tell Pilate. It was supposed to be a secret, but someone let it out. Pilate will be glad to see him go, mark my words. I think your stepbrother intimidated him.” He soaked up gravy with his bread and stuffed it into his mouth. When he could speak around his food, he added, “He’s due back here any day now.”

“Why does he do this?”

Servius shrugged. “For that matter, why did he ever come here in the first place?”

A soldier from the next table made an observation. “The legate is a changed man. His expression, his manner…it’s as if he found a whole new reason for living!”

“A woman, no doubt,” said another, raising a few guffaws. “He’s been too discreet for my liking. It’s said you don’t really know a man until you know the kind of woman he consorts with.”

“Speaking of women,” said the first, dourly, “mine just left me. For an Arabian camel-driver, no less.”

The room echoed with laughter and the sardonic retort, “Likely she prefers the smell of camel!”

There was another spurt of laughter. The soldier went on, “She was a comely one. It won’t be easy to replace her! There aren’t enough Roman women to go around and the Jewish ones won’t even speak to me.”

“There are some beauties among them,” Servius commented, reaching for more bread. “I’ll never forget that one we brought to the barracks for a bit of fun, a few years ago. Only Marcus spoiled it all. Remember her, Quintus? She had the face and figure of a goddess. And her eyes…”

Quintus was nodding. “Violet. I never saw such exquisite eyes. And her hair was full and black as night. She was a lioness…scratched me so hard I had the scar for weeks.”

“Her name,” Lucius interrupted, thinking of only one woman who matched so remarkable a description. “What was her name?”

Servius raised his eyebrows. “Athena, Alysia, or something like that. A Greek name.”

Lucius took a napkin and slowly began wiping grease off his hands. “Where does she live?”

Servius and Quintus looked at each other. Quintus answered, “We found her on the road to Bethany.”

Lucius stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed. So that was how it was, was it? Somehow the slave had escaped from Rome and survived the shipwreck…if there had ever been one…and had sent for Paulus to come for her. All this time she had been practically under his nose! How they must have been laughing at him!

He felt a pressure in his chest, as if his heart were going to burst. He said to Servius, in a low voice, “How would you like to be promoted in a very short time?”

“How?” Servius asked blankly.

“By helping me bring in a murderer,” Lucius replied. “The murderer of Senator Eustacius’ son. Alysia of Bethany.”

 

* * * *

 

Pontius Pilate had been abstracted, strangely apathetic, when Paulus visited him at the governor’s palace in Caesarea. It was rumored he spent most of his days sitting on a bench staring out over the sea; apparently the rumors were true. He had to be summoned to his office by a clerk, and when he arrived only gave Paulus a fleeting glance and sat down wearily behind his desk.

“Well, I haven’t see you since—since—” the prefect stopped, frowning.

“The crucifixion,” said Paulus, although he had actually spoken with him a time or two since then. He thought he knew what was eating at Pontius Pilate.

“The—oh, you mean that Nazarene business.” Pilate avoided Paulus’ eyes and began shuffling things on top of his desk.

“Has he been on your mind as much as he has mine?” Paulus asked frankly.

At last the prefect looked up. “What? What do you mean?”

“We both knew he was innocent.”

“And you heard those demented Jews claim responsibility for it…no, it wasn’t my fault. Is that what you came here for? — Because I will not discuss the matter.”

“As I matter of fact, I came here to inform you of my resignation.”

Pilate merely lifted his brows. “You cannot just abandon your post, Paulus. You were appointed by Tiberius.”

“I am not abandoning my post…that’s why I’m here. Tiberius and I had an understanding. I would like for you to write the emperor and tell him what I’ve done, and tell him that I’m recommending a man to replace me…one that I believe will be responsible and fair-minded. Claudius Lysias, who is in Syria at the moment.”

“I know him. But this is most unusual, Paulus. As governor I should, perhaps, place you under house arrest and charge you with desertion.”

“Perhaps,” said Paulus, with a flare of annoyance, “you shouldn’t.”

Pilate got to his feet and for the first time since Paulus’ arrival looked him fully in the eyes. Something the prefect saw there had a strange effect, for his gaze shifted and he walked toward the window, where he pretended an interest in something outside. Then he turned again.

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t report that matter to Tiberius. Why didn’t you?”

Paulus shrugged. “What good would it have done?”

“I keep expecting…well, let’s just say that I know Sejanus was responsible for my having this position, and Tiberius has never particularly liked me. I daresay he’s looking for any excuse to be rid of me.”

“With things as they are in Rome just now, I wouldn’t worry too much. He doesn’t want to be bothered with our problems. That’s why I’m reasonably certain he won’t oppose the suggestion to appoint Lysias.”

“If he doesn’t fly into a rage and kill the messenger,” said Pilate wryly.

“Actually I don’t think he’s going to care very much. And let’s say no more of it, shall we? Will you write the letter? I’ll leave my own letter of resignation as well, for you to send with it.”

“As long as you understand I am not giving you permission to leave…I will take no responsibility for it.”

“I understand…perfectly,” said Paulus, and almost asked him if he would like to wash his hands.

That night he dined with Claudia in a small, private room; the prefect claimed a severe headache and remained in his chamber. She looked lovely in a gown of midnight blue, over which she wore a white stola edged with the same shade of blue. Her almond-shaped eyes were clear and candid. Claudia told Paulus how worried she was about her husband, who hadn’t been himself since “that day”, and she was full of questions about what was happening in Jerusalem.

“I know there are many people who believe he rose from the dead,” she said, with a serious look replacing her normally amiable expression. “And you never found the body. If anyone could have found it, Paulus, you would have.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, what do you think happened to it?” she asked.

How much should he tell her? Could he trust her not to reveal all to Pilate? He had hesitated for so long that she began to look at him strangely. Well, she had put him on the spot and he wasn’t going to lie to her. He watched as she dismissed all the servants and then turned to him expectantly.

“I think that Jesus is alive,” he said.

“But…you mean, of course, that he somehow survived the crucifixion?”

“No.”

Claudia blinked. “You mean—you believe —”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe.”

She was silent. Her earrings began to clink as though she were trembling; in fact, she was visibly shaking. Then she whispered, “My husband would put you into prison if he knew. He would send you to Rome on the first ship out of here!”

Paulus nodded. “Are you going to tell him?”

Slowly, Claudia shook her head. “No. I will not tell him. But I want you to tell me why you believe it! You are the last person I would expect to…to be taken in by such a story.”

And so he told her everything… She listened with great attentiveness, sometimes interrupting to ask questions. It grew late and he began to wonder what the ousted servants must be thinking. At last he said, “The evidence is so overwhelming, that it almost takes more faith not to believe it.”

“I can see why you would say that,” she answered. “And yet…it is a very large leap, you must admit!”

“But once you’ve taken it,” he said, “there’s no turning back.”

She placed heavily-ringed fingers on top of one of his hands. “Be careful, Paulus. I don’t know what you intend to do, and I won’t ask you. But I would hate to see something happen to you. If you speak with everyone as freely as you have spoken with me, you won’t live very long. My husband has many sides to him, and he can be cruel. I think he likes you, as much as he likes anyone, but he would not tolerate a Roman legate joining some sort of sect that calls their leader a king.”

Before he could reply she lifted her hand and whisked away, slipping out the door and closing it softly behind her.

 

* * * *

 

He left the next morning, not yet pressed with any sense of urgency. He hadn’t seen Claudia again, but he felt confident she would say nothing of their conversation to her husband. Pilate had eaten breakfast with him but had eyed him rather guardedly; Paulus wondered if the servants had been talking about his and Claudia’s prolonged time together in the dining room. That would be unfortunate. However, the prefect seemed sincere in wishing him well, and promised to write the emperor on his behalf.

The city was only half a mile behind him when he caught sight of a tall man in an ill-fitting brown tunic, walking along the roadside. There was something familiar about him. As Paulus’ horse approached, the man turned his head and Paulus recognized his former slave.

“Simon!”

Simon halted and stared up at him. Dismayed, Paulus saw that his friend’s face was thin and haggard, showing a stubble of black beard, and his eyes were sunken and dull. He dismounted quickly, leading his horse to the edge of the road. Travelers flowed by on either side. Simon followed him slowly.

“What are you doing here?” Paulus asked. “I thought you had gone to Cyrene.”

Simon nodded. “I have been back,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My—wife—I didn’t see her. I inquired among the neighbors, without letting them know who I was. She remarried, saying she thought me dead. When I saw my sons, they were standing in the street, talking with their friends. They have grown tall, and strong.” There was pride in Simon’s wounded dark eyes. “They—did not know me. I didn’t expect them to, but—it wasn’t a very good feeling. I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t stay. I found the first ship back I could, and it was stopping here rather than Joppa.”

Paulus said nothing, but reached out and grasped his friend’s arm for a moment. Finally he asked, “Why have you returned?”

Simon looked away and shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose I intended to try and find you. I need work.”

“I don’t think it is a coincidence that we have met here today, Simon. Come with me to Jerusalem and we’ll talk. I don’t think you should give up so easily. But first, let’s go back and get a horse for you…and you look as though a good meal wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yes,” was Simon’s only reply, but a glimmer of hope had appeared in his eyes. With Paulus leading his horse, the two men turned and re-entered the crowded city of Caesarea.

 

* * * *

 

Alysia swept the floor one last time before nightfall. Rachel played happily in the bedroom, waiting for a story before time to go to sleep. Alysia kept on sweeping even after the floor was clean, for her thoughts were not on her task.

Why was she holding herself back from Paulus? Why hadn’t she said she would go with him to Rome? Did she hate and fear Rome that much? Was her assertion that her past might harm their cause only an excuse? Was she afraid of failing Paulus because of some deep-seated feeling of inadequacy?

It all seemed so complicated! And yet it was so simple. Either she would marry Paulus, or she wouldn’t.

She listened absently to Rachel in the next room and…like a thunderbolt…the thought came to her that she was being unfair to her daughter. Rachel deserved both her parents. She needed both her parents. She thought sorrowfully of her own father, trying to be both parents to his child. She remembered the feeling of incompleteness after her mother’s death, the sense of loss that never really went away.

She stopped and thought, poised with broom in hand, “I should have married Paulus after Megara died! I’ve been selfish. I wasn’t trusting him, or God.”

The pounding on the door came with no warning. A voice commanded, “Open in the name of Caesar!”

Swiftly she put down the broom and closed the door to the bedroom. She put her hand over her heart as though to still its painful, hard thumping, and before she could move again the door crashed open. She looked into the smiling face of Lucius Aquilinus.

“I was hoping you would be at home,” he said, with exaggerated courtesy. “I must ask you to accompany me to the Antonia. There is a little matter to be resolved.”

Alysia slowly drew air into her lungs. What would she do about Rachel? No sooner had the question entered her mind than the door opened and Rachel came out to grab Alysia’s legs, staring at the uniformed stranger in alarm.

“What’s this?” Lucius made a great show of surprise. With narrowed gaze he said, “A brat for the slave and the legate?”

Alysia closed her eyes, pleading silently, “Oh, dear God, have mercy on us both…”

“There is a cart waiting outside. It’s almost dark, so you will forgive the need for haste.”

“This child means nothing to you,” Alysia said. “Let me leave her with someone.”

“Anything that concerns my stepbrother is of concern to me. Now, if you’ll go first—”

She lifted Rachel in her arms and walked slowly through the broken doorway. A donkey and cart stood outside, with a solder sitting in the cart. He, too, was smiling at her.

“We meet again—at last,” he said, with a sneer and a mock inclination of his head.

Recognizing Servius, she had to bite back a sarcastic retort, knowing it would only increase his hostility. She managed to get Rachel and herself into the cart and sat down with her back against the driver’s seat, drawing Rachel close against her. Lucius climbed upon his horse.

“Cover your face, and the child’s,” he said sharply.

She did so, but there was no need; there was no one on the road at this hour. They drew near to Lazarus’ house and she hoped against hope that someone would be outside, that someone would see them. But though the windows glowed with lamplight she could see no one looking out; there weren’t even any lights burning on the rooftop.

Suddenly the donkey stopped in its tracks and gave a series of ear-splitting brays that fairly rent the night asunder. On and on it went, so indignantly that Alysia looked around to see if someone had thrown a rock. Rachel covered her ears.

“What’s the matter with that infernal beast?” Lucius demanded, his horse skittering over the path.

Servius helplessly slapped the reins, to no avail.

Lucius edged close to the cart, grabbed the reins from Servius and struck them hard against the donkey’s rump. “Stop—that—bellowing!”

The donkey ended its outburst as suddenly as it had begun and jigged forward. Servius reclaimed the reins with an irate look at Lucius, who cantered ahead of them. He said over his shoulder, “Hurry, before the whole town comes out to see what’s wrong with that misbegotten mule!”

Alysia couldn’t be sure, but she thought someone had come and leaned over the wall surrounding the roof, as if to peer down into the street. It was not completely dark; there had been a shadowy figure. But though she herself might have been seen, it would have been as just a shadow.

They clattered up the hillside and passed through the town gate. The night watchman had not yet taken his post, and there was no one to witness their swift departure. They started on the too-short road to Jerusalem.

 

* * * *

 

After a slow, three-day journey avoiding the congested highways, Paulus and Simon remained some fifteen miles from Jerusalem when they stopped for the night in a wooded area and built a fire. The air had cooled rapidly once the sun went down and a strong easterly breeze turned the night almost cold. Simon seemed eager to talk, and Paulus listened. He talked about his family, his business…and about the day the Romans arrested him.

“I was a wool merchant,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, as they shared a meal of dried meat and water. “I was very successful, if you’ll pardon my saying so. I even had my own small fleet of ships to deliver the wool. One day, as I was traveling on one of my own ships, a Roman tribune stopped us at the port of Alexandria. He tried to take over the ship for his own men, who he needed to send immediately to Rome.

“When I protested, he struck me. When I was about to return the favor I was overpowered by some of the other soldiers. I woke in prison…and very shortly to be sold as a slave. As you know, I was sent to Rome, where your wife’s father purchased me.”

“Yet you never seemed to mind your slavery,” Paulus commented. “You were never angry, or seemed to resent us.”

Simon smiled a little. “I was angry. But, I had learned my lesson, and tried not to show it. But truthfully, I didn’t mind working for you…as that was my lot. I always believed that someday I would be free to take up my life again. I believed, foolishly…as it turned out…that my wife would wait for me.”

Paulus shook his head, with a look of deep regret. “Can you ever forgive us?”

Simon said thoughtfully, “I think the blame lies not so much with people, as with the fact that the practice of slavery has become so commonplace that no one ever really thinks about it. It’s ‘just the way things are’.”

“Yes, Simon, we do think about it. A great deal.” Paulus tossed more dead branches onto the fire. “The problem is with people, and I used to think that people couldn’t change. Now I know we can.”

After a short pause, Simon said quietly, “I wish I could believe as you do.”

“If you really mean that, there’s only one thing that keeps you from it.”

“What is that?”

“You,” Paulus said, with a smile.

Simon shook his head and suddenly gave a great yawn. “I’m too tired to think about that, or about anything just now. Wake me when you’re ready to go.”

Long after Simon had stretched out and gone to sleep, Paulus sat before the fire, staring into the flames. For the first time in weeks a feeling of heaviness, of some oppressive burden, came upon him. He thought at first it was simply a sympathetic reaction to the state Simon now found himself in, but gradually he realized it was more than that. It was almost like the sense of disaster he had gotten that day on the road from Jericho.

Finally he slept, but it was a restless sleep. He woke, and now the feeling of impending doom hung over him like a fog. No sooner had he begun to ready his horse than Simon stood up and began to do the same.

“What is it?”

“Something is wrong,” Paulus said grimly. “We ride tonight for Jerusalem.”

 

* * * *

 

Alysia stirred slowly, conscious of acute discomfort and a throbbing ache in her head. Had she been sleeping? How much time had gone by? She shivered in the damp murkiness of the cell and found herself huddled in a corner, with Rachel asleep in her lap, wrapped in Alysia’s mantle. A heavy chain, attached to the wall behind her, encircled her ankle. If there were other prisoners nearby they made no sound; all she heard was the muffled scurrying of mice or rats somewhere within the walls.

She knew they were below ground, in the prison of the Antonia. Lucius had brought them here by skirting the eastern edge of the city and entering through the north gate. All the way, the word WHY reared before her like some great, immovable mountain. Why did this have to happen…why now, when at last she and Paulus could be together?

But words had come to her, soundless words that were somehow breathed into her mind. She had known then that she and Rachel were not alone. There was someone else riding in that cart with them.

She had heard him say, as though his spirit were speaking to her spirit: “My peace I give you. My strength is sufficient for you.”

She still didn’t understand, but slowly the gathering storm inside her had begun to abate. She didn’t have to be strong, because he could be strong for her. She didn’t have to be afraid, because he was in control. She had only to trust him.

“I do trust you, but I’m still afraid,” she had answered, her eyes closed, her face lifted to the night sky. “I am afraid of what is going to happen. Please, please help me to keep trusting you…no matter what. And I beg you to spare my daughter.”

The rattle of a key in the lock brought her to full awareness and wakened Rachel. The door swung open. First a hand with a torch appeared, then Servius strode into the cell, where he stood looking down at her with disdain. He set the torch in a hook on the wall, then bent and unlocked the band around her ankle.

“Get up,” he said coldly.

As soon as she managed to get to her feet, he reached forward to take Rachel out of her arms. “No,” Alysia whispered, refusing to release her. She must try not to panic; she didn’t want to frighten Rachel.

Lucius’ voice came from outside the door. “Do you want her to die with you?”

Alysia stepped quickly toward the entrance to the corridor so that she could look into his face. “What are you going to do with her?”

Lucius shrugged. “You are the one guilty of murder. I don’t want her. In fact, I shall just hand her over to Paulus, and he will know without a word what has happened to you.” He smiled, seeming amused by the idea.

She fought to keep her voice low and steady. “I can’t let you have her.”

“Give her to him. Servius won’t harm her…unless of course you refuse to do as I say.”

Alysia slowly bent her head and kissed Rachel, saying into her ear, “I love you, darling. God will take care of you. Everything will be all right.”

She let go of her daughter, permitting Servius to carry her away. Rachel’s wails of protest grew fainter and died away. It was more than Alysia could bear. Her mind wanted to retreat, to deny it all…this could not be happening! Yet somehow she was bearing it, somehow she was being carried, uplifted, and she had to hold onto this invisible hand and not let go.

Lucius stepped forward and took her hands, pulling them in front of her and deftly tying them together. He bent his head so that his face was close to hers. “You are very calm,” he said, “for someone who is about to die.”

She dropped her gaze, refusing to look at him. He laughed lightly and prodded her forward. They climbed a long stretch of curving stone steps and walked out onto the mosaic pavement. She was surprised to see that it was morning. A mist floated eerily among the pillars of the various buildings, shining white in a pallid, dawning sun that offered little warmth. She saw that Servius stood nearby, watching her with a curiously avid expression. Where was Rachel? Her gaze went swiftly from one direction to the other; there were several soldiers standing about, and others she could hear on the parade ground some distance away.

There was her daughter, being held by one of the sentries near the praetorium. She was still and quiet, as though she had gone to sleep again. Lucius began to argue with the senior centurion…a man Alysia knew rather well.

“You have kept me waiting all night,” Lucius said harshly. “I happen to know that Tribune Fabius is too sick to get out of bed, and the others have not yet returned from wherever their duties have taken them. That leaves you, Centurion, and you are going to have to make a decision.”

Marcus studied him with a look of disgust. “I know nothing of this matter. A man came to see me last night, to speak in her behalf…a Jew from Bethany. I’ve already told you I will do nothing until the legate returns.”

“He may not be an officer when he returns…if he ever does!”

Marcus looked closely at Alysia, and she knew he recognized her. “Did you murder this man, Magnus Eustacius?”

She answered quietly, “He was about to…take me by force, and so I killed him. I meant to stop him…I don’t know that I meant to kill him.”

The centurion gave her an odd look and turned to Lucius. “And you want to put her to death without a trial?”

“She is a slave! A runaway slave! My stepbrother aided in her escape, and he will have to answer for that.”

Marcus’ voice was unmoved. “I will not put her to death until I have spoken with the legate, and you have not the authority to do so without a sealed order from him.”

“Or from you. Or shall I go and pull Fabius out of his sickbed?”

“He would tell you the same. You can either wait for the return of Paulus Valerius or take her to Rome and let her face the charges there.”

Before Lucius could reply, the sound of hoof beats on pavement rang throughout the fort. Everyone turned in that direction. Slightly below them, riding up an incline from the first level and barely visible beyond the mist-shrouded colonnade, came two horsemen. They dismounted swiftly and climbed the steps to the upper court. Alysia swayed, almost dizzy with relief.

“What are you doing, Lucius?” Paulus’ low tone masked an inner fury.

“As you can see, I’ve caught a fugitive. The one you’ve been hiding—quite successfully for a few years.” Lucius swept his hand toward Alysia. “She is not so beautiful now, is she, after a night spent in the dungeon?”

Paulus glanced contemptuously at Servius, who guarded Alysia closely with drawn sword. “Let her go.”

“No.” Lucius seemed undismayed by his stepbrother’s unexpected appearance, and even wore a look of satisfaction. “You are not in uniform, Paulus. I must presume you are no longer commander of this fort.”

“Let her go,” Paulus said again, without taking his eyes off Servius.

Servius began to sweat. He hadn’t bargained for this! One look at the legate’s face and he saw his chances for revenge, and promotion, slipping away. It seemed improbable that anything good would come of this situation. Silently he cursed Lucius and, lowering his sword, began to move discreetly away. Lucius observed the movement and stepped closer to his prisoner.

“Sir.” It was Marcus who spoke. “Are you, or are you not, in command here?”

Paulus looked for the first time into Alysia’s face, who stared back at him with anguish in her eyes. Her relief upon seeing him had turned into deep dismay, for all that she had feared had come to pass. These men knew that he had helped her escape. Even now more soldiers were coming out of the barracks to see what was happening.

He withdrew a letter from the front of his tunic and handed it to Marcus. “Where is Tribune Fabius?”

“Sir, the prefect of the camp is sick with a fever and has placed me temporarily in charge. The other tribunes have not returned from their inspection of the fort at Emmaus.”

“Then you are in command until the arrival of Claudius Lysias, who will be appointed pending the approval of the emperor.”

Marcus broke open the letter, his face expressionless. Paulus said, “Release this woman. She is not guilty of a crime.”

“Since when is murder not a crime?” cried Lucius. “I am an eyewitness! If these men let her go, they will be as guilty as you are.”

Paulus took a step toward Alysia, but Lucius was quicker. In a single, fluid motion, he grabbed her arm and held the point of his dagger against her spine.

“Hold, Paulus, or I’ll kill her.”

Paulus came abruptly to a halt. Studying Lucius, it seemed he was too assured, almost smug. That could only mean that he was certain Alysia was going to die, one way or another…if he had to do it himself. There was a look in his eyes Paulus hadn’t seen before, as though his malice had turned to madness.

Paulus exchanged a brief look with Simon, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of understanding. On Paulus’ signal, he was to act. Simon began to inch closer to Alysia. But Paulus was still, making no sudden movements.

Alysia, too, knew without doubt that Lucius meant to kill her. Just as she knew somehow that this was not about her, it was about Paulus. Lucius didn’t care that Magnus was dead. He didn’t care that Alysia had killed him. He hated Paulus, had nurtured a venomous jealousy of him for years, and this was a way to inflict the maximum pain upon his stepbrother.

“Have you ever had to beg for anything, Paulus?” Lucius asked, freely gloating now. “Then go down before me, and beg me for her life!”

Nile blue eyes clashed with shining black, and hatred flared in both pair. Slowly, Paulus went down on one knee, holding his hands out from his sides. A murmuring went through the watchful soldiers; they didn’t like seeing their commander thus humbled, and though they knew Lucius was out of control, there was nothing anyone could do as long as he held Alysia at knifepoint.

“I’m begging you, Lucius. Release her, and you can have anything you want of me. Property, money, my life, whatever you want.”

“No,” said Alysia, almost inaudibly. “No, Paulus.”

Lucius laughed. He whirled around and gestured with his free hand. “Behold the brave and noble legate, reduced to begging for the life of his harlot!”

But no one joined Lucius in his laughter. Even Servius was silent. Lucius made a swift, angry movement and pushed Alysia forward.

“Then here she is, Paulus. See to what avail you have lowered yourself!”

She felt the cold metal in her back and only a moment’s pain before awareness left her; the last image emblazoned upon her mind was a memory of Magnus’ incredulous face at the moment he died, for she felt the same sense of disbelief. She fell upon Paulus before he could rise from his kneeling position. He caught her; not knowing what Lucius had done, he tried to help her rise and saw that she had fainted. Feeling something warm and wet on his hand, he held it up and saw that it was blood.

“Alysia—” Dazed, Paulus pressed his hand over the wound in her back, as though he could stop the flow by sheer force of will, but still the warm blood seeped through his fingers. Holding her with one arm, he took his dagger and released her bonds, his face filled with some dark extremity of emotion. He lifted her in his arms and began to walk past Lucius, but Lucius drew his sword.

“You want to kill me, Paulus. I have always desired to test my skill against yours. I won’t let you pass. I’ll finish her and kill you as well.”

Paulus stopped, his gaze seeking out Simon. Two other men were standing beside him now—Lazarus and Stephen. All three rushed forward to take Alysia from him.

“Find the physician,” Paulus said, inclining his head toward a nearby building. “Over there.”

She was bleeding so freely they had to stop; Simon and Stephen placed Alysia gently on a cedar bench, beneath a tree that grew from a square of earth left in the midst of the pavement. Lazarus started to go toward the physician’s residence, but at a call from Stephen, stopped and went back. Paulus had no time to wonder what was happening.

“Sir!” The centurion walked toward him, withdrawing his sword. “Let me place him under arrest until this matter can be investigated.”

“No.” Paulus shook his head. “This is between him and me…and here it will end.”

Marcus held out his sword, giving him a salute of respect. Paulus nodded and took the sword. He turned to Lucius.

“You will pay dearly for this blood upon my hand.”

Lucius said, through clenched teeth. “Alysia will die.”

“And so will you.”