by Angela Hunt
* * *
I was pacing in the courtyard, my jaw tight, when I heard a rap at the gate. I pushed past the milking goat and my dye pots and peered over the stone wall. A beardless man in a short white tunic stood there. A Roman.
“My lady wishes to conclude her business with you,” the man said, peering at me from beneath a sweaty clump of thinning brown hair.
In the anxiety of the afternoon, I had nearly forgotten about my arrangement with the Lady Carina.
I glanced toward the house. I ought to call Yaakov to conclude this transaction, but I was still irritated with him for trying to dismiss my concerns about Avram. I turned back to the slave. “Did you bring the payment?”
Uncertainty crept into his expression. “My lady wants you to come with me. You will bring the package; she will pay you on delivery.”
I bristled. Had that woman forgotten our agreement, or had she deliberately decided to ignore my wishes? I ought to send this servant away and go back inside, but how could I walk away from so much money?
I bade the servant wait, then crossed to the wooden trunks where we stored our fabrics. I knew I shouldn’t go out alone, especially after dark, but the men were still eating—I could hear their baritone voices and Rachel’s soft murmur through the window.
Yaakov might not even realize I’d gone out if I returned quickly. And I’d be in the company of this servant …
I fumbled through stacks of woolens and linens, then pulled out the variable crimson silk. After smoothing my tunic, I tucked the bundle under my arm and slipped out of the gate.
The servant moved through the streets at a brisk pace, granting no consideration for my shorter steps. A full moon lit our way, shining on the homes of my neighbors—buildings of dressed stone and brick, some palatial and embellished by rows of pillars, others small and plain. Like ghostly presences, cloud shadows crawled across the street and slid up the walls, shading the rooftops where many of Magdala’s citizens had retreated to enjoy the cool of the night.
My gaze drifted up a stone staircase when I recognized the familiar voice of my closest neighbor. “Yes, she makes a lovely yellow,” Yudit was telling someone on the rooftop to my right. “But her prices are high, don’t you think?”
I lifted my chin. Yudit had to be talking about me. For some time I had suspected that she coveted my business, or at least my customers. I would have been happy to demonstrate my dyeing techniques to her or Hadassah, but Yudit had always been too proud to ask.
She would squirm with envy when she heard what I’d received for the silk.
After we passed the well at the town center, the servant knocked at the inn’s courtyard gate. My excitement swelled into alarm when I heard the sound of masculine voices from behind the wall—several Gentiles, speaking Greek. If they’d been Israelites, they’d have been speaking Hebrew or Aramaic.
When a serving girl opened the gate, I stepped into the courtyard and spied a knot of soldiers gathered around a fig tree. Some of the tension slipped out of my shoulders when I realized that they seemed at ease. More importantly, the centurion I’d seen on the road was not among them.
I drew a deep breath as we moved into the main hall. The servant ushered me into an opulent room with tile floors, sumptuous wall hangings, and a brightly tiled table. I waited in an incense-scented silence until the Roman lady breezed in from an adjoining chamber.
“Miryam,” she said, extending her hand as she glided toward a delicately carved chair. “How good of you to come. Will you have a seat?”
A plain stool stood across from the ornate seat the lady had chosen. I followed my hostess’s example and sat, positioning my package on my lap. I folded my arms and tried to behave as if I visited wealthy Roman customers every night.
“Would you care for something to drink?” The words had scarcely left Carina’s lips when a servant brought in a tray with two bronze goblets. Not wanting to insult my customer, I accepted a cup and waited until she drank before sipping the liquid.
She’d given me a cup of Judean wine, yet not even that sweet nectar could counteract the tension still tightening my nerves. I lowered the goblet to the tiled floor and straightened my posture. “I would like to conclude our transaction. I have a family waiting at home.”
Inexplicably, my hostess’s gaze darted toward the doorway through which she’d come, then she gave me an indulgent smile, like a woman amused by the antics of a simple-minded slave. “I like you, Miryam. When I met you this afternoon, I thought you an extraordinary creature. You’re nothing like the other Jewish women I’ve seen. They’re so silent when I’m around.”
I forced a smile. “You must not have visited the well early in the morning. You would not think our women silent if you had.”
She leaned to the right, resting both arms on a curved armrest. “You are more like the women of Rome. We are strong, taught to model ourselves after the goddesses who reside in our temples.”
Her mention of goddesses caught me by surprise. I had heard that the Romans employed all sorts of perverse graven images in their rituals and superstitions, but I had never heard talk of goddesses. Still, very little surprised me about heathens.
I tilted my head and tried to formulate a reply that would fall between offensive disinterest and overt fawning. “These goddesses—” I chose my words carefully—“do they help you run a household?”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Help? By all the gods, no! They are too envious, revengeful, and demanding. Yet my favorite is Viriplaca, the goddess of domestic life.”
“If she does not help you … then why do you worship her?”
The lady’s smile flattened. “She appeases the man of the house and turns his angry mood to gentleness. For even Viriplaca must submit to the head of the home.” She lifted her goblet and smiled at me, her bright eyes twinkling over the rim. “Drink, Miryam. Business need not be dull.”
Relaxed by the wine and intrigued by the lovely surroundings and a taste of forbidden knowledge, I lifted my goblet and drank. When I lowered the empty cup, the room had gone softer, the light fainter, and my blood had warmed in my veins.
She nodded at the bundle in my arms. “Did you bring the fabric?”
I unwrapped the linen covering enough to expose a flash of silk. In the coolness of this chamber, the fabric glowed like the deep scarlet of an overripe grape.
“May I see it?”
I gave her the bundle. Purring like a kitten, she stood and shook out the folds, then brought one gathered corner to her shoulder so the remaining length draped over her slender form.
“It’s wonderful.” Her voice descended to a low and breathy note. “This will make a robe fit for an empress.”
“And an emperor.” I pointed toward the excess length splashed over the tiles. “You could also have a tunic made for—well, the head of your household. Or anyone.”
“Ah.” She lifted a brow as if to acknowledge my tact. “Excellent. Thank you, Miryam, for delivering this.”
Her servant reappeared and stood at my right as if ready to escort me out. I hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. Had she forgotten the other half of our transaction?
I fixed her in my gaze. “I do not believe we have concluded our exchange.”
“Will the color change in lamplight, do you think?”
“But we are not done—the agreed-upon price was ten gold denarii.”
When a sly smile curved her cheek, I knew Yaakov was right—I should lower the price. I took a deep breath and began again. “For you, Lady Carina, I have decided to be generous. This exquisite fabric will be yours and yours alone for five gold denarii.”
Again she smiled, but made no move to fetch her purse or ask her servant for assistance. Instead, her plump mouth curled as if on the edge of laughter. “Do you value your life, Miryam?”
Stunned by the question, I couldn’t answer.
“If one were to assign a value to your life, would it equal five denarii? Ten? Perhaps even twenty?”
The truth hit me: She’s not going to pay a single quadrans. And I can do nothing about it.
Still, I pressed for justice. “I know we are different sorts of women, but I have established a good reputation in Magdala. My fabrics are of excellent quality; the colors are pure and worth every coin—”
She cut me off with an abrupt nod. “I could have had one of the legionnaires fetch the silk from your house, but I like you, Miryam. So I have paid for it with your life.”
I stared at her through a blank moment in which my head swarmed with words, then the truth struck with the force of a blow.
She belonged to a Roman soldier. A centurion … whose men had been gathering in the courtyard.
Not waiting for an escort, I whirled and grabbed up my tunic for the run home.
* * *
I heard the bedlam well before I reached our house. Screams and shouts filled the night that had been quiet only a few moments before; smoke and heat rolled through air that had been cooled by an evening breeze. When I turned the corner and scrambled toward our house, I saw the shadowed forms of my neighbors before the mud-dabbed wall of our courtyard. Beyond the wall, a wind-tattered fire sawed about in the darkness.
My trunks, my fabrics, my dyes. The Romans were burning everything.
A scream clawed in my throat. I raced forward, but had barely penetrated the crowd when muscular arms caught and held me.
“Miryam.” Yudit’s broken voice rasped in my ear. “Miryam, you are too late. They are gone.”
I turned to see my neighbor, her eyes wide and wet. Hadassah stood behind her, pale and shivering.
A sudden darkness bloomed behind my eyes. “What do you mean? Where did they go?”
“Come see.”
When the pressure on my arms eased, I realized that Uriah, Yudit’s husband, had been holding me. With Yudit’s arm about my waist, I tottered forward and saw four soot-streaked men emerging from our courtyard. They laid the bloody body of my husband next to the lifeless form of my firstborn. Rachel lay next to her husband. All three had been killed by a bloody slice across the throat … and some beast had also slashed Rachel’s expanded belly.
Her womb yawned like a gaping mouth.
Black emptiness rushed up at me like the bottom of a well. Strong hands snatched at my arms, but I fell anyway, landing on my hands and knees in the dust.
This could not be happening. I lifted my eyes and beheld fire shadows dancing on the faces of my loved ones. Beyond their lifeless bodies, flames spun in the wind with whoofs and puffs and streams of sparks that whirled off into terrible darkness—
“Binyamin!” I struggled to my feet and lurched toward the burning house. “My baby!”
“No, Miryam!” Uriah caught my arms in a viselike grip. “The fire is too hot.”
“But Binyamin! He’s still inside!”
Uriah shook his head. “We came as soon as we heard Rachel’s screams. They killed everyone before they started the fire.”
“They?” My gaze moved into his. “Romans?”
Concern flitted along with confusion in his eyes as he dipped his head in a reluctant nod.
My mind spun with bewilderment, then the events of the day fitted together like broken pieces of pottery.
Avram had instigated this. His moment of temper had goaded the prowling lion, and the lion had come back to devour us. Though Avram’s sin was great, greater was the sin of Lady Carina, who had condemned me to outlive my children.
Yet greatest of all was the sin of the men who had wielded their swords in my home. They had murdered my husband, my son, my daughter-in-law, my grandchild, and my precious Binyamin.
I tore at my hair, ripped my tunic, and fell to the earth, helpless and weeping as sparks rose from my home to dance hot and red among the stars.
Chapter Six
Atticus locks an arm on his crossed leg as the woman’s words wash through him, tightening his muscles like the grip of a nightmare.
He will never forget that night. He does not remember seeing this woman, but he remembers the fishermen … and the pregnant girl.
Under their centurion’s order, his eight-man contubernium left the camp and reported to the inn where Gaius was staying with his mistress. Gaius led them to a house in Magdala, then stood outside the courtyard and ordered the insolent young fisherman to surrender.
But the young man didn’t appear. Another Jew came into the courtyard, an older man with a graying beard, forelocks, and one of those Jewish shawls around his neck. For an instant, Atticus was certain the fellow would offer an apology, but the man had the temerity to ask what crime his son had committed.
Obviously, the older man had no experience with Roman discipline. Never one to tolerate anything less than instant obedience, Gaius signaled Atticus, who, as tesserarius, directed the group to follow him into the house. With his sword drawn, Atticus strode into the courtyard and pushed the man aside. One of his comrades took hold of the older man while Atticus led the others of his contubernium inside the building.
He wasn’t sure what Gaius had expected to find—armed rebels, perhaps?—but Atticus saw a family gathered around the remains of their supper. The young man leapt to his feet and stepped in front of a screaming pregnant woman. The Jew picked up a rusted iron sword and tried to strike, but Atticus parried the blow with ease, clearing a path for two of his comrades. They laughed as they caught the woman and dragged her out to the courtyard.
The younger man, so defiant a moment before, raced after her and broke when he saw a Roman dagger at his wife’s throat. He lowered his sword and wept. Two other soldiers forced him to his knees.
Alone inside the small house, Atticus searched to be sure no one remained. The home seemed prosperous; colorful garments filled the trunks and the scent of meat rose from the supper kettle. Hard to believe that these people could be serious enemies of Rome—aside from the single sword, Atticus found no weapons.
He was about to leave when a large basket against the wall gave a slight shiver. He caught his breath and tightened his grip on his blade. A small man could fit in such a basket. He could be waiting to spring and attack the moment a soldier turned his back …
Atticus steadied his weapon and moved forward with purposeful intent. After reaching the wall, he nudged the basket with the flat of his blade, then flipped the lid with an upward stroke. The straw cover flew off, and in the dim lamplight he saw that the basket had been used as a hiding place … and the sight of the person inside sapped the killing strength of his arm.
The basket had concealed a wide-eyed, nearly bald baby.
He glanced toward the doorway, through which he could hear the laughter of his comrades and the agonized cries of the Jews. If he carried this baby into the courtyard, Gaius would kill it in front of the young woman, for the child had to be hers.
He stared in fascination as the child blinked at him, its wide forehead knitting in what looked like bewilderment. Then the baby began to cry, a wail that sent a pang of nostalgia shuddering through Atticus’s frame.
Quintus. The name leapt unbidden into his thoughts, binding him to this child as if Quintus and this baby were one and the same.
“Shh.” Atticus sheathed his sword, then lifted the baby from the basket. The light wool blanket fell away, revealing the child’s sex, and Atticus took the sight as confirmation. A boy, like Quinn.
But unlike Quinn, this child would have a chance.
When Atticus had taken the sacramentum, the vow of a Roman soldier, he had sworn to kill anything, be it animal, barbarian, or Roman when commanded to do so. But he’d never thought he’d be ordered to kill an innocent babe.
He lowered the child back into the basket and pulled a cloak from one of the trunks. Knotting the soft wool at his shoulder, he created a sling like the ones he’d seen on the local women. Then he set the baby in the sling and adjusted his cloak so its folds covered the odd lump under his arm.
Confusion reigned outside. In a moment men would fire t
he house. Pandemonium would infect the neighborhood as shocked onlookers hurried to protect their homes from the flames.
Under the cover of darkness, he would slip out and return to their camp outside the city gates. A group of harlots had been following them since Tyre, perhaps one of them would see to the child until he could find the boy a proper home.
If the gods were merciful, this innocent one would be spared Quinn’s sad fate.
Chapter Seven
What do you mean, that story has nothing to do with why I’m standing in this judgment hall? That story has everything to do with why I am here. What you call my crime has its roots in that night.
I’m not sure what I did while my house burned—my memory of the rest of that night is spotty. I do remember sitting in my neighbor’s house the next morning as Yudit and several other women washed the bodies of my loved ones. I wanted to help, but every time I stood to reach for a basin, my knees went soft and my vision clouded.
Sweet Hadassah hovered near like a shadow, her eyes red-rimmed with weeping. Occasionally she would kneel on the mat where Avram lay and fresh tears would sparkle in her long lashes.
Because the Law forbids us to eat meat or drink wine, to put on the phylacteries or engage in study as long as a corpse remains in the house, Uriah and the men waited outside, leaving the dead in our charge. Several neighborhood women prepared food in the courtyard, and occasionally those who were tending my dead family stepped out to eat.
I could not even think about food. Something in me was amazed to discover I could still breathe.
My people have a tradition—so they will not be tormented by painful talk, mourners are greeted with silence until they instigate a conversation. So none of the other women spoke to me, though they often peered at me from the edges of their veils.
Respecting my grief, Yudit oversaw the ritual cleansing for Yaakov, Avram, and Rachel. To another neighbor she pointed out a small linen bag and remarked that it contained ashes and a jumble of small bones, all Uriah could find of Binyamin and the body of Rachel’s infant.