by Debra Diaz
There had been in the ancient past a great flood that had destroyed all the people on earth, except for one man and his family. This much Paulus believed, since every culture had a flood story; there were even some people who claimed their ancestors verbally passed down the memory of it from generation to generation. He knew people who claimed to have seen pieces of the great ark in which the man Noah had survived, on the mountain where it had come to rest.
Mythology had changed the story into Noah’s being a god; his time on the ark was like death; his eventual departure from the ark onto dry ground was like a rebirth. Oh, there were literally scores of versions. But they originated with the Jews, and with Moses, who had written the account beginning with the creation of the earth.
As he recovered, he sought answers. He began reading the Torah, the five books written by Moses. He read the Jewish prophets. He read the Psalms, by King David and the writings by David’s son, Solomon. He read everything he could find, sending Simon almost daily to the library at the house of the High Priest. (What Caiaphas thought about this pastime remained known only to Caiaphas…who, in fact, secretly suspected the legate was about some spying mission and wondered if he should complain to Pilate.)
Paulus’ questions remained unanswered but his interest continued to grow. And he grew particularly interested in the prophecies concerning the Messiah, the so-called and long hoped-for rescuer of the Jewish people. After all, this was something that directly concerned him. The appearance of a “messiah” certainly didn’t mean that prophecies were being fulfilled. Anyone could rise up and claim to be such a man, and in fact many had. They had all fallen by the wayside and been forgotten. But if and when such a leader appeared, he would be a direct threat to Roman authority.
And Paulus intended to be ready for him.
* * * *
Lucius Aquilinus was bored. The debauchery of Rome no longer intrigued him and he was, after thirty-four years of life, growing weary of his idle pastimes. His wife did nothing but grow fatter and more irascible…and she doted completely on their two sons, who were as fat and irascible as their mother. And they were spoiled, unendurably so. Even Lucius’ tantrums hadn’t been so indulged.
He was tired of the games and amusements, tired of pretending to like certain people when he despised them, tired of politics. There was something in the wind concerning Sejanus; he wasn’t sure just what it was, but he was quite sure it was not something he wanted to “wait and see” about. He and Sejanus traveled in the same social circles and should anything happen…well, it would be good to be far away. He’d already been with every beautiful woman he cared to pursue; they, too, bored him.
His mind took the same route more and more of late, and he would remember a certain Athenian slave, a woman of striking face and slender form, of sharp wit and sharp tongue. He would think of her with mixed longing and hatred, and hoped that if there were such a place as Hades that she was there and suffering indescribable torments for the murder she had committed. (This desire was not prompted by grief for Magnus; it was simply that the deed itself had been a direct affront to Lucius.)
“She did it to spite me,” he thought, with oft-recurring fury. “Paulus turned her against me the day she set her foot in his mother’s house, because he coveted her beauty and wanted no competition for her favors.”
Then Lucius began to brood about Paulus. That conceited charlatan of a stepbrother! He hoped that Paulus never recovered from the loss of his lover, and wished that Megara with her carping ways would send the noble legate to an early grave. He deserved nothing less.
In fact, that might be an interesting thing to witness, he mused. Certainly more interesting than anything around here.
CHAPTER XIII
“The bridegroom is coming!”
The cry rang out long after dark had fallen, startling Alysia out of a pleasant half-sleep. The flat tones of a ram’s horn rent the stillness of the April night.
“Behold!” the groomsman called again. “The bridegroom is coming!”
Mary was already up and lighting lamps. Martha ran into Alysia’s room; she was fully dressed, so Lazarus must have forewarned his excitable sister. Voices, laughing and amiable, could be heard on the street nearing the house.
Alysia jumped up and thought wildly, “What am I doing?” But all at once the room was full of giggling bridesmaids…they were all Mary’s friends…and Alysia was being dressed in a white gown and they were putting a wreath of flowers around her head. Her heart pounded fiercely; it was all happening so fast!
She was shoved good-naturedly out of the house, where she saw Nathan and his attendants and some fifty or more wedding guests waving myrtle branches and palm leaves. Some were singing to the accompaniment of drums and pipes and cymbals. Happy and excited, they helped Alysia climb into a palanquin and bore her gaily down the street, lighting the way with torches and oil lamps.
She’d known the time was near but somehow she wasn’t prepared. She tried not to think about the last time she’d ridden in such a conveyance; she tried hard to banish Paulus completely from her thoughts. He must have no place now, in her mind or in her heart.
The celebrants stopped when they reached Nathan’s house. Alysia climbed out of the litter and Nathan, flushed and beaming and dressed in a white tunic, took her arm and turned to greet the guests. (Paulus had been wearing a white tunic that night…) As was the custom, he read aloud their marriage contract in which he named the ways he would provide for her, and proclaimed himself to be her husband and she his wife. Then he took his bride into the house and shut the door, and escorted her into the bridal chamber.
Breathless, Alysia looked at the room he had so carefully built and decorated. It was spacious, with a large bed laden with pillows, there were bright rugs on the floors and tapestries on the walls. Someone had already brought in her chests filled with her belongings and the things she had sewn.
“It is indeed fit for a queen,” she whispered.
He seemed pleased, took her in his arms and kissed her.
* * * *
“She is like the budding rose in the springtime; her fairness dims the very sun!”
“Her hair is black as a raven’s wing; her eyes like jewels, like amethysts; her lips are as red as the anemones in the field.”
“Solomon with his gilded tongue could not give justice to such beauty!”
Alysia didn’t take the flattery too seriously, for it was all part of the wedding custom to compliment the bride and make her feel even more special at the end of the seven days of seclusion with her bridegroom. Now the couple had emerged to participate with their guests in the marriage feast, which was being held at Lazarus’ much larger house.
Martha bustled about directing the servants. There was an abundance of food, the best wine; everyone laughed, everyone seemed to think it was an excellent match (except for some of the unmarried young girls who eyed Nathan mournfully.) He is handsome and strong and kind, Alysia thought. Why am I not as happy as everyone else?
It was, indeed, just a few weeks later that she knew she’d made a mistake. It was a completely insignificant moment, except for that unwelcome revelation. She was standing outside at the oven, cooking supper…such a normal, everyday occurrence, but it was accompanied by a feeling of deep disappointment.
The house she now lived in was small and made of clay brick with a brick floor. It boasted four rooms; a kitchen (the oven was outside), a bedroom (her bridal chamber), and two extra rooms; one was for storage and the other would be for the children they might have. She knew she should count herself fortunate, for many people lived in one-room houses with a dirt floor. The furniture had been skillfully crafted by the town carpenter.
A stairway ran up the outside of the house to the flat rooftop, and they had furnished it with chairs and a table. She and Nathan spent whatever leisure time they had there, as did their neighbors on their own rooftops. It wasn’t that she minded living in a small house with few luxuries. She would do that
gladly, if circumstances were different.
What circumstances? she thought. But she knew.
She gingerly attempted to remove the spitted meat from the oven. The flames licked hungrily at her finger and she snatched her hand away, watching the meat fall with a triumphant hissing sound into the glowing embers. She fished it out with a wooden spoon and took it into the house, washed the ashes from it and put it on a plate. Nathan would be home soon and would be famished, as usual, and if he made one remark about the charred meat she would…well, she didn’t know what she would do.
Now she knew how foolish she had been to think that Nathan, that anyone, could be a substitute for Paulus. Of course, he was good to her, she was fond of him, she respected him and was grateful he had wanted to marry her in her penniless state…even though Lazarus had been good enough to provide a sizeable dowry! But she suspected that her husband’s sense of loyalty to the Zealots surpassed his sense of duty to her, for many a night she was left alone while he went to secret meetings and plotted against the Romans. Worse still, his touch failed to stir her to the emotions so easily evoked by Paulus, who could take her breath away by merely looking at her.
Her thoughts ran rampant as she contemplated the burned meat, and she felt overwhelmed with self-pity. For the first time since leaving Rome a maddening sense of injustice filled her, making her want to scream with frustration, to fling herself on the floor and beat her heels against it like a thwarted child. Why was she denied happiness, when she had only tried to do what was right? But it was too late to change anything. It was all done now. She was doomed to feel lonely and unhappy for the rest of her life.
Yes, she was lonely; it was sympathy she needed, someone to whom she could pour out the whole story, from the beginning of her captivity to this moment. But there was no one she could tell who wouldn’t be horrified, who wouldn’t consider her immoral. Besides, the only person she really wanted to talk to was Paulus. He understood her, even when she was at her worst.
Alysia stared down at the table before her. Then she realized that Nathan was late…again…and his supper had grown cold.
* * * *
“Enter,” Paulus called, in reply to the knock on the heavy wooden door. He stood beside the window on the second floor of the praetorium, gazing down at the turmoil in the streets of Jerusalem. The celebration of their main religious holiday, the Passover, was at hand. For days Jewish pilgrims had been pouring into the city from all over Palestine, from all over the Empire, on foot, astride donkeys, in caravans. The surrounding towns were packed full; many had pitched tents in the public garden on the Mount of Olives; others thronged the streets looking for a place to stay. Some, for whom it was their first visit to Jerusalem, converged on the streets wanting to see the fabled buildings and Herod’s amphitheater.
Paulus had tripled the number of legionaries patrolling the streets. He doubled the sentries overlooking the Temple and had soldiers on rooftops all over the city. After his experience with Zealots, he was taking no chances.
In appearance he had made a complete recovery from the almost fatal attack over a month ago. His skin had resumed its healthy tan, his scars and broken arm were healing, his limp was gone. But something remained, a gruesome memory of his butchered men that would stay with him the rest of his life. And but for some mysterious quirk of fate, he would have been among the dead.
In response to his call, a servant entered, bowing stiffly. “The governor has arrived, sir.”
Paulus descended the long row of stairs to the first floor and walked into the room where the prefect of Judea was handing his dusty mantle to a slave, while another swiftly bore upon them bearing a silver tray of wine and cheese.
Pontius Pilate turned to regard the legate with a wariness he tried to conceal. “Paulus.” He accepted a cup from the tray and gestured with it. “Another for the commander. Sit down, Paulus. How are you? It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?”
Paulus noted the not-so-subtle air of authority Pilate was asserting instantly over both himself and the fortress…as was his right. He made a cordial reply and the two men sat facing each other. The prefect stretched out his legs and slouched forward, as if to relieve the pressure of sitting.
“Tell me, Paulus, how do you like being back here? I confess I was surprised to hear of your appointment.”
“It was time to leave Rome. I’m quite satisfied with the appointment.”
“Indeed.” Pilate looked disbelieving. He drank deeply and sighed. “Have you been outside? It’s like Rome on a circus day.”
“So far I haven’t seen any signs of—trouble.”
Pilate frowned. “The Jews are an obstinate race, as you well know. The potential for trouble is always there—but I hardly have to tell you that, eh? I see you have recovered from your little misadventure. Did you catch the men responsible?”
Paulus looked up as the servant brought more wine. “Some Zealots were caught and executed last week, but there was no way of knowing if they were involved in that particular attack. Most of them wouldn’t talk even if offered their freedom.”
The prefect nodded. “I’ve brought five hundred extra men…there is plenty of room in the barracks, as I recall. Herod planned for such contingencies when he built this place. I assume you’ve met the High Priest, and the members of the Sanhedrin?” he went on, looking at Paulus curiously. He wanted very much to know why the legate had been sent here; of course, everyone knew that Sejanus disliked him, so that could be the explanation.
“Yes,” Paulus answered, looking faintly amused. “I’ve met the council, and Caiaphas, as well as his father-in-law…and I would say they give new meaning to the word ‘arrogant’.”
“Ah, yes, but they play the game well. They’ve just never forgotten the priests used to be in control before we Romans spoiled things for them, and they still act as if they’re running the country. In a way they are, since Caesar’s policy is so tolerant of them. You need to make a show of force once in a while—show them who’s really in charge.”
It sounded like good advice from Aelius Sejanus. Paulus offered no comment.
“Believe me, if there ever is a hint of insurrection, the priests will be the first to put it down, if at all possible. Should they fail to do so they would be in danger of losing their power. And they have a great deal of power. They’ve gotten rich from the business of running the Temple. And no matter how contemptuous they are of the common man, they love to see the masses come into the city. Because these people spend money, and they give to the Temple treasury.”
“You only confirm my high opinion of them,” Paulus said. He already knew all this, but if Pilate wanted to share his knowledge it was always wise to listen.
“And I suppose you’ve been told that we hold the vestments of the High Priest here at the fort; they have to come and get them when it’s time for one of their ceremonies. Our little way of keeping them in their place.”
Before Paulus could reply a sharp rap sounded upon the door and it swung open to admit Megara, dressed in a gown of vibrant green with her red hair piled in the most fashionable of coiffures.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said brightly.
“Pontius Pilate.” Hiding his surprise, Paulus got to his feet and said, “May I present my wife, Megara. This is the prefect of Judea.”
Megara smiled. “I came to visit my husband, and what a pleasant surprise to see that you have arrived. I am living at Herod’s palace.”
Pilate nodded, his dark eyes full of admiration. Megara studied him with interest. He wasn’t as tall as Paulus, and somewhat heavier. The top of his head was bald, with close-cropped gray hair on either side. He wasn’t handsome, but he had an undeniable attractiveness with lean, hawkish features, and when he spoke she thought his voice exceptionally well-modulated…rather like an actor’s voice.
“I am delighted to meet you, Megara. I regret that my wife couldn’t accompany me this year. I know you would have been great friends.”
&
nbsp; “I pity, I’m sure. I hope she isn’t ill?”
“No. But extremely busy.” Pilate did not elaborate on his wife’s affairs.
Paulus surmised quickly that Megara had been waiting for Pilate’s arrival so that she could meet him. After all, he was the highest-ranking official in the country, aside from the governor of Syria—and Megara was nothing if not ambitious. There was little chance Pilate would visit Herod’s palace, for it was common knowledge that the two men disliked each other intensely.
“Oh, I envy her. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be busy.” Megara ensconced herself in a comfortable chair as Paulus resumed his seat.
“So you find it as tedious here as I do?” Pilate chuckled and winked conspiratorially at Paulus.
“Well, tedious is perhaps not the right word. But there is only one good theater, and even it can’t compare to those at home. Only the Greeks are any good at managing theater. And I find this city entirely lacking in good society. My husband doesn’t understand. He has his duties to occupy him and I have nothing.”
“But have you not met any of the other Roman matrons here?”
“My wife is rather particular about her friends,” said Paulus blandly, when Megara hesitated to answer.
“And what’s wrong with that?” she snapped suddenly, causing Pilate to raise his eyebrows. “I seem to recall that you used to be just as particular. At least I don’t include among my friends a Cyrenian slave. Or a Greek—”
Megara stopped, for Paulus had a peculiar expression on his face and seemed to be daring her to continue. She looked appealingly at Pilate. “It’s just that I’m so lonely. It’s having a frightful effect on me. Why I hardly ever dare leave the palace with all that rabble outside.”