by Debra Diaz
Paulus stirred and sat up. His eyes, clear and ocean blue in the muted glow of the room, met hers. “What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It is nothing. I’m cold.”
He left the bed and began putting on his clothes. “I’ll go and get some coals,” he said. “It won’t take long. Be sure and bolt the door after me. I’ll knock twice when I come back.”
He slipped his dagger into its sheath and left the room. Alysia slid the bolt against the sturdy wooden door and went to the window. The full moon was high in the blackness…it would be hours before dawn. She pushed the shutters closed.
There was a hand mirror on one of the tables. She glanced into it, wiping the tears from her face. Two knocks sounded on the door and she went to open it, then bolted it again as Paulus poured a bucket of hot coals into the top of the brazier and closed its grated top. “The innkeeper wasn’t very happy about parting with these,” he said lightly. “I don’t think I’m the only one to visit him tonight.”
She barely heard him, and he asked again, “What is it, Alysia?”
She didn’t answer. Gently he took her arm, guided her toward the brazier, and stood beside her. A comforting warmth radiated toward them.
“You’re thinking of your husband.”
“I shouldn’t have married him,” she whispered. “Not…loving you as I do. But you’ve always known that, haven’t you?”
He drew her close into his arms. “There was a time when I was sure you hated me. And with good cause.”
“I hated your uniform. I hated Rome. But never you.”
His voice changed, became low and sober. “Does he treat you well?”
“Yes, but—he is not often home.”
“Because of his profession?”
“I—suppose so, partly. He was away earlier…he may not be home even now. I left him a message that I was with a friend. Paulus, why did Lucius come here? Do you think he believes I’m still alive?”
“No, he has no reason to suspect that. You couldn’t have known this, but there’s trouble in Rome. Sejanus is dead. Tiberius is busy routing out all his supporters. I think Sejanus and Lucius were acquaintances, if not friends. When Lucius left Rome there were probably already rumors that something like this would happen.”
Alysia moved back so she could see his face. “Sejanus is dead—but I thought Tiberius had supreme trust in him!”
“Perhaps he did once. Something, or someone, opened his eyes to the man’s ambitions.”
“I’m glad you’re not in Rome just now.”
“Nobody could accuse me of supporting Sejanus,” Paulus said wryly. “But then again, people will say anything to save their own necks. It probably is a good thing I’m not there.”
It had grown pleasantly warm in the room. Alysia relaxed against him; she felt him pull her closer, felt his cheek against her hair.
“It will be a few hours until daybreak,” he said quietly. “Do you want to leave?”
Her head moved slowly back and forth. “I never want to leave.”
CHAPTER XV
Morning came; the night was over, drawn down into all the past nights of her life. But this one…this one she would remember, always.
She pulled Nathan’s cloak over her gown. Paulus had just slipped his tunic over his head; he was about to go and get Simon. The two men would return to the inn and Paulus would watch for Lucius while Simon followed her at a safe distance and made sure she arrived safely in Bethany. The coals in the brazier had died to ashes and it was cold again. Paulus tied his belt and went to her, taking her arms in his hands. “You must be more careful. You must stay safe. I’ll find a way to make Lucius leave Jerusalem. I should have done so before now.”
Alysia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He put his hand beneath her chin, lifted her face, and gently kissed her.
Without warning the door crashed open, the wooden bolt flying across the room. Shocked, they both spun to face the door. Paulus reacted with a swiftness the two attackers had not anticipated, and in a single movement pushed Alysia out of harm’s way and grabbed his dagger from where he had placed it on a table.
One of the men was a giant, a head taller than Paulus and twice as wide. As Paulus sprang at him, the other man swung a club and knocked the knife from his hand. Paulus’ fist smashed into the man’s face, slamming him backward against the wall. The larger one struck Paulus from behind with stunning force. He whirled and knocked the breath from that assailant, just before the other man recovered his senses and brought his club down hard on Paulus’ head. He slumped to the floor, then groaned and attempted to rise. The larger man struck him with his fist, while the other kicked him in the ribs. Paulus moved no more.
Too stunned to scream, Alysia was pulled, struggling, through the door…all the while hanging back and trying to see how badly injured Paulus might be, whispering his name, barely able to speak. Instantly a rank-smelling cloth was stuffed into her mouth The street was empty as the two men dragged her into an alley, and from the shadows emerged four robed and turbaned men. Coins quickly exchanged hands; there was a brief, muttered conversation. One of the attackers had a bloody face and limped down the alley. The larger one remained, holding her tightly.
Alysia managed to spit out the cloth and found her voice. “Let go of me!”
“Be silent, adulteress,” said one of the Jews.
She stopped her wild grappling as the word exploded in her brain.
“The punishment for adultery is death, by stoning.”
“I am not Jewish!” she cried desperately. “You cannot judge me by your laws!”
The men, all of whom were bearded and dressed as Pharisees, looked at each other. One of them said in low tones to the man holding her, “You were to make certain that the criterions were met.”
“Oh, I know who she is—she’s married all right, to that Zealot I’ve told you about. And that wasn’t him she was with.”
All four of the Jews then turned and began striding rapidly down the alley, their black robes and broad, tasseled borders flapping, their pointed turbans bobbing beneath the head coverings that were almost as long as their robes. The hired man forced her to follow. Alysia was frantic, choking back sobs. Through the narrow, unpaved streets, past the yellowing limestone houses they went, until she saw they were heading for the Temple.
“They are going to kill me,” she thought, and stumbled against the man dragging her. He picked her up and carried her struggling form under one arm, climbing up the steep flight of stone steps until they came to one of the entrance gates. Once inside the gate the man shoved her through the dimly lit passageway, up more stairs, until they emerged onto what was called the royal portico; it was upraised and surrounded by innumerable white columns. The morning sun threw the portico and the vast pavement into shade, and there sat a number of men and women, listening to a man who sat on a row of steps before them. He had dark hair tied in the back, and alert dark eyes that glanced away from the crowd and directly into her own.
Jesus of Nazareth. This was too great to be borne…surely nothing she had ever done warranted having to face this man with her shame!
“Master,” called one of her captors, in a deliberate, falsely humble tone, “we are sorry to interrupt, but we have a question of the utmost importance.”
The four Pharisees had been joined by several other men, clad in expensive-looking robes; they were scribes and other authorities in the Law. All were somber and silent, and stared fixedly at the Nazarene. None of them so much as looked at Alysia, whose head was covered by the hood of her cloak. She was in front of the crowd, so that no one but Jesus and the disciple who sat next to him could see her face. As she stood there, trembling, her abductor yanked the hood down, causing her hair to spill out and over her shoulders; he shoved her forward yet again and turned to disappear amidst the rows of mammoth columns.
She held her head high, drawing the cloak tightly across her body with trembling hands. Her lips parted and she b
reathed rapidly; she could see her breath plume before her in the cold morning air. A sudden gust of wind lifted her wildly cascading hair, and it played about her head like a cloud of darkness. Bright color stained her cheeks. Her knees shook so that the enveloping garment quivered over them.
“The Law,” continued the Pharisee, “commands that those guilty of adultery be stoned to death.”
They would take her outside the city walls, they would pick up the heavy, jagged rocks…Alysia would steel herself for the first cruel blow, her body would be broken beyond recognition. Her scalp tingled, as if anticipating the first stone that would flatten her skull.
“What,” said the Pharisee, “do you say?” They stood there, watching him.
But the Nazarene did not even seem to hear them. After his first glance of recognition, he had turned his attention away, as though to show his contempt for her accusers. His jaw tightened with what seemed repressed anger. His gaze was on the pavement, which bore a coating of the white dust that covered everything in Judea. Then he leaned over slightly and with his finger began writing in it.
Alysia could look at no one else. Her cascading hair still shielded her from the crowd behind her. The people were utterly silent and she could feel dozens of pairs of eyes pinned to her back. All activity at this early hour had ceased, the babble and movement of those few strolling across the Court of the Gentiles, the clinking of coins at the Treasury…
“This woman,” said the same Pharisee, rather testily, “has been caught in the very act of adultery!”
The Nazarene continued to trace a finger in the dust, his brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought.
“Rabbi,” called one of the scribes. “Our Law says to kill her! Will you deny the Law? What shall we do with this woman?”
The crowd began to murmur. And at last the Nazarene moved.
He rose, his lean form unfolding with slow deliberation. He drew himself to his full height, and under his steady gaze the crowd quieted again and waited for him to speak. His voice came low but seemed to ring in the stillness.
“Whichever one of you has never sinned, be the first to cast a stone at her.”
Silence hung in the air. Alysia held her breath and closed her eyes, but only for a moment. And, unbelievably, Jesus sat down and began writing again. One of the Pharisees seemed about to speak, but he stopped and looked at his comrades. He was the eldest, the one of most authority. He turned abruptly and walked away. He was followed by the remaining three, and finally the younger scribes and lawyers. The crowd, too, began to disperse, with puzzled and guilty looks; only the disciple remained sitting, and he had propped his arms across his knees and was staring at the ground.
Alysia found herself alone. Once again the Nazarene’s eyes met hers, and his look of compassion was more than she could bear; it was more painful than the cruelest taunt, the worst insult. There was no accusation in his eyes, no anger, but she saw clearly reflected in them the enormity of what she had done. What had seemed right now seemed terribly wrong…wrong for so many reasons…wrong because she had created a breach in her marriage, and marriage was a sacred thing. Wrong because she had violated the law of God as willfully as if she had stood before him and shaken her fist in his face.
She had only just begun to accept the concept of God. He had no face, no form …whenever she tried to envision him she could only see the Nazarene. She felt as if she had sinned against him, for his teachings about the sanctity of marriage had been all too clear. A great sorrow clutched her heart, greater than any sorrow of her life.
Once more he rose to his feet and stood before her. “Where are your accusers?” he asked quietly. “Has anyone condemned you?”
She stuttered with cold, and delayed emotion. “N-n-no man, Lord.”
“Neither do I condemn you.” He reached out and touched her arm, and the moment he did so she felt a peculiar energy that seemed to seep strength into her failing limbs. “Go, and sin no more.”
Her eyes stung with tears. She took a single, experimental step and found that she could walk. She tried to speak, but her voice broke and she turned away. Bringing the hood up to cover her hair and shield her face, she slipped past him between the marble pillars, down the stairs and through the passageway, then down, down the endless steps to the street below. The motion seemed to have a rhythm; every touch of her feet against the earth seemed to say “sin no more, sin no more.” In a deserted alley she fell against the side of a building, leaning her head against its coldness.
With rising panic, she thought only of Paulus. Had they killed him? She began to run again with short, dragging steps; she stumbled and half fell, sliding down until she leaned against the wall of the building. Her heart thumped so erratically it was difficult to breathe.
Dimly she heard the sound of hoof beats as a horse thundered past at breakneck speed. She raised her hand to shield her face from the bits of dirt churned by the racing hooves. A wild neigh came from the horse as it was violently halted, then someone lifted her head. She opened her eyes to see Paulus kneeling beside her.
“Alysia,” he said hoarsely, brushing the dirt from her face and smoothing her tumbled hair. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just get me away from here.”
Wordlessly he lifted her in his arms and settled her upon the horse, once more pulling the hood of the cloak over her face. He urged the horse forward, passing under one of the arches of Herod’s bridge. He guided the horse up the steep ramp of the fortress, passing several surprised-looking guards; he helped her dismount and ushered her through a little-used door of the praetorium. Paulus spoke brusquely to the sentry, who stood at attention and averted his gaze. Once inside, he picked her up again and carried her swiftly down a deserted corridor. He entered one of the rooms and kicked the door closed, setting her down gently in a chair.
“I was afraid…you were dead.” Her throat was so dry she began to cough.
Without speaking, he went to a table in the corner of the room and poured water into a cup. Coming back to her, he laid his hand on her shoulder and put the cup into her hand.
“I’ll have an ache in my head for a few days to come. I found a horse outside the inn and went looking for you. Are you feeling better?”
She nodded, handing him the empty cup.
“I want to know what happened.”
Alysia told him, haltingly, and saw with growing alarm that he had fallen into a cold and silent rage. She read the look in his eyes.
“Paulus,” she implored, stretching out her hand to touch his arm. “You mustn’t do anything. Whatever you do to those priests will cause them all to hate Jesus more. It will cause trouble for him. And it was he who saved me.”
Paulus turned abruptly and crossed the room, slamming the cup onto a table. “Do you mean they took you from the inn, forced you to the Temple and tried to kill you?”
“By Jewish law, I have sinned.”
“Rome is the law here! They have no more authority than—than those crows strutting in the field they try so hard to imitate!”
“Paulus.”
He stopped his angry pacing at the sound of her voice. “What is it?”
“Please promise me you won’t arrest anyone. I don’t want him in trouble because of me.”
“Alysia, I’m not going to arrest the priests, simply because it would involve you. But they will answer for what they did. As for those two miscreants who abducted you I will make no such promise. I should have known that—” He seemed to think for a moment, then gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “You’ve been the victim of a double treachery in as many days. First Megara, and now this.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was intended to be a trap, Alysia. The leaders of the Jews want to discredit your Nazarene. Either he had to tell them to disregard the Law, or say you had to be killed. Either way, so they thought, he would be finished. He could not, and probably would not, evade their Law, and yet only Rome can order the death penalty. Any
one who does so, an official, a priest, a teacher, risks his own life.”
“Yes,” she said, “it did seem like a kind of test. He seemed to want to ignore them and they wouldn’t stop.”
“What was he writing on the pavement?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t see it. I don’t know if that’s what made them stop. I only know that they looked guilty and walked away.”
“They weren’t going to kill you—I’m sure he knew that. They only wanted him to say you should be killed, and probably hoped the crowd would go along with it…”
An authoritative knock sounded on the door leading from the corridor. Paulus flung it open to reveal an agitated sentry. “I am sorry, sir, to interrupt. We have new prisoners, captured last night raiding an army outpost. They’ve admitted their guilt and pledge that only death will stop them. The officers need you to look them over and sign the order of execution.”
“In a moment.” Paulus closed the door and glanced back at Alysia. “Are you well enough for me to leave you?”
She nodded, trying to smile. To her surprise he moved to the side of the chair and knelt beside her. “Alysia, forgive me,” he said earnestly. “I have done you a great wrong. The only thought in my mind was that I loved you, and wanted you. I can never make amends for what this has done to you.”
She put her hand on his cheek. “Paulus, your guilt is no greater than mine. But God help me, it will never happen again.” She dropped her hand from his face.
Paulus got slowly to his feet. “Rest for a while. Then we’ll find a way to get you home.”
She nodded again, and with a last look he quit the room, closing the door behind him. Outside, Paulus gave the captives only a cursory glance as he reached for the sheet of papyrus awaiting his signature. But he looked up again with a sharpness that puzzled the young sentry. Paulus fixed his gaze on one prisoner with wild auburn hair, glaring brown eyes, and a face streaked with dirt and blood. There was something familiar about that face. He looked at the list of names before him.