‘Greetings!’
Vivius breathed in sharply, dropped his hand to his side, and exchanging smiles of amusement with Claudia, he stepped back.
The bellowed greeting had come from a rotund Roman who dressed as if he hadn’t given any thought to it. He was trundling towards them with a slack stomach rolled over a thick brown belt, a wide grin spread across his red face, and a butterfly of sweat under the armpits of his tunic.
‘Senator Marcianus, I am so delighted you could join us.’
Vivius found himself warming to his host’s jovial greeting. If he had seen their near embrace, Vivius guessed he was too polite to mention it.
‘We rarely get visitors from Rome so I look forward to hearing your news. I am Hortensius and this is my dear wife, Suzanna.’ Hortensius flapped his hand at a thin mousey woman who, stirred by his impatience, picked up her skirts and arrived in a flurry of apologies.
Lunch was already laid out when Hortensius led them into the garden, and Vivius found himself wondering how this easygoing couple could have possibly struck up a friendship with an arrogant diplomat like Pontius Pilate. Their lifestyles and characters seemed miles apart.
After lunch, Hortensius suggested they leave the womenfolk to their chatter and he would give Vivius a tour of his olive grove.
Hortensius took him into the big sheds where he kept his oil presses first, then as they sauntered at a leisurely pace through the olive grove, they discussed the harvesting of olives; which soils the trees flourished best in; pruning, fertilising and the different methods of crushing olives to make oil. Vivius told him about his own olive grove, and the problem of the frost, insects, and his plans for extending.
Out of curiosity Vivius asked, ‘Tell me, Hortensius; isn’t it dangerous for a Roman to have an olive grove so far out of Jerusalem? Aren’t the Zealots a threat?’
‘Not really,’ Hortensius said easily. ‘It’s well known that I employ local people for my olive grove, especially during harvesting, and the Jews know I will employ them whenever I have an engineering project. I pay well, the Jews are pleased to have the work, so the Zealots leave me alone.’
Vivius raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re an engineer?’
‘Yes, when I’m not tending my olive grove I’m an advisor to the Roman Army. They use me from time to time.’
Vivius found his assignment rushing back to him with renewed interest. ‘Did they use you on the aqueduct project?’
Hortensius nodded and then paused as if reluctant to answer the question. ‘It was terrible, Senator. Terrible!’ he said in a low voice. ‘Two hundred Jews killed. I never thought I’d witness such an atrocity. It was a bad…’ He stopped abruptly, frowned, and then, as though relieved to have another focus pointed across his olive grove. ‘By Jupiter, there’s that blasted boy again! I’m sick and tired of telling his father to stop him playing in my trees. If he doesn’t give him a good thrashing this time, then I will. Excuse me, Senator, while I deal with this.’
Vivius silently cursed the interruption but felt he had no option but to stand by while Hortensius puffed his way towards two old farmhouses. They’re in a worse state than my own, Vivius thought. Their roofs sank in the middle and their wooden beams appeared to be struggling to hold the house together. In fact, it looked as though one heavy storm was all it would take to demolish them.
He turned back to the olive grove. It was the slightest movement that gave the boy’s position away. He was sitting under a tree scratching his ear.
It was that gesture, the scratching of the ear, that drew Vivius’s finger to the deep scar under his own ear. Strange, he hadn’t thought about that incident for years. He stirred uneasily as the awful memory nudged itself forward. Why in the name of Jupiter was he thinking of his childhood again? He’d put all that misery behind him years ago. Perhaps it was the sight of the old farmhouses? Perhaps it was the boy hiding in the… He found himself listening to the familiar shimmer of silver leaves in the olive grove; they seemed to be urging him to remember.
Again it was the small things that came to mind first; the foul smell of Fabiana’s sweat as she dragged him out of the olive grove, the image of her towering over him, whip in hand, the dry earth squeezing through his clenched fists as he curled up on the ground.
‘I warned you, boy. I warned you what would happen if you went crying to your father.’
The first lash had struck his ear. Wrapping his arms around his head he had tried to protect himself. Fabiana had grabbed the neck of his tunic; he’d gagged. The tunic ripped, and he felt the hot sun on his back. He could still remember the whoosh of air before the sting of the second lash. He cried out, only once. Then silence. The next stroke flayed his shoulders. The next…
‘What are you doing, Fabiana?’
The voice had sounded far away.
‘Mind your own business, Phaedo.’
Vivius had raised his head, squinting against the dazzling sun to see Phaedo, their quiet, new slave who knew everything there was to know about olives, towering above him.
‘Are you all right, young master?’
The voice still sounded distant. Vivius rubbed his ear. It was warm and sticky to the touch. He realised blood was running down his neck. Struggling to his feet, the world around him had reeled and his ripped tunic had slithered to the ground. Alarmed, his bloodied hands had clutched at his loincloth to avoid total humiliation.
‘The master’s not going to like you undermining me, Phaedo.’ Fabiana had spat.
‘And I doubt the Master will like the way you treat his son when he’s away.’
‘I’ve been caring for the boy since his mother died.’
‘And beating him into unconsciousness is your way of doing that?’
Phaedo had pulled Vivius to his side. ‘Leave the boy alone, Fabiana.’
‘Or what…what are you going to do?’
A slow smile had crossed Phaedo’s lips. ‘I’m going to speak to the boy’s tutor. He’ll not take kindly to the young master being whipped senseless so he couldn’t do his lessons. The master sets great store on his learning.’
That was when Vivius had spotted his Greek tutor riding across the field towards them on his knock-kneed donkey. The little girl who skipped alongside him was…Aurelia. Vivius hadn’t dared look at her but had dropped his head, intently studying the dust between his toes.
As the old Greek tutor dismounted, he said, ‘Aurelia will be studying with us today, Vivius,’ He had spoken as though nothing was amiss. ‘Go and get dressed will you?’
Vivius continued staring unblinking at the dust between his toes but then Phaedo had given him a gentle push. Still staring at his bare feet he had headed towards the old farmhouse. Aurelia had followed.
On the way to the old farmhouse he had felt his stomach churn, the vomit rise, but as he retched he put both hands up to his mouth, losing his grip on his loincloth. It slithered down his legs and landed around his ankles. Burning with humiliation he covered his private parts with hands streaked with vomit. He had been too embarrassed to see what Aurelia’s reaction was but she had digested the incident without a word. Averting her eyes she had bent down, picked up the loincloth and shyly handed it back to him. Then she had taken his filthy hand, led him into the kitchen and filled a bowl with water from the ewer. Gently pushing him down on a stool she had begun dabbing his back with a wet cloth. Vivius sucked in sharply through his teeth as cold water trickled into the open wounds.
‘They…they…beat me…Fabiana…my father…They…’
Those were the words he had blurted out and to his surprise, more followed but in a jumble of inconsistencies.
Aurelia had listened, her eyes widening in amazement at his story. Sometimes she would nod or furrow her brow but the fact that she had listened had drawn Vivius into his first real friendship—and with a girl, younger than him who…
‘Where is he, Senator? Where is he?’
Vivius turned to find a panting Hortensius and two of his worker
s bearing down on him; the butterfly of sweat had now spread down the sides of his tunic. ‘Where’s the vermin gone? I’ll give him the thrashing of his life when I catch him.’ Hortensius squinted over his olive grove. ‘Can you spot him, Senator?’
Vivius cleared his throat and pointed towards the archway. ‘I think he headed over there,’ he said and couldn’t resist a smile of amusement when Hortensius and his men waddled in that direction. The boy crouching in the trees grinned broadly at him.
Towards the end of the afternoon, an elderly, bald, sleepy looking slave wobbled into the garden with a tray of mussels, shellfish and salad which he set out neatly on the table. When they had had their fill, he brought in a larger tray filled with glazed ham, poultry, vegetables and sauces, which Vivius was alarmed to see wobbled even more precariously on its journey to them. It was only when the meal was over and Vivius had indulged in more than his usual intake of wine, that Hortensius brought up their previous conversation.
‘Ah! Senator, you were asking about the aqueduct and the death of those Jews.’
Vivius scrambled around his intoxicated brain for a way to deflect this controversial subject with Claudia in their presence, but with a wave of the hand Claudia did it for him.
‘Oh Hortensius, please. We’re not going to talk about Jews, are we?’ she said with a winning smile. ‘It’s been such a lovely day, and a relief for me to get away from politics. If you must talk about building projects tell the senator about the road you built around Galilee. That was a magnificent feat of Roman engineering, wasn’t it?’
Vivius raised an eyebrow. ‘You saw it being built, Claudia?’
‘Well…I didn’t exactly see it being built,’ she wavered.
‘But you’ve travelled on it?’ His lips twitched.
‘Not exactly but I was, er…’ and then from under cover of the table, her bare toes ran unhurriedly up the calf of his leg. ‘But I was told about it,’ she finished; her long eyelashes flickered mischievously at him.
‘Galilee? Ah, yes…’ Hortensius’s gaze drifted. ‘Beautiful road that was.’
As their host rambled on about the roads he had built in Palestine, Vivius was aware of Claudia’s toes moving gradually up his leg. He saw her lips quivering with amusement, found her mood—intoxicating, or perhaps that was the wine he mused. He hesitated, aware of the dangerous game he was playing, but the hesitation was brief. Lounging back in his chair he stretched out both legs; the beginnings of a smile playing across his lips.
CHAPTER EIGHT
(Jerusalem)
Zachary had planned to meet up with Simon in the marketplace, but when he opened the door of the safe house to leave, the unmistakable red flash of a Roman uniform across the road caught his eye. He slammed the door shut.
‘Romans!’ he hissed.
The scraping of stools and scrambling for weapons from the half dozen men around the table threw him into confusion. He scanned the room in a frenzied way for his sword. He’d put it down, somewhere? And where was the back entrance? Should they escape that way? Where was Barabbas? Ah! Upstairs with a girl. Zachary waited feverishly for someone to issue orders, like a child waiting for instruction. His teeth started chattering as it dawned on him that if he hadn’t got bored with keeping watch, if he hadn’t dozed off and…
Someone inched the door open.
‘How many?’
‘Can’t see.’ The man at the door turned to him. ‘You sure you saw Romans?’
‘Yes…I think…’
‘You didn’t fall asleep, did you?’
‘No, but…I…I was tired. I’ve been out recruiting with Barabbas all day.’ Zachary knew he sounded defensive but he couldn’t help himself.
‘I can’t see any Romans out there now, unless…’
That was when they heard the shout, followed by the clatter of many boots down the lane. A chill of fear ran down Zachary’s back.
Someone yelled, ‘Barabbas! Romans!’
Zachary heard a heavy thud across the roof just as the front door crashed open and a dozen legionaries charged in wielding swords. Zachary never even got the chance to find his.
* * *
Simon belched, dropped his chin into the cup of his hand and stared moodily over a table littered with empty spice bowls, plates and cups. Normally he enjoyed sharing the Passover meal with the Nazarene friends. It gave him a sense of belonging; but not tonight. He couldn’t concentrate. Besides, their numbers had grown to such an extent that half the people he didn’t know, and the upper room was so full it had made it hot, uncomfortable and noisy. And it wasn’t just this house that was bulging, Simon mused. The other homes were the same. Good news in the way the words of Jesus were spreading, but it did meant the Jewish authorities could no longer ignore them. In fact, the Sanhedrin had turned decidedly hostile lately. There’d even been arrests and beatings.
Simon’s gaze wandered towards the open window where the temple glowed orange and gold with the setting sun, and the Judean hillside had turned a dark shade of purple. As for the Pharisees, those keepers of religious law, he mused, they seemed determined to bring their sect down by twisting their words and insinuating they were teaching against the laws of Moses.
Rising to his feet, Simon fastened his sword at his side, draped his cloak over his shoulder and opening the door of the upper room stepped out into the cool evening air. He breathed in deeply. The fragrance of almonds drifted up to him from the tree in the courtyard, its white blossom barely moving, the air was so still. A bird sang his evening lullaby in one of the branches, it’s trill contented. But then, from somewhere within the house, a door banged, and the startled bird flew off over the roof tops.
Simon pensively rubbed his beard between his finger and thumb as he thought of the two hours he had stood waiting for Zachary in the marketplace. Admittedly, he hadn’t seemed overly keen to join him and his companions for the Passover meal, but Zachary wouldn’t have deliberately not turned up. He would have sent word. Simon touched the sword at his side. It was no good, he decided. He couldn’t concentrate on a Passover celebration until he had found out what had happened to the lad.
On the spur of the moment, he poked his head back around the door. ‘I’m going out,’ he said to no one in particular. The room was noisy with prayer, conversations and the humming of psalms so he wasn’t surprised when no one took any notice. He closed the door.
An aroma of roast lamb and spices hung in the air as he headed through the upper part of the city. Here, the streets were wider to contain the palaces of the rich and noble, and the lavish accommodation of the High Priest. It was only when he came into the lower part of the city with its narrow lanes and tightly packed houses that Simon became more alert for the Romans.
The harmonious singing of a psalm drifted down from one of the windows. It blended in with the hum of prayers and the tinkle of light-hearted laughter from other houses making the whole city sound like a musical composition. Simon knew he would have enjoyed a walk like this if he hadn’t been so concerned.
He passed pilgrims huddled in a corner, their dialects indicating they had travelled from Samaria, Perea, Galilee or further afield for this Passover. Their clothing was rough, their food sparse and their wine smelt cheap, but they beamed a festive greeting at him. Simon gave them a brief nod, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
He decided his best option was to go to the safe house he had frequented when he was with the Zealots, Nathan’s house. Nathan always knew what was going on in Jerusalem. He would know what, if anything, had happened to Zachary.
Winding his way through the back streets of Jerusalem he eventually reached the terrace of dilapidated flat-roofed buildings near the city wall. Nathan’s house was second from the end, squashed between a slim, two-storey house which was always overcrowded with dubious tenants, and a short squat building which looked as if one good push would demolish it. Zachary was bound to be there, Simon reasoned. The lad had probably just forgotten, and got too caught up
with the affairs of the Zealots.
He glanced furtively around to make sure no one was around before tapping on the door.
‘Who is it?’
No longer being a member of the regular Zealots, Simon deemed it prudent to answer, ‘Zachary Ben Elazar’s cousin.’
The door opened, cautiously at first, but on recognition swung wider, and Simon was greeted like a long-lost but well-loved comrade.
‘Simon? Come in, come in.’
Nathan was slightly built, slightly bald and wiry with unsettling black eyes. But Simon noticed the only real change in him was the jagged white scar on his leathery complexion which stretched from the corner of the eye to his chin. It gave a rakish edge to his appearance.
‘We don’t see you for nearly four years and then you arrive at my door as though you have the entire Roman Army after you.’ His eyes flashed a look of alarm. ‘You don’t, do you?’
Simon shook his head as he stepped inside the comfortingly familiar room. It was still sparsely furnished with four roughly made wooden stools, a table, a threadbare couch and wall-to-wall shelves of dishes and bowls. Simon had always wondered how Nathan found time to earn a living selling his pots in the marketplace. Every time he’d come across him he was either giving refuge to Zealots, planning campaigns or fighting Romans.
‘Is Zachary here?’
The fallen expression on Nathan face sent what remained of Simon’s hopes plummeting into the depths of despair.
‘The Romans raided the safe house at the other end of the city earlier today. Barabbas escaped but Zachary and another chap were arrested and taken to the fort.’
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