Rome 2: The Coming of the King

by M C Scott

  ‘They surely would not. When did you get this?’

  ‘It was waiting for me here in Jerusalem. Along with this …’

  Saulos opened his hand to show another translated message. With dread pooling in his gut, Florus smoothed it open and read again.

  From the Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus to Gessius Florus, governor of all Judaea, greetings. You are ordered to aid us in our repair of Rome after the devastations of fire. Our treasury is sorely pressed. We require, therefore, that you relieve the Temple in Jerusalem of its funds, of which our need is the greater. Do this with all speed, by our order.

  The paper fell from Florus’ fingers, a fluttering moth, ignored by them both.

  ‘We are to take the gold from the Hebrew temple?’ Florus asked. ‘All of it? This can’t be true.’

  ‘Not all of it. Not the sacred treasure, the many-branching candlestick, the table, the trumpets, the altar. Those can be left. If we take only the coins now, that should be enough. I am told there could be as much as fifteen talents in gold.’

  ‘Fifteen talents? Why do they keep so much?’

  Saulos’ vocal hands described a small, pious movement in the air. ‘Their god requires gold for his works, I imagine. But if Nero needs it to rebuild Rome … We would have to say his need is the greater.’

  The sinking sensation in Florus’ lower abdomen became fluid and turbulent until he thought he might disgrace himself there, in front of this fastidious, smiling demon. He folded his arms over the small mound of his belly. Somewhere high in the walls, a rat twitched; even the vermin, it seemed, were appalled at what he had said.

  He began to pace to keep his bowels closed, and, pacing, he spoke as he thought. ‘Nero wishes peace in Judaea. He told me so at every meeting before we set sail and he has sent message-birds to me three times already this year, saying exactly the same. After the bloodbath of Britannia, and after the fire, we cannot afford another war. Those were his words exactly; I have the messages yet if you wish to peruse them. And he is right; however poor the treasury, however stripped of funds, if the emperor orders us now to rob the Hebrew temple of its gold, the War Party will have their holy war and not a man in Jerusalem will stand against them. You must understand this. If we try to do as this asks, there will be war – and we may fail. If the High Priest stands against us, if he sets his holy men at the temple gates to block them …’ Florus closed his eyes against the image of Roman legionaries hacking their way through a wall of unarmed priests to gain access to the Temple’s wealth. ‘We can’t do it,’ he said, with finality.

  ‘Ananias won’t stand against you,’ Saulos said, as if that were consolation. ‘You forget that Rome has the power to command him, not the Hebrews or their god. He takes his orders from you and you take them from Nero. That’s why he’s High Priest. If he disobeys, then we find another to take his place who understands where true power lies.’

  Florus found that his fingernails were digging into his palms. He forced open his hands. ‘Everyone knows that true power lies with the man who commands the largest army. Do you know how big the Jerusalem garrison is – or should I say how small? We have half a legion, all of them infantry.’

  ‘We have half a legion of solid Roman soldiers, not the Syrian trash who kept the peace in Caesarea. They are famed throughout the empire.’

  ‘Fame does not give strength of numbers. We have three thousand men, of whom five hundred are at Masada. In Jerusalem there are, at any given time, one hundred thousand Hebrews. If Menachem can rouse them all, if he can arm them against us—’

  ‘He can’t arm them all, he can’t arm even a hundred of them; it’s why he hasn’t attacked you yet. He has men whose only arms are a food knife and a big stick and he knows it’s not enough.’

  ‘Do you say so?’ Florus swept a hand through his hair. Discretion abandoned him. ‘You are a spy, your sources are impeccable of course, I bow to your wisdom, but if Menachem decides that a knife and a cudgel are sufficient, have you thought what will ensue? We will be outnumbered by fifty to one. I don’t care how famed your garrison is, they will lose, and we will die – and Rome will have lost all of Judaea.’

  He turned on his heel. The room was placid, painted in pastel yellows, with flag irises in an urn faintly scenting the air. He wished he were back in Rome. Or Corinth. He had liked Corinth. Nobody had tried to kill him there.

  At the turn’s completion, he came to a decision. ‘Get me a scribe. We will send a message to Rome. It may be that this was written wrongly, that a fault was introduced when the code was transcribed. We will ascertain—’

  ‘You will do as you are ordered, and you will do it now.’ Saulos was standing some distance away, fingering a fruit knife that looked longer than anything required to cut pomegranates. His voice was distantly cold. ‘I carry Nero’s seal. I am his representative in the east. You have no authority except what I lease to you and that lease is running out. I could appoint Agrippa as governor in your stead.’

  ‘Agrippa? Ha!’ Florus’ laugh was pitched higher than he intended. The skin under his left eye jumped. ‘Are you completely mad? He wouldn’t stand against—’ He stopped, like a man who has taken a wound, and only now knows himself dying. ‘He is yours, heart and soul and body. He will do as you say.’

  Saulos smiled.

  Florus looked away. ‘Have you planned a way to do this that will not kill us all? Or will it kill everyone except you?’

  ‘It will kill no one who matters. It will achieve the aims of the emperor, and there will be peace. The High Priest will play his part, you will play yours and the Hebrews will mutter and throw stones, but they will not dare revolt. They may be a hundred thousand, but they are an unarmed, disorganized rabble gathering in derelict houses and we will make sure that they remain that way.’

  Florus said, ‘Someone, somewhere, will throw a stone at a legionary. Blood will be spilled.’

  ‘Of course. And so someone, somewhere, will be crucified. You will see to it, I’m sure. It won’t be the first or the last, and it will cool their ardour for long enough. Now, we must discuss—’ Distantly, a bell rang, silver-pure. Saulos snapped his fingers in irritation. ‘We have exceeded our time. It would have been good had you been able to rise earlier from your slumbers. As it is, I must leave.’

  Florus let his gaze be caught and held. He sustained the contact longer than he thought humanly possible and in that time he decided that Saulos was, indeed, a ghûl, one of the undead, sent to walk amongst the living. What else had eyes so utterly devoid of feeling?

  Saulos recovered first, laughing softly. ‘I will leave now,’ he said. ‘We shall take a day to prepare. Tomorrow, we shall mount the steps to the Temple. Be ready then. And be more … clean.’

  *

  ‘Gold! Gold and blood! I don’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.’

  Kleopatra knelt on the floor of a small, disused attic room and stared down at fingers black with dust and grime. She wanted to sneeze and did not dare for fear they would be heard; two walls and a ceiling grille separated them from Florus, who stood in his chamber where Saulos had left him. She wanted to weep, but the world had become too difficult for that.

  She raised her head and peered at Hypatia. The Chosen of Isis was staring at the wall, at the closed door that hid the long, hot listening tunnel that led to the governor’s room. Kleopatra said, ‘I moved when the governor read out his orders. I’m so sorry. If they find us, it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Nothing’s your fault.’ Hypatia roused herself. ‘They thought it was rats. They’re too busy planning how to take the temple gold.’

  ‘Why, though? Why would Nero want to rob the Temple? Does he not understand that the gold is given to the god?’

  Hypatia shook her head. ‘Nero didn’t send that order. The emperor is strange and wild and uncontrolled, but he isn’t mad.’

  ‘So the message is a forgery?’

  ‘It has to be. If Saulos wants to destroy Jerusal
em – which he does – he will need to enlist the power of the legions to do it. To get them to invade, he needs a revolt, and there’s no better way to rouse a revolution than to rob the Hebrew god of its gold.’

  Hypatia stood with her fingers pressed to her temples. She was filthy. Dust smeared across her face where she had pushed her fine black hair out of her eyes. The nails on her left hand were broken where she had levered open the tiny trapdoor set in the tiles high in the wall. Her tunic was black where she had crawled along the tunnel and lain in the baking heat, high up, right under the roof, had lain listening to the planning of an abomination that was more than simply theft.

  Kleopatra said, ‘If Saulos takes the temple gold, then the dream is happening, isn’t it? The dream of blood and gold and death.’ Her voice was too high, too querulous. She did not know how to change it.

  ‘It is happening. Our question now is which of the several possible outcomes will take place.’ Hypatia looked older, wiser, more distant; almost returned to the coldness of that first meeting when Kleopatra had stuck out her tongue, just to see if she could break the woman’s brittle shell. She regretted that, now.

  She said, ‘Not all of the endings were bad ones. Can we make one happen and others not?’

  ‘We can try. Why else are we sent the dream, if not to know what is possible?’ Hypatia looked down at her hands, at the broken fingernails. ‘I need to tell Pantera what we’ve heard. But first …’ She turned, surveying the room. ‘We need to sweep the dust so that nobody knows we’ve been here. Help me.’

  In a cupboard at the room’s far side they found brooms and cloths and used them. Where the track to the hidden door was too obvious, they moved a crate to cover it.

  When they were done, Kleopatra dusted her hands, looking down at her ruined tunic.

  ‘You look as if you’ve been breaking horses in a dust yard,’ Hypatia said. ‘You should bathe again and then change your clothes.’

  Kleopatra raised a brow. ‘Not just me.’

  ‘But you can go to the baths and say that you were in the market, whereas I must to go out into the city.’

  ‘To tell Pantera that the dream has started?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can he stop this?’

  ‘If anyone can. But only if he lives long enough to escape the gold and blood in the dream. If I were to leave the palace by the slaves’ door, can you lie for me and say you don’t know where I am, that you haven’t seen me since we returned from the market?’

  Kleopatra grinned. ‘You have no idea how well I can lie.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  YUSAF BEN MATTHIAS’ house in Jerusalem’s lower city was mirror to the man; richly, even sumptuously decorated, but never brash, it screamed restraint, and whispered of immense wealth, and wisdom.

  Pantera, Mergus and Estaph dined under many-branching candlesticks, lying in the Greek style on couches of plain oak and carob wood; no jewelled inlays here, but a quality of workmanship that left Pantera stroking the wood, feeling underneath for the joints, just to know what they were like and how they were done.

  Woven mats on the walls kept out the heat and on them were designs that would have put the temples of the empire to shame; intricate sworls and leaf-like spears in arrays of subtle hues: dusky lavender, pale sky-blue, a hint here of yellow, there of a red deeper than wine.

  Mannerly servants brought fish and then fowl: a wild goose, stuffed with apricots. After it was lamb, roasted in garlic with a sauce of capons and vinegar. Dates followed and fresh figs, and pomegranates, with ivory picks to lift the seeds. Three wines were served, and when Pantera demurred, well-water came, cold as winter, so that beads of condensation furred the outside of the perfectly plain, perfectly proportioned silver beaker.

  And through all of it, they talked; of trade, of travel routes, of cargoes, of camels – a lot about camels, the memories of a month spent travelling overland were still ripe – and of taxes.

  They spoke of history: of the Persian kings Cyrus, Darius, Artaxerxes; of Alexander, who followed them; of Mithridates and Tigranus and the satraps who followed the King of Kings in Parthia and together made an empire to rival Rome’s. They spoke of trouble in Alexandria, where the Hebrews were forbidden to take up public service, and of that which might soon follow in Corinth. They spoke of the Hebrew prophecies, of her king who would come and rule the earth in peace; and they spoke of faith and the exigencies of faithful service. They spoke not at all of the riot in Caesarea, or of the opposing factions in Jerusalem, ripe with mutual loathing.

  Presently, a steward brought wide, soapstone lamps swimming with good oil that filled the wall niches and the host moved his guests from the dining benches through to a courtyard open to the sky, planted on all sides. The scent of lilies sweetened the night sky. Fish moved lazily in a central pond.

  ‘This is very Greek in its style,’ Pantera said.

  Yusaf gave a wide, open smile that made the most of his long face. He wore a cap to cover his baldness and, because it was of velvet that matched his coat, it did not seem untoward, or pretentious or unworldly.

  He said, ‘I find it sets my foreign visitors at ease. And there is, perhaps, less chance of our being overheard as we speak. In Jerusalem, you understand, one is never certain …’

  ‘Not only Jerusalem,’ Pantera said.

  They stood around the pool, three men looking in at the silvery fish, and soon there came a knock at the door in a particular rhythm. The steward opened it to a round-faced man whom Pantera did not recognize.

  Menachem arrived before the door shut, but from the other direction, so that he and the other man met on the threshold. There was a moment’s silent conflict before Menachem took a half-pace back and let the stranger enter ahead of him.

  He walked with purpose, this newcomer, but not arrogance. He was older than either Menachem or Yusaf and stockier than both. His mild gaze hid an unmild mind. Pantera caught his eye and was held a moment and let go. He thought he had been recognized.

  At a nod from Yusaf, the steward vanished into the interior, from where the scent of cooking fires still permeated. Yusaf himself served the wine and stood on the threshold of the courtyard garden.

  ‘Gideon ben Hiliel, allow me to introduce Sebastos Pantera, Appius Mergus and Estaph of Parthia, all three in the service of their emperor.’ Not our emperor. ‘Gentlemen, for the avoidance of doubt, Gideon leads the Peace Party in Jerusalem; Menachem ben Yehuda ben Yehuda, grandson to the Galilean, who so discomfited Rome, leads its opposite, the War Party.’ Yusaf gave to each leader a small, formal nod of his head. ‘You are both welcome under my roof. Here no man has ascendancy; here, our god is paramount. You have both come knowing that, and prepared to talk. Menachem, your cousin Eleazir is not with you. Did he not receive my message?’

  ‘He received it. He did not agree with its contents.’ Menachem had found the second of two places in the courtyard where the lamplight did not reach. Pantera was already standing in the first.

  To Pantera, as if he were the one who had asked, Menachem said, ‘My cousin Eleazir is a grandson of the Galilean just as I am. He believes war with Rome is inevitable, and that it should begin sooner rather than later. He will not attend any meeting with those who argue for peace.’

  Pantera said, ‘If you die, will he become leader of the War Party?’

  ‘He will. I do not, of course, intend to die, but if I do there will be war with Rome within days, whether the men are armed and ready or not.’

  ‘Then they will all die,’ Gideon said, flatly. ‘And bring catastrophe on our heads.’

  ‘Of course. Which is why we shall be brief. I would not leave Eleazir long alone.’ Menachem lifted his deep-set eyes to his left. ‘If ben Hiliel would speak, I will hear him.’

  Gideon ben Hiliel spoke with the gravelled voice of the learned, so that the others fell naturally still, the better to listen.

  ‘We are here at the behest of Pantera, the emperor’s man.’ He gave a measure to th
e name that sounded at once honourable and faintly distasteful. ‘He asserts, I believe, new reasons why conflict with Rome is unthinkable at the present moment. Before we go further, I would hear him speak.’

  They waited. At Yusaf’s nod, Pantera stepped out of his shadow into the half-moon of lamplight that held the south edge of the garden pool. Water lilies kissed the edge by his feet.

  ‘You have no weapons,’ he said. ‘You have men, but they have sticks and stones and knives and nothing more. Menachem’s grandfather, the Galilean, began his campaign by assaulting the armoury at Sepphoris, and was able to arm his zealots for a generation, while—’

  ‘While’, said Gideon, ‘the women and children of Sepphoris were sold into slavery and the men and boys were crucified. Ten thousand died so that the Galilean could wage his war. We forget that at our peril.’ His gaze was on Menachem. The words had the worn feel of an argument chewed over so long that neither side truly hears it.

  Menachem gave a small shrug. ‘We know the capacity of Rome for vengeance,’ he said. ‘We do not forget. You know our state.’ He tipped his head towards Pantera. ‘So now we know your spies are good, and you have the wisdom to understand what they tell you. What can you tell us that is new?’

  ‘A man has come. His name is Saulos and he holds in his hands both the soul of King Agrippa and the courage of Governor Florus. He, too, is a spy. He, too, knows your state: everyone does from the imperial palace to the far borders of Damascus. The difference is that Saulos wishes the destruction of Jerusalem. He will do whatever he can to achieve it and the best way by far would be to foment a revolt in which untrained men armed only with sticks and stones hurl themselves on trained and armoured legionaries. You might win a battle. You probably would. You could not win a war.’