“But there would always be the risk,” said Arrius quietly. “But outside the city—in a place where fear will keep eight people out of ten away... I think they’ve got her at the catacombs.”
“The catacombs?” croaked Marcus hoarsely. “You mean the old Jewish burial grounds?”
“Christians bury their dead in catacombs as well,” said Arrius. “There are two that I know of, and Mithras knows how many more. One of my informers tells me there’ve been rumors of the Christians using the old one down on the Ardeatine Way as a hiding place as well. It’s where we’re going tonight.” He dipped out a cup of wine for himself and stood for a moment in the hot bright bar of the window light, gazing into distance.
“Arrius,” croaked Marcus after a time. “Is it possible—do you think that Tiridates might be Papa?”
The centurion was a long time silent, thinking this over. At last he said, “It’s perfectly possible. It would be the best reason I can think of for his attending Quindarvis’ supper-party last night. When the Christians were broken out of jail, he was nowhere in sight. And that’s exactly what he’ll say if we make a move against him without red-handed proof. He could have given all the orders beforehand; in fact, he contrived to be on the spot when the Christians were transferred to the holding jail. We saw him there ourselves. Would he really have gone all the way down from the Aventine to the amphitheater, just to kiss his boyfriend?”
“But then why did the other group of Christians rescue me?” asked Marcus, confused. “I would have thought they’d let me be killed.”
Arrius turned back with a short laugh. “Never think it. They said themselves they didn’t get a look at the bearers, didn’t they? Communications can get crossed like that in any operation. In Germany I’ve fought tremendous battles in the snow against what turned out to be the other half of my own scouting party.”
“But if Tiridates is the head of the Christians,” protested Churaldin, “why would he attack the woman he was going to marry in the first place?”
Arrius shrugged. “Part of the setup.”
“You mean the whole betrothal was to get her in his power?” demanded Marcus, aghast. “But why go to the trouble? Why not simply kill her?”
Sixtus’ voice was deep, quiet against the clatter of pans, the rising babble of Aramaic and Celt from the courtyard below. “Perhaps because, like lovemaking, revenge is the sweeter the longer it is spun out.”
Marcus met his eyes, blue as cold water in their shadowed pits, and looked away, slightly sick at the thought.
“Or perhaps,” suggested Arrius softly, “her death isn’t what they intend at all?” He drained his cup, set it with a small soft chink on the table, and turned around, the sun seeming to drench his soldier’s cloak in new blood. “Have you thought of that?” His leather-hard face was as calm and detached as it had been in the darkness under the Flavian, when he’d cut the Christian’s throat. “D’you seriously think any man in Rome will marry a girl who’s been kidnapped by the Christians, Marcus? Who’s been living among them for days—weeks, maybe, by the time she’s found? Who’s been subjected to every perversion from murder and cannibalism on down?”
Marcus looked away, staring fixedly into a corner of the ceiling, and did not reply.
The grating voice went on, “You think any man will have her? Or any man’s family? Knowing old Varus, do you think even her own family will have her back?”
“Shut up,” whispered Marcus.
“Some philosopher you are,” snapped the centurion brutally. “Have a look at the truth for once. Under those circumstances Tertullia Varia would have no choice but to remain with the Christians—to become a Christian herself. And in that case, do you think as long as Tullius Varus holds prefectural powers in Rome he’d permit any kind of general persecution, such as they’ve been talking about for years, against the Christians?”
“Yes!” shouted Marcus, his ripped voice burning like Greek fire in his throat. “Yes, he would, the stiff-necked, jealous, dirty old bastard! He’d cut her throat with his own hands!” And he turned his face away, sobbing, his body aching as though he had been beaten.
A shadow crossed the glare of the light. The soft heavy wool of a toga brushed against his arm, and a strong hand pressed his shoulder. Sixtus’ deep voice spoke quietly, “We’ll find her.”
Beyond him, Arrius rasped, “You’re the gods’ own optimist, old man.”
Marcus felt him look up, meeting the centurion’s cynical eyes; he felt the serenity flow from him, as warmth flows from a fire on a freezing night. “We’ll find her,” he repeated, and there was no question in his voice.
“You sure we want to?” And he heard the soldier’s heavy tread pass from the room and tremble through every board in the rickety building as he strode down the stairs.
X
The practice was repeated annually at a fixed season. They [the Jews] would kidnap a Greek foreigner, fatten him up for a year, and then convey him to a wood where they slew him, sacrificed his body with their customary ritual, partook of his flesh....
Apion
MARCUS PASSED THE REST of the day as though numbed. He slept, heavily and amid dreams of racking pain. Twice he woke, to stare hopelessly at the blot of sunlight where it had moved upon the wall, tortured by blurred memories of last night’s opulent horrors and by the centurion’s brutal surmise. Both times someone spoke to him—Sixtus or Churaldin, he wasn’t sure which—and both times he drifted almost immediately back into a kind of stupor. The third time he woke it was late afternoon. The room, which faced east, was heavily shadowed. Through the window he could see the line of sunlight, yellow as summer butter, on the wall of the court. It was about the eighth hour. Sixtus still sat on the windowsill, reading Marcus’ much-battered copy of the Enchiridion.
“You still here?” Marcus mumbled, and the old man looked up and rolled up the book.
“I thought I’d remain until I was sure you were well,” he said. “Arrius sent a message about an hour ago—if you want to be part of the expedition to the catacombs, they will leave from the prison at a little before sunset.”
“All right.” He swallowed experimentally. The pain was not noticeably less, but his voice seemed to be coming back. “I’m sorry I deserted you last night—I thought if I followed them...”
“You did well,” said the old man. “After hearing all that passed between Tiridates and his bearers, had you wasted time coming to me first I should probably have hit you with my stick. My only fear was that you’d managed to get yourself devoured by Quindarvis’ lions.” He set the scroll on the sill, rose, and came over to stand at the foot of the bed, his game leg dragging stiffly behind.
Marcus sighed and shifted his gaze from the corner of the cracked ceiling to the old man’s face, which was scarcely less lined. “So you know about them?”
“Nearly everyone in Rome does. There are rumors that they are the reason for the extremely good behavior of his slaves.”
Marcus shook his head tiredly. “I’m afraid the rumors are wrong. It’s the fish, not the lions, you have to beware of.” He wondered whether it was only exhaustion, or if, like Arrius, he was becoming inured to the world’s horrors. For in truth, among everything else last night he hadn’t even given the poor little drunkard’s death a second thought. The noise of the music must have drowned out his screams, if he’d uttered any. “Other people must know about that,” he said at last. “You’d think somebody would—would at least denounce him.” But already he asked himself, to whom?
Sixtus shrugged. “On the whole, public opinion runs against that sort of thing, but there are ways and ways of dealing with public opinion. I knew a man in Antioch who was supposed to boil his slaves, but his feasts were never thin of company. He had an excellent cook, entertained lavishly—and one could never complain of the service. And then, in the crowd Quindarvis runs with—”
“Weren’t you shocked?” Marcus interrupted weakly, recalling the old man reclining in the midst
of that blazing firefall of vice, the rescued child huddled at his feet.
Sixtus replied mildly, “I am never shocked.”
Marcus sighed and shut his eyes. His body felt like one vast ache, sinking slowly back into unconsciousness.
“Marcus,” said the old man. “What Arrius said about Tertullia Varia...”
Without opening his eyes, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“The Christians would not do such a thing. Believe me, they would not.”
At least the Christians Anthony and Josephus had made sure that he came to no harm. “But it makes sense,” objected Marcus, feeling as though he spoke from a great distance away. With a bitter chuckle, he added, “It’ll make sense to her father.”
“That is why she must be found before he returns to Rome. Listen to me, Marcus. Do you love this girl?”
He opened his eyes, looked up at that robed white figure that seemed so tall against the light of the window, the sun-riven face and scarred soldier’s hands. “Does it matter if I do?” he asked hopelessly. “Arrius is right. I’m a philosopher—or anyway that’s what I’ve chosen to call myself. At least I can look at the truth. The least I can do is—is school my mind to bear it.”
Sixtus asked him, “And what is the truth?”
He forced his cracked voice steady. “That she’s dead. By their hand, or by her father’s, after.”
“That isn’t truth,” said the old man. “It’s only the comfort of despair, to keep your heart from hurting.”
Anger flared into him at these words, but there was no reply that he could make to them. He lay back, deathly weary.
Sixtus went on, “Despair is so much easier to bear than hope, Marcus. The truth is that we do not know the truth. Do you truly love this girl enough to marry her?”
Marcus was silent for a long time, looking within himself for the truth. Not any philosophical truth, but simply truth about himself. He finally said, “I don’t know. I think so, but—I won’t know until I see her. If she won’t have me, if she thinks I’m taking her out of pity...”
“Would you take her out of pity?”
He started to deny it, then stopped himself. “I don’t know that, either,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t so insult her, but—I don’t know.”
Sixtus nodded, not seeming to demand an answer, having once made Marcus aware of the question. He said, “It’s still four days until the prefect is expected back. She may be found tonight, or tomorrow night—You will have time to think. The city prefect may be stiff-necked and intolerant, but if we can face him with his living daughter and some viable alternative fate, I doubt that he will be able to harm her in cold blood.” He limped to the wall, and found his staff leaning in a corner. “Hold to hope, Marcus. In default of knowledge it is all we have, and in some cases it can be greater than knowledge.”
Supporting himself on his staff, he limped from the room and was gone.
Though the siesta hour was largely past, Marcus remained where he was, his body aching so badly he wasn’t sure he could have got up if he’d wanted to. He listened to the voices of the children in the court outside, the women arguing back and forth across their tiny balconies, the thundering gallop of periodic footsteps up and down the halls. He wondered if it was possible to hope.
“Do you truly love this girl enough to marry her?” Marcus looked around the broiling, dingy single room, with its single small chest, containing his precious philosophical scrolls, that a couple of planks had converted to a table, its narrow third-hand bed, its few rickety stools. The whole place looked dirty and sordid. No different from how it had always looked, of course, but now he felt impatient with it. Whether I married her or not, he thought, I certainly wouldn’t want to bring her here. When this is over, I’ll have to do something about that. Just what, he wasn’t sure, but it was in the back of his mind that, if asked, Sixtus could help him somehow.
“Hold to hope...” It was hardly the counsel of a philosopher. The Stoics said, “Train your mind to accept what is, and unflinchingly meet Fate.” Better advice, maybe; aside from being grossly emotionalistic and illogical, hope was exhausting. But altogether an odd sort of advice for a philosopher to give.
But then, Sixtus himself had admitted that before he had ever begun his studies of philosophy, he had been crippled in that pursuit by the knowledge that in every human soul lurks the potential for unknowable evil. No wonder the old man had become a hermit, thought Marcus, watching through the window as the sunlight moved slowly up the cracked stucco of the courtyard wall.
Tomorrow night was the summer solstice. If they could find her by then...
“The sacrifice is an important one,” Tiridates had said to his slave. “And doubly so now.”
Why doubly so? Because it would mark Tullia’s initiation into their rites? Because having once sacrificed, there would be no way out for her?
Someone scratched at the doorframe. From the hall a hesitant voice called out, “Silanus? Marcus Silanus?”
He made a move to rise and instantly sank back again, his teeth gritted. Then he yelled back, “I’m coming,” and levered himself very carefully off his bed, found his tunic, and pulled it stiffly on as he limped to the door.
The face of the thin, somewhat bent middle-aged Jew standing politely in the darkness of the hallway was vaguely familiar to him, but the memory was unclear. Maybe it wasn’t that sharp vinegary face at all that he recalled, but one like it...
“Symmachus? Isaac Symmachus?” He stood aside, to let the stooping gentleman pass.
“You remember,” he said, and entered the room with that same hesitant gait, almost a limp, that Marcus recalled from that one flaming scene he had witnessed in the shaded porches of the Basilica Ulpias. His voice, which had been little more than a screech of rage then, was bitter and husky. “I almost wish you didn’t.”
“You’ll have to excuse my housekeeping,” murmured Marcus—his usual apology to anyone who entered his lodgings—as he dumped piled clothes off his one backless chair. The man’s diffidence so embarrassed him that he added, “I’ve had enough rows with my own father about my philosophy I don’t think I should have been surprised to learn Judah had them, too.”
“I daresay,” murmured Symmachus. “But I misdoubt your father ever came storming up to you during one of your philosophical discussions and tried to seize you and drag you bodily back to his house. I—was angry,” he added quietly, folding his pale thin clerk’s hands, with their soft wrinkles and smutches of ink and chalk dust. Then he looked up again, his sharp dark eyes bitter, “Though why anyone expects their anger to excuse such actions I have never understood.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Marcus, seating himself on one of the other stools. “How is Judah? I haven’t seen him since he—he left philosophy.”
There was a moment’s awkward silence, the elderly Jew staring down at his linked fingers, his oddly sensitive mouth thinned in an expression that reminded Marcus tremendously of his friend’s. Finally he said, “Neither have I.”
Marcus looked up quickly.
“Oh, he still lived beneath the ancestral roof, for a bit. He was seldom home. I should have known that ending his course of studies among the pagans wouldn’t kill whatever worm it was that gnawed at his heart. A wicked and iniquitous generation, but—my son. They say, ‘Do not rebuke the scorner, for he will hate you.’ And in the end he left, of course.” The skin over the fine knuckles paled momentarily. “I heard from him once. I only wondered if you had.” He did not meet Marcus’ eyes as he spoke. It was enough, thought Marcus, that he would have to be asking strangers—and gentiles, to boot—the whereabouts of his own son.
“No,” he said gently. “But then—I knew Judah. I guessed, when he quit coming, that he wouldn’t flout your will.”
“You mean you guessed that his straight-laced, stiff-necked old father had succeeded in harrying and chivying a promise from him to give up the heathen delights of t
he philosophy of the Greeks? Something I daresay yours never did?” And the dark bitter eyes traveled slowly over the shabby room.
“It isn’t quite the same,” said Marcus, though in his heart he knew it was. He realized Caius had been right: There is truth and truth. He could hardly tell this grieving man that he had indeed been responsible for his only son’s desertion. “For one thing, our circumstances are different. I’m not my father’s only son. And I’m a Roman citizen. My father may consider philosophy unmanly, but not unclean. Judah told me once that the philosophy of the Greeks, to your people, was about one step above pork chitterlings for dinner.”
Symmachus made a sort of hoarse squeaking sound deep in his throat, a bitter chuckle, or a desperate attempt to suppress tears. “‘A foolish son is a grief to his father, and bitterness to her that bore him.’ And they say also that if you beat your child, he will not die, but if you beat him you may deliver his soul from hell. And to hell, I fear, he has gone, and will drag us all with him.” Perhaps for concealment, he leaned his lips against his knotted hands. “He has become a Christian.”
For a moment Marcus did not know if he wanted to weep or burst into uncontrollable peals of laughter. He wondered if his friend, the only other one of Timoleon’s students to whom he had felt drawn, had been one of the men who had dragged Tullia from her litter the other night. He wondered if he would meet him that night in the catacombs.
When Marcus made no response to his words, Symmachus looked bleakly up again. “I understand his—his seeking of them. He was impatient with the Law, and angry with all things. He asked what our nation is, now that the temple is gone; what are we, now that our land is destroyed. To Jews, Christianity is something different than it is to those who do not understand the Law. To a Jew turned Christian it is flower and fruit, which justifies the long waiting of the vine. I understand Judah’s impatience... but I’m afraid for him, Marcus Silanus. I’m afraid for us all.”
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