by Debra Diaz
“We’ll be in Rome by tonight, if I can make this creature move,” he told her, and Rachel nodded, taking her place behind him. She didn’t want him looking at her, for she felt dirty and disheveled.
An early morning haze hung over the countryside…the barely visible stars faded to a milky glow. The old man had provided them with a crust of bread and some cheese that had suspicious green spots on it, but they ate it anyway, breaking the bread into pieces as they walked, and drinking from the waterskins. The pavement was bordered by large stones, and behind the stones were green hedges, and rows of cypress and pine trees. In the distance the sloping land was dotted with oaks, myrtles and laurels, and sheep grazed peacefully on the hillsides.
The sun lowered. They passed streams over which hung the long, thin branches of willow trees, and rustic farmhouses and barns. The closer they came to Rome, the more villas and large farms appeared. Roads branched away here and there, connecting them, and there were more vehicles and people, and soldiers on horseback.
Rachel knew this road, and braced herself. Yes, the tombs were coming into view…they were of every shape: quadrangular, square, circular, some built like temples, some like towers. They stretched on for miles… marble and stone, some plain and some decorated with statues and carvings and elaborate inscriptions, gleaming under the darkening sky.
Among them was the tomb of her parents. Someone had written Simon after her father’s death, and told him that Paulus had been buried with her mother…at the behest of Claudius…and had described the tomb and its location. She wouldn’t look for it…not now. It was a strange feeling, to know that they were somewhere near, and she began to shiver in the heat. Sensing her discomfiture, Metellus looked at her, but her gaze was straight ahead, and it was as though she were in another world.
The city gate loomed before them and, at last, they were in Rome.
CHAPTER VIII
Megara had always been adept at eavesdropping, and never missed an opportunity. One could learn valuable information standing at closed doors, or hiding in some shadowed corner, and on the few occasions she’d been caught she had managed to cover her actions with a hastily invented excuse.
The palace at Caesarea was full of intrigue…never more so than now, when the rebel party called “Zealots” was growing stronger every day. Besides the jealousies and power plays between Romans, and the complaints of the Jewish leaders, there were the rebels to contend with. They had been kept in line in years past, but a weaker leadership had allowed them to flourish. Today, sitting beside a window next to the half-closed portal of the governor’s reception room…as though she were merely enjoying the view of the sea…Megara learned of another subject being thrown into the political muddle.
“I hope, Governor, that you are keenly aware that I am your friend.” This was Ananias ben Nebedeus, the Jewish High Priest who resided in Jerusalem. “The Sanhedrin has never wished for these disturbances, and as you know, we have often taken drastic steps to stop anyone we considered dangerous.”
“Indeed.” The procurator, Cumanus, sounded bored and indifferent.
“I believe we are aware of this,” she heard her husband say. His voice was thin as a reed, and always ready to express in its tone either apology or agreement—why could he not be more forceful…have some backbone?
“I think,” Ananias said cautiously, “that it would be mutually beneficial to come to some sort of understanding about these factions.”
“An understanding?” said Cumanus.
Someone, at that moment, closed the door. Annoyed, Megara rose from her bench and sat down in the windowsill, as close as she could to the next window. She could still hear them, though faintly…the noise of the sea striking the rocks below did not help.
What would the guards think when they passed by and saw her sitting there? They hopefully would not realize she was listening to a conversation in the next room. Perhaps she was a trifle old for sitting in windowsills—but her looks had seldom failed to get her out of a difficult situation.
“The Christians are the main cause of disturbance in Jerusalem,” said Ananias. “Even more so than the Zealots. I have thought of a way to put an end to it.”
“I have never understood the hatred you priests have for these Christians,” Drusus said. “Especially since many of them are Jews.”
Ananias’ voice was cold. “Because they worship a man. A common carpenter who tried to make himself out to be God. It is the height of blasphemy!”
“It has been difficult to deal with these people,” Cumanus acknowledged, with a spark of irritation in his voice. “Although, they are generally peaceful, and keep to themselves. Many are Roman citizens. They give us no trouble, except for the way they stir up the Jews. We cannot simply execute them for no reason. It would be easier, Ananias, if you just let them alone.”
“That is impossible! Their preaching and going about pretending to perform miracles—disturbs the peace as much as any Zealot activity! We have flogged them and put them into prison. It doesn’t stop them. It is an insult to Caesar! You know very well the Christians contend that this Jesus is their king.”
“What is your plan?” Cumanus asked, boredly.
“Turn the Zealots against the Christians! Or, at least, their leaders. If I can arrange to have these men killed, I believe it would put a stop to this nonsense.”
“How do you propose to do that?” asked the governor, his voice suddenly sharp with suspicion. “What do you have to do with the Zealots?”
“Nothing, Excellency! But if I can get a message to them, I trust you will be lenient in not demanding to know how I did so. After all, when it becomes public knowledge that the Zealots were responsible, you would be free to retaliate any way you wish. But I have a request—innocent Jews must not suffer. The Sanhedrin, and true followers of the Most High God, wish only to keep peace with Rome and serve our God.”
“By true followers, you mean, of course, those who fund and support the Temple in Jerusalem.”
“Of course.”
Drusus said timidly, “I have doubts that the Zealots would so freely attack their fellow Jews, Ananias.”
The High Priest answered, “There is the Sicarii.”
Listening, Megara gave a start. One of the men cleared his throat. The Sicarii—a group of men who were nothing short of assassins…who went about concealing daggers beneath their clothing and killing brutally and at random. Like the Zealots, with whom they were loosely connected, they hated Romans, but did not hesitate to murder Jews or persons of any race or religion.
“How do you hope to accomplish this?” Cumanus asked curiously
“As I said, I may know how to get a message to them. If they cannot be persuaded, they can be paid.”
“The consequences could go far beyond what you expect, Ananias. How supremely you must despise these Christians to even consider it.”
“I am placing a great deal of trust in your discernment,” the High Priest answered. “I believe that Caesar would look favorably on any method to dispose of disturbers of the peace. As for my use of the Sicarii—I happen to know that you have made use of them yourself, Cumanus, on more than one occasion—even if they are your sworn enemy. And I can present evidence, if it becomes necessary.”
There was a long moment of silence and, being a Roman, Megara could sense the resentment of the two officials toward this Jew who wanted to use them for his own ends…and who dared to issue a bold and unashamed threat.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Cumanus, at last. “And why are you telling us of this plan? It’s nothing to do with us. I don’t care whom you hire to do away with your own trouble-makers.”
“I am telling you because I want protection of the innocent. Your soldiers will be present when the—deaths—occur. I expect it will happen at the Temple during Passover, if I can arrange it. I would like you to make sure your men do not start killing everyone in sight!”
After a moment, Drusus ventured, “How can we m
ake any such promise?”
“Get word to Lysias, of course! Without telling him any of the details. Just tell him that you expect trouble but not to do anything without your order. Lysias is a stickler for rules and regulations.”
There was another silence.
“Well,” said the High Priest impatiently. “What is your answer?”
“My deputy and I will discuss the matter—” The governor’s voice had moved away from the window, and was drawing closer to the door. Megara slid rather stiffly off the windowsill, and swept with her usual air of confidence down the corridor.
* * * *
It was almost dark, so it was permissible to take their squeaking and rattling wagon through the streets of Rome. Wagons and carts were not allowed in the city during the day, which made for horrendous noise at night. Taverns and brothels thrived in the night hours, and the streets clotted with those unable to sleep.
Metellus identified himself to the guards at the bottom of the Palatine Hill. One of them, who was on horseback, offered Metellus the use of his horse so that he would not have to climb the steep incline to the palace. Having walked all day, he was not hesitant to accept. With rope in hand, he led the donkey and wagon…on which perched an equally tired Rachel…to the flattened top of the hill. The horse trotted briskly across the various avenues. Metellus took them directly to the stable, which was lit all around with torches.
Rachel sat for a moment without moving. She had dreaded this moment. Her memories of having been here as a child came flooding back, overwhelming her with emotions she couldn’t begin to sort. There was no fear—for she had nothing to fear. But there was a deep sense of apprehension, mixed with dismay and guilt and sadness. For a moment she wanted to jump down and run…run all the way back to Bethany.
Metellus had dismounted from the horse and was telling a slave what to carry inside. He told Rachel, “Leave your bow here—they won’t allow any weapons inside—even my sword. We can take everything else.”
On leaden feet she followed him and the slave into a side entrance of the palace. It was from here they had taken her away from her parents, to the House of the Vestals. It had been the beginning of a nightmare that, somehow, had never ended. She noticed that Metellus half turned back, as though he wanted to take her arm, but then he turned away again.
Down the vast marble corridors they walked…everywhere were slaves and freedmen and guards. They stopped and she saw Metellus talking with someone in a toga who looked important. They both looked back at her. A woman appeared, who spoke briefly with the two men, and then walked toward her. She was slender and of middle age, with hair a mixture of brown and yellow—as if the dye hadn’t quite taken.
She stopped in front of Rachel. “My name is Theodora,” she said, in a tone that was neither kind nor unkind. “Will you come with me?”
Rachel nodded, and followed her past Metellus and the other man, both still watching as she went by them. All she could think of was getting the ordeal behind her, and returning to Bethany. Would Metellus take her, as he’d said he would—or would he ask the emperor to find someone else? She wouldn’t blame him if he did, for it had been a long and difficult journey. The thought made her even sadder and more desperate. She looked back at him and he was still watching…then she entered a room and the door closed behind her.
“This will be your apartment while you are here,” said Theodora, walking briskly across the enormous room. “There will be a guard outside your door at all times. You must let him know if you need anything. Please do not leave your apartment unless someone accompanies you, for your own safety.”
Rachel looked around the room. The floor was covered in mosaic tile, the bed draped in wispy curtains. There were ornate couches and chairs, and a large circular table bearing a vase of fresh roses. A wall at the back had an arched opening that led onto a balcony, which she couldn’t see fully in the darkness. The room itself was lit with fragrant oil lamps.
“Thank you,” Rachel said, and asked, “When may I see the emperor?”
The woman gave her a look of veiled curiosity. “I do not know. You will be told. Is there anything you require?”
“A bath,” she replied at once.
Theodora nodded toward a tall, wooden screen in a corner of the room. “It waits for you there. A servant will bring your things, and refreshment.”
Without another word the woman left the room. Rachel walked slowly toward the screen, and saw behind it a large bronze tub filled with water. Next to it stood a table bearing towels, and various vials and jars. The door opened and a man brought in her bags and left, immediately followed by a young, female slave who drew a dividing curtain across the room and began to help her undress. Rachel was grateful for the help, especially when the slave washed her hair and massaged her scalp.
Beginning to relax for the first time in days, Rachel asked, “What is your name?”
“It is Alda, my lady.” She was about Rachel’s age, with hair so blonde it was almost white, eyebrows the same color, and pink cheeks. She left Rachel to comb her wet, tangled hair as she began unpacking and laying out clothes.
“Is this your nightgown, my lady?”
Rachel glanced at the worn, light blue garment. “Yes. Everything needs washing, I’m afraid.”
“I will see to it. There are clothes—there, in that closet. I will bring you a nightgown.”
Alda went to the closet and withdrew a gown the same color of the roses on the table. “This may be a little short, but otherwise will fit you.”
Rachel drew it over her head, just as someone knocked on the door. Alda opened it before Rachel could move, and disappeared from the room.
It was Metellus. He had not yet changed his clothes. Rachel nervously tugged her gown into place and reached for a towel to drape modestly over her shoulders. The sound of his voice seemed to bring her back to reality, to steady her, as though she’d been about to embark—alone—on some perilous adventure.
“I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” he said, his eyes taking in her wet hair, bare feet, and the delicate gown that didn’t quite reach her ankles.
“Yes.”
“They’ll bring you something to eat.”
“Yes.”
He turned to leave, and she said, “Tribune?”
Metellus stopped and faced her again.
“When will the emperor send for me?”
“There’s no way to know, but I’ll try to arrange it as soon as possible.”
“Oh.”
He paused and said, “I will be there with you, Rachel. I won’t leave you.”
Her throat tightened for a moment, but when she was able to speak, he had gone.
* * * *
It was two days before she was summoned…during which she felt much like a prisoner. She never left her apartment, and spent most of the time on the large balcony, with its marble pillars and tessellated pavement, overlooking the Circus Maximus. There was a chariot race one day, which she could see quite well from her vantage point. It was amazing to see the thousands of people who filled the amphitheater, and to hear the great roar that drifted up like that of some gargantuan beast.
Metellus did not visit her—she had no idea where he was or what he was doing. On the morning of the third day, Theodora came to her with the news.
“You are to come to court within the hour. Alda will help you—you are to dress as befitting one who has an audience with the emperor.”
In other words, not in her own clothes, Rachel thought—but she was too nervous to be offended. Theodora left, and Alda came running in. She pulled out fine underclothes, a gown, sandals, hairpins—and set to work on Rachel’s hair. By the time the girl had finished Rachel barely recognized herself.
Theodora returned, to escort her down the corridors toward the front of the palace. They were followed by two sentries, and she wondered if they thought she was going to run away...which was what she wanted to do! She tried to catch her breath, and felt her knees
shaking. Why had Metellus not come to get her—where was he?
I am with you.
Rachel’s steps slowed suddenly, and the sentries almost ran into her. She knew that voice…it had always been with her. She had ignored it for a long time.
They began descending a steep flight of stairs. When they reached the next level, Rachel looked around and thought, I know this room! This was where they’d been brought when her parents were arrested—in this very room, the child Rachel had announced to the emperor that she was a follower of Jesus Christ.
What had happened to that child?
Rounding the corner, she saw Metellus standing in front of a great stone platform. He was dressed in a brown-gold tunic, and wore leather bands on his forearms, covering the lacerated skin. His dark hair swept back against his neck. Across from him stood a woman dressed in white, with a white mantle over her head and wound tightly around her throat. She was a Vestal Virgin.
Metellus turned, and became instantly stock-still. He stared at Rachel as though he had never seen her before. The sea blue gown she wore was, he knew, the exact color of her eyes, and though there was nothing indecent about it, it revealed the loveliness of her figure, and her bare, shapely arms. Her hair had been artfully piled on top of her head, with several thick tresses left to spill like molten gold over the front of her left shoulder, almost to her waist.
The Praetorians guarding the podium stared, and the emperor, limping toward the chair in its center…also stared. He forgot to take his seat and stood with his mouth open.
“D—d—d—daughter of V—v—v—” He gave up and looked helplessly at Metellus.
“My lord, this is the daughter of Valerius, whom I was commissioned to bring to Rome.”
Claudius finally sat down in the large chair. He looked as though he had been pulled away from some arduous task, for his toga was rumpled and his white hair was practically standing on end. He finally tore his faded blue eyes from Rachel and glanced at Metellus.