by Debra Diaz
Lysias considered his words. “That is true enough. I would like to have you with me, Metellus. There’s no better man with a sword in this garrison.”
“But I have one request. Tell your men to give us time to make the exchange, before they let themselves be seen. If there is the remotest possibility that these men will let Megara go, we should allow it.”
“Half an hour,” Lysias conceded. “I cannot give them time to escape into the wilderness. If we submit to their demands once, what is to prevent this from happening again and again? I intend to kill every one of them, or be killed myself! And I’m going to bring that prisoner back and make an example of him.”
After a pause, Metellus nodded. “Then let’s not delay any longer.”
The two men left the room, leaving Drusus staring at the floor.
* * * *
Rachel walked slowly around the garden at the back of Benjamin’s house, looking absently at the evergreen shrubs, and the neat rows of plants and herbs. Benjamin had gone out to tend more of those injured in yesterday’s wild flight, after obtaining permission from a centurion who stood near his house. The soldier was giving sharp orders to his men… it seemed something else had happened near the Temple that they did not divulge.
Samuel was inside, reading; he had been bored and Lazarus told him he must memorize some proverbs. Lazarus walked out to join her.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, and she noticed for the first time how stooped his shoulders had become, and how gray his hair. It seemed to have happened since her return from Rome.
She smiled a little. “What do you think I’m thinking about?”
“I suspect you are trying to decide whether you would rather live in Jerusalem, or on an island quite some distance from here.”
“Oh, Lazarus, I don’t know what to do! I really thought that God was telling me to marry Benjamin.”
“Which one do you love, Rachel?”
She looked away. “I thought I was beginning to love Benjamin, but not—not the same way I love Metellus. Not the same at all.”
“You are sure it is love and not—” he paused delicately. “Not something else?”
“Yes. I am sure.”
“Then, I think you should marry him.”
“Marry who?”
“Metellus, of course.”
Rachel stared at him. “But all this time you have been urging me to marry Benjamin!”
Lazarus stood with his hands clasped behind his back and regarded her calmly. “Rachel, it is really very simple. Metellus is a believer, and you love him. You are fond of Benjamin, but you do not want to marry him. You thought you were following God’s will…but then Metellus comes out of nowhere, before you are betrothed to Benjamin. Could that not be God’s doing?”
“I—I suppose so.” Rachel strolled away from him, and after a moment looked up to give him a glowing smile. He had never seen so joyful a face.
“Thank you, Lazarus! But, please—will you help me tell Benjamin?”
“I think,” Lazarus said, “that he already knows.”
* * * *
The sun beat down on Metellus and the Antonia’s commander as they followed their guide into the wilderness. The guide was a small, wiry man with long greasy hair, who rode a mule and merely motioned to them without speaking. Lysias exchanged a look with Metellus as they followed on their horses. On the other side of Lysias a man in a torn and bloody robe sat on a horse, led by the commander, with his hands tied behind his back. Even though there was a cloth tied over his mouth, the prisoner had been cackling to himself for some time…until Lysias turned and swung his fist. The man lapsed into a sullen silence as the cloth turned red with blood.
The company of men who would soon follow them had gathered at the city gate, and had not been seen by the guide. Lysias, doubly enraged when he saw the murdered guards, had little hope the day would end well…but no one would be able to call him a coward! Since Metellus was with him, though, perhaps they did have a chance. The Sicarri were famous for their daggers; they would be no match for skilled men with swords…if there weren’t too many of them. At least he had his uniform for protection, but Metellus wore only a tunic, having declined any sort of armor with the remark that he could move faster without it.
He felt a little guilty that he had secretly told his men not to wait a full half hour before following them. Guilty for Metellus’s sake, not Megara’s. It was a shame she was probably going to die, but she had gotten herself captured…because of her own stupidity! He and Metellus might be killed as well, but none of the assassins would escape.
The path was dusty and full of rocks, and the air seemed to vibrate with heat. Nothing was visible for at least a mile but desert shrubs and more rocks. Lysias, sweating beneath his helmet, glanced again at Metellus.
“There is something I do not quite understand,” he said, turning his gaze back to the path. “Why are you so willing to risk your life, for a woman you barely know?”
Metellus didn’t answer for a moment. At last he looked directly at Lysias. “Because I don’t think she is ready to die, and if I can stop it from happening, I would like to do so.”
Lysias gave a short laugh. “Who is ever ready to die?”
“Tell me something, Lysias. Have you ever heard of the man named Jesus, who was crucified by Pontius Pilate?”
“Who hasn’t, around here? That is who the Christians worship.”
“What do you think of the Christians?”
“Harmless,” Lysias answered. “Except that the priests and a lot of other Jews don’t like them. The priests are always hauling them into prison. But I have nothing against them, and believe in treating them fairly.”
“There are many Christians who are not Jews,” Metellus said. “I, for one.”
Lysias realized his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. “By the gods, Metellus—you’re a Roman!”
“Do you know what we believe?”
The commander was so indignant he could barely reply. “Yes, I know! The Sanhedrin brought one of the leaders to me once, hoping I would kill him. The man called Peter. He told me all about it. Utter nonsense!”
“I hope you will think about it,” Metellus said. “We may both die today.”
Lysias made a sound of derision. “Think about a story—an absurd tale about a Jew who died to save men from their sins! The Jews’ definition of a sin isn’t quite the same as mine…and none of them worth being crucified for! Maybe I will see you in the afterlife today, Metellus, but believe me, the gods will not have heard of this Jesus of Nazareth!”
“Please,” Metellus said, twisting in the saddle to look at him earnestly. “Think about it, Lysias.” He moved his gaze to the prisoner. “He died for you, too.”
The prisoner, with the cloth caught between his lips, merely grinned at him.
There was no more talking, and Lysias had the uneasy feeling that Metellus was praying for him. He knew all about the rituals of these Christians—harmless, yes, but the Sanhedrin didn’t seem to think so. Not for the first time, he wondered why.
There was a sharp curve in the path, surrounded by boulders. Lysias gestured for Metellus to fall behind him and the prisoner as they went through the narrow pass. When they came out again, into the open, they could see in the distance two goatskin tents, and horses tethered to a line stretching between two large shrubs. The guide, who had ridden far ahead of them, increased the pace of his mule. Several men came out of one of the tents.
One man remained sitting in front of the other tent. As he and Lysias approached, Metellus guessed that must be where they had Megara. He watched as the guide accepted what was presumably a bag of coins and rode away in the opposite direction from which they had come. The two men drew their horses, and the prisoner, to a halt.
“Bring out the woman,” said a man who seemed to be in charge.
There was a scuffle inside one of the tents, and a man emerged dragging Megara, who attempted angrily to pull
away from him. Her gown was dirty and torn, and her hair straggled down about her shoulders. A dark bruise showed plainly on one of her high cheekbones.
“Your husband, I believe?” said the leader.
Megara stared at Metellus, and he answered for her. “Who else would come out here for a fool’s bargain?”
The man laughed loudly. “So eager to have her back, are you?”
The group of assassins gathered around Megara. Metellus counted ten of them. The leader pointed at the prisoner, who was being held at dagger point by Lysias.
“Let him go, and you will have the woman.”
“Not until you release the woman,” said Lysias.”
Metellus refrained from throwing a look at the commander, which these men might interpret as a signal. He knew that more than half an hour had gone by, and the soldiers would be on their way. If they could only hurry this up, and get Megara on the prisoner’s horse…
Since no formal introductions had been made, Metellus mentally referred to the leader as the Rat, because he had a long nose, small, round eyes and pink ears that showed beneath tufts of short dark hair. The man next to him, who seemed to be his second-in-command, was short and wide…the Frog. The rest of the men were various sizes and shapes, but all wore a common expression—hatred. They were robed in the Jewish fashion, some of them with head coverings.
The Rat was looking at the prisoner, observing the dried blood around his mouth. His forced smile disappeared and he said, “Someone has mistreated my friend.”
Metellus’ tension increased but he did not move. The prisoner raised his arm and pointed at Lysias.
“Doesn’t matter who did it. They shouldn’t have done it.” The Rat turned with slow deliberation to Megara, drew back his hand, and struck her hard across the mouth. She reeled back, almost falling, her hand going to her face.
Metellus had to force himself to remain still. “There is no need for that,” he said, in a taut, controlled voice. “You have already beaten her.”
“A slap or two,” said the Rat lazily. “She deserved it.”
The Frog took Megara’s hair in his hand and jerked, making her head fall backward. “She is a Roman. She deserves whatever she gets.”
“That’s enough!” Lysias shouted. “Do you want this man or not, because nothing would please me more than to cut him to pieces!”
Someone else came to the edge of the first tent. He was taller than Metellus and wider than the Frog. The Giant. He held in his hands a bow and a single arrow. A quiver of arrows hung at his side.
“My other friend,” said the Rat, with a grin.
Metellus saw that Megara was staring at him with great concentration, as though she were trying to tell him something. His gaze flicked over the encampment, and then over each of the men, but he saw nothing of significance. He looked at her again and with the barest movement, she shook her head.
“You know,” said the Rat, “some of my friends do not mean as much to me as others. That one next to you, Commander, has been a lot of trouble to us. I’m not so sure we want him back.” He glanced at the Giant, who calmly took aim and shot the wide-eyed prisoner through the heart.
CHAPTER XXVI
With swift and silent agility, Metellus slid from his horse, the sword already in his hand. Lysias, too, leaped from his horse. Metellus raced for the man next to Megara, who was raising his dagger sideways to slit her throat. Before the man could finish his movement, Metellus struck him down. One of the men raced inside a tent and emerged with several swords, throwing them on the ground. The rest of them grabbed the swords…except the Frog, who was fumbling at the sheathe on his belt in a desperate attempt to withdraw his dagger. Metellus’ sword flicked over his hand, almost severing it. The Frog gurgled in pain and backed away, falling over a rope tied to a stake in the ground.
Metellus grabbed Megara’s arm and thrust her toward the horses. “Ride back to the city!” he told her, and turned swiftly to the Giant, who was taking aim at Metellus. He bent low to the ground just as the man released the arrow, and dove at him, driving his sword into the man’s upper arm…and then stabbed him in the other arm. The man dropped his bow, and immediately Metellus was confronted by three other men, brandishing their weapons in a way that told him they were not accustomed to sword-fighting. It seemed he and Lysias would make short work of these miscreants…
He saw movement from the corner of his eye that made him turn his head. Twenty or more horsemen preceding a cloud of dust were riding hard from the south, dressed in a manner similar to these men. He knew at once they must be Zealots, or more of the Sicarii. His gaze went instantly toward Megara, who was standing beside a horse as if she either could not…or did not wish…to mount it. He backed toward her, keeping his eyes on his opponents but saying over his shoulder, “I’m coming to help you get on, and then you must ride as fast as you can.”
“I have never ridden a horse,” she answered weakly. “Until today.”
“You can do it. Hold the reins high but not too tightly, and kick. Hold on with your legs.”
“I cannot do it!”
“It’s that or be killed!” he shouted, forced to move away from her as he advanced toward the assassins. We will all be killed, he thought, for even if the three of them mounted their horses this very instant and took off at a mad gallop, the other horsemen would easily overtake them.
“Look, Metellus!” Megara cried, and as soon as he could, glanced behind him. A large company of soldiers was on the way—but still at too great a distance. It seemed certain the three of them would be massacred…and then, as another man fell beneath his sword, he had a slight reprieve that allowed him to look again at the oncoming Zealots. He saw, with disbelief, that the dust cloud behind them had somehow appeared before them. It whirled as though in a maelstrom and grew larger, and blacker, until it became impossible to see the horses or their riders…nor could the horsemen see them! He had little time to ponder this phenomenon…Lysias called out and, going to his aid, Metellus was caught up in a meeting with the Rat.
The man displayed a row of gleaming teeth. “The others were waiting, not far away,” he said, exhibiting more prowess with a sword than his cohorts. “Did you really think we would let the woman go, and miss an opportunity to kill Romans as well?”
“No,” Metellus answered. “I didn’t.” He surged forward. “But it seems your allies have disappeared!”
The man ventured a glance backward. There was nothing visible but a long expanse of wilderness and a whirling, black cloud. His smile faded and his small eyes darted toward Metellus, who knocked the sword out of his hand…and in almost the same movement, kicked him into the dust. When his hand reached for his dagger, Metellus stomped his foot onto the groping hand, reached down, and grabbed the weapon.
“Get up,” he ordered, and when he did so, Metellus delivered him a bone-crunching blow with his fist, leaving the man an unconscious heap on the ground. His eyes sought out the Giant, who was huddled in the tent with his arms crossed and his hands placed over the bleeding wounds in his arms.
Lysias gave a last, fatal strike to the man before him, and whirled around to face the opposite direction. “What is that?”
Metellus answered, “The hand of God.”
“I would almost believe it,” said Lysias. “But which god?”
“There is only one!”
Breathing hard, Metellus paused to survey the scene around them. All of the assassins were either dead or disabled, and the only one he could see that remained conscious was the Giant. It was time to make a speedy departure…but first he would find the Giant’s bow and break it. The huge man no longer looked capable of shooting arrows, but Metellus decided he would take no chances. As he took a step toward the tent, and for what reason he couldn’t tell, Megara rushed toward him. Lysias had been about to help her onto the horse, but she pulled away, calling, “Metellus, do not go in there!”
Without turning toward her, he stopped, and locked eyes with the Giant
. The man was edging the bow toward himself with his foot, but still something held Metellus back. Megara kept running and, at the same time, a man who had remained hidden in the tent leaped out, his dagger flashing. Metellus raised his sword and prepared to fight him, just as the Giant recovered his bow and, with a grimace of pain, pulled out an arrow.
Lysias looked back from where he stood with the horses and shouted a warning, beginning to run forward. He could not reach them in time. As Metellus moved swiftly to avoid a thrust of the dagger, Megara hesitated for the briefest moment, and ran between the two men.
“The other one!” she cried, throwing herself forward. Metellus stretched back his arm and let the dagger fly from his left hand into the tent, where it plunged into the Giant’s chest. He turned to Megara with the intention of pushing her out of harm’s way… but she had turned marble white, staring with disbelief at the blood pouring from a wound in her side.
Immediately he faced the assassin, who was about to pounce upon him. The man was too close for Metellus to use his sword…he dropped it and seized the hand holding the dagger. He pushed hard but the man was strong…the two tumbled to the ground, each fighting to gain the advantage.
Metellus rolled the man over, half raising himself to clamp down hard on his wrist. Lysias moved swiftly toward the Giant, who had stumbled to the front of the tent. Blood streaming from his arms and chest, he was aiming an arrow directly at Metellus. He let it fly just as Lysias reached him, and then fell backward, dead beneath the Roman’s sword.
Metellus felt the impact of the arrow drive deep into his back. The searing pain was accompanied by a sudden burst of strength, and he wrenched the dagger from the man beneath him. He got to his feet, but before he could move Lysias had relieved the assassin of his head.
“My men are here…don’t move, Metellus.” Breathing hard, the commander braced one hand against Metellus’ back and, with the other, pulled out the arrow. Metellus felt it grating through his body and staggered, the pain burning through him like a flame. Lysias steadied him, and after a moment he regained his footing. He turned, and went to Megara.