by Tracy Groot
Pilate’s renovation to the northeast stairwell was about the only impressive decision he had made lately. The new entry from the private wing of the palace to the public auditorium would save Orion countless steps. He came to the place where workers would soon punch a hole through the Praetorium wall. Already a man was measuring and taking down notes on his own waxed tablet. He gave Orion a glance.
Pilate was foolish to order an entire mosaic for the walkway. A border would have been sufficient. Tasteful and unpretentious. The expense would be astounding, for Theron of Caesarea did not come cheaply. It was one more thing local magistrates could fling in Pilate’s face regarding his excesses with public money. But Orion couldn’t stop a smile; he would see Theron every day. With his own duty to oversee the project, life in the palace had a sudden warmth to it.
But the worker was looking strangely at him. Orion stopped smiling and escaped around the corner and out the entryway. Already the day was hot, and it was nowhere near noon. Ornamental trees lined the flagstone walkway and would soon give shade from the early sun. The Great Stadium just beyond the Praetorium blocked the sun for now. From there came the faint sound of metallic clashing. Cornelius would have been running the auxiliary troop through drills since dawn.
He stopped a moment to kick a few pebbles off a flagstone. His stylus slid out of the tablet, and he bent to retrieve it, glancing at the inscription etched into the ivory on the flattened end. It had been a gift from his father before he left Rome over five years ago. He tucked it back inside his tablet.
He entered the doorway to the business half of the great Praetorium; here, rooms and corridors had bewildered him for the first six months of his new position. He would constantly turn a corner into a dead end, or come into a hallway when he expected a wall. It was as frustrating as a garden maze in Annapolis. Once Pilate’s renovation was complete, Orion could avoid the extra steps in this honeycomb and go straight to the auditorium. It would be the best decision of Pilate’s tour, and not even Orion could see how it could offend the Jews—unless Pilate decided to make the mosaic a tribute to Caesar or a god. Or make it Jews dining on pork. Ha! Pilate would even invite the Jewish Council to come see its unveiling—and expect praise for it! Orion laughed out loud.
He wound his way deftly through the halls and came out into the huge auditorium. He looked for Theron, and found him already studying the floor at the northwest corner.
Orion went to dismiss the other candidates. There were only four, but each seemed resigned to the fact that Theron would get the job; indeed, scowls had formed on their faces when Theron was the last to arrive this morning. Orion thanked each of them and watched them go, then strolled across the auditorium to Theron.
Not many people were shorter than Orion. His height had prevented him from joining the Roman army, had fated him to a life of scholarship or politics, and only an unexpected summons from Tiberius himself had delivered him. Only Tiberius could have changed the course of his stars. Tiberius or Theron’s god.
Theron of Caesarea was nearly as thick as he was short, and hairy as a bear. Tufts of hair came out the top of his tunic. He did not wear the hair on his face, which was not particularly Jewish of him, and the only time he did not wear a scowl was when his wife, Marina, upbraided him for this or that. He looked like a tiny giant at those times, abashed and found out. Marina was the only one to confound the fearsome Theron.
Theron also had the biggest lower lip Orion had ever seen. It looked like a fat earthworm. Sometimes it was hard not to look at it. It stuck out far now, as Theron studied the pavement.
“He wants it to match the border, or he wants a different one?” Theron asked when Orion joined him.
“Most people would find your presumption irritating.”
Theron glared at the existing border. “I hope he wants a different one. I could complement it nice. Who knows where Herod got his tesserae; a match will be impossible without sourcing it. You got some wear, you got some variations from the lighting. See? Look at the lighting in here, it’s terrible. What did you say?”
“I said you have the job.”
“Oh. You coming tonight? Marina is making fried fish balls.”
Orion pretended casual surprise. “It’s your Sabbath already? The week has flown.” But the thought reminded him of Pilate’s latest decrees. He was supposed to give Pilate’s order for the stonemason day after tomorrow, but the punishment didn’t go into effect until next week. That was when Pilate would inquire if the man had changed his mind. He would buy himself thinking time with that one week. Thinking time? Only a fool wouldn’t give the order.
Only a fool would. Orion pinched the space between his eyes. What could he do this time? Whatever it was, Pilate would find out. He would want to know how the Jew had held up under the whip. He would want details. And what of the tree? No, he couldn’t think that far, the scourging overwhelmed it. Forty-nine? Every time he did not work the Sabbath? The full import settled in. No one could survive a straight forty-nine; the tree was nothing compared to this. A woman could lose her tree, but a man would lose his life. A woman would lose her husband; children, their father. Flaming gods and goddesses and all their mincing offspring, where was that poppy tent?
“You like the fish balls. What’s the problem?”
Orion glanced about before he replied. “A tricky one this time.”
“What’s Pilate up to now?”
“Keep your voice down, Theron,” Orion hissed through a smile. “We’re not at your table, we’re in the Praetorium Palace. You will have to remember that every single time you enter that doorway.”
Theron shrugged and put his glare back on the pavement. He scratched his black curly head. “Well? What’s it gonna be? Match it or complement it?”
“You don’t look like an artisan. You look like an ornery stonecutter.”
Theron glanced at Orion, bemused. He shook a thick finger at him. “You know, that’s why I like you. You got a sense of humor with a nice nasty streak.”
Orion laughed. It didn’t take long, around Theron. “Fish balls, eh?”
“And fish gravy. Marina wants to impress our new apprentice.”
“You hired someone? He must not be from around here.”
“He’s out on the steps. Trying to decide if he’s a good Jew or a bad Jew. I says to him, ‘You coming in? Good Jews don’t.’ He says, ‘What does that make you?’ I says, ‘Rich.’” Theron chuckled.
“He must have decided he’s a good Jew.”
But at that Theron’s amusement disappeared. He pursed his thick lips and shook his head. “No, he don’t think he is. Marina says he’s got a bunch of heart trouble. You can’t tell by looking at him. I leave such things to Marina.”
Orion gazed across the auditorium at the Praetorium entrance. Marina is probably why the lad even got hired. “You’ve got a good wife, Theron,” he said quietly.
Theron looked at the entrance too, and sighed so deeply it became a groan. “He don’t know a template from a tile.”
“Where is he from?”
“Hebron. He’s been in Caesarea awhile looking for someone. Couldn’t find him, needed to eat. Marina found him in the marketplace and brought him home for dinner.”
Marina had an uncanny knack for spotting the lost.
Theron bent to examine the color of the border. He wet his thumb and rubbed it on a tile. “So. What does the Illuminated One say? Match it or complement it?”
“Complement it. And he wants a mosaic for the entire walkway. Bring your patterns tomorrow. See if you have anything new from Pompeii. He specifically mentioned Pompeii.”
Theron rose and rubbed his chubby hands together. “Good, good. I’ll be on the job for a year.”
Orion shook his head. “You, a whole year. A whole year of daily insolence.”
“Palace food, every day.” Theron patted his protruding gut.
Orion cocked his head. “Or is it a year of comic relief?”
“Wait, wait—I go
t it. Tell them the artist will not work without a pistachio pastry every day. Two of them. Tell them it inspires me.”
“I’ll have to offer extra sacrifices for patience . . . Janus will have to bribe the di penates.”
“Which god is that?”
“The spirit of the pantry. Protector of the household stores. It will have to go on extra duty with you around.”
“Well, you got a god for wine? Tell your priest to throw in extras for that one too. And only the good stuff. Tell them the artist works better with the good stuff.”
Orion laughed. “Go tell your new apprentice the artist got the job. I have to call up Pilate’s escort before the governor drowns himself.”
“See you tonight.”
“Tonight.” Orion left him and entered the honeycomb of rooms.
His duties did not often allow time for personal things, like writing letters home. Orion had long since taken a habit of sending them on the wind until he had time to put ink to parchment.
“To my beloved Father,” he dictated under his breath, “from your son, Orion Galerinius, greetings. I pleased a god today, Father, I don’t know which. But Theron will work in the palace for a year.”
Theron in the palace for a year. Not even Tiberius could have pulled off that one.
Theron watched Orion leave. He did not believe the man had forgotten it was Sabbath. Orion never forgot. He hadn’t missed a Sabbath meal for nearly a year.
Marina had found him, too, same marketplace. Theron thought maybe Marina was like the story of the angel in Jerusalem, with the pool. Maybe the marketplace got stirred up, and Marina was there to make a lame one well. At least get him on the road to well. Last year she brought home Orion. Before Orion, Bereniece and her mother. Before Bereniece, Lucius and what’s-his-name. Before Lucius, Rivkah and her boy, Nathanael. He frowned at the border tiles. This new one, though. He was a case even for Marina. Orion, she had drawn out. After a month of his awkward visits every Sabbath evening, he began to smile. Another month, and he was laughing with everyone else. Another month, and he was making the jokes himself.
But this young Joab. He had a black cloud snugged over him that even Theron could see. And Theron usually did not see. That was for Marina. Maybe it was twenty-five years with her that did it. He would have never noticed before. He wasn’t sure he liked it that he noticed now.
He slowly strolled to the entrance, taking his time to gaze all around. He liked to work on-site. Some transferred their designs by portion to the pavement; not Theron. He worked classically, like Samos, and wasn’t about to stop now. Once he had the preliminary sketches complete, once the construction workers put in the archway, and once he sourced out enough tesserae, he would work in this posh place every day. Unless of course, this turned out to be the right place for his ribbon pavement. A long time he had been waiting for a place for the ribbon pavement. He’d have to wait and see what those construction workers did with that walkway.
He couldn’t wait to tell Marina: he was now on the payroll of the Roman government, every shekel guaranteed. Regular pay, and at the price he was worth. His stroll became a swagger. They would do some celebrating tonight. He paused halfway across the auditorium to regard the bema seat, set on the dais in the center of the great room. All the swagger suddenly went out of him.
Pilate’s latest act, the crucifixion of that prophet from Nazareth, still had Jewish Caesarea buzzing. It was cruel even for Pilate. Theron shook his head. The lad was a good man. Did good things. Wasn’t Jesus the main topic of every Sabbath meal for the past few years? Probably didn’t have enough money to barter for his life, and Pilate could be bought. Surely he worked hard to line his pockets as much as possible before his term in Judea was up, like any other Roman official.
Theron left the bema and came out, squinting, into the morning sun. Joab sat on the steps with his chin on his fist, gazing at the curved wall of the Great Stadium. Next to him was the bundle that never left him. He rose when he saw Theron.
“You got the job?”
“I got it. We’ll celebrate more than the Sabbath tonight. Pilate will keep me in pastries for a year.”
“Good,” Joab said, and looked again at the Great Stadium. The tinny sound of steel meeting steel came from there; it was where the auxiliary troops learned the Roman method of warfare. The stadium was impressive, but Theron had lived in Caesarea most of his life. He barely noticed the things Joab gawked at.
He was a Judean country boy, complete with accent. And he didn’t speak much Greek. Most of Caesarea was going Greek, had been for a while, since the days of Herod. It was good for Theron to practice his Aramaic with Joab. His mother would be proud.
“Come, boy, we have much to do before tomorrow. Pilate wants to see patterns of Pompeii. Patterns of Pompeii, we will give him.”
“But . . . tomorrow is Sabbath,” Joab said doubtfully as he scooped up the bundle and followed Theron down the steps.
“Aye, and the Lord of the Universe is aware of the fact that it doesn’t mean much to Pilate, save for some peace and quiet from his Jewish subjects. Besides, you constantly forget that I am a bad Jew.” He reached over to flick him on the head. “You have been with us for a week, this you should know.”
“Yes,” Joab said, squinting at the stadium. “I have been with you a week, and you are not a bad Jew.”
“Neither are you.”
To this, the boy did not respond. He kept his gaze on the Great Stadium as long as he could, walking backward to do it, until the road put it behind them.
“Pompeii,” Theron muttered. “Whatever I come up with has to be from Pompeii. If he asks you, it’s from Pompeii.”
“Do you have anything from Pompeii?” Joab ventured.
Theron tapped his head. “Right here, boy. I was trained in Pompeii, seven years. So anything I come up with is from Pompeii. And anything I come up with is new: there you have it. New patterns from Pompeii.”
They walked in silence for a while. At least Theron would get the exercise Marina spouted about; the palace was nearly a mile from their neighborhood. He was already sweating from exertion. He glanced at the morose boy next to him and grimaced. The lad had barely spoken all week. Made for awkward times in the workroom.
But he seemed willing enough. Theron could see the blisters on his hands from chiseling stone boards, and the boy didn’t whine about them. And often he forgot he was a bad Jew and kissed the mezuzah in the doorway. It seemed to take deliberate thought for Joab not to kiss it. Theron would learn his story soon enough.
“Fish balls tonight,” he said gruffly.
Joab did not answer, lost in a brood that rendered him deaf. Theron fancied he could reach out and touch the shroud that walked with the boy.
Presently, the quiet one spoke. And it was Theron’s turn to be speechless.
“Do you know where I can find a Jewish prostitute?”
Theron slid him a glower the lad did not see. He was too busy staring at the back of the Temple of Rome and Augustus. Theron shook his head. Some people’s children. If Joab was his own boy he wouldn’t sit for a week, asking a question like that.
He sighed. Well, Joab wasn’t his boy, and it was none of his business. “Does she have to be Jewish?”
Joab broke from his stare at the temple. Interestingly, his cheeks went red as a sunset. “No—that’s not what I—”
“There’s a place, an inn—the kind no honest mother’s son has business being at—in the west part of the Old City. It might have what you are—” and on behalf of the boy’s mother, he scowled his blackest at the lad—“interested in.”
The boy’s face went redder, and Theron scratched the back of his head. Well, did he want directions or not? Who could figure out young people these days?
Joab stammered, “I don’t want—I’m not—” but he didn’t finish the thought. He simply sighed deeply.
Maybe it was a good time to change the subject. “Did you find your friend yet?”
The boy
gave a strange half chuckle, then said, “No, not yet.”
“Are you sure he is supposed to be in Caesarea?”
Joab gazed at a lawn party of affluent Romans in the back of a stately villa. He murmured, “It’s not a he.”
Ah. This was an important piece of information. Not a he the boy was looking for, a she. No matter that it took a week to find it out. He would bring this to Marina, and she would be pleased. He clasped his hands around his belly, delighted with himself. Eh, someday he would be as good at this as his wife. And he knew enough not to proceed further with Joab. Like a perfect mosaic, he would walk around it, study it, give it time. Then place the tile exactly where it should go.
Heart matters required finesse, he was learning. After twenty-five years, Marina was finally getting her hands dirty and learning how to create a mosaic; so, too, Theron was learning Marina’s craft.
“Fish balls tonight, my boy,” he boomed cheerfully. “And nobody makes them like Marina.”
2
TUCKED INTO THE SHADOWS, Pilate watched Orion shut the door to his personal quarters. Under his arm was an amphora of wine. Every seven or eight days, Orion left the palace near sunset with an amphora of wine. He disappeared into the city for the entire evening, returning late. He was never late for duty the next morning. If his eyes were tight at the edges from less sleep—or much wine—Pilate could not confront him for dereliction of duty. Nor could Pilate accuse him of pilfering wine from his reserve; Orion was fastidiously honest. He would not steal from Pilate.
A woman? A man? A prostitute? Was the wine a special libation to a god? Did he give a weekly vow at the Temple of Rome? Pilate could never ask him where he went. To question Orion on personal matters would be distasteful.
Orion’s quarters were near the stairwell. He could hear the slap of the secretary’s sandals as he descended the marble steps. He counted the steps, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. The footsteps faded and the palace was silent. Pilate emerged from the shadows and looked long where Orion had gone.