The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  Theron and Marina lived in a decent enough neighborhood, if a Jewish one. The northern part of Caesarea had the densest Jewish population. Here were a few synagogues and quiet Sabbath days. If Orion ever had a day off because of a festival, and if the festival happened to be on a Sabbath, it was there Orion would go. He would walk the close alleys off the main street. He would listen, and watch, and enjoy the peace. Orion was born and raised in Rome. It was never peaceful in Rome. To take a day off from the hustle, every seven days without fail, was an eerie and pleasant idea. Someone should present it in the Senate.

  Caesarea Maritima was still called Straton’s Tower by most, and by the Jews its Hebrew name, Migdal Sar. Herod renamed it Caesarea in honor of Augustus, and Maritima set it apart from inland Caesarea Philippi. But it had been Straton’s Tower for centuries, and a name took a few generations to change.

  “Migdal Sar,” Orion murmured. The Hebrew words were interesting on his tongue.

  Caesarea snugged the Mediterranean coast like a great god lying on his side, languidly trailing fingers in the sea. The main street was called the Cardo Maximus and ran from the Roman barracks, south of the palace near the city wall, up to the gate near the old north harbor. The route from the palace to Theron’s took Orion past the prestigious southern villas, past the temple and Herod’s Harbor. There was always something to see, and anything was welcome after a day in the Praetorium. Almost anything—he was passing the site for the new Tiberateum, Pilate’s soon-to-be monument to his beloved Tiberius. The site Pilate had chosen evidenced his ambition, just north of the mighty temple Herod built. It would likely overshadow it.

  Herod was much like Pilate, Orion mused. They would have been infamous friends, the Jew trying to please the pagans, the pagan trying to please the Jews. Herod’s temple, built in honor of Augustus Caesar, evidenced the point perfectly. It was built along the Corinthian influence but kept in check with its obvious lack of ostentation—it was Herod trying to please Augustus while maintaining some inscrutable Jewish sensibility. Laughable, considering it was a pagan temple. Perhaps it would have been more beautiful if it had been wholly Jewish or wholly pagan.

  Usually Orion enjoyed the walk. Today the newest Jewish dilemmas wouldn’t let him.

  Theron had to help him. How could he disobey Pilate this time? How could he save that poor wretch from Pilate’s madness? And what about the tree? Her tree? Orion could not see a way out, but Theron would know what to do.

  He passed the quay of the inner harbor with no more than a glance at the waters washed in sunset. Smoke from the lighthouse on the northern breakwater momentarily took his attention, that and the smells he caught on the sudden breeze: burning charcoal and roasting fish, ocean salt and rotten seaweed. Clematius had better be on the quay with his eyes out for the arrival of Decimus Caratacus; he had more of an eye for the women who walked the quay than he had for the ships themselves.

  Orion’s gaze left the lighthouse smoke and settled again on the cobbled pavement. Life was much easier before he met Theron and Marina. Morality in its first form had always been duty to the State of Rome. It’s how he was raised, how any decent citizen of Rome was raised. He’d never much considered anything else. Caring about the treatment of Jews was still so foreign and new that it itched.

  He came to the cross street with the bank of storefronts and remembered the directions Theron gave a year ago . . . take the Cardo Maximus to a street called Mer. Go past the storefronts and enter the gate of the first commonyard you see. The last house on the left. The one with the mosaic in front.

  Orion smiled as he unlatched the gate. Theron didn’t tell him the “mosaic in front” was actually a mosaic set right into the wall of the house. An upright mosaic! A pavement standing up. Theron told him later that this was an innovation learned in Pompeii. He said one day it would be fashion. Orion didn’t think so. You couldn’t walk on it, what kind of mosaic was that?

  The courtyard was alive with people hurrying to finish tasks before the sun set. Women surrounded a common-use oven in the middle of the commonyard. Children played or scurried to do errands for their mothers. Men came in from fields, or market, or smithies, or halls of study. One murmured to him, “Good Sabbath,” as he passed, and he replied in turn; it was getting dim, the man did not see he addressed a Gentile, the toga-wearing Roman kind.

  He came to the last home on the left, the fourth one down, the one with the mosaic in front. The mosaic was a lovely pattern of white sea crests. Look at it another way, and it was blue crests. Orion had seen much of Theron’s work in Caesarea; some of it even contained images of birds and animals—things forbidden to make image of, according to the rules of their sect. This mosaic, embedded on Theron’s wall, evidenced his respect of his people. His other work, gracing the pavements of rich southern villas, evidenced the independence of his art.

  Orion smiled; Theron’s brand of Judaism allowed him to break bread with a Gentile, something for which most Jews around here would choke on their own tongues. To the right of the mosaic was the window. Orion gazed inside before he knocked.

  Marina’s table was set for Sabbath. Upon a white linen tablecloth were candlesticks and little dishes filled with nuts and dried fruit and salt and herbs. And oh, the aroma coming through the window. Orion closed his eyes and inhaled. Savory fish gravy that only Marina could make. He could hear the fish balls sizzling in the olive oil on the charcoal brazier in the kitchen alcove. Marina was talking to the gravy; he couldn’t catch what was said. He could already feel the warmth of the kitchen.

  Once Marina had asked him to bring a friend to enjoy the meal. By her dancing look he knew what she meant. But life in the palace afforded no time for romance. Briefly, the face of the woman filled his mind. No, there wouldn’t be romance with that one. Her romance came at a price, and Orion was saving for a tract of land in Ostia. Still, those amber eyes. Her other features did not dazzle, but the eyes made her beautiful. He’d seen more lovely cheekbones, more perfect noses. True, her lips, shiny and sticky with cosmetics, were beautiful. But it was the eyes that demanded one’s attention. They made up for ordinary features, and surely she knew it. The ground kohl lining her eyes, giving stark contrast to their golden hue, proved it.

  She had been to the palace every day for two weeks. Sometimes Orion had a difficult time listening to what she said, so—he felt himself flush—distracted he was with her eyes. What was he to do with her tree? By the gods, it was a predicament.

  “You going to stand there and just smell your dinner, or you going to come in?” Marina stood in the doorway, smiling that crooked smile, fists on her hips.

  Her dark eyes were in a long and lovely face; she was probably considered very pretty in her younger days. Well, these were her beautiful days. She was taller than Theron, infinitely more elegant, and Orion often wondered what the ugly, ornery mosaicist had done to capture her heart. Her eyes carried the gleam of humor and kindness, and a smile was never long from her lips.

  Her apron was spotted with grease stains, and her chin was tipped in meal. Marina looked at him more closely. “What—I thought you liked fish balls.”

  He handed her the amphora. “Good Sabbath, Marina.”

  “Say it in Hebrew and I’ll be impressed. What’s the matter?”

  “I can barely manage Aramaic, and you want Hebrew?” He followed her into the house and pulled off his outer tunic. As he hung it on the peg near the door, he looked around. “Where’s Theron?”

  “Back in the shop. Cleaning up with our new helper.”

  Orion went to the brazier in the kitchen alcove and put his nose over the pan. He rolled his hand, beckoning the fragrance, and sighed. “Why are you not a palace cook? I am tired of the latest dishes from Rome.”

  “They could not afford me. Besides, they want pig. Can you imagine? Me, cooking pig? I wouldn’t know how to do it.” She took down plates from the shelves. “Can you see me asking for recipes?” Her tone grew animated. “‘Esther, Esther . . . how do I ma
ke pig balls?’”

  Orion turned to look out the window at the home across the commonyard. “Where is Thomas? It’s dark over there.”

  “He is not coming tonight. His cousin just came in from Nazareth. They are taking the Sabbath meal with his sister-in-law on the west side. Here, put that on the table.”

  Orion took the willow mat and placed it in the center of the table. He took the stack of plates from her and began to distribute them.

  He smiled as he remembered the first few visits here. How foolish he had felt then. “I will miss Thomas tonight.” He missed Sarah too. Thomas’s wife had died in early winter. “Will his cousin be staying long? I’m glad he’ll have some company.”

  Marina took two dishcloths and lifted the hot pan from the brazier. She brought it to the table and set it on the willow mat. “I’m not sure. Lovely little thing, she came to visit while Theron was at the palace. She was so taken with the outside mosaic.” Marina looked out the window to Thomas’s place. “Poor lamb. Her brother was the one who—” She caught herself and slid a look at Orion. “He was the one Pilate crucified in Jerusalem.”

  Orion looked to Thomas’s home. “Really.”

  Marina followed his gaze and shook her head. “Poor girl. She must have adored her brother. She’s a walking wound and doesn’t even know it. Perhaps it isn’t real yet.”

  “Perhaps it is too real.”

  Marina sighed. “Perhaps.” She looked a moment longer, then turned to the cupboard.

  Orion kept a thoughtful gaze on the darkened home. He never knew the old man was related to Jesus of Nazareth. Thomas had never mentioned it.

  How many times had Pilate called for that particular record from the archives? How many times did Orion have to pull the scrolls only to reshelve them? What was Pilate trying to decide? A copy of the report had been sent to Rome, as was procedure for any execution. What was wrong with it that the governor needed to reexamine it every other week? There were two other reports that Pilate repeatedly called for: the report on the standards and the report on the aqueduct. Two of the most notorious incidents in his term. The Jesus incident had joined them.

  It was common knowledge Pilate had erred grossly with his conduct regarding the standards and the aqueduct; he had deeply offended the Jews, and if he continued it would one day cost him his position. Or start an uprising. Of this, Orion was certain. But the matter of Jesus . . . Orion had read the report himself, and it only perplexed him. Pilate had pleased the Jews this time. This time he did what they wanted, without his usual resistance, something very un-Pilate-like. This report did not seem to match the others.

  Orion had not been in Jerusalem that day. It fell to him to look after matters in Caesarea when Pilate was away. Prometheus, his undersecretary, had accompanied Pilate. Orion knew this Jesus had raised the roof in just about every Jewish household in Palestinia, but he had not paid much attention. He had a Praetorium to run.

  “Did you know Thomas was related to Jesus?” he asked.

  “No,” Marina replied. “It was news to me.”

  Many Sabbath-meal discussions had included this Jesus. Theron, and especially Marina, had been interested in the young man. They had talked about going to listen to one of his discussions. Marina had called his death a cruel shame—at times like those he felt most acutely in Pilate’s employ.

  “You are grumpy again. What are you thinking of?”

  Orion realized he was still holding a plate. He set it on the table. “You know, if Pilate knew I came here every week . . .”

  Marina raised her eyes to the ceiling. “May the Eternal prevent such a thing . . .”

  “. . . I would be on the next ship to Rome. On my merry way to exile.” Orion flicked his forehead. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. What have I been thinking?”

  “You will do no such thing,” Marina chided, and gave his arm a firm, twisting pinch. “Where would our people be without you? You have done much to prevent needless—oh, now what is that look? Will you please tell me what ails you?”

  “Pilate.”

  “Pilate ails everyone,” Theron boomed as he came in from the back room. “So what is new about that?”

  “Good Sabbath, Theron,” Orion greeted him. He nodded to the lad following behind Theron. Heart trouble, Theron said he had. That could mean anything from women to . . . well, women. The young man nodded back, ducking his glance away.

  “Say it in Hebrew—”

  “And I’ll be impressed,” Orion finished with him. “Do you speak Hebrew?”

  Theron shrugged. “I’m Jewish. Close enough.” He gestured to the boy. “Joab? I give you Orion the Magnificent. He works for a fellow you may have heard of: Pontius Pilate.”

  The lad’s eyes widened, and Orion watched the color drop from his face. The boy glanced quickly at Theron and Marina, as if he couldn’t believe Orion stood in their home. “What does he do for him?” Interesting that he would not ask Orion himself.

  “Well, now, that’s a good question. I have a hard time getting that right myself,” Theron said. “What do you do for Pilate, Orion?”

  Orion smiled. If he were back home the answer would be simpler. In the province, his office was more complex. He was Pilate’s nomenclator, supplying the names of all the important merchants and magistrates who came to the palace. He was quaestor, Pilate’s financial secretary, paymaster to his staff. He was aedile, heading up administration of local authorities. And he made sure the palace didn’t run out of candles or lentils or coal or Pilate’s favorite wine. In the province, where they could not quite get things to run as they did back home, it culminated to one title.

  “I’m his chief secretary.”

  “That’s right, chief secretary.” Theron reached to flick Joab on the head. “Pilate’s number one—you better behave around him.”

  The sullen look on Joab’s face meant he was either uneasy or determined to be unimpressed.

  “It’s all right,” Theron assured him. “He’s on our side.”

  “And which side would that be?” Orion wondered.

  “The right side.”

  Orion chuckled. “The Jewish side, then? This from a self-proclaimed bad Jew?”

  But Theron grimaced, and gained a muttering tone. “No. This from a human being. Why in God’s name people like Pilate have to be in power . . .”

  “Theron . . . ,” Marina warned gently. “Come, my men. Let’s eat. Tonight is a night for celebration.” She gestured them to the table. Joab glanced at Orion and seemed to pick out the seat farthest from him.

  They stood around the table while Theron the bad Jew invoked a blessing on the meal. A surreptitious glance showed Joab with his eyes closed, rocking gently on his heels in that Jewish custom, mouthing the words. The blessing said, Marina touched a twisted bit of cloth to a coal in the brazier and lit the candles.

  Orion’s plate was soon full of the bounty of Marina’s table. Fish balls covered in a savory herb-speckled gravy. Marina’s delicious bread. Spiced olives and cinnamon-scented dates. Roasted barley, perfectly seasoned. A tangy cucumber salad. Orion made sure to keep himself extra hungry on this day; woe to the man who did not eat enough of Marina’s food.

  She poked Joab’s arm. “How about those fish balls?”

  Joab nodded, chewed, and swallowed. “Very good.”

  “They make them like this in Hebron?”

  The lad shook his head. “Not like this. My mother would—” But he broke off and looked at his plate.

  Marina smoothly took up. “She would probably want the recipe.” She took the dish and pushed more fish balls onto his plate.

  “My mother put onions in hers,” Joab said quietly.

  “You gotta quit talking so much,” Theron said with his mouth full. He looked at Orion. “I never heard him talk so much.”

  “I should get Thomas’s cousin over here,” Marina said as she broke off a piece of bread from the loaf. “So pretty she would leave you speechless. Oh, and Theron—she wishes to learn the
trade.”

  “Ah. A sensible girl.”

  “Thomas had to drag her away from the wall.” She looked at Orion. “You can meet her at the next Sabbath meal.”

  Orion’s mouth twisted. “It was hard enough for you to get Thomas to eat with the fearsome Gentile. How will his cousin feel?” He put his gaze on Joab. “How do you feel, lad? Breaking bread with a Gentile? A Roman Gentile?”

  If his cheeks colored just a trace, the boy replied evenly, “Is it a political or religious question?”

  Orion’s eyebrows shot up. He exchanged a look with Theron. There was more to this boy than met the eye. “Very good. How about an answer to both.”

  Joab wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Religiously? The decision to eat with you is not mine. It is that of my host. My employer.”

  Theron banged the table approvingly. “Well put, boy! What do you think, Orion?”

  But Orion put his elbows on the table and looked at the boy over folded hands. “And politically?”

  Up until now the lad had not looked him in the eye, not for any real length of time. Now, he tore a piece of bread from his loaf and put it in his mouth, chewing deliberately—never taking his eyes from Orion’s. Orion returned the gaze, and found it hard to keep from smiling. By the gods, this lad had backbone.

  Marina took a sip from her cup, cleared her throat delicately, and said, “It is hard to answer Pontius Pilate’s closest employee, isn’t it, Joab?”

  “Make no mistake, Marina,” Orion said wryly. “He answered it.” Someone had raised the boy to be a good Jewish nationalist. What decent nationalist worth his weight in hidden weapons wanted to sit with someone who represented the conquest and occupation of his land?

  Theron reached to thump Joab’s shoulder. “No worries here, Joab. Remember what I said? Orion is on our side. You can speak freely around this table.”

  Orion leaned back and appraised the mosaicist. “Yes, Theron, let’s talk about that. Tell me what is the right side again.”

  “The Jewish side.”