The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  Orion could have collapsed in relief. “Come, Theron . . . I don’t have all day.” He gave Janus a long-suffering glance, jerked his head at Theron, and rolled his eyes.

  Janus in turn gave Theron a haughty up-and-down look.

  “You could have helped me carry these,” Theron complained as he shifted the load on his shoulder.

  “Brute,” Orion heard Janus mutter before he lifted his chin and strode away, ornaments clacking.

  “Who was that?” Theron asked when the clattering died away.

  “Janus Bifrons, the palace priest.”

  “Friend of yours?” Theron set his boards down to wipe his forehead. He looked at the sweat on his palm and wiped it on his tunic.

  Orion glared at Theron. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Theron glanced at him, surprised. Orion’s glare made him glare. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Understand immediately I am not in the mood for anything today.”

  That made Theron scowl. “You should’ve put more honey on your bread this morning.” He picked up his boards with an air of sullen injury and followed Orion to his workroom.

  He had a notion, conceived earlier that day when he realized Theron would show up with the mosaic samples, that it was very important for Theron to see the place where he worked. Maybe if he saw the order of his room he would understand a little of what Orion was about. Orion had seen Theron’s own workroom—what a mess. Boards with half-finished patterns propped everywhere, broken and scattered tesserae crunching underfoot. Bowls with hardened mortar, stirring sticks stuck fast. Old orange peels and fruit pits on the floor. Theron never noticed the disarray, or didn’t care.

  Here he would see that Orion’s work involved much more than Jewish dilemmas. The scourging of a Jewish stonemason was one item on a long list that included Send small cask to Quirinius, Prepare guest list for the Festival of Luna, Pilate’s mother’s birthday, Check on arrival of Decimus, Order more wax, Fire Solonus, See Claudius on renovation, Report from Prometheus, and twenty other things all for one day’s work. It did not include the daily parade of problems and requests that never made it to the tablet.

  He hoped to be interrupted several times while he reviewed the Pompeii patterns. Orion was more than a colorful tile to be pushed about on Theron’s pattern board. More than useful for Marina’s schemes, no matter how good they were. He had a job, something those two never seemed to consider. Let Theron try and do Orion’s job, let Marina. They’d founder in the first five minutes.

  Orion loved his workplace. He wasn’t here often enough; he was usually chasing about the palace on Pilate’s heels or with a servant on his own. Here was the kind of order Orion imagined the palace had, beneath the flurry of activity. If the order of the Praetorium could be compared to a single thing, Orion hoped it would look like his workplace—in particular, his writing table: free of clutter, organized, at-the-ready.

  The long narrow table against the wall—he had placed it under the window for the partial view of the sea—held clean rolls of fresh papyrus, still smelly from the maker. Neatly arranged next to the rolls were stoppered ink pots, a vase filled with pens and styli, a new kind of tablet from Rome, sent by his father. It had eight folded sheets of papyrus stitched together at the folds, topped and bottomed with wooden boards. It was awkward and impractical, but it was from his father. Placed neatly next to it was a pile of ready-use tablets, freshly filled with beeswax. In front of all this was his palace calendar, bordered with notations arranged in order of importance. The entire writing table was neat, ordered, and spoke of a man who had little time for what did not concern the efficient operation of a palace staffed with fifty-four—and that, half his job. The other half was daily attendance to a governor who was just as static as he was surprising.

  Theron stood in the doorway. “So this is where Orion the Mighty works.” He lowered the boards from his shoulder to the floor, then carefully leaned them against the wall. He put his hands on his hips, then reached for the small lumpy vase on the candle table next to the doorway. “What’s this?”

  Trust Theron to pick out the one thing not in keeping with the order of his workplace. “A gift from one of the cook’s children.”

  “And this?”

  Trust him to find the one other thing. It was a tiny bronze figurine of a charioteer in a quadriga, a four-horse chariot. The charioteer was painted red.

  “A present from my father, when I was a child. I was a fan of the Reds.”

  “Ah.” Theron replaced it and looked about the room with undisguised interest. “I’ve always thought you can learn a lot about a person by his workplace. It’s quite clear to me now. No wonder at all.”

  Orion squinted at him. “What’s no wonder?”

  “I didn’t know you played the pipe.” Trust Theron to find the other thing. He had spied it on the recessed shelf on the left side of the room. He picked it up and gave it a blow—the vexing shriek it had when the holes were uncovered. Little Benjamin’s screeches made Orion sure he never wanted children.

  Theron held it up to the light from the window. “This is pretty. What wood is it?”

  “Pearwood. Where were you yesterday? I dislike you taking advantage of our—friendship—to excuse your absence. I expected you.”

  “I had something to do. Something important. How long have you played this?”

  “Awhile. Show me the patterns, Theron. I don’t have all day.” Not a single interruption yet. Where was everyone? Midmeal was long over. He should have had four intrusions by now.

  Theron set the pipe on the shelf above the writing table. Orion snatched it and replaced it where it belonged, bringing Theron’s attention to the other objects on the recessed shelves . . . to the small wooden box on the top shelf. Theron reached for it.

  “Don’t!” Orion barked, and Theron froze. “It is sacred to me.”

  The mosaicist withdrew his hand and respectfully murmured, “Apologies, Orion.”

  He was in no hurry to get to the boards. He patted his stomach absently as his eyes flittered over everything in the room. His attention came to a little shelf above the table, then rested on—Orion scowled. He had meant to put that away. Theron was not seeing his workplace the right way at all.

  “Why, Orion . . . this is a charming thing.”

  It was a tiny replica of a wine amphora, cast in bronze, ringed with brilliantly colored enamel. It had a removable stopper, which Theron naturally tugged off to squint inside the tiny hole. He sniffed it, then replaced the stopper.

  “That was my mother’s,” Orion said, his tone softened. “It was Father’s last gift to her before she died. She collected little things like that.”

  “I regret my words from the night before.” Theron examined the amphora a moment more, and replaced it carefully.

  Was that an apology? It came as casually as a cough. “I probably regret my own words, but I don’t remember what they were.” A few things had happened since then.

  Orion picked up the boards and brought them near the light of the window. He unwound them and set them on the floor, pushing them into a line. He stood back to look.

  Theron groused and stomped over to the boards to realign them. “There,” he declared, and stood back with Orion.

  Orion could feel his face soften. Each board was its own pattern, whorls and convolutions of color as though someone had dropped a handful of ribbons on the floor, pretty enough. Placed correctly, the four separate boards made a long, sinuous pattern. More boards would continue the pattern. It was quite astonishing. Not only the design, but the brilliant colors. It would make for an entrancing walkway.

  “You’re a genius, Theron,” Orion murmured.

  And if there was one thing Orion loved about Theron, it was his inability to fake modesty. With his hands clasped about his belly and his eyes lovingly on his tiles, the fat little man swiveled back and forth on planted feet, beaming like a child at the praise.

  “You think so?”
>
  “From Pompeii . . . ,” Orion said.

  “Of course,” Theron assured. “Except this mosaic is not classically worked.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “Not done on site, saving the actual installation. Most of the work is done in my workroom. Meaning—” and his tone went mournful—“fewer pistachio pastries.”

  Meaning he would not see Theron every day.

  “At least I have an apprentice, and Thomas’s cousin wants to learn the trade. Pilate will have his walkway in less than half a year. And they will be the ones to carry the boards from my workroom.” Theron gave his tiles an indulgent smile. His chin came down, producing a few more chins as he admired his work. “You like my tiles?”

  It wasn’t so charming anymore. “I said I did.”

  “You think Pilate will like them?”

  “Theron, let me ask you something.” Orion leaned back to look both ways out his door. Suddenly he didn’t want anyone to interrupt. He scratched the back of his neck. He was no good at this. Whispering, he said, “I have to bribe an architect. How does one . . . ?” He gestured helplessly. “How much does one offer?” Would he have enough in the Ostia fund?

  The adoration left Theron’s face. He squinted at Orion, then pushed his hand upside his head and blew out a breath. “You have to bribe an architect. What architect?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “What for?”

  “I need—” He jumped at the face at the door.

  “Orion Galerinius Honoratus?” a woman inquired formally and fearfully. “Sir? I beg forgiveness for the interruption.”

  “What do you want?” Orion snapped.

  “Undersecretary Prometheus Longinus sends this report, sir.”

  Or so he ascertained from her mangled Greek. She held out the tablet, keeping her eyes properly downcast. At least Portia had trained her correctly.

  He took the report and tossed it onto his writing table. “Tell the undersecretary to deliver it himself next time.”

  The woman broke protocol to gaze, fear-struck, into Orion’s eyes.

  Quickly, Orion flicked his forehead. “Ah—what am I thinking? I have a meeting with him this evening. Never mind, I will tell him myself. You are dismissed.”

  She bowed her head and scurried away.

  Theron had a curl to his lip.

  “What? Is she Jewish?” Orion demanded. “How did I offend this time?”

  “You didn’t. It’s that Prometheus I do not like.”

  Neither did Orion, but he wasn’t about to agree with Theron. Prometheus never liked to be reminded who was his superior officer. He never failed to remind Orion, however subtly—like sending a slave to deliver a report, for instance—that Orion had never served in the army. Perhaps if he began to grunt unintelligible phrases, Prometheus would have more respect for him.

  “What an ornery face. You don’t like him either.”

  Orion scowled—then froze. Did he hear footfalls?

  “So you want to bribe an architect. About what?”

  “Shh!” Orion listened carefully for a wide-eyed moment, then eased. To the point of mouthing the words, he whispered to Theron, “I have to change some sealed plans. The sooner the better. Pilate cannot know why the granary is moving west twenty feet.”

  Theron’s face softened. “You are a good man, Orion Galerinius Honoratus. What does Honoratus mean?”

  Orion’s breath seized and he held up his hand. Did he hear footfalls in the corridor? At length he took a breath and whispered, “Latin for ‘esteemed.’” Is this how all corrupted officials lived? An ear to the passageways and a hand to a hidden dagger?

  “Why do you ask me about bribing?” Theron said in a very loud whisper. “Isn’t that the first thing junior officials learn?”

  “Amusing. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Sure. I am in daily league with tricky characters such as bribable architects.” But he held up his hand and said, “Do not worry. Uncle Theron will look into it. I consider this a Jewish cause.” He thought on it. “Tomorrow I will bring back more boards, as if you were not satisfied with these, and I will have your answer. Who and how much.”

  For the first time all day, Orion took a relieved breath. Who else could he talk to about this? Prometheus? His head would decorate a platter before dusk. Or worse, he’d be shipped to the mines in Spain and chained to a gang of angry slaves. They’d be Spaniards or Gauls or Germans or Britons. They’d be bigger than him. They would hate him because he was Roman, and one would have an unholy appetite for short and reasonably handsome men. Gods. He wouldn’t last a day.

  Orion had no one else to talk to except Janus Bifrons and a father consulted by air letters. He thought he could trust Janus, but how far? What sort of sentiment did Janus have toward the Jews? Really, there was no one he trusted more in Caesarea than Theron the Jewish mosaicist.

  “There is, of course, a fee.”

  “What do you mean, a fee?”

  “Don’t give Pilate’s decree for the Jewish mason.”

  “Theron—”

  “Who can survive forty-nine?”

  “Theron—”

  “Lie. Next week tell Pilate he suffered mightily. Tell him his flesh was in shreds, blood like a river. Tell him you could see bone.” He lifted his finger in inspiration. “Tell him his wife and eleven children watched. Maybe you could work up a tear.”

  Orion pinched hard the space between his eyes. “Lie. To Pontius Pilate.” To my honorable father from your lying son . . . A thought came, and he took his hand away to peer at Theron. “How did you know I didn’t give the order yet?”

  “You did not scratch through it on your tablet. You scratched everything else.”

  Orion’s gaze jerked to the tablet on his writing table. He had not seen Theron look at it.

  “And don’t worry about lying to Pilate . . . you are already bribing an architect, what’s another lie?”

  Orion resumed the pinch. He could hear the clank of the chains. Smell the sweat. “Go away, Theron.”

  “I can’t, not until you see these.”

  Orion looked to see Theron wriggle a sheaf of papyrus from his inner tunic. He handed the pages to Orion.

  Orion took them, trying to ignore the unpleasant fact that the sheets were warm and damp with Theron’s sweat. “What are these?”

  They were old sheets, that was evident. Rolled and pressed and cut in the old fashion. They looked like dirty woven linen. They rustled despite the dampness.

  “Copies of documents.”

  “What documents?”

  Theron came and glanced at the one Orion was looking at. “That one is a copy of a letter from a man named Lepidus Servilius, from Ancrya. Can you read Aramaic? It says, ‘Wherever the Jews have been following their ancient custom of collecting money for religious purposes and sending it to Jerusalem, they may do so without let or hindrance.’ It means the Jews can send the half-shekel to Jerusalem without interference. Their rights were disputed by the local authority but challenged—and upheld—by the proconsul.”

  Orion put that leaf behind the rest, and Theron pointed at the next. “This one is pre-Augustus, but nonetheless it is a copy of a document regarding the same rights for Jews. The Jews were supported in their endeavors by Roman authorities. You heard me, I said supported. Read it, Orion. These are imperial edicts.”

  Slowly Orion said, “Where did you get these?”

  Theron pointed at the next document. “That one names Ephesus and Libya. That one names Sardis. The other names Miletus. They all deal with the rights of Jews to send the half-shekel donation to the Temple in Jerusalem. The rights were challenged in every one of those cities, and defended by each local proconsul.”

  “Where did you get these?”

  “Don’t ask foolish questions. You want to know where I was yesterday? That’s where I was. Had to miss synagogue because of you.”

  “You always miss synagogue. What do you expect me to do
with these?”

  “Present them to Pilate.”

  Orion shuffled through the papers. Here was a letter from one Proconsul Jullus Antonius—a letter written at the request of the Jews. It reaffirmed the provisions made by a previous ruling to allow the Jews to collect and distribute the half-shekel to Jerusalem.

  “Theron, these are dated. Some are decades old. This goes back to Julius Caesar! A lot has happened since then—how much weight do you suppose these will have with Pilate? His own Tiberius drove the Jews out of Rome ten years ago. I was there, Theron. I saw some of them leave.”

  “Ah, but they didn’t leave completely, because of Tiberius’s mediocre hate. Many already returned because he doesn’t care enough to oust them again. It’s that Sejanus who stirred him up, and we hear Sejanus—because God is not mocked—now has precarious footing with old Tiberius.”

  Orion flicked the papers impatiently. “What does the collection of money have to do with not working on a holy day?”

  “Implications! Allowance to adhere to ancient customs.”

  “That’s very thin, Theron. I’m not a lawyer. I can’t make these look like more than what they are. Pilate is not an idiot.”

  “They are imperial edicts,” Theron implored.

  “They are not imperial edicts on keeping your Sabbath. Get me some edicts like those. These are worthless.”

  Theron stuck out that fat lower lip. “This is all we have. They dug these up when Valerius Gratus questioned the half-shekel practice. They presented these very papers to Gratus, and he dismissed the charges. Take them to Pilate, Orion. He impresses easily. Once he sees his own predecessor treated the Jews more fairly, perhaps he will change his mind with the stonemason. Maybe it will help other Jews around here who are harassed about the Sabbath.”

  Orion tossed the sheaf of papyrus on his writing table. He put his foot on his stool and leaned on his knee, kneading his forehead. Good Theron. How could he tell him, after his effort to procure these documents, that for him to wave these under Pilate’s nose would be the same as asking for exile? It would prove to Pilate what Orion knew he suspected, that Orion was pro-Jewish—and that to be pro-Jewish in these parts was to dally with treason.