The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  If the tree was safe . . . and if Nathanael forgave her . . . why did pain claw her, why did it slash inside like a ravening demon? Prostitution? It wasn’t even sin. Not compared to what she had done to her baby.

  She clutched the box and rocked with it on the bed. Then she began to weep. Scars and scars. Innocent child flesh. Precious child skin.

  She held up shaking hands before her eyes. These, her mother-hands, had taken a razor to her own child. To let the evil out! Rivkah had said, as her own mother did long ago. It will protect you!

  Kyria was at the doorway holding the beads aside, face stone cold. She watched Rivkah, and Rivkah was embarrassed, but pain made her weep and there was nothing she could do about it. She was smearing her lovely fabrics with her cosmetics.

  “I hate them!” Kyria shouted. “I hate that Zakkai most of all! And you are stupid to let them do this to you!” She whirled away, the long strands of beads swinging and clicking behind her.

  The weeping settled into soft crooning. She could not tell Kyria for the monstrous shame that it wasn’t Zakkai at all; it was never Zakkai. It was so easy to blame him. She and Kyria could be just as self-righteous as he.

  She had only done to Nathanael what her mother had done to her. . . .

  She had only done what she had been taught. . . .

  Mother’s family converted to Judaism when Mother was a child, but of the old traditions, of the old ways, bloodletting stayed. The old belief said to bleed the evil from the child, if you really loved him. She had only done to Nathanael what her mother had done to her.

  She knew it wouldn’t prop her before God.

  She couldn’t blame Zakkai anymore, she couldn’t blame her mother. She had done what she had done, and for the very first time she heard the words of the prophet. If repent meant that she would never again take a razor to her son’s leg . . . if that’s what repent meant, she had already done that.

  The other young man who had brought the box, he was right about Ezekiel—how could one make a new heart and a new spirit? Nothing was more impossible. The tree didn’t matter, it never had. Nathanael’s leg had scars on it.

  God did not point at the whoring because he knew it was not sin compared to what she had done to Nathanael. Others saw the prostitution—God looked past it to a crying boy who cowered from his mama. That’s where God looked. That’s what God saw. And if it made Rivkah wonder about God, that he loved a little boy and hated what she had done to him . . .

  She lessened her stiff hold on the box to look down upon it. If this box said Nathanael forgave . . . well and good . . . but what of the demon inside? He would never leave. She didn’t deserve for him to leave, because she had hurt her baby. Weeping came hard again, and she heard the slam of the front door.

  7

  ORION AND HIS SACRED WALKWAY. The little flutterby used it as an excuse to dump more responsibility on Prometheus.

  For nearly a week the fat mosaicist had scuttled to the palace every day with the two young Jews trailing after him. For nearly a week Prometheus had to endure the offhanded way Orion tossed him one errand after another because he was busy with the walkway. “Get Pilate’s signature on this.” “Ask the cook for the menu for the Luna feast.” “Get a slave to clean the walls in the west corridor, they look disgusting.” He made it sound like Prometheus himself was responsible for the condition of the walls. Bad enough, scurrying after him like a slave. Having to yessir someone who had never served a day in the Roman army galled him to his marrow.

  He clapped his hand over his helmet as the cart jostled down the alley. Its wheels found every single uneven cobblestone in Caesarea. It wasn’t dignified to bounce so, not for the undersecretary to Pontius Pilate.

  “Stop here!” he ordered the driver. He would walk the rest of the way to the tavern. He slid off the back of the cart and left without paying the man—he’d just borne the undersecretary on his cart, payment enough.

  He didn’t know the name of the tavern next to Falnera’s import shop on the quay, or if it had one. It was an exclusive drinking house, Roman soldiers only. Legionnaires could gather and talk of the latest incident they’d smothered, talk about the pathetic auxiliary units. Or when they were further in their cups, speak of the days of real action back in Germania or Gaul. Some of the older ones spoke of the conflicts on the German line, some spoke of their days stationed at the mines in Spain or Britannia. Talk was usually anything but Palestinia. Palestinia was fine until you got here.

  And once a soldier was home? It was all about quelling riots in Samaria. Crucifying Zealots in Jerusalem. Tension at the Parthian borders. Rome was fine until you got there.

  The serving maid saw him when he entered and was already fetching his wine. He spied a small empty table and made his way through a forest of smelly soldiers to get to it. He removed his helmet and placed it on the table, disinviting any company.

  The girl arrived with his drink. She had a new hair color today, German blonde. Probably a wig from Falnera’s, gotten from a German captive.

  “Greetings, Prometheus Longinus,” she said with a flirty smile. She put the cup in front of him and hugged her tray. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Been busy.” Thanks to Orion. He took a coin from his belt purse and gave it to her. “There. Get yourself another wig. Blonde is ridiculous on you.”

  The smile went stiff, and she whirled away.

  He had only settled into his second sip when someone said, “Prometheus Longinus?” He savored the swallow and set down his cup, then looked over his shoulder to see who had spoken.

  The man was not a soldier, but in the company of a few. It was the only way he could get into the tavern. Even that wasn’t supposed to happen, but the proprietor wasn’t going to argue with a six-foot Roman soldier.

  The greasy man grinned a gap-toothed smile at Prometheus. He seemed familiar. He was not Roman, that was easy to see—easy to smell. He could pick out a national by smell alone. Was he an auxiliary soldier? Prometheus nodded and turned back to his drink.

  “So what’s it like, working for Pontius Pilate?” the man said.

  Two things wrong with that. By his comradely tone the man made himself equal with Prometheus. Orion was the only one between him and Pilate, and the three of them stood higher than anyone else in Caesarea—whatever local magistrates might fancy. Those idiots minded waterworks and gutter cleaning and festival organization. They could not walk the palace as Prometheus could. They could not sip wine with Pilate when he was in a gregarious mood.

  The other thing was that Prometheus simply didn’t want to talk, especially with a guffawing foreigner. Gods up-in-arms, his helmet square on the table should have told the man that—maybe he didn’t know the Roman custom. He spoke only to make himself look important to his friends. Why was he so familiar? From wherever he knew the man, he would not acknowledge him now, groveling fool. He took a long sip and set the mug on his table, rolling it between his palms.

  “Quite a woman he has,” the man said loudly.

  Prometheus turned. “Are you still speaking to me?”

  The granary. That’s where he’d seen this cur. He was the foreman at the new granary in the south quadrant, past the city wall where the new Cardo Maximus picked up again. Orion had Prometheus deliver a sealed scroll to the site a few days ago, on one of the errands he could have well done himself if he didn’t have the excuse of the almighty mosaic walkway. This foreman had been screaming at a worker, and Prometheus didn’t have time for it. He’d left the scroll with another.

  “Eh, Pilate prefers his handsome palace slaves,” one of the soldiers jeered. “And I ain’t talkin’ women.” A round of laughter erupted.

  “Where’s his wife?” another said. “I thought he had a wife.”

  “She lit for Rome after Pilate crucified the Zealot from Nazareth.”

  “I heard she killed herself,” a burly centurion from another table put in.

  The man from the granary held up his hand. “No,
gentlemen. I speak of his woman. Finer than Oriental silk. And I oughta know.” He belched then, and laughed. It wasn’t just the foreign stink Prometheus could smell. He’d been draining the amphoras long before Prometheus came.

  “Eyes like pieces of honey-colored amber. Hair like a black waterfall.”

  Prometheus’s cup stopped halfway to his lips.

  “Body to make a man curse the gods. She may be Jewish, but Pilate’s not blind.”

  Prometheus looked over his shoulder again and caught the eye of the foreman, who snorted and guffawed with the others. Oddly, his eyes grew round and he dropped his gaze. Suddenly he looked like a man who had said too much.

  “You work at the granary,” Prometheus said.

  “Yes, sir.” He wet his lips, then grabbed his mug to wet his throat.

  Prometheus moved his chair so he wouldn’t have to turn. He kept a dead stare on the man until he squirmed. Then he lifted his cup. “Hail Pilate.”

  “Pilate!” the foreman quickly replied, and drained his cup. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the cup down. Then he rose and said to his companions, “That’s it for me, lads. My woman is a jealous one. She’ll think I’m shopping the quay.” He slapped a coin on the table and left.

  Prometheus drained his cup and picked up his helmet.

  He caught up with the man near a piling on the dock. The foreman probably thought himself safe. When he realized it was Prometheus calling to him, he stopped dead and got that interesting look on his face again. The guilty one.

  Prometheus strolled over to him, strapping on his helmet. He said pleasantly, “Raman, isn’t it? I knew I would remember.”

  Raman bobbed his head, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. “Yes, sir. Raman.”

  “I saw you at the granary the other day. I came to drop off the sealed scroll from the chief secretary.”

  “Yes. I got the scroll. Thank you, sir.”

  “Pilate’s woman, you said.” Prometheus looked at the shimmering surface of the inner harbor. A luminous glow from the lighthouse wavered on the water. He wouldn’t have to say much. This man had something to hide, and he knew Prometheus knew it. “Amber eyes, you said.” Only one woman fit that description.

  The man went as sickly yellow as the glow on the water. His eyes darted wildly and he rubbed his mouth. “I’ve had a bit too much to drink, sir. It’s not an excuse, I know. I will try and keep my mouth shut. By the honor of the gods, I will try. No! I—mean I will keep my mouth shut!”

  Silence was a useful tool. It worked wonders with this lout. Without permission to leave, the man fidgeted where he stood until he finally blurted, “I’m sorry, sir, I truly am! Please don’t tell Orion Galerinius Honoratus. I know it was supposed to be secret, her being a Jew and all.”

  “Orion told you . . .”

  “Only because of the tree. He had to because of the tree.”

  The tree? What tree? She came to the palace every day, two or three weeks running. She had said Orion knew her business.

  He hadn’t seen her all this week, and he’d been looking. His eyes narrowed. The haughty whore was Pilate’s whore? She came to see Orion, not Pilate. It didn’t make sense; Pilate would fall on his sword before he’d bed a Jew. Before he had danced about like an entertainer, trying to please them. Now he acted as if he wanted to erase the way he had tried to accommodate them. What then, would a Jew whore and Pilate and a tree have in common . . . and what would betake the chief secretary to be involved?

  On impulse, Prometheus said, “The scroll, Raman.” He kept a cool gaze on the water. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say anything else.

  The man was scratching the back of his head, looking longingly in the direction he wanted to go, when he stiffened at the mention of the scroll. His eyes now searched, unsure what Prometheus wanted. “The plans are fine. Just what we needed.”

  Then it must have shone through his wine-bleared brain. In that moment he realized he knew something Prometheus didn’t, and it bloated him more than the wine. The fear on his face dissolved, replaced by cunning.

  “We all know women, don’t we?” The lout grinned, indulgent now with his information. “They get their way, we get ours. Pilate keeps her happy, she keeps him happy. It’s what Orion Galerinius told me. That’s why the granary is moving, because of her tree. Course we have to take down a portion of the east wall, and my lads weren’t too happy about that. Fine workmanship in that wall. Pilate must sure love that woman.”

  The granary was moving? For the sake of a tree? Prometheus watched the water a bit longer, then looked at the man. “You may leave.”

  The cunning faltered. He suddenly didn’t seem so eager to go, not with his newly won position with the third in command of Judea. He bobbed his head and reluctantly turned away.

  “I may wish to speak with you in the future.”

  Grateful as a dog thrown scraps, the man’s teeth shone in the dimness. “As you wish, sir.” He left the wharf cheerful as a newly paid soldier.

  The lighthouse kept the harbor illuminated in the night, and Prometheus observed a ship being loaded with sacks of grain. A miniature crenellated tower, an amusing boast for the ship’s cabin, rose in the stern of the ship. A man stood by its doorway, watching the on-loading of the grain. He had to be the captain; he had the stance of one in command.

  Prometheus wouldn’t have suspected intrigue from Orion Galerinius. It was pure nonsense to consider that Pilate kept a Jewish whore. His tenuous tolerance of Jews had snapped with the incident involving the Nazarene. He was different when he came back from Jerusalem. Not markedly, but enough so that those close to him saw the change.

  Pilate reminded Prometheus of his father. When Prometheus was a boy, his father would fly into a screaming rage at something stupid Prometheus had done; the screams would alternate with deceptively serene moments where his father calmed himself and tried to show reason for his rage. It was precisely during those quiet moments that Prometheus trembled most.

  That was exactly how Pilate treated the Jews. They should have been wary at the times of his calm, suspicious of his seasons of tolerance. Those were the times they should have feared him most. Ah, but they were learning, now, weren’t they. Not so vocal these days, the proud Jews. They now treated Pilate with the respect afforded a scuttling scorpion.

  Prometheus stared at the ship’s crenellated cabin. Pilate had his pick of palace slaves, like every other senior official in the Praetorium; an insignificant thing like lust would not beguile Pilate from his hatred of the Jews, for it had become a cause. Interestingly, Pilate now had the same sort of contempt for the Jews that the Jews had for the Gentiles. Pilate, by his passion, was more like the Jews than he knew. But to say so would invite torture and death.

  “What are you up to, Orion Galerinius?” Prometheus murmured. He pushed off from the rail and began the stroll back to the Praetorium. Prometheus Longinus did not get to where he was by ignoring opportunities, and chief secretary was not his end vision. One day he would be procurator. Today put him one step closer. He knew it by instinct.

  8

  SABBATH TOMORROW. One week since the scene with Orion. Theron said it was a repaired relationship, which meant maybe Orion would come. Marina could not countenance a Sabbath meal without company. And she would plain miss Orion if he didn’t show. Orion made Theron laugh with that crazy sense of humor. And now that Rivkah’s tree was safe . . . why not make things a little interesting?

  “I’m thinking about inviting Rivkah for Sabbath tomorrow,” Marina said as she pulled and stretched the ball of wool. She worked the big tuft into the iron-toothed comb, pulled out the tuft, shook the bracken from the comb, and dropped the cleaned tuft into the basket at her feet. She brushed the bracken on the table into a pile and swept it into her palm. “What do you think?”

  Theron only grunted as he swabbed his bread in the herbed olive oil.

  She went to the window with her handful of bracken bits. Her eyes on Thomas’s place, she stuck her hand
out the window and brushed her palm clean. “What do you think?”

  “Sure.”

  Orion and Rivkah. It delighted Marina to think about Orion’s face the other night. Her Orion was actually distracted, and by none other than one who’d sat at the very same table many years earlier. What a delightful coincidence—if that it was.

  “I remember when I met Rivkah.”

  Nathanael was six. He had been capering around Rivkah while she was trying to bargain for cloth in the marketplace. Marina had watched the child from the corner of her eye as she waited in line to haggle for cucumbers. While his mother spoke with the shopkeeper, Nathanael tried to make the woman’s daughter laugh by taking edges of fabric and poking it up his nose and crossing his eyes. The little girl shrieked with delight, which only encouraged Nathanael. Rivkah alternated between haggling and hollering.

  Marina had looked at the woman who owned the stall, wondering if she noticed what the little boy was doing . . . then she saw that the owner wasn’t concerned with Nathanael at all. It was Rivkah who had her full and disdainful attention.

  Marina looked at Rivkah then, and it became clear—the young woman was obviously a prostitute. Nobody wore that much jewelry. Nobody wore so much eye cosmetic. Marina drew herself up and looked away. How could a young woman treat her body so? How could she employ herself so? It was disgusting. And she, with a little boy. How was that poor child being raised?

  “Twenty-five dinars,” the owner said.

  The young prostitute had stared. “Twenty-five?” She looked at the fabric. “I want linen, not silk.”

  Marina glanced at the cloth in the girl’s hands—and glanced again. She herself had purchased the same cloth in a different color just a few weeks ago from Collina. She certainly had not paid twenty-five dinars for it.

  “Go somewhere else then,” the owner said.

  “I need the cloth.” The young woman’s tone lowered. “The others won’t trade with me.”