by Tracy Groot
The lower part of the palace, the private part, was forbidden to them. Orion Galerinius made that perfectly clear the first day on the job. He seemed to drive it home to Joab, as if Joab were even tempted.
“Orion Galerinius Honoratus doesn’t like you,” Jorah now informed Joab as she wiped grout from the surface of a board with a sponge. She sat back on her knees, examined the effect, then dipped the sponge in the bucket and squeezed out the excess.
“I don’t like him either,” he replied. The walkway had been burrowed through several feet of concrete, connecting the public area to the private wing—Pilate’s grand living quarters. He heard there was a swimming pool down there. “Don’t you wonder what it’s like down those stairs?”
“Theron would say we’re not paid to wonder. Why don’t you like Orion? I think he’s interesting.”
Joab didn’t have much thought for Orion right now.
Where’s your fat master? The undersecretary, Prometheus Longinus, had scorned at them this morning when they had arrived at the Praetorium with new boards.
He’s back at the shop, working on a board, Joab had replied, eyes downcast.
The man had leered at Jorah. Sure has a pretty helper. Even if she is a Jew.
They were not given leave to enter. Prometheus Longinus sat back at his table and enjoyed looking at Jorah. Joab didn’t know what would have happened if Orion hadn’t arrived. Thinking on it, how was it he appeared at the right time? Vaguely he remembered one of the guards disappearing as soon as they climbed the steps to the palace.
Joab frowned as he dug his spatula for more grout. It made his guts clench, the way the man looked at Jorah. She didn’t seem to notice the danger. She wouldn’t. Always kept her eyes properly on the ground.
What did Joab feel toward her? Mitzvah? Hah. In the one week he had worked with her, he at least learned one thing: Jorah could take care of herself. In one week she’d already established herself as chief apprentice. Joab, this color is too rusty. Joab, that mortar isn’t thick enough. Joab, can you cut me some more of these tesserae? She acted as though she’d worked there all her life.
“That’s not enough,” Jorah said, eyeing the amount of grout Joab pushed between two boards. “It will pull away from the tile when it dries.”
“Would you like to do it yourself?”
“I’m just saying it’s not enough.”
He didn’t reply.
Jorah said tartly, “You don’t have to be so offended. I mean . . . I didn’t mean to offend.”
He hid his slight smile as he prodded more grout between the tesserae. What tedious work! Why anyone would want to become a mosaicist . . . or the apprentice to a mosaicist . . . He could easily find a job in a dye works around here if he tried hard enough. Why stay? His knees ached from kneeling, but he didn’t want to take the time to wrap them with those ridiculous cloths as Jorah did. Jorah did anything Theron did.
“Marina says we are having company at the Sabbath meal tonight. She didn’t say who, but she is acting so fussy. Have you noticed? She’s acting as if the governor himself is coming. She’s so distracted.”
He slipped a glance at her and frowned. He needed to tell her the warning he felt every time they came to the palace. Every time he saw the undersecretary. He wished Theron would deal with it. She’d listen to Theron.
Presently he snapped, “You need to be careful around Prometheus Longinus.” He glanced at the public end of the walkway. He’d said it too loudly.
Jorah stopped with her sponge. “What do you mean?”
Joab scowled. No, she wouldn’t know. She was the sister of the Teacher, probably as sheltered as a bug under a rock. Girls like her were blind as—
She threw her sponge down and leaned back on her heels. “Are you talking about that bloated swine on the steps every day?”
He grinned and stopped pressing grout. He sat back on his own heels.
“Next time he tips back on that chair to look at me like I’m fresh from a brothel . . .” She pressed her lips, and her eyes glittered darkly.
So she did notice, for all that serene composure. “I like him less than Orion.”
Jorah scraped at a dried patch of mortar on her wrist. “Why don’t you like Orion?” she asked again.
Joab stuck the spatula in the grout pan. He had made Marina cry, but that wasn’t the only reason. “He dismisses me. I hate that. He thinks I’m too young to have a valid opinion.”
“I know how that feels. My brothers made me feel that way my whole life.”
“Or he thinks I’m just another Zealot.”
“Are you?”
“I have never been a Zealot.” He held her gaze a moment, then looked away. The subject was dangerously close to Avi, and that made it close to Nathanael. Did she feel the sudden thickness in the air? He picked up his spatula again, but toyed with it. He felt the palms of his hands grow moist. After a long moment he risked a look at her.
He couldn’t read her face. Expressionless. She was staring at her board. Ask me, Jorah. Ask me what happened that day.
She picked up her sponge, dipped it, and wrung it dry. She bent over the board again. After a moment, Joab took his spatula and scraped grout from the pan.
“I wish the only person to talk with me about Nathanael wasn’t you.”
His spatula froze inches above the board. He put his hand to his nose and quipped, “Ouch—am I bleeding?” He glanced at her—her face wasn’t expressionless anymore.
Her hands clenched the sponge fast in her lap. Water seeped from it, a dark spot grew on her tunic.
He slowly set down his spatula. He felt his way backward to the archway wall. All week long, all he had wanted was for her to ask him.
He could still see the brown loaf of bread. Nathanael had come around the corner with the loaf, singing loudly so he wouldn’t frighten anyone.
Jorah released the sponge. She crawled to the other side of the wall. Opposite one another they sat. She said quietly, “It was his idea for you to join our party. So you would feel safer.”
“He brought bread.”
“His idea. Joab . . . I’m afraid to ask you.”
“I’ll tell you . . . if you want.”
Face blank, she nodded.
He told how Nathanael came bearing bread on the Passover pilgrimage to Jerusalem. How Avi had recognized him from where he spied, high on a boulder in the rocky pass. How Avi had whispered thanks to God as they took position and waited. How Avi dropped from the boulder, pulling Nathanael to the ground.
“It was all part of Avi’s plan,” Joab said, staring at a tile. The loaf of bread had pitched into the air. “Avi wanted to blackmail Jesus. Hurt his family or hold them hostage until he joined his powers against Rome. Nathanael was unexpected.”
“Nathanael had shamed Avi that day,” Jorah whispered.
Joab nodded, numb. They had visited the Teacher’s home to try and persuade them to join the cause. The apprentice had chased them out with an adze. He had humiliated Avi, and Avi never forgot.
“Life with Avi was like . . . dwelling under a thick veil, only you didn’t know it until later. It was confusing, it was madness. It’s . . . hard to explain.” Hard, but how he wanted to. “He was so certain about things. That’s what I admired about him, in the beginning. I envied him. He hated Rome with all his heart, and I didn’t hate anything and it occurred to me that maybe I should. Avi equally hated the ones who tolerated Rome, and I thought that sounded good too. He said they had no right to call themselves Jews. For the first time I heard that the cause was everything.” He put his head to the side as he considered this. “It was the first lie I ever believed. That I know of.”
“You know it to be a lie?” Jorah asked.
After a moment, Joab said, “It was Nathanael who made that clear to me.”
“Nathanael?” Jorah was crying. Her eyes were puffy, and she pressed her sleeve to her nose.
“He reminded me of me. I realized later that he chased us out of your home because the
land wasn’t the issue for him—if it was, he would have listened to Avi. Deep down, the land wasn’t an issue for me either. I didn’t hate Rome enough.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I tried to make up for that. I tried to make myself hate, and be as passionate as Avi was. I felt worthless because I wasn’t.” He scratched his neck harder.
She didn’t want to hear this part.
“So. Avi came up with this plan—”
“I used to feel worthless when my brothers talked about important things and left me out.”
“I could not imagine leaving you out of anything.” He swallowed. Did his own words put the heat in his cheeks, or was it the way Jorah was looking at him? The way she was beginning to smile. He made it light. “I’d be afraid you’d take an adze to me yourself, the way you order me about.”
Her smile only deepened. Their eyes locked, and Joab felt a strange ripple in his gut. Then Jorah’s smile faded, and they both remembered what they were talking about.
“So. Nathanael came around the corner. Avi jumped him. They fought on the ground, and Nathanael got up. He didn’t see me, and I—” He gripped the back of his neck. Tell it. Just tell it.
“See, the whole time I held Nathanael, I thought Avi was just hitting him, you know, just roughing him up. Thought it was okay, he was just getting back at him, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But then Nathanael screamed—at first I thought, you sure are soft, can’t take a few hits. And then—I saw the knife. And I realized Avi wasn’t hitting him. And I—” His hand went to his mouth and he pinched his lower lip. “I was holding him.” He rolled his lip in the pinch, frowning hard. “When I realized it I thought someone tore out my middle.”
Jorah covered her face with her sleeve.
Horror and truth—the two were the same—had blazed about him in that moment, leaping and searing, dissolving the veil. Joab screamed—he had screamed. This moment was the first he remembered it.
A soft low croon came from Jorah. The croon became a choking sob. The sob settled down and became a croon again, like the low howl of a distant wolf.
“I swung Nathanael around, took the knife from Avi and stuck it in his chest.”
That croon reached down in him, a barbarian claw dragging out his heart. He dropped his head and grimaced hard. Clawing him to shreds.
Avi was so surprised. Astonished. He staggered back and looked down at that knife sticking out of his chest. He stared at Joab and babbled words Joab couldn’t understand, nonsensical words of a dying man. He dropped to his knees and fell sideways.
Sunlight came in by the window at the staircase and sat in a yellow disc by the steps. The croon was gone. Jorah still had her sleeve pressed to her face, but she was quiet. Joab had his head against the wall. Such a strange feeling inside. He felt as though he’d been holding his breath. As though he had been holding it since the day in the pass.
“I am so sorry, Jorah,” he whispered. “I wish I would’ve known it was all a veil.”
The sleeve was still over her face. Muffled, she said, “That? I cried my last for Nathanael before I came to Caesarea. That was for you.”
He stiffened. “Me . . .”
“I saw you in the commonyard, and something . . . broke all down. You were so huge before then. I saw you as you are—the way Annika sees people.” She sniffed, and her tone went wistful. “I want to be like Annika.”
She cried for him? Did that make sense? He shifted in place, unaccountably angry. “Why would you cry for me . . .”
“I feel bad for you. It wasn’t your fault. I—know that now. I hope you do too.”
“Will you take your sleeve away?”
Muffled, “I can’t.”
“Take it away.”
“No!”
“Why?”
“I’m a mess.”
A pause. “I can talk to a mess. I can’t talk to a sleeve.”
“My nose gets huge when I cry. Red and huge. My eyes swell, my face gets all blotchy. It’s quite hideous, trust me. I’m doing you a favor. Some women cry and they are beautiful. I am not one of them.”
Softly, “I need to see you.”
Slowly her sleeve came down. True, her nose was swollen and red. Her eyes were smaller for the puffiness, her face had red patches. She gave a sudden all-teeth smile, putting her thumbs under her chin and waggling her fingers to display her face. “See? I should go to that swine on the steps and let him see me now.”
Why were those tears for him? What right had he to any compassion of hers?
She read his questions, and the all-teeth smile gentled. She sighed, and her gaze went distant. “You want to know why I really came here? I came to tell her she never deserved him. She did some things. . . . Joab, I hated her for it. I still can’t think about it, I get so . . . And that’s not the only reason: I wanted a chance to be unrelated to Jesus.”
She shook her head. “But somehow—I can’t explain it—things are starting to feel different. It started when I saw you in the commonyard.” She hesitated.
Joab watched her face melt into a wretched earnestness. He watched tears come.
She dug them away with her fist. “I hate hating. It feels like a part of me up and left. It feels like God left.”
“Then how could you cry for me?”
She blinked, bringing her filled eyes to him.
“I don’t think you could cry for someone if God left.”
She searched his eyes. Her look made his breath catch, it was so—wanting to believe. Maybe believing. Her lips trembled, and the tears spilled. The sleeve went over her face.
“Please, Jorah, don’t hide from me.”
Muffled, “I’m not.”
“Can I see you?”
“No,” she snapped. She added, “I cried for you because—”
Joab waited. The silence got long. “Yes . . . ?”
She still wasn’t answering. Finally, muffled and sounding as though she had a cold, “It’s pretty ridiculous if I have to tell you why.” She spoke with a tartness that cheered Joab. “I have great hopes that you are not that dense.”
“May I see you?”
She blotted her face and dropped her arm into her lap, resignation in the act. And by the tilt of the chin, defiance as well.
He rose and stepped over the grout pan, eased around the freshly laid board to Jorah. He went to his haunches. He rested his eyes on every detail of her face, and smiled. He touched his fingertips to her cheek, took her face, and gently kissed her. “I wanted to do that when you would never be more beautiful.”
Her lips trembled. “Uh-oh. I’m getting beautiful again.”
“I will kiss you again.”
“I’m not sure this is the appropriate place.” She smiled through the tears.
“I don’t care.”
“You are not paid to lounge,” came a crisp voice at the public end of the walkway.
Joab scrambled to his feet, Jorah to hers a heartbeat later.
Prometheus Longinus stood holding a tablet to his chest. His look on Joab was sour, but when it went to Jorah . . . it changed, and slid back to Joab. He began a slow stroll toward them. “Well . . . what have I come upon?” He folded his arms, tucking the tablet beneath them. “What did you do to her, Jew? Perhaps I have misread you.”
Joab’s mouth fell open, he looked at Jorah—and his stomach seized. That face! Jorah was already protesting, but Joab knew it wouldn’t matter. Sure enough, the undersecretary didn’t even listen to her. He simply enjoyed his stroll to them.
“Not very pretty now, is she, but that doesn’t matter much. Does it. Jew.”
“He didn’t do anything,” Jorah protested.
“Yes, and he’s probably very angry with me about that,” Prometheus said with a glittering wicked grin at Joab. The grin went to Jorah and became a leer as his eyes traveled over her.
In one step Joab put himself between Jorah and Prometheus. He dared not make eye contact with him, only kept his gaze down and set himself for what would
come. His heart pounded in his stomach. Thick-soled sandals came into view. They stopped a pace away.
“I should have you arrested,” Prometheus breathed down on Joab. “We have a nice set of jail rooms, newly completed. I’ll put you in one and finish what you started in another. At least you can listen. Jew.”
Joab felt Jorah grasp a fistful of the back of his tunic. Yes, he knew enough to restrain himself. Knew he walked the edge of a knife.
“Please, sir,” Jorah whispered. Both of her hands clutched his tunic now. She was trembling. Ha—he was trembling. “He didn’t do anything.”
Prometheus laughed. “You suppose I care about a Jewish maiden’s honor? Not unless the honor is all mine.”
Joab looked from hooded eyes to see the eyes of Prometheus slither over Jorah. His blood surged hot, he felt himself tense.
Jorah firmed her grasp on him and whispered, “Don’t you dare.”
“I don’t care if he does anything or not.” Prometheus’s tone dropped to a honeyed lowness. “But I am very interested in what can happen next.” He reached around Joab to finger the edge of Jorah’s head covering.
Joab threw his shoulder into the Roman’s middle, drove him toward the wall, thought he had a moment of surprise to—but the Roman dug his hands into Joab’s shoulders and, using his momentum, slammed him face-first into the wall.
Patches of black and skittering bits of silver. He clawed for balance or a bit of Prometheus, but Prometheus wasn’t there to break his fall.
Joab was on all fours, watching the skittering silver until his vision began to clear. He saw his blood dripping into a larger patch of red. He looked up to see Orion Galerinius and the guard Marcus. Marcus had Prometheus against the wall by the throat, and Orion stood protectively next to Jorah. Joab didn’t like that much. He liked less the cold glare on Orion’s face, aimed at himself.
“Can somebody tell me what is going on?” Orion asked.
“He assaulted me,” Prometheus shouted, and shoved Marcus away. “Get your hands off me, who do you think you are?” He looked at Orion. “He was assaulting her, in the very act, and when I tried to pull him off he assaulted me.”
Marcus glowered at Prometheus, which seemed strange to Joab, but then he sent an uncertain look first to Orion, then Joab.