The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  A harmless tree and the back of a stonemason started it all. Orion Galerinius Honoratus would be remembered as the engineer of a plot, in collusion with the despised Jews to overthrow Roman rule.

  To my beloved father, from your infamous son . . .

  The infuriating thing was, Orion loved his country. He believed in what the Roman Empire represented. Civility. Strength. Strength of character, strength of mind. Morality and education and opportunity. The very people who had enslaved his father offered him the chance to redeem himself.

  Pax Romana. Orion believed in Rome, as Rome would never believe in Orion.

  “Who else knows Joab is there?” Orion said, voice hoarse from lack of sleep.

  “Besides Prometheus, and unless he told anyone else, only two guards: Marcus and Vitellus.”

  “And Vitellus . . . ?”

  “Is one of mine.”

  Orion let out a breath; then the boy had a chance. If he deserved one. “What did the short fat hairy man have to say about Joab?”

  “That his arrest was a misunderstanding. He had not touched the maiden. The maiden herself was with Theron, and confirmed—most emphatically—the misunderstanding. But I will not arrange for Joab’s release unless assured that this Theron—”

  “Theron’s word can be—” He broke off at a cautioning flick of Cornelius’s fingers.

  Two sailors were passing. They ducked their heads at Cornelius and he nodded back at them.

  Orion peeked to see that they had passed. “—trusted.”

  “Release him, then?”

  “Yes. And quickly. It must be done before Prometheus finds some documents under the calendar on my writing table.” Orion looked up at the man. “Joab has past association with the Zealot factions. He spoke the name of Raziel of Kerioth in my presence, last week at a meal.” The changing look on Cornelius’s face put a battering ram in Orion’s stomach. “The documents have nothing to do with Joab, but could implicate him—and many others. It is terribly important that they are destroyed.”

  Treason, treason. The word lilted in a macabre singsong, and a chill chased on Orion’s arms . . . he imagined if he had smoke, he could reveal the presence of the Fury.

  Cornelius’s face went grim, and he exhaled hard through his nose. “This will be trickier than I thought.” He looked to the harbor. “What are the documents?”

  “They are letters from proconsuls. Precedents from other provinces regarding the treatment of Jews. How local government would not interfere with their liaisons to Jerusalem, how contributions to their Temple would be allowed. Cornelius . . . those papers must be destroyed.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my workroom. Underneath the calendar on my writing table.”

  “Who in the palace is with you?”

  This was not the time to wish he had been friendlier with the staff. After a moment, Orion said, “The priest, Janus Bifrons.” He added, “I think.”

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know. Marcus. That’s it.”

  Cornelius watched the growing activity on the quay. He was silent for a length of time. “What I can do, I will do.” He risked a quick look at Orion. “What about you, sir?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How can I help you?”

  Orion thought fast. He’d ponder this man’s generosity when he had more time. “I have an account with Justinian the banker. His booth is located in front of the Temple of Rome and Augustus, north side. I was—trying to figure out how to withdraw my money without bringing down the palace on my head.”

  “His booth opens at the fourth hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “I too bank with Justinian. He will trust me. How much does he owe you?”

  “Three hundred and forty-seven dinars. Plus interest.”

  Cornelius gave an appreciative grunt. “A nice job you had.”

  “Yes. It was.” For the first time he realized he had just lost his pension. On retirement, soldiers received a large retirement grant of thirteen to seventeen years’ worth of pay. That was all gone.

  “How are you getting out of Caesarea?”

  “I run a—I ran a palace, Cornelius, I did not plot escapes.” He gestured to the harbor. “You may not be exceedingly impressed by my strategy, but all I plan to do is chat with a captain on one of those ships and secure a place in his hold. First I need my passage money.”

  The soldier did not answer right away. Then he said, “Look—I don’t know what kind of an arrangement you had with Prometheus that got you a head start from the palace, but if he finds those documents—assuming he hasn’t yet—he will regret any favor he did for you. If you cast your shadow you are in danger.”

  Orion pinched the space between his eyes. “Prometheus thought I only had Jewish sympathies . . . those documents would declare me their messiah. Pilate would have another king to crucify.”

  Nausea rose. Crucifixion wasn’t a punishment for Roman citizens, but treason implied an abandonment of citizenship. Suicide was a welcome option, hardly petulant.

  “I will do what I can. I will also see to your exit from Caesarea. Is there a place you can stay for a few hours?”

  Orion looked at the sky. It was early morning, still dim, but the light came fast enough. If he left Falnera’s immediately, likely he would not be recognized, not if he kept his head down. “Yes. I have a place to stay. I should leave immediately if I am not to be recognized.”

  “I would escort you, but—”

  “No, the guards will change soon. You must go.” Orion rose slowly, easing out cramped muscles as he stood.

  “Where will you be?”

  “Joab knows the way. Cornelius, I have one last favor.”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “Bring some bristlebane. In case things do not go well.”

  “I will ask the priest. Go carefully, Orion Galerinius Honoratus.”

  The men risked a full look at one another. The last time they had seen each other’s eyes was four years ago, when a young man came to a chief secretary with a strange request for a soldier of Rome.

  “Go carefully, Cornelius.”

  Orion waited tight in the shadows until Cornelius pushed off from the wall and strolled down the quay in the direction of the Cardo Maximus. Orion would soon head for that street too, though his way lay north on the Cardo to a home that bordered a commonyard with a standing-up mosaic in the front.

  14

  JANUS BIFRONS hummed as he sprinkled the grain on the oval brass pan in the corner of the triclinium. This particular lararium was a shrine of all shrines, the finest Janus had ever had occasion to construct. It was elegantly proportioned, the representation of each household god perfectly placed. Janus had arranged for the shrine to flow from the corner of the dining room, as though it was part of the dining experience. That was the way it should be. It annoyed Janus that Pilate’s devotion to the lares and the penates was perfunctory at best. Military to the core, nothing religious about him. Except when he needed something.

  Pilate was a thinker, he had that going for him. He and Pilate had had scores of interesting conversations over the years. Janus only wished Pilate would do more talking now. He would like to hear about the Jew from Nazareth.

  Janus noticed that the rug on the floor in front of the small altar was slightly askew. He tugged it into alignment with the mosaic tiles, stood back to regard the effect. Well, a few weeks ago Pilate had come to Janus to arrange for a special petition at the Temple of Rome and Augustus. That was something. He pulled the rug a fraction more, then flicked a dead insect off the bronze head of a god. It was a strong petition, more than a mere prayer; it was a vow, and Janus had it recorded for Pilate on the votive tablet in the temple. Along with the sacrifice of the pig, Pilate gave an offering: an elegant golden pitcher for libations. He also purchased a small plot of land, just south of the palace, to be made into a park for dedication to the god or goddess who answered his petition. Janus never told Orion about
the petition.

  Orion was his friend, but he would anger a god or goddess if he breathed the vow anywhere but the sacred firmament of the temple. It had troubled Janus these many days, knowing that Orion’s position as chief secretary was in peril. With a heavy heart, he had inscribed on the votive tablet these words: Blessed be the Capitoline Triad, Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva: hear my prayer and accept my vow. With the sacrifice of this pig, I entreat your gracious favor and ask of you this: that Decimus Vitellus Caratacus accept the position of chief secretary in my administration. If you will do this for me, I will do this for you . . .

  Janus had taken the pig and hired the services of the popae and the victimarii. He had hired the flute player, and the tibicen played as the sacrifice commenced, his music warding off all sound of ill omen throughout the ritual. Janus had worn his toga over his head during the sacrifice, guarding also against any sound or sight of ill omen. He had hummed along with the flute music, filling his head and his ears with only that which would be pleasing to the god and goddesses of the Triad.

  He had hummed as he dribbled the wine over the pig’s head and sprinkled the sacred cake. He hummed as the popa lifted the sacrificial knife and sliced the throat of the swine, hummed as he held the bowl to catch the blood. The entire ritual had gone very well, every nuance performed with precision. His genius was in rhythm with Pilate’s request, despite the fact that if the sacrifice was accepted it meant the end of Orion’s career.

  Janus realized he was humming the tune of the tibicen and stopped. Strange, that the Primipilaris had not yet arrived. He sighed. But that he would, and soon. The palace would lose a good man. The Jews would suffer again.

  Janus went to his knees on the rug before the lararium and murmured the prayers to the di penates. His genius was not at all in rhythm today. He was thinking more on the latest words from the marketplace Jew.

  He had even copied them to a parchment, ostensibly because he needed them for the archives. They were words from one of the Jew’s holy books, a tricky title called Deuteronomy. As he whispered other words before the shrine, he thought on the Deuteronomy words: “And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God require from you, but to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all his ways and love him, and to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul.”

  The Jew said this is what his religion was all about.

  “. . . protect this household and all therein . . .”

  All your heart and soul. Ha—Janus explained to the marketplace Jew that Romans were free to believe and think whatever they wanted about their gods, no heart and soul about it. They had only to be certain that the rituals were performed correctly by priests and priestesses. The marketplace Jew came every week with a different scroll; in Rome, there were no sacred writings, save the formulation of prayers.

  His god seemed unusually possessive. Roman gods didn’t care so much. They cared more about themselves than mortals, and that was as it should be.

  “. . . guard the pantry stores that no pestilence may come upon them . . .”

  Another text had Janus in bafflement. The text the Jew called the shema, also from the Deuteronomy scroll.

  “Hear O Israel, the Lord your God the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart—” Janus bit his lip when he realized he had spoken the words aloud.

  “Forgive the deviation of the aforesaid prayer, O Capitoline Triad, mighty in splendor above all others, Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Juno Regina, Sulis Minerva . . .”

  It made Janus irritable. Love this god with all his heart? The audacity. It was . . . delightful. Janus liked fervor. It seemed this god brimmed over with it. Roman gods were nothing if not passionate—disconsolate, temperamental, moody, and above all, capricious—but it was an aloof passion when it came to mortals. Boil down Judaism, on the other hand, and what’s left in the pot is this: their god is about his people, and his people are about their god. It seemed like a love affair, from which Janus felt distinctly alienated. And maybe a little jealous.

  Affection was not required of a priest . . . but hadn’t Janus felt gratitude for the beauty of a Palestinia sunset? Or the fragrant humid mornings when he strolled the harbor and watched the world turn from blue gray to lavender gray to dove gray? His heart could lift in joy at such times, but which god would share his joy? He could offer thanks to the nameless local weather god, but would he feel the reciprocation that seemed to accompany this Jewish religion? Was there any joy to be returned to Janus Bifrons? Did any god take the same delight in him that he took in fragrant dove-gray mornings? The Jew seemed to think the god had joy toward his people. Janus glanced at the array of household gods and wondered if one of those gods kept his eye on Janus; as the Jew knew, he knew, he had the eye of his god.

  And it seemed wonderfully compact, this one-god Judaism. Stifling, at the same time. Didn’t this god want company? It was the business of Janus Bifrons to see to the local gods, acquire them into the Roman pantheon. But chatting with Elias revealed one certain thing: this god did not seem interested in membership.

  “. . . do this for us, and for you we shall . . .”

  There were Jews back in Rome, they came and they went according to the mood of the authorities, whether they were in a Jew-hating fancy or not. Persecution alone should have perked Janus’s interest in the Jews—curious he had not thought of it before—but this was the first time he had been in close contact with a Jew. Talking with one, eating with one. Some Jews would not eat with him, but this Jew took it upon himself to teach Janus of his god—that seemed to make up for it.

  “Janus Bifrons.”

  Did he hear his name? Surely not, who would ruin the morning supplications? He would have to start the whole thing over, every syllable. He would have to offer a sacrifice against the ill omen of indifference and impropriety—

  “Janus Bifrons.”

  Murmuring doubtfully, he squinted at each household god. Did insect head take umbrage at—but he sensed a presence, and inched his widening gaze from the shrine to the doorway of the triclinium. The words of the prayer died. There stood one of the soldiers—inside the triclinium, pressed against the wall to conceal himself from anyone passing.

  Indignation rose as Janus did. “Dare you to—”

  The soldier put a finger to his lips. Whispering, he said, “Are you for him or against him?”

  “Am I—”

  “Orion Galerinius needs your help.”

  “Where is he?” Then he dropped his tone to match the soldier’s. “Why would he need my help?”

  “Have you not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Orion Galerinius Honoratus has fallen. Prometheus Longinus has taken control.”

  Janus Bifrons stared. Prometheus Longinus. The business with the scroll. “When did this happen? How fares Orion, is he safe?”

  “Not for long. I need to know . . . are you for him or against him?”

  Morning light from the window made the candlelight fade. Prometheus Longinus blew out the flame. Morning had broken on his new view of the Mediterranean. Murky blackness now became the moving blue of the sea. His last workroom had no window, and was the size of one of the jail cells in the new part.

  He couldn’t sleep last night, not that he had tried very hard. Too many plans whirled about in his head, too many ideas long held in reserve, now free for implementation. Better than the best wine, better than an entire evening in a poppy tent, even surrounded with beautiful whores; there were no ill effects with power. It came to reside in him like a second self, it filled his genius with fluttering intoxicants. It was more than he had felt when he put on his first adult toga. More than when he first commanded a cohort. Every time he achieved a new rank he felt this exhilaration, and there was nothing to compare. He felt huge inside, he felt like a god.

  He had known he would have this one day, had never doubted it, not once. He smoothed his palms over the Augustus calendar on his new writing table, then folded his
arms and lounged on it. Smiling, and that was something he couldn’t stop doing, he reached to flick one of the styli in the vase, touched one of the neatly arranged tablets.

  The respect! He laughed out loud. Gods, the new respect he already commanded. The fear. He’d had a measure of it as undersecretary, but everyone knew who was in charge of the palace. Orion had ruled the palace with an apparently offhanded touch; no one saw the imperiousness as Prometheus had. So haughty. Orion the Beneficent. Gods-up-in-arms, he would remember that look on his face till the day he died. Prometheus drew a long luxurious breath, half closing his eyes, as though he were drawing in the smoke of a poppy tent. Power and respect and fear were intoxicants no merchant could concoct.

  He pulled back and regarded the large parchment on the writing table. He couldn’t wait to destroy the Augustus calendar. It was filled with Orion’s handwriting. He tilted his head and smoothed the curling edges of the calendar with his fingertips. No, there was actually something quite satisfying about seeing Orion’s handwriting. It was a reminder of the way Prometheus had suddenly ousted him. Eventually, he would destroy everything about Orion in this workroom. It even smelled like Orion in here, but not for long.

  The faint sound he had heard in the hallway, now growing, could only be the clacking and clattering of Janus Bifrons. He was about the palace early. Surely he had not heard the news of Orion’s fall, not yet; wouldn’t he be surprised to find Prometheus Longinus at Orion’s table. He assumed an easy pose on the stool, gazing out the window while toying with a stylus. Then he dropped the stylus and rested his chin on his fist. He couldn’t stop the smile, so he made it a wistful smile over the beauty of the morning.

  The clacking stopped. “Greetings, Prometheus Longinus. Congratulations on your new posting.”