The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  Joab dropped the smelly bin wrap on the side of the doorstep. The burlap was stiff with old filth and smelled like the inside of the bin itself. His father would have chided him for not burning the wrap with the trash, but the people from Caesarea seemed more inclined to save a pruta as long as they could. Frugal as a mother of twenty, the old saying went.

  The door opened before he could knock. He’d let a bin wrap distract him as long as he could.

  It was not Nathanael’s mother, it was the girl he’d seen before. She looked as though she had been crying, which did nothing for his turmoil within. She looked ornery too, but the orneriness softened when she recognized him.

  “Marina said you would be by.”

  “Is she here?”

  The girl nodded and moved aside to let him in. “She’s out back. I’ll get her.” She indicated a low couch and disappeared down a short hallway.

  But Joab could not sit. He drew a deep breath, but nothing could settle him. He only had to say words Nathanael requested he say. He was not responsible for their accuracy. It did not matter one dried-up fig what Joab ben Judah thought of the words, he only had to deliver them. Just deliver them, and deliver his soul of their onus. What did he care what they meant. He was only a courier.

  “Just a courier,” he whispered to himself. “I’m only a courier.”

  She came in from the back, and by the look on her face she was miserably eager to hear what Joab had to say. It was a face struck like a new coin with grief.

  It brought back flitting images of the day in the pass. The scuffle. Kicked-up dust. The grunts and the first gasp of pain.

  “You have words from my son,” the woman said.

  Like looking into the eyes of Nathanael himself. The last he’d seen Nathanael, he lay on the pillows at the doctor’s house. These amber eyes looked out from a frame of cosmetics—those from greasy, lavender-hued lids.

  Tell her for me . . . no stones.

  “How did he die?”

  The plaintive words came from the other one. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, gazing at him as intently as Nathanael’s mother.

  “He died as I could only hope to die,” Joab answered. “He died bringing bread to people he didn’t know. He died loved. He died with—” And the words caught because suddenly, looking into the golden eyes, he knew why they dropped the stones.

  Because they were there. That was the only difference between Joab and the ones with the stones, they were there. They saw her eyes and knew Law didn’t matter anymore in the face of one who needed much more. They saw her eyes and saw down to the misery at the bottom and felt a compassion that Law could never give.

  He’d been afraid to come, afraid to bump against the sin of this woman’s life, afraid it would contaminate him or set him on a wayward track. Afraid of her pain. And now . . . now there wasn’t any fear. There was only unexpected compassion, calm compassion, because Joab knew he had something good to tell her. He knew, he knew why they dropped the stones.

  Tears were streaming from the eyes. Liquid ran from her nose. She fumbled blindly for something to wipe her face, and her friend snatched off her own head scarf and handed it to her.

  Joab took her gently by the hand and led her to the low couch. First he told the woman how Nathanael died. He told it as he knew it, leaving a few hard details to his memory alone. Then he told the miserably eager mother of a son’s last words, and found that it wasn’t hard at all. Then he explained the words, and told about an adulteress and accusers and a Teacher who did not allow them to throw stones.

  The women cried quietly the whole time Joab spoke, constantly wiping tears. Kyria held Rivkah’s hand hard, crying as much as her friend.

  He finished and sat on the couch with quiet marvel inside. What peace was this? Worst thing he ever had to do, yet the peace he felt at the words he spoke brought something he’d never known.

  She didn’t realize the implications of the words of Jesus, he could see that, she was too wounded to understand. Maybe too uneducated. The ones who knew the Torah best understood the infamy of the words the most. But no longer did he feel fury at them.

  He felt the good in them.

  A frantic pounding on the door. Jorah pushed her way in, searching—she shook the bin wrap at him. “Joab! Where did you dump the trash?”

  He stared at the brandished wrap. “What—?”

  “The trash! Orion’s life depends on it!”

  “What of Orion?” Rivkah gasped at the same time as the other girl asked, “What happened to the Roman?”

  Jorah jumped in place with furious impatience. “The trash, Joab, are you so thick? Where did you dump it? If those papers are burned, then something awful will happen!”

  “To Orion?” Rivkah demanded.

  “What will happen?” Joab asked, utterly bewildered.

  “I don’t know!” Jorah screamed.

  “Are you talking about the papers in the mortar bucket? Why would I throw them away?”

  Anguish became astonishment. “You mean you didn’t?”

  “Of course not. Who would burn papers? They looked legal.”

  She grabbed Joab’s arm. “Where are they?”

  “Next to the pattern plates. I put a tile on them to—Jorah! Where are you going?”

  But Jorah had rushed out the door and was flying down the street, her dark-blue head covering flapping.

  The three sent one another fleeting glances before dashing out the door after her.

  21

  PONTIUS PILATE GAZED at the mosaic on the floor of the triclinium. The mosaics in Herod’s Jerusalem palace were different from the Caesarean mosaics. One would think Herod a pious Jew with the mosaics found here. Barely ornamental at all, with patterns that could not offend his god, much less his people. Simple crests of the sea was all. Or borders like a crenellated tower. Scrupulous in design. Yet in the palace back in Caesarea, in Pilate’s own quarters, were mosaic depictions of things like a bowl of fruit with a dove perched on the edge. Pilate knew of Herod the Great’s hypocrisy as his own people did not. His people were more devoted Jews than he had ever been.

  “They expect a wide berth about that devotion without a care for my own,” he murmured to himself. The presence of the servant roused him from his thoughts.

  “Excellency? A dispatch has arrived from Caesarea.” The servant handed a sealed papyrus roll to Pilate.

  A flush of excitement replaced his bitter musings. Decimus! He snatched the roll and glanced at the seal. Prometheus had pressed the image of the Pegasus into the wax, the insignia of the legion in which he had served. Loyalty to one’s legion never died. He smiled and broke the seal.

  Eagerness withered as his eyes traveled the script of his new secretary. He read the short message again, and thrice, before he lowered it into his lap.

  “Excellency?” the servant questioned unhappily. Unhappy news for Pilate was unhappiness for everyone. “Will there be a return word?”

  He had just arrived. He hadn’t had time to receive the infiltrators of the new cult.

  “Ready my escort, I am returning to Caesarea.” He shifted his jaw as he looked at the roll in his lap. “I am the return word.”

  The sun would soon set on a second night in the cell. Long periods of boredom followed flurries of visitors. Each time a new person came he wished he could go to the baths; the humiliation of being without a toga was rivaled only by his own stink. What a sight he must be. Unshaven and looking as though he’d been dragged up and down a Caesarean alley.

  He wondered if she had heard by now. He wondered if she would come.

  Why would she come? She just learned her son was dead. She had other things to think about. He had his good-bye, the sight of her standing in disheveled sorrow. That was the good-bye he would take to the block. That was the her he would remember when the soldier produced the blade to send him to the afterlife. But every time the padlock rattled, his heart jumped.

  He noticed his hand. He made the fing
ers clench. It was unthinkable. His hands would swell and rot and the whole of him would become a mass of corruption. This body so alive would be so dead in a day or two. It was absurd.

  The padlock rattled. The door swung open and it was—Kyria. It was so bizarre to see her standing there that comprehension left for a moment. He could not rise, could not speak. Perhaps because of disappointment that she was not another.

  “Hello, Roman,” she said cheerily. “We have five minutes, so the guard says.”

  He stayed in his corner and knew he could not conceal his dismay. What was wrong with him, what weakness was this? Where was his self-collection? Little things like an unexpected face could bring on the swell of a whimper.

  “Forgive me, I am not Rivkah,” she said, and the door pushed her forward as it closed. “She’s really angry at you, by the way.” She began to inspect the room, pulling back when she looked into the bucket. She picked up the wooden bracelet he had given pride of place on the pallet. “Who’s this from?”

  He felt himself relax, and realized it was good to see her. “A gift from a friend.”

  “Is that a Roman custom?” She looked at him. “You give gifts before you die? Seems a little late.”

  She put the bracelet on and held her arm out to admire it, then settled on the pallet. He realized he was breathing something other than stink, realized it was her perfume. At least he managed not to close his eyes when he inhaled.

  “She thinks it’s her fault you’re here,” Kyria said, looking at the light on the ceiling. “Not much of a view, Roman.”

  Orion felt a nudge of despair. She just found out her boy was murdered. Did she need the guilt of his own death? “The idea of someone else taking my guilt is appealing, but inform her my actions were my own.”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you something,” Kyria announced, self-satisfied. Her eyes glittered as she smiled deeply.

  He couldn’t help smiling back. “What are you not supposed to tell?” He thought of the first time he saw Rivkah, on the other side of the table on the Praetorium Palace steps.

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Roman. They won’t tell me.”

  A fraction of disappointment. A blinking off of a vagary that maybe Rivkah had confided something to her. . . .

  “We were all in the barracks and oh! that soldier was angry. I thought he was nice looking the second I saw him, but furious? Ho. Anyway, he said, ‘What is this, a delegation?’ He said, ‘Why don’t you just parade the palace?’ He was so mad.” She smiled dreamily. “Kicked us out the second we got there. I told him he was pushy. Anyway. He forbade Theron and Marina and Rivkah and Joab and Jorah from visiting you. That’s why I’m here. I thought you might want to know, in case you felt bad, their being your friends.”

  “I did wonder.” Theron and Marina were the only friends he had. The only ones not to visit. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “The angry soldier said it was dangerous. Rivkah said she didn’t care.” Kyria paused, then said delicately, “Roman, they had to drag her home.”

  “They did?” Curse him for his wistful tone.

  “They did. She finally settled down when they told her it wouldn’t do you any favors, her being Jewish. What with the tree and all.”

  They sat in a silence Orion did not notice, so companionable was her company. It comforted him greatly, if he allowed himself to admit it. She was Rivkah’s friend, and so brought with her a little bit of Rivkah.

  So they had to drag her away. He smiled a little. That sounded like Rivkah. Did she—really want to see him that much? Would he let himself believe it? Well, lately he’d allowed himself to think other things . . . about Rivkah. . . .

  “What are you thinking of?” Kyria said with that knowing smile.

  For answer, he did something very un–chief secretary: he made his own smile as roguish as he could.

  And she put her head back to laugh.

  He laughed too, mincing offspring how long had that been, and shook his head at the craziness of being in a cell and laughing with a prostitute.

  “Kyria.” He had her attention. “It was kind of you to come. Truly kind.”

  Her merriment dwindled. “Well. I guess my five minutes are up.” She rose and dusted off her backside. She noticed the bracelet on her arm, took it off, and set it on the pallet, then she rapped on the door. “By the way, the guard told me you’re forbidden any other visitors. He said Prometheus Longinus is probably jealous.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I’m a prostitute, Roman. I told the guard I was your dying wish.” Then, as she studied his face, the sauciness disappeared, replaced by an anxiousness that didn’t fit.

  The door swung in, and after a faltering smile she left, taking with her the comfort of her presence. The little bit of Rivkah.

  He would not see her one last time. Nothing mattered anymore. He sank into the corner, and there was greeted by a monstrosity he had held at bay. Despair fell on him in full, despair too great for a whimper.

  22

  “I WILL HAVE YOUR BEMA seat removed to the stadium,” Prometheus was saying briskly—an imitation of Orion if Pilate ever saw it. As if imitating his tone could produce his actions. “I’ve put out notice, Excellency, and they are posting it in the public squares. The sentence will be passed this afternoon. Execution is set for noon tomorrow.”

  “I want the stonemason there. Today, at the reading of the sentence.”

  Prometheus raised an uncertain gaze from his tablet. He caught himself and took his stylus to scratch it into the wax. His consternation was evident, however, when he had to use the flattened end of the stylus to press out a mistake.

  Don’t think I didn’t see.

  The rattle of the padlock. So familiar now, familiar as other things used to be.

  The door swung open. “On your feet, Orion Galerinius.”

  He stepped into the corridor, wincing at the light. When they got to the end of the corridor another Praetorian joined them. Their steps in perfect cadence, the towering soldiers flanked Orion, and he actually felt secure between them. Such a ludicrous thought it nearly set him laughing.

  He used to try not to notice the respect he commanded in the palace. Didn’t know how much he had enjoyed the respect until now. At one time they would have swapped palace small talk—the silence of the Praetorians let him know he was no longer chief secretary. He knew these two marching beside him, Ancus and Livy. Knew they belonged to Prometheus.

  They didn’t take the back way to the Great Stadium, this was too official. They went through the auditorium where Pilate held court—past the conspicuous absence of the bema seat—out the great oaken doors of the Praetorium Palace.

  The Great Stadium ran north and south along the coast, a perfect place for entertainment, where sea breezes on a good windy day could soothe the crowds in the stands. The Praetorians walked him to the wide public archway where stragglers dashed in late from places of employment or repose. Some glanced at Orion, unsure if this was the criminal spoken of in the posted notices.

  They came out from the archway, and Orion saw more people than he had expected in the stone tiers. Surprising, since sentence day was not nearly as entertaining as execution day. Tomorrow the place would be at capacity, ten thousand people packed tight.

  Punishment for crimes against the populus Romanus had to be carried out in a public fashion. For military personnel a humane death was prescribed. It was the only cheering thought as the soldiers led him on the hard-packed track toward the bema. Decapitation was swift and much more dignified than crucifixion.

  The wooden rectangular dais of the bema rose in the middle barrier of the Great Stadium, across from Pilate’s traditional seat in the games. The purple-cushioned throne had been placed upon the dais, and on the cushions in his imperial slouch sat Pontius Pilate.

  They stopped in front of the dais. Orion could not lift his gaze to the man seated there. Nausea from unaccustomed sun, dread of his fate. Or did sha
me prevent him? Six years he had served the man on the bema. He could neither defend his actions nor explain them. Excuses were for the weak.

  A guard shoved him to his knees, and the noise of the crowd died.

  The voice of Janus Bifrons.

  “Capitoline Triad, we invoke you this day. Attend and preside. Nemesis, goddess of vengeance and justice, we invoke you this day. Attend and preside. Portunus, protector of harbors, we invoke you this day. Attend and preside. May the proceedings please all gods present, known and unknown. Blessed be the Capitoline Triad.”

  How many times had he heard that invocation, with Janus at his side instead of above him?

  The voice of Prometheus Longinus.

  “Orion Galerinius Honoratus, Chief Secretary in the administration of government in Judea, the Imperial Province of Rome; quaestor to His Excellency Pontius Pilate: You are guilty of insubordination, being the failure to issue an imperial decree. His Excellency Pontius Pilate.”

  If the crowd was earlier stilled, it was now perfectly silent.

  “Rise, Orion Galerinius Honoratus.”

  A murmur from the crowd, confusion within Orion. This was not procedure. A guard hauled him to his feet. Against his will he rose, but Pilate was not looking at him. He was looking at Prometheus.

  Prometheus read from the large ornamental tablet used only in legal proceedings.

  “Nicanor of—” he hesitated over the pronunciation of the Hebrew name—“Barzillai. Come forth.” He raised his head and looked toward the tribunal.

  Coming across the tracks toward the dais was a man flanked as he had been with two Praetorian guards. He was nearly as tall as the guards, lean, with long wavy hair held in place with a leather string. He had a way of walking that was strange to Orion’s eye, as though he walked against a gentle wind. There was elegance in it, a certain grace that made Orion wonder if the man was a performer in the spectacles. He had a grim calm in his face and, strangely, eyes only for Orion. The three halted before the dais.