Nissa let out her breath in a rush. What was wrong with her? She needed to get away from this man, not insult him. She grabbed Cedron’s hand and searched the street for her basket.
The centurion frowned at the group of men. “I’m chasing two thieves—a man and a half-grown boy.”
Fear burned in Nissa’s chest. She pulled at Cedron’s hand. Please, we need to leave. Now. But Cedron stayed, his face turned to the Roman.
“The older one was tall and dark, maybe Greek. The young one—he’s called Mouse—he’s a runt, but he’s fast.”
The men in the crowd murmured and shook their heads.
The Roman reached up to the corner horn of his saddle and swung himself up with one smooth jump. He gathered the reins in one hand. “There’s a shekel for whoever turns them in. Get word to me at the barracks—ask for Longinus.” He circled his horse toward the upper city. “You,” he called down to Nissa. “Little wildcat.”
She ducked her head down. Don’t look at him.
“Put some oil on that wound. And keep your brother off the street.” He kicked his mount and galloped back toward the upper city.
Cedron fell into step beside her, his sightless eyes followed the receding thud of hooves on dirt. “He won’t find those thieves.” He shook his head. “No one here would help a Roman, even for a shekel.”
Nissa scooped up her basket, took Cedron’s arm, and hurried toward home. Relief warred with worry. The Roman hadn’t recognized her, and Cedron was right. No one here would help a Roman. Anyway, he wouldn’t catch Mouse because there would be no more Mouse and no more stealing.
What about Dismas? He risked his life for me. She pushed the rising guilt away. She’d miss his quick smile and his jokes, but it was too dangerous. Her days as Mouse were done.
The trumpets sounded from the temple walls, signaling the end of the day. The Jews of the city were praying over their evening meal, but Nissa didn’t hope for prayers and the sharing of bread with her parents. If they were lucky, Abba wouldn’t come home at all, and Mama would sink into her usual wine-induced sleep. They could eat their food in peace, and Nissa could tend to her aching shoulder.
Cedron stopped her in front of their courtyard gate. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“It’s just a scratch.” A scratch that will scar and probably ache for months.
He tipped his head sideways. “They’re home.”
She held her breath and listened. Yes, their parents were home, and Abba wasn’t happy. She reached into her belt for the shekel. “Maybe you should hold this.”
Cedron nodded as she slipped it into his hand. It would be safer with him. He pinched her sleeve to stop her before she stepped forward. “Nissa,” he whispered, “remember, don’t make him angry.”
“I know, I know. Don’t worry.” She wouldn’t this time. No matter what he said, she wouldn’t let it get to her. Her wayward tongue had landed her in enough trouble tonight. Nissa pushed at the gate, juggling the barley and oil. Good, the cooking fire was lit. Bread might calm her father.
Mama jumped up as they entered, looking with relief at the wheat in Nissa’s basket. With thin, graying hair and deep furrows on her brow and cheeks, she looked more like a grandmother than a mother.
Nissa had heard the lament countless times. Mama had given birth to Nissa late in life, when she and Abba both had been sure their only child would be the one cursed with blindness. They’d rejoiced in the hope of a boy who could care for them in their old age. Instead, the Lord had cursed them again with a plain, clumsy daughter—a daughter who had been a disappointment to them for twenty years.
Her mother snatched the jar of grain and hurried to kneel at the stone quern, pouring out a generous measure to grind but spilling as much on the dirt.
Nissa curled her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms. We don’t have enough grain to waste, Mama.
Her father stood with his hands on his hips. His hair, almost completely gray, was bushy and unkempt, as was his beard. His eyes were bloodshot, and his full lips cast in a perpetual frown. “I come home to no food, a wife who can hardly stand up, and no daughter to wash my feet after a day of labor.” He pushed past her and lowered his body onto a bench beside the door.
Day of labor? Abba hadn’t labored today, unless he counted throwing dice as work. He’d left Amit tied up instead of carrying bundles of kindling to sell in the wood market. Cedron squeezed her arm. She bit down on her lower lip and patted his hand. Don’t worry. I won’t make him angrier.
She poured water into a wide clay bowl and brought it to her father. Kneeling before him, she untied his sandals like a good Jewish daughter.
He set his dirty feet in the water. “And where were you when you should have been preparing bread for us?”
Nissa tensed. What could she say? “I found work for the day. Weaving.”
“And did you get paid?” her father jerked, tipping the bowl sideways and sloshing water on the ground.
Nissa lunged to rescue the bowl before it broke. “She . . . she said she’d pay me tomorrow.” Her voice wavered like an old woman’s.
“Give it to me.” Her father held out his hand.
She shook her head. “I don’t have it.” That was the truth.
His hand snaked behind her neck and closed on her hair. He jerked down until she was forced to look up at him. “You have it. I know you. Now give it to me.”
He demanded her money when he’d spent the day gambling his away? “When Elijah returns.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back.
Her father’s face darkened with anger. “Don’t get mouthy with me, girl.”
Didn’t Abba understand? They needed the money for rent. “But Gilad was looking for you today.”
“I curse Gilad and the womb that bore him. He stole enough from me today. I’m the father and the head of this family.” He stood, dragging her up by her hair. The bowl pitched to the side and broke against the rocky ground. His other hand dipped into the folds of her belt and came back empty.
“Where is it?”
She shook her head and blinked back tears from the stinging pain in her scalp.
He released her hair and pushed her away. “Why did the Lord curse me? A blind son and a daughter who can do nothing right. You got a job weaving! The woman must be as blind as your brother. Your fingers can neither weave nor spin. And your cooking! No wonder no man wants you.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “Now. Give me what you earned today.”
“No.” She wrenched away, pain scorching through her injured shoulder. She ran behind her mother—still swaying over the wheat—as if she could help her. “You’ll only gamble it away. Like you do with everything we earn. Why don’t you go gather wood and sell it, use your own money for the dice!”
He came after her, his fist raised.
But she couldn’t stop. Words flew from her mouth. “I won’t work so you can throw dice with the pagans and so she”—Nissa tipped her head toward her mother—“can drink up the rest in cheap wine. The neighbors call you am-ha-arez, and they are right!”
Her father swung. She saw a burst of stars as his fist connected with her cheek. Pain arced behind her eyes. She fell to the ground with a swallowed cry.
“Stop, Abba!” Cedron stood suddenly, holding out his hand. “Father. I have it. I took it.”
Abba was breathing heavily, but he didn’t advance on Cedron.
“You are right.” Cedron showed the coin to his father. “You are the head of the family. According to the law, it belongs to you.”
Her father stalked to Cedron, snatched the coin from his hand without a word, and ducked into the dark house.
Cedron shuffled toward Nissa, his hands out until he touched her bent head. “I’m sorry, Nissa. I had to.”
Nissa sniffed and buried her throbbing face in his chest. She would have done the same if Abba had been hitting him. But Abba never hit him. On
ly her. I should have given it to Gilad. At least then we’d have the rent paid.
She’d have to find another way to pay Gilad. The money Cedron brought in from begging wouldn’t keep them fed. Her father was right: she couldn’t weave or spin, her bread was always burnt, and her lentils were hard and tasteless. No man would marry her; no woman would hire her. She was a failure at everything—everything but stealing.
Chapter 3
LONGINUS URGED FEROX past the Pool of Siloam, up the Stepped Street, and toward the upper city. The evening trumpets sounded as the last groups of merchants and slaves hurried into the darkening streets.
His fingers tightened on the reins. How he wished he could wrap them around the little thief’s neck. He was sure he’d seen the boy turning a corner into the lower city. They all looked alike, these Jews. And they weren’t about to help him find the two thieves who had made a fool of him today.
His head pounded, and his stomach growled. He was a Roman centurion, by the gods. He’d battled barbarians from the north and been outnumbered by Numidian troops. But he’d lost a little thief in the streets of Jerusalem just as he’d lost the Samaritan who had killed Scipio.
He snapped the reins, and Ferox loped past the temple and over the bridge that crossed the Tyropoeon Valley. The upper city stretched before him in the twilight. Lights glowed in the courtyards of the wealthy priests and merchants; voices and snatches of music drifted on the breeze with the scents of cooking fires and roasting meat.
What he wouldn’t give to be stationed back in Gaul, with its quiet villages and peaceful people. Even Rome would be better than this provincial dung heap. After this feast—which one was it again?—he’d go back to Caesarea, where he’d be reminded each day of his failure to get revenge for Scipio.
Longinus had spent months searching for the Samaritan with the scar on his face, the scar Scipio had put there. He’d almost had him—twice. The first time, a girl had gotten the best of him; the second time, a band of lepers.
His hand rested on the sword at his side. Even his father’s sword, his most precious possession, hadn’t been able to help him against the horde of diseased cripples who had attacked him on the road in Galilee. For months, he’d watched his skin for signs of sores or white flaking, worrying with every itch that he’d contracted the hideous disease that plagued these people.
At least no one saw me terrified by a band of half-human invalids. He’d screamed like a woman as the lepers had closed in around him, smelling of rot and death. Then he’d run like a coward. If his men had seen that, he’d have lost every iota of respect. And a centurion without the respect of his men didn’t deserve the insignia on his breastplate.
Now he’d failed again. Longinus had ridden the streets of the upper city first, then the lower, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dirty little thief and his tall partner. Instead, he’d almost killed the blind Jew and his belligerent sister.
The weight on his heart eased, and his lips twitched. He’d never seen a Jewish woman so dirty or who smelled so bad. And she had a mouth as sharp as his dagger. He’d thought all Jewish women were meek as doves, content to hide behind the walls of their courtyards and the folds of their mantles. A woman hadn’t scolded him like that since he’d said good-bye to his mother. Looked like at least one of them had some spirit, even if she was as plain as a brick wall and smelled like a stable. Her father would be hard-pressed to find a husband who could keep that wildcat in check.
He slowed Ferox to a walk as they ascended marble steps that led to the deserted agora in front of Herod’s palace. The broad square, the upper city’s locus for trade and assembly, was empty of all but the hot wind that swept in from the eastern desert.
A massive arched entrance, wide enough for three chariots, led to the palace built by Herod—not the current fool but his father, the one they called Herod the Great. Just past the arch, another set of marble steps led to a vast central platform, where Pilate sometimes appeared to speak to the Jews or pronounce sentence on prisoners.
On each side of the platform stretched identical marble palaces, one named for Herod the Great, the other for Caesar. Even by Roman standards they were magnificent, towering over the upper city. Gardens, groves of sweet eucalyptus, and fountains fringed the polished stone walls.
But Herod Antipas didn’t live in his father’s magnificent memorial. He stayed in Caesarea, far away from the Jews who disdained him. Pontius Pilate, the legate and provincial governor, resided in the palace during the great feasts, when he marched his cohorts to Jerusalem to display the might of the empire, but even he didn’t stay in the city long. The god of these Jews made him nervous. He’d leave Jerusalem as soon as he could.
After two weeks in the city, Longinus well understood Pilate’s avoidance of Jerusalem. In the last few days, the population of the city had swelled to ten times its usual number. Pilgrims from Damascus to the Dead Sea filled the streets to bursting. More Jews meant more trouble. It only took one radical to spark dissent, and a conflict could turn into a riot. Suddenly, you had a rebellion on your hands. Everyone knew Pilate needed to avoid any sign of rebellion in Judea.
The Jewish leaders assured Pilate they came together only to worship their god. The one and only God, they said. Longinus shook his head. Surely this god had deserted them long ago, just as Jupiter had deserted him when Scipio lay dying.
Gods. They’re all the same. They cared nothing for the people scurrying like ants in the sand, making sacrifices and asking for mercy. He’d learned that the hard way.
He turned Ferox to the north, where his cohort—four hundred eighty men led by six centurions—camped between the three great towers of Phasael, Hippicus, and Mariamme. Three more cohorts made camp at the Antonia Fortress. Rome believed in an extravagant show of force, even against unarmed and untrained Jews.
The eighty men under his command would be eating their meal and getting ready for guard duty or a game of dice. The lucky ones looked forward to an evening furlough.
Longinus’s chest tightened in familiar grief. After half a year, he still expected to see Scipio waiting for him in their quarters with a grin and a scheme. Two weeks in Jerusalem and Scipio would have known every tavern in the city and half the women—and he would have dragged Longinus to enjoy both whenever they were off duty. Longinus let out a long breath. His days of wine and women ended when his best friend died in the streets of Caesarea. Not just his best friend but also the best legionary he’d known in his fifteen years in the Roman army. How could he enjoy the pleasures of this life while Scipio languished in the underworld?
As he entered the garrison, smoke drifted from the mess hall, bringing with it the aroma of roasting venison. His hollow stomach rumbled. At least the hunting parties had been successful. Food first, then the bathhouse and a good night’s sleep—if he could block out the sound of Silvanus’s snores.
Longinus shared his quarters with one man instead of seven like the rest of the legionaries, but he’d take seven reeking recruits over Silvanus any day. If he had to spend another ten years bunking with the head centurion, he just might kill the man in his sleep. His only hope was that Silvanus would be sent on a diplomatic mission somewhere in the empire—Britannia would suit him well. It was as cold and brutal as he was.
Longinus slid off Ferox as a legionary took the reins and led the horse to the stables for his own rubdown and dinner. Longinus started toward the camp kitchens but halted at the shout of a gruff voice. A heavyset legionary approached, a red-plumed helmet under his arm. He was shorter than Longinus but heavily muscled. His cropped black hair and swarthy complexion did little to hide his many battle scars.
Longinus groaned. Not Silvanus. Was it too much to hope that Cornelius hadn’t told the story of the thieves to the head centurion?
“Longinus. Empty-handed again, eh?”
Curse Cornelius. Longinus grunted and turned back toward the mess tent.
Silvanus clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me to the bathhous
e.” His smile was closer to a grimace and his invitation more like an order. But Silvanus was his primus pilus and must be obeyed. Longinus pushed thoughts of food aside and fell into step beside the head centurion. They left the camp and strode toward the Jaffa Gate, where a slave stood beneath the arched doorway of a modestly appointed building.
“Give me a real Roman bathhouse instead of this falling-down pile of bricks.” Silvanus slapped two bronze quadrans in the slave’s hand. “But at least we don’t have to bathe like these Jews, out in the open.” He clouted Longinus on the back. “Although I don’t mind seeing the women stepping out of their holy pools. Wet clothes can’t hide much, eh?”
Longinus gave the slave his two coins and followed Silvanus into the frigidarium. He wasn’t in the mood to trade complaints about the provinces or stories about women. Yes, the bathhouse was primitive, but he’d volunteer for latrine duty before he’d agree with Silvanus.
A gaunt slave helped them out of their armor and tunics and gave them each a pair of wooden sandals. He carefully folded their garments and took a stance in front of their belongings.
“Keep a watchful eye, or you’ll feel the sting of my whip,” Silvanus growled at the man, who paled and nodded. Silvanus smirked at Longinus. “Can’t be too careful with that sword of your father’s, eh?”
Longinus grimaced. After only two weeks, the bathhouse slaves were terrified of Silvanus. Their weapons and armor would not only be safe but also cleaned and polished by the time they returned. He passed the slave an extra bronze coin and hoped he’d use it for a good meal.
Longinus followed Silvanus past the cold plunge baths and into the dry heat of the tepidarium. He took a seat on the wooden bench and poured olive oil on his chest and legs.
Silvanus sank down on the bench beside him. “I’m ready to get out of this dump.” He grunted at a hovering slave to pour oil on his back.
Longinus poured more warm oil into his hand and slicked it over his shoulders and arms. Going back to Caesarea sounded good, but Silvanus was too satisfied. He knew that look. What odious duty would Silvanus assign him this time? Scouting duty in the desert? Digging ditches? He massaged his aching shoulders. “We’ll be gone in ten days.”
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