Fortunata’s skin was pale, almost translucent, and showed no trace of sun. The few times she went out into the open, she kept herself carefully covered under a canopy lest her delicate skin be damaged. It was common knowledge among the people of Judea how bitterly the governor’s wife detested the country her husband ruled.
Marcus looked at Miriam’s father. “You seem to have lost your appetite as well, Mordechai. Are you feeling well?”
Startled, Mordechai jerked his head up. “Yes, I’m fine.” He picked off a grape from a nearby cluster and put it into his mouth to prove his point.
“You do look a little pale,” Pilate observed. “Perhaps we pushed too hard to get back.”
“Perhaps.” Mordechai glanced quickly at Miriam, then away. “But really, I am just a little tired.”
“Did the governor tell you that your ship is in port?” Fortunata asked Mordechai.
He looked up, obviously still distracted. “No, but Marcus did. He says it is one of the large grain ships from Alexandria.”
She looked at Miriam. “That is good. It will make for a smooth voyage. Not that you should see much bad weather in the summer sailing season. Perhaps a thunderstorm or two in the Ionian Sea, but these ships are so large that when they are fully loaded they roll much less. I refuse to travel on anything smaller.”
“Good,” Miriam said, forcing a smile. “I have heard much about seasickness and do not look forward to that part of our experience.” Then she turned to Pilate. “Excellency?”
Her father visibly started and shot her a sharp glance. She ignored it as Pilate waved a hand for her to proceed.
“Has Marcus spoken with you about my request?”
Marcus straightened, warning her off with his eyes. “I haven’t, Miriam. Since the governor’s return this afternoon, there has been disturbing news out of the Galilee. Our time has been occupied with that.”
“Really?” she said, surprised. “What is that?”
Marcus glanced at Pilate, who nodded his approval for Marcus to say more.
“There has been an uprising.”
Mordechai was instantly alert. “In the Galilee?”
“Yes, near Sepphoris. A band of Zealots attacked our garrison there—a small one—and drove our men out. One man was killed.”
“Zealots?” Miriam said slowly.
“Yes,” Pilate snapped. “Seems that word of the arrest of the Javelin has reached their ears. They think they can influence his sentence by offering a demonstration of their power.”
Marcus said nothing more. What Pilate was choosing not to say was that the letter that had come from Sextus Rubrius was very sobering. It wasn’t just Sepphoris. The reaction was erupting everywhere. A small group of men had scaled the walls at Beth Shean, a major garrison on the River Jordan, and set fire to the granaries, shops, and barracks. “Free Ha’keedohn or die!” had been painted on the outer gate. Four guards at the small armory in Capernaum had been overpowered during that same night, and a large cache of weapons was taken.
According to Sextus, word was out everywhere in the north that Pilate had accepted Simeon’s offer of three talents of gold as a ransom, then turned and taken him prisoner anyway. The whole of the Galilee was aflame with outrage. David ben Joseph was a highly respected man. His family had mortgaged a significant part of their fortune in order to free the prisoners from Beth Neelah. Ha’keedohn, the Javelin, had been widely admired among the various Zealot bands. He had infuriated his fellow rebels when he insisted on giving the Romans safe passage out of the Joknean Pass, but he had done it for the oath’s sake. They didn’t like it, but it was something everyone understood. Now, to have the very ones he had saved that night violate their own honor and lure him in with treachery was the flash point needed to unite the squabbling bands of Zealots into one united front. Sextus was urgently requesting that two cohorts—more than a thousand men—be sent immediately to Capernaum to see if their presence might calm things.
Pilate turned to his young guest. “Yes, my dear,” he said to Miriam. “You were saying?”
“Miriam!” Her father’s voice was quiet, but there was a sharp edge to it.
That immediately caught Pilate’s attention and he sat back, eyeing the two of them thoughtfully. “What request is this you speak of, Miriam?”
“I am told,” Miriam started, deliberately avoiding the glares of both her father and Marcus, “that you have a prisoner here by the name of Simeon ben David of Capernaum.”
The coarse and weathered features didn’t change, but the narrow gray eyes suddenly glittered coldly. “Yes?”
Feeling her heart jump, she went on, choosing her words with great care. “Earlier this spring, my father and I were saved from a very dangerous situation by a man of that same name, also from Capernaum.”
Pilate’s eyes probed hers for several seconds; then he turned to Mordechai. “What is this? You have not told me this before.”
“I did speak of it some time ago, sire,” Mordechai said. “It was when the delegation from the Great Council went to the Galilee to arrange a meeting with the Zealots. Ya’abin struck our camp while we were in Samaria. The Zealot council had sent an escort, and fortunately they arrived in time to intervene. I’m sure I mentioned this to you when we came here to Caesarea on our way back to Jerusalem.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. Your chief steward betrayed you to Ya’abin.”
“Yes, sire,” Mordechai came in. “Ya’abin was on the verge of taking Miriam into her tent to have his way with her when Simeon and Yehuda appeared.”
Pilate erupted. “Ya’abin? That pig! Is nothing below the man?”
Fortunata’s hand flew to her mouth. “How dreadful!” she cried.
But Pilate was raging. He swung on Marcus. “The man attacks our columns, robs my custom agents, defies me at every hand. By the gods! I would give a fortune to get my hands on him, but the commander in Jerusalem cannot tell me that they are even close to finding and stopping him. Maybe it’s time we give the man a few lashes to increase his motivation.”
Marcus said nothing. He had already heard all of this earlier.
Miriam waited for Pilate’s outburst to subside, then went on. “Even if Ya’abin had not taken our lives, my life would have been ruined.” She made no effort to hide the pain on her face. “But just as I was about to be taken, this Simeon arrived and drove Ya’abin and his men away. We owe him a great debt, Excellency, me most of all.”
She hesitated for a moment. Pilate was fully attentive, but there was also something else behind those eyes.
“When I arrived here, I asked Tribune Marcus if I could have permission to see this prisoner and discover for myself if it is the same man who helped us in Samaria.”
“Sire,” Mordechai broke in swiftly, “my daughter’s feelings about this incident have overcome her better judgment. I apologize for her. We have no right to make such a request.”
Miriam’s head came up. “It is a great debt that we owe, Excellency.” She shot her father a withering look. “Both of us.”
“Sire?” Marcus broke in, trying to see if he could salvage this before it got fully away from him. “Miriam did speak to me of this earlier. I explained that only you could give that permission. I told her I would speak to you of it on your return.”
There was a barely perceptible nod, but the governor’s eyes never left Miriam. “And if it is the same man?”
“Then we should—”
Mordechai overrode her. “Though there is a debt there, sire, we would not feel it wise to intervene in your internal affairs.”
“Sire, though I honor my father’s feelings, because of what we owe to this man, I would ask that you consider clemency in his behalf.”
“Not you too?” he grumped.
That was not what either Miriam or her father had expected. “Me too?” Miriam asked.
“Yes. I had a delegation of Pharisees call on me this afternoon. Couldn’t even wait until I got the dust off my feet from our
journey. I sent them away just before coming in here.”
“And they came about Simeon?” Mordechai asked. Pharisees? This was not good news. “Were they from Jerusalem?”
“No, no. Mostly local leaders. But they had a delegation of three from Capernaum, including a man who claimed to be this Simeon’s uncle. They carried a letter from the chief Pharisee on the council there in Capernaum asking that I reconsider my—” his voice was suddenly mocking—“arrangements concerning this Simeon.” He snorted angrily. “I hate those people. Can’t they ever just come straight out and say what they mean without all the innuendo and veiled threats?”
“Threats?” Marcus said.
“Yes,” Pilate said with a dismissive wave. “They reminded me that the Pharisees carry great influence with the people and that an execution of this man might not be looked upon too favorably.”
Pilate looked at Marcus, a sudden thought striking him. “Write Sextus, Marcus. See if he can find out if these Pharisees might have anything to do with the outbreak in Galilee. If they do, I’ll clap the lot of them behind bars.”
He nibbled on a dried fig, then flipped it aside and glared at Miriam. “Why is it everyone suddenly has an interest in this man?”
Mordechai was all smoothness. “I apologize, Excellency. Miriam’s emotions, understandable though they may be, caused her to forget herself. We do not wish to make any formal request concerning your prisoners.”
The betrayal was complete. She couldn’t even meet the eyes of her father.
“Miriam?”
She raised her head slowly. Pilate was smiling at her, but his smile sent a chill clear through her body. “I am sorry, my dear, but it doesn’t much matter whether this Simeon is the same man as the one who helped you or not. He and I are going to spend the day together tomorrow and discuss a few items that concern me.” His voice went suddenly very hard. “Request denied.”
III
“Oh, Livia, what am I going to do?”
Livia shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Miriam. I don’t know.”
Miriam was pacing back and forth in front of her bed. “I have to do something. Pilate is going to start torturing Simeon tomorrow.”
“He said that?”
“He may as well have.”
“Simeon won’t betray you, Miriam,” Livia said slowly. “No matter what they do to him.”
“I know that, Livia,” she shot back. “But I can’t let them do that. I can’t.”
She stopped and swung around. “I’ll go tell Father that if he doesn’t intervene, we’re not going to Rome with him.”
Livia went instantly pale. “You can’t say that. He’ll bind you to the mast if he has to. And then there is Ya’abin. If he ever gets his hands on you again, Miriam . . . ” She gave a tiny shudder.
“We’ll go back to Capernaum,” Miriam said, her words tumbling out. “I’ll change my name. We’ll go into hiding for a time.” Her shoulders slumped, and she sat down heavily on the bed. When she looked at Livia, she was near tears. “As we left dinner, my father said that if I say one more word about this, he will see to it that no further search is made for your brother when we get to Rome.”
Livia paled. “He said that?”
“Yes. He was so angry he could hardly speak. All he could do was say over and over, ‘You’ll ruin everything.’” She hesitated, then decided that Livia needed to know it all. “He also said that there will be no more talk about me adopting you as my sister.”
Livia immediately moved to her. “That doesn’t matter. What we have between us doesn’t depend on a piece of paper.”
“I know but—” She flung herself backwards on the bed, throwing an arm up across her face. “Oh, Livia, what can we do?”
Livia laid down on the bed beside her. “Keep praying. That’s all we can do.”
Miriam looked up in disbelief, almost as if she hadn’t heard correctly.
“We can’t give up, Miriam. That’s what Jesus said. We have to pray and not lose heart.”
Miriam sat up again. Her shoulders lifted and fell, then straightened again. “Yes. You are right, Livia. We can’t give up.” She got to her feet shakily. “Let’s pray right now.”
“Of course,” Livia said.
Then Miriam’s emotions rose again. “If only Ya’abin wasn’t still free,” Miriam wailed. “I could stay here. I could raise more money. Maybe three talents just wasn’t enough for Pilate.”
Livia knelt down at the bedside. She waited, then reached up and tugged at Miriam’s hand. “Come, Miriam. We need to pray.”
But Miriam had gone rigid. Her eyes had widened into enormous circles as she stared straight ahead at the wall.
Livia got up quickly, alarmed by the sudden change in Miriam. “What? What is it?”
“If only Ya’abin wasn’t still here!” she whispered in awe.
“What are you saying? What do you mean by that?”
Miriam spun around. “I have to see my father.”
“Now?”
“Yes!” She started toward the door, then stopped. “Keep praying, Livia. Don’t give up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
IV
“Father, we have to talk.”
His tired eyes instantly hardened. “It’s over, Miriam. I told you, there will be no more discussion on this. I won’t hear any more of this nonsense.”
“I know how to free Simeon.”
He started to shut the door again. “I don’t care. Go to bed.”
She stepped forward, blocking the door with her shoulder. “If Simeon breaks under torture tomorrow, I know the name he will give Pilate.”
He stopped, surprise replacing anger. She pushed the door open. Looking quickly up and down the corridor, she stepped inside his bedroom and pushed the door shut. She noted that he was still dressed. His bed was turned down but was unrumpled. Papers were scattered across one table.
“I’m in no mood for games, Miriam,” her father said. “What are you saying? How could you possibly know that?”
“Because it was me, Papa.”
He stared at her blankly.
“Yes, Father. Me! I’m the one who told Simeon all your plans.”
Mordechai ben Uzziel, one of Jerusalem’s most powerful citizens, went as pale as a sheet of linen. He stood there, feet apart, just staring at her. “I don’t believe you.”
She moved over and sat down slowly on his bed. “I was still awake that night that Marcus came to the house to make the final arrangements with you. I heard his voice and came down to the garden to say hello.” Her face colored a little. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just wanted to surprise Marcus. But I heard it all, Father. I heard everything you said to him.” She paused, and then finished. “The morning after you left for Alexandria, I went to Capernaum and told Simeon everything.”
One part of Mordechai was recoiling at such a preposterous notion, but the analytical part of his mind was dropping pieces of the puzzle into place. It answered all of the questions. It explained everything.
Miriam finally looked up. “Why do you think Simeon and his father were willing to put up three talents of their own money? Partly it was to try to save Yehuda, but partly it was to protect me, to stop Pilate from ever finding out the name that he so desperately wants.”
Mordechai passed his hand across his eyes. He sat in the highest councils of the country. He worked with some of the nation’s most powerful and influential men. He had brokered financial contracts worth major fortunes. It took a lot to leave him speechless, but that he was. He just continued to stare at her in disbelief as his mind completed the circle, and he knew with cold fury that she spoke the truth.
“I won’t try to justify what I did to you. Nor will I try to convince you that what you did was wrong, terribly wrong, but—”
“Wrong!” he shouted, finally coming out of the daze. “You dare to talk to me about right and wrong?”
He whirled and stalked to the table. She saw that his hands were tremb
ling as he stared down at his papers. Then with one mighty swipe of his arm, he sent them flying. He spun back around. “We had peace within our grasp,” he exclaimed. “Not just for our time, but for generations to come. We were on the verge of the greatest victory for peace our nation has ever known.”
“By sending a thousand men to their deaths?” she cried.
His mouth opened, then shut again. His eyes were like tiny points of black light. “Not a thousand men. A thousand fanatics! A thousand lunatics who think that God has given them some divine mission to overthrow Rome, the first government to offer us a chance for real peace and prosperity in six hundred years. By all that is holy, Miriam, what have you done?”
He kicked savagely at the padded, backless chair he had been using at the table. It skittered across the polished marble floor and slammed against the wall with a crash. Miriam shrank back, her eyes wide and round. He spun around, raging like a wounded bear.
Outside the door, there was the sound of running footsteps. They stopped; then there was a sharp knock. “Master Mordechai? Are you all right?”
“Get out of here!” Mordechai roared. “Leave us alone!”
But the interruption stopped the blind, mindless fury. Miriam sat huddled on the bed, head down, hands clenched tightly in her lap. For several minutes he vented his barely contained wrath. He swore, he cursed, he threatened, he fumed. She was no longer his daughter. He never wanted to see her face again. He would confine her to the house for the next ten years if that’s what it took to teach her obedience. They would go to Rome, and she would never be allowed to return. Her inheritance was cut off as of this very moment. She was no longer worthy to be his daughter. Maybe he would just tell Pilate himself so the governor would know that Mordechai had no part in her treachery. Twice, as the enormity of her betrayal sunk into his mind, she thought he was going to strike her.
When he was finally spent, he sat down heavily on one of the benches and dropped his head into his hands. Miriam didn’t move for several minutes, watching his chest gradually stop its violent heaving.
Finally she stood. “If you wish to tell Pilate what I did, then let’s do it now, Father.”
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