“I won’t run. You have my word on it.”
“If you decide to run,” Marcus went on stiffly, “or try to take that thousand shekels as your own, we will march on Capernaum. Every man, woman, and child who survives—including your own family—will be sold as slaves. Do you understand that? Pilate wanted me to make that absolutely clear.”
Any temptation to be flippant was long gone from Simeon now. “I understand,” he answered soberly. “You have my word.”
“Your word might be good enough for me,” Marcus grunted, “but not for Pilate. Fail, and he’ll level the town and sow the site with salt. Nothing will ever grow there again. There won’t be so much as a mongrel dog left when he’s finished.”
Simeon nodded. Marcus gave him one last searching look, then turned and walked toward the stairs. “Guard!” He looked back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Have your answer for me then.”
“I have your answer now.”
Above them the door screeched as it was opened. “I’ll be back.”
In a moment he was gone. Simeon crawled forward. “Yehuda? Did you hear all of that?”
“I did,” came the answering voice.
“Do you believe him? Or is this the cruelest kind of joke?”
There was a long moment of silence. Then, “No, it makes sense in an odd sort of way. Pilate must have real problems.”
“Can we do it in a year?”
This time there was no hesitation. “Get me out of here, my friend, and I’ll do it in whatever time you say.”
Simeon moved back, placing his back against the side wall of his cell. He stared up at the low ceiling covered with moldy residue. He could scarcely believe it. Freedom. For all four of them. And Miriam’s secret would stay safe.
He dropped his head and closed his eyes. “O Father,” he breathed, “I thank thee.”
And then the words of Jesus came rushing back, like the blast of a trumpet piercing the night. O ye of little faith, wherefore did you doubt?
Chapter 15
Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.
—Proverbs 4:23
I
Rome 10 March, a.d. 31
It was a glorious spring morning. The week of rain had scrubbed the air clean. The haze from the tens of thousands of cooking and household fires was gone for now. Everything stood out in sharp clarity in the clear air. Beyond the buildings, the seven hills of Rome were newly green. Trees were coming into leaf, new grass was bursting forth in every open space, and here and there tiny splashes of color marked the first of the wildflowers.
Miriam breathed deeply, savoring the fresh air. She was walking slowly down the Via Sacra, the Sacred Way, the street which cut completely through the Forum Romanum. She stopped, turning slowly, ignoring the glares as people pushed around her. She didn’t care. Her eyes took it all in—the dozens of monuments to famous persons from more than seven hundred years of history; massive government buildings; more temples than she could name; delicately carved columns everywhere the eye looked; towering arches celebrating the victory of this emperor or that; the Curia, or Senate building, from which Rome governed the world; the Rostra, a huge outdoor platform where orators exhorted—or, some would say, harangued—the crowds.
She loved it all. As much as that still surprised her, she truly loved it. Eight months ago, she had come here reluctantly, to please her father. She had dreaded it. But now, though she still longed for the day when she could return to her native land, Rome enchanted her.
She loved Italia too. The great villa of Antonius Marcus Didius, father of Marcus Quadratus Didius, lay in rolling vine country just a half hour’s walk east of the city. She and Livia and her father had stayed there for the first month after their arrival, until Marcus had secured a luxurious apartment for them in the city. Even now that Marcus had returned to Judea, she and Livia would go out and spend a day visiting with Cornelia, Marcus’s mother, while Miriam’s father and Marcus’s father went off into the study and worked through various financial matters. On those days, though her father always took a carriage, Miriam and Livia would walk, passing through the city gates into the quiet twisting lanes and narrow roads. She loved the countryside.
But there was something about the city.
It had been true of Jerusalem as well. From the time she was a young girl, Miriam would leave the Upper City and plunge into the streets of old Jerusalem, taking the pulse of the city and its people. The Forum Romanum, or the Roman Forum, held that same fascination for her, only ten times more, because it was ten times larger, ten times more complex, and ten times more varied. The Forum was the heart of the city, and the Via Sacra was its soul. Where she stood now was the center of culture, religion, politics, government, and social life for the mightiest empire the world had ever known. How could one not be impressed with that? When people said that “all roads lead to Rome,” they really meant that all roads came right here to the Forum, right here to the Via Sacra.
How much history had this one single street seen? On their first visit here, the day after arriving on the ship from her homeland, Marcus had walked her along the Sacred Way, describing the great triumphal processions that often moved down its length. Kings, consuls, emperors, and generals who would go on to become emperors, had marched down this street, receiving the thunderous accolades of the masses. He regaled her with descriptions of the trumpeters who led the processions and called the city to attention. Then came the marching legions, helmets burnished and glowing in the sun, spears in perfect alignment as they marched by. They would be followed by the hundreds of carts filled with the spoils of conquest—chests of treasure dripping with pearls, rubies, diamonds; cages with pacing, snarling lions, tigers, or leopards; exotic linens, gold vessels taken from the temples and palaces of the vanquished. The greatest tumult was reserved for the captives. Generally, only the young and the beautiful or the most fearsome of the enemy were reserved for the triumphal march. He hadn’t mentioned it, but Miriam knew that they would then be taken to the arenas and executed or sold to the slave markets.
Marcus had told her that right here in this part of the Forum, scarcely more than seventy years before, Julius Caesar had thrown a massive banquet to celebrate four major victories in one year. The feast lasted for several days, and Marcus swore that twenty-two thousand people had been served. It was ironic that within months Caesar would lie on the floor of the Senate, struck down by assassins, his blood ebbing onto the tile floor. She turned, her eyes picking out the mass of the Rostra. At the moment no one was on it, but it was there that Marc Antony had given his passionate eulogy extolling Caesar’s greatness.
She started walking again. It was like being in a dozen worlds all at once. With the weather turned warm and dry again, judges were setting up tables around the Rostra to begin hearing the various cases that would be brought before them. The participants were already gathering—the litigants, the advocates, the witnesses, the perjurers. In a nearby square was a very different group. Here were the bankers, the investors, the usurers, the brokers, and the sophisticated, elegantly clad women. You also might see an occasional Senator, toga impeccably arranged, haughty and imperious. Down near the canal, which ran through part of the Forum and drained into the Tiber River, were the opposite end of society’s spectrum—vagabonds and good-for-nothings, scandal-mongers, parasites begging for some crumb from the rich, charlatans and drunkards, ex-soldiers playing knucklebones and dice, pimps and strumpets and thieves.
“Miriam!”
She turned in surprise, trying to see who had called her name. It was mid-morning now, and the Forum was thronged with people.
“Miriam!”
Turning slightly, her eyes searched the crowd. Then she saw a hand wave. She gasped as Marcus Didius burst through a group of men and pushed around a flower vendor’s cart. He was smiling broadly and waving as he came.
“Marcus?” She could hardly believe her eyes.
He
trotted up, grinning like a young boy. He was in his uniform—leather breastplate, white tunic, scabbard with its short sword, and the dark brown military-issue sandals. As he reached her, he clasped both of her hands and swung her around. “Hello,” he laughed.
She stared at him as she twirled, her eyes taking in the handsomeness of his face, the cleft in his chin, the deep green eyes that were alive with delight. “What are you doing here?” she cried, pulling him to a stop.
“My ship docked this morning. I came straight here from Ostia.” Ostia was the port for Rome, about seven or eight miles southwest of the city. “I saw your father and he said I could find you here.”
“But—” She was still reeling. “I can’t believe it. You, here? Did Father know you were coming?”
“No.” He motioned for her to follow, then led the way over to the steps that led into the Temple of Castor and Pollux. That took them out of the main flow of the crowds. “I didn’t know I was coming until the day before we sailed. Things are quiet in Judea at the moment, and Pilate had some matters he wanted me to bring to the attention of the emperor.”
“Can you stay long?”
“A week. Maybe two.”
Her face registered her disappointment. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “You’ve taken my breath away. You were surely the last person I expected to meet here this morning.”
“I like that idea.”
“What idea?”
His smile was suddenly teasing. “Of taking your breath away.” Then he changed the subject. “What are you doing?”
“I was just walking. I walk every day now that the weather is so beautiful. I thought spring in Judea was wonderful.”
He looked around, letting his eyes sweep across the surrounding hills, savoring what he saw. “I’ve missed it. This is wonderful.”
“Actually,” she said, “I came down here this morning hoping to see the procession of the Vestal Virgins. You told me about them on that day you first gave me the guided tour of the city, but I’ve never actually seen them. I usually get here later in the day and they told me the procession happens each morning.”
He took her hand again. “It does. In fact, it shouldn’t be long now. But you’re not in the best place. Come on.”
She pointed to a small, round building just to the east of them. “But isn’t that the temple of Vesta?”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s where the procession ends. It’s best to see it from the beginning.” He took her hand as naturally as if he had done it every day for the six months since she had last seen him. They moved back out into the stream of humanity going in both directions up and down the Sacred Way. He turned east, barking at the people to make way. When they saw his officer’s uniform, they immediately complied.
The two of them stopped across from a U-shaped, two-story building. Its design was simple, but the trappings were luxurious. In the center court were a long reflecting pool, elaborate gardens, and columned cloisters. Once again Marcus pulled away from the center of the street and took Miriam up two or three stairs so they could look over the heads of the crowds. He gestured toward the building. “You know what this is?”
“Yes, it’s the House of the Vestal Virgins.”
“Right. This is where they live, of course, though it’s more like a palace than a house, and so they always come out that door over there. We can follow them to the temple if you like.”
“I would.”
“Do you remember the history lesson I gave you that first day we came here?”
“About the Vestals, you mean?”
He nodded.
“A little. And of course I hear people talk about them all the time, but I still don’t fully understand it all.”
“Well, they are actually priestesses to the goddess Vesta, whom we venerate as the protectress of the family and therefore the guardian of the primary source of Rome’s power.”
“Yes, I remember that. And they tend the eternal flame.”
“That’s right. The Temple of Vesta is one of the least imposing and impressive of all the temples in Rome and yet at the same time it is considered to be the most important.”
“You said it was built to resemble one of the huts of the original inhabitants of Rome.”
“Yes, and in the temple an eternal flame is kept forever burning. There is an opening in the roof to let the smoke out. The flame is carefully tended by the Vestal Virgins. As long as it burns, so the legend goes, Rome will continue to stand.”
“And how are the candidates for these priestesses chosen?”
“Well, what they call ‘novices’ are selected between the age of six and ten—usually, but not always, from patrician families. They are taken from their homes to the House of the Vestal Virgins and there begin their training. Do you remember the vow they are required to take?”
Miriam nodded. That was one of the things that had surprised her the most. “Thirty years of strict chastity.”
Marcus chuckled at her expression. What he didn’t know was that what had brought the perplexed look was not the length of time of those vows, but the strange incongruity of such a vow in a land where “Thou shalt not commit adultery” would be viewed by many as a quaint and foolish standard of living.
“Occasionally one of the Vestals violates her vow.” He was clearly enjoying his role as tutor. “This is so serious that the woman is buried alive. But for those who are faithful, statues are often created, and they are given a great endowment from the state. They are held in the greatest veneration. Even the emperor is obligated to step aside when they approach, and if by chance their path happens to cross that of a condemned criminal, he is immediately pardoned.”
That was new information to her, and she looked at him sharply to see if he was perhaps teasing her. But he was completely serious.
She turned back as the blast of a horn split the air and a cry went up from across the street. “Make way! Make way! Make way for the priestesses of Vesta.”
The doors to the palace were thrown open. Instantly, the crowd hushed and fell back, making a wide path. Now a rhythmic sound could be heard. After a moment, an older woman appeared, dressed completely in white linen, moving slowly, almost flowing in her gracefulness. Miriam leaned forward eagerly. The woman, evidently the high priestess, was beautiful and regal. Her dark brown hair was in a single braid that came to her waist. She wore a simple gold half-crown and a gold bracelet on each wrist. Her feet were bare.
In a moment, two other figures appeared. These were girls, barely past puberty, each carrying a musical instrument. The first carried a sistrum, an instrument first invented in ancient Egypt. It was a looped metal strap about the size of a goblet, shaped like a pear and fastened to a handle. Small metal disks were attached to thin crossbars inserted through the framework of the loop; these rattled with each shake of her hand.
The other girl held a timbrel. This too was a percussion instrument. Animal skin was stretched tightly over a circular wooden frame about two hand spans across. This formed a small drum no more than two fingers thick. Again, small metal disks hung from all around the wooden frame. Thus, when the girl rapped the surface of the timbrel with her fingertips, it made a soft drumming sound. She also would tap it against her leg, causing the disks to rattle. The effect of the two instruments played together was that of great solemnity. It was almost mesmerizing.
Next came the rest of the priestesses, three abreast. All were dressed in white, but none wore any adornment except for a silver band in their hair. All together, Miriam counted fifteen ranks of three each. They were grouped by age, the oldest—Miriam guessed these were in their thirties and nearing the end of their service—were in front; the novices brought up the rear. Some were strikingly lovely. To Miriam’s surprise, some were quite plain. But each moved with such majesty and queenly composure that one quickly forgot their individual facial features. The overall impact of the procession was quite moving.
No one made a sound as the process
ion went slowly past them. The distance between the palace and the Temple of Vesta was not that great, perhaps two or three hundred paces, but it took almost a full quarter hour before the procession disappeared. Only then did the people come alive again and go on about their business.
“Very impressive,” Miriam said to Marcus, noting that he was waiting for a reaction from her.
“Yes. My father first brought me here when I was seven or eight. I’ve never forgotten it. It still gives me little shivers.” Then he smiled. “But enough of this. Where would you like to go? I am your guide for the day.”
“I just want to talk,” Miriam cried. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
II
They found a spot partway up the Palatine Hill, the hill where the emperor had his palaces. From there they overlooked the Forum and yet were far enough off the main walkway up the hill that it was relatively private.
Miriam had fought back her eagerness, not wanting to ply Marcus with questions while they made their way through the throngs. The minute they were settled she turned to him and burst out with the most important question. “Has Moshe Ya’abin been captured yet?”
His dark brows furrowed and a frown pulled the corners of his mouth down. “No, not yet.”
Her face fell. “I was hoping you had returned to take Father and me back to Jerusalem. If we left immediately we could be back in time for Passover.”
“No. I’m sorry, Miriam. Ya’abin is more powerful and dangerous than ever.”
She was crestfallen. “Is anything happening? I mean, it’s been eight months now.”
“Yes, but frankly Pilate is losing patience. He doesn’t think things are happening quickly enough.”
She caught his emphasis on the governor’s name. “But you don’t agree?”
Fishers of Men Page 91