Behold the Man Page 12

  With yet one more salute Marcus turned his back on Pilate and strode away down the tunnel.

  Pilate joined Claudia on the terrace above the dueling yard. When she saw him slowly ascending the stairs, her heart was gripped by a cold fury.

  Claudia tried not to let this emotion show on her face, but Pilate had no such restraint. Raw hatred suffused Pilate’s cheeks.

  Stripping off his protective gear, Pilate carelessly tossed it aside. He snatched up another pitcher of wine and poured a mug so full that dark crimson drops splashed onto the floor. Draining it, Pilate poured himself another before either of them spoke.

  “He could have killed you,” Claudia said flatly.

  Pilate sneered. “But he didn’t. Marcus Longinus is no fool. And now I am certain. All that is mine . . .”

  Claudia jerked away from his touch, but Pilate grasped her shoulder and squeezed. Forcing her to submit to the bruising pressure, he left the imprint of all his fingers on her flesh. “All that is mine is safe in the hands of the centurion. He will not dare anything different.”

  An hour later, Claudia watched her husband ride out of Jerusalem at the head of a column of bodyguards, leaving Marcus in charge of the garrison and the security of Jerusalem.

  Chapter 19

  Philo’s face gleamed with excitement as Marcus carried the boy from exercise to exercise within the Antonia’s parade ground. Sensing this was not a time for a mother to hover, Claudia and two of her attendants retired to an interior room from which they could observe.

  The fortress provided a training ground similar to the area in Pilate’s palace. The plaza within the Jerusalem barracks was much larger, much plainer, and much dirtier. In one corner of the yard, legionaries armed with wooden swords dueled under the critical eye of their decurion. Elsewhere soldiers threw javelins at a rank of five human figures stuffed with straw and hung upright on wooden crosses.

  Quintus followed Marcus and Philo. When the trio approached the lances, Marcus asked, “Would you like to see me throw one?”

  At the child’s eager nod, Marcus handed him to Quintus. Selecting a lance that was straight from wooden shaft to blade tip, Marcus hefted it in his hand. Without any further hesitation, Marcus launched the spear toward the center target. Though the distance was fifty paces, the javelin flew straight, piercing the heart of the target so that the point protruded from its back.

  “Bravo!” Philo applauded.

  While part of the garrison drilled, the rest cleaned armor, sharpened weapons, and oiled leather harnesses. A few, having completed their duties, knelt around a game of dice. Again carrying Philo, Marcus passed the gambling. A series of boxes and circles had been scored into the flagstones, together with a center circle into which the image of a tower had been etched.

  Noting the boy’s interest, Marcus explained, “Basilicus. The ‘king’ game. You throw the dice and move your token toward the center tower.”

  At that moment one of the troopers tossed the dice, then exulted, “Ha! Six, seven, eight! See? I win! Flavius, run up to the mess hall and bring me a flagon of wine. Quickly, or I’ll have you flogged.”

  Marcus commented, “He is the ‘king,’ you see. The others must do as he says until they play again.” The soldier named Flavius got to his feet and gave a sweeping bow to his “king” before turning and presenting his backside to the temporary monarch.

  “There is a lot of jesting and mockery too,” Marcus concluded.

  Later, still carrying Philo, Marcus escorted Claudia and her ladies to his quarters. At a gesture from Marcus, Carta handed Philo the corona obsidionalis.

  “Not even Tiberius Caesar has such a crown,” Claudia noted for Philo.

  The boy held the bronzed circlet of spiked leaves as if it were a great treasure, turning it over and over in his small, pale hands. “I heard the soldiers say there is no general as brave as Marcus Longinus. My friend Josephus says in Hebrew, Aluf Ha’Alufim.”

  “Champion of champions,” Claudia translated.

  Marcus reached toward Philo, and the boy reluctantly relinquished the corona. But Marcus was not taking it away. Instead he placed the crown on Philo’s head. “Your father and I fought back to back that night. Pilate slaughtered a hundred Cherusci warriors.”

  “At Idistaviso Centurion Marcus Longinus captured two thousand,” Carta added. “And liberated me.”

  The crippled child listened eagerly as the servant boy recounted what he had witnessed in Germania, and his dramatic rescue by Marcus. Leaving them to replay the memorable battle, Marcus accompanied Claudia to the window overlooking the courts of the Temple. The flagstones bustled with white-robed priests and the many-hued garb of worshippers.

  Claudia said, “There is so much to learn about these people. What to eat, what not to eat. Festivals and holy days. More than six hundred commandments, I hear. How does one ever learn them all, let alone keep them all? But I must try. Tomorrow evening I will need an escort. It is arranged. I have begun lessons at the home of Josephus the Elder.”

  “Why doesn’t he come to the palace?”

  “Josephus is a devout Jew and won’t come to the home of a Gentile, lest he violate his religion. And after what happened with the riot . . .” Claudia shrugged. “He says he will instruct me in the ways of the Jews so I can be of help to Pilate.”

  Marcus could think of nothing to say in response, there in the presence of the ladies of Pilate’s court, except, “I’m sure he will be grateful for your counsel. And as to your safety tomorrow night, I will see to it myself.”

  Chapter 20

  Even though the home of Josephus the Elder was in one of the more fashionable districts of the city, its location gave it no better access to light on this moonless night. Claudia and Marcus, cloaked and hooded, traversed streets steeped in gloom. Traveling through the valleys that comprised the Holy City, the sky was as barred over them as the shutters securing the windows of the houses. Tiny glimpses of starlight filtered through from above. Fragments of yellow gleams escaped the locked shades.

  The only illumination for Marcus and Claudia was shed by torches in the hands of two ragamuffin linkboys—Jerusalem Sparrows, Claudia heard them called. Occasionally they passed men warming themselves over flickering braziers or speaking in muted tones beside even darker alleyways. No one spoke loudly enough to be overheard.

  Once at the door of Josephus’s house, Claudia knocked. An elderly female servant admitted her. Posting himself beside the entry and dismissing the Sparrows with thanks and copper coins, Marcus told her, “Take as long as you want. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

  Inside the house, Claudia was conducted to the study. In marked contrast to the night, a wave of light poured out of the room. Oil lamps in sconces drove back the shadows. The chamber was ringed on three sides by tables dripping with partially open scrolls. Beside a center table gaped a wooden chest brimming with additional parchments. On the remaining side of the chamber a charcoal fire glowed fitfully. After greeting Claudia, Josephus invited her to sit while he rummaged through the chest in search of a particular roll.

  “I visited the prophetess of Apollo in Rome,” Claudia said cautiously, unsure if referring to a pagan god would mortally offend her mentor.

  “Oh?” Josephus returned.

  “She says there lives a true King of the Jews. Not Herod. A man in disguise among the people.”

  Josephus stopped rooting among the parchments for a minute. “King of the Jews? The stuff of legends among the pagans, but reality to us. Thirty years ago court astrologers came from Persia and Greece and Ethiopia in search of a newborn Jewish king.”

  “And did they find this Jewish king?”

 
“They made the mistake of inquiring first at the palace of Herod the Great. I beg pardon, your palace, as it is now. And Herod, fearing competition for his throne—he had already killed his own wives and children he suspected of disloyalty—sent soldiers to Bethlehem.” Josephus waited to see if Claudia would comment. When she remained silent, he continued, “Sent them to search out and slaughter every male child under the age of two years, just as happened in the time of our Lawgiver, Moses.”

  Squinting into the chest, Josephus finally located the roll he sought. He pulled it out and gestured with it. “And now Herod’s dissipated son sits on a throne as tetrarch of the Galil. As brutal and as terrified of the prophecies of our coming king as his father was.”

  Claudia stared at a tiny orange flame leaping from coal to coal. “The old prophetess says if Rome openly crowns the true King of the Jews, then here in Jerusalem there will be peace.”

  Josephus nodded while rolling and unrolling the scroll, searching for a particular passage. “Our scripture also has a prophecy. A moment, please. Isaiah. Aha! Here—‘Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel,’2 which means, ‘God with us.’ ”

  Claudia laughed softly. “A virgin will give birth? That’s not the way it works.”

  Josephus seemed unoffended by her gentle mocking. “True. But what kind of sign would it be if the prophet merely said, ‘A child will be born’? Do not Romans hold that their founders, Romulus and Remus, were born to a virgin and the god Mars? The babies were set adrift on the river but rescued and suckled by a she-wolf. Now I ask you . . .”

  Claudia laughed again, more freely this time. “I see your point.”

  Setting down the first parchment, Josephus produced another and flourished it aloft. “And here is the prophecy of the prophet Micah that predicts Messiah would be born in the city of David. It was this message that turned Herod’s jackals loose to butcher the babes of Bethlehem. Listen—‘But you, Bethlehem . . . out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.’ ”3

  Musing aloud Claudia noted, “Caesar does not care who occupies old Herod’s throne in Jerusalem. Not as long as the tithes and taxes are shared with Rome.”

  Josephus nodded. “And the high priest fears the people. He cares only for his share of the tithes.”

  “And Herod Antipas?” Claudia asked.

  Combing his long, white beard with both hands, Josephus replied, “Like his father, this Herod truly fears the coming of the Jewish Messiah—this unknown king who will rise up and destroy the Herodian dynasty.” Returning to the earlier scroll, the scholar found the place and read, “ ‘For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given . . . and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.’ ”4

  There was a pause in which both teacher and student pondered the words. Some bit of moisture in the fire escaped as hissing steam.

  At length Josephus resumed, “I heard the infant king escaped Herod’s slaughter and was taken to Egypt, to Alexandria, for safety. I also went to Alexandria and stayed. And now they say the king has returned. By his suffering, Isaiah says, he will redeem his people Israel.”

  “Prince of Peace,” Claudia repeated aloud. “Can there be such a one? Can there ever be a time of peace?”

  Marcus heard the footsteps before he saw three dark-robed figures that appeared from out of the blackness. Their attempt to be secretive put Marcus on his guard. A dagger hung around his neck in a leather sheath, and his favorite short sword was out of sight, hanging by his side beneath his cloak. But the centurion drew neither of these weapons as yet.

  The men were Galileans, judging by their accents as they spoke to one another. All were brawny, with hefty shoulders. Fishermen, perhaps. They appeared squatter in body and less agile than Marcus. Then again, they outnumbered him three to one.

  “Unless you have business here, I suggest you keep moving,” Marcus said calmly. Now the sword flashed out. Marcus also drew the dagger with his left hand but let it remain by his side.

  Long, skinny-bladed knives emerged from their clothing. One brigand was close enough to remark, “I’ve seen this fellow.”

  A second added, “Sounds like a Roman.”

  Their companion noted, “Look there—the sword of a Roman soldier.”

  Marcus lifted his sword to assassin’s eye level and swung it slowly from face-to-face. “Unless you want to make its closer acquaintance, you should leave now.”

  The first to speak, apparently the leader, ignored Marcus’s words. “I do know this man. He rode with Pilate. Slew my cousin and arrested my brother! And the woman inside this house . . .” His eyes glinted with interest. “Pilate’s wife.”

  “A fine haul in this net,” the second exulted. “We’ll take the woman and this one . . . or his body . . . to bar Abba. A pretty ransom!”

  The trio of brigands moved in. The leader had only a moment to be shocked that, instead of backing away, Marcus ran toward him. Marcus’s hobnailed boot kicked him hard in the gut, doubling him over. The weapon clanged on the cobbles.

  Another stabbed downward with his dagger. Marcus’s sword flashed out, chopping an arm between wrist and elbow. The fellow screamed loudly, dropped his knife, and scurried into the shadows.

  At the same moment, Marcus used his other blade to parry a thrust from the third attacker. The man slipped under the blow and thrust upward.

  With no time for a fancy fencing move, Marcus dropped his shoulder and rammed into his assailant, knocking him back against the wall of the house. The attacker’s dagger flew from his grasp.

  Marcus drove the hilt of his sword into his opponent’s jaw. The blow caused the man’s head to snap back and crack loudly on the stones.

  Turning, Marcus saw the leader crawling toward his weapon. Stepping toward him, Marcus planted his foot on the man’s hand, then placed the point of his sword to the assailant’s throat. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” he warned.

  A quartet of legionaries rushed up out of the night. Two more followed, dragging the last of the three cutthroats between them.

  “What took you so long?” Marcus demanded.

  “Your pardon, Centurion,” one said. “But you told us not to come too soon and scare them away.”

  “True,” Marcus agreed. “Take them to the Antonia. I’ll be along soon.”

  The legionaries departed with the prisoners, one unconscious and two moaning with pain.

  Minutes later, the door to Josephus’s house opened. Marcus, again wrapped in his cloak, greeted Claudia and the Jewish scholar.

  “Shalom, my dear, and good night,” Josephus said.

  “Shalom and thanks,” Claudia returned.

  Marcus was glad she appeared completely unaware of the skirmish outside the old scholar’s door.

  Marcus gave a sharp whistle, then a second. Jerusalem Sparrows ran into view, their firebrands fanned by the breeze of their motion.

  Claudia was impressed. “Torch boys. You had them wait?”

  “There’s a place where they can stay warm and still hear my call,” Marcus said. “So, Josephus the Elder. Are you enlightened?”

  Was Marcus breathing a bit hard? Had he been exercising while he waited for her? Claudia flicked a glance his way. Torches and enlightenment. That sounded like the teasing Marcus of old.

  Claudia joined in. “I leave my lesson with a burning question. Could a new Jewish king spark rebellion among the common people?” It was such a relief to speak straightforwardly, without sidestepping th
e intrigues and dangers of political life in Rome or Jerusalem. She knew she could trust Marcus.

  “The fields of hatred,” Marcus said, “are dry tinder. If they were able, first the Zealots would stone Herod. Then murder the corrupt Temple officials in their beds . . . and plant them deep.”

  Despite the puns, the conversation was serious. “Pilate should find this secret King of the Jews and recruit him,” Claudia murmured. “Rome will share power for peace. Whatever keeps the taxes flowing Rome will support.”

  “Secret king,” Marcus scoffed. “Superstition.”

  “And if it is not superstition?” Claudia challenged.

  “The Legion is ready to crush the rebellion and bring the peace of Rome to this place. Your idea is not bad, but it is in the wrong order. First Rome imposes peace, and then it anoints the strongest candidate to keep the peace. Hope for anything else is a wisp”—Marcus motioned toward the sputtering torches—“of smoke.”

  Marcus’s breathing had returned to normal by the time he, Claudia, and their youthful torchbearers arrived back at the governor’s mansion. Marcus never explained the cause, nor did Claudia ask. She found her own breath came quicker in his presence, but Marcus was at most times so proper and formal that his emotions seemed to be on ice.

  “I am pleased that the evening was so peaceful,” Claudia ventured at the entry to the family apartments. “Josephus says next time he will come to the palace. He is content, he says, so long as our meeting is outside, in the garden.”

  Marcus gestured that the meeting location was of no consequence to him. “I had a half dozen legionaries posted along our route tonight, in case of trouble.”

  “Thank you,” Claudia returned. Now, how to conclude? “Thank you . . . my friend.”

  Taking the Sparrows with him, Marcus saluted, turned on his heel, and departed.

  Thoughts of a Jewish messiah, the riots provoked by her husband’s egotistical arrogance and foolishness, and her keen and continuing desire for Marcus produced a storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Claudia opted to concentrate on the one peaceful island in a troubled sea—Philo.