by Angela Hunt
Dodi’s brow wrinkled as she regarded me. “Are you a healer?”
“Is someone sick?”
“Tirza. He came home yesterday with pain in his chest. I’ve dosed him with herbs and covered him with blankets, but still he moans and mumbles and struggles for breath.”
I closed my eyes and listened. Did Natar send me to help the man who had practically tossed me into the street?
“May I see him?”
Dodi led me to the back of the house, where Tirza lay under a blanket on a mound of straw. Perspiration dotted his forehead and upper lip; his eyes were closed against the lamplight shining from a niche in the wall. He opened his eyes, but gave no sign that he recognized me or his wife.
Not knowing what else to do, I knelt by the big man’s side. Natar remained silent within me, so I whispered: “I came. Now what do I do?”
The voice did not answer and I could feel the pressure of Dodi’s eyes. If I kept talking to myself she would think I had gone mad.
I lifted my head and caught her eye. “Do not be frightened. I think … I think I have been visited by one of the gods. She sent me to you, so I’m hoping she’ll tell me what to do.”
Dodi’s face drew into a pale knot of apprehension. With one hand at her throat, she stepped back and squatted behind her cook pot. I closed my eyes and begged Natar for direction. “I came. I obeyed. Now you must tell me what to do.”
An icy quiver ascended to the back of my neck when the voice answered: Will you obey?
“Of course, I’m here.”
No matter what happens?
“No matter what.”
Show him your hand.
My hand? What good would that do? I lifted my arm before Tirza’s closed eyes; nothing happened. In order to keep from appearing foolish before Dodi, I teased a strand of hair from Tirza’s fevered brow, then dipped a cloth in water and wiped his face. His eyes flickered at my touch and he lifted his lids, recognition flickering in his eyes.
Show him your hand!
Why? I glanced at my hands; they appeared ordinary and unremarkable.
“Tirza, are you better?” I reached for the water jug, thinking I would give the man a drink, but before I could ask Dodi for a cup, unseen fingers closed around my throat. I tried to speak and couldn’t; I tried to draw breath and could not.
You must learn to obey! Show him your hand!
In desperation I thrust out my hand and watched my tingling palm fill with a blood-red image of the angular face on my amulet.
Poor Tirza! As the pressure on my neck eased, the sick man’s eyes bulged and his skin flushed. I clenched my palm and tucked my bloody hand behind my back, but after a horrible interval of choking and gurgling, Tirza’s head lolled away from me, his eyes as blank as windows.
Dodi stumbled to us and found her husband dead. The hostess who had always treated me with respect stared in disbelief for a long moment, then turned on me. “You killed him.” She glared at me with burning, reproachful eyes. “You came here to destroy Tirza, not to heal him.”
“No, I—”
“You were angry because Herod wouldn’t listen. So you came here to punish my husband.”
I tried to protest, but the woman wouldn’t listen, so I ran outside and stood quivering in the street as Dodi’s keening wails shattered the night silence.
I trembled in every limb—what if Dodi accused me before Herod? She could say I killed her husband with sorcery—and in that moment, I wondered if I had. If the people of Tiberias had suddenly surged out of their houses to stone me, I would not have protested.
I smothered a sob and fled.
Chapter Seventeen
After completing a twenty-mile march in five hours, Atticus led a company of auxiliary recruits back to the training square and ordered them to stand in formation. When they had stopped shuffling, he strolled in front of them, nodding when he saw a particularly alert face.
“And so your life as a soldier begins,” he said, locking his hands behind his back as he eyed the Samaritan trainees. “Nothing is more important to the Roman army than soldiers who can march. An army split by stragglers is always in danger from the enemy. When you are accustomed to this pace, carrying your full load, we will increase our speed and cover a distance of twenty-four miles in this same period.”
None of the men protested, but he saw more than one pair of shoulders droop. They were tired, but they’d grow strong in time.
“All right,” he said, confident of a good start. “You are dismissed.”
The men answered with a salute and a rousing shout, then broke formation and ambled toward the barracks. Atticus smiled as Flavius approached, a broad grin on his face. “How goes the training?”
“About as I expected.”
“They look a little thin to me. I’m surprised they can march at all.”
“Don’t underestimate them. These men are accustomed to the heat and the desert. What they find strange is organization.”
Flavius rubbed a hand across his face as he watched the last of the stragglers disappear into the barracks. “I know you have a soft spot for the locals, but I’d feel better if we were training Romans to march beside us. You can’t trust these people.”
Atticus was about to remark that the army had to recruit locals in order to fill its garrisons, but Flavius interrupted, jerking his head to draw Atticus away from a group of soldiers coming from the governor’s house.
When they had walked far enough that they couldn’t be overheard, Flavius folded his hands into his armpits, then lifted a brow. “Has Gaius spoken to you?”
Atticus flinched. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no.” He bit his lip. “I can’t say more.”
“Flavius, you can’t drop a question like that and not expect me to—”
“Hush, he comes now. You’ve heard nothing from me.”
Bewildered, Atticus turned to see the centurion striding across the square, his sandals kicking up dust as he approached.
“Atticus Aurelius.” The centurion nodded in greeting. “I’ve been watching you.”
Atticus snapped to attention. “Sir. Have I done something to displease you?”
“Quite the contrary, I think you are an exemplary soldier. You have handled the duties of tesserarius very well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The centurion answered with an impersonal nod, then tipped his face toward the sun. “Am I correct in assuming you would like to progress further in leadership? Perhaps even to the centurionate?”
Atticus resisted the urge to look at Flavius. “Yes, sir. I have given my life to Rome; I will serve as long as the Empire needs me.”
“Excellent. Then at sunset the two of you must meet me at the garrison gate. Tell no one where you are going. And do not be late.”
The centurion walked away, leaving Atticus speechless. Flavius gripped his arm. “It’s happening. I think we’ve been selected for initiation.”
Atticus smiled, but something cold slid down his back, leaving a faint feeling of unease along his spine. The army of Rome demanded everything from her men—their minds, their bodies, even their souls. Every soldier worshiped Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, the gods of the established state religions. But whispers of another cult, a secret society who worshipped Mithras, occasionally floated through the barracks.
Rumor held that only those who had joined the Mithras cult could be promoted to the centurionate … and only those who passed a merciless initiation rite could join the cult.
Atticus wanted to rise through the ranks … but what price would his ambition demand?
* * *
Crouching behind a hedge in Pilate’s garden, Atticus watched the Syrian girl comfort the weeping baby and felt a pang of some indefinable emotion. What was it about women that gave them the advantage in nurturing? He lacked breasts that could feed a child, but so did Cyrilla; the girl had been forced to rely on a goat for milk. His lap wasn’t as soft as a woman’s, but he did ha
ve a strong pair of shoulders, capable hands, and legs that could march a full day without wearying. He had a reasonably quick mind, nimble fingers, and ears to hear when a baby cried.
So why did the boy settle so easily into the girl’s arms and wail so miserably in his?
“You can come out, Atticus,” Cyrilla called, not looking up.
He stiffened, momentarily abashed, then released the hedge and rose to his full height. “How did you know I was there?”
A smile curved her lips as she watched him approach. “When a cloud passes before the sun, I feel the shade. When you enter the garden, I feel the earth rumble.” She laughed softly. “You walk this way almost every afternoon. And since my lady rests at this hour, I thought it would be a nice time for us to have a private word with you—when you can get away, that is.”
Atticus sat next to her on the bench and looked at the child in her arms. The boy had put on weight in the last few weeks.
“He looks good,” Atticus said, hoping she’d take his comment as a compliment.
She smiled, then ran a hand over the hair she had pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. “By the way, soldier, this child needs a name.”
Atticus frowned. “Well … what do you call him?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I call him sweetness, but that’s not a proper name. The right of naming belongs to you. I’ve been waiting to ask you about it.”
Atticus stared at a green hedge. She’d waited for him? Something in him warmed to hear it; something else in him worried. A soldier could not form attachments.
He turned. “Do you like the name Quintus?”
She tilted her head. “That’s a Roman name.”
“So? I’m a Roman soldier.”
“Atticus…” A flash of humor crossed her face. “The boy is Hebrew. I saw that the first time I held him.”
Atticus swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat and crossed his arms. Foolish of him, really, to think no one would notice. The Jews’ bizarre rite of circumcision had marked the boy forever. He imagined the boy as a young man at the baths, fending off intrusive questions or fearing to lower his towel …
“Quintus,” Cyrilla said, apparently harboring no troublesome thoughts about future humiliations. “Quintus it shall be. And I will keep your secret, Atticus. As far as I’m concerned, this boy is your son.”
He studied the young woman next to him. Cyrilla’s countenance seemed to have improved remarkably since the last time he saw her. Her cheeks were fuller and rounded, though her wide brown eyes still seemed to occupy most of the available space.
“Auuuuuuuu.” The baby interrupted with a long, drawn-out sound, then looked at Atticus and flashed a wet smile.
“New teeth?” Atticus gingerly touched the boy’s lower lip. “Two new teeth?”
Cyrilla bounced the newly named boy on her knee. “Quintus will be grown before you know it.”
* * *
Atticus had just finished telling Flavius how much the boy had grown when Gaius stepped from a pool of shadow and intercepted them at the gate. “Legionnaires,” the centurion asked, all traces of friendliness absent from his eyes, “do you wish to advance in the service of Rome? Do you wish to join a brotherhood where rank and mutual obligation are not based on social codes but on the secret bonds of a closed circle?”
Atticus wanted to look at his friend, but instinct told him any sign of hesitation would not be well received. “I do,” he answered, relieved to hear Flavius reply in the same way.
“Are you,” Gaius continued, a muscle clenching along his jaw, “willing to undergo the seven trials that lead to the sacrament of joining? Do you swear upon your life to keep these rites secret?”
Again, Atticus and Flavius answered in the affirmative.
“Then do not speak, but follow me.”
Atticus fell into step behind the centurion, and only when they had gone ten paces did he dare glance at his companion. Flavius grinned, but a tide of anxiety surged behind his eyes and Atticus was sure Flavius could see the same dark currents behind his.
They walked over two miles, then turned into a gated garden. After leading them around a fountain and past several formal hedges, Gaius led them down a stone stairway that ended at a rough-hewn door. The centurion knocked and murmured something; a moment later, the door opened.
Atticus drank in the sights without speaking. From hearing rumors in the barracks he knew they had entered a mithraeum, an underground temple dedicated to Mithras and built to resemble a cave.
When they reached another door, Gaius turned. “Do you swear upon pain of death never to reveal what you see here? Do you swear never to divulge the names of the brothers gathered in this inner chamber?”
Atticus and Flavius swore an oath.
For the first time, the flicker of a smile crossed the centurion’s face. “Then enter. And prepare to test your strength in honor of Mithras.”
Atticus had to duck in order to enter the underground chamber. The rectangular room was not large, but its builders had done an artful job with the vaulted ceiling. An aisle ran lengthwise down the center of the temple, with stone benches on either side. Soldiers filled the benches, each man wearing his uniform and a mask. Atticus couldn’t have identified them if he’d wanted to, though several wore the distinctive helmets of centurions.
A man wearing a bull mask stood at the front of the room. “The initiates will come forward.”
Together, Atticus and Flavius approached what appeared to be a stone altar.
“Mithras,” the priest continued, “god born of a rock and destined to secure the salvation of the world, bids you follow him. As the god Apollo, through the agency of a raven, bid Mithras to slay the bull from the region of the moon, I bid you slay your enemies and rejoice with your blood brothers. Everyone you see here has endured the trials of fire, water, hunger, cold, flagellation, bloodletting, and branding. If you are willing to endure these tests and accept our sacrament, kneel before me. If you are not willing, turn now and go, knowing that if you ever speak of this you will most certainly forfeit your life.”
Atticus felt a bead of perspiration trace a cold path from his armpit to his rib, but he did not turn, nor did he look at Flavius. He had given his life to Rome and in exchange had been granted a place of security … and monotony. If he were to advance past endless days of peacetime drilling, marching, and training, he would have to endure this initiation. He had been born a Roman citizen, so the army offered him more advantages than it offered the uncivilized auxiliaries who filled the barracks at Caesarea, but without an edge he could never compete for leadership positions with the patrician sons of senators.
Mithras offered what he sought.
He bent his knees and knelt on the cool stone, then lifted his gaze and met the eyes of the man who stared out from behind the bull mask. “I am willing.”
Beside him, Flavius echoed the same words.
The priest’s eyes narrowed. “Prepare yourself. Mithras holds the power of the unconquered and unconquerable sun, so as you prove yourself deserving of him, you will prove yourself worthy to symbolize the courage, success, and confidence of your brother soldiers. We will demand your self-control, virtue, loyalty, and blood. These tests will determine whether you are able to give what we require.”
The priest extended his hand toward another masked soldier, who pointed to a dark tunnel. Atticus glanced at Flavius and saw the lump in his friend’s throat bob once as he swallowed.
With his nerves at full stretch, Atticus rose and walked into the tunnel.
Chapter Eighteen
Sticky wetness covered my hands, stained my cloak, and dotted my veil. Pools of crimson liquid had coagulated on the rocky hill and seeped into the hem of my tunic. I looked around, but I could see no sign of the animal that had been slaughtered here.
I hesitated, blinking with bafflement. Was this Yom Kippur, the day when the priest entered the Holy of Holies to offer the blood of a sacrificed bull
as the kapparah, or atonement, for our sins? I had no idea how many days had passed since Tirza’s death, but I had sinned, I knew it. I had erred in going to Herod, in wearing the amulet, in turning my back on the Holy One of Isra’el, blessed be He.
But how could I return to the truth? How could I rid myself of the evil that had infected my heart, mind, and body?
The gods I’d called upon would not release me, and they delighted in blood. Their voices buzzed in my brain; they rejoiced at signs of carnage. They swirled around me like wasps, tickling my ear and settling on my shoulder. Like a dog that chases its tail, I swatted at them and ended up slapping myself.
Their jubilation turned to jeers. Many of them had come to live in my head; they kept me company through days and nights. Though I never saw them, they spoke in loud rants and soft purrs, masculine growls and womanly whispers. Occasionally they called each other by name—Ba-ath, Qin-ah, Avah, Za-aph, Katakritos, Ge-ah—but one voice overruled them all: Natar.
She is ours. We have a home!
The voices surrounded me, mingling in amiable insult and agreement.
She obeyed, she opened the door.
She toyed with the dead man, he sealed the bargain.
Her heart brims with anger and hate!
She loves us! She needs us!
She is me, I am she.
She is lost to the one whose name must not be spoken. She is us, we have won!
Frantic with frustration, I smacked my ears, ground my knuckles into my cheeks, and pressed my thumbs into my eye sockets in an attempt to pop the voices out of my head. I yanked at my hair, hoping I could pull the intruders out by the fistful, but despite my pain and blood and blindness they remained, a whirling cacophony of feverish celebration.
“Leave me alone! Go away!”
I opened my blurry eyes and saw Marisa staring at me, her face deadly pale except for two desert roses, one growing in each cheek. She squatted on the other side of the booth, her hands pressed to the carpet as if she might spring up at any instant.
I exhaled a trembling breath. I’d been dreaming. The craggy hill, the blood, the pain—nothing but a dream.
