Quintus was small for a seven-year-old. His hair was oddly dark and had been since birth. He wore a light blue tunic and laced boots of supple leather. In each hand he held a short wooden sword. He stood in sunlight, at the edge of the shadow cast by the courtyard wall, and squinted as he looked at Valeria and waited for her answer.
“Let me assure you that my death will not be a spectacle,” Valeria answered her brother. “The only women to die in the arena are thieves or murderers or slaves.” Valeria paused and sighed dramatically. “No, my death shall be dignified.” Another pause. “And very, very tragic.”
When only fifteen, Valeria had already begun to chalk her face and redden her lips and cheeks with the sediment from red wine. She’d looked fully woman then. Now at twenty, her beauty was amazing. She dressed accordingly. Her silk overdress was cream, with lace adorning the hem. She reclined on a couch in the shade, her bare feet tucked beneath her, her elegant sandals on the mosaic of the courtyard floor beside the couch.
“Will it be today?” One of the characteristics that marked Quintus was persistence. He had a beguiling mixture of naiveté and self-assurance, and Valeria adored him. She also found it amusing that, intelligent as he was for one only seven, he did not quite comprehend death. To him, she knew, death was simply a different form of going on a journey. No different than if she actually left Jerusalem for Rome to marry an old man she’d never met, which her parents were forcing her to do. Quintus didn’t understand death’s finality, for he adored her as much as she adored him. If he really understood that once she was dead she would be gone from him forever . . .
With that, Valeria frowned. Her father and stepmother understood full well the consequences of death, yet they were prepared to watch her wither away in their very household as she starved herself to death.
Valeria replaced her frown with a set jaw. She’d show them. Especially her stepmother, a woman hardly a decade older than she, a woman who had obviously married her father for his wealth.
“Will your death be today?” Quintus repeated. “I would hate to miss it.”
“Perhaps,” Valeria answered, hiding the amusement that replaced her anger at her parents. If only Roman women weren’t legislated to be under total control of their father. Quintus and his earnest innocence always did this for her. Took her mind from her troubles.
“Perhaps?” Quintus seemed vaguely disappointed. “You can be no more certain than that?”
Valeria pretended to give it thought. “I am feeling very weak. But as this is the first time for me, I have no experience in judging the symptoms. Perhaps one can feel on the verge of death for days before it actually arrives.”
“Days?” Quintus echoed. “I can’t wait that long.”
“Days,” she said firmly. “Perhaps even weeks.”
“I believe that I would slit my wrists and open my veins,” Quintus said gravely. “I can’t bear the thought of missing one meal, let alone going without food for days and days and days.”
“What would you know about bloodletting?”
Quintus snorted, indignant. “I am no longer an infant, in case you have forgotten. I am capable of listening as Father and Mother speak. Last month, all they discussed was how Nero had sent the invitation for suicide to our uncle in Rome and then confiscated his estate.”
“You were visible to them as they had that discussion?”
“Of course not. How would I have learned anything?” He shook his head at Valeria’s stupid question. “I know enough to choose a bloodletting in a steam bath. Wine first to the point of drowsiness. Then vertical slits up the inside of the wrist. Painless. Without inflicting upon the family all this suspense of wondering when you’ll starve to death. It is difficult to make plans when no one knows when you will die.”
“Well, forgive me,” Valeria said, amused. “I shall search for a way to make my suicide convenient for you.”
“Thank you,” Quintus said. “I don’t like listening to you and Mother argue.”
“If you were older, you would realize those arguments were the point. Although I choose death over Rome, I would prefer to begin eating once again. Think of how little good it would do for me if Father changed his mind only after my life’s blood began pooling at my feet. Once a knife cuts through the flesh of a wrist, it is difficult to repair the damage.”
Quintus seemed to consider the politics of it as he rubbed his forehead with the back of his right hand, still gripping his ludis, the wooden practice sword. “Oh,” he finally said. “Now I understand.”
Another characteristic that Valeria adored about her younger brother was his short span of attention to any given subject.
Like now.
It was obvious that he felt he’d given enough thought to the issue of the arranged marriage she was determined to avoid, for without warning, he turned and charged a wooden dowel fixed in the center of the courtyard—a gladiator’s training device called a palus—and screamed as he approached. He was shorter than the dowel and attacked it with the joyful fierceness of a ferret darting at a mouse.
His wooden swords were similar to the ones that gladiators used in practice. His had been fashioned in miniature so his small fingers could grasp the handles. The firstborn sons of rich Romans were accustomed to having every whim indulged, and Quintus had demanded that the swords even include his name carved on each blade.
“Death to the retiarius!” Quintus shouted, slashing at his mute opponent, rattling the dowel in quick succession, one hand after the other, then jumping back as if eluding a counterattack.
He raised his arms in triumph, pointing his tiny wooden swords at the blue sky above. “I am the greatest of dimachaeri to stride across any arena!”
In the silence, Valeria spoke again, calling across the courtyard. “And now the most dead. Must I remind you that a retiarius is far more fleet than the wooden dowel you cannot even scar with the greatest of your blows? The retiarius has a net, Quintus, and will snare you first, then spear you to death with his trident.”
Quintus returned to the wooden dowel to inspect for marks to prove she was wrong about the scars he had tried to inflict. Not finding any recent ones for which he could claim credit, he faced her and glared.
“The dimachaeri, as you can plainly see, have two swords.” He shook them at her as he approached on his short legs. “Each easily capable of blocking the thrust of a trident. Furthermore, you failed to note that the retiarius had already cast his net and missed me completely. I had run him to the point of exhaustion and knocked his trident to the ground before stepping in to administer the deathblows.”
He cocked his head. “Listen.”
“I hear nothing,” Valeria said.
“The cheers of the crowd. In my time, I have defeated them all. Thracians, Samnites, Gauls. Today is the day that the emperor grants my freedom. I step from the arena famous and rich.”
“Dreamer. When you are a man, you will sit in the arena as a spectator, like Father, blinking in the sunlight because of all your hours inside counting money. A collector of taxes for the emperor. You will be rich but not famous. Another respected administrator following the tradition of the Bellator branch of the Valerius clan. Father would never allow you to sell yourself into the bondage of the arena. Gladiators die, Quintus. Like kindling that disappears after a burst of flame.”
Quintus raised his swords again and strutted a victory walk, taking him to the far end of the courtyard. He turned and called to his sister, “What of Maglorius? He was no kindling.”
Valeria opened her mouth to retort but realized she had no reply. Thinking of Maglorius, she smiled. He’d filled many of her daydreams. “Finally,” she said, “your first triumph of the morning. I must concede your point. Maglorius did the impossible.”
She waggled a finger at Quintus, calling as loudly as he had called across to her, “Remember, however, even the great Maglorius has aged and now serves our family. What would you rather be? Master or employed freedman?”
Quintus was given no opportunity to answer, and Valeria instantly regretted her words and the volume at which they had carried.
A slave entered the courtyard, carrying a tray with bread and diced fruits and a small pot of honey. Valeria’s stepmother, Alypia, followed the slave. Behind them both was Maglorius, ex-gladiator.
Immediately, because of how all three stared at her, Valeria knew her question to Quintus had carried loudly enough for Maglorius to overhear.
The soldiers escorted Ben-Aryeh and Vitas to the prison in the depths of the walls; guarded on all sides by swords and clanking breastplates, it seemed to Ben-Aryeh that he too had been imprisoned. He consoled himself with the reminder that because the visit was early in the day, he could begin travel back to Jerusalem immediately after hearing from the prisoners, and be home with his beloved Amaris the afternoon of the next day.
Ben-Aryeh moved up to the bars of the prison cell. Five old men were crowded into a small cell that smelled like aged vinegar from their sweat.
Two moved forward as they saw Ben-Aryeh, recognizing him immediately. The other three remained in dejected heaps at the back of the cell.
“Did Florus grant our freedom?” Abel asked. The hope in his question spoke highly of Ben-Aryeh’s political reputation.
Abel’s look of hope was all the more pitiful because of the exhaustion that sagged the already deep wrinkles on his face. He was shorter than Ben-Aryeh, bald, and had a thin crooked nose. Ben-Aryeh knew the man, as he knew the others. All were leading Jewish citizens of Caesarea.
“I haven’t had a chance to speak with him,” Ben-Aryeh said. He wasn’t here to try to get their freedom, but it didn’t seem like the time to tell them that.
He pointedly referred only to himself, making it clear that Vitas was not a partner of any kind. The men in the cell remained focused on Ben-Aryeh, probably assuming that Vitas was merely a servant.
“Florus left Sebaste two days ago,” snorted Tadmor, a man with thick gray hair who had obviously been a strong man in his youth. “When we were in Caesarea, Florus came here to Sebaste. When we came here from Caesarea to see Florus, he put us in prison and returned to Caesarea. He is playing games. Removing the leaders from the city to make it safe for him to return to his palace there.”
It wasn’t safety that Florus wanted. Ben-Aryeh knew this. Yet it wasn’t the moment to tell them this.
Tadmor shook his head and made a sour face. “Florus. I pray his death will occur soon but be slow and full of agony.”
“Ah yes,” Ben-Aryeh replied. “That is a sure way for clemency. Insult Rome’s procurator in front of soldiers who have been most certainly instructed to bring back every word of our conversation to him.”
One of the soldiers shifted from one foot to the other; Ben-Aryeh took that as an inadvertent acknowledgment and smothered a smile of satisfaction at the accuracy of his guess.
“The way Florus has treated us is unjust,” Tadmor said. “I don’t care who knows what we say.”
Ben-Aryeh cared. He knew Florus would not be the only person to hear reports of this conversation. No, even against such an enemy, the Jews of the temple were divided.
Vitas remained silent, watchful.
Tadmor shook his fist at the soldiers behind Ben-Aryeh. “Florus has already chosen what to do with us. Nothing we say—or even any argument put forth by the great Ben-Aryeh—will make any difference.”
Ben-Aryeh ignored the sarcasm in Tadmor’s voice. Had he been in Tadmor’s place, he too would be in a foul temper, ready to lash out at anyone.
“Reports of the events in Caesarea reached us in Jerusalem,” Ben-Aryeh said. “I understand you believe the riots were orchestrated by Florus.”
“Believe?” Tadmor exploded. “It is not a matter of belief. But fact.”
“Confirm for me those reports. That is why I am here.”
“You are aware of our synagogue,” Tadmor said. It seemed he was the only one with the energy to still be outraged. Abel had moved to the back of the cell to sit with the other three, defeat in his bowed head and shoulders. “And aware that the adjoining land is owned by a Greek.”
“Also aware that you have repeatedly offered him a much higher price for that lot than it is worth,” Ben-Aryeh said.
“One would think the Greek was in the employ of Florus,” Tadmor said. “Not only has he continuously refused our offer, but when he began to erect workshops on our site, he laughed when we accused him of trying to insult us. Then he agreed it was exactly his intent. Worse, he deliberately left us a very narrow approach to our place of worship. Some of our youths—”
“I am proud of them!” Abel had found the strength to interrupt. “At their age, we would have done the same.”
“Hotheads,” Tadmor said. “Violence is no solution to violence. They tried to stop the workers. Unsuccessfully. It touched off a riot, but Florus sent in soldiers to protect the Greek.”
“As he should have,” Ben-Aryeh said. “We must work within the law.” This was advice Ben-Aryeh wanted to reach Florus through the listening soldiers.
“Abel believed in another solution,” Tadmor said. “An expensive one and totally useless.”
“We all voted on it!” Abel rose, then collapsed again. “I should not be held responsible alone.”
“Eight talents of silver,” Ben-Aryeh confirmed. “That was the solution.”
“So you’ve heard,” Tadmor said to Ben-Aryeh. “Eight talents! Protection money that Florus agreed to take to stop the builders.”
“Some would call it a bribe,” Ben-Aryeh observed. “And a considerable one at that.”
Eight talents!
“Either way, Florus was happy to accept it.” Tadmor sounded bitter as he spoke. “And equally happy to retire here to Sebaste, leaving the riot to grow out of control on the following Sabbath.”
Tadmor described it in detail. When the Jews arrived at the synagogue to worship, the entrance was nearly blocked by a sturdy young Greek who had placed a pot, bottom side up, in front of him. On this pot, he was sacrificing birds with an obvious smirk on his face, knowing this defilement would be unacceptable to the Jews. That this young Greek had foreseen their reaction was obvious when other Greeks sprang forward from where they had been hiding to defend the first Greek from attack. Within seconds, the riot had grown out of control, and the elder Jews, fearing the worst, had seized their precious copy of the Law and fled to Narbata, some seven miles away. From there, they had sent a delegation to Sebaste.
“As you can see,” Tadmor finished, “we are that delegation. When we arrived to remind Florus of the eight talents of silver that he had accepted to protect us, he threw us in jail for taking a copy of the Law out of our synagogue! That man is provoking us beyond compare. How does he expect to keep the peace?”
Ben-Aryeh felt great sympathy for these tired old men. Sympathy for their physical state. And a greater sympathy for what they didn’t understand about Florus.
“Think about what happened during the previous Passover,” Ben-Aryeh said. Softly. “Don’t you see? Florus doesn’t expect to keep the peace. It’s quite the opposite. What I fear is that he wants war.”
“War?” Tadmor repeated in his prison cell.
Ben-Aryeh nodded.
A war in Judea would conceal all of the atrocities that Florus had committed since the departure of Albinus. If Rome were distracted by trouble that seemed to come from the Jews, Florus would be safe from criminal prosecution.
“My advice then,” Ben-Aryeh said, “is to use all your influence to keep the people in your city from rising up against him again. You cannot allow any more riots. The entire nation depends on you ensuring that Florus has no excuse to let his soldiers loose.”
This was not only Ben-Aryeh’s advice but the collective advice of all the city leaders of Jerusalem. While Bernice had requested that he meet Vitas in Sebaste, that collective advice was the main reason that Ben-Aryeh had been sent. To counsel the Caesarea leaders for peace at al
l costs. If war began, Jerusalem would suffer most.
“You haven’t heard.” Tadmor seemed to be strangely amused and watched Ben-Aryeh closely.
“There is more to the events?”
“Ah yes.” Tadmor stroked his beard. “You’ve spent all that time in travel. You haven’t heard. When I tell you, just remember your own advice to us. And when you return to Jerusalem, see if you can get the people there to show the restraint you seem to so easily preach to us. See if you can prevent a riot in your own city.”
“We will abide by the law.” Again, Ben-Aryeh was speaking less to Tadmor than he was to Florus through the soldiers who would eventually report to him.
“We shall see whether you abide by the law,” Tadmor said. “If, as you say, it is war that Florus wants, it explains the message that reached us today from Caesarea. Yesterday Florus assembled two cohorts of soldiers and began to march to Jerusalem. The soldiers should arrive there today.”
Gallus Sergius Vitas! Here in Judea?
Florus stared across the wheel of the chariot at the smug look that Annas didn’t bother to hide, as if he’d enjoyed delivering the information. Florus kept the reins looped between his fingers and pressed his hands against his thighs to prevent them from shaking.
Gallus Sergius Vitas.
Florus knew of the family, of course, proud as it was of a lineage claimed to stretch back to the founding of Rome. Florus had met Vitas at various functions in Rome and hated him with the distrust that a corrupt man has for an honest man.
Insperata accidunt magis saipe quam quae speres, Florus thought. What you didn’t hope for happens more often than what you hoped for.
If there was a single man of influence in Rome who Florus hoped would never step into this land, it was Gallus Sergius Vitas. War hero. Patrician of unquestionable lineage. Favored by Caesar on one side and by the Senate on the other. A threat to neither. And a man known for integrity and uncompromising loyalty to the empire. Whatever reports he brought back would be seen as absolute, unbiased truth.
The Last Disciple Page 15
