"It's not as simple as you describe." Ezra took a very hard breath. "They expect me to join the sect."
Gamaliel's features went rigid. "Impossible! Think of the impact this would have upon our community, a man of your standing even considering such an act."
"It gets even worse." Now that he had started, Ezra felt as though he could not draw the words out fast enough. He described the night and the Roman and the encounter with Peter and the healing. By the time he stopped, he was panting, partly from not having drawn a decent breath and partly from reliving the experience.
Gamaliel stroked his beard, tugging hard upon the ends, drawing his face into a downward-sloping frown. "He healed the young woman."
"Yes."
"You are certain it was not a trick."
"Absolutely not."
"Perhaps they disguised her leg to make her look lame."
"She has limped every time I have seen her, since long before I made my intentions known. And I am a merchant who travels with my caravans. I know the rudiments of healing. This girl suffered from a terrible wound. There is a chance she might have died from it. The pain was such that at times she cried out."
"And after?"
Ezra wiped his face. "She wept in gratitude. She moved about with total ease-almost in a dance of praise. Like ... like David dancing before the Lord. And she lifted her arms to heaven and called out her thanksgiving over and over."
"So." Gamaliel's fist gripped his beard and tugged harder still. "We have another miracle."
"There is no other way to describe what I saw. I have relived it countless times, both awake and in my sleep."
"And then the one they call an apostle-" Gamaliel grimaced at the word-"he invited you to join them."
"No. It was not..." Ezra struggled to explain. "Upon my arrival, a young man named Stephen said something that mirrored words I had heard my own sister speak. How each of us comes for our own reasons.
"Comes where?"
"To be with them and listen to their message. What Stephen meant was that our motives are wrong. Our thinking is wrong. But if we come ... with an open heart and mind, we will see the rightness of their declarations." He finished in a rush, feeling his explanation had not conveyed what he intended. Or what Stephen intended.
Gamaliel did not object as Ezra might have expected. After all, he had just told a senior Pharisee and a serving member of the High Council that he was in error in his assessment of a religious matter. Instead, his friend merely sat and wrestled with matters beyond his ken. Ezra knew Gamaliel's sleep would now be as disturbed as his own.
Eventually Ezra rose and went in search of his son. When he returned to bid his host farewell, he found the priest still seated behind his table, still staring out the window, still stroking his beard.
C H A P T E R
EIGHTEEN
LINUX SAT IN WHAT HAD SERVED as Pontius Pilate's hall of judgment. The new governor of Judea, Marcellus, had turned this into an assembly room for those seeking an audience. The large hall had three entrances-one to the gardens, one into the hallway connected to the palace entrance, and the last into the prelate's private quarters. All three doors were flanked by armed legionnaires standing at full attention. Through the outer door Linux could see workers demolishing the wall that had divided Herod's garden from Pilate's. More construction noise came from the private chambers.
"The governor is certainly wasting no time." Horus, master of the Caesarea harbor, had sidled up next to Linux. "The same day I learn his ship had set into Joppa, I receive orders to present myself."
"You have nothing to worry about," Linux said.
"So you've had a word with the soothsayers about my future?" Horus used the sleeve of his dress tunic to clear sweat from his forehead. "If he's so pleased with my work, why didn't he land at Caesarea and bid me meet him there?"
"His ship was blown off course and damaged by a storm." This much Linux had learned from the sergeant who had brought his summons. "Marcellus intends to make Jerusalem his principal residence. At least for the moment. So you have been sent for, as have I."
Horus studied him closely. "Speaking of storms, you remind me of a green recruit sailing through his first hard blow. Are you ill?"
Linux drew himself up straighter. Two days had passed since his last encounter with the apostles. He had scarcely slept. His nights were a battleground. One moment he was consumed with desire for the beautiful young woman. The next, he was back in the compound, feeling the force of the apostle Peter's words. They struck at him like hammers in the dark. Be healed.
Not to mention the voice he had heard just before the miracle had taken place. And miracle it was. Linux had no doubt of that. He had seen more than his share of tricksters and mendicants. The man Peter was nothing of the sort. The man had asked for nothing, save that Linux give his allegiance to a dead prophet. This one whose power had swept through the compound, silencing even the sputtering torches. This one who had spoken to Linux from beyond the grave.
Linux realized his friend was watching him. He searched quickly for what they had been talking about, and came up with, "The prelate Marcellus has just one interest in Judea."
"And that is?"
"Money."
"And you know this by what means?"
"He told me. We met in Rome, remember? My guess is he will insist that you increase port charges and ensure that every ship pays its full amount of duty."
Horus bristled. He was a stumpy man who in earlier years had earned a reputation as a brawler. "I keep honest books and demand the same from every captain who enters my harbor."
"Take that attitude with the governor, and he will feed you to the fish," Linux warned. "Present yourself, bow to the prelate as you would the emperor, and assure him that every boat, right down to the meanest fishing rig, will pay its full share of customs. And when he offers you extra men, do not give a single lift of an eyebrow. You and he both know he is placing spies in your midst, but instead thank him for aiding you in carrying out his orders."
The harbor master's response was cut off by an attendant calling his name. He wiped his face once more. His voice was gruff. "I owe you for this gift of wise counsel."
Soon after the harbor master left the chamber, another familiar figure appeared at the garden entrance. Tribune Bruno Aetius carried himself with a sulfurous air. He jammed his helmet down hard upon his head and stomped across the marble-tiled gallery. Linux liked the man, and knew he deserved far better than the new prelate had probably offered. He showed what respect he could, snapping to attention, slamming his fist to his metal breastplate, and bowing low.
Tribune Bruno Aetius growled as deep as an angry bear. "The man has only arrived in Judea. Yet already he knows enough to demand why I have allowed the situation to descend into chaos."
"Your head is still attached to your shoulders," Linux observed. "So I can only assume you did not tell him what you thought of the question."
"I was tempted, I give you that. Sorely tempted indeed." The tribune mashed his helmet harder still. "The prelate wishes for me to depart for Damascus with all possible haste. As if I would serve under him a moment longer than necessary."
"I will miss you, sire," Linux said, and meant it. "Jerusalem will be poorer for your departure."
Bruno Aetius inspected the younger officer. "Come with me, Linux."
"S ire?"
"I have need of good officers. My guess is I'll be reassigned to the Parthian borderlands. You can sit out the madness that is soon to be sweeping the empire."
"Lower your voice, I beg you."
Bruno Aetius stepped in close enough for Linux to smell the garlic on his breath. "You were in Rome. You know I speak the truth. Madness is on the wind. It blows like a pestilence over this land."
For some reason Linux once again heard the words that had rocked his world. Be healed.
The tribune took Linux's silence as agreement and stepped closer still. He hissed, "When you arrived here, you served
a man who knew the value of soldiers. Pilate fought for Rome in Germany. He was an officer in the emperor's corps. He lived without a care for the trappings of power. He knew the worth of men he could trust. You think this new prelate will hold to any of that? Look around and tell me what you see!"
Linux glanced about the chamber. Pilate had preferred it because it was austere in the military manner. Now benches lined the bare walls-all filled. Merchants clustered together, while their servants stood at a discreet distance holding samples of their wares. A group of Temple priests, Sadducees by the cut of their gaudy robes, murmured quietly in the corner. Other than the guards by each door, he and Bruno Aetius were the only military personnel.
Linux said softly, "I will think upon what you have said."
"Don't take too long." Bruno Aetius backed away. "I leave for Damascus in a week."
Linux watched the tribune march across the gallery. His mind was suddenly filled with an image of a lovely young Judean lass. Such thoughts had no place here, in this moment of danger and uncertainty. Yet he knew in his heart of hearts that he would be going nowhere until he knew for certain what chance he had with her.
He was so intent upon his musings, he did not notice the servant until the man touched his arm. "The prelate will see you now."
The new governor of Judea received Linux in Herod's most luxurious hall. Many of the overdone trappings were gone, the luxury piled upon luxury, but the gilded thronelike chair remained. The prelate Marcellus was surrounded by the same cluster of advisers that Linux had met in Rome. They eyed Linux with the cold cynicism of hyenas sizing up their next meal.
Linux came to attention before the throne and saluted the prelate as he would the emperor. "Linux Aurelius reporting as ordered, sire."
"Ah. My able servant and soldier. We meet again in my new home."
"Allow me to add my own welcome to that of all Judea, sire."
"Spoken like a true prince." Marcellus wore the uniform of a Roman officer, including a gold breastplate embedded with precious stones, as were his wristbands. His silk tunic was dyed purple, a shade restricted by royal decree to those holding imperial power, and normally worn only inside Rome's borders. "Will you take refreshment?"
"Thank you, sire. I was served in the antechamber."
Abruptly the prelate rose from his chair. "Walk with me, Linux."
His advisers rose like a gaggle of fowl, adjusting their fine robes like birds shaking their wings. Marcellus gave them a slit-eyed smile. "Alone."
The order was so unexpected, the entire group froze. Were his situation not so grave, Linux would have laughed out loud.
"Come, Linux." The governor of Judea exited the audience chamber, ignoring the soldiers who saluted his passage, and led Linux down the steps and into the palace gardens. "Is it always so hot here?"
"You have arrived in the dry season, sire," Linux replied stiffly. "I'm afraid the worst heat is still to come. August can be unbearable. Some Septembers are equally bad. It would be advisable to spend those weeks in Caesarea, where the sea air is much cooler."
"You see how much I do not know of this land, and how important is your counsel." Marcellus bent over a bell-shaped flower and inhaled. "I am of a mind to reward you."
"You are too kind, sire. But it is an honor to serve your lordship. I have no need of-"
"Nonsense. A trusted ally is deserving of special attention." The prelate led them further down a curving stone lane, until the palace was lost from view. "Perhaps I should have your brother disposed of."
Linux felt his legs turn to stone. "Sire?"
"Did I not mention that I know Castor? No, perhaps not. He is a foul pest, wouldn't you agree? That child he took as a second wife would certainly not miss him." The prelate leaned over another flower. "It was so kind of Herod to make a gift of his garden, wasn't it?"
"I ... that is ..."
Marcellus glanced back at Linux and smiled knowingly. "Come, come. We are both men of the world. You can't possibly expect me to believe that you have never wished your brother would depart for an early grave."
Linux felt as though his senses had never been so sharp. Every leaf shone in utter clarity, every flower. A hot wind touched his cheek, a breath of warning. And he knew, in that crystalline moment, that he was being offered a choice. The stone path at his feet shone as though washed by ghostly hands. One direction led to a future he could only see in the most hazy of terms, the other to an awful realization of his every desire.
Linux realized that the prelate was waiting for him to respond. The words slipped from his throat. "And in return?"
His moment of utter clarity vanished. The world became as it had been before. Hot and dusty and dulled by hate and desire.
The governor gave him a reptilian smile. "Come, my new adviser. Let us see if this lovely garden can offer us a bit of shade."
Marcellus led him deeper still into the green enclave. Linux could not help comparing this man to the predecessor he had once served. Pontius Pilate wore the uniform because it suited him. On the new governor, however, the military trappings mocked his evident weakness. Marcellus was a man shaped by idleness and indulgence. The arms which emerged from the tunic were the color of flour.
They passed one fountain, another. The workers hammering down the dividing wall faded into the distance. They arrived at the fountain furthest from the palace. The outer border was rimmed by date palms planted so tightly their branches formed a basket-weave overhead. "Sit here beside me, Linux."
"Sire, I am most grateful. But I think more clearly on my feet."
"As you wish." The prelate adjusted his robes before settling onto the fountain's stone rim. "A man of your abilities cannot possibly wish to live the remainder of his days here in this pestilent province with its quarrelsome folk."
"The tribune Bruno Aetius has invited me to join his officer corps and travel to Syria."
"I do not wish it, do you hear?" The man slapped the stone with an open palm. "I forbid you to accept his offer."
"I hear and obey, sire." As Linux bowed he heard a door slam shut in his brain.
"Besides which, your place is not in yet another hot and dusty war-torn land. Your place is in Umbria."
The way Marcellus spoke the word Umbria, it sounded like a song. Linux was flooded with a yearning so strong that he shivered.
Very little seemed to escape the prelate's eye. He gave Linux a tight smile. "Or, if you prefer, Rome. After all, with your brother out of the way, you would rule the family holdings. A prince of Umbria would be expected to spend time in Rome. A seat on the Senate would be his for the asking."
"Transfer of power from one brother to another is not guaranteed by Roman law."
The prelate was not at all disturbed by Linux's statement. "I can guarantee that the emperor would appoint you guardian over your brother's children."
"How is that possible, may I ask?"
"Do sit down, Linux. I dislike having to look up at you."
Reluctantly he settled down onto the fountain's edge, but well out of striking range. Marcellus had given no sign of carrying even a dagger. But the man emanated a palpable flavor of doom. "Forgive me for speaking openly, sire."
"Why do you think we have removed ourselves to this station? Say whatever is on your mind."
"A guarantee is easily offered when there are no witnesses, and the emperor is in distant Rome."
"I carry a document bearing his own seal. All I need do is supply the words."
Linux leaned so far back he felt the fountain's splash upon his neck.
"As soon as we return to the palace, I will show you the scroll." The prelate was not a patient man, and when Linux remained silent he slapped the stone once more. "I command you to answer!"
"I have known men of nearly limitless power who will not sleep alone," Linux said slowly. "Yet here we are, with neither guards nor advisers. I am thinking that the task you have in mind for me is as grave as it is dangerous."
"Are you afraid o
f danger, Linux?"
"No, sire. Not when the threat bears a purpose that a simple officer's mind can understand."
"There is purpose indeed. But not military. My intent lies within the realms of power." The prelate slid over the stone, closing the distance between them. "Sejanus demands to be made consul. The Senate desperately seeks to refuse him that post. But they need someone else to hold that position. Someone they can trust. I wish to claim it for myself. I wish it with the same passion as you wish for your brother to vanish from this earth."
Linux nodded. The consuls of Rome acted as bridges between the emperor and the Senate. They also served as high judges of the Roman empire. Their power was second only to the emperor himself.
Marcellus went on, "My allies within the Senate have said that I would be acceptable as consul. But only if I can pay their price, which is enormous."
"Forgive me, sire. But I am utterly without funds. And I doubt that my family could possibly-"
"I don't wish to give you a princedom merely to beggar you. As consul, I will need trusted allies even more than I do here."
"Then what-?"
"Do you know the amount that foul priest Caiaphas and his father-in-law, Annas, paid me to retain the position of high priest?"
"I had heard it was their weight in gold."
"That and more. They paid without a quibble. Do you know what that means? The Temple treasury must be huge. Large enough to satisfy even the Senate's impossible hunger for gold." Marcellus dropped his voice to where it joined with the fountain's music, a soft murmur of poison. "Find a way to bring me the Temple treasury, and your brother will not last another month. Agree to be my thief, and you depart for Umbria with the guardianship decree in your pouch. Marry the widow or dispose of her, adopt the children or lock them away forever-no one in Rome will care either way, of that I can assure you."
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