"Forgive me, sire. I needed to see to one other matter before I could make my report."
"Your report? Ah, yes, of course.... Yes, well then. You mean you found what you required in the arena?"
"I did, sire." Linux was baffled. He assumed the prelate had ordered him here to grill him about the Temple treasure. Instead, Marcellus gave every indication of having forgotten the matter entirely.
"That's all fine and good. But something else has come to my attention, and I wish for your counsel." He motioned to the steward who hovered by his shoulder. "Bring Linux a chair."
Several heads came around at this. Linux watched in amazement as a second gilded chair was placed upon the dais, an honor normally granted only to visiting royalty, close allies, or intimate members of the prelate's own family.
Marcellus must have noticed Linux's astonishment, for he said, "And should not I choose to seat a trusted adviser? Is that not well within my rights? Or am I breaking another custom of these pestilent Judeans?"
The steward replied smoothly, "Indeed it is a most worthy act by Your Excellency." He held the chair's high back and nodded Linux into the seat.
Linux eased himself down, as though testing the chair's ability to hold his weight. The prelate swished the air with an ornately carved fan, its handle fashioned from ivory and gold. "I have been in this country less than a month, and already I despise it."
The steward approached once more, this time offering Linux a jewel-encrusted goblet. He started to wave it away until he saw the cautionary glint in the steward's eye. Linux accepted the goblet and placed it, untasted, on the chair's arm.
Marcellus said, "Please tell me that this land improves with time."
"I wish I could, sire. And perhaps your experiences will prove rather in contrast to my own."
The steward bent over the prelate's shoulder and murmured, "Sire. Your visitors."
"Oh, very well. I suppose I have no choice." The fan moved faster still. "That pesky tribune has finally left for Damascus, and my own commander is still out somewhere on the sea between here and Rome. So you must act as my adviser."
Linux bit back his immediate response. There were several higher-ranking officers still present within the Antonia Fortress. "I stand ready to obey, sire," he said instead.
"My adjutant informs me of your current living situation. Really, Linux, residing above the garrison stables? It is disgraceful that an officer on official duties for the governor sleeps in chambers not fit for a Judean goatherd." Another flip of his fan. "No doubt it's the work of that despicable Bruno Aetius. We are well served to have him gone."
Linux opened his mouth to explain, but again did not speak. What was he to say, that his friend, a disgraced centurion who had joined the followers, had chosen it? That Linux liked the freedom, while granting him a proximity to the Antonia Fortress and to other soldiers? That all his life had been spent in just such a situation, close to power, yet isolated?
Marcellus went on, "I can only assume there are suitable apartments within the soldiers' fortress?"
"Indeed, sire. But they are reserved for the tribune and his staff."
"Oh, nonsense. I am prelate, am I not? The tribune serves at my discretion." He used the fan to summon his steward. "Inscribe an edict. As my adviser on military affairs, Linux Aurelius is to be granted the fortress apartment of his choosing. And he is to select a staff from among the soldiers. An appropriate stipend is to be added to his pay. And any other of the usual benefits."
Linux's head was spinning with the sudden change. He watched the fan flip back and forth, knowing with utter certainty that the largess could just as swiftly be stripped away. He managed a weak, "I am most grateful, sire."
"Good, that pleases me." Marcellus said to his steward, "Show in the Judean visitors." When Linux moved to depart, the fan waved him back.
The arena's chaotic din formed an echo for the clamor in Linux's brain. He stared around him, yet saw nothing. He sipped from his goblet but could not name what he drank. He did note Jacob, stationed behind the patio's front pillar, appearing very disturbed by something. But there was nothing he could do about it now.
The steward had returned, leading two Judeans in formal robes. As soon as they came into view, there was no room in Linux's world for anything else.
The older Judean walked forward with a regal bearing, the trailing edge of his robes draped over his left arm. He bowed, lifting his left arm higher still, as though attempting to keep his robe from touching the patio's stones. "Thank you for speaking with us, Excellency," he said, his tone as stiff as his bow.
"I fail to see why matters related to your Judean Temple could not wait for my next regular audience," Marcellus said testily.
"Were it merely a matter related to Temple affairs, sire, we would not even have dreamed of troubling you on a day of such festivities."
"Oh, very well, very well." He indicated Linux. "I suppose you must know my military adviser, Linux Aurelius."
"An honor that has evaded me until now." The elder bowed a second time.
"I am Verres."
"Verres is my emissary from the Council.... What is it you call yourselves?"
"The Sanhedrin, Excellency. Though I do not have the honor of counting myself among that select group. I am merely their spokesperson."
"And who is this you have brought with you here?"
"My associate, Ezra, a representative of the Judean merchant community. We thought a voice from within the trades might illustrate to Your Excellency just how serious-"
"Yes, yes, I understand all that. But why is this compatriot of yours dressed this way?"
The Council's emissary faltered. "Sire?"
Linux tore his gaze away from the face of the second man and explained quietly, "Verres is a Sadducee, sire. Ezra is a Pharisee."
"And why exactly should this be of concern to me?"
"The Sadducees are Hellenized Judeans and dominate the Council. The Pharisees are a minority on the Council, and consider the Sadducees to be their, well-"
"Their enemy." The second man spoke for the first time, his dark eyes boring down hard on Linux.
Both Marcellus and Verres looked from one man to the other. The prelate demanded, "You know this man?"
"We have seen one another," Linux said, keeping his tone even. "Though we have never been formally introduced."
"Well, well. How fascinating." Marcellus was evidently pleased by indications of hostility among the three. "All right, Verres. You may proceed."
"As your adviser has correctly stated, Excellency, we Sadducees and the Pharisees tend to disagree on almost every point. And yet this matter is of such crucial importance that it overrides centuries of disagreement. We come to you today, united by our deep concerns over a new threat to Roman rule."
Ezra's black robes were both severe and elegant, fashioned from a light fabric drifting about him in the breeze. He stood with his hands tucked inside the opposing sleeves. "A threat to us all."
"Indeed so." Verres glanced at his associate, then went on, "We speak, sire, of those known as the followers of the Way."
"Ah, these disciples of the dead prophet. What's his name?"
"Jesus of Nazareth," Linux supplied, listening intently.
"You know this group?"
"I have had contact with them, yes, sire."
"And they are a threat to Rome?"
"From everything I have observed, sire, they are ruled by edicts of peace."
Verres exclaimed, "Excellency, please, I must be permitted-"
"Wait," the prelate barked. To Linux, "Go on."
"Their leader did indeed declare himself to be the ruler of the Judeans. But he also was scourged and then crucified without ever calling for violence by his followers."
"So this group follows a dead man."
"They claim, sire, that Jesus has been brought back to life by the Judean God."
"Preposterous!"
"Exactly, sire," Verres said immediately. "A
nd yet the common folk are drawn by such outrageous claims. As a result, very deep divisions are being created within our community."
Marcellus gave the pair a calculating look. "As deep a division," he asked silkily, "as exists between your two groups?"
Ezra replied, "Worse. Far worse."
"Yet if this group holds to edicts of peace," Marcellus pressed, "what threat could they be to Rome?"
"Through the disruption of your peaceful rule, sire."
"Utter rubbish!" Marcellus bounded from his chair. The two Judeans retreated a pace, granting the prelate room to pace. Linux noted how both Judeans kept their backs to the arena, clearly determined to have nothing whatsoever to do with the Roman concept of sport.
Marcellus snarled, "Your Council and your elders and your Zealots are a constant disruption! I am beset by your demands and your stiff-necked arrogance at every turn! And now you insist upon wrecking my festivities with claims that a group of peaceful Judeans is a threat to Rome!"
"Because they are, sire."
Linux was astonished at the man's boldness.
"Nonsense. They are a threat to you!"
The emissary from the Sanhedrin did not back down. "That is true enough, sire. They accuse us, your ruling Council, of being responsible for this so-called prophet's death. They use his blood as a means to divide your subjects and turn them-"
"Enough drivel! I have heard all I can bear! Begone, the both of you! And the next time you seek an urgent audience with me, have a care that it is over a true emergency, else I may decide to create one of my own!"
The Judeans bowed a final time and backed quickly from the patio, their eyes fastened firmly upon the stones at their feet. Even after they had departed, the observers continued to hold their breaths. The prelate paced for a time before settling back in his chair. He snapped, "More wine."
The steward had the goblet in front of the prelate before the words were hardly spoken. The prelate drank, grimaced, and tossed the goblet aside. "Not this Judean swill. It turns my stomach. Bring me something from Rome!"
The steward vanished.
Linux knew he should speak, offer some word of advice or counsel. Yet now that the Judeans were gone, his thoughts were filled with the sound of a sweet name, one he would never be able to claim as his own. How could a woman he had only glimpsed a handful of times have so captured his heart? He sighed.
Marcellus mistook his sigh and said, "I could not agree more. These Judeans and their constant complaints are a plague upon my peace.
Linux stared blindly at the sunlit arena. His mind sought futilely for some way to right the situation. But Abigail was betrothed to another. He was surrounded by the ashes of forbidden dreams.
"Still," Marcellus said, almost to himself. "There may be something to the Judeans' complaint, I suppose."
Linux's attention gradually came back into focus. He turned to look at the prelate.
"It would certainly do my standing no good if this group did prove to be a threat, and it became known I had been warned and did nothing." The prelate's expression tightened. "In the meantime, I suppose we must postpone any further actions on the ... the project you and I discussed. If their threat of revolt is indeed true, such an action might shove them right over the edge."
Linux felt an invisible weight lift from his shoulders. "As my prelate commands."
"You have told no one?"
"Not a soul, sire. There was no need, not until the day you ordered me to move."
"Hold all your plans in abeyance. We will speak on it again once this latest problem is behind us." Marcellus turned to the steward hovering by his elbow. He accepted the new goblet, tasted, and moaned. "Ah, the sweet taste of Rome. Rome! May she conquer all pestilent barbarians and rule them with splendid dignity!"
Linux rose from his chair as expected and lifted his own goblet. "To Rome!"
The rest of the gathering took up the toast, each vying to shout louder than the next. The prelate nodded to the roars as though accepting his rightful acclaim, which Linux supposed in a way he was.
C H A P T E R
TWENTY-NINE
As SOON AS THE PRELATE'S ATTENTION was recaptured by the arena, Linux backed away, bowing as he did so. To his relief, the prelate did not demand that he remain. The steward immediately lifted the chair from the dais and carried it away. While the other guests gathered about the prelate to fill the air with their further empty accolades, Linux went to find Jacob, who was attempting to conceal himself behind a pillar. His shoulders shook and his hands covered his face. Linux nudged the boy forward and discreetly departed.
They returned to where the arena road joined with the main thoroughfare to Jerusalem. Jacob did not speak, and Linux did not question him.
Linux had paid little attention to the games themselves. The sport of blood had never held him. Linux had a warrior's scorn for gladiators and the maiming of man or beast as entertainment. But for Jacob, a young Judean lad with no concept of Roman games, it clearly had been a terrible shock. The boy's occasional shudder indicated the level of his distress.
The road traversing the Mount of Olives was still crowded with the people wending their way into the city. Linux and Jacob joined the silent throng and let those about them set the pace. For Linux, it was a decidedly odd sensation, to be enveloped within a Judean crowd that paid him no mind. Their attention was firmly fixed upon what lay ahead. In truth, he did not mind becoming mired within this motley group. There was a certain comfort to becoming simply another person trudging along the road, enduring the midafternoon heat and desert wind.
The beautiful face of Abigail weaved in and out of the light and heat, and his heart was pierced anew with what would never be his. And yet he was also pierced by the fact that he had twisted a human desire into something that festered and drew him into dark thoughts. His bitterness and anger had fueled a readiness to undertake an extraordinary theft from the Judean Temple. And to what end? So the new prelate, a man who served an emperor Linux knew to be truly evil, would murder Linux's brother. And in doing so, Linux would have added his own name to the scroll of evildoers. He would carry his own portion of this plague. He could clothe his actions in whatever words he might choose. He might call it vengeance. He might claim merely to be an obedient officer, or maybe a better leader. But it changed nothing. Linux had almost become what he most despised about his own empire.
Linux gripped the boy's shoulder more tightly and kept him on the road. Jacob still had not spoken, and Linux could not tell much more from the lad's expression than that he was devastated by something he had seen.
Linux started to speak, but what could he say? That everything would be all right? How could he utter such a lie, when he himself had been ready to use this Judean youth to carry out a horrendous crime against his own people? For that had been Linux's plan. He would have granted Jacob his dream of being a legionnaire by corrupting the lad, by twisting his ambition into deeds as dark as those the prelate had prescribed for Linux. He would have sent Jacob into the Temple, where Linux was excluded, to see where the doors hidden inside the stable opened within the Temple compound. The distance from the Council building, and where precisely within that structure was the treasury. Jacob would pace around the treasury building, taking prescribed measurements, and report on how many guards stood duty as the Temple was shut for the night.
Linux was filled with a shame so bitter he too began to falter as he walked. His only defense against life's bitter dregs had been a cynical quip and a sardonic smile. Now even these were being stripped off.
Then, between one step and the next, it all fell away.
Not that his troubles vanished. But their ability to grip him, to clench him and blind him and choke his heart, all this had simply dropped from his soul. And for the first time since that night in the Judeans' courtyard, Linux could see.
That sense of revelation beyond his own ability to reason or perceive was precisely as it had been on that bewildering night. He looked ar
ound at the dregs of humanity surrounding him and saw himself as no less needy than they, as utterly helpless against the inner torments. He carried what he had seen up the final rise and through the gates and into Jerusalem. He no longer held himself aloof from the supplicants who walked this harsh road with him. He did not care what the city dwellers thought of a dusty Roman officer trundling along with all the others, his hand resting upon the shoulder of a sad Judean lad.
They arrived upon the broad avenue leading from the Old City to the main Temple entrance. He steered Jacob to the side, where they leaned against the eastern wall. An elderly couple stood nearby, so frail they seemed to remain upright only by leaning upon each other. On Jacob's other side was a gaunt young girl on a makeshift pallet.
Gradually the sun lowered to shine directly into his eyes. The afternoon wind funneled hot down the avenue. Linux hardly noticed. He could no longer even say why he was there. Only that the old ways and all he had brought himself to no longer held him. Linux felt if he were to release the boy's shoulder, he might well be swept away, only another meaningless bit of debris blowing hither and yon through the street.
His thoughts kept returning to the night in the courtyard. Standing here now, Linux realized he had been fleeing from the miracle for which his heart yearned. He had hidden behind the pain he had felt over Abigail. He had allowed himself to be tempted by the prelate's dark plotting. They had all been barriers to the truth. His wound was better hidden than Abigail's had been, but no less in need of healing.
Linux recalled once more the brilliant expression of the apostle as he had cried out with a voice so powerful it split the night air. Despite the afternoon heat, Linux shivered anew at the force of those words. Bring healing in the name of your son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus of Nazareth. Be healed!
The Hidden Flame Page 22
