Leonides had finished the statue and intended to show it off to his patron at our house that night. He arrived late in the afternoon and set it up in one corner of the front room. That was the first time I saw it. The figures were naked and did, in fact, look like Mother and Dinah. Only he had made a little boy out of Dinah; and not a little Jewish boy either.
“There is only that ‘little difference’ between boys and girls,” he laughed. “Men and women have ‘big differences.’ Look—a goddess and her boy.”
The goddess stood, eyes downcast, and the boy leaned against her thigh, looking upward. Her hand covered one breast in an attempt at modesty, I suppose, and the boy’s free hand covered his heart. It stood demure and even sweet in the corner, containing no hint at what it symbolized except, of course, its nakedness. For pagans, especially the Greeks, that is not the scandal it is for us.
“A nice line,” Leonides said, eyeing his work with justifiable pride. He busied himself setting out lamps and arranging wall hangings to show the statue at its best. Then he left, I suppose, to spend some of his commission money.
He’d told my mother his family had wealth and influence, that they were members of the Athenian aristocracy. He said this, but no one believed him. What family in that position would allow their son to lower himself to the life of a stone cutter? It would be like finding Caesarean, Cleopatra’s and Julius’ son, working as a butcher.
Dinah said that posing was easy. “Judas, when I grow up I will be a poser for statues instead of entertaining like Mother.”
“You want to spend your days standing naked in front of strangers?”
“It’s not so bad,” she said, brow furrowed like Mother’s.
The idea of being undressed most of the time and in strange places with strange men apparently had not occurred to her. Dinah drifted through life an extremely shy child. People who knew us were often surprised to discover Mother had a daughter. It is a natural law, I think, that greatness in one thing will always be balanced by a weakness in another. Peacocks have breathtakingly beautiful iridescent plumage but screech like a woman in childbirth. Dinah was the most beautiful child I ever saw, but because she was so shy hardly anyone was aware of her existence.
I wondered how the evening would go. Leonides decided to have Mother and Dinah strike the same pose as the statue so his patron could experience the full measure of his genius. Dinah and Mother would stand naked before this man. Mother could manage certainly, but Dinah?
Mother told me to stay in the back, out of the way. It did not feel right. I knew something terrible would occur as surely as if chiseled into the plaster wall. At that moment, the sun went behind a cloud. I loosened my knife in its sheath and contemplated, with ten-year old instincts, the gathering darkness.
Chapter Six
The evening star had been shining for nearly three hours before Leonides reappeared. He reeled into the room, smelling of cheap wine and carrying a small brass bowl in which he’d placed glowing charcoal. He lighted some lamps, extinguished others, and sprinkled incense on the charcoal. The room turned a pale gold. The smoke from the incense drifted to the ceiling and layered slowly across the length of it. The transformation was remarkable. A moment later his patron arrived, accompanied by another man. The patron lumbered heavily into the room, squinting in the smoke and dim light. His face had the pasty look of someone who had not seen the sun for a long time, his skin like dough, and I thought if I poked him with my finger, the dent in his flesh would still be there in the morning. His toga hung loosely from him but did not hide the gross body beneath it. His companion, on the other hand, slipped into the room, shadow-like, lean, and dark. He wore dress armor and a short toga. He had golden eyes and the high aquiline nose common to Roman patricians. His look and manner were reptilian, like a snake.
There was no doubt what the first one did. Officialdom and bureaucrat were written all over him. The other man, however, could have been anybody or anything, a jailer or his prisoner, a general or a foot soldier. The patron addressed him as Tribune and that settled it. My instincts told me to be careful, he reeked of danger. I checked my knife again.
They settled down to eat and drink. Mother sang. Dinah sat behind her, only daring to peek out at the men from time to time. The statue sat on one side of the room cloaked in white sheeting.
“Well, sculptor, let’s see it. You desire your money, I wish to see my statue,” the patron said. His words wheezed out like the air from an empty wine skin.
The sculptor began to speak. He had a hard time keeping his feet under him. He laughed a lot and almost fell as he reached for the corner of the covering, missed twice, and finally, cloth in hand, yanked. The sheet snagged and nearly toppled the statue. When the cloth released, Leonides fell backwards to the floor. He staggered back to his feet and, without missing a beat, continued his speech, a very flowery speech filled with words of praise for himself and his art. The patron drummed his fingers and fidgeted. More wine was poured. His patron nodded and tossed him a purse that clinked heavily as it bounced on the floor.
“Enough of this,” he barked. “Let’s see the rest.”
“Ah,” Leonides said and bowed. “Now you will see the genius of Leonides.”
Earlier, we’d strung a curtain across the other corner of the room. While the men’s attention turned to the statue and Leonides’ babbling, Mother and Dinah slipped behind it, undressed, oiled, and then powdered their hair and bodies with stone dust. The sculptor tugged at the curtain with almost the identical results he experienced with the statue. The curtain fell away and he sat down. Mother and Dinah held the exact pose as the statue. They were naked and I remember feeling proud and at the same time ashamed. They were beautiful. Leonides had taken great care in arranging the lamps and the effect brought a gasp from the patron. Mother and Dinah stood perfectly still. In the dim light, with their pale skins dusted white and eyes closed, they were the mirror image of the statue in the other corner. It was nearly impossible to tell living from stone. Leonides put his hand on Dinah—where she differed from the boy.
“You see,” he giggled, “a genius.”
The patron looked at Mother and then at Dinah. He licked his lips. “Get this fool out of here,” he said. The other man, yellow snake eyes bright, grabbed the poor Greek by the throat, lifted him like a rag doll, and threw him out the door and into the street.
Then what I had feared, but could not define, happened.
The fat Roman beckoned to Mother. Always in the past, she set the terms of her services. No mention had been made of anything except posing. She hesitated. He snapped his fingers and Snake Eyes grabbed her by the hair and spun her around. Dinah screamed and tried to run but Snake Eyes, with his free hand, slapped her to the floor as easily as he would swat a fly. I watched, paralyzed. What happened next is not to be spoken of. The fat man grabbed Dinah by her wrist and pulled her to him. His friend, still holding Mother by her hair, bent her over his couch.
I launched myself into the room, knife drawn. Mother kicked her attacker. He only smiled. He struck her with a closed fist. I heard someone shouting and cursing…me. I looked at her and then at Dinah. The soft Roman had his hand over Dinah’s mouth to stop her screaming. Her eyes were wide with terror and pleaded silently with me. She was my responsibility. I raised my knife over my head, ready to sink it to the hilt in that pudding-faced Roman. I think it may have been the only time in my life I was ever truly brave. As my arm swung down, I thought I heard noises at the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Snake Eyes swing at me. His arm looked as big as a galley oar. Everything went black.
***
Sunlight. That morning it hit my eyes like a hammer. My head pounded and I could remember nothing. When finally the previous evening came to me, my eyes popped open. All I could see was the mess on the floor in front of me. Tables overturned and plates scattered everywhere. Leonides’ brass bowl lay upside down an arm’s length away, its charcoal spilled out onto the carpet. Scorched wool a
nd incense lingered in the air. I twisted around. Mother crouched in the corner, her face swollen. She had a piece of silk wall hanging around her to cover her nakedness. Dark bruises were beginning to form on her shoulders and under her eyes. Dinah sat in her lap, eyes that the day before had danced in anticipation now stared vacantly straight ahead, the dull eyes of the dead. Mother crooned and rocked her back and forth. Dinah was bleeding.
The room looked like an army had passed through it. Leonides’ statue lay shattered on the floor, smeared with blood. The boy god, what was left of him, had been converted back to a girl. I tried to sit up. I hurt all over. I raised my head. There was blood on my hand, on the statue, everywhere. How had that happened? My knife stuck to my bloody hand. Mother rocked and crooned. Dinah turned her head and threw up on the floor. Something, someone, a man, looking like a pile of rags, lay behind the broken statue. I looked more closely—Leonides, covered with blood. I saw him thrown out; the Tribune did that before…
“He came back to help,” Mother murmured.
I struggled to take it in. Leonides may have been silly, pompous, and vain, but he had honor, and he had been stabbed many times because of it. I looked at the knife in my hand. Who would believe I did not stab him? In the eyes of the Law I stood lower than a rich man’s favorite dog. Who would believe me? I had no status, no father, nothing. They were Roman officials. Who would dare to question them? But why would I want this poor man dead? The Romans, certainly, I wanted to kill them, but not Leonides.
We cannot stay here.
My head pounded and I lifted my hand to my forehead and discovered it crusted with blood where Snake Eyes hit me. I staggered into the back room and found a pitcher of water. I washed my head, hand, and knife. Mother stirred and stood up. She had been severely beaten. There were bruises all over her body. I tried not to look. She drifted around the room retrieving her wraps, covering herself. Together we washed and dressed Dinah.
We cannot stay here.
Flies buzzed around the Greek. I shooed them away. I clenched my teeth and touched the body. I do not know what I expected. I thought it would be soft but instead it lay rigid, like the statue next to it. I opened his embroidered vest. The blood made it as stiff as tenting. I felt along his belt until I found his leather purse. It was heavy and clinked, filled with many coins, the commission paid for the statue. I wanted to run, just run, and never stop.
“We cannot stay here,” I said.
Mother looked at me, brow furrowed. Horns sounded in the harbor. Boats were sailing. We scrambled about the house grabbing anything we could carry—the rest of our money, some clothing, Mother’s paints and ointments and herbs. Dinah stood in the door watching without seeing. We dashed into the street and headed for the harbor. No words were spoken—none were needed.
Dinah could not keep up.
“Here,” Mother said. “Take the bundles. I will carry Dinah.” She hoisted her up on her hip and we raced on.
The street swarmed with people, a blessing. It gave us some cover. I saw the dark man, Snake Eyes, before he saw us. We ducked down behind a fruit vendor’s stall until he and a cadre of soldiers trotted past us and out of sight. The horns sounded their last warning. We raced to the quay.
Only three boats remained when we arrived. We boarded the only one that would take us. I stood in the aft and watched Caesarea slip away. Dark clouds slowly swallowed the sun over the mountains to the east, a new day, a gray day. The ship tacked neatly through the gap in the northern jetty and turned westward.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Corinth,” the captain shouted, “The cloaca of the empire. That’s where, Sonny.”
The ship tossed in the chop as we cleared the harbor mouth. I turned my back on Caesarea and the land of my birth. I stood in the stern of that little coastal trader and contemplated the madness that now controlled our lives. I clenched my fists and swore to whatever gods there were, someday, some way, I would return and I would have my revenge. I would do whatever I must to bring those swaggering hypocrites, those arrogant purveyors of Roman justice who debauched women and children, into account.
Hatred is a hard thing to control. Like an alchemist’s acid, which corrodes the hardest iron, hate eats at a person’s soul. Though I struggled daily to contain it, in the end, it slowly and silently directed my feet into a path that would one day lead to tragedy.
Chapter Seven
“This is where you get off,” the ship’s captain growled. With that, our baggage was scooped up and thrown off, disappearing into the night high above our heads. The ship, which had carried us away from Caesarea, rocked and bumped against wooden bolsters beside a high, stone wall.
“Off, off,” he said, waving his hands vaguely toward the wall.
“Is this Corinth?” Mother asked.
“It’s as close as you will get, woman. Now get off.”
Off? All we could see was the wall that rose two or three cubits over our head. Stone outcroppings were set into it, which served as steps. We climbed up and onto a rough paved street. The night enfolded us, moonless, and except for a few torches guttering every hundred paces or so, pitch black.
“Where are we?”
“Cenchrea.” The captain had followed us up the steps and moved off to speak to a man I took to be the harbor master.
“You said Corinth. We paid for passage to Corinth.”
“Corinth is that way, inland.” He pointed into the night and added, “Woman, you are lucky I did not throw you and your brats overboard. I do not know what trouble you stirred up back there, but you brought it onto my ship. I am sure the authorities here would be more than happy to hold you until they found out why you left Caesarea in a hurry.”
We gathered our bundles, shuffled a few steps into the darkness, and paused, hopeless and helpless, our few pitiful belongings at our feet. Dinah clung to Mother’s leg. I drew my knife and huddled close to her as well. We had no idea where we were, where we should go, or what to do. The torches made uncertain pools of light along the length of the street. People drifted through them on their way to places we could not see. I made out thin lines of light seeping from under doorsills and around lintels. Mist drifted in from the harbor, blurring the light, intensifying the dark.
To our right, barely visible in the torchlight, a group of four women stood wraithlike, watching us, waiting. One of them studied us like she would a melon or a loaf of bread— should she buy or not? A door burst open and light and men poured out onto the street like water from an overturned pail. The men rolled about pummeling and cursing. As the door slapped shut, I thought I saw the glint of a knife blade. In the darkness that followed I heard a cry, then another, and then the sound of feet running away. There was a moan and then silence. I guessed one of the ships would be short a man in the morning.
Shadowy figures rose up near us, then drifted away. We wanted to run, but which way and where? We were lost and alone in a strange city on what seemed to be the darkest night of the year. Our ship poled away from the wall and disappeared into an inky harbor. I thought after all our efforts to escape certain death at the hands of Roman officials, we would end up murdered in the dark by some anonymous thief for our few meager possessions.
The woman said something to the others with her and they faded into the night. She waved at someone behind us and I heard the scurry of feet. She walked up to Mother and the two of them stepped away speaking in low voices. Mother seemed to think about whatever she said and then nodded. She came back to us, picked up Dinah, and said, “Come. We are going with this woman.”
Her name was Darcas.
***
Darcas exuded energy. A small, dark woman—not pretty like Mother—but her dress and carriage prompted men to look twice. Women in her profession sometimes acquire a wary, furtive look. Her long, thin face and her pointed nose reminded me of the wharf rats that scurried about near the harbor. She wore a lot of jangling bracelets and anklets. In fact, you could hear her coming long be
fore you saw her. That turned out to be a blessing for Dinah and me. We decided, well actually, I decided—Dinah did not speak—that it would be wise to stay away from her, a good decision, as it turned out. Even though I knew, if it had not been for her, we might have been killed or sold into slavery the night we arrived, I also knew that Darcas could not be trusted.
Darcas put us into a cramped windowless room where Dinah and I slept at night, Mother during the day. The room was half the size of our back room in Caesarea. It lacked the sunny backcourt, the street filled with excitement, the scent of oils and spices, grunting camels, and the promise of adventure. It opened, instead, on a dim corridor ending in steps leading down to the atrium and the street. It did have a small hearth, which provided our only light and a place to warm our food. We paid for food and lodgings out of what Mother earned. Darcas took five tenths of that as her fee. The rest was spent on charges Darcas made for the food and rent. We struggled this way for a year.
Dinah remained mute and withdrawn. I had hoped the sea air, a change in the way we lived, anything, would bring back her sunny disposition. Nothing changed. As she grew, she showed signs of her womanhood. Not much, just the beginning of bumps under her tunic.
“I am worried about Dinah. She is not getting any better,” I said early one afternoon while Mother fussed with her paints. She was due to go back to the atrium. She looked pale and drawn, and her hands shook as she struggled to paint her face.
“There is nothing wrong with Dinah. She will be fine once we are settled.”
“It has been a year, Mother. This is as settled as we are likely to get.”
“Judas, be a good boy and bring me my ointment, the one that smells of myrrh.”
I handed her the pot. “She just sits and stares. She never talks, never smiles.”
Judas Page 3
