by David McAfee
He was just about to stand up and slaughter his attacker when he saw the person’s feet. Sandals. Legionary’s sandals. That surprised him. He’d expected a robber, or a band of them, but not a soldier. Why was a legionary ambushing people on their way to Jerusalem? Not that it mattered. The man would die either way, but despite his anger, Theron's curiosity was piqued. The Romans were not known for being friendly, of course, but he’d never heard of legionaries ambushing civilians in the road before. Rome tended to frown on such activities, especially when committed by her soldiers. More than a few legionaries were put to death in Israel during the early years of the occupation for stealing trinkets from the Jews. Today, few soldiers were willing to risk public execution for the meager possessions of the average Jewish citizen, so why would this one? Perhaps he’d seen Theron’s sword and decided it was valuable enough to risk his life for.
Theron’s curiosity got the better of him, and rather than kill the fellow right away, he decided to wait a few minutes and see what he could learn. He groaned softly, pretending to be coming out of a dead faint.
The legionary stuck his knee into the small of Theron’s back and grabbed his arms. When he felt his hands being tied, Theron had a twinge of momentary panic. He almost jumped up and killed the man then and there, but he forced himself to remain calm. He could escape any time he wanted. The ropes would never hold him, and he still wanted to find out what was going on. To do that, he would have to go along with this for a little while.
“Stand up,” the man ordered, and yanked Theron to his feet with a sharp jerk.
“What? A… a legionary?” Theron asked, attempting to sound woozy. He swayed on his feet and blinked several times. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Marcus would like a word with you.”
“Marcus? The centurion?” So this wasn’t a random incident, the centurion wanted to see him. But why? Theron was more curious then ever. “What does he want with me? I haven’t done anything.”
“Nothing, you say?” The soldier reached under Theron’s cloak and pulled out his sword, which still had a smear of blood on it. Theron hadn’t cleaned it as thoroughly as he should have because he’d been too excited about bringing his news to the Council.
“Then what is this?” the soldier asked, pointing to the blood.
For answer, Theron hung his head and gazed at his feet, saying nothing.
“No matter,” the soldier said, apparently realizing no response would be forthcoming. “The centurion will have the truth from you. Now walk.”
Theron felt something very sharp and hard poke him in the back. The legionary had jabbed him with his own sword.
So, the centurion wants to see me? This is interesting. No doubt it has something to do with the two legionaries I killed this morning. I wonder if he knew them? Theron tried to remember what he knew of the political situation in Jerusalem, but for all his research before coming to find Ephraim, he could not remember anyone of importance named Claudius. He didn’t get the name of the second soldier at the gate, but it didn’t matter much. The centurion would be angry at the murder of any of his legionaries, friend or otherwise. He would move swiftly to find, capture, and execute their killer. Theron knew – he’d seen it happen to a pair of hapless zealots not long ago. Centurion justice had a swift and merciless quality he admired.
Theron smiled, but kept it hidden from his captor. Too bad I am going to have to disappoint Marcus. That thought reminded him he was going to have to disappoint the Council, as well, and his anger flared anew. He would enjoy tearing this human to pieces for the indignity of binding his hands. True, he’d allowed it, but that didn’t matter. The soldier would pay for the offense with his blood, which Theron would be sure to take very, very slow.
Just before he moved to break his bonds and sink his teeth into his captor’s throat, an idea occurred to him. Maybe he wouldn’t have to disappoint the Council, after all. Maybe this could work to his advantage. As the plan formed in his mind, he almost nodded. Yes, he thought. Yes, it could work.
The second time the soldier poked him in the back, Theron did as the soldier commanded and started walking back toward the city. Along the way he finalized his plan, turning the angles over in his mind, checking them, making sure he saw them all. It was perfect. Flawless. The Centurion would never suspect a thing.
He now had his course of action, and all it required was a little acting on his part. No doubt the centurion would be eager to punish the zealots responsible for the murder of his men, his animosity would take care of the rest. Theron sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Father that his captor walked behind him and couldn’t see the smile on his face.
He allowed himself to be taken into Jerusalem. He glanced up at the night sky to make sure he still had time to do what he needed. There were still several hours until dawn. Plenty of time. His plan hinged on the hope that the centurion, in his anger, would come deal with him right away rather than wait until morning. He felt certain that if Marcus deemed his arrest important enough to send men after him at night, then he would also want to speak with him as soon as possible. If not, Theron would have to escape before dawn and return to the Halls. He didn’t doubt his ability to do so, but it would mean abandoning his plan, which was not an option he wanted to consider.
Once they arrived at the city and passed through the Damascus Gate, several legionaries jostled their way through the crowds of people and joined the one holding the sword to his back. They flocked around him like carrion birds at a fresh carcass. His captor, however, remained at his back.
“What’s this, Taras?” One of the men asked.
So his name is Taras, is it? Theron committed the name to memory. He would have need of it later.
“A zealot,” Taras replied. “I’m taking him to the dungeons.”
“A zealot, eh?” the first soldier replied. “Probably knows who killed Claudius and Didius, too, I’d wager.”
Didius? So that was the other soldier's name. It sounded familiar, but Theron couldn’t place it.
Taras said nothing, but the group of soldiers began to tighten around the pair. Several called to Theron, taunting him, calling him a filthy Jew and a whoreson and just about anything else that crossed their minds. They ignored the angry shouts from the many Jewish men and women nearby, who took offense to the insults hurled at their faith. One of the soldiers, perhaps emboldened by Theron's bonds, went so far as to strike him across the face, which brought more jeers from the gathered citizenry. Seeing the actions of their comrade, several more legionaries stepped in, their fists raised to dish out some punishment of their own. For a moment Theron thought he would have to abandon his plan then and there, lest the legionaries rip him to shreds before he ever got to see the centurion.
"That's enough." Taras stepped in front of him, and Theron got a brief glimpse of his captor. Tall, muscular, and blond, he sure didn't look like a typical Roman legionary. Typical or not, Taras pulled his sword and pointed it at the soldier who’d slapped Theron. He jabbed it into the surprised man’s forearm just enough to draw a thin line of blood. The injured soldier yelped as he yanked his arm back, then fixed Taras with an angry glare.
“What did you do that for?” The surprised legionary asked.
“Don’t assault the centurion’s prisoner again, soldier,” Taras said, his stance not wavering in the least.
The many voices dropped off at once as Roman and Jew alike stared, wide eyed, at the tiny sliver of red on the tip of Taras's sword.
“How dare you, Taras,” the man said when he regained himself enough to speak. He reached to his belt and wrapped his thick fingers around the hilt of his sword.
Taras snapped his blade up to the man’s throat so fast Theron barely registered the movement. “I wouldn’t, Filius. The centurion has questions for this one, and he will not be pleased if the prisoner is in no condition to answer them upon his arrival.” His cold, low voice carried an unspoken promise even Theron, who knew a thing or two about the centurions, co
uld hear. No one would be allowed to molest the zealot, at least not until the Marcus got the chance. The punishment for those who tried would be swift and severe.
The soldiers, one and all, stepped back and out of Taras's way. Most eyed him with a mixture of confusion and fear, while a few muttered curses under their breath that only they and Theron, with his superior ears, heard.
Though his face stung and he was furious at the soldier who struck him, Theron didn’t say anything. Inwardly he smiled. This was going to be much easier than he’d anticipated. These people hated the zealots. Hated them. Even more than he’d imagined. It would take almost nothing to move them to violence; their distrust crackled like dry twigs underneath kindling. One tiny little spark from Theron and his mission would be accomplished. He wouldn’t even need to fan the blaze.
When it was obvious the men would make no further moves against them, Taras moved back to his post behind Theron, and again poked his sword point into Theron’s back. “Move, zealot.” Theron obeyed without hesitation, but he glanced back one last time at Filius, who stared hard at Taras's back with a look that might as well have been a blade. Theron committed Filuis’ face to memory; he would want to find him in a few days to repay him for the slap.
* * *
Taras jabbed and prodded Theron through the barracks and down the dank stone passageways to the dungeon. The pair stepped through a stout wooden door into a small, dark room carved into Jerusalem’s bedrock. The only illumination came from a torch in the hall they’d just left, and the weak, feeble light might as well have not been there at all. To Theron’s eyes, however, the cell was lit as bright as a full moon. Moss and lichen discolored the rough stone walls, and the steady drip, drip, drip of water somewhere nearby did nothing to drown out the moans of the other prisoners. Theron was impressed; the Romans could certainly build a secure cell.
Taras shoved him into the room and put him in the stocks. After ensuring the locks were securely fastened, Taras stepped around to the front of the stocks and removed his helmet, giving Theron his first good look at the man who captured him. Theron took in the large, muscled frame, stern face, wheat colored hair, and ice blue eyes that identified Taras as hailing from the cold lands far to the north of Rome. He wondered what such a man was doing in the Roman Legion, but it wasn’t important. What Theron wanted then was to memorize the man’s face. He would need to find him again when his business with the centurion was completed.
“Marcus has been waiting for your arrival,” Taras said. “I am sure he will be anxious to get started.” Then he turned and left.
Theron was glad to hear the centurion would come soon, just like he’d planned. After the door closed, he allowed himself a smile, and even let out a chuckle. He quieted immediately. It wouldn’t do for any guards who might be standing just outside the door to hear him laughing. He steadied his emotions and his mind and waited in eager anticipation. If everything went well, he would be leaving this cell soon, anyway. Released by the Centurion himself.
Best of all, he would still be able to please the Council, and Marcus was going to help him do it.
Chapter Ten
It had been a long day for Marcus, one that saw his only brother murdered, along with another legionary, and the apparent escape of the zealot who’d killed them. Throughout the day, he’d been forced to wear a straight face and hand out orders as though the grief of Didius's death were the farthest thing from his mind. And the worst part was yet to come. He still had to visit his brother’s wife and officially deliver the news of the tragedy that had befallen her family. He should have done it hours ago, but in the frenzy of the immediate investigation he’d been unable to break away. And, if he was honest with himself, he was afraid of this duty, afraid to be the one to hurt her so badly. He knew he had to do it, and soon, but he just couldn’t force himself out the door and down the street.
He slammed his hand on the desk. Damn the zealots! Damn all of them! His anger helped. By focusing on his hatred and letting it work its protective magic he was able to conceal the anguish that threatened, at any moment, to wear him down and leave him a helpless old man.
But for now, in his chambers, with the lamp low and nothing but his memories for company, Marcus could let go if he wanted. He could let his tears fall to his desk and wet the stack of papers that sat upon it. He could choke out a sob or two, although he’d have to keep them quiet, lest someone overhear them. Marcus was free to feel and express his grief without fear of judging eyes that might think him weak and unfit to lead.
But he didn’t. No tears fell from his face, and his lower lip didn’t tremble as it tried to hold back. His hazel eyes were dry, though bloodshot, and his thin lips drew a straight line across the lower half of his face. His hands lay at his side, balled into tight, trembling fists, the nails digging bloody furrows into his palms. He longed to put those fists to good use on Didius's murderer. I will find you, he promised. I will find you, and when I do I will strap you to a cross and display you at Golgotha, but not before I hurt you. You will bleed from a hundred, no, a thousand wounds before I allow the legionaries to crucify you.
“Make peace with your God, zealot,” Marcus whispered to his ceiling. “I am coming.”
Exhausted, he laid his head in his arms, thinking to rest for a moment. He had just begun to doze off when a loud knock at the door woke him. He sat up with a start and reached for his sword out of instinct, wondering what had happened. In his state of near sleep, he temporarily forgot about Didius and Claudius, and for a brief moment he feared the zealots had attacked the barracks. Again.
“Blasted zealots,” he said as he jumped to his feet, his honed body responding to danger even though his mind had not yet cleared. Years of military training and experience carried Marcus from his bed to his door with his sword in his hand before he’d even realized he was awake.
Slowly, as though hearing it through a thick fog, a voice on the other side of the door began to penetrate into his mind. At first he thought it was Gordian, but then the voice came again.
“Centurion! Are you there?”
No, not Gordian, Marcus realized, but Taras.
Taras!
Memory hit him like a physical blow as he recalled the events that led him to send his good friend out late into the night to trail a silent man dressed as a peasant, but wearing a jeweled sword and bloody sandals. “Taras!”
Marcus grabbed the latch on the door and flung it back, breaking the mount and stabbing his finger on a sharp metal edge in the process. He never noticed the pain or the blood that trickled from his hand as he yanked open the door to find Taras standing alone in the hallway. Without preamble, he shot his bloodied hand out, grabbed the legionary by his tunic, and pulled him inside. Then he slammed the door shut and turned to face the newcomer.
“Did you find anything?”
“Yes, sir. I followed the man with the blood on his sandals to the Gardens of Gethsemane. As you suspected, he is a follower of Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Are you certain?”
“When the man arrived, he went straight into the crowd, nearly to the front. Once there he stood and listened intently to the Nazarene’s words. He didn’t leave until Jesus finished speaking and the rest of the crowd began to disperse. There is little doubt he is one of them.”
“And? Did you capture him?”
“Yes, sir. I captured him as he left the Gardens.”
“What did he say?”
“I didn’t question him, sir, but he had this on him.” Taras pulled a sword from his belt, pointing out to Marcus several spots of blood still present on the jeweled hilt, as well as a smear of it on the blade. “And his sandals were bloody, just as the guard said.”
Marcus took the sword from Taras and examined it closely. To his surprise it was similar in design to his own sword, but it was not of Roman make. The jewels in the hilt, though beautiful, were not practical as befitted a legionary. The polished steel blade, however, was balanced to perfection and he
ld a wickedly sharp edge. The work of a master, without doubt. Such a weapon would be worth a fair sum, much more than a peasant in Jerusalem could afford. The thought gave Marcus pause. Just how far did the Nazarene’s influence stretch? “You didn’t interrogate him?”
“No, sir. I thought you would prefer to do it yourself.”
Marcus looked up from the sword to find his friend smiling, and he couldn’t help but grin, as well. Taras knew him too well. Marcus did indeed want to talk to the prisoner. Doubtless the man would deny any involvement, and Marcus hoped he would continue to do so for a long, long time. In the end, however, Marcus meant to have the truth from him.
“When would you like to question him, Centurion?” Taras asked.
Marcus turned the sword over in his hands, looking at the tiny drops of blood on the hilt. He brought a hand up to the blade and touched his finger to a red-brown stain about the size of his smallest fingernail. Didius's blood, perhaps? “I will see him right away.”
“I thought you would,” Taras replied, still grinning.
* * *
The door to Theron’s cell opened and two men stepped in. After being in the darkened dungeon, the light from the doorway was so bright he could not tell who had entered the room. Then the door closed, taking away the light from the hall and plunging the place back into welcoming darkness. As the light faded, Theron saw his two guests were Taras and Marcus, the centurion.
Ah, he thought, now the fun begins. A good thing, too. His back was starting to ache from being held in the stocks.
Theron could sense the seething anger boiling inside the centurion. It rolled off the man in waves like the heat of the sun. Good. Anger would make him easier to manipulate. Outwardly, however, the centurion appeared calm and in control. His cold, distant stare reminded Theron of the way a sparrow looked at a grub. Theron did his best to appear weak and afraid, knowing the Roman would pick up on that fear and try to use it against him.
