by John Hagee
The sorrel snorted and stamped, as if signaling her impatience. Jacob had brushed and fed the horse this morning, but he would have to find food and water for the animal before long.
Twilight was falling when Jacob finally heard hoofbeats coming from the direction of Tullia’s house. He scrambled to his feet and untied his mount, but stayed out of sight. In a moment, Damian turned onto the road and passed Jacob’s hiding spot at an easy lope. He was riding in the direction of the city, not the old mill, Jacob noted as he climbed in the saddle and started to follow. He had hoped Damian would go to the abandoned mill first; it would be an ideal place to ambush an adversary. And it was so isolated, Jacob could bury the body and it was quite likely that no one would ever find it.
Maintaining a good distance between them, Jacob followed Damian, wondering where he was headed. Probably not very far, if he intended to return to Tullia’s before dark, yet he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Jacob was, however. He’d been waiting far longer than the hours he had spent watching the road today; he had waited for more than a year.
Time for justice, he decided now. Past time.
Jacob dug his heels into the sorrel’s side, and she broke into a trot. The quicker gait began to close the gap between him and Damian, and as the horse’s hooves struck the ground Jacob silently repeated the ancient legal decree: “The avenger of blood himself shall put the murderer to death.”
But Jacob had waited too long to pick up speed, and before he could overtake his foe, Damian turned off the road. Jacob continued on for a few paces, then reined in his mount and turned around. He hadn’t realized they were already that close to the inn; the rundown place wasn’t as visible from the back road as it was from the highway.
Jacob nudged the horse into the yard of the inn in time to see Damian slip through the door.
What’s my next step? Jacob asked himself. If Damian were simply stopping for supplies, he would return shortly. Perhaps Damian would ride back to the mill to tend the other horse; that would be a boon to Jacob. But if Damian went back to Tullia’s, that was a different story.
Waylaying him on the road before he reached the cutoff to Tullia’s seemed to be the best option. Jacob pictured himself killing Damian and dragging his body back to the mill to bury him. Or perhaps he would leave Damian’s sorry carcass on the side of the road and pray that wild animals would devour the remains before they could be identified. Jacob intended to be back in Ephesus before anyone knew what had happened to Damian.
Any minute now, Damian would reappear. Jacob did not let his eyes stray from the door of the inn, and he kept a hand near the dagger secured in his belt. He was ready to carry out the scriptural death sentence.
I am the avenger of blood.
Damian did not return promptly, however. When it was almost dark, Jacob decided to go inside. He was mentally prepared to confront his enemy, and could not bear to prolong the inevitable.
After he tied his horse by the watering trough, he stepped inside and surveyed the dim room. Damian was sitting at the far end of one of the long wooden benches placed on either side of a battered trestle table. He had placed himself near the hearth, where an inviting fire blazed. A blackened, dented pot hanging over the flame simmered with a pungent-smelling concoction.
The innkeeper was admonishing his sole patron. “If you stay and drink yourself into a stupor by the fire, I’m not rousing you this time. You can sleep on the cold floor, for all I care.”
“The only thing you should care about, Tarquinius, is keeping my goblet filled.” Without looking at the man, Damian extended a tall earthenware drinking vessel toward him.
The innkeeper upended a terra-cotta amphora and refilled the goblet, then walked away, muttering.
Jacob stepped out of the shadow and walked toward the hearth. When he reached the bench opposite Damian, Jacob hauled one long leg and then the other over the plank and sat down.
Damian looked up, a startled expression wrenching his face. He plunked the freshly filled goblet on the table and the wine sloshed over the rim. “You!” Damian choked out. “By the gods . . .”
16
“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’VE JUST SEEN A GHOST,” Jacob said.
Damian had blanched when he discovered Jacob sitting across from him, and now he quickly glanced around the inn, as if seeking confirmation that Jacob was real and not an apparition. Jacob relished the confusion he had created.
While Damian was still composing himself, the innkeeper spotted Jacob and came over to the table. “Welcome back,” he said. “What can I get for you?”
Upon hearing the question, a bit of color returned to Damian’s face. He was evidently relieved not to be hallucinating; someone else had seen Jacob.
Jacob shook his head. “Nothing, thank you. I have some personal business with your patron here. Very personal.”
Tarquinius shot Jacob a wary look and moved away, but he remained within hearing distance.
“I thought you were dead,” Damian finally said.
His eyelids fluttered, and Jacob wondered if the reaction were mere disbelief or perhaps a flicker of fear. He hoped the latter. “Didn’t you notice that the grave you tossed me in had been disturbed?”
“I figured some animal had been scavenging your flesh. Or that perhaps your friends had taken your body to give you a proper Christian burial.” Damian’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “You people are devoted to your peculiar traditions.”
“My friends dug me up all right,” Jacob said. “But as you can see, I’m very much alive.”
Damian lifted the goblet and gulped. Jacob wondered if the bully’s courage had always been found at the bottom of a wine cup. He leaned forward, subtly threatening his adversary by moving close to Damian’s face. “You didn’t kill me after all,” Jacob taunted.
“I can finish the job.” Damian drained the last of his wine and leaned forward to meet Jacob’s gaze.
“Try it. Please, try it.” Jacob’s words were edged with a steely resolve.
Their open animosity created a tension that curled over the room like tendrils of fog. Tarquinius approached the table, his beefy arms folded across his chest. “Look here, I don’t want any trouble—”
“Don’t worry,” Jacob interrupted. He addressed the innkeeper but kept his eyes focused on Damian while he spoke. “I won’t shed his blood in here. We’ll settle our disagreement outside.”
“What disagreement?” Damian snapped. “You got your sister’s bastard child back—what more do you want?”
Jacob slammed his fist on the table. “I want to break every bone in your body. I should have killed you on Devil’s Island—”
“You’d better leave now.” Tarquinius placed a thick, callused hand on Jacob’s shoulder.
Damian suddenly bolted from the table and ran for the door. Jacob shook off the innkeeper’s hand and sprinted after Damian.
While Damian was smaller and faster, the wine had slowed his reflexes; anticipation and anger had only whetted Jacob’s. Before Damian could reach his horse, Jacob lunged for him. He grabbed Damian’s arm and yanked him around, lifting him off the ground for an instant. Then, holding onto his opponent so he couldn’t run, Jacob rammed his fist into Damian’s jaw. The impact of the blow resounded with a cracking noise that gave Jacob immense satisfaction.
Jacob let go, and Damian staggered backward briefly. Then he came back at Jacob, swinging with alcohol-fueled arrogance and demonic rage. Jacob dodged the punch to his face, but the second one caught him in the abdomen. He absorbed the blow, bending forward slightly, then raised up and slammed his much heavier body into Damian before he could launch another swing.
The motion knocked Damian to the ground, and Jacob landed on top of him. They scuffled in the dirt, and Damian managed to get his hands around Jacob’s neck, trying to choke him. But Jacob had his hands on either side of Damian’s head, and when he pressed his thumbs into Damian’s eyes, Damian released his grip. The two men rolled, pushing, clawing, and grabbing h
air.
Tarquinius and the stable boy stood in the yard, watching the fracas, but neither one dared to intervene.
With a powerful shove, Jacob finally pushed Damian off and got to his knees. But before Jacob could stand, Damian pulled a dagger and rolled toward him, lightly nicking the outside of Jacob’s calf. He fell to his side and kicked furiously. It was a blind kick, but his foot happened to land squarely in Damian’s groin, and a wounded roar immediately filled the air.
Taking advantage of his opponent’s vulnerability, Jacob wrested the dagger from Damian’s hand. By the time Damian’s scream had died, Jacob had pinned him facedown and placed the dagger at the back of his neck.
Jacob’s breath was coming in quick gasps as he looked down at the one who had unleashed so much devastation on his family. The moment had arrived. One plunge of the dagger would bring the fight to an end. The blade was long enough to rupture Damian’s heart, if Jacob struck in the right spot.
Yet he hesitated. Stabbing an opponent in the back seemed cowardly, and Jacob was not a coward. He had no compunction about killing Damian; Jacob had settled that matter in his mind. But stabbing his enemy in the back was not the way he’d intended to do it.
There were also the witnesses to consider. Jacob knew the innkeeper didn’t like or trust Damian, but what would he tell the authorities? If Tarquinius told the truth, it would be that Jacob was the one who started the fight. The prospect of being sent to prison for murder was not a strong enough deterrent to stop him from killing Damian. Bringing the murderer to justice would be worth the risk, although Jacob certainly preferred to do it without witnesses.
But there was yet another reason Jacob did not seize the opportunity to thrust his weapon into his opponent: Damian had not suffered enough, and Jacob suddenly wanted this barbarian posing as a tribune to endure at least a fraction of the suffering he had caused.
With his knee pressed into Damian’s back, and his hand yanking Damian’s head back, Jacob placed the point of the dagger in the hollow behind Damian’s ear. Slowly he traced a line from the earlobe along the underside of Damian’s jaw toward his chin. Jacob watched the thin stripe of crimson appear where he had lightly pierced the skin, then he leaned down and spoke in Damian’s ear. “I’m going to kill you. But not here . . . not now.”
Jacob rocked back on his heels, then stood. “Get up,” he growled at Damian. Jacob kept the dagger in his hand, ready to strike, as Damian got to his feet. Unarmed now, Damian stood with his arms spread in a mocking plea for mercy. Jacob walked slowly to his horse, still clutching the blood-tinged dagger.
Damian straightened and called out, “Coward.”
“No,” Jacob barked. “Avenger.”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then Jacob motioned with the dagger he had taken from Damian. “Now get on your horse,” Jacob instructed.
Damian took a few steps backward, keeping a cautious eye on Jacob. When he reached the animal, he turned and sprang into the saddle.
The stable boy was suddenly at Jacob’s side, holding the sorrel’s reins, and as Damian spurred his stallion into motion, Jacob mounted his horse and grabbed the reins.
Damian raced away from the inn, with Jacob following in hot pursuit. They were heading for the open road, Jacob realized, not Tullia’s.
By the time they reached the highway, the last rays of twilight had disappeared. A gibbous moon faintly illuminated the road, making nighttime travel possible, though still treacherous.
At the intersection, Damian turned in the opposite direction from Ephesus. Jacob had no idea where Damian was going. Not that it mattered. Right now, Jacob would follow his enemy if he were headed straight into hell.
As they raced into the night, Jacob considered whether he should overtake Damian on the road. Jacob still had Damian’s dagger in addition to his own. But a telltale glint of metal in the shadows ahead indicated that Damian’s sword was fastened to his saddle. Jacob had a sword as well, but a sword fight while riding at a full gallop in the moonlight was too risky. Jacob could get himself or his horse killed, and neither prospect was acceptable.
So for the moment, Jacob settled for attempting to inspire fear in Damian. He’d seen Damian toy with his victims before he attacked, and Jacob wanted to give Damian a taste of the same kind of torment. He wanted Damian to welcome death when it finally came.
Jacob urged his horse forward, catching up with Damian but staying far enough to the side to be out of reach. Damian looked up in surprise.
“I can catch you anytime,” Jacob yelled. “And when I’m ready, I’m going to kill you.”
Damian leaned forward in the saddle, his head close to the horse’s neck, and drove the animal faster.
Jacob suddenly eased up and let Damian pull a couple of lengths ahead of him, then after a minute he urged his horse forward, again catching up with his prey. When Damian looked over at him this time, Jacob threw back his head and laughed, his breath bursting into the cold air in visible puffs.
Yes, Jacob thought, he could catch Damian and kill him anytime he wanted. In the meantime, he was content to chase Damian—to the ends of the earth if need be.
Wherever Damian looked, the avenger of blood would be right behind him, and there would be no refuge.
17
December, A.D. 96
REBECCA WATCHED ANTONY pop a candied orange slice in his mouth. The dried-fruit treats made her nostalgic; they had been her mother’s favorite way to satisfy a craving for sweets. “Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” Rebecca asked, forcing a smile as she turned and scanned the row of small bottles and jars on the highest shelf in the kitchen.
Antony chewed slowly and finished the bite before answering. “Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, of course not.” A flush spread across Rebecca’s cheeks. Getting rid of him was exactly what she had in mind, and she was annoyed that he had seen through her. For two weeks now Helena had been at the villa, and Antony had been underfoot the entire time. Every time Rebecca turned around, he appeared at her side. Just now, she’d thought he was working in the library; he had moved some of his scrolls and documents there days ago, but he never managed to stay behind the desk more than a few minutes at a time.
Rebecca positioned a small stool under the shelf and stepped up. Before she could reach for the containers of spices and ointments, Antony was beside her. “Let me get it,” he said. “Which one do you want?”
“I can do it myself . . .” Rebecca’s voice trailed off as she turned toward him. Standing on the stool put her directly at eye level with Antony, and she was close enough now to count every eyelash. He must have his father’s eyes, she suddenly thought. Helena and Priscilla had hazel eyes, light brown flecked with green, but Antony’s eyes were dark, the color of burnt almonds.
He had placed a hand on Rebecca’s arm to steady her, and his touch stirred feelings in Rebecca that she didn’t want to consider. She quickly jumped off the stool. “The small jar on the end,” she said. The words came out a bit more roughly than she had intended.
Antony retrieved the container and handed it to Rebecca. She nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice to cooperate, then opened the alabaster jar and carefully measured a portion of frankincense into the sesame oil and honey mixture she had already prepared. Next she added small amounts of myrrh and oil of cinnamon.
“What is this fragrant concoction you’re blending?” Antony asked.
“A poultice for your mother. It seems to ease her pain.” Rebecca spoke without looking up.
“Does my being in the kitchen make you uncomfortable? Is that why you were trying to shoo me out of here?”
“That is not what I was doing,” she said, knowing she didn’t sound the least bit convincing, but unwilling to admit the truth. “It’s just that you’ve had to spend so much time here since Helena has been ill, I figured you must have clients you’ve neglected and business to tend to.”
“Your safety is my bu
siness,” he said.
Rebecca stopped mixing and glanced up. “I thought Victor’s safety was the primary concern.”
“And yours.” Antony leveled another gaze at her that made her uncomfortable. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said.
Rebecca turned back to her preparation, carefully placing the pot of thick liquid over a small brazier. The balm released a pungent but pleasant aroma. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she grumbled. “Peter hired a bodyguard, remember?”
Even before Peter had hired the man, Rebecca couldn’t take a breath without someone checking on her. And as often as not, that someone was Antony. She was immensely grateful for his help in rescuing Victor, but lately Antony’s interest in her had become entirely too proprietary, and she was beginning to feel stifled.
Rebecca was also angry with herself for not having had the talk with Helena she’d vowed to have on their return from Smyrna. The woman’s none-too-subtle matchmaking had gone on long enough. As sick as she was, Helena persistently contrived to put Rebecca and Antony together, thinking up errands for them to do, or sending one of them to fetch the other. Rebecca supposed she could say something directly to Antony, but what if she had misinterpreted his intentions? It could be that he was merely demonstrating a brotherly concern for a friend and client. If that were the case, she would be embarrassed and even more uncomfortable around him. Silently, she chided herself for not being able to figure these things out.
“The bodyguard is for Victor,” Antony said, “not you. And his instructions are to stay in the same room as the baby at all times. Except for nighttime, when he’s supposed to sleep right outside your bedroom.”
