by Tracy Groot
Rivkah sniffed and nodded, rubbing at her cheek. She didn’t know she was crying. She had never seen anything more beautiful. Nathanael had taste, always did. He had an eye for beauty.
“You know what this means, Kyria? He speaks to me with this. It’s a message.”
But Kyria was silent.
Rivkah could barely breathe sometimes for the ache of missing him. But how happy she was that he had the guts to shake off what he was, go out there, and make himself a life. How proud she was. Perhaps, in the two months he had been away, he had gone to work for a wealthy merchant and saved for this box. It was a message.
She didn’t deserve him, never would. Prostitution? Not even sin compared to what she had done to Nathanael. Not even Kyria knew. Only Rivkah’s mother knew. And she was dead.
She absently pressed her palm on the top of her leg. Sometimes customers asked about the scars.
This box meant maybe Nathanael forgave her, because he had an unnaturally good heart. This box could make her delirious for a month. It meant maybe God really did hear the prayers of a prostitute.
“He couldn’t remember his aunt Kyria,” Kyria sniffed, and rolled to her back. She picked up her plate and set it on her stomach. “Fix your face, you’re scaring me.”
Holding the box to her cheek, Rivkah drifted to her room.
Kyria watched the beads sway until they stilled.
No word in two months, and that wasn’t like Nathanael. He’d said he’d be back by the next full moon. She’d known the boy since he was a baby, and it was not like him.
What could that box mean? Didn’t Rivkah see the look on the lad’s face? That bleakness. That misery. It put fear in her, fear for Nathanael and fear for Rivkah. But try and make Rivkah see something was wrong. Rivkah flounced about with that fake cheerfulness that all was perfectly fine; Kyria felt foreboding snake in. All was not fine. Try and make Rivkah see.
5
RIVKAH SAT WITH THE OTHERS on the steps of the Praetorium Palace. At least, she sat on the same steps. They sat on the other side.
She looked over her shoulder at the great guarded doors and sighed. What was taking him so long today? It was close to noon and getting hot.
The undersecretary was taking petitioners now, and it never seemed to be her turn. Prostitutes did not have rights, after all, not even the right of place in line. A woman who had come five persons after Rivkah gave her a triumphant look when the guard called for her to approach the table of Undersecretary Prometheus Longinus. Whenever Orion was at the table, from that first day, Rivkah kept her place in line.
She scowled at the number of people ahead of her. It would be a long day if Orion did not soon appear. She had eaten a barley loaf purchased on the way to the palace, had drunk a cup of sweet water, and the sun was making her drowsy. The warmth of the wide stone step beneath, the warmth of the sun above . . . she would love to melt down onto the step and sleep the day away. Sabbath ended at sundown last night, and Sabbath was the day she usually slept extra—Jewish clients did not appear then—but guarding the tree had taken extra sleep. She gave her cheeks little rows of pinches to stay awake.
Whose child do you think it is, Mother?
Surely not! I will tear out that evil tongue if you continue to speak such lies!
Why, Mother? Why did you ever send me there? Zakkai already had two serving maids. He did not need another! Why, Mother?
He asked for you—what am I to tell a priest?
Do you know what he did? Do you care?
There would be no wedding canopy for Rivkah.
“Prometheus calls for you.”
Her eyes flew open, and she looked about. Everyone else was gone. The sun was high noon. The shorter of the two Praetorian guards stood on the step above her. It would be the shorter one—the taller one would have roused her with his boot.
This guard—Marcus, Orion Galerinius had called him—had been on duty the first day she came to plead for Nathanael’s tree. Why was he standing there? Then she rose quickly. She realized he was blocking the view of Prometheus so she could order herself.
She rearranged her veil and righted the circlet securing it. She smoothed her tunic, wiped the corners of her mouth and set her face. She looked up at Marcus, but his gaze flickered down. She glanced down; a portion of her tunic billowed disproportionately from her belt. She tucked it in and flashed a smile at Marcus. He winked and turned on his heel. He went back to the door and assumed his position.
Undersecretary Prometheus had known perfectly he had skipped her all along. He sat back on his stool, an amused sneer on his ugly Roman face. She knew how to handle idiots like this.
She approached the table in a slow, emphasized sway, one she had never conceived to use on Orion. She let her eyes travel slowly over the man, long enough to let his eyes travel over her. It didn’t take long at all with this one; she saw the desire light in his eyes.
“I need to see the chief secretary. He knows my business.”
“I’ll bet he knows your business.”
She turned to half sit on the table. She yawned and stretched and gave a little shiver, making her jewelry tinkle. She brushed aside a filmy fold of her veil, then seized the edge as if examining a flaw. Then she looked over her shoulder and pretended surprise that he was still there. “Well? May I see him, please? I regret that I do not have all day to spend with you, good sir.”
“Sure you don’t. But you have all night.” His look lingered over her. “What do you want Orion for when you could have someone who is a real soldier? I’m shocked he sends for you. Everyone knows he’s saving for a place in Ostia. He wouldn’t pitch a copper to his starving mother.” He pretended to peek into the purse strapped to his waist. “Me, on the other hand. I can waste a few coins.”
She smiled then. She lowered her chin until she was looking at him from hooded lids. She leaned forward, close enough to know he breathed her perfume, and crooked her finger to beckon him to a secret. He flicked a grin at the tall guard, then moved his head closer to hear.
“Orion is free, you ugly lout,” she breathed in his ear, and watched her breath make his arms prickle. “I’d bed Pilate before you. Now fetch Orion, or I’ll tell the guards I saw you at the inn asking for a man . . . not a woman.” She withdrew, smile in place.
The leer dropped off his face so fast she had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh. He stood quickly, too quickly he realized, and covered for it by snatching a leaf of papyrus from the table to examine. “I have to get this to Orion,” he said loudly. He looked at the guard and said, “Make sure she doesn’t steal anything.” He disappeared past the massive doors into the Praetorium.
Once he was gone she did laugh, and drummed her palms on the table in delight. She caught the look from the guard Marcus. He was grinning, had a twinkle in his eye like Orion. It warmed her to her toes.
She hopped off the table with a light heart and settled into a stroll on the top of the steps. Here she was, pacing the steps of the Praetorium, looking forward to seeing a man. Wouldn’t Kyria laugh! She had not felt this way since she was fifteen, and it was so ridiculous she could laugh. She was thirty-four, a prostitute, and Jewish. He was a high-ranking official, the highest beside Pontius Pilate himself, and Roman.
Strangely, she wanted to tell him all about the box from Nathanael. It was so beautiful! She’d never owned such a thing! She’d thought about it all the way here. Surely it meant one single thing—Nathanael forgave her.
But Orion would soon arrive, and thoughts of what Nathanael had to forgive did not belong. She made Orion’s face replace the silver box. She had been doing that lately, inserting his face in the oddest of places. Wouldn’t he be surprised to know he appeared in Corinthian fancies, now a slave bearing her sedan chair, now sharing the sedan.
Orion Galerinius did not have the stature of a gladiator, or even a Roman soldier. She had certainly known men more handsome. But she loved early gray in black hair. And though he didn’t smile much, once
she realized how entrancing his was, she tried to get him to smile at least once at every interview.
Then she happened to catch the look of the tall guard, and it quenched the smile on her own face. Did Orion ever see her as this guard did? She knew how to handle lust, accept it or shove it away. But this in the guard’s face was an old thing she had never learned how to handle. It was the look of an elder or a rabbi. Or her mother.
Contempt was a mystery. It tripped her up at the oddest times, because she knew what she was and it didn’t bother her. What someone thought of her was the least of her worries. But every now and then, there it was, an issue. Every now and then she did care. There had to be a secret to dealing with contempt. She would discover it one day.
She pulled her outer vest closer, lifted her chin, looked away. She was a fool. Entertaining Corinthian thoughts of Orion Galerinius. She would ever be what she was, and decent men would give her no more than a kind smile and a twinkle in the eye. Decent men could stand next to her and be a country apart. She started down the steps. She didn’t want to be here anymore.
“Rivkah.”
Curse it that her heart stopped at his voice. And her steps as well. Fine fancy, Rivkah, that you thought you could leave without seeing him.
She set her face in the way that amused him and whirled about. “You think you can hide from—” But her words dropped.
He was not amused. He had the same look that had caught her breath yesterday. Grim and bleak.
“What’s wrong?” she snapped. “What is that face?” She hated to see him like that. It unsettled her worse than—and she gasped, clutching her belly. “Oh God, no.”
“The tree is safe!” he said quickly, coming down a step. He moved as if to touch her shoulder, but didn’t. “It is safe. You do not have to guard it anymore.” He quickly gave her a smile—as if he knew she liked his smiles—and then a little bow of his head. “Your worries are over. You can go in peace.”
Her heart was beating again. “If my worries are over, why is your smile so fake?”
He drew himself up. Coldness replaced the smile. “It may surprise you to learn I have other matters to attend to. Jewish matters make up only six percent of my total occupation.”
“What did you say to the foreman yesterday?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason, just . . . nobody bothered me yesterday.”
He was silent. His face eased a bit. “Had they been . . . bothering you, then?”
Three times the foreman had dragged her to the tool shed after the other workers left for the day. He said it wasn’t rape because she was a whore.
“I can take care of myself. But . . . if you said anything to him . . . thanks.”
Those brown eyes locked on hers, making her stomach twitch, but then they skimmed past her. His face went grim, and he backed up a step. “I have other matters to attend to.” He backed up another step. “Your tree is safe. Do not go to the site anymore.”
“Marina expects you at the next Sabbath meal, you miserable pile of fish guts,” boomed a loud and familiar voice. She turned slowly.
Only Theron would call Pilate’s chief secretary such a thing. She had not seen him in a long, long time. Not since Nathanael was a boy. He didn’t seem to notice her.
He stopped several steps below Rivkah, set down a flat and wide cloth-covered bundle, and pressed his face into his shoulder to blot sweat. “You must think mightily of yourself if you believe the hope of Judaism rests upon you,” he cheerfully told Orion. “We were persecuted long before Orion the Mighty came to work for Pontius Pilate. Hello, Rivkah.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be here yesterday?” Orion said coldly.
“Hello, Theron,” Rivkah said as her stare went to Orion. If his face was grim before, it was black now.
“This man ever tell you he’s the hope of Judaism?” Theron asked.
“Close that trumpet of yours and get those patterns inside,” Orion snapped.
“Did he save your tree yet?” Theron asked.
“Theron!” Orion barked. Rivkah watched his face turn crimson.
“Yes, Theron. The tree is saved. He told you about Nathanael’s tree?”
“He did,” Theron told her. With an amused squint at Orion, he said, “So you found a solution, did you? We knew you would. Maybe you are the hope of Judaism. Maybe you’re the Messiah. Ha. A Gentile Messiah, now that’s an innovation. And what about the Jewish stonemason? What miracle did you work with that one?”
Rivkah fancied if she poked Orion with a needle, he would shoot to the stars.
“No miracle there, Theron,” Orion said between his teeth. “Next week his back will look like a skinned ox. Next week he’ll die. All because of custom.” He turned and trotted up the stairs, vanishing into the Praetorium through the space between the doors.
Theron’s shoulders came down. “I talk too much,” he said quietly. He hoisted his bundle and started up the stairs, then paused. “How did he save your tree, Rivkah?”
She lifted her chin. “I suppose Pilate decided the tree was worth saving.”
“Pilate told him to cut it down.”
He continued up the steps and slipped into the Praetorium, to leave her gazing after.
Orion heard Theron’s sniff behind him. He could pick that sniff out of a crowd. It always made Orion want to tell Theron to blow his nose and be done with it. He couldn’t tell him anything now, he was too furious. But he felt the fury abate at each step. Anxiety swallowed fury whole.
The ugly scene at Theron’s meant nothing now. Yesterday at the granary site Orion had joined the roster of corrupted officials with his impromptu plan to save Rivkah’s tree. That was nothing: today he did not appear at the Tiberateum work site to announce Pilate’s decree for the stonemason. He was suddenly very aware of . . . everything. Every footfall in the corridor. Every person he passed.
Twice Orion had to pause in the tangle of rooms past the great hall and wait for Theron to catch up. The Jew had not been to his office before. He heard Theron mutter, “What is this? I feel like I’m in the labyrinth mosaic.” Then a breathless, “No wonder you’re skinny.”
Orion’s office was past the small audience hall that served as Pilate’s council room. He glanced in as he passed; Pilate sat at the table with Cornelius and a few of Cornelius’s men. Some of the men were laughing, and Pilate had a self-satisfied look. Cornelius was not laughing.
Orion took the corner and after several paces realized Theron was not on his heels. He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall to wait for him to catch up.
“Orion Galerinius. Honoratus.”
Just the tone could set his flesh to creeping. Orion hadn’t heard the clack and clatter of the jewelry, else he would have ducked for the nearest doorway. He closed his eyes. Hurry up, Theron! He put a careful smile on his face—a smile so businesslike it could freeze the sun—and turned to Janus Bifrons. “Hello, Janus.”
The priest folded his arms and leaned against the wall, as delighted as a child discovering a cache of—Orion swallowed—sweets.
He must have been on his way to the Temple of Rome and Augustus; he was in his full priestly vestments. He wore a sleeveless vest of rich indigo, banded with golden embroidery, as long as the rust-colored tunic it covered. The tunic was long-sleeved. Orion did not know how the local priests in this land regarded long-sleeved tunics, but back in Rome they were considered effeminate. Well, Orion didn’t know everything about priestly duties or Roman priests. Perhaps a long-sleeved tunic was one of the requirements.
Perhaps not.
Janus toyed with one of his wooden necklaces. He didn’t wear a single piece of metal jewelry, it was all wooden. Why, Orion did not know. But he usually heard Janus coming from all the clacking and could dash the other way or dive into the nearest room.
The priest gave Orion a head-to-sandal glance that put him in an instant sweat. “Has the Primipilaris arrived yet?”
Orion glanced longingly in the
direction Theron should be coming. “Noooo, not yet. Any day now.” If he were lucky, any second now.
“A pity. All of this waiting is exceedingly hard on His Excellency. It troubles me to see him so.”
“How is that?”
Janus shrugged and set his ornaments to clacking. “Oh, the genius of a man should not be so confined. Pilate is harnessed tighter than a vestal. Poor man. A person shouldn’t have to live like that . . . don’t you agree?” He entwined his fingers into the necklace and lowered a look at Orion.
Shrieking gods and goddesses, where was Theron? Orion cleared his throat and wished for his tablet to consult. It wasn’t that Janus Bifrons was such an unpleasant person. He had more insight than anybody else into the goings-on around here—and he seemed to take special pains for Orion to notice it.
Or was it all Orion’s fancy? They had come over on the same ship, with Pilate and the rest of the entourage bound for the Praetorium Palace of Caesarea Maritima. Orion had enthusiastically shared with the middle-aged priest the hopes and dreams he had for his new position as chief secretary, spilling his soul in the giddiness of the adventure, the excitement of the voyage. He had spent the ensuing years feeling as though he needed to disabuse Janus of any . . . notions.
Truly, the man had a sense of humor and could be counted upon for an accurate assessment of the political plays that went on in the palace. Several times Orion had sought him out for information on local religious proceedings, and had even asked his advice on the occasional servant-and-slave dilemma.
The older man lifted his arm and shook his wrist. It was an unconscious motion, making the bracelets fall down his arm to his elbow. One of the bracelets, so pale it was nearly silver, caught Orion’s notice.
Janus followed his gaze. “What, this? This was a gift from Augustus, given to my mother.” He smiled fondly. “I daren’t take it off, it has brought me much luck.”
“If I have to come through this honeycomb every single day—hello.” Theron nodded at Janus. “I will insist on four pistachio pastries just for the exertion.”
