The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  At that, Marina looked to see what the owner would say.

  A hard smile came to the woman’s face. “I have to raise my price for all the customers you are scaring off at this moment. I will take twenty dinars for it, and that is all the sympathy you’re going to get.”

  Twenty dinars! She could get twenty amphoras of oil for that. For twenty dinars Marina could have a fine cloak custom-made for Theron, and bless her man, that was a quantity of cloth. Four dinars paid the rent every month.

  “She’s not buying your entire stall,” Marina snapped at the owner.

  “You stay out of this!” the woman barked back.

  Yes, to interfere with bargaining—that was a disgrace. But the way the young woman hesitated meant she was actually considering paying such a price. That was the real disgrace.

  “Come,” Marina said briskly, as she abandoned her place for the cucumbers and seized the young woman’s arm. “Let us go to Collina’s. This woman is not getting twenty dinars for that cloth.”

  The young woman in turn snatched the arm of her son, and as the trio marched from the stall, the owner called after, “Go ahead and try Collina! She won’t trade with her!”

  And Marina had shouted over her shoulder, “No—but she will trade with me!”

  She realized she was still looking out the window at Thomas’s place. She turned from the view and went to sit next to Theron. She put her chin in her hand. “So you think Orion isn’t angry with us anymore?”

  Theron said through his mouthful, “No. He’s too scared to be angry.”

  “Poor Orion.”

  Theron chewed thoughtfully and took a drink of watered wine. “Actually, I think it will be good for him to come. The day after Sabbath is when the fellow is due for his scourging.” His tone darkened. “At least, it’s when Orion will not give Pilate’s—” his mouth pinched as he tried and failed to find a suitable expletive—“order. Maybe it will help take his mind off it. Orion is as nervous as a new bride.”

  Marina sent him a twinkling glance. “I wasn’t nervous.”

  Theron’s darkness disappeared and he grinned at her. He tiptoed stubby fingers across the table to her, in that way that always made her laugh, made his fingers tiptoe on her hand and up her arm. He snatched his hand away when the curtain flap swept aside.

  “Nonsense,” Jorah was saying briskly to Joab, who was drying his hands on the front of his tunic. “It’s scarlet, not crimson.”

  “What’s the difference, I’d like to know,” Joab answered. When Marina met his glance, he jerked his head at Jorah and rolled his eyes. “Crimson and scarlet. She acts like a variance the breadth of a hair will make Pilate choke on sight.”

  “Who cares about Pilate?” Jorah insisted as she took two plates from the cupboard and handed one to Joab. “The fact that there is a variance is all that matters.”

  “You see why I love this child?” Theron said. “You should be my daughter.”

  “What are you children arguing about?” Marina demanded, folding her arms.

  “Do you know how hard it is to match color?” Joab demanded of Jorah as they each sat at the table. Then there was an awkward moment, that hesitation where Joab wondered if he should say a prayer before he ate.

  Theron was right, the boy was raised a good Jew. His hesitation made Marina feel a flash of sympathy for his mother. She wished he would just say the prayer for the sake of his conscience. It seemed to go against his instinct not to, and that made Joab momentarily sullen. There was a quiet and uncomfortable moment while Jorah bowed her head and whispered while Joab lowered his eyes and fiddled with his cup.

  “Of course I do,” Jorah resumed, breaking the moment. She took the wine pitcher and first poured a cup for Joab, then herself.

  Interestingly, that wasn’t the order a few days ago. Marina wondered if Theron noticed.

  “And that is why your job is so important,” Jorah assured Joab with all the diplomacy of a woman married twenty years. “It is difficult. Color is everything.”

  Slightly appeased, Joab relaxed and took a loaf of bread from the basket. He tore it in half and handed a piece to Jorah.

  Marina glanced again at Theron.

  “That’s what my father says.”

  Jorah took the loaf. “Thank you. Which is why it is so important to differentiate crimson from scarlet.”

  “Jorah—” he groaned.

  “I don’t know where you got that last batch of stone, but it won’t work.” Then she hastily added, “Of course, Theron can use them for a future project. They are very good quality. They simply won’t do for this one.”

  Joab sighed and fell to his meal without further comment.

  “It is coming well then?” Marina presently asked no one in particular.

  Theron answered. “It’s coming too well. You both need to slow down; I would like this project to last at least six months. At the rate you are going, it will be half-finished by the end of Augustus.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Theron,” Joab said lightly. “Not with Jorah’s color preferences.”

  “Theron, I don’t know why you hired this barbarian. Olives?” Jorah offered the dish to Joab.

  “Please,” he said, and took the dish.

  Theron finally looked at Marina, and she hid her smile. Barbarian? Things were progressing well indeed. The first few days this unlikely working arrangement did not have happy insults like these. In the last day or two there had been a subtle change. Jorah and Joab were no longer stiffly polite to one another. They seemed to forget themselves in the business of paying attention to the Praetorium project.

  Often, without drawing notice, Marina would peek into the workroom to find the two of them paying serious attention to what Theron was saying. To watch them without their knowing, in that innocent concentration of theirs . . . and to see the occasional look one gave the other when the other did not see . . . the looks themselves were very interesting. They were glances of appraisal. Of . . . well, Marina wasn’t sure. But at least they no longer tolerated one another. And sometimes when Theron was out of the shop, she would hear Jorah laugh. It always made Marina pause and lift her head. It made her want to scurry back and find out what Joab had said to make her laugh. Yes, things were progressing well.

  It’s just that things were confusing too.

  Once when Jorah had left the shop to fix a meal for Thomas, Marina went back to put a stack of clean rags on a workroom shelf. There she saw Joab sitting on a stool with such a look on his face . . . oh, it wrenched Marina. It was the same look she had seen in the commonyard when Jorah had collapsed. She could nearly feel it in that room, a sense of—she frowned.

  What was it . . . misery? No, not misery. It was closer to despair. He hid it well when Jorah was around. He hid it well when he took meals with Theron and Marina. It was in unguarded moments like those when Marina saw it, and felt it, clearly.

  Did her man sense the despair that hovered around Joab? He never mentioned it. Marina could sense it like rain on the wind. Young people did not possess enough guile to hide their feelings well. Young people did not have the years to lay like bandages upon their wounds. What had wounded Joab so deeply? Jorah, his eternal love, was at his side again. Shouldn’t he be happy?

  Marina reached for the pitcher and topped off Joab’s cup. She returned his smile and went to fill Jorah’s cup, but it was full. Yes, and then there was Jorah.

  What fragrant air she brought! So young and cheerful and delighted to be working with a mosaicist for whom she obviously had a great deal of respect—and it was long past time people gave Theron the respect he deserved. She was talkative and opinionated and truly enjoyable to be around.

  Marina loved it when she gave Joab the business for this or that. Her superiority made it quite clear she was used to having brothers to manage. Joab really did not seem to mind her ordering him about. “Joab, please fetch another pound stone for me. Joab, this mortar needs more sand. Joab, could you reach that? Joab . .
.”

  It was precisely Jorah’s cheerfulness that had Marina worried. At times it was a deliberate cheerfulness, one that shut out the possibility of any questions that could be raised about her famous brother.

  Marina had longed to travel and hear the young man speak. She’d heard of the truly astonishing things he did, if indeed it was fact and not rumor, but it was the words that accompanied the deeds that took her attention. Collina, the Greek woman she often traded with, had gone to see Jesus a few years ago. Such stories Collina had told her! Very interesting things he had to say about the Sabbath. Things that made such sense. “Man came not to be for the Sabbath, but the Sabbath came to be for man.” When some had bellyached about an alleged healing that had occurred on a Sabbath, Collina said Jesus replied, “Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good or to do harm, to save life or to kill?”

  Such implications! That to not offer healing when healing was needed was as good as killing? At least, that’s how Marina thought about it. Oy, what a thing to think. Collina told her other things too. Things even Marina, born and raised a largely unconcerned Jew, had a hard time reconciling. She was religious enough to feel alarm at things like, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” Could any man say such a thing? How could God allow this man such gifts of healing when he had the temerity to say such things? Perplexing, it was. It boiled up a kettleful of questions. Here was Jorah, sister of the very man who had long captured her imagination—and Marina could not ask of her a single thing.

  “I hired him precisely because of his knack for color,” Theron was saying. When Joab gave him a look, Theron added, “Well, his background in dye turned out to be fortuitous.”

  I am the way, the truth, and the life, and there his sister sits, right at my table.

  Did he say things like that growing up? He must have been ten years older than Jorah, maybe fifteen. Perhaps they didn’t have much growing-up time together.

  “How old are you, Jorah?” Marina suddenly asked. And instantly regretted the asking.

  Jorah was pushing the crumbs on her plate into a little pile. Her fingers hesitated, then resumed. “Seventeen. Eighteen in two months.”

  Eighteen in two months—and not married. That’s how the question was perceived. Marina winced.

  “Eighteen?” Theron exclaimed.

  Marina squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath—no, please, Theron . . .

  But Theron cheerfully barged ahead. “Well, you’re certainly not ugly,” he boomed. “What are you doing eighteen and not married?”

  Theron! she wanted to shriek. Have you forgotten our intrigue? Have you forgotten who else is at this table? Her hand went to cover her eyes. Lord love her man, he could embarrass her to ashes sometimes. Just as her cheeks were flushing, Joab gave Theron a response.

  “It’s because her parents wanted us to live in Galilee. And my parents wanted us to live in Judea and take over the dye works.”

  Marina peeked at Joab between her fingers. He was calmly sipping wine. And if Jorah’s face was as flushed as Marina’s felt, her silence supported Joab’s words. Cautiously, Marina drew her hand from her face. This was the first acknowledgment of their previous relationship. Theron! Please do not mess this up!

  “Oh, really?” Marina said brightly. “You knew each other before you came here?” She turned a wide-eyed look on Theron. “Why, this is news, isn’t it, Theron?”

  And Theron, who had realized his mistake, gave her a quick look with an apology in it and said, “Why, yes. This is news. Who would have known?”

  Well done, Theron! Marina could relax. In a tone carefully balanced with surprise and joy, she said, “Joab and Jorah, what a delight. You are . . . betrothed?”

  Joab smiled a curiously stiff smile first at Marina, then at Jorah, who had her back turned, clearing away the midmeal things. “Yes. Betrothed. There is still the question of where we will settle. It will all work out, eventually. My parents are . . . confident it will.”

  “Congratulations to you both,” Theron said. He added, “You know, I’m not really surprised. It seemed as if you knew each other.”

  Nice touch, my heart!

  “We did,” Joab said, his gaze drifting.

  “Tell you what,” Theron said suddenly. “How about if you two take the afternoon off? Jorah, you’ve not seen the city since you’ve been here, have you?”

  Jorah, who still had her back to them, scraping off the dishes in the alcove, did not respond.

  “No, you’ve only seen the inside of my workroom, and while that is commendable, you need some fresh air. Go look at the sea! Go to the harbor! Joab, you take her and show her how Caesarea has grown up since she was last here.”

  “I should find a match for that crimson,” Joab began.

  “I need to see about Cousin Thomas,” Jorah quickly said over her shoulder.

  “I will see about Cousin Thomas,” Marina assured her as she got up and went to Jorah. She took the plate from her. “Theron is right, it is time for . . . time. You’ve both been working hard, you need a break. You need some catching up. Now go.”

  Jorah did not meet her eyes, and didn’t wait for Joab. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, adjusted her head covering, and went to the door. She quickly kissed the mezuzah and left.

  “Well, go on, boy,” Theron urged.

  Joab slowly rose, went to kiss the mezuzah but did not, and left.

  They waited about a minute.

  Marina collapsed at the table. Theron fell back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Presently, still staring at the ceiling, he said, “What do you think?”

  “I think that went well. I think.”

  “You don’t think they knew we knew?”

  “No.” Pause. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m glad it’s all out in the open now,” Theron sighed. “I couldn’t have stood it much longer.”

  Marina didn’t think he could either, but this she did not say. She drew herself up and smoothed the front of her tunic. “Well. That’s one thing around here on the road to healing. Other things await us.” She looked at Theron. “So. I will go and ask Rivkah to come to Sabbath meal tomorrow. And you go ask Orion.”

  “I can ask him tomorrow.” Theron shrugged. “When I deliver a few more tiles.”

  “No! You must ask him today. We must be sure he makes no other plans for tomorrow evening.”

  “I can’t imagine what those would be . . .”

  “Nevertheless, I will not rest unless I know Orion is coming.” She ignored Theron’s sigh and tapped her fingers on the table. “What shall I make tomorrow . . . fish balls again? They’re Orion’s favorite. What did Rivkah like? I’ll have to get more meal. I think I’m out of sage too. And Rivkah will sit here, and Orion will sit there.” A little smile began. “Oh, Theron.”

  “All the way to the palace just to ask him to the meal? It’s kind of embarrassing. Why did I send those two off?”

  “Pistachio pastry!” Marina banged the table. “That’s Rivkah’s favorite.” She rose from the table and hurried for her market bag. “I have no pistachios, just a few stale ones, and the dessert tastes much better the next day. I’ll have to make it today.” She went to the money box, took out a few coins, and put them in the market bag. “And I have to make it in the common oven, which means I better get it in there before Velina takes over the whole thing . . . so much to do!”

  She paused to put the items on her fingers to remember. Thumb for sage, forefinger for meal, middle for pistachios. She added parsley and cucumbers to the other fingers, gave the sighing Theron a kiss, and hurried out the door.

  9

  CAESAREA WAS A YOUNG TROUBLEMAKER trying to resemble an older, cleverer, more elegant troublemaker. But the young wasn’t as guilty as the old. Caesarea was safer than Rome, and seemed indignant over it. When it tried to match Rome for violence and corruption, it came up shamefully short.

  True, there were some places in Caesarea so rank they made Pilate feel he had never left
Rome. Some places had the familiar taint of poverty, crime, and hunger. Places that ran with rats and dripped with stink and incubated new diseases. Like some places not far from the Circus Maximus.

  In other places, Caesarea tried to copy Rome the way Rome copied Greece. It only made Rome superior to Caesarea, the way Greek art and science and philosophy and finery would always be superior no matter how Rome tried.

  “When is he scheduled to arrive, Excellency?” Prometheus Longinus asked.

  “Any day.” Pilate took a deep pull of a sudden breeze on the wharf. Herod’s Harbor, he loved. He loved the audacious sculpture adorning the entrance to the port, the delicate arc joining two towers at either side. “It’s possible they had to wait for a shipment before leaving Cyprus.” All for the better. Let Decimus absorb all he could of the inferior condition of the Paphos harbor.

  Pilate leaned on the wharf rail. The haze today prevented distant sightings. Perhaps Decimus was behind that haze, looking through it to the harbor, enjoying more of a breeze than Pilate, that was sure. The air hung thick and sticky, with rare bursts from the sea. It was hot enough to make him want his cool marble couch in the triclinium. But it would be a perfect day for Decimus to arrive. He would see Pilate leaning languidly on the rail, with the backdrop of the massive white Temple of Rome and Augustus.

  The undersecretary stood formally near him, eyes alert for any threat of danger to his procurator. A distance apart stood four rigid Praetorian guards who had accompanied them from the palace. They were Roman soldiers to the bone, ignoring everything and missing nothing. Pilate was safe as a baby in his mother’s arms.

  “Do you suppose they put in at Alexandria instead?”

  “Possibly.” It was a stupid question. One thing about Orion: he did not speak unless he had something to say. Orion’s undersecretary, on the other hand, was ever eager to bend Pilate’s ear with any trifle he thought could possibly provoke Pilate’s interest.

  “I understand you served with Decimus Vitellus Caratacus.”