by Tracy Groot
“Primipilaris,” Pilate added sharply. “He earned that.”
Longinus blanched. “Of course, Excellency.”
Primipilaris, retired First Spear. Tribune could replace that, or Camp Prefect, but lucky for Pilate, Decimus ever wanted to keep a clear road before him. He loved his options. Lucky for Pilate, becoming a chief secretary was one of them. Pilate rubbed a corner of his eye. Perhaps he could change that title to something else. Something closer to procurator. Underprocurator, perhaps.
“You served in the Augustan Second, Excellency?”
Pilate’s eyelids fluttered. Fawning fool. “Yes.”
“Were you ever stationed in Germania Superior?”
Pilate glanced at him. “Briefly. Before my appointment here.”
“Did you know a Publius Cassianius, sir?”
He put full attention on Longinus, looked him up and down. “Yes. Of course I knew Publius. He was . . . over the third or fourth cohort, I believe.”
Prometheus Longinus chuckled nervously. “I’ve always wanted to ask you that, Excellency. He is my cousin.”
“Really.” Perhaps this wait on the wharf would be more interesting than Pilate had anticipated. “Is he still serving?”
Longinus smiled. “He was princeps under Decimus Vitellus Caratacus—Primipilaris.”
Pilate leaned back in pleased astonishment. “Really. Your cousin was his princeps.”
Longinus leaned to show Pilate the brooch at his neck, clasping his cloak. “See? He gave this to me before I shipped to Caesarea Maritima. He’s like a brother to me.”
Pilate looked. Cast in bronze, it was a relief of the Pegasus, the emblem of the Augustan Second. He found himself smiling. It had been a long time since he’d seen one of those brooches. He looked at Prometheus Longinus. Ruefully, he said, “Your cousin once blacked my eye.”
Longinus gasped. “No.”
“Yes, and I had it coming to me. I had cast my attention on a girl who turned out to be his fiancée.” He chuckled, then asked suddenly, “Did he ever marry her? I think her name was . . . Antonia?” He didn’t think—he knew.
“No. His wife is named Coventina. He met her on his last tour, while stationed in Gaul.”
“Ah. Then I’ll black his eye, next time we meet.” They shared a genuine laugh. Still smiling, Pilate resumed his slouch at the rail. “What about you then, Prometheus? You’ve served under Orion Galerinius for—”
“It will be two years, sir, on the Kalends of December.”
Pilate nodded. He watched a half-eaten bloated fish float by. The inner harbor needed a good cleaning. The breakwaters prevented a free flow, and when the sea was still the water went stagnant quickly. He’d have to make sure Orion got with the public—
“Sir, would you like me to check with Hermenes about doing a harbor sweep? Looks like it needs another.”
“Yes. Do that. Orion has been quite busy with the new walkway. What do you think of the mosaic so far?”
Prometheus Longinus was looking at the water when he smiled, and a softness came to his eye. He shook his head, saying, “Sir, that Theron is a genius. From the few tiles he’s installed already, I think his work could easily show up the palace back home.”
Pleased, Pilate said, “You think so?”
Longinus gave Pilate a look that wondered if he was crazy. It delighted Pilate. Rigid Orion would never allow himself this casualness.
“Of course, Excellency. All I can think is how impressed Decimus Vitellus Caratacus will be.”
“Primipilaris,” Pilate reminded him.
Longinus winced. “Primipilaris. Sorry, sir.”
“Longinus? Do you miss Rome?” He had never asked Orion such a thing. Never thought to ask him. Longinus was a Legionnaire, and with any soldier he felt a certain amount of ease.
Longinus stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out to sea. He was a handsome man, he had to know that. He had a fine firm face, firm jaw. More handsome than Orion, and certainly Roman-soldier tall. He was looking toward Rome. He knew where the direction lay. He considered the question, then looked sideways at Pilate.
“With every breath, Excellency.”
Pilate returned his gaze, then nodded. It was a risky response. Soldiers of Rome were not supposed to miss Rome; that was too much like complaining about their station. Together they looked out to sea, over the Mediterranean to Crete, past Crete and over the sea to where Rome lay.
“See that man over there?” Joab said. “That’s Pontius Pilate.”
Jorah, whose attention had been on anything but their own company, stopped walking. “Where?”
“There, at the rail with the guards. The other man is the one from the palace, Prometheus Longinus.”
Jorah followed his finger and regarded the man in the distance at the harbor rail. He was dressed in a brilliantly white Roman garment, a toga she thought it was called. It had a bar of purple at the bottom. She couldn’t see his face very well, but he seemed to be in earnest conversation with the other man. So that was Pontius Pilate. She gazed a moment longer, then looked away.
She was surprised to know the harbor wasn’t far at all from Theron’s home, just a five-minute walk. She’d been in Caesarea a week and was five minutes from the sea. Why hadn’t she come before now?
“That was a dumb thing to do,” Joab said quietly.
Surprised, Jorah said, “What was?”
“Pointing out Pontius Pilate to you. I don’t think sometimes.” He put his hands on his hips and looked up at the soaring roof of the Temple of Rome and Augustus. “I’m sorry.”
Very nearly Jorah asked him what he was sorry about, in the stupid cheerful way she would have earlier in the week. But she was so tired, so bone-weary tired of pretending that things did not happen. That she did not shut away Joab’s words meant maybe she was . . . maybe she knew it was time to look on things that did . . . indeed . . . happen.
She adjusted her head covering and said briskly to Joab, “My father is dead. You will have to remember that.”
Joab was in the middle of shaking a pebble out of his sandal. He paused.
“You said my parents wanted us to live in Galilee. My father is dead. And just to let you know, my mother is in Jerusalem. Or Bethany. I think.”
Joab straightened. “Well, my betrothed, perhaps we should learn a bit about each other if we are to continue with this ruse.”
Jorah smiled a little. “That’s a good idea. I didn’t know your father owned a dye works.”
“That would have been a slip.”
Jorah gazed at the temple. She looked around at the vast buildings on the quay and at the still water inside the arms of the harbor. The water beyond had occasional white crests. “I don’t want the city anymore. I want the sea.”
Joab glanced at the quiet harbor water. “There it is. There are places to sit over there.”
“Not this sea. It’s too captured. Let’s go somewhere else.”
They followed the edge of the quay until it gave way to a less polished place. A place where smelly seaweed huddled in fly-swarmed patches on the rocks. Just when Jorah expected Joab to say something, he did.
He pointed at the nasty patches of seaweed and said cheerfully, “Look, Jorah.”
“Yes . . . maybe you’re still hungry.”
“No thanks.”
The buildings were older here, and here they sprawled brokenly. There was none of the precision of place the buildings near the harbor had. This unpolished area soon met the city wall, and they turned into a neighborhood to follow the city wall to the gate.
The northern aqueduct, another product of Herod’s reign, brought fresh water down from the foothills of Carmel and ran parallel with the sea. It came into Caesarea at the city gate, and here Joab and Jorah followed it out of the city. Then they left it and picked their way over knolls covered with long sea grasses until they came to the shore of the Mediterranean.
Joab sat down on a chunk of rock. Jorah took off her sandals an
d dropped them near Joab. She walked out straight to the water’s edge with her back to him, so that when she stopped with her toes in the water he would not see her close her eyes and smile at the scent of the salty sea air. She lifted her face to the sun. Here she could not hear the yells of the sailors on the quay, nor the scuttle and hustle of people coming and going. After a time, standing where she did, eyes closed, she began to listen; she heard the gentle shush of the water upon the shore, washing and foaming and trickling. She heard the occasional cry of a gull, the song that went with the sea. She soon tasted salt on her lips. She made fists with her toes, and heard the squeak of the coarse wet sand.
After a time she opened her eyes. She folded her arms and gazed upon water now light blue, now dark blue. Lines of white crested here and there, and near the horizon the sky was hazy lavender. A gust of wind brought prickles to her arms and made her head covering whip around her. She pulled off the covering and shook out her hair; it felt like going barefoot, exhilarating as sand on the soles of feet closed up too long in sweaty sandals. She tossed her head covering behind her and worked her fingers into her hair, giving her scalp a luxuriant scratch. She put her head forward and shook out her hair again, delighting in the sea breezes. Then she swung her head up, whipping her hair behind her, and looked for a dry place close to the water.
Joab did not join her for a long time, time enough for her to get fully reacquainted with the sea. Nearly an hour had passed before he finally appeared a few paces from her side, wind rippling his tunic. He sat down near her and pulled up his knees, gazing at the water.
“What is it about the sea . . .” he murmured.
Jorah pulled a strand of hair from her mouth. “It’s bigger than we are. That’s why we need it so badly.” She looked at him sideways.
“What’s that smile for?” he asked, a very small smile of his own beginning.
“I don’t know. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
“Like what?”
She looked out at the sea. “Like that.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like that.” Then he shrugged. “Well, we have this big field, this patch of flowers we cultivate for the dye. You should see it in full spring.”
“Is it beautiful?”
“It’s beautiful.”
Jorah wiggled her toes in the sand. “Tell me your story, Joab ben . . . ?”
“Judah.”
“I have a brother Jude.”
“I know. How many brothers do you have? I know of James, Jude, and Simon. And the other we were going to meet in Bethany. . . .”
“Joses.”
“This is good,” Joab said, brightly mocking. “Getting to know the number in each other’s families, we who have been betrothed for a year.”
“Betrothed,” Jorah repeated. “I’m going to have to remember that.”
“Yes. We’re going to have to act betrothed.”
Jorah considered it. “I think we’ve been doing a pretty good job. We’ve been arguing. You’ve been teasing. That’s good, don’t you think?”
“Yeeesss . . . I’ve been thinking about something more natural. We need to make sure they think our betrothal is real.” He frowned, musing hard. “I should kiss you in front of them. Make it look like they walked in on it—we could act embarrassed. That would be more nat—”
“I’d give you such a slap.”
“No, you’d have to act like you enjoy it.”
“Joab ben—!”
But now what was he doing—laughing! He was only teasing her again! She gave him an indignant glare, then turned away to hide her smile. With her head turned, and she couldn’t be sure because of the sea breeze in her ears, she thought he murmured, “A slap might be worth it.” And suddenly the absurd thought came that a kiss from him wouldn’t be the most gruesome thing to ever happen . . . and the thought shocked her into quickly searching for another subject. Brothers—didn’t he ask how many brothers she had?
She tamed her hair down from the wind. “I have—” But here she faltered. She burrowed her toes farther into the sand. “I have four brothers.”
Joab did not reply for a time. Presently he asked, “Do you have any sisters?”
“Only one. Devorah. She is married and lives with her husband, Matthias, in Bethany. She just had a baby, the sweetest little thing. Micah.”
“Devorah. Matthias. Micah,” Joab repeated carefully. “James, Joses, Simon, Judas.”
“What of you? How many brothers and sisters?”
“An older brother, Alexander. An older sister, Hepsibah.”
“I have a niece Hepsibah. That will be easy to remember.”
“And a younger sister. Marya.” His face softened. “She’s the one I miss the most. She’s six years old.” Half his mouth curved in a smile. “Such a scamp. She never walked, she danced. Could never go from one place to another in a straight line. She’d hop and leap. Her favorite thing was pretending the ground was ‘hot lava.’ She’d go from rock to rock, chair to chair. She’d walk on the tops of our feet, sometimes, so she wouldn’t burn hers.”
Jorah smiled, and another thought came that he was rather nice looking. He didn’t make her lose her breath the way Nathanael had, but—Her toes burrowed. “She probably misses you. When do you plan to go back to Hebron?”
But he looked out to the sea, and the curtain descended. That same dark curtain she’d seen on his face when he thought she didn’t see. “I’m never going back,” he muttered. Then he stammered, “I mean . . . not right now, of course.”
“Of course,” Jorah said lightly. What would he have to hide? “And do you really have a . . . betrothed?”
“Sure I do,” he replied, returning to his calm self.
Calm . . . that was the difference between him and Nathanael. Joab had a calm about him. He carried himself in a way that said he knew everything would turn out right. Except when that curtain came. But—what had he just said? He had a betrothed. Jorah blinked. “Oh.”
“You.” They grinned at each other, and his grin became rueful. “A fake betrothal is probably the closest I’ll come to getting married. I liked a girl once. She didn’t like me.”
“Oh. Well, I like you.” Jorah ben Joseph! She cast about to cover for it. “And . . . Theron likes you. Marina likes you. A lot.” She winced within.
“Theron likes you.”
Jorah looked at him and could earnestly say, “No, I really mean it. Theron likes you. You’re good for Theron.”
Surprised, he said, “‘Good for Theron.’ What does that mean?”
“You tend to things he doesn’t think about. That surprises him and that makes him respect you.”
Joab got a quizzical look on his face, so she continued. “You take care of things. You sweep up. You clean the mortar buckets. You put the tools back. You don’t complain. You don’t talk too much. And you treat Marina with respect. Believe me, we’ve had enough apprentices for me to see the difference between you and them. Theron has too. Once when you were gone I heard him say, ‘I’ve never seen this place look so good, not since we first built it. Joab’s a good apprentice.’”
Joab picked up a shell and tossed it into the water. “Was Nathanael a good apprentice?”
Her heart squeezed, briefly. She would have ignored his words—but it was time. “Yes, but he talked too much. They were always telling him to be quiet and get to work.” A smile came. “He told us stories all the time. He was so funny.” She glanced at him, and her smile left.
That curtain again. Didn’t she just try to make it go away? But he put that hard stare on the waters again. She wanted to ask him what made him so angry. Was it because he felt guilty—as she did, if she was truly honest—about not telling Rivkah?
“Jorah . . . what do you believe of the reports of your brother?”
A ripple of panic. This was a great deal of looking on things that happened. She dug her toes until they met with shells. “I—well . . . James believes the reports; he has a repo
rt of his own. I think Jude believes. I don’t know what Simon thinks, or Joses.”
“What do you believe?” He was persistent, but gentle.
She noted this on the periphery of the agitation. For that is what she felt, terrifying agitation. It was not comfortable at all, looking on things that happened.
She went to dig her toes again, but made herself stop. “Who would not want to believe that one’s—crucified brother has come back again? But how could I believe such a thing?” She looked sideways at him. “How could you? How could anyone? I will not let myself believe. I won’t let myself imagine it. You know why? Because they all leave, and they never come back. Everything changes, and so far there hasn’t been a thing I could do about it. He appeared to his disciples, and he appeared to strangers. He appeared to James, or so James said, but you know what? I haven’t seen him. Until I do, I have nothing to believe.”
What a strange thing, to sit with one who had been there. A strange thing that this person of whom she knew little, whom she was getting to know, shared with her the two most devastating things of her life. He was there the day his friend attacked Nathanael, and he was there the day they killed Jesus. There when Nathanael died.
When Nathanael died.
Sometimes she ran her hand over her thigh, imagining her flesh ridged with scars. What had never entered the mind of any loving mother had entered Rivkah’s mind not once but several times.
“Joab. What did Nathanael say before he died? Did he say anything at all?”
Joab stood suddenly. His face was dark, and growing darker. Jorah rose warily. She’d never seen the placid Joab like this.
“I wouldn’t be in Caesarea if it weren’t for Nathanael’s last words,” Joab said in a strange tone.
“What are you talking about?”
“‘No stones,’ he said. ‘No accusers.’ How could he say such a thing?” He glowered at the sea. “How could he do that?” His furious gaze went higher, to the sky. “An act of mercy is what it was, and that is what I don’t understand.”
Now he was just plain scaring her.
Joab began to walk the shoreline. “I can think for myself now, and that’s a relatively new thing, but I don’t know what to think about this. Was it just to torture us? Because if he meant it, if he really meant it, it changes everything. That’s how big those words were.” He scrubbed up his hair. “Why do I have to be thinking about this? I’m not a Pharisee, I’m not an Essene. I’m nothing. I’m only recently with an opinion.”
