The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  The smile pinched, and Prometheus slid a look over his shoulder. Janus was holding a wooden box, fussing over items in it. He wasn’t even looking at Prometheus. He muttered as he plucked at things in the box. “Auspicium hilarem . . . imagines exitus. Where is that chicken’s foot?” He came into the room and set the box down, then knelt and began to rummage through it.

  Prometheus sat back on his stool. “How did you hear?”

  “The gods told me.” He rummaged, then held something up. “My rooster wattle! Will you look at that—I’d forgotten all about this. That was no ordinary rooster. . . .”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking an auspice. Lemon verbena . . . oh, look here—one, two . . . nine black beans. Black beans for an auspice, that’s a laugh.” Janus Bifrons stopped suddenly and glanced at Prometheus. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

  Prometheus looked at the box. “No. Of course not. What is that box?”

  Janus first gave a relieved sigh, then bent to his rummaging. “This box was given to me by an augures when I left Rome. With it I cleanse the rooms of the former occupants and ensure the welfare of the new. I also take the auspice to find out if your appointment will have divine approval.”

  “I’ve not heard of this custom. . . .”

  Janus stopped, looked at Prometheus from under hooded eyes. “Are you a priest?”

  “No . . .”

  “Then stop your chatter and let me do my work.” He shrugged. “Unless, of course, you are not interested in the favor of the gods. If you are not—though I cannot imagine a military man who is not religious—I will not waste my—”

  “No, no, no! Please, proceed. Am I supposed to do anything?”

  “Yes. Leave. If your resident genius clashes with the exit of the genius of Orion Galerinius Honoratus . . .” Janus shook his head, face grim. Then an eyebrow rose. He sat on his heels and grasped his pointed beard. “Of course, that might be interesting. I have heard of violent upheavals in the celestial firmaments when genii clash. It is unnatural and ugly, like trying to mate a sheep and a goat, but it would be interesting to find out what really happens.

  “Speculation is all we have, that and a revolting story I heard from a priestess in Syria. She had cleansed the apartment of a proconsul—” Janus began to chuckle—“only to discover that the new appointee was in the apartment, fast asleep and rolled up in a carpet after a night of drunken revelry.” The chuckle disappeared. “Within a week, the new appointee was found on the steps of the temple . . . the parts that were left of him, anyway.” He gazed at nothing, then brightened and turned back to the box. “Where is that chicken’s foot?”

  Prometheus worked up enough spit to swallow. “I will leave you to your ministrations. Is there anything I should—can you suggest a course for me in the interim?”

  Janus unfolded a paper packet and sniffed the contents. He took a pinch of the powder and tasted it, then nodded. “Hmm . . . ? Oh. If it were me, I would take myself down to the triclinium and wait there. Safety at the lararium, you know. But I insult you—of course you would know that, a military man.” His face puckered. “Truly, though, it is surprising you did not know not to enter his workroom before the ritual was complete. Well. There is nothing for it. At least you didn’t touch anything, thank the gods.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Prometheus paused to nervously pat Janus’s shoulder, then he snatched his hand back and wondered if it was a bad omen to touch the priest before the ritual. “Just . . . do your best. Maybe a few times.”

  Janus gave him a burning look. “Once is enough, with a good priest.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Prometheus wiped his hands on the sides of his tunic, glad for the confidence Janus had in himself. Truly, his was a comforting presence. The way he poked around in that box, with a bored sort of ease like he’d done it a hundred times. Priests and priestesses walked between the gods and the mortals . . . you had to be some kind of strong person to do that, capricious as the gods and goddesses were.

  Prometheus backed out of the room, murmuring his thanks. He eyed the corners of the ceiling, adding a tremulous thanks to whoever was there.

  “Ex voto, Pontius Pilate, votum solvit laetus libens merito,” Janus Bifrons droned, as he shook out the contents of the packet to the floor. “Di parentes, Orion Galerinius Honoratus . . .”

  Prometheus’s eyes widened, and down the corridor he fled.

  Janus held the box against his hip and shook the wooden bracelets down to his elbow as he made for the new part of the Praetorium. He had been in the new part only once, when Orion had taken him to hear the protestation of a man doomed for the headsman. He paused just before he crossed the walkway to the new part, murmuring a prayer to Limentinus, a god of the threshold. He wasn’t sure if this was a threshold, but it was a crossing over of sorts. One couldn’t be too sure.

  Last cell on the left. Cornelius would meet him there. A strange place indeed to meet the young soldier. He passed by the cell on the right where he had spoken with the young man who had died last year. His chosen god was Apollo, a good choice for a dying man. He had also named the Capitoline Triad for good measure.

  He had given Janus the only thing he had for an offering, a pathetic length of tarnished brass links. The boy must have seen the doubt Janus felt, because he went pale and began to stammer. And Orion, who had been waiting aloof in the corner, was instantly at his side.

  My mother’s god was Apollo. I have a beautiful bracelet of hers. I will give it to the priest and he will offer it on your behalf. You will find great favor, for my mother was gracious and good.

  And the boy had wept his thanks.

  The amazing thing was that Orion showed up at his apartment door the very next day and handed the bracelet to Janus. Never said a word, simply handed it to him and walked away.

  There would be no such acts from Prometheus Longinus.

  Janus stopped at the last cell on the left, and glanced over his shoulder down the hallway. Nobody around, not yet, thank the Triad. Breakfast was not delivered to prisoners until the palace staff had theirs, and that was at least an hour off. He murmured a prayer to the god of the threshold, in case he forgot upon entering, then tapped on the door. It was then he noticed the iron padlock on the door.

  “Who is there?” came a muffled voice within, certainly not that of Cornelius. “Are you going to empty the bucket?”

  Where was Cornelius? At a loss, Janus stared at the padlock, then down the hallway again. He suddenly felt very aware of the documents in the bottom of his box.

  “Hello?” said the muffled voice.

  Janus cleared his throat and spoke to the padlock. “I was told to meet Cornelius here.”

  Silence. Then, “I am Joab. You have the wrong cell.”

  Janus tapped his lips. How to proceed?

  “Could you please tell someone to empty the bucket? This is a small room.”

  Last cell on the left, wasn’t it? Janus looked at the cell opposite; the door was ajar, and the room was empty. Janus went to the room and looked in the crack of the door, just to be sure.

  “Please . . . have you any news of Theron the mosaicist? Did he succeed in his petition to Orion Galerinius Honoratus?”

  Janus blinked. What events were afoot? Did this have to do with Orion’s deposal?

  “Are you still there?” The voice grew bleak. “Hello?”

  There is no concealing the sound of hobnails on flagstone. Janus heard Cornelius before he saw him. “Thank the Triad. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  With a rueful look, the soldier held up an iron ring with a key dangling. “I forgot this. Did you get them?”

  Janus lifted his box. “Right here, covered up with enough implements of augury to keep an entire battalion safe for a decade.”

  “Prometheus?”

  “He cowers in the corner of the triclinium, praying for my success. A man with a guilty conscience.”

  Cornelius opened the padlock and pulled op
en the door. Therein stood a young man, blinking at the sudden light. He gazed from Janus to Cornelius. “Who are you?”

  “Friends of Orion. Lucky for you.” Cornelius turned to Janus. “The documents, please.” Janus set the box down and pulled out the papers. He glanced down the corridor and handed them to Cornelius, who folded them in half and slipped them down the front of his cuirass. To Joab he said, “Walk behind me and keep your mouth shut.” He started down the hallway.

  “Cornelius, the key,” Janus said with a doubtful look at the iron padlock.

  “We must leave it. They cannot find it on me.”

  “What do you want me to do now?” Janus asked, hurrying to catch up with them.

  “Go to Prometheus and tell him the auspice is completed. Carry on as normal.”

  “Is there nothing else I can do for Orion?”

  At that, the one named Joab looked sharply at him.

  “What’s happened to Orion?” he asked.

  “I said keep your mouth shut,” Cornelius snapped. The soldier turned to Janus. “Did you get the bristlebane?”

  Janus scowled. “I don’t know why he wanted bristlebane.” Reluctantly he produced a packet of the leafy dried herb from a fold in his tunic. He went to hand it to Cornelius, but hesitated. “Bristlebane is commonly used before quite horrible events.”

  Cornelius took the packet without answer and dropped it down his front. Unhappily, Janus gave instructions as the soldier led them on. “Tell him to chew the leaves half an hour before—the result he desires. If the leaves were powdered it would work much faster, but this was the best I could do. Tell him to take it with water or wine.”

  They came to where the corridor crossed into the old part of the palace. Cornelius stopped and held up his hand. He carefully looked both ways, listened for as long as he had looked, then proceeded.

  They reached the entrance to the great auditorium. Cornelius turned to Janus. “You have done much. You have the thanks of Orion Galerinius, and if you ever need it, you have my sword. Go carefully, Janus Bifrons.”

  “Go carefully, Cornelius. Tell Orion for me . . . this palace will miss him.”

  The soldier nodded, and with Joab as his shadow, walked quickly across the great auditorium. There a guard, the guard Marcus it looked like, pulled open the great Praetorium door and slipped outside. He reappeared and motioned to Cornelius. The soldier slipped out the door with his shadow, and the great door was pulled shut. The sound of its closing echoed in the vast room.

  Janus stood at the entrance and absently shook down his bracelets. He realized he had taken up the tune of the tibicen, when it came back to him in a hollow echo. He glanced into his wooden box and chuckled. It was probably the first time since Romulus and Remus an augury was conducted in such a way. But Prometheus wouldn’t know. He was a military man, just a superstitious military man.

  His tune took a buoyant note as he headed for the private part of the palace to the triclinium. He should get himself some breakfast, make Prometheus wait awhile. A little time at the lararium wouldn’t kill him. The thought of a worried and anxious Prometheus Longinus on the rug before the altar was a cheering thought indeed.

  15

  ORION SAT ON THE COUCH—not a Roman couch—in the reclining area of Theron’s home. Roman couches were for, well, reclining. This couch was for sitting. It felt awkward. Though it didn’t come close to the awkwardness he felt between these two women.

  The maiden Jorah was quiet now, and that was pure relief. She was on another couch across from him, and had spent most of the time since Orion had come—a few hours now—between fits of weeping and moments of quiet. She didn’t acknowledge him, not since he arrived and disappointed her with no news of her Joab.

  It was Marina who had his wary attention. His life had fallen apart, and he would have appreciated a little normalcy in this part of his world. A little sympathy. Instead, Marina sat at the loom in the corner, though she neither twisted wool nor wove. The look on her face worried him. He’d never seen Marina beaten.

  “I hate this waiting,” Jorah muttered.

  It seemed neither of them had slept. After Orion had given them the details of his plight, each had taken to her part of the room and settled in, waiting for Joab and Theron. Orion would rather be in Falnera’s doorway.

  He didn’t question Marina about this strange silent vigil, but felt it from where he sat. “I have to visit the brush,” he said, more for something to say than out of genuine need.

  Marina lifted her head. “Use a bucket in the workroom. You must not show your face out there.” She plucked at folds of her garment, then smoothed what was plucked.

  “Joab must mean a lot to you,” Orion said cautiously. “I’ve already told you, Cornelius is a good man, a good soldier. He’ll do well by Joab. I expect them any time.”

  He wished Theron were here, but no, Theron waited at the commonyard foregate for Cornelius and Joab. He did it to escape the stifling atmosphere in his home, the coward, and Orion felt very abandoned.

  “Why didn’t she come?” the maiden finally said. She had a pillow on her lap and twirled one of the corner tassels with her finger.

  “Perhaps she did not want to come,” Marina answered.

  Her voice was dull with sadness. Flaming gods, he wished he were with Theron.

  “Why?” Jorah asked.

  “I once tried to turn her from her ways,” Marina said softly. “That was a mistake.”

  “Why would that be a mistake? You would have done her a favor.”

  But Marina did not answer. Jorah went back to twirling the tassel.

  “Why didn’t who come where?” Orion ventured.

  Marina looked up at Orion, as if seeing him for the first time since he arrived at dawn. “A friend of yours. Rivkah. I made pistachio pastry.” Her gaze drifted. “I almost wish you could stay, Orion, if it were safe for you. She will need friends.”

  “Why?”

  “She will soon learn her son is dead.”

  “She will what?” Cold sliced him through. “She will what?” He sagged against the couch. No, not her son. Rivkah sitting at the tree, pulling down wind-lifted hair, gazing out to sea. No, this could not be. “Not Rivkah’s son. That cannot be.”

  “He is dead,” Jorah whispered. “I was there.”

  Orion stared at Jorah across from him. He looked at Marina. The thickness in the air was grief and worry and fear.

  He would be gone soon, his first thought. He would be on the sea heading for a faraway port. He would not have to face a mother’s grief. He would not face her grief.

  Shame came on the heels. He scrubbed his hair. And he’d thought Theron a coward? Escape was all he ever wanted when horrible things came. Why didn’t he have his father’s collar? He fidgeted for it now.

  How could he look on Rivkah in her grief? How could he see her pride decimated? Why did he have to learn this now? For surely he could not leave, not now, not like this. He rubbed his eyes. When was the last time he had slept?

  “How did it happen?” he asked wearily.

  “That’s a long story,” was all Jorah said.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Two months ago,” Jorah said. “At Passover. He died when my brother did.”

  It took a moment. He watched the tassel twirl. Then he sat up. “Two months ago?”

  “We were going to tell her sooner, Joab and I, but . . . it was hard.”

  “Hard?” The word was foolish on his tongue. “When could you have told her?”

  She shrugged bleakly. “We could have come straight from Jerusalem. Nobody was thinking much.” She twirled the tassel around her finger. “Joab tried. How do you tell a mother her son is dead?”

  “You open your mouth!” Orion shouted. The women jumped, and Orion rose from the couch. “Marina, how long have you known?”

  “A day. Half a day. Since last night, it doesn’t really matter, Orion. Nathanael is dead.”

  Orion barely heard her. The implic
ations paraded in full-flung mockery. “Doesn’t matter? I’d be in the palace right now,” he said, incredulous. “Everything it took to change those plans. The scroll and Prometheus and—the shame my father will know on learning his son is a traitor. All because you did not tell a woman she sat vigil at the tree of her dead son!” He sat down heavily, bewildered and utterly ambushed. “She wouldn’t have made the petitions. Prometheus wouldn’t have a forged scroll. I would be in the palace. . . .”

  “How do you tell a mother her son was murdered?” It was Marina who spoke. “Rivkah’s boy was murdered, Orion. How do you tell her that?”

  Oh gods, he wanted the collar. He dropped his head and closed his eyes on the sight of Rivkah, her face saucy and her eyes dancing. “You open your mouth, Marina. You just open your mouth.”

  To my beloved . . .

  Theron’s god, hear me now. I have no collar, no priest for a petition. I have nothing. I cannot leave her to this news, neither can I stay. Theron’s god, if you are there at all . . .

  “We must go to her now,” he heard his voice say. He lifted his head, opened his eyes. Jorah had a fearful gaze upon him. Fearful—but there was miserable hope in it.

  Marina was shaking her head. “Orion,” she said in gentle surprise. “What are you thinking?” She gestured to the door. “You cannot go out there, dear friend, it is not safe. It will be difficult enough to get you to the harbor without notice around here—unless you can instantly grow a beard.”

  “We go see her now. Not another hour will pass on her ignorance.”

  Marina rose when he did, glancing at the door. “What of Cornelius? He will be here any time. Orion, if you are seen . . .”

  The door in the back of Theron’s workroom led to a smallyard, and the smallyard opened to an alley. The alley led to the main street. Theron was all the way on the other side of the commonyard, he would not see them leave. Orion went to the curtain flap and waited for them to follow. Marina would know the way.

  “Can Romans grow beards?” Jorah wondered as she and Orion followed Marina. She heard Marina’s snort, but Orion’s grim face had a wisp of a weary smile.