The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  “Mine only comes in on my jawline. Even then, it is scanty.”

  “Like my brother Jude.”

  Orion displayed his jaw with his hand. “See? I haven’t shaved in twenty-four hours.”

  “Not much there,” Jorah agreed after inspection.

  He’s a brave man, for a Roman. She looked at him sideways without his notice. The brief moment with his smile passed. As Orion’s face went back to its bleakness, Jorah’s hand went to her stomach; did James feel like this with his stomach pains? She was on her way to tell a mother her son was murdered.

  They had skirted the marketplace, taking to the alleys because it was a Jewish marketplace and people would stare. No man had a smooth face there. No man wore a toga. Past the Jewish marketplace they took a main street. Here they did not draw attention because here people kept to themselves. Nobody exchanged greetings. They hardly even looked up. Here were tunics and togas.

  Jorah had been in the rough part of the city several days ago when she had a wild thought to find Rivkah and end the matter. She had only gone a short distance past the safety of the Jewish marketplace, clutching the dill Marina had sent her for, when her pounding heart sent her scurrying back to the comfort of ornery merchants and bickering wives. She had glanced behind her, and two men at a corner watched her go. The looks on their faces. She shuddered, remembering, and moved a little closer to Orion Galerinius.

  The street began to ascend, and Marina kept her measured pace. The cobblestones alone told of a different place, where filth began to show between them. Care had to be taken not to step into a gap. In this part of Caesarea, thieves would patiently dig out the street stones and abscond with them, to what use Jorah did not know. Did they sell them? Fix their homes with them? Theron had told her of this practice, when Jorah had stumbled on a loose cobblestone on the way to the palace.

  Here, mothers treated their children differently. Mothers everywhere yelled at their children, but here it was shrill and vexing. Here men cast looks at Jorah, looks she firmly refused to see. She kept her eyes on the dirty cobblestones, following Marina’s heels.

  The heels took a side street to the left, crossed the way, and stopped at the third wooden door on the right.

  Every bit of her aflame, heart pounding in her stomach, Jorah stepped next to Marina and clasped her hand. Orion stood behind them. Marina lifted her chin, squeezed Jorah’s hand hard, and knocked.

  After a moment the door opened and a young woman appeared. She had a round painted face and curly hair dyed the color of wheat stalks. Her eyebrows were black. Her eyes narrowed upon seeing them. “Three of you now. Zakkai must be desperate.” Over her shoulder she yelled, “Rivkah! Three this time.”

  “Tell them to go away,” said a voice within the home. “Tell them I know Ezekiel.”

  “She knows Ezekiel,” the woman said, and began to shut the door. Orion Galerinius planted his hand on the door.

  “Rivkah,” he called. “Please. We must speak.”

  Silence, and a clatter.

  The young woman peered at him. She took in the fine toga, and maybe saw something Jorah didn’t, because an appreciative half grin came. “You must be Orion. Rivkah was right. Look, if you don’t want anything to do with her, then . . .”

  A woman appeared behind the first, and Jorah wanted to die. The only other place she’d seen eyes that color was in the face of Nathanael.

  Rivkah was hastily smoothing down thick waving black hair—until she saw Orion. Then she clasped her hands and lifted her chin.

  Jorah’s free hand sought Orion’s. He gripped it hard.

  Rivkah’s eyes took in Marina, took in Jorah and all the hand clasping, came to rest on Orion. It seemed she knew Orion well enough because first came confusion, then fear, and then Rivkah knew something was terribly wrong.

  “His tree,” she said, voice low.

  Orion Galerinius slowly shook his head. Though it all lay upon Jorah, though she was the one who bore the onus of the telling, he said softly, “No, Rivkah. It is Nathanael.”

  The amber eyes widened. They cut to Marina, back to Orion. “What of him? You do not know Nathanael.”

  “I did.”

  The bright eyes came upon Jorah; they grew wild with fear and challenge.

  “What do you mean, you did?” the other young woman snapped. She put an arm around Rivkah’s waist, gripped her shoulder.

  “I loved him,” Jorah whispered. Tears came and fell. “We wanted to marry.”

  Orion Galerinius said gently, “Rivkah . . . your son is dead.”

  Rivkah flung up her arms to drop from the arms of the other, twisted and fell to all fours. Orion dropped beside her, tried to pull her into his arms, but she scrabbled away, crawling as fast as she could, then flung herself flat on the floor of the home. No sound came from her, no wail, nothing. She lay silent on the floor, breathing hard.

  Orion stayed where he was, put his forehead on his knee and squeezed his eyes shut. Marina went to Rivkah, sat down beside her, and began to weep.

  She thought to speak to this woman of scars. She was spread facedown on the ground, arms splayed as if to embrace Sheol. Not a sound from her. Jorah felt for the front step and dropped to it. She placed her hands in her lap. “He died a good Jew,” she whispered, though no one heard her. “Abishag told me to tell you.”

  Apparently the Roman soldier wanted to make it appear that Joab was under firm escort—which was more than likely the case. When they stepped out of the Praetorium, he grabbed a large cloth-wrapped bundle, pushed it into Joab’s arms, and ordered him to walk ahead of him.

  Joab waited until they had left the palace grounds and had the Great Stadium well behind. “May I ask a question?” he said respectfully over his shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in this bundle?”

  “Whatever I could find. I want it to look like you’re conscripted for a mile.”

  Joab was glad he couldn’t see his half smile. The Teacher had said something about that; when someone conscripted you for a mile, and Roman law said it could only be a mile, you were to offer—offer—another mile. He shook his head. Crazy! He could never do such a thing for a Roman. But Joab could not stop thinking on the Teacher and his baffling words. All night long he had occupied Joab’s thoughts.

  They were passing a group of soldiers. Cornelius gave Joab a shove and said loudly, “I don’t care if your mile is up. Have a little backbone and stop your whining.”

  “Greetings, Cornelius,” one of the soldiers called.

  “Greetings, Falcorus,” Cornelius called back. “Did you hear about Orion Galerinius?”

  “About ten minutes ago.” The man glanced about before he added on the sly, “Dirty shame too.”

  Cornelius shook his head. “Palace is losing a good man.”

  “Longinus ain’t so bad,” one of the other soldiers said with a shrug. “I was next to him in battle. He accounted well.”

  “Sure, he’s good at killing people, not managing them,” Falcorus replied. He nodded at Cornelius and said, “Ranks will change. You’ll be promoted. Optio Cornelius, that must sound good.”

  Cornelius gave Joab another shove. “If it gets me out of the auxiliaries, sure it sounds good. Get me an Italian cohort, and I can rest my heels by noon.”

  The soldiers laughed at this. Cornelius waved and continued with Joab on the Cardo Maximus.

  Joab waited until the street was nearly empty. “Orion has been replaced?”

  “You could say that. He’s waiting for us. He said you would know the way.”

  “He must be at Theron’s.”

  “So I thought. We must stop at his banker first. And see about securing a place for him in the hold of a merchant ship.”

  Joab’s mind raced. Orion Galerinius was every inch in charge yesterday. What could have happened between last night and this morning? “Is Prometheus—”

  “Stop your chatter. It would help if you acted like a subjugated Jew.”

  W
ho is carrying the bundle? Joab wanted to ask.

  “Optio Cornelius,” he heard the soldier mutter. “Orion’s loss, my gain. If that isn’t a bite of honeyed bristlebane.”

  16

  THERE WERE ANTS on the floor. Rivkah watched one scuttle over the dead body of another, then pick it up in its jaws and begin a laborious march. She watched until it disappeared into the seam where the wall and floor met. What would be done with the dead ant? Did they eat it? Bury it?

  There was an ax somewhere, buried in the junk room. That was the small alcove where Nathanael slept; she called it a junk room because it was always a mess. She once told him she’d feed him to the madman in the tombs if he didn’t clean it up, and he told her the madman would find him delicious.

  She had known after the first full moon that he wasn’t coming back. Kyria had too.

  Where would she find the ax? Beneath his cot? In the unholy mess in the corner where he piled everything when she told him to clean his room? She told him rats had babies in that pile. Was the ax on a shelf against the wall? The shelves he’d built when he was ten.

  It came unexpectedly, a pulling from her gut, a dragging up and dragging out. Rivkah, who had lain silent on the floor all day, long enough for Marina and the young girl to leave, long enough for the sun to disappear, now began to wail. Kyria came and knelt on one side, Orion on the other. Orion, who had a palace to run. He had told her enough times he had a palace to run—

  The crying time lasted as long as the silence, and rose and fell like the keening of a madwoman. When she thought it was done it came again, for she would never—oh God—never see Nathanael again, never tell him how sorry she was for the scars on his leg, scars identical to her own and those of her mother. Mother was dead, took her scars to her grave, and Nathanael now took his.

  Nathanael, her bright-eyed mouthy scoundrel, her fierce and forgiving rogue, he who defended her in the face of sundry accusers, scorning their scorn and sometimes throwing rocks. She cried the sorrow of her lifetime for her baby, for the boy she had never deserved, for the life that stretched out bleak before her.

  “She is still sleeping? I wish she didn’t have to wake to that news.”

  Orion had been dozing. He looked up to find the young woman offering him a plate and a mug. He sat up and took them, murmuring his thanks. He was sitting in the small entryway, Rivkah curled on the floor next to him. The young woman settled to the ground on the other side and eyed Orion curiously.

  “My name is Kyria,” she whispered, with a glance at Rivkah. “In case she never told you about me. Did she?”

  Orion went to work on the bread. He was so hungry, so tired he couldn’t remember what Rivkah had said. He shrugged and gulped down some wine.

  “What happened to Nathanael?” the girl asked.

  The girl was younger than Rivkah, probably in her midtwenties. He could tell she had been crying; traces of kohl smudged her face. Her ringlet hair was not naturally blonde—the eyebrows were as dark as Rivkah’s. She was a trifle plump, with softly rounded cheeks.

  “I don’t know,” Orion answered quietly. He did not want to tell her the boy was murdered. It would do no good to offer that, he did not know the details.

  Tears slipped down the rounded cheeks as she looked at her sleeping friend. After a time she wiped her face, rearranging the kohl smears. “He was a good kid. I helped raise him. I used to take him to the chariot races when Rivkah had a client. He loved those races. He’d stick his little thumb up or down like Pilate himself. I used to laugh at that.” She smiled a little, remembering.

  “Rivkah had fits, me bringing him there. I told her he’d end up a woman-man if he didn’t do manly things, him without a father. Chariot races are just the sort of thing for a boy. I did my best by him. Taught him lots of things, taught him how to . . . clean fish and—” She suddenly stopped, face tightening. “I’m going to cry again, Roman.”

  Despite her words, she didn’t cry just yet. Instead, she looked at Orion with a sudden grin, eyes sparkling with tears. “You know what she always called him? My baby. Always called him my baby no matter how big he got. Called him my baby in front of his friends, gods, how he hated that. ‘Where’s my baby going?’”

  Orion found he liked listening to her. Her manner of speech had the coarse tang of the uneducated, but it was not offensive. Her voice was a little hoarse, as though used to going on full tilt at a louder pitch. It was . . . charming. Poignant.

  “Was he like her? I’ve often wondered.”

  “In some ways. Had her temper. Had her foul mouth. Had her eyes.”

  The tears fell, and Orion put his attention on his plate.

  “He used to drive me crazy when he was little, I’ll say that. When he got older we missed him, he didn’t stay around much.”

  “Why is that?”

  Kyria wiped her nose and snorted. “Why do you think, Roman?”

  “Oh.” Orion looked at Rivkah’s still form. He would not ordinarily ask such a thing, but he did not feel uncomfortable, asking Kyria. “Can you tell me this? Why does she do it? She could do anything she wanted.”

  Kyria nodded. “She could be a cloth merchant. She’s got an eye for color. She’s got taste, she can tell you what goes with what . . . that sort of thing. I’m no good at that. She made that pillow over there.”

  Orion twisted around. Through the archway he saw a large indigo pillow on a low couch.

  “She makes lots of pillows. Sometimes she sells them to our friends. She dyed the fabric herself on that one, the indigo and the gold.” Her gaze came back to Rivkah. “She does it because she makes herself. I do it because I’m not good at anything else.”

  “Why would she—”

  Kyria shook her head wearily. “I don’t know. Has to do with her family. I’m glad her mother is dead.” At Orion’s surprise, Kyria said, “She used to come around here on unfortunate occasion. Wicked shrew. She came only to call Rivkah names and threaten to take Nathanael away. Rivkah once told her it was her fault, that she wouldn’t be a whore if it weren’t for her mother. Later I asked Rivkah what she meant by that, but she wouldn’t tell.”

  Kyria gave Orion a small, bitter smile. “I got a theory. The priest Zakkai sometimes sends around one of his boys to quote things to Rivkah. I think he’s a guilty man. Rivkah won’t say, but I’m not a fool—she once told me she was his wife’s serving maid.” A dark eyebrow went up.

  Orion dropped his eyes to his plate, then looked at Rivkah.

  “So she didn’t grow up like me, but I wonder if it would be better if she had. Her father was as bad as her mother, used to beat her. You know how I know? Go to scratch your head around Rivkah, and she’ll flinch like you’re gonna hit her. Makes me sick. She still does it, twenty years after he died. At least I’m pretty sure it was her father. Could’ve been her mother. Could’ve been Zakkai.” On sudden thought, she said, “Look—don’t tell any of this to Rivkah, okay? She’s kind of a private person.”

  “No . . . I won’t.”

  Kyria stood and gazed down at Rivkah’s sleeping form. “Look, I got an appointment at the inn. If I don’t show up—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I just don’t want her to wake up alone, you know?”

  “I won’t leave her.”

  She looked at him, noticed the empty plate and cup, and took them. Then she said, “You know what? I wish Rivkah would’ve met you a long time ago.” She went to put the dishes away.

  Orion watched a few strands of black hair wave with Rivkah’s breathing. Very quietly he said, “So do I.”

  Orion Galerinius was sleeping. He was unshaven, she’d never seen him like that. She preferred his face smooth, but the bristle wasn’t unattractive. A little gray in it. His face was puffy with weariness, that was plain. His arms were folded, ankles crossed. His head listed only slightly, as if even in sleep he would not allow himself complete repose.

  She touched his sandal, caressed the edge of its sole. She put her hand ov
er his foot, drew closer to him, took a deep breath and sighed long, then went back to sleep.

  Orion woke to the sound of loud banging. He opened eyes that hadn’t stayed closed long enough, then froze when he saw he was not in his apartment, not in his bed. His ears informed him faster than his eyes. That banging was not a palace sound.

  Kyria stepped over him and hurried to the door. Orion scrubbed his face hard and looked groggily about. Rivkah was not in sight. It occurred to him that maybe he should not be either, though the why of that was vague.

  Hushed murmurs at the door. Kyria opened it enough for Marina to slip in.

  “Orion! You must come quickly. Cornelius has made the arrangements.”

  He looked up at her, clarity coming slowly. Arrangements. Those were good things. “What sort of arrangements, Marina?” His voice was as hoarse as the day after a chariot race, his mouth sticky and foul-tasting.

  She squatted beside him. “There is a vessel in the harbor. Cornelius has secured another passage for you.” Her dark eyes searched his. “There is something else—Pilate is looking for you. He went to the Tiberateum today.”

  Orion rubbed his eyes. “That is supposed to be significant. I can’t think what it means.”

  Marina gave him a twisting pinch. “Wake up, Orion. It means we should have stayed put. Joab and Cornelius came yesterday morning after we left. Cornelius had a place for you. He paid the captain of the ship, and they waited as long as they dared. They couldn’t find us.”

  “But Theron . . .”

  “He didn’t know where Rivkah lived. The ship sailed yesterday afternoon.”

  Alarm finished his waking. “Yesterday? Today is—”

  “Day after Sabbath. Today the stonemason was to receive the forty-nine.”

  Dazed, Orion sagged against the wall. Pilate went to the Tiberateum—he knew he didn’t give the order. Gods and goddesses. “What happened?”

  “Cornelius arrived a short time ago. He said that Pilate visited the Tiberateum to inquire if the stonemason had changed his mind about working on the Sabbath. Nobody knew what he was talking about.”