The Stones of My Accusers

by Tracy Groot

  Theron chose two pattern boards, one of which was indeed from Ostia, though Cornelius might not know that. It was a classic black-and-white pebble mosaic of a ship going out to sea from the Ostia port. The other was a pattern from the same region, Naples. He had them on his shoulder and was nearly to the commonyard gate when someone stopped him.

  “Theron!” It was Marina. And by her tone it was not the first time she had called him. She caught up with him, glancing at the pattern boards on his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  “Someone changed their mind about a design.”

  “You’re going right now?” she said, surprised. She didn’t wait for him to answer, but lifted a plate she’d been carrying and pulled back the towel to show what was underneath. “Look, Theron. So many people brought Mary and Laban food that she’s giving it out. Sesame pastries.” She offered the plate to him.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said absently.

  Her smile fell. “Not hungry?” she snapped. “What’s wrong?” She looked with suspicion at the pattern boards.

  “Nothing. I have to check out something at the palace. When Joab returns don’t let him work with the lead strips; tell him I’ll finish it. But if Jorah comes, she can do it.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “No, nothing wrong.” Then he looked into the eyes of his wife of twenty-five years. “Except maybe you should pray for Orion.” He turned and went out the commonyard gate, latching it behind him.

  Cornelius signed the young man and sent him off with Demas to find a bunk. Another for the auxiliaries, another sent by Shamash-Nadwar. Shamash-Nadwar had his eye on Roman citizenship and would likely get it with all the new recruits he sent his way. He would have to make mention of it to Undersecretary Prom—no. To Undersecretary Remus.

  He pulled over the manual he had set aside to sign the recruit. He did not often have time to peruse old battle strategies, but had to allow the drillmaster-in-training time with the men. Ranks would officially change at the end of the month. Optio Cornelius. He couldn’t deny he had wanted this. He just didn’t want it this way.

  He opened the leather scrip and found his place again. He’d been reading on the battle strategy of the Parthians during Crassus’s defeat. Fascinating, how the bowmen were trained in their rapid-fire shot, and that from horseback. Pivoting on their mounts, firing volley after volley, opening the way for the ensuing charge of the cataphracts with their spears. How Crassus had underestimated his enemy. Roman pride and barbarian brilliance. A lousy tactician was Crassus. The eagles of seven—seven!—Roman legions ended up in Parthian hands. The infamy. Augustus Caesar had managed to soft-speak them back to Rome through treaty. Cornelius could only imagine the shame Crassus would have endured, had he not been killed at Carrhae. He would have fallen on his own sword if—

  He shoved aside the manual and rose from the table. He wished he were with his men; the comfort of routine would take his mind off the fate of Orion Galerinius. Muster, calisthenics, weapons training, breakfast. Technique, calisthenics, foot drills, midmeal. Working parties, weapons, drills, evening meal. Postings and liberties, troops fall in. This had been every day of his life for years. He wanted to be in the Great Stadium, railing the idlers and praising the promising. He wanted to see if Justus the mouthy one was giving any trouble to Alexander, see how Alexander was handling it.

  “You sure do a lotta pacing. That’s all I see you do.”

  The short fat mosaicist stood in the doorway, dark with backlit sunlight. He had his arm over two boards on his shoulder.

  Cornelius motioned him in. He glanced out the doorway, but nobody would be in the barracks at this time of day, not unless they were looking for a reprimand.

  “I hear the pattern has changed,” Theron said.

  “It has.”

  Cornelius gestured at a stool in front of the table, the place new recruits sat while being sworn into the Roman auxiliary army. He sat behind his desk and watched as Theron lowered the boards to the ground, then took one of the boards and pushed aside the strategy manual to clear a space. He laid the pattern board on the desk and pulled up the stool.

  “There. A pattern from Ostia.” Theron glanced behind him, and lowered his voice. “Something has gone wrong.”

  Cornelius ran his fingers over the pebbled mosaic. It was the worst part of his job. Here one of his men would sit if he had bad news to tell him. A mother died, a father. He liked this interesting little man, and it troubled him deeply to give him news such as this.

  “Orion has been taken.” After everything, after all the painstaking details. How had it happened? Did one of the men sell him out? The thought made him nearly as heartsick as Orion’s fate. Of course, the newer recruits would not know Orion. It had to be a new recruit, currying favor with the new chief secretary.

  Theron nodded grimly. “That much I figured.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come, I’m on post until sundown. Sorry I had to send for you.”

  “What happens now?”

  Cornelius glanced from the mosaic to the mosaicist. “Pilate is in Jerusalem. He won’t be back for a few days.”

  “Yes, okay. What does that mean?”

  Cornelius shifted in his seat. He wasn’t making this easy. “It means . . . Prometheus does not have imperium. It means Orion will live a few days, until Pilate gets back.” By the squinty look in the older man’s eyes, Cornelius suddenly realized the man did not grasp the gravity of the situation in the least. Did he think he could get him another ship out of the harbor? “Theron—Orion is going to be executed.”

  Theron’s expression did not change. “Yes, okay. How are we going to get him out?”

  Cornelius blinked. “You don’t understand. There is nothing we can do.”

  Theron’s face went cold. “Then why did you bring me here?”

  “Why—to tell you Orion is going to die. To—give you a chance to say good-bye to him. He’s allowed visitors.”

  “You’re not going to try to help him?”

  Cornelius sat back in his chair.

  “You told me yourself, there are more for Orion than against him.” And the little mosaicist folded his arms over his gut and waited.

  A thought began to take form as Cornelius gazed at the man. It was so faint he had to cock his head to listen hard for it. While he absently responded to Theron, something like, “It doesn’t work that way. We cannot fly in and free him by force. The soldiers care more about their pensions than . . . ,” blathering on with one side of his brain, the thought took form on the other.

  “There must be a way,” Theron insisted.

  Silence, I am listening for it, he wanted to snap. He did not even realize he had gotten up to pace until he was suddenly looking into the face of Alexander. The man stood in front of him, his face red with the Palestinian sun. He was taking off his helmet, his hair was helmet-formed and dark with sweat.

  “. . . pretty well, though I took one to task for his insolent—”

  Cornelius raised a hand to belay it. He stilled himself for the vague inner notion, hand poised in the air—and turned quickly on Theron. “It is not a military issue at all. Augustus, Theron.”

  “Of course, Augustus,” Theron said with an uncertain glance at Alexander.

  Cornelius came back to the table. He could feel his heart pound in his gut. It was a far-reaching chance and could put him on the block next to Orion.

  “Would you like me to report back later, sir?” Alexander said, glancing at the mosaic board upon which Cornelius had a hard glare.

  Cornelius lifted his gaze to Theron. “The documents.”

  “What of them?”

  “Do you have them?”

  “Of course.”

  Right next to Orion. A dual execution, and public. Treason demanded public display. The next words he spoke would utterly commit him, come what may.

  He sat down, calm with decision. “Bring me the documents, Theron.” He glanced at Alexander. “My drillmaster
will escort you.”

  So lost he was in planning he hardly realized the two were gone. It would take the skill of a diplomat, and Cornelius thought he had a little diplomacy. It would take strategy, and not the Crassus kind. Augustus was his own hero, a man mightier in strategies of state than in military campaign. He glanced at the corner of the office where the image of Augustus was displayed upon a shelf with the other chosen gods of the Legion X Fretensis. He would need more than a supplication to the spirit of Augustus. He wondered if Janus Bifrons ever thought to supplicate the god of the Jews.

  The visits began sometime after the noon meal. Orion had been sitting with his back against the long-sided wall, thinking that anyone incarcerated in the Praetorium Palace certainly did not eat this well—he had smiled when he recognized the special blend of herbs the cook had sprinkled on the barley—when the iron padlock slid from its fastening. He thought it was the guard come to take his tray away. It was not.

  The Jewish laundress stood in the doorway until the guard told her to get in or go away. She told him she would only be a moment, and timidly came forward. When the door closed behind her, she pressed her back against the door and did not move the duration of the visit.

  Orion rose, and stood as far away as he could, backed into the tight corner. The small room afforded no luxury of personal space. He felt a flood of embarrassment for all things at once: for the stink of the room and his unkempt appearance. For the lack of his toga, and for the utter decimation of his—mincing offspring, this is what Rivkah would have felt to have her tree cut down—pride. He managed a smile, though it did not stay long because the woman began to cry.

  She was distressed long before she came, canals of dismay had been set in her face. She spoke her mangled Greek in a tight whisper. “My son she took away.” She pressed her fingertips against quivering lips.

  Oh, no. Little Benjamin. Anger flashed and rose. Prometheus. Only Prometheus could have reversed his decision. “I am so sorry.”

  Why was it his fate to be dragged back to the palace and live through all that his imagination had already hinted?

  “I am sorry—” he could not remember her name—“good woman, but there is nothing I can do.”

  But she was shaking her head before he finished speaking. “I come for only thanks.” She pressed her lips again, then continued. “Two more years, my Benjamin with me. Two more good years. You are a good man. My thanks, my thanks.”

  And then she dared to do what she never would have done if Orion Galerinius was still chief secretary. She came and took his hand and kissed it three times. Then, weeping, she turned from him and pounded on the door. She did not look at him again, and in a moment she was gone.

  After the flushing astonishment of the hand kissing, he did not know why he was left with fury inside. After the woman left, because he could not cry out in rage lest someone would hear, he took the hand that was kissed and made a fist and smashed the wall as hard as he could. He dragged it down the whitewashed blocks, stamped with the insignia of the Legion X Fretensis, rubbing skin off as he dragged, and pounded one more time.

  Her visit was the first. He tried to caution the others, tried to tell them they were foolish to visit someone accused of treason; it was a very risky thing to do. No one seemed to listen.

  The cook came with his usual gloomy sense of humor. “Blame it all on me. I had wanted to say good-bye, and a god must have granted this wish. I would have preferred he grant the new mother-in-law wish.” Before he left he slipped Orion a fresh loaf of honeycake from a fold in his tunic.

  The steward of the tricliniums came. “Prometheus is a slouch, Orion Galerinius. I never found any olive pits on the floor when you were here. And date pits and crab claws and nutshells,” he sniffed. “Acts like he’s Pilate himself. I hear it’s treason for you. What a shame, Orion Galerinius. You should have been more careful.”

  Janus Bifrons came.

  He thought he heard the clack and clatter, but it was such a familiar old sound and he was so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t put it to Janus until the iron padlock slid, and there stood the priest in the doorway.

  Upon sniffing the foul air in the room, he instinctively clutched his vestments to him. His lip curled when he located the source of the stink, and he turned to the guard before the door closed. “Empty this,” he demanded, pointing to the bucket.

  Orion had requested the same over an hour ago, but the guard acted deaf. With the priest it was a different matter. No one defied a priest. The man reluctantly removed the bucket and closed the door.

  Holding his sleeve to his nose, Janus Bifrons said behind it, “No offense, Orion,” and gathered up his vestments to settle on the pallet on the floor. Orion had folded it double to offer to his guests.

  “They took my bristlebane away,” Orion said.

  “It wasn’t a good quality,” Janus replied from behind his sleeve. He cautiously removed it, not entirely satisfied with the outcome. “I cannot say it is good to see you again. What happened?”

  Orion shrugged. “Does it matter? It was my fate.”

  To this, Janus gave a decidedly sour grimace. “Your fate,” he muttered. “An undeserved fate if I ever saw one.”

  “What does it matter if it’s undeserved? It is what it is.”

  “Stop with the rhetoric, I am not in the mood.” He twisted off one of his bracelets and handed it to Orion. “There. You have a possession. A man should not be without a possession, however humble, to meet the afterlife.”

  Orion held the bracelet to the light, turning it in his hands. “This isn’t . . .”

  “A gift from Augustus to Mother. She served as one of the priestesses of Diana.”

  Silence settled, an awkward one. The same silence everyone else had tried to avoid, that between the living and the soon-to-be dead.

  Janus asked in a tone supposed to be light, “Any regrets?”

  A tightening in his gut, a surge of his blood.

  The order of his workroom, the order of his writing table. His tablets and his pearwood pipe and his neat handwriting on papyrus. He rubbed the callus on his middle finger. He missed the feel of a stylus in his hand. His missed his bit of the sea.

  I regret letting down those who depended upon me for small acts of mercy. Such small acts to him—so important to them. He knew that now. The litany of names still haunted him. Especially the look of the laundress.

  Orion looked at the wooden bracelet, softly silver with age. “That is an unholy question, Priest of the Fetiales.”

  The bracelet had been recently cleaned, it was still damp and smelled of lye. He lifted it even with the eyes of Janus, closed one eye to peer through its circle and smile sadly at the priest.

  Orion lowered the bracelet with his look. He was tired. Weary with heavy thoughts.

  Janus rose and smoothed his vestments. He pounded on the door, and the iron padlock slid. The priest left the cell without another look, without another word.

  Slam. Crash. Silence, then a scuffling noise. Marina’s eyes went wider as she looked from the equally mystified Roman soldier in her home to the workroom curtain. A roar of oaths came from Theron, and Joab’s name was involved. She gave the soldier a weak smile and excused herself.

  “Theron, what on earth,” she hissed as she came into the workroom. “What is that language—”

  There was her man on all fours, his broadened end the only thing visible from where he crawled under a table. He came out with his face red in fury, and his eyes searching everywhere.

  “If I get my hands on that Joab, he will be the next sacrifice at the Temple of Rome and Augustus!”

  “Theron!” Marina gasped.

  “He cleaned my workroom!” Theron roared. An oath followed and Marina gave his arm a hard twisting pinch.

  “You watch your mouth. Of course he cleaned your workroom, he’s the only one you let do it. You told me he couldn’t pinch the lead strips, so he found something else to do.”

  Jorah, meantime,
watched the scene from where she sat at a worktable, her face glowing with Marina’s own astonishment.

  “Where is that son of a Cretan?” Theron bellowed. “I knew those papers were important! If he threw them away I will—” And he sputtered and fumed to keep back the oaths that would earn him another pinch.

  “Tell me what is happening,” Marina demanded. “What is wrong with Orion?”

  The fury abated at those words, and Theron turned to his wife. He explained everything in terse sentences. Jorah came beside them, her face now filled with worry.

  “Orion has been taken?” Marina gasped.

  “I need those papers. I don’t know why, but the Roman knows what he’s doing. What did Joab do with them? Where is he?”

  “He left a little while ago. He—” Jorah hesitated. She looked at Marina. “He went to tell her Nathanael’s last words. He wouldn’t allow me to come, said he had to do it himself. He said he had to get it over with.”

  “But he wouldn’t take those papers with him,” Theron growled, still looking about the room. “The bin!” he hollered, and hurried out the back door with the women on his heels.

  The bin was the common-use container shared by the neighbors on either side. He ran to it and tilted it to himself. The ensuing oath Marina did not seem to hear. The bin was completely empty. Theron looked, and the bin wrap was gone. It prompted another oath, and this time Marina heard. He rubbed his arm as his thoughts raced.

  “He must have brought it to the heap,” Marina said.

  “Is it burning day today?”

  “I don’t know—I can’t think,” Marina fretted, rubbing her forehead. “Fourth from Sabbath is burning day.” She counted on her fingers, then sent a sickened look to Theron. “How important are those papers?”

  “They could mean Orion’s life.”

  “Then we must go to the heap.” Marina looked at Jorah. “Go and fetch the Roman soldier. We will need all the help we can get. Then run as fast as you can to Rivkah’s. Ask Joab exactly where he dumped the bin wrap. We will be at the heap.”