by Tracy Groot
Prometheus was nervous. His fingers convulsively gripped the edges of the large tablet.
“Nicanor of—Barzillai, is it true you were conscripted for the skill of your workmanship to imperial employment on the Tiberateum?”
Orion felt as though a horse were galloping through him, a phantom image from the races.
“It is true,” the man said clearly.
“You are by trade a stonemason?”
“I am.”
“You are Jewish.”
His head lifted a fraction. “I am.”
“You refused to work at the Tiberateum on your holy day.”
Just as clearly as before, “I did.”
“At any time did the man on your right, Orion Galerinius Honoratus, read to you in the presence of the Tiberateum conscription this imperial decree: ‘The Jewish stonemason Nicanor of Barzillai shall be flogged with seven times seven for every day he chooses not to work, lest he entice others by wicked example’?”
The man hesitated, eyes dropping from Prometheus, eyes not quite going to Orion. “I have since heard of the decree.”
“It was never read to you?”
“No.”
At that, Prometheus lowered his tablet.
Pilate rose tall from the purple-cushioned throne. “It shall be read to you this day.”
Orion’s skin leapt an inch.
Pilate took a tablet from a small table next to the bema—Orion’s own tablet. He opened it, and the stylus fell out. Prometheus scrambled for it, but it rolled off the dais and fell to the ground. One of the guards retrieved it and handed it up to Pilate. It was the stylus Father had given him.
Pilate took the stylus, then noticed the inscription on the flattened end. He read it, puzzled, and looked at Orion. He would wonder why “river barges” was inscribed in ivory. Naves codacariae, he had read.
Orion had only seen the stonemason in distant profile when he went to see if the man was a good worker. He had never seen his face up close.
Lean and brown. Deep lines. An inscrutable look in the eyes that slid to his. Orion held the look a moment, sharing strong sensation with the man—impending dread, common lot—then dropped his eyes.
Pilate tucked the stylus into the loop. “Approach the bema, Orion Galerinius Honoratus.”
Orion stepped forward, his chest inches from the wooden platform. Into his downcast view came his tablet, offered by Pilate. Crowd murmurs rose. Orion looked up.
Pontius Pilate leaned on his knee, offering him his old tablet. For his ears only, Pilate said, “Let’s have no more foolishness. A tunic looks ridiculous on you.” And he smiled. An old weary smile, an affectionate one, like something they traded regularly. That strange sensation of having his hair tousled . . .
“Yes, Excellency,” he whispered from habit, from confusion and fear, and took the tablet with trembling hands.
Pilate withdrew into his cushions.
Prometheus’s eyes had been resting on Orion, filled with the same old contempt—at least there was comfort in that familiarity. He consulted the ornamental tablet once more.
“By the grace of Pontius Pilate, Orion Galerinius Honoratus shall read the decree formerly entrusted to him and so reinstate himself as chief secretary without remonstrance or delay, that the beneficent ways of Rome and her protectors may be known to Caesarea Maritima and its hinterlands.” Prometheus lowered the tablet.
Orion looked down at his tablet. He smoothed his hand over the wooden cover and opened it. He saw on one side the last list he had made. Scratches through every line including the last—Order scourging. Inscribed on the other side of the tablet was the decree. In the center of the tablet, in the worn leather loop long in need of replacement, was the stylus.
Naves codacariae. Trembling fingers touched the ivory.
The simple little moral his father tried to impress. All the little morals his father tried hard, sometimes too hard, to instill. Sometimes it disappointed him that Father thought him so dull he had to drive home the lessons over and over and over. It made him think Father did not believe in him.
If Father’s old collar had no courage to instill, this inscription had no conscience. The collar was old iron and this was old ivory.
We find courage in the going, Orion, beloved boy. Do not wait until it comes to you. It never will. Find it on the way.
For Father he had wanted so desperately to keep his office and bring no shame; for Father he had to relinquish it, for only shame would come. The swing of the sword was a moment; the shame of a blighted conscience, a long and weary lifetime.
I don’t know if you were ever loved, Pilate, as I was.
To order a scourging for the man of conscience beside him simply wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. He closed the tablet, smoothed his hand on its cover, and laid it on the platform.
A moment of silence followed, then commotion. He felt as though an explosion had rendered him deaf, as though he existed in surreal silence while all around were messages he could not comprehend. Pilate was speaking and it looked loud, but Orion could not hear. Janus Bifrons had an expression as incomprehensible as everything else—was it relief? Seemed like pride. How odd. But the look became stricken and slid past him to Pilate. Something the prefect had said did not please him in the least.
It surprised the crowd, too, and the bubble burst and into it rushed a cacophony. One voice he heard over all, a cry he knew to be significant. He looked into the patches of color but could not discern any one face familiar to him.
“Silence!” Prometheus thundered, and held up Pilate’s signifier’s staff. At the sight of brandished authority the crowd quieted.
“Punishment will commence at noon tomorrow. You are dismissed.”
The crowd surged from the tiered stone seats, eager to be on their way with the news. Hundreds were gone in moments. Pilate stepped down from the dais and left with his entourage. The stonemason followed, flanked by his guards. They headed for the starting gates, the back way to the palace. Why didn’t they leave the usual way, through the public arch where pomp could attend their leaving?
Apparently the proceedings had loosed the tongues of the Praetorians. They talked over his head as they led him to the archway.
“He’ll go down on the seventh,” Ancus said confidently. “That’s where my bet goes.”
Livy looked Orion up and down. “I don’t know. He’s got something in him; he defied Pontius Pilate. I say the seventeenth.”
“Seventeenth!” the other exclaimed.
Livy nudged Orion. “Don’t let me down.”
“Why did they take him out the back way?” Orion wondered.
The guards exchanged looks. “Why?” Ancus laughed. “You just humiliated the governor of Judea. The races have never seen the crowds that will be here tomorrow.”
With shock Orion realized his words were true. The prefect had offered him clemency; Orion had stuffed it in his face. That’s how everyone must perceive it.
“The soldiers’ house is going to be packed,” Ancus said. “They’ll take bets until midnight.”
Something ominous in that. “Bets on what?” Orion asked.
That exchange of glances again. “On which stroke will take you down. You heard him—you’re due for the forty-nine.”
23
CORNELIUS STALKED into the drillmaster’s office, furious with the two who sat forlornly at the worktable but barely aware of them. Pilate had thrown all his plans into a pyre and set them aflame.
It wasn’t Pilate he could blame, it was his own cursed surprise. Everything was over before Cornelius knew, so intent he had been on the unusual proceedings. He should have suspected something when he saw the stonemason with the Praetorians. He should have acted precisely the moment Pilate arose from the bema—
A timid knock came at the doorway. One glance and Cornelius exploded a bellyful of oaths. He stepped aside to fling an arm at the worktable. “Go ahead. Join them. No one seems to care I’ll lose my head for it.”
“You curse like a soldier,” Theron commented, joining him away from the women. “I can’t get away with anything, with her.” He jerked his head at Marina.
Cornelius did not answer. He was too busy trying to salvage plans. He resumed his stalking.
All the careful planning, the precise timing, the drama. All for nothing! (He didn’t know he had cursed until he noticed the anxious look Theron threw at Marina.) His gut was in shreds as he waited near the stonemason and the guards, unaware of their imminent role—
“Poor Orion,” Theron was saying.
Cornelius glared at him from hooded eyes. Couldn’t he see he was trying to concentrate? He thought he had anticipated every single angle, like any good tactician. He’d even drawn a schematic of the Great Stadium in the dirt outside the barracks, outlining where Pilate would be and where Cornelius should stand—
“How many do you think he can take?”
Cornelius eased a vicious scowl Theron’s way. “Why are you even—” He stopped and studied the man, considered him for a long moment. He tilted his head. “Not many,” he said slowly.
Theron nodded. “He is not a big man. Not much meat on his bones. I could take double, and you—” He gave an appreciative snort as he looked at the soldier’s form. “You could take the entire forty-nine and get up to dance a jig.”
“No one can take forty-nine,” Cornelius replied absently.
He gazed at the huge drooping lip. What the mosaicist saw so clearly had been to Cornelius a black wall. Truth was, five years ago Orion Galerinius had given a pledge to the poor of Caesarea. Truth was, on hearing Pilate’s verdict he’d allowed horror and sentimentality to put him in a quandary. What sort of response was that for a Roman soldier? Emotion had ruled—in time of battle that was unforgivable.
“It will be harder,” he said with a glance at the women. They didn’t know the plan. The one called Kyria was watching him.
“It will be harder,” Theron agreed unhappily.
The one called Kyria got up and came over. She glanced at Marina and Rivkah, who were in weepy conversation. “What will be harder?” she asked softly.
“You are a woman,” Cornelius told her. “Do you think we will discuss any plans with women?”
“What plans?”
Cornelius glared at her, anger flaring. Anger for all of them, yes; much more for himself. “Why did I let you in?” He pointed at the door. “Out. All of you. Comfort yourselves at home, this is no place for—”
Alexander, his drillmaster, came clattering in, face white. He hissed, “Cornelius! It’s Remus.”
“Oh, help us,” Cornelius whispered, stomach plunging. His glance darted from the Jews in the back to the Jews at his side. He heard the coming steps, saw the shadow at the doorway. He put his back to the doorway, seized Kyria, and pulled her in for a long kiss.
A very long kiss. He broke it off with, “You had to bring her now, Theron? I’m on post!”
Fortunately, after a breathless second the girl caught on, returning with a playful, “You have bunks in the barracks, don’t you?” Then she pulled him down for another kiss.
He allowed it as long as he thought he should, a little longer for good measure, a few more seconds to make it convincing, before he pulled away. “Now, what kind of example would I be to my men?”
He turned her around and gently pushed her toward Theron. “Theron, with all due respect, take your women out of here. Policy says they’re not allowed in the barracks.”
“Yes, it does,” came a cheerful voice behind him.
He started and turned, came to attention. Remus was pressing back a smile, amused to have caught his optio in shenanigans.
“Undersecretary Remus,” Cornelius said stiffly. “They were just leaving.”
“I can see that,” he said, watching Theron usher them toward the door.
“It won’t happen again; he was not aware of our—”
“I am not Prometheus, Optio Cornelius. Your secret is safe with me.” He gave him a wink. “But be a little more discreet in the future.”
“Yes, sir.” As Remus came in, the others left.
Kyria caught his eye on the way out. She whisked him an up-and-down look and disappeared.
Twilight came for his last night on earth, and he should have important thoughts to think. He wanted it over so he could think no more. They were doing him a favor, releasing him from a world that had closed around his neck. He wanted it to end.
Forty-nine lashes, the guards had said, and they would not stop when he fell unconscious. That was without precedent, a cruelty not conceived. Any flogging ended if the man fell unconscious. Not for Orion. Forty-nine in full, and if the forty-nine did not kill him, thirst and exposure would; his body was ordered to remain fast at the flogging posts until he was declared dead. No decapitation for Orion. He may as well be crucified.
“What a cruel thing to do,” he mused aloud, surprised, as if the punishment were for another. He sat with his knees drawn up, one moving idly back and forth. “You must have really wanted me back. It’s flattering, Pilate, but between you and me I should have trained Prometheus much more efficiently.”
Cruel and revolting. Orion had a flash of pity for the one who held the scourge. He would have to flog an unconscious heap because Orion wouldn’t last more than—
His gut seized, his fist went to his mouth.
It wasn’t death he feared, only the hellish pain of getting there. He knew how it would go, he’d officiated enough times. It was all in the numbers. On which downstroke would he break? Everyone broke. Most broke before the tenth—some merely upon seeing the flogging posts. Oh gods, goddesses, he knew how it was going to go. He’d end up like all the rest, he’d break and howl like a gibbering fool and scream until the sound became a pitiful rasping shriek. Until the sound of anguish wrote itself on the memory of every man present.
A flogging was the decimation of everything within, the laying out not only of flesh but of pride. Of dignity—every man he’d seen at the posts had lost control of everything: bowels, stomach, mind. It was the utter ruination of a man. It was said that a flogging made a bad man worse and broke a good man’s heart.
What of the man who flogged? Did it make him worse or break his heart?
“Pity yourself, Orion,” he muttered.
How many times had he tried not to see a man flogged? Strange to have to endure a flogging in a completely different way. He remembered the first time he witnessed it: the shocking brutality had taken his breath as every downstroke took the breath of the criminal. He had endured it by flinching, wincing, looking away. In time he learned to endure it by hating every scream he heard at the post, hating the man at the post because he had brought it on himself and could have prevented the torment. Veteran witnesses had not much mercy for the one being flogged.
Forty-nine. What a horrible thing to witness. He prayed into his fist that Rivkah wouldn’t be there.
“I’m sorry. He is not allowed visitors.”
“Why?” Rivkah demanded. “He is going to die tomorrow.”
The guard looked down the hallway over Rivkah’s shoulder. His returning gaze was hesitant. She quickly pressed her request. “Please. You can search me, I have no bristlebane or implements of escape, nothing.” She pulled off her circlet of bangles and pushed it toward him. “Here, take this. It’s worth at least ten dinars.”
The guard gently pushed it back. “Keep it. You have five minutes.”
“Thank you,” she breathed. While he took his key to open the iron lock, she refitted the circlet and hurriedly arranged her veil, parting it in the middle and smoothing i
t down with her hair on either side of her face. She wore no cosmetic, figuring she would cry it off anyway; she wanted no smears of kohl on her face. She lifted her chin and drew a quick breath.
The guard pulled open the door and held it for her. Then he took the oil lamp on the small table near his chair and gave it to her. Stomach fluttering, she entered the jail cell.
He had been sleeping, curled on a pallet. He pushed up, squinting at the light spilling on him from the flickering sconce in the corridor. The door closed behind, nudging her into the tiny room.
It took a few moments to get used to the dimness, even with the flame from the lamp. She placed it on the floor near his pallet.
Orion rose and stood with his hands behind his back, pressed into the corner. He broke the silence first. “It’s really you, isn’t it,” he said in a near whisper. “It’s not my imagination. Tell me it’s not.”
She pressed her fingers hard on her lips. He didn’t need to hear a sob, he needed her to be strong. She swallowed fiercely, brought her hands down to smooth the sides of her tunic. “We have five minutes. I have much to say.”
“He always says five minutes. He’s a softhearted man.”
She could see him better now. He had more growth in the gray-and-black grizzle on his face. The color accentuated the white in the rest of his face, a face that seemed thinner than she’d last seen, brown eyes more large. “You look tired.”
He did not respond. She could not look in his eyes long. She broke from them to look about before she sat on the floor.
He lowered himself in his corner.
“Orion, I have something to tell you—” And what was so carefully rehearsed all the way from her home now choked in her throat. Then it dissolved before him in a way she never intended. Her hands flew to her face. “I’m so sorry! Orion, I’m so sorry!”
He was on his knees before her, arms pulling her in, their foreheads touching. He whispered and murmured, but she would not allow him to comfort.
