by Tracy Groot
Fully aware of the two tangled on the ground behind him and the Praetorian striding toward him upon referral from those in the stands, Cornelius held his breath as Prometheus lifted the signifying staff and brought it down with a dull thud on the dais.
The scourger raised his arm.
Cornelius breathed, “Third downstroke,” and crouched to spring—and sprawled forward as a body leaped to his back, buckling his knees, snapping his head back. He crashed to the tracks and bit his tongue as his chin dug the pavement, trying even as he slid to throw off the form, frantic for the center barrier.
The thin cords whistled—
The force of the blow knocked his breath clean, then pain knocked his senses clean. It sliced his mind as it sliced his back, pain so unimaginable nothing at all could be conceived. Bewilderment rang his senses, his breath would not come, would not come—he writhed and thrashed for air.
“Brace, lad!” the scourger hissed.
Orion could not. The blow had flung him forward against his bonds, like a sail taut in the wind.
“Brace!”
His breath returned in a strangulating gasp.
“One!” Prometheus called out.
Snarling, he hauled back and braced.
“You said there was a plan!” Kyria shrieked and proceeded to deliver a hail of kicks to his side.
He seized her ankle and yanked. She fell hard on her bottom with an “Ooof!”
“I am the plan, you vixen shrew!” He spat blood and shook the parchments, struggled to rise.
“Optio Cornelius and his women.”
It wasn’t a Praetorian. Undersecretary Remus stood over him, and this time he was not amused. “Can you not arrest your appetites until an opportune time? For example . . . any other time than an execution, and that of a Praetorium official? You disgust me.”
“One!” Prometheus called. Cornelius scrambled to his feet and looked to the posts.
Undersecretary Remus looked more closely. He took in the fistful of crumpled parchments, the blood at his optio’s mouth and the scrape on his chin. He took in the anguished appearances of the women, who had fled to each other when Prometheus called the number. He took in the way his optio ignored him for the proceedings at the barrier.
“What is going on?”
But his optio did not answer. He breathed hard and gazed intently at the scourger.
Remus saw the sweat on his face, glanced at the clutched parchments. “What are you thinking, Optio Cornelius?”
Optio Cornelius wasn’t listening. Then his face jerked in a wince, and Prometheus called out, “Two!”
One of the women collapsed in a wail, the other swooped down to her. Cornelius was a sweating statue, this time sliding his eyes from the barrier to—
Remus turned to see. The prefect.
That terrible, intent stare. Suspicion raised his neck hairs. He instinctively widened his stance to block the soldier’s way. “I asked you a question, Optio.”
Nothing changed. It was as if the man saw through him to Pilate.
“What are those papers you have?” Remus demanded.
No response.
“Let me see them.” He held out his hand.
“Three!” Prometheus called.
Cornelius charged.
He plowed straight through Remus because it would catch him off guard—and so it did; he caught an instant of the shock on his face as he went down. But Remus was quick to respond, and as Cornelius leapt Remus clawed for his leg and snagged a bootlace. He staggered for a moment, dragging him behind, then Remus wrenched and Cornelius went down hard.
On impact he twisted to face the undersecretary, and while the other man hauled him in by the bootlace, Cornelius reared his other foot and brought it crashing down on his face. Remus crumpled and Cornelius scrambled to his feet, and this time charged not for Pilate’s seat but for the barrier itself. Orion had taken three or four mercy blows, the fifth would kill him.
He bellowed all the way to the barrier, holding up the papers as though he charged with a standard. The scourger was intent on his grisly task and did not hear him as he wiped the cords clean and raised the scourge for another.
Janus Bifrons saw, and Janus Bifrons leapt from the dais and tumbled to the ground with the scourger.
Cornelius skidded to a halt before the bloody heap sagging between the posts.
He swung around, waving the papers, frantic to find—and there was Pilate on his feet in his governor’s box, leaning forward, hands gripping the rail.
25
“EXCELLENCY—” Cornelius croaked. He lifted his voice. “Excellency! I have news!” He held the papers high.
The entire crowd was on its feet. The guards were poised uncertainly, gazing from him to Pilate, ready for a word from their prefect.
Pilate leaned on the rail. After a long moment he called, “Bring it to me.”
“Punishment must cease until you read these, Excellency,” Cornelius called back. “You will understand why.”
“So be it.” Pilate nodded to the scourger.
Cornelius ran for the governor’s box as the golden-eyed one flew past him for Orion. He trotted to the short barrier wall between the tracks and the first stone tier of the stands and jumped over the wall. People leaned aside to let him through, and he used their shoulders to pull himself to the governor’s box. He handed the papers up to Pilate.
Pilate shuffled through them, glancing at the faces peering at him, and jerked his head to indicate that Cornelius should join him. He disappeared from the rail.
Cornelius went around to the opening of the stone enclosure. He’d never even been near Pilate’s box. He went in and waited at the opening until Pilate would bid him to come forward.
The high-backed chair was carved gilt, inset with purple fabric, bordered with overlapping golden leaves. Cornelius worked on breathing evenly while his prefect examined the papers.
Rivkah dropped beside the ruin of Orion Galerinius, for the moment ignoring his back, which floated as a red blur in her mind.
He was unconscious, or so it seemed, only his bonds holding him up. His face was greasy white, vomit and foam dripped from his chin. She reached a trembling hand to wipe it away.
“Cut his bonds,” she told the scourger.
“He cannot,” said the priest, on the other side of Orion. “We must wait and see what Cornelius can do.”
“It is too late,” she whispered, tears falling as she moved to crouch in front of him. Her knee slid in the vomit; she righted herself and reached to put shaking hands on either side of his face. Drops of sweat trembled and dripped from the tips of his soaked hair.
“I don’t think so,” said the priest, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You’re not done with us yet, Orion Galerinius Honoratus. Not you. You’ve rolled thunder for us.”
So white against the black-and-gray bristle. But he was breathing. Head sagging, body utterly slack between the posts, but he was breathing.
She crept forward to put her shoulder beneath his chest and prop him to ease the strain on the bonds. Then she cried out when she saw his ribs—the ends of the cords had curled around his back to the front. Bloody lines edged his ribs like fringe. Staring at the dripping furrows, she cried to the priest, “How bad is it?”
After a moment the priest replied, “It is bad.”
“Please cut the bonds!”
The face of the priest appeared, white as Orion’s. “He cannot. It must come from Pilate. Don’t you understand?”
Pilate had a fingertip at the corner of his eye, massaging as he read.
He tried to concentrate, but marshaling cognition at this time was nigh unto impossible. He kept attention on the parchments, however, kept his eyes moving on the lines as if each word made sense and he could render a verdict accordingly. For surely a verdict was required. His former chief secretary was unconscious at the posts. That he saw past Cornelius.
The parchments were battered and dirty, spattered with blood—not Ori
on’s, he had seen bloody spittle at the soldier’s mouth. Dates. Names. Concentrate, Pontius. Proconsuls and the half-shekel and provinces of Rome. He held the paper at arm’s length to see it better.
He read through one parchment. Then started it over, same parchment, reading slowly this time. He put the first to the back and read the next. He lifted his eyes to the waiting soldier. He saw it all in an instant. He rested against his chair, then, let the hand with the papers drop to his lap.
The soldier before him thought him a fool.
He leaned his elbow on the chair arm, put his head on his fist. The soldier had his eyes fast on the top of his chair.
“Come forward.”
The soldier came forth and stood at rigid attention. His appearance was disheveled for a Roman soldier. He knew this man: Cornelius, drillmaster of the auxiliaries.
“Where did you get these?” Pilate finally asked.
“A member of the Jewish Council brought them to me. When I realized their significance I got them here as fast as I could.”
“When you realized their significance . . .” He worked the corner of his eye with his fingertip. Pilate could laugh. He was good, this one was. “I’ll have to watch my back around you.”
Startled, the soldier flitted his glance at Pilate, then away.
He sighed. Well, maybe he had it wrong. Maybe he was an easily impressed fool. The half-shekel practice had nothing to do with Sabbath-day observances, they could whine implications all they wanted. Surely the Jews had taken this man to market.
Should he ask for names? Find out which member of the Council was desperate enough to dig these up? What did that say of Orion? How far, how deep did his deception run? Just how deeply involved was he in Jewish affairs? His resignation spoke of “indiscretions.” Should he put forth an inquiry and get to the bottom of them, or should he treat this like a nest of adders?
He felt weary then, old and weary of everything in sight. What he wouldn’t give to sit as a common spectator in the Circus Maximus and cheer for the Reds. Sit in an arena for the reason it was built, for spectacle and entertainment and the cheer of hearts weary of daily toil. What he wouldn’t give to watch the quadrigae career around the turning posts, hooves and dirt clods flying, the roar of the crowd vibrating within.
Once as a boy he’d scrambled with his friends and brought home in triumph a puck of horse dung from the arena. No ordinary horse dung—it came from Compressore, the Red horse of charioteer Scipios. Scipios, the greatest charioteer to live.
On a dare from Decimus he had gone to one of the lap counters at a turning post, the one with the bronze dolphins. He tried to remove one of the dolphins, but it turned on an axle that was bolted to the form. He looked to show Decimus that he had tried, but Decimus had betrayed him, leaving Pilate to the Circus steward, who dragged him out of the arena by his ear. His ear had torn a little, he still had the scar. At least he could boast about the scar to his friends. Good old Decimus.
The soldier was waiting.
Sitting back, he could see the Mediterranean, not the center barrier nor what waited there. The soldier’s head, down on the right, marred a perfect picture.
“How did you get that scrape on your chin?”
“I fell, Your Excellency.”
It could turn out to be a good thing. It could show his willingness to be persuaded for justice. Throw them a little chicken feed and things could simmer down in Caesarea for a time. His eyebrow quirked: and if Decimus did show, he’d find a Caesarea with the appearance of control, for the Jews would live on their meager triumph for months. Appeased, they would give an appearance of placid compliance, all the while scheming behind their backs for another foothold.
Tolerate them, Tiberius had told him. Tolerance, Pilate had come to see, was a smile on the face and a knife behind the back.
“I am not a fool, and I want you to know that before I tell them to release him.” He glared at one of his attendants. “Summon Prometheus. Tell him to bring his tablet.”
He held out the parchments to Cornelius, and eyed him with intrigue. “I don’t know where to place the . . . triumph of this day. Seems well enough to lay it at your feet. Well done, soldier.”
26
THE AFTERLIFE SMELLED like Rivkah. Sweet and spicy and earthy-fresh, like a breeze off a lush field. The afterlife was also dreadfully painful. If he moved he wanted to die all over again. If he moved, his consciousness swept him away and he could no longer attend to the words of the spirits about him.
“What is the difference between deportatio and exsilium?”
“Cornelius says not much. Except Orion could have chosen the place of his banishment. Deportatio means they have chosen.”
Strange thing for spirits to speak of. They spoke of other strange things too. Sometimes many spirits seemed to be congregated in conversation, sometimes only one or two. He learned that spirits wept and whispered and cursed like mortals. He learned that they prayed, which seemed odd. They also inflicted an outrageous amount of pain, pain resulting in his own weak cries. One she-spirit, who sounded remarkably like Rivkah—perhaps a relative who had gone on before—had cried along with Orion while other spirits picked over his back and doused it with flame.
“Why won’t Theron come?”
“He is too miserable. He will not work, he will not eat. He only goes to the sea.”
He breathed deeply of the pillow that smelled like Rivkah and drifted to the place where no pain could touch him.
“He needs to drink. We must get him to drink, Rivkah.”
“I try! I soak cloth and press it to his mouth. I cannot turn him, Marina. The pain is too great for him.”
“We will have to bear the pain just as much as he. We must be strong for him. We must hurt him to heal him, Rivkah. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
To my beloved father . . . do you hear her cry for me?
“Rivkah . . . ,” Orion whispered, and the gods grant the she-spirit can hear. Get me a straw of hay and I will drink for you. I will do anything for you. Did he think it, did he speak it? Gods grant her to hear. Gods grant . . .
“You really should clean yourself up, Rivkah. You are beginning to smell. You’re not doing any favors for the Roman with a stink like that. . . .
“What? I’m not trying to offend, I’m on your side. Don’t be so touchy. Anyway, did you see the way he stood between Orion and Pilate? Did you see the way he waved those papers?
“I will die to have him. I will lie down and die. I will change all my wicked ways and those of my neighbors to have him. We will raise our children in a charming southern villa. Or a flea-infested rat hole, Rivkah, I don’t care. I must have him. I will have him. I will die six hundred and eighty times until I do have him.”
Orion heard a gasp. “I kicked him. I kicked him! I can’t believe I did that. . . .”
“How is he doing today?”
“He opened his eyes! He looked straight into my eyes, and he knew it was me! And he is taking water through a straw, Marina! Lots of it. You won’t believe how much he is drinking. . . .”
More weeping, Father. Do you hear that? I will do anything for her. Anything.
The gods and all their relations conspired to swamp him in pain.
“I’m finished.”
A clatter. A rushing of feet. The rush brought a wave of air, and on it, the fragrance of Rivkah’s hair. “Orion? Did you say something?”
He wet his lips. “I’m finished.” The words sounded hoarse, but even he could hear the words spoken not by a disembodied spirit but by a miserable mortal. He felt soft fingertips brush aside the hair on his forehead.
“Finished with what?”
“Pain. It can stop now. I’m all done.”
He felt the whisper-touch of kisses on his eyebrow, his cheek.
“I just breathe and it hurts.”
He opened his eyes and saw the most beautiful face he had ever seen. She tilted it sideways so he could look straight into her ey
es. No goddess was this beautiful. No goddess would have tears dripping off her nose for him.
He smiled, and it was a puckery ridiculous smile because he was lying on his stomach on Rivkah’s bed. He reached to touch a tear on her nose, groaning at the pain the movement ignited . . . the tear dripped off before he got to it so he touched her cheek instead.
She smiled and took his hand to kiss it again and again.
“How long have I been here?”
“Four days. Cornelius said as soon as you can walk by yourself, you are to be deported.”
“Where?”
“Northern Britannia.”
“Ah. That figures.”
The amber eyes glittered. “You didn’t think Pilate would send you to a nice Greek island, did you? A few slaves in tow and a nice fat purse filled with gold?”
He could look on that smiling face forever. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered drowsily as fatigue suddenly came. She kissed his fingers and held them to her cheek, and he knew he could sleep because she would be there when he woke.
“How is he doing?”
“He refuses to go in a bucket. He says it’s bad enough to be held up by two women so he can relieve himself.” Rivkah’s brows came together. She rubbed her thumbnail over a spot on the table. “He—vomits every time we take him to the brush. It makes the wounds bleed.”
Marina reached to clasp her hand. “It’s all right, Rivkah. The physician says he will heal, it will only take time. There is no sign of infection. You’ve been doing a wonderful job.”
It was the first time in years Rivkah sat at Marina’s table. The first time in a week she had left her home. She stopped rubbing the spot.
“You remember the day you took me to buy cloth at Collina’s?”
Marina was shelling pistachios in her lap. She tossed the cleaned ones into a bowl on the table. “I remember.”
“I’ll never forget that.” Rivkah reached into the bowl to take a pistachio and examine it, turning it over in her fingers before popping it in her mouth. “I’m going with him, you know.”
