Silvanus smiled, slow and mean. “Not you.”
Longinus’s hand didn’t stop its circular motion. He kept his face smooth, but his temper flared as hot as the glowing brazier in the corner. Warmth from the hot stone floors seeped through Longinus’s wooden sandals and into the soles of his feet. “Are those my orders from Pilate, then? To stay here?”
Silvanus nodded. “You know how superstitious Pilate is. He hates to be around these Jews with their incessant talk of their god. But he needs two centuries here to babysit until Passover. I volunteered yours and Cornelius’s.”
Passover? The whole winter in Jerusalem? He clenched his teeth. Sweat trickled down his face and stung his eyes. When had this happened? While he was off chasing that little thief? He chose a strigil from a tray and scraped the oil from his arms, then took a deep breath of the moist air. “What are we supposed to do here?”
Silvanus shrugged. “Drill. Harass the Jews. Keep the pax romana.” He presented his back to the slave for scraping. “Maybe you should try to find the little thief who made such a fool of you today. I told Pilate about that show of Roman strength in the market. He wasn’t happy that his favorite centurion failed again. Especially after he sent you after the Samaritan and you came back with nothing to show for it. I told him he never should have promoted a mutt like you, eh?”
Longinus threw the strigil down and plunged into the hot water bath. Silvanus had hated him from the moment he’d received his plumed helmet. He should be used to his insults by now. Longinus couldn’t care less about the two thieves roaming the upper market. But the Samaritan . . . that stung. If it hadn’t been for the Samaritan, Scipio would be alive. Scipio was the better legionary, better fighter, better leader. He’d know how to stop Silvanus from telling tales to Pilate.
Silvanus stepped into the other hot bath. “Cornelius said the men were taking bets on whether you’d come back empty-handed today like you did after your trip to Capernaum.” He turned with a sly smile. “Face it, Longinus. Pilate only promoted you because your father was his friend and saved his life in Britannia. A half-Roman like you shouldn’t even be a centurion.”
A rush of anger burned through Longinus, hotter than the swirling water. Half-Roman? His mother might have been a barbarian, but his father was a legend. He took a breath and ducked his head under the water.
He came up gasping for breath. “I’ll find them.”
“Like you found the Samaritan . . . and lost him again?”
Longinus gripped the edge of the bath hard enough to crumble tile. I’d like to wipe that smile off his face. “I’ll get them,” he growled. “You and the men can bet on that.”
“Bet on it?” Silvanus pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “What will you bet, eh?”
Longinus ground his teeth together. He’d forgotten Silvanus’s love for a wager. But if that’s what it would take to get Silvanus off his back, he’d do it. He had plenty of silver gathering dust in the legion’s treasury. His pay had tripled when he became a centurion, and he’d spent little of it since he’d given up wine and women. “Name it. I’ll have those thieves caught and scourged before Saturnalia.” Whatever Silvanus wagered, he’d lose it.
The skinny slave entered the room, his arms full of well-polished armor and both their swords. Silvanus’s beady eyes fell on Longinus’s gleaming sword.
A chill crept up Longinus’s back. His father’s sword, passed on just before he died in the wilds of Britannia. Not my sword. But it was too late.
Silvanus smiled like a snake that had cornered its prey. “Your sword, then, if you’re so sure you can find the thieves. And just because I like you, I’ll give you until I come back at Passover.”
That son of a jackal. Longinus wiped the water from his face. Silvanus has had his eye on my sword for ten years.
Longinus climbed out of the bath, his skin tingling, and let a waiting slave wrap him in a dry linen sheet. He picked up the sword, its weight familiar in his hand. The lamplight gleamed over the polished blade and the silver hilt set with gold. The sword of his father: primus pilus of the fifth Macedonian legion and best friend to Pontius Pilate. If he lost it, he’d never live it down.
Silvanus climbed out, water and steam streaming off his body. He eyed the sword like a hungry man watching meat roast over the fire.
Longinus couldn’t back down now, not without losing face. But he could make sure Silvanus was the one to regret this wager. What would Silvanus do for a chance to own the sword?
“If I don’t have the thieves by Passover, my father’s sword is yours.” Silvanus reached out a hand to the gleaming hilt, but Longinus pulled it back. “But if I win—and I will win”—Longinus stepped closer to Silvanus, his voice hard and cold—“you get me out of this province.”
Silvanus’s brow furrowed. “Where to? Rome?”
Longinus narrowed his eyes. Rome, with its gladiators and chariot races? Its crowds and palace intrigues? Or somewhere else? Somewhere peaceful, where he wasn’t reminded each day of Scipio’s death and his own fears. “To Gaul.”
“Gaul?” Silvanus snorted. “There hasn’t been a battle in Gaul in fifty years. You’ll be stuck talking to diplomats and sending reports.”
Longinus tilted the sword, and lamplight glittered along its razor edge. “If you can’t do it—if you don’t have the pull with Pilate . . .”
Silvanus eyed the sword again. “I can get you to Gaul—with Pilate’s help and plenty of silver.” He smirked. “But I won’t have to.”
Longinus turned the sword over in his hands. Gaul, with its quiet villages and deep forests, where he could finish his service in peace. “Then it’s a wager.”
Silvanus looked at him sideways as the slave dried him. “How do I know you won’t pull two beggars off the street and call it done, eh?”
Longinus snorted. That’s what Silvanus would do. “Cornelius saw them.” At least, he saw the tall one and caught a glimpse of the Mouse. “He’ll vouch for me.”
Silvanus’s lips curled into the semblance of a smile. “Your father’s sword if you don’t find them, a transfer to Gaul if you do?”
Longinus nodded.
Silvanus held out his dripping hand. “Hercle, I won’t pass that up.”
Longinus clasped the other centurion’s thick forearm and squeezed. Passover was almost half a year away, surely enough time to find two worthless thieves. He’d find them, mete out their punishment, and get away from this stinking province that had brought him nothing but failure and death.
Chapter 4
LONGINUS WOKE TO a rumble in his belly. He’d returned too late last night to get more than a hard crust of bread and the dregs of the venison stew.
On the other side of the room, Silvanus’s cot was already empty. At least Longinus wouldn’t have to smell him this morning. The two rooms he shared with Silvanus were spacious compared to the tents they called home during a campaign, but still, the sleeping room was just big enough for two cots and a low table holding a lamp. High square windows let in the morning light and a cool breath of air.
Longinus changed into a clean tunic, kirtled it at his waist with a cord belt, and tied on his hobnailed sandals. He fit his armor over his chest. The polished iron bands mounted on a leather frame were expertly crafted to his body. The armor was light and strong and had cost him plenty of silver, but it had saved his life in battle more than once. A ribbon tied under his breastplate indicated his rank as centurion and reminded him of his wager last night.
He buckled his sword onto his belt. The faster he found the little thief and his partner, the sooner he’d get to Gaul. After his father died, his mother had gone back to her people. She’d be glad to see him. He could spend the rest of his service keeping the pax romana there, then retire. He’d get his pension, a piece of land—maybe even some goats and a wife. His spirits lifted for the first time since Scipio’s death.
He passed into the second room. On his side sat a chair, a cedar-and-leather chest holding scrolls and
tablets, and a neat stack of clean tunics; on Silvanus’s side, a jumble of dirty tunics and a few empty amphorae smelling of sour wine. He picked up his vitis, a centurion’s vine-wood staff, on his way out the door. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to look at Silvanus’s mess for much longer.
The glow of early dawn edged over the eastern wall of the barracks. Smoke drifted over the camp as legionaries hurried to the cooking fires or stumbled toward the latrines. Longinus would need to check in with his prefect before inspection, but first his hollow stomach demanded food.
Longinus made a quick round of the barracks along the outside walls where the eighty men of his century bunked. Most were sitting on the ground outside their quarters, breaking their fast amid the clatter of brass bowls and wooden spoons. Longinus helped himself to a loaf of hot bread, just pulled from a beehive-shaped oven, and a hunk of cold meat. He crouched next to a group of his men with a grunt and a nod.
Soon, the men would assemble for orders. They’d need a full cohort on duty today at the temple—the Jews would be packed inside like pickled fish, and they’d smell just as bad. Later, he’d find spies—people who knew the city and its people—and track down the little thief and his partner. Next time, they wouldn’t get away.
He wiped the grease from his hands and cut toward the middle of camp. The garrison at Herod’s palace matched those in every other Roman province, from the misty shores of Britannia to the deserts of Numidia. He walked the Via Praetoria, the main road that bisected the camp, passing the granaries where men stood in line for their rations of wheat and the hospital tent smelling of dysentery. All was in order, every man at his assigned task.
At the center of camp, past a wide assembly square, sat the headquarters, the principia, where administrative officials kept the cogs of the empire turning. Longinus approached the heavily guarded doors. Inside, he would find his prefect ready to pass out the day’s duties, more legionaries guarding the cohort’s shrine to Mars, and—even more precious—the locked casks that held his men’s pay and pensions.
A legionary on duty stepped forward. “Silvanus is looking for you.”
“Already?” Couldn’t he avoid Silvanus for one morning?
The legionary lowered his voice. “It’s Marcellus.”
Alarm prickled up the back of Longinus’s neck. “What now?”
The legionary didn’t meet his eyes.
“Tell me.”
His words were clipped and quick. “Fell asleep on guard duty.”
Longinus pressed his lips together. Not again. “Who found him?”
“Silvanus. He took him to the carcer.”
Next to the principia sat a squat, low building, probably used by Herod the Great to store his more costly wines. Now the cohort used it as the camp’s carcer, a lockup for the occasional prisoner awaiting sentencing or the more frequent drunken legionary.
Longinus pivoted and pushed through the door of the carcer, cursing Marcellus under his breath. Some men weren’t meant to be legionaries. Marcellus, quick-witted and clever, would have excelled as an innkeeper or merchant—anything that didn’t require strength, stamina, or common sense.
Marcellus had fallen asleep on guard last month in Caesarea. Longinus had assigned the young legionary latrine duty for a year and docked him so much pay he wouldn’t see a denarius before spring. Silvanus wouldn’t be so lenient.
Inside the carcer, narrow stone stairs descended to a dim lower-level anteroom. Three heavy doors reinforced with iron bars and locks led to three damp, musty cells. Two doors were open, the rooms behind them empty. From the third door, closed and guarded by Cornelius, came shouted curses and the slap of a vitis on flesh. Silvanus.
Maybe he could talk some sense into Silvanus before he got his hands—and his whip—on Marcellus.
Cornelius stepped aside, and Longinus entered the cramped cell, barely big enough for three people. A narrow, barred window let in the weak morning light.
Marcellus lay on the dirt floor, his hands tied, one eye swollen, and blood trickling from his mouth. Silvanus stood over him, his vitis already stained with blood.
Longinus smoothed his face into a mask of indifference. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “Silvanus.”
Silvanus’s breath rasped from his throat. He’d removed his helmet and armor, and his tunic was dark with sweat. “About time you showed up. I suppose you want me to go easy on him again?”
Marcellus was one of Longinus’s men, but Silvanus didn’t care. Longinus shrugged. “If we were in the field, on campaign, I’d execute him myself.”
Marcellus flinched.
Longinus kept his voice even. “But we’re not on campaign. He deserves a good beating. Looks like you’re doing that.” He turned to go.
Silvanus threw down his vitis. “A beating? He’s not getting off so easy. He needs to be taught a lesson. You’re too soft on him—docking his pay, giving him extra duty. A flogging will teach him to be a legionary.”
Longinus inclined his head. “Or kill him. Dead legionaries can’t serve Rome.”
Silvanus kicked Marcellus in the ribs. “If it does, so be it. I’ve already told the prefect.”
Longinus’s gut wrenched. He was too late. A flogging was standard punishment for falling asleep on duty, and if the prefect had already agreed, it would be done. But Marcellus wouldn’t survive Silvanus.
Longinus took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “You’re right. He needs to be taught a lesson. And I’m the one who should it.”
Silvanus jutted his chin forward. “You’ll do it?”
“He’s one of mine.”
Silvanus’s upper lip curled. “You’ll go easy on him.”
“No.” Longinus looked at the young man lying on the floor. He’d be a bloody mess, but he’d have a chance. “I won’t.”
Silvanus dragged Marcellus up the stairs and out the door. He summoned one of the guards. “Assemble the men.” He kicked Marcellus into the open square and looped his bound arms over a wooden pillar. “Move, and I’ll run my sword through you.” Then, to Longinus, “I’ll get the whip.”
Longinus bent to check that Marcellus’s hands were securely tied. He gripped the young man’s shoulder—hard. “Remember you’re a Roman, not some cowardly Jew.”
Marcellus met his eyes and nodded.
Longinus stepped back, his throat tight. Hercle, Marcellus. Why did you have to fall asleep?
The Roman Empire was only as strong as its army, and the army was only as strong as its discipline. He’d been beaten himself when he was a new recruit. Beaten for losing his mess kit, for not moving fast enough, for a spot of rust on his armor, but he’d never been flogged. He’d seen it enough to know that the result depended on the man doing the flogging. Someone just a little too good at his job ended up with a dead legionary.
Silvanus reappeared with a flagrum. Longinus took it from him, grasping the short leather handle with damp hands. Jagged sheep bones stained with decades of blood weighted the tips of three long leather thongs.
The legion—those who weren’t on leave or on duty—assembled in the open square in silence. There wasn’t a man there who hadn’t dozed off at least once. The only difference was they hadn’t been caught.
Longinus turned his shoulder to Marcellus. The first few would be the worst. Then, if the gods were merciful, he’d pass out from the pain. Silvanus stood close by, breathing hard. Longinus pulled his arm back and let the whip fly. Marcellus jerked when it hit but didn’t cry out. Good. Just twenty-nine more. When he pulled back the whip, it left three bright red stripes on Marcellus’s back.
The second lash drew more blood. By the tenth, Marcellus’s tunic was crimson and hung in torn ribbons. Longinus’s tunic and arms were speckled with blood that flew from the whip.
Silvanus walked among the first few rows of men. If he caught a legionary looking away, he hit him with his vitis.
Longinus concentrated on counting. He wouldn’t do one more than the thirty
prescribed lashes, but he had to make each one convincing. Silvanus would know if he was going easy, and so would his men.
At twenty lashes, Marcellus went limp and slumped into the dirt. At least he’s not feeling them anymore.
At thirty, Longinus threw down the blood-soaked whip. He strode forward, his gut clenched tight. He stepped around the post and pulled out his dagger. After cutting the ropes on Marcellus’s limp hands, he pointed to two legionaries in the front line. “Get him to the hospital tent.”
Longinus stalked down the Via Praetoria, his breakfast roiling in his gut. Silvanus couldn’t fault him. The men respected him.
Marcellus still might die. I gave him a chance. I did what I could.
Suffering and death were the way of life for a Roman legionary, but since he’d watched Scipio bleed to death in Caesarea, a specter had haunted his days and nights. Death. An invincible enemy that stalked closer each day. He’d felt the pain of watching young men die in battle, of seeing his friends cut down before him. He’d been surrounded by death for fifteen years, but he’d never feared it. Until now.
He ducked behind an empty tent and retched up the remains of his breakfast. Wiping his sleeve over his mouth, Longinus closed his eyes, trying to blot out the memory of the young legionary’s slack face. Marcellus might live; he prayed to the gods he would. But in the end—whether in Judea, Rome, or a quiet farm in Gaul—death would defeat them all.
Chapter 5
NISSA WAS SILENT as she led Cedron through the streets in the early-morning light. She had woken with a knot in her stomach as the blasts of the silver trumpets rang out over the city, announcing the last day of the Feast of Tabernacles, a joyful feast of water and light. But not for her family. Almost two weeks of surviving on Cedron’s daily handful of coins had left her stomach empty and Cedron’s cheeks hollow.
Thief (9781451689112) Page 4
