Thief (9781451689112)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Nissa sidestepped pilgrims gazing openmouthed at the Holy of Holies, the dwelling place of the Lord, but she averted her gaze from the gold-and-white-stone structure. If she didn’t look up, perhaps God wouldn’t see what she was doing in his temple. She reached Dismas in the shade of the Royal Stoa.

  He bent to whisper in her ear, “Like robbing the blind and deaf,” before jerking his head toward the other side of the Stoa and fading into the crowd.

  Dismas was right. It was almost too easy. A coin purse peeked from a short, rotund man’s belt as he stretched on tiptoes to see over the crowd. Her fingers itched. There could be enough silver in there to feed her and Cedron for weeks. She eased closer. He didn’t blink when she bumped against him and lifted it off his protruding belly.

  As the weight in her pockets increased, so did her hopes. They could do it. They could find a house—a small one—just big enough for her and Cedron. Away from Abba and Mama. Mouse would take care of them.

  Shouts rang out toward the front of the crowd. Was Dismas in trouble? She squirmed through the tangle of bodies. An elbow hit her in the face. Pushing through, she found herself in front of the Beautiful Gate, just a stone’s throw from the line of Roman soldiers. She ducked behind a black-garbed Phoenician and peered around him.

  A man stood on the stone steps in front of the gate. He wasn’t tall, but he looked strong, like a farmer or builder. His clothes were homespun, and his wood-and-reed sandals were worn and cracked. His hair and beard—both the warm brown of roasted grain—framed a face that wasn’t lined with age, but neither was it youthful.

  Six Pharisees and a scribe stood at the base of the steps, just ten paces from the solitary man. The blue tassels of their coats trailed on the ground. Their gold-and-purple embroidered tunics fluttered in the breeze, and heavy phylacteries hung over their foreheads.

  Between the Pharisees and the lone man, two temple guards held a woman. Her body sagged limply. Her head was uncovered, and henna-dyed hair hung to her waist. A long tear marred her fine linen gown, and blood trickled from her mouth.

  Nissa glanced sideways as a tall form pushed close to her. Dismas. Her heart sped up. The soldiers weren’t far away. It wasn’t safe for them to be so near each other. The crowd pressed in from behind, trapping her. It seemed every person in the Court of the Gentiles was gathering to watch the scene before them.

  One of the Pharisees stepped forward and pointed at the woman. “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery.” His booming voice carried to the corners of the court.

  The Phoenician shifted and blocked her view. Gasps of outrage came from the crowd.

  “Stone her!”

  “Harlot!”

  The Pharisee’s voice was lost in the din. Nissa cringed backward, her heart pounding louder than the voices around her. That could be her, caught by the guards, sentenced to death. She must get out, but the crowd packed even more tightly behind her, pushing her to the front.

  Panic surged through her, and she glanced at Dismas. He shifted and shook his head. He was right. If she tried to leave now, she would only draw attention to them. She pulled her head covering closer around her face. Soon, they’d drag the poor woman out of the city to stone her. Then, she and Dismas could divide their spoils and disappear.

  The rustic man approached the temple guards. He held out his hand to the woman. The guards released her, and she fell to the ground in front of him. The man leaned down and put his hand on her hair.

  Was he comforting her? Once the Sanhedrin passed sentence, they didn’t change their minds. The woman on the ground before him was as good as dead.

  The Pharisee’s voice rose. “Have you nothing to say? This woman has broken the Law of Moses. She deserves to die for her sins.”

  Still, the man didn’t speak. A hush spread over the crowd like a soft breeze. The man began to draw in the dust.

  Nissa strained to see. He was writing letters, Hebrew letters. But what did they say?

  The Pharisees peered at the ground. One drew in a sharp breath. Another’s face whitened, and he stumbled backward.

  Finally, the one they called teacher stood. “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” He stared at each man in turn.

  Nissa held her breath.

  The first to falter was the oldest Pharisee. He muttered a word and turned, disappearing through the Beautiful Gate. The loud Pharisee backed away, then left with a sweep of tassels. One by one the others departed until there was only the watching crowd, the woman on the ground, and the strange man.

  The teacher spoke to the woman. “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

  She shook her head but didn’t look at him.

  Nissa glanced sideways. Every face beside her showed shock; every ear strained to hear his words.

  “Neither do I condemn you.” The man put his hand under her chin and raised her face to his. “Go and sin no more.”

  Nissa let out a long breath.

  Shouts and exclamations surged through the crowd.

  “Who does he think he is?”

  “Did you see what he wrote?”

  Dismas ducked close to her. “Who is this Jew?” he whispered.

  Nissa shook her head. Whoever he was, he’d saved a woman’s life after she’d been condemned by the most powerful men in Jerusalem. Who was this man who could defy the power of the Sanhedrin with words written in dust?

  “He knew their sins. That must have been what he wrote. He can read souls.” Dismas’s face was pale, and his eyes were fixed on the man, still crouched in front of the woman. “Stay away from him. If he knew their sins, he’ll know ours.”

  A quiver of fear ran through her. Could Dismas be right? The man had some knowledge about the Pharisees, something that made them flee.

  A woman next to them tapped the Phoenician in front of her. “Who is this man?”

  He spoke loudly over his shoulder. “His name is Jesus. He’s a prophet, from Nazareth.”

  From Nazareth? Nissa tensed. Could he be the one Cedron spoke of, the one they claimed had cured the lame and restored sight to the blind? Was he a healer or a prophet? Or could he really know a person’s sins, like Dismas said?

  Nissa edged backward into the crowd. She must put some distance between her and Dismas and get out of sight of these soldiers. If Dismas was right, she should stay away from this Jesus of Nazareth, but the crowd surged forward, taking her with them. The man named Jesus was speaking. Her breath caught as his words reached her.

  “. . . be with you only a little while longer, and then I will go to the one who sent me. You will look for me but not find me, and where I am you cannot come.”

  Did he mean he wouldn’t be at the temple tomorrow? Where I am you cannot come. Cedron would be crushed; all his prayers would be for nothing. Her stomach twisted into a knot. Even if it was just a foolish hope, she’d made a promise to get Cedron to this man.

  Nissa glanced at the sky where the sun dipped low. Not long now before the last horns blew and the Sabbath was over. Surely the prophet wouldn’t leave before then. If she was fast, she could keep her promise to Cedron—find him and lead him to the man from Nazareth.

  First, she’d settle up with Dismas. She found him working his way back through the crowd and pulled him behind the first row of columns in the Stoa. She fished two bangles and the jeweled brooch from her belt. “I have to go. Here’s your half.”

  He shoved the treasure into his belt and grabbed her shoulder. “Mouse. I mean it. Stay away from that prophet.” His grip was fierce. “There’s something about him. He’ll bring trouble to us both. I can feel it.”

  Why was he so worried about her? Nissa wrenched away. Greeks could be so superstitious. “I’ll make the mark at Siloam next week. Look for it.”

  Nissa pushed through the crowded portico, heedless of the shouts and complaints that followed her. Dismas’s warning sent a chill across her neck. Maybe he was right. Maybe t
he man could read her soul. She’d have to be careful.

  She hastened down the stairs, through the dimly lit subterranean passage, and out into the late-afternoon sun. As she reached the foot of the marble steps and the line of beggars, she paused, digging into her belt for a coin. There, a silver drachma. She ran to the woman with the baby and dropped it into her outstretched hand.

  The woman gasped, but Nissa didn’t wait to hear her thanks. The Lord may not have mercy, but I do. Her feet pounded down the Stepped Street, past the spice merchants and the Pool of Siloam.

  “Watch out, boy!” a man juggling a basket of pomegranates snapped.

  Boy? She looked down at her tunic and cloak. How could I have forgotten? That Galilean had addled her wits.

  Veering back toward Siloam, she ducked into her hiding place. She flung off the robe and tunic, pulled off her head covering, and loosened her hair. Dressed in her own clothes, she slipped the rest of the bangles in the folds of her belt and emptied the purse in her hand. She caught her breath in wonder. It was even more than she thought—enough to last them for weeks. She tucked it securely away and flew out of the alley. Sweat trickled down her back by the time she arrived at the Dung Gate.

  Cedron wasn’t sitting in his usual place at the entrance to the city.

  Where did he go? He’d said he’d wait for her. She spun in a circle, searching for his familiar tunic. There, in the shadow of the wall. “Cedron!”

  He stopped and turned, his sightless eyes looking past her.

  “Wait.” She caught up with him, her breath coming in gasps. “Where are you going?”

  “I heard about him. The one from Nazareth.”

  “I know. I was there.” Thank the Lord she’d found him in time. Before he was hurt or killed trying to get to the temple. She took his arm. “Hurry, he’s leaving soon.”

  They zigzagged through the streets, faster than she’d ever seen her brother move. Gasping for breath, they emerged into the Court of the Gentiles.

  She dragged Cedron to the Beautiful Gate. The crowd was gone. The man from Nazareth was nowhere to be seen, and a hundred feet had erased the words in the dirt.

  They couldn’t be too late. She must find him. She planted Cedron on the wide stone steps. “Stay here.” Running to the crowded Stoa, she caught the sleeve of a passing woman. “Where is he, the one who was here?”

  “The teacher? The one called Jesus?”

  Nissa nodded; her hand tightened on the soft cloth.

  The woman pulled away, her mouth twisting. “Last I saw of him, they were getting ready to stone him. If he has any sense, he’s hiding.”

  They were too late; he had gone to where they could not follow. She plodded through the shaded Stoa, her head bent low. Abba was right. I’m a failure at everything. She’d have to tell Cedron that he’d missed the healer . . . possibly forever.

  Nissa reached the steps to the Beautiful Gate and sucked in a breath. Cedron sat where she’d left him, but he was no longer alone. The teacher—Jesus—crouched in front of him. She glanced around. No one took any notice of the blind man and the roughly dressed pilgrim. A group of men stood behind them—some young, some old, all Galileans.

  One of them, with a shaggy beard and weathered face, motioned to Cedron. “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

  Who sinned? Nissa froze. Did he know? Would he answer, “His sister is the sinner”?

  Jesus spoke: “Neither he nor his parents.”

  Nissa’s blood pounded, and her knees weakened.

  “He is blind so the works of God might be made visible through him.”

  The works of God made visible?

  Men and women brushed by Nissa, gathering around Cedron and Jesus, pushing her backward. She inched through the bodies, closer to Cedron but not too close to Jesus.

  Jesus spat on the ground once, then again, his saliva a dark puddle on the dust. “While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” He stirred the puddle with his finger—the same finger that had made the Pharisees flee—and scooped the gray mud onto each thumb.

  What was he doing? Nissa glanced at his followers. Their faces reflected her question.

  Jesus laid the palms of his hands on each side of Cedron’s bearded face.

  Cedron’s eyes fluttered closed.

  As gently as a mother with her infant, Jesus smoothed his thumbs over Cedron’s sunken lids until they were sealed shut with a thick layer of mud.

  Cedron sat as motionless as a stone column.

  A few people backed away; others shook their heads and shrugged. The Galileans kept their eyes on Cedron.

  Jesus stood. “Go now. Wash in the Pool of Siloam.”

  Nissa scooted closer. The gray clay was packed over Cedron’s eyes like mortar on a cracked wall. What is this supposed to do? When she raised her head, Jesus and his followers had disappeared into the crowd. She blew out a breath of relief. At least the prophet hadn’t exposed her sins.

  “Go.” An old woman pulled at Cedron’s sleeve. “Go wash, as he says.”

  Wash in Siloam? All the way down in the lower city?

  Cedron tipped his head to the side, and his brow creased. “Nissa?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Take me to Siloam.” His hand went to his eyes but stopped short of touching the mud already drying on his lids. “Hurry.”

  She helped him up. The Pool of Siloam? He’s lived beside it his whole life. He washes in it, drinks from it every day. How could this time be any different?

  Chapter 7

  LONGINUS SHIFTED RESTLESSLY on Ferox. Just a few minutes into his watch at the temple and he already itched to get out of the packed courtyard. His men lined the eastern wall, and more were stationed at each of the gates. So far, everything was peaceful. He’d make sure it stayed that way until the evening horns blew and the feast was over. There would be no revolution while he was on duty.

  He scanned the faces passing below him—young, old, dark-skinned and light-, Jews from every province of Rome. But not the little thief and the tall Greek he’d been seeking for two weeks. Not likely to find them in this crowd, but he watched nonetheless.

  At least it was the last day of the feast, and the city would soon empty of pilgrims. He couldn’t wait to see the back of Silvanus tomorrow when he and most of the legion returned to Caesarea. Silvanus had put more than a few of his men in the hospital tent with his bad temper and brutal reliance on his vitis.

  Thank the gods Marcellus was better today; he’d even managed to make a joke when Longinus had checked on him this morning. The salve that cost Longinus a week’s wages and a day’s travel to the Dead Sea was probably what had saved Marcellus from infection and a lingering death, the physician told him. Good. It was about time the worthless legionary stopped lounging on a cot and got back to his duties.

  Voices rose in the center of the court. Something was happening near the marble steps leading to the gold-covered door. He nudged Ferox into a walk and angled him through the crowd. Disputes in tight quarters were never a good thing. These Jews could get worked up and start a revolt faster than any people he knew.

  A group of men clustered at the edge of the crowd. “Vigilate!” He raised his vitis, and the men scattered. The rest of the crowd moved aside, giving him a narrow passage to the steps.

  A man stood on the second step, his head down. A girl with familiar wild hair and a dirty tunic held his arm and pulled him forward.

  “You there! Girl!” Longinus nudged Ferox up a step. Yes, it was the one from the lower city, the little wildcat he’d almost killed and her blind brother. He’d seen plenty of Jewish women bathing in the pools around the city. Why was this one always so filthy? “What’s happening here?”

  Her face went white under the dirt, and her mouth dropped open. “We were”—she grabbed her brother’s arm—“leaving.”

  An old woman hobbled close to him and pointed at the brother. “Look. He put clay on this man’s eyes and told him t
o wash in the Pool of Siloam.”

  So that was what was on the blind man’s face. “Who did?”

  “The teacher, Jesus.”

  Jesus. He’d been warned about a man of that name. A man causing trouble with the leaders of these bothersome people.

  The old woman hurried off, following the girl as she pulled her brother toward the Huldah Gates. A crowd followed in their wake.

  Rumors of the man called Jesus claimed he cured the lame and diseased—even lepers—but Longinus had heard that kind of talk before. He’d even witnessed so-called miracle workers. Longinus had yet to see a miracle that couldn’t be explained by deceit, trickery, or plain good luck. Still, this Jesus stirred up the crowds. Longinus spurred Ferox toward the gates. He barked commands to his men. “Twenty legionaries with me. The rest of you stay here.”

  When he’d managed Ferox down the stone steps, a throng of at least a hundred people had gathered behind the blind man and his sister, like guests at a wedding feast. As they trooped down the Stepped Street, women and children came to their doors. Some threw mantles over their heads, grabbed their children’s hands, and joined in the procession.

  By the time they reached the lower city, the crowd had doubled. Longinus prodded Ferox and cut his way toward the front of the column. Dust dried his throat as he coughed out orders to his men. “Stay here. Be ready if there’s trouble.”

  He’d seen a so-called healer stoned in Caesarea when the man he’d healed had turned out to have never been lame. This man—the brother of the little porcupine—was truly blind. He’d seen that himself. What would happen when he washed that ridiculous mud from his eyes and exposed the hoax? Disappointment could turn into anger, and a crowd could turn into a mob.

  Just ahead, broad stairs—at least twenty of them—ascended to a wide stone platform the size of a modest palace. He threw his leg over the front of his saddle and jumped to the ground. Pushing the spectators aside with his vitis, he followed the blind man and his sister up the stairs.