Thief (9781451689112)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Longinus rose and walked to the gate. “When you have news, tell the guard at the entrance to the garrison. He’ll find me.” Longinus looked over Cedron’s shoulder to where Nissa stood, her back against the house, and raised his amber brows.

  She turned away so fast she bumped the water jar, and it tipped, spilling at her feet.

  “Good-bye, Nissa.” The Roman’s deep voice drifted through the gate as he left.

  I hope that’s the last I see of him. She didn’t like his questions, or his dimple, or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And he wouldn’t smile if he knew she was the Mouse.

  As the gate creaked shut, she rushed to her brother. “Cedron. Don’t do this.”

  Cedron wrapped his gentle hands around hers. “Listen, Nissa. I’ll find the thieves, and you can stop working at the laundry. And as for Jesus, I won’t bring that Roman anywhere near him.”

  Find the thieves? He can’t. “You can’t work for a Roman. What will the priests say?”

  “What more can they do to me?” Cedron squeezed her fingers and smiled like a boy who’d swiped the honey jar. “And I’m not working for the Roman; I’m working against him. If he trusts me, I can get information from him about the legions. Information the Zealots need.”

  “The Zealots? Why are you—”

  “Don’t you see, Nissa?” His voice rose, a note of excitement in it she’d never heard before. “This is why Jesus healed me. To be his eyes in Jerusalem, to be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” What could Cedron be talking about?

  “For revolution, Nissa. That’s what the Zealots say. They say that Jesus is the Messiah, that he’ll come back to Jerusalem. And when he does, we’ll be ready to throw the Romans out of our land.”

  A cold chill swept over Nissa. Revolution? From that paltry band of Zealots who complained at the synagogue? And now Cedron wanted to use Longinus to plot an uprising? It sounded more like a way to get himself crucified.

  He smiled. “God is good, Nissa. His mercy never ceases.”

  God is good? When Cedron was given his sight, she’d hoped for a new life. Instead, he’d been given a job that would end with her being stoned or him being crucified. That was God’s mercy?

  Cedron grabbed his cloak and headed across the courtyard. “I’m going to start asking some questions about the thieves. If I can gain that centurion’s confidence, I’ll have much to tell the Zealots this Sabbath.” The gate banged shut behind him.

  Nissa covered her face with her shaking hands. Her brother, the only one who hadn’t abandoned her, was searching the city for Mouse. What if he discovered her secret? He’d never forgive her, and then she really would be alone.

  Nissa ran to the shed where Amit stood peacefully chewing and leaned against his warm fur. “What will I do, Amit?” A soft, gentle voice whispered to her, Stop stealing; trust in the Lord, as Cedron does.

  But how could she stop? They needed to pay the rent and buy food. If Cedron didn’t find the thieves, he wouldn’t be getting any silver. And he wasn’t going to find the thieves.

  She raised her head from the donkey’s soft flank. She’d tried everything else. She didn’t have a choice. But she’d have to be even more careful now. She’d follow Dismas’s rules and not get caught—not by the aggravating Roman and not by her own brother.

  Chapter 13

  LONGINUS FINISHED THE morning inspection of camp and called out the duty assignments. “Julius, take fifty men. Latrine duty and kitchen. Optus, take your fifty to drill. Sergio, pilum practice.”

  The rest were on their way out of camp with Cornelius for a march around the walls.

  The legionaries were soft, slow, and lazy. Saturnalia had just concluded, the feast of the god of the harvest—a thinly veiled excuse for drinking and eating too much. Every centurion knew to work the men hard after Saturnalia, even in the cold, dry days these Jews called the rainy season.

  Longinus strode down the Via Praetoria toward the principia. He had spent most of Saturnalia asking questions about the thieves and getting nowhere. Whoever they were, the two thieves were careful. There had been no sightings at the temple, and the upper market had been quieter than usual. He’d put off his report to Pilate long enough. It would have to be done today.

  Before he entered the camp headquarters, Marcellus intercepted him. “Centurion.”

  The young legionary looked good. He had healed well while Longinus was in Damascus. When he’d returned, Longinus had appointed him optio ad carcerem, a position that brought him more pay and no sentry duty. As the officer in charge of the carcer, Marcellus had little to do but keep watch on the occasional drunk legionary or criminal awaiting trial, which meant he was usually shadowing Longinus, waiting for orders. He’d even picked up a little Aramaic. Before long, he would speak the language of this foul province better than Longinus.

  Marcellus pointed toward the gate. “There’s a Jew waiting for you.”

  Longinus found Cedron leaning against a column. In the two weeks since he’d hired him, he’d heard from Cedron every few days. So far, Cedron had discovered nothing about the thieves or about Jesus. Maybe he’d hired the wrong man for the job.

  “Centurion.” Cedron straightened as Longinus approached. Legionaries drilled near the gate, their wooden swords clashing against shields and battle cries ringing through the morning air.

  “Any news?”

  “Not of the thieves.” He glanced at the legionaries and lowered his voice. “But I do have news of Jesus.”

  Longinus prodded Cedron away from the gate. They passed the open agora and Herod’s empty palace. “What of him?”

  “I have a name. Joseph of Arimathea. A Pharisee.”

  “Don’t Pharisees hate Jesus?”

  Cedron shook his head. “Not all of them. They say this man is a secret follower. When Jesus is in the city with his disciples, he stays at his house.”

  A tremble of anticipation surprised Longinus. He could see him today. “Is he there now?”

  Cedron didn’t meet his eyes. “I heard some people saw him in the temple.”

  Longinus pulse sped up. “Where does he live, this Joseph?”

  Cedron turned quickly toward the market. “I’ll take you to him.”

  Longinus followed behind the limping man. This was too easy. Cedron has no love for me. Why wasn’t he worried about leading a Roman to his messiah? Did he need the money so desperately, or was there another reason the Jew was helping him?

  The noise of the market faded as the courtyard walls and palaces of rich Jews and Greeks closed in around them. A servant hurried by, his gaze following the Jewish man and the Roman centurion walking together.

  Cedron waited for Longinus to come beside him. “When will the rest of the legion return to Jerusalem?”

  Longinus glanced sideways at Cedron, his suspicions growing. The Jew wasn’t making idle conversation. Was he trying to dig up information? What had Nissa said about her brother? That he complained about the Romans instead of finding work. He grunted.

  Cedron spoke again. “There are rumors that Pilate won’t come for Passover.”

  Only a fool would believe that rumor. A fool or a wishful band of rebels.

  Cedron paused in front of a tall, ornate gate. “This is where I heard he would be.”

  Longinus ran a hand through his hair and shifted. This is a waste of my time. How much of a fool did Cedron think he was? Cedron probably knew exactly where Jesus was, and it wasn’t behind this courtyard wall.

  “Let’s get this over with.” And when Jesus wasn’t there, he’d show Cedron what happened to Jews who wasted his time. Then he’d find another way to track down the thieves and Jesus.

  Cedron pushed open the gate, revealing a lush courtyard. Fig trees cast cool shade, and flowering bushes scented the air. A fountain burbled in the center. He entered, and Longinus stepped behind him.

  A servant hurried out of the house and approached Cedron.

  “We are looking for Jesus of Naza
reth,” Cedron said. The servant held out a hand for them to wait, then darted away with another look over his shoulder. “Joseph may not even speak to us,” Cedron said in a low voice. “Most Jews would not welcome a visit from an am-ha-arez and a Roman at any time of day.”

  A man emerged from the house. His brown hair and full beard were streaked with gray. He wore a tunic of deep-blue linen and sturdy leather sandals.

  This had to be Joseph, the Pharisee. Despite the wealth of his house, he wore little gold, just a wide signet ring on his first finger. He approached Cedron carefully, peering around him to see Longinus. “I’m sorry. Jesus is not here.”

  Before Longinus could step from behind Cedron, a movement shifted his gaze. A tall, black-haired man—with a scar that stretched from his temple to the corner of his mouth—stepped from the shadows. Longinus’s breath caught, and his hand went to his sword.

  The man he’d scoured the countryside for last year—the man who had killed Scipio—was right in front of him.

  Metal scraped against the scabbard as he pulled his sword free, pushed Cedron to the side, and bore down on the man he’d sworn to kill long before he came to Jerusalem. The Samaritan.

  He lunged forward and set the point of his sword over the Samaritan’s heart. “You.”

  Cedron cried out, reaching for Longinus’s sword arm. Longinus used his free arm to push Cedron to the ground, as easy as stopping a child. He planted one foot on Cedron’s bad knee and glanced at the old man, who hadn’t moved. “And you. Stay put. I’ll kill you if I have to.”

  Cedron groaned. “You gave me your word, Roman.”

  Longinus pushed the blade point more firmly against the Samaritan’s chest. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt Jesus. This man isn’t even a Jew.” Why wasn’t he running? Or putting up a fight? He was staring death in the face and didn’t even look afraid.

  Kill him now. Ask questions later.

  Joseph spoke slowly and carefully. “He is a follower of Jesus, the man you seek.”

  “I don’t care. I lit the fire on my friend’s funeral pyre. I vowed to get revenge for his death.” Why am I explaining myself to these people?

  The Samaritan stood silently, peacefully. Only the twitter of the birds in the fig trees and the buzz of the bees among the flowers disturbed the silence. Longinus gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly. He would kill him. Just not yet.

  “Tell me your name.”

  The tall man took a deep breath. Longinus could feel the pressure on the tip of his sword increase. “My name when you knew me was Shem. Jesus calls me Stephen.”

  “You aren’t afraid to die?”

  Stephen bowed his head. “I’m ready to do God’s will.”

  The fight went out of Longinus’s veins. His sword wavered. He’d seen begging, even grown men groveling with his sword at their neck. But never acceptance, never peace. Irritation rose in him—at this man who didn’t have the sense to be afraid and at his own hesitation. If Scipio were here, this Samaritan would be bleeding out in the dust at this moment.

  Cedron struggled again under his foot. “You’ll get no more help from me, Roman.”

  Longinus grimaced. No great loss. “You brought me here. His blood is on your hands as much as my own.”

  Longinus spoke to the Pharisee. “Is Jesus in the city?”

  Joseph shook his head. “No. He left this morning, for Galilee.”

  So close yet again. The gods must be working against him. He’d never see the man if he killed one of his followers. He could kill the Samaritan now, or he could wait. Consider his options. The am-ha-arez, the Pharisee, and the Samaritan watched him, waiting.

  “You—” Longinus pointed his sword at Joseph. “Tie his hands.”

  When the Samaritan was bound, he lifted his foot from Cedron.

  “Where are you taking him?” Cedron asked, pushing himself up from the ground.

  Longinus took a deep breath and looked at the man in front of him. The man he’d dreamed of killing for almost a year. The man who should be dead on the ground right now. “To his crucifixion.”

  LONGINUS SUNK HIS spear point deep into the straw-stuffed dummy tied to the post and pictured Stephen’s face. The Samaritan—the man who had been sitting in the camp carcer since yesterday—was a murderer and deserved to die.

  Cornelius approached him from one side. The younger centurion wasn’t stronger, but he was fast. Longinus advanced, slashing with the wooden practice sword that weighed twice as much as his father’s blade.

  Cornelius advanced, his practice sword moving like lightning, forcing Longinus to step back once. Then again. What’s the matter with me? Cornelius was good but not that good. Have I forgotten how to fight? He let out a yell and bore down on the legionary, driving him backward.

  Cornelius stumbled and fell. Longinus kicked Cornelius’s shield aside and pinned him to the ground with one foot. He raised his sword and let out a shout of victory.

  He’d won the round, but it had been close. Too close. He pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat out of his eyes, then threw the practice sword to the next legionary in line and trudged to the water jar.

  He dipped a gourd in the water and took a long drink. He dumped another dip of water over his head. He needed to keep his men strong, ready to fight. And he needed to be the same.

  He passed the gourd to Cornelius. “Pilum practice for your men.” Throwing blunted wooden spears at one another would be good for them. “Then the vaulting horse in full armor.” The men needed toughening, and so did he. He was a legionary, by Jupiter. It was time to do what he should have done the moment he saw Stephen.

  Longinus entered the carcer and descended the narrow steps. Marcellus stood guard outside the last door. He chose a long iron key from the ring on his belt and turned the heavy pins of the lock. Pushing the door open, he moved aside for Longinus to enter.

  Stephen leaned in the corner. He’d had no food or water. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were cracked and dry. He straightened and Longinus tensed for an attack, but Stephen’s face was untroubled, as peaceful as a child’s. Was this the same arrogant youth he had faced in the forum of Caesarea? But it was; he hadn’t denied his crime.

  “Marcellus, bring me that bench.”

  Marcellus dragged a bench through the door and left them.

  Longinus pulled out his sword and sat. He laid the bare sword across his lap, the razor edges glinting in the weak sun that trickled through the high, barred window. “Are you ready to die?” he asked.

  The Samaritan looked at him directly, his gaze clear and steady. “I’ve been ready for a long time.” Did this inscrutable youth have more courage than a Roman centurion? He faces my sword without a qualm, while I ran like a coward from a band of unarmed lepers. Shame burned in his chest and turned to anger.

  He’ll know fear when I crucify him. But first, Longinus had questions. “Tell me, you escaped me twice in Galilee. Why come here, to Jerusalem? Why didn’t you stay in the country where you were safe?”

  “He told me to come here. To wait for him.”

  “Who did?”

  “Jesus.” Stephen said. “He said I would die here, in Jerusalem.”

  “So he is a prophet.” Longinus watched Stephen for any sign of fear. “And don’t you care?”

  Stephen licked his cracked lips. “If that is his will for me, then I will do it. Before I met him, in Capernaum, I wasn’t even alive. I didn’t know faith or love. Now I know both. I’ve seen miracles—impossible things—with my own eyes.”

  This man was talking nonsense, but perhaps he could explain what had happened at the Pool of Siloam. Longinus leaned forward. “How does he heal? What type of magic does he have?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Not magic. Power.”

  Power to raise an army? “What kind of power? Where does he get it?”

  “From the Lord.”

  The Lord. I don’t want to hear anything more about the god of the Jews. “But who is he?”

&nb
sp; “Some say he is a prophet. Some say he is the Messiah, or John the Baptist come back to life. Even his followers don’t agree.”

  Longinus rubbed his hand through his hair. Leave it to the Jews to disagree, even about their own messiah. “What—Who do you say he is?”

  Stephen’s dark eyes burned with a fire, an intensity Longinus had seen before—when he sent his men into battle. “He is the son of God. The Messiah. The Taheb. The one we’ve been awaiting for thousands of years.”

  “The son of a god?” Like Apollo?

  “The son of the God.”

  “And what is he here to do?” Overthrow Rome? That isn’t going to happen.

  At this, Stephen’s gaze faltered. “Heal his people. Bring us peace.”

  Peace? That made no sense. Jesus was a Jew. Everyone knew the Jews awaited a savior who would defeat their enemies and give them back the land they swore had been promised to them by God. They talked, sang, and prayed about it constantly. Peace was the opposite of revolution.

  Stephen seemed to read his thoughts. “He doesn’t do what anyone expects. But this I know: he will change our world.”

  Longinus grimaced. This was too much. “The world is the Roman Empire.”

  “He will change Rome as well.”

  Tiny bumps rose on Longinus’s arms. Change Rome?

  Stephen paced to the high window and looked up at the sliver of blue sky. “I don’t understand it, either. But he told me to come here and to be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Another failed uprising? Not while he was in charge.

  Stephen turned to Longinus, his face again set in peace and acceptance. “Ready to die for him.”

  Longinus jerked to his feet and sheathed his sword. He didn’t want to hear anything more about Jesus or this one god. “You will die, but at my command. For Scipio, the man you killed.”

  Longinus pounded on the closed door. “Marcellus!”

  The lock rattled, and the legionary pulled open the door.

  Longinus stepped out of the dim cell. “Get him some food and water. It will be his last.”