Thief (9781451689112)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  Gestas shoved him over on his back. A gurgle sounded from the priest’s open mouth. He held out a hand to her, his eyes wild and terrified. Nissa pressed her back against the cold stone wall. His hand dropped and his body went limp, his terrified eyes staring into the distance.

  Gestas pulled the purse from the dead man’s belt. A low sound of triumph broke from him as he weighed it in his hand. He pried the dagger from the still man’s hand and wrenched a heavy signet ring from his finger. An emerald as large as a grape glinted as he tucked it in his belt.

  Gestas turned and flashed a pointy-toothed smile. “Nice work, Mouse. Come on.” He darted down the winding corridor without a glance behind him.

  Nissa’s feet were planted like pillars, unable to move, as she stared at the man before her. He was dead. She might not have slit his throat, but she might as well have. She was not just a thief anymore. She was a murderer.

  Dismas rounded the corner. His eyes widened at the sight of the dead priest’s body.

  “Mouse, get out of here.” He pulled her through the corridor and dragged her out of the temple into the golden light of late afternoon. She stumbled as he pushed her into the shadow of the Hippodrome.

  She crumpled to the ground. All she could see was the blood pouring out of the priest. Bile rose in her throat. She retched and coughed. She scooted into the shadows, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead on the cool wall.

  Dismas stood over her, shielding her from view. “Mouse. We need to get farther from the temple. When they find the body . . .”

  He was right, but she couldn’t move.

  Dismas pulled her up, his arm clamping around her waist. As he straightened beside her, he stared at her like he’d never seen her before. His eyes searched her face, then traveled down to her dirty bare feet. His grip gentled, and he leaned her against his side. “Come on. We need to move fast.”

  They stumbled along the side streets, Dismas supporting her like a cripple. Nissa’s feet weighed as heavy as stones, the burden of her crime increasing with every step. She had killed a member of the Sanhedrin in the temple of the Lord. Cedron could never know. He would despise her. Longinus would want to find them now more than ever. It wouldn’t be long before every soldier and all the temple guards were scouring the city for them.

  After what seemed like hours, they reached the meeting place. Gestas was there with an amphora of wine tucked under his arm. “Nice work, little Mouse.”

  Dismas released Nissa and advanced on Gestas. He grabbed the little man by his tunic and slammed him against the wall. “This wasn’t our bargain.”

  Gestas’s face twisted. He tried to pull away, but Dismas’s hands closed around his throat.

  “What were you thinking? They’ll be looking for us all over the city.”

  Gestas choked in a breath. “Find a place . . . hole up for a few days . . . here.” He struggled to pull the heavy purse from his belt.

  Dismas released him and jerked the purse from his hands. He ran his fingers through the coins, his lips moving as he counted, then pulled out a handful and pressed them into Nissa’s damp, shaking hands.

  She looked at the coins—blood money—and let them fall to the ground.

  Dismas scooped them up. “You’ll need this, Mouse. Take it.”

  She shook her head and slid down the wall. She wrapped her hands around her knees and tucked her head down, wishing she could disappear.

  Gestas’s voice floated above her. “He’ll be fine. Stay out of sight for a few weeks; that should be enough time for things to quiet down. Then look for the mark on the wall.”

  In the silence he left behind, Nissa’s ragged breathing filled her ears. Would she ever close her eyes again without seeing the priest—the one she’d hated—dying in front of her? Murderer. Murderer. Her heart pounded out the words.

  A warm hand squeezed her shoulder. “Mouse. Let me help you get home.”

  She looked up. Dismas’s face was pale, his mouth grim. Was he angry with her? He had every reason to be. He’d warned her to stay with him, but she’d been greedy.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Leave me here.”

  He pushed the money at her. “Take the money, Mouse, and never come back.”

  She knocked his hand away.

  Dismas knelt before her, his hands on her trembling shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mouse. I shouldn’t have done this to you. All of it—it’s my fault. I taught you to do this; I brought Gestas when I knew he was trouble . . .”

  Nissa shook her head. It wasn’t Dismas’s fault. It was her own.

  Dismas tucked the coins in her belt. “Good-bye, Mouse. But take these. You’ll need them. When you feel better, you’ll thank me. It’s all I can do for you now.” With another look of remorse, he backed away and was gone.

  Revulsion rose in her throat. Would she ever feel better? Would she ever not think with horror on what had just happened? The Lord had forsaken her, and with good reason. She wasn’t just worthless; she was a killer. A murderer. Abba had been right. It would have been better if she had never been born.

  Chapter 18

  THE POUND OF marching feet and the dim shouts from the training ground faded as Longinus moved down the carcer stairs. Marcellus lounged outside the cell. He jumped to attention as Longinus pushed through the door. Not even locked. Golden rays of late-afternoon sun filtered through the tiny window of the cell, lighting the parchment Stephen studied.

  A month in the carcer seemed to have been small hardship for his prisoner. Stephen appeared more comfortable each time Longinus visited. A chest of rolled parchments, blankets, a new cloak. He’d even caught Marcellus bringing in fresh figs one afternoon.

  Longinus rubbed his forehead, massaging the ripple of pain between his eyes. “Another question for you, Samaritan.”

  Stephen set the parchment aside and turned his attention to Longinus.

  Longinus sat on the bench and set his helmet on the floor. Perhaps this question would rattle the peaceful Samaritan. “If I crucify you tomorrow—I know, I know—” He held up his hand as Stephen’s mouth opened. “If it is Jesus’s will that you are crucified tomorrow, how would your death help your messiah?”

  Stephen didn’t look afraid of the threat or riled by Longinus’s tone. “I will die when Jesus wills it and for a reason. The reason might even be you.”

  “Me? I’m no Jew.” And he didn’t need a messiah.

  “Neither am I. That doesn’t seem to matter to Jesus.”

  “But I believe in Jupiter and Mars. In the gods of Rome, not this absurd god of yours.”

  Stephen raised a skeptical brow. “When is the last time you prayed to the gods of Rome?”

  Longinus blinked. When had it been? There was a shrine to Mars in the principia, out of sight of the Jews, but he hadn’t prayed or left an offering to the god of war since long before he came to Jerusalem. If Pilate knew that, he’d be furious.

  Stephen leaned forward. “And when, centurion, have your gods ever answered you?”

  They hadn’t. They hadn’t answered when his father was dying in the damp wilds of Britannia. And they hadn’t answered when Scipio had lain dying on the street in Caesarea.

  He pressed his fingers against his eyes. As usual, Stephen’s answers failed to satisfy him. It was as though the Samaritan were trying to drive him mad. He should have crucified him a month ago instead of listening to his inane nonsense. The more he heard from his prisoner, the more questions he had. Questions that woke him in the night, nagging like a headache.

  Perhaps this one would stump his know-it-all prisoner. “So which is he, this messiah of yours?” He held out his index finger. “A fraud and a liar? A man who is duping his disciples and making a mockery of your laws? If he is, then he’s a dangerous radical who needs to be stopped, either by your own people or by mine.”

  Stephen didn’t answer.

  Longinus brought out his thumb. “Or . . .” He stopped, his mouth suddenly dry.

  Stephen’s eyes lo
cked on his.

  Longinus swallowed. Ridiculous as it sounded, it was the only other possibility. A possibility that was, in fact, absurd. “Or this Jesus, this man from Galilee, really is the son of your god, the one God. He has power over life and death, and he has a reason to be here that we don’t understand—that no one understands.”

  “Yet.” Stephen finished.

  Longinus stared at the floor as their words seemed to echo from the stone walls. The son of God? He couldn’t be. But a fraud? He couldn’t be that, either. Longinus had seen Jesus’ power at the Pool of Siloam.

  He needed to meet this man in the flesh, to form his own opinion and not rely on hearsay and stories. But if Jesus was smart, he wouldn’t come back to Jerusalem. Too many powerful people here hated him.

  And what about the man in front of Longinus? The man who had killed Scipio in the dark forum? He’d like to wipe that peaceful smile off Stephen’s face. He’d love to see the infuriating man quake in fear, but nailing him to a cross? His stomach curled in revulsion. Cedron better find those thieves before Passover.

  The door groaned open, and Marcellus ducked into the gloomy room, two bowls of stew and a round of bread balanced in one arm. “Cornelius was just outside looking for you.”

  Longinus straightened. Not that spy for Silvanus. What did he want now? “Did you tell him where I was?”

  “No. I told him you were . . . in the latrine.”

  Longinus stared at his optio.

  Marcellus shrugged. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “What did he want?”

  Marcellus stood aside, holding the door open for him. “Something at the temple. The Sanhedrin is convening. They want you there.”

  He snagged his helmet from the floor and fitted it over his head. “For the love of Jupiter, Marcellus, stay alert. Cornelius might come back.”

  Longinus took the stairs two at a time, emerging from the cool underground cells into the bright heat of the camp. He swung up on Ferox and spurred him toward the temple. Curse these Jews. Instead of winning the bet and getting back to Gaul, he asked questions about a mysterious Jew he’d never met. Instead of doing his duty, he worried about a sprite of a Jewish girl selling her body in the brothels of the lower city.

  Now trouble at the temple again. And with Passover closing in.

  Ferox’s iron-shod feet rang out in the Court of the Gentiles. Longinus guided him to the Stone Court, where Cedron had been tried and rejected and where the Sanhedrin waited to speak to him. He slid from Ferox and pushed his way through the crowd.

  The Stone Court was packed with the priests, Pharisees, and scribes of the Sanhedrin, as well as at least a hundred Jewish men and women—all talking at once.

  He tucked his helmet under his arm and pushed forward, parting the sea of rich robes and elaborate headdresses. He stopped in front of Caiaphas. The high priest’s robes were so stiff with gold they barely moved. Caiaphas backed a few steps away, as if Longinus’s very breath would defile him.

  The voices quieted as Caiaphas raised his arms. “Finally.”

  Longinus bristled. Rome had conquered this land, yet they treated him like a tardy servant. He stood straighter, towering over the Jew. “Why do you call on Rome?”

  “One of our priests was killed this afternoon in the temple.”

  A murder in the temple? That explained the outraged voices and angry faces. What worried these purity-obsessed Jews more, the death of a man or the defilement of their temple? “What happened?”

  “Just as the afternoon prayers were being sung, Thaddeus chased a thief into the lower tunnels, a deserted area at that time of day. The thief killed him and stole his purse.”

  “Why do you call on me? Did you find the murderer already?” The Jews had their own courts of law. A murder was Rome’s business only when they wanted the criminal executed. They would convict the murderer, Pilate would give his consent, and Longinus’s men would carry out the sentence.

  “Not yet.”

  Longinus turned to go. “Don’t bother me until you have him.”

  Caiaphas raised a heavily embroidered arm. “I’ve been told that you seek the temple thieves. The Mouse and the Greek.”

  He stopped. The little thief and his Greek partner? “You think they killed him?” That didn’t sound like the thieves he’d been searching for since the harvest feast.

  “The money changer saw one of them. A boy, small and quick. Others say they saw a tall Greek with him. A boy that size couldn’t have killed Thaddeus alone. They must have worked together. We demand they be found and executed.”

  It did sound like the Mouse and the Greek. And they’d been seen at the temple before.

  Caiaphas continued. “They’ll have his signet ring, a large emerald.”

  Longinus snorted. If they were smart, they’d throw the ring in the nearest well. But in his experience, criminals made stupid mistakes, and that’s what got them caught.

  He strode toward the gate. “I’ll find them.”

  Jumping on Ferox, he pounded through the Court of the Gentiles, Jews scattering in front of him like dry leaves.

  He had less than two months to find the temple thieves, now the temple murderers. If Pilate came back to this growing mess just in time for Passover, he’d be cleaning latrines in Judea for the rest of his military career.

  Chapter 19

  NISSA CURLED INTO the farthest corner of Amit’s stall, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, her head burrowed in her cloak. The morning horns sounded the call to prayer. Even if she did call on the Lord now, if she could form words to ask for his protection, it was too late. He wouldn’t forgive this sin; it was too big, too much.

  She’d changed from her disguise, stumbled home, and hid in the corner of the lean-to. Through the evening, every step sounding outside their gate had paralyzed her with fear, and every voice made her heart jump, sure as she was that the temple guards were coming for her.

  Cedron had found her as darkness fell. She’d claimed illness, her stomach knotting in guilt as he knelt beside her, concern on his brow. “I’ll be better tomorrow.” But she wasn’t better; she’d never be better.

  Amit nuzzled her hair, his fuzzy lips nipping at her cheek. Her lips were cracked and dry and her throat swollen from unshed tears.

  Cedron stirred in the courtyard, calling her name. She answered back. Whatever she said must have satisfied him because she heard the gate close behind him. Amit nuzzled her more urgently. His water trough was empty, and he hadn’t been fed.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Amit.”

  She picked up the water jar and left the safety of the courtyard, wrapping her head covering tight around her hair. She shuffled down the dusty street. Cedron wouldn’t be back until afternoon, she knew. He’d be looking for the thieves. A shiver ran down her back, even as the sun heated the stones around her. Now Cedron had even more reason to find Mouse. But he wouldn’t because Mouse would never steal again.

  She climbed the steps up to the shimmering water. She wouldn’t bathe today. No amount of water, no matter how pristine, would wash away her guilt. No almsgiving would atone for her sin.

  At the edges of the pool, the clusters of women talked of the priest killed by a dark-haired Greek and a boy-thief—and in the holy temple. The reward for them was a king’s treasure.

  Nissa’s hands shook as she dipped her jar into the water. Surely someone would point to her. They would say, “She did it,” and she couldn’t deny it. She held her breath and raised her eyes, but no one was looking at her. No one knew the boy-thief was a woman—a desperate woman who only wanted to take enough to pay the rent.

  With her jar full and heavy, she hurried down the steps. She avoided looking at the wall where she and Dismas made the subtle mark to signal each other. Never again.

  She turned into the deserted streets of the tannery district. The silver coins Dismas had given her weighed heavy in her belt. She’d use them, but that was all. She’d starve on the streets o
r beg at the temple before she’d steal another brass coin. Somehow she and Cedron would find a way.

  A shadow darkened the cobbled stones in front of her. She veered around it, not even raising her head, but a hard hand clamped over her arm. She glanced up, the glare of the morning sun in her eyes. The hand bit into her arm and pulled her into a shadowed doorway. The face she saw took her breath away.

  She struggled. “Let go. Leave me alone.”

  Gestas flashed his pointy teeth in a feral smile. “So it is you, little Mouse. I thought so.

  She gasped and tried to jerk free, her heart hammering in her ears.

  “I was worried about you yesterday, and so I followed you home. Something . . .” He tapped his nose. “Something wasn’t right. I saw Mouse go into that little hideout, but I saw someone else come out, now, didn’t I?”

  She juggled the jar but lost her grip. It tumbled to the ground and broke, cold water spilling over her feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go.” But there was nowhere to go. Her back pressed against the solid door. She looked over his shoulder. Was there no one to help her? She pulled in a breath to scream for help.

  Gestas lunged forward and caught her chin in his hand. He wrenched her face up and to the side until pain shot through her jaw. Squeezing her neck in his other hand, he lifted her until only her toes touched the ground. “That might work on Dismas; he’s not the smartest Greek in Jerusalem. But don’t lie to me, Nissa.”

  She pulled in short, quick gasps of air as he squeezed her throat. Her vision began to blur. Would he kill her, right there in the street?

  “Yes. I know about you. I have to admit, I’m impressed. A girl-thief, and a good one.” He tightened his grip. “Now, will you agree we won’t waste time pretending you aren’t the Mouse?”

  Her lungs burned. She nodded tightly as her vision darkened.

  His released her, and she slumped against the wall, gasping for air.