Thief (9781451689112)

by Landsem, Stephanie

  She came up, gasping for air.

  Nissa waded out of the pool and filled her jar. Could she lie to him forever? Have his children, grow old with him, and keep this lie wedged between them? She was already a thief and a murderer. If she married this good man, this man who wanted to help her, could she live with herself?

  She dragged her feet down the steps and up the street. She stopped at the doorway where Gestas had threatened her and kicked at the broken shards of pottery on the ground. She was broken. Worthless.

  Why would Longinus want her? He couldn’t even answer that question.

  She plodded past the brothels, past the taverns. When she’d watched the priest die in front of her, she’d thought she’d plumbed the depths of disgrace. She’d thought she could go no lower. But she could. If she agreed to marry Longinus, she’d be so deep in the darkness that she’d never see light again.

  She reached her home and paused outside the gate. Could she sink that low? She pushed the gate open.

  Longinus sat on the stool in front of the fire, now stoked and crackling. His elbows rested on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. He jumped to his feet as she entered. His bearing, always so sure, was full of uncertainty.

  Nissa set the water jar beside the house. Longinus didn’t speak, and she was glad. Whatever he said, it wouldn’t change her mind, but it might make what she had to say harder.

  She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. She had to make him leave and never come back. He deserved nothing less, and so much more than her.

  She stood before him, her eyes on his freckled feet. “Get out.”

  He sucked in a breath like he’d been hit.

  She looked up at his stricken face and spit out the words, fast and cruel. “I could never marry you.”

  His face showed confusion. “You’d rather keep working there?” He motioned in the direction of the brothels.

  She swallowed hard. If that’s what it took to get him to leave. It was better than the truth. “Yes.” She looked him in the eye. He had to believe her. “I’d rather be a whore than your wife.” She almost choked on the words.

  His jaw hardened, and his body tensed. His throat worked convulsively.

  She dropped her gaze to his feet, unable to witness the pain in his face. She was just what her Abba had always called her: worthless. She deserved his hatred, his contempt, and nothing more.

  He walked stiffly across the courtyard, his back as straight as a spear, and wrenched open the gate. He didn’t turn, but his last words cut like a knife to her heart. “I just wanted to help you, Nissa.”

  He shut the gate with a soft thud and was gone, the tap of his sandals fading into the noise of the street.

  Nissa sank to the ground, burying her face in her knees. No one can help me now.

  LONGINUS BARGED THROUGH the streets, scarcely seeing the midmorning crowds scatter before him, barely feeling shoulders slap against him when a merchant or pilgrim failed to get out of his way fast enough. He saw only Nissa’s face, her look of loathing, like he was a leper. A fierce ache twisted through his gut.

  What had he been thinking, asking her to marry him? He’d been as surprised as she to hear those words come from his mouth. But while he’d waited for her to come back from Siloam, he’d almost convinced himself that it would work. She was a handful, but she’d never be dull. They could go to Gaul together, raise a family. And he had some kind of feelings for her. By Jupiter, he’d wasted the past month trying not to think about her! Wasted effort for a woman who would rather sell her body than marry him.

  I’m pathetic, an idiot. Thank the gods she said no.

  Longinus cursed through the lower city, past the Pool of Siloam, and up the Stepped Street. Remember who you are—and who your father was. His allegiance was to Caesar. Not to Nissa. Not to a Samaritan scholar or a Jewish healer. It was time to win the wager with Silvanus and to get out of this dung heap of a city and far away from Nissa.

  Part Three

  The Passover

  Chapter 21

  LONGINUS CAUGHT UP with Marcellus as the young legionary left the carcer. “Who’s guarding the Samaritan?” he said in Aramaic. They had to be careful. Silvanus had eyes and ears all over camp.

  “Petras. Don’t worry, we can trust him.” Marcellus answered him in the same language but more fluently, no doubt from the hours he’d spent playing tabulah with his prisoner. He stopped walking and surveyed Longinus from the top of his unkempt hair to the hem of his dingy tunic. “You look terrible.”

  Longinus grunted and ran a hand over his stubbled chin. As winter had warmed into spring, he had driven his men hard and himself harder, falling into bed each night aching with exhaustion. He’d lost weight, lost sleep, and lost more than a few practice bouts to Cornelius, but throbbing joints and aching muscles were nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He felt as though someone had cut out his heart with a dull sword.

  He’d done his duty. Kept his men miserable with extra training and drills, sent reports to Caesarea, and ensured that not a whisper of revolution drifted through the city without his knowledge. He’d looked for the thieves with every spare moment. Even rounded up and questioned the beggars at the temple.

  He had found nothing but dead ends—with the thieves, with Stephen, and with his search for the Jewish troublemaker. And no matter how hard he drove himself, he couldn’t expel thoughts of Nissa. He looked for her every time he rode through the city, both hoping and dreading that he might catch a glimpse of her small form.

  Longinus eyed the gate where Cornelius stood guard. Next week, Pilate and the rest of the legion would return for the Passover. His back was against the wall. “We can’t keep Stephen much longer.”

  Marcellus crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “You can’t crucify him.”

  “What else can I do? If I let him go and Silvanus finds out, he’ll tell Pilate. You know what they’ll do to me.”

  “What about Cedron?”

  “Cedron.” Longinus snorted. He’d kept a careful eye on Nissa’s worthless brother. The man spent more time with his bunch of would-be revolutionaries than he did asking questions about the thieves. As if the ragtag bunch of Zealots were any threat to Rome. “He couldn’t find a wolf in a sheepfold.”

  Marcellus let out a long breath. “Release him, today, before it’s too late.”

  “It’s already too late.”

  “I’ve kept it quiet. No one will talk.”

  Longinus ground his teeth together. A year ago, he’d relished the thought of crucifying Stephen. Three months ago, when he’d found him at the Pharisee’s house, he would have tied the crossbeam on himself. But now? Marcellus was right. He couldn’t order him crucified, not for defending a woman. And the bargain with Cedron had failed miserably, just like everything else he’d done in Jerusalem.

  He left Marcellus outside the latrine and went to the stable for Ferox. It was time to report to the Sanhedrin, as he had each week for the past two months. He’d rather muck out the stable with his own mess kit.

  He rode slowly to the temple, entered the Court of the Gentiles, and dismounted. He shouldered his way past the money-changing booths and the merchants selling lambs and pigeons. His breath caught as a slight woman in a soft green tunic and nut-brown hair darted in front of him. She turned, but her lips weren’t soft and full and her eyes were green instead of inky black. He growled under his breath and pushed past her.

  Don’t think of her.

  But he did. Every day. Every hour. And on some days, it seemed like every minute. Each time, his stomach twisted in sick knots. Since he’d carried her in his arms, felt her small body lean against his in what only could have been trust, he’d felt a connection with her, as strong as if they were bound together. He’d break it if he could; he just didn’t know how.

  What was she doing now? How many filthy men had she entertained since his outrageous proposal weeks ago? More than once, he’d found himself riding Ferox thro
ugh the squalid streets outside the brothels, loathing both her choice and his inability to forget her.

  His hands tightened on his vitis, and he pushed a slow-moving pilgrim aside. He was a Roman—a centurion, by the gods. Women lined up to be with him. She was plain, poor, worthless. He had offered her all he had, and she’d thrown it in his face.

  Face it, centurion. She’d rather be a whore than marry you. Forget her.

  He reached the entrance to the Stone Court, where the Sanhedrin convened, but instead of a dour assembly of priests and Pharisees, he entered into chaos.

  Men and women jammed the enclosure, their voices buzzing, hands gesturing wildly. Some were city dwellers, but many were dressed in the rough garments of farmers and shepherds. The linen-clad priests and Pharisees huddled near the front, their faces creased with worry.

  What had riled them this time? The drought again? Or maybe their constant harping against the taxes levied by Caesar? Longinus elbowed his way into the shade of a wide column and caught the eye of a well-dressed, portly Jew. “What are they talking about?”

  The man licked his lips nervously. “A man in Bethany named Lazarus. They say he was raised from the dead.”

  Longinus took off his helmet. Perhaps he’d misunderstood the man’s Aramaic. “Raised from the dead? Who says it?”

  The man gestured to a group that looked like farmers. “Men from Bethany. They say they saw it themselves. The Galilean raised a man from the dead.”

  Longinus strode to the men from Bethany and grabbed one by the shoulder, pulling him around. “What Galilean? Jesus?”

  The man cringed, his eyes flicking from Longinus’s face to the vitis in his hand, but he nodded. “We saw him come out of the tomb four days after his death.”

  A shiver raised bumps on Longinus’s arms and down his back. Jesus raised a man from the dead? After four days? Longinus edged along the shadowed portico, moving closer to the men gathered at the front.

  One of the priests was speaking, his back to Longinus. “What are we to do? The ignorant country rabble thinks this man is the Messiah. They believe in his trickery. If he comes here, if they declare him the Messiah, there will be chaos, and the Romans will destroy us.”

  Caiaphas stepped onto the raised platform at the front of the court. His voice dropped as the other priests huddled around him. “We cannot let this happen. It is better one man should die for the people than the whole nation perish.”

  Longinus pressed his back against the cold column. One man should die for the nation? What were they planning?

  The first priest nodded. “Caiaphas is right. If we let him go on like this, the Romans will think we are revolting.”

  Caiaphas motioned to a scribe. “Send out an order to the people. If anyone sees the Galilean, they are to report it to the temple guard, and we will deal with him ourselves.”

  Longinus pushed his way back to Ferox. Arrest Jesus? And then what? Did they think they could sentence him to death? Who did these Jews think they were? He’d decide whether this Jesus was a threat, not these pompous priests.

  He wove through the columns and back toward the Court of the Gentiles. He was done coming at the command of the Sanhedrin. I’ll talk to Pilate. But he’d keep the story of Lazarus to himself. Pilate was a superstitious man; there was no telling what he might do if he heard Jesus had raised the dead.

  He swung into the saddle. One thing he knew. Jesus must stay out of the city, at least until Passover was over. He circled Ferox toward the gates and spurred him forward. He’d send word to Jesus, a warning not to come into the city. It must come from someone Jesus would trust. And he knew just the man for the job.

  LONGINUS CLATTERED DOWN the steps of the carcer and pushed open the cell door. Marcellus sat on one side of a tiny table; Stephen leaned over the other.

  “You’ve won again.” Marcellus placed the last ivory piece on the tabulah board. They both looked up at him as the door creaked.

  “Marcellus. Leave us.”

  The legionary jumped up and left the room.

  Longinus pushed the door shut behind Marcellus and regarded his prisoner. “You need to go. Warn Jesus the Sanhedrin has put out a call to find him and bring him in. Tell him . . .” He blew out his breath. “Tell him not to come to Jerusalem.”

  Stephen’s face creased in surprise. “You’re releasing me? What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  Stephen raised his brows. “You want to talk to him; don’t deny it. You’ve been after me about him for months.”

  Longinus scowled. “I just want to keep the peace.” But Stephen was right. He wanted to meet the man. Now more than ever. But it was too dangerous with the Sanhedrin calling for his death. “Keep him out of the city. He won’t be killed by your people, and he won’t be any threat to mine.” Longinus gathered Stephen’s cloak and shoved it at him. “Tell him that. If he has any sense, he’ll stay out of the city.”

  Longinus took a deep breath and eyed his prisoner. Time to say good-bye to the man he had vowed to kill. If the gods were on his side, no one would know about the Samaritan who had spent the last months in the carcer.

  He opened the door. Where is that blasted Marcellus? Once again, not guarding the door.

  The clatter of sandals on the stairs, and Marcellus rushed in, breathless. “Riders coming through the gate. They’ll be here in moments.” He shut the door behind him.

  Alarm quickened Longinus’s pulse. “Riders? Who?”

  Marcellus’s eyes slid to Stephen. “Silvanus and six men. He’s got a prisoner; he’ll be coming here.”

  Longinus ground his teeth. It was too late. There was only one door out of the carcer, and Silvanus would be at it before they could get Stephen past him. When Silvanus saw Stephen, he’d know he was the man Longinus had been looking for in Galilee, the one he’d twice lost. The scar would be all the proof Silvanus needed, and there would be a crucifixion by first light tomorrow.

  Marcellus pushed them back into the cell and shut the door behind him. He unbuckled his Roman sandals and tossed them to Stephen. “Put those on.”

  Longinus watched Marcellus unclasp his cloak and pull off his helmet. What was his optio doing?

  Marcellus shoved his cloak and helmet at Stephen.

  Stephen waited, his eyes on Longinus, his hands full of Roman gear.

  Longinus turned to Marcellus. “You’re sure about this?”

  Marcellus put a hand at the keys on his belt and nodded. “I’m the optio ad carcerem. My word is law here.”

  Stephen buckled the sandals and fitted the helmet over his head. It covered most of his face and all of his scar. It would do—as long as no one got too close. Silvanus’s unmistakable growl and the smack of a vitis on flesh sounded from outside the window. Longinus raised his brows to his optio. What now?

  “Don’t worry, I’ll slow Silvanus down. You get Stephen out the gate.” Marcellus opened the door and rushed up the stairs.

  Longinus took a deep breath and counted to ten. He heard Silvanus bark at Marcellus. They didn’t have much time. He motioned Stephen out the door, shut it behind them, and marched up the stairs at a brisk pace.

  They marched out of the building, heads high and eyes on the Praetorian gate. Silvanus, his back to them, stood just ten paces away with several legionaries and a bound prisoner. Marcellus talked fast and loud. Silvanus answered in a growl, but Longinus didn’t stop to listen. He glanced sideways at Stephen and increased their pace. No shouts stopped them as they strode toward the gate. Another few steps and they were in the agora, surrounded by Jews who didn’t give them a second glance.

  Longinus let out his held breath and turned to the man he’d sworn to crucify. He had no love for the man. If anything, he’d be glad never to see his face again. But he couldn’t kill him, not anymore.

  So this is what it feels like to be a traitor to Rome. Surely Scipio wouldn’t have done this, nor his father. Then why does it feel like the only thing I’ve done right since I came to
this cursed city?

  Stephen reached up to remove his helmet.

  Longinus stopped him with a raised hand. “Keep it on until you get back to Joseph’s.” Cornelius could be watching them right now. “Then get out of the city. Find Jesus, and make sure he knows not to come here for Passover.”

  Stephen frowned. “I’ll tell him. But he’ll do what he came to do, no matter the cost.”

  Then the Samaritan did something that left Longinus speechless. Stephen embraced him and kissed him on the cheek, as Jews do with their friends and brothers. The kiss of peace, they called it.

  “Shalom, my friend,” Stephen said, “and be ready. The revolution is coming.” He turned away and disappeared into the crowded marketplace.

  Longinus stared after him. That irritating Samaritan couldn’t leave without one last riddle. Peace, he’d said. And revolution. How could there be both?

  Chapter 22

  LONGINUS SWEPT PAST the legionaries assembled in the open courtyard. Armor was polished to a shine, tunics were clean, even their mess kits were sparkling. Silvanus would have nothing to complain about when he inspected the camp.

  He’d managed to avoid Silvanus yesterday after Stephen made it out of the camp, but now it was time to face the senior centurion. He stopped in front of the principia, where Silvanus leaned against the wall, one cheek bulging with his morning bread and a cup of wine in his hand. Cornelius smirked beside him.

  Silvanus waved his free hand toward the carcer. “Heard you had a prisoner,” he said around the mouthful. “A Samaritan.”

  Longinus tensed and glanced at Cornelius. Keeping a secret for a day in the camp was hard; for months, impossible. “Had.”

  Silvanus tore another piece of bread from the loaf in his hand and stuffed it in his mouth. “Where is he?”