by David McAfee
Chapter Seven
That night, while Marcus stormed his way through the barracks demanding to know who was the last to see his brother alive and where they’d been, a dark shadow broke from the doorway of an innocuous-looking house and made its way to the Damascus Gate. Theron didn’t know of Marcus's rage, nor did he realize one of the soldiers he’d killed was the younger brother of the centurion. Simon could have told him, but Theron had walked by the clerk’s desk without saying a word. Simon, still miffed by Theron’s earlier treatment of him, hadn’t acknowledged him, either.
In truth, he would not have cared. Another dead human was another dead human as far as he was concerned. The only real shame of the encounter was that Theron couldn’t drain the bodies, or even hide them as he did Malachi and Ephraim. He’d been too long into the night to take the time to cover up his deed.
He threaded his way through the crowds of people, mostly Jews visiting with family for the Holy Week, and shoved and jostled his way to the Damascus Gate. The sheer numbers of the Jewish faithful who found their way to Jerusalem each year staggered him. Even at this late hour, a horde of sweaty, noisy people choked the streets. Most were on their way to wherever they would spend the night. Two or three hours after the sun went down the streets of Jerusalem would be all but deserted, which suited him just fine.
The swell of people ebbed and flowed around him. Hundreds of them. Thousands, even. All of them moving, talking, and bustling about and generally getting in the way of the soldiers who worked so hard to keep order in the city. A myriad of colors swirled around him as people, some bedecked in finery and some not, faded into and out of his view only to be replaced by more of the same. And the noise! The maddening din of the crowd reminded him of the neverending rumble of ocean on the rocky coast of Spain; one long, loud noise, all the individual sounds and voices lost in the general morass. The musky smell of so many bodies packed so close together stung his sensitive nostrils, spurring him toward the gate in an effort to free himself from the masses as soon as possible.
As he walked past the overworked and irritable guards at the Damascus Gate, he overheard snippets of a whispered conversation between two who stood off to the side. No doubt they thought their voices low enough to ensure their conversation remained secret, and to their credit, no human would have overheard them. To Theron’s hypersensitive ears, however, their words came as clear as though he stood right next to them.
“…the centurion is furious.”
“I heard it was the zealots.”
“Of course it was the zealots. Who else would it be?”
“I’ve never known a zealot who could rip off a man’s head, have you? That’s not a human, that’s an animal.”
“You think a wild, dangerous animal is running loose in the streets of Jerusalem? How could something like that go unnoticed?”
“I’m just saying…”
Theron missed the other man’s answer because he had moved on by that point. The two soldiers, for their part, didn’t even glance at him. Their primary concern was to guard entry through the gates, not to prevent people from leaving, at least not when no alarm had been raised in the city. Since Theron wasn’t doing anything more suspicious than walking about in the early evening, the guards let him be. Theron, for his part, didn’t care much either way, although he was glad he’d listened to their conversation.
So the ruse worked. The centurion thinks it was the zealots. Perfect. He smiled and wondered whom the zealots would blame. As he left the city and began his walk to the Mount of Olives, where Jesus was said to be staying in the Gardens of Gethsemane, he realized it didn’t matter. Tonight will be the last night you draw breath, rabbi, he promised. So intent was he on his goal that it never occurred to him he’d been walking with his habitual silent tread. Likewise he didn’t notice the slight breeze that ruffled his clothing.
If he’d been paying more attention, he would have noticed as one of the guards, one of those not involved in the conversation at the gate, left his post and ran back into the city.
* * *
“I didn’t think you would be able to come tonight,” Mary said as Taras walked to her front gate. “With the death of the two soldiers this morning, I thought you would be very busy.”
“I am never too busy to see you,” Taras whispered, careful not to let anyone overhear his words. He longed to reach over and take her in his arms, to kiss her as he’d done last night. More than that, he wanted to pick her up and carry her into the house behind them, up the stairs and into the master bedchamber. But of course he could not.
Unlike their rendezvous in the alley the previous night, this time they had met in a public place. They stood surrounded by people, most of them Jews, coming and going as they were all over the city. Far too many would see them, especially if they engaged in any illicit activities. For now, he was just a soldier speaking to the lady of the house in her father’s absence. Nothing at all suspicious there, considering her father happened to be one of the more prosperous merchants in the city. But one touch, one overheard word, would change all that. He dared not even hold her hand, although he could not suppress a smile as he noticed the familiar gold and ruby ring on her finger.
“What did your father say when he saw that?” Taras asked.
“Nothing.”
“He didn’t care?” Taras found the notion difficult to believe.
“He hasn’t seen it,” she said. “I hid it in my dress until he left for Bethlehem.” She looked away, her cheeks reddening. “I couldn’t let him see it, yet I couldn’t bear to be without it.”
The smile on Taras's face grew.
“Is it true what they say?” Mary asked, switching topics. “Was the wrong man arrested for that horrible crime?”
“How did you—?”
“My father is wealthy, remember?” She smiled, “We hear much from our sources in the Upper City.”
“Did your sources happen to say who the real killer is?”
“So it is true,” she replied. “How could Pilate do such a thing?”
“Pontius Pilate is charged, by Tiberius himself, with keeping peace in Jerusalem. He will do so at any cost.”
“Even if that cost is the life of an innocent man?”
“One man, compared to how many others? If the zealots thought Pilate’s resolve was slipping, how many others would die?”
Mary looked away, her shoulders slumped. After a moment she nodded her understanding. Taras's heart ached to see her so upset.
“It still doesn’t seem right,” she said. “Maybe you could talk to him.”
“Pilate won’t listen to me, but he will listen to Marcus. The baker would be set free if Marcus could bring him the real killer before the execution. You can help him, if you know something. Did your father’s contacts name the killer?”
“No. At least not to me.”
“Your father, then?”
Mary sighed. “I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me everything.” She turned her neck to face her large, well apportioned house. “He tries very hard to protect me.”
“A smart choice,” Taras replied. “If Pilate thought your father knew anything, they would not hesitate to arrest him. And if he thought you knew something…” he trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“I know,” she replied, turning back to face him. “It is a hard world we live in, legionary.” She favored him with a wan smile.
“No, not a hard world, Mary. Just a hard city,” he said. “Most of the world is softer, much more forgiving.” He thought of Rome as he spoke. Not the city proper, which could be just as dangerous as Jerusalem, but of the outlying countryside: the vineyards and olive orchards, the endless expanses of fertile green farmlands, and the peaceful fields where cows and horses spent their day leisurely cropping the grass. Taras pictured the small farmhouses where families some four and five generations deep dwelled, as they had since time out of mind. He’d passed through such places many times in his service to Rome, a
nd more than once he thought it would be nice to retire there. Find a woman, raise a family. Maybe plant a small vineyard of his own, which his children could help tend. His family would produce the best wine in the Roman Empire, favored by the Caesar himself.
It was a beautiful dream, and he longed to share it with her. If only the laws of the Jews would bend. Taras thought again of sneaking into the Temple at night to pay Caiphas a visit, wondering what he would have to do to win the old man’s consent.
“Why do you look so hard, Taras?” Mary asked. “The look on your face could grind wheat.”
“It’s nothing. I—” Taras stopped, struck by a sudden thought; while it was certainly true they could never gain permission to marry in Jerusalem, Rome had no such law.
I wonder…
The idea was just beginning to take shape in his mind when a shout from down the street drew his attention.
“Taras! There you are. By the gods, I’ve been looking all over the city for you.”
Taras jumped, and abruptly stepped back from Mary; to whom he’d been unintentionally leaning a little too close as his thoughts progressed. Snapping his mind back to the present, he turned to see Gordian running up to him. Taras flashed the senior officer a fast salute.
“Yes, sir?”
Gordian took a moment to catch his breath, then he nodded to Mary. “Pardon the interruption, Lady,” he said. Then he turned to Taras. “You must come with me. It’s urgent. Centurion’s business. I will explain on the way.”
“Of course,” Taras replied. He turned to Mary “If you will excuse me, Lady?”
“Certainly,” she replied. “I should be going inside to check on the house and make sure it is ready for Passover.” She turned to Gordian. “Good evening,” she said, and went back into the house.
When she was gone, Taras fell into step beside Gordian and followed him to the Damascus Gate.
“Continuing to see her is dangerous, Taras,” Gordian observed. “Her father is a ruthless man. He would not hesitate to have you killed if he ever came to suspect.”
Taras nodded his agreement. Gordian wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Thankfully, the man didn’t push the issue. Taras didn’t want to explain himself or his plan to the Centurion’s Second before he had the opportunity to talk to Marcus himself.
They walked in silence for a short while, but finally Taras could stand it no longer. “So what is this about, Gordian?”
“The killer,” Gordian replied, smiling. “We may have found him.”
Taras stopped in his tracks. “Already?”
Gordian nodded. “I believe so,” he said, but didn’t stop. Taras was forced to run in order to catch up with him.
Taras thought of his good friend Marcus, and the pain in his eyes as he told Taras the news of Didius's murder that morning. Didius was a fine young man, and a good soldier. His wife, Adonia, was nothing short of beautiful and their three children likewise. Didius's death was a blow to everyone, including Taras. Could they really have found his killer in only a day?
Gods, he hoped so. He smiled as he ran alongside Gordian to the Damascus Gate, thinking of the many ways he would repay the unfortunate zealot for his treacherous act.
* * *
Marcus sat alone in his private chambers, cradling his head in his hands and nursing a headache that threatened to render him unconscious. He’d spent the ten hours since the morning’s grisly discovery questioning each and every soldier under his command, and more than a few who were not. No one had seen anything unusual. Claudius had very few friends, and although Didius was well-liked among the other soldiers, no one had seen or heard from him for several hours before the discovery of his body. The men on patrol were supposed to check in with each other frequently throughout the night due to the recent increase in zealot activity in the city, but they’d been lax. The last time anyone could recall seeing either of the two men alive was at least three hours before their bodies were found, possibly as many as five.
That left plenty of time for someone to come in, kill the two soldiers, and leave. It also left plenty of time for some of the city’s more dissident residents to rob and abuse the bodies. Marcus recalled the dirty footprints on his brother’s face. His fist clenched and the muscles in his jaw tightened to the point where he thought his teeth might break. If I ever find the person who kicked Didius's head around the street I will personally strap them into the rack. I will make their loved ones watch while I stretch them out for weeks.
He sat with his elbows on the desk and enjoyed a brief fantasy of making the mystery kicker scream while he pulled the handle as slowly as he could, one notch at a time, until his voice grew too hoarse to scream. A grim smile spread across his face, but it didn't last long. A few moments into the daydream a loud and urgent knock shattered the morose silence of his chamber.
“Centurion,” came his Second’s voice through the door, barely audible above the pounding.
“Leave me alone, Gordian.” Marcus had to raise his own voice to be heard. “I already told you I have no desire to drink tonight.”
“Centurion, please. I have news. A stranger was spotted leaving the Damascus Gate.”
“Many strangers have left the city tonight, Gordian.” He’d left orders at every gate to report anyone leaving at night that looked like they didn’t belong. Unfortunately, that description was ambiguous at best. He’d been inundated with reports of suspicious people leaving the city all night long. From the Damascus Gate alone he received twenty different reports in the first two hours. Marcus had already chalked the order up as a fool’s errand, especially with the multitude of people going in and out of the city for Passover. “This cursed city is full of strangers who want to leave, and I don’t blame them.”
“This one is different, Centurion.”
“How?”
“The guard said the man made no sound at all upon leaving, for one thing. Stealthy, like an assassin.”
Marcus lifted his head from his hands and stared at the door. A man would have to be extremely quiet to kill two Roman legionaries and not alert anyone in the vicinity. Very few people could walk the cobbled streets of Jerusalem, or any city in Judea for that matter, without making any sound at all. Such a skill was beyond most people, and few would train in it. The purpose of such movement is stealth, and the purpose of stealth is to not get caught or to surprise someone. Someone like a soldier standing guard at the Middle Gate, perhaps? Gordian was right, this was different.
“Centurion? Are you there?”
Of course I’m here. Where else would I be? Marcus stood and walked to the door. He unbolted the latch and admitted his Second into his chambers. “Sit down.” He pointed to the chair opposite his own on the other side of his desk. After Gordian took his seat, Marcus followed suit. He leaned forward over the desk, his face only a foot from the other man’s. He didn’t want to miss a thing Gordian said. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes, sir. The man had a sword.”
“Lots of men have swords.”
“But how many try to hide it? The guard at the gate would never have known about the sword at all if a slight breeze hadn’t blown the stranger’s cloak up just enough to reveal a brief flash of the hilt. Also, the man dressed like a peasant, in coarse, dirty clothes, yet the sword had several jewels in it. Lastly, how many men wear sandals with tiny spatters of blood on them.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, digesting the news. Well, now. That is interesting. Several bloody footprints had been found in the street surrounding the bodies that morning, indicating the killer must have stepped through the gore while it was still wet. Marcus would have cleaned his sandals first thing, but not everyone would think to do so, and it would be easy to overlook a spot or two.
Still, it proved nothing. The man could have been a shepherd after slaughter. Jerusalem was in the middle of Passover, after all, and lambs were being killed by the dozen. Even so, it was the closest he’d gotten all day, and after hours
and hours of interrogating his own men with nothing to show for it Marcus wasn’t about to let this lead, small as it might be, slip away. “Who reported this?”
“Lurio, sir.”
“Where is Lurio now?”
“I sent him back to the Damascus Gate to continue the watch. There are only a handful of men stationed there, and it would not do for—”
“Yes, yes, Gordian. I’m aware of the reasons we need a guard.”
Marcus toyed with his Centurion’s Seal while he thought about his next course of action. “Have the man followed. I want to know where he goes tonight. Send Taras, I don’t want this stranger to know he’s being observed.”
“It is already done, Centurion. Taras left the Damascus Gate half an hour ago.”
“You sent Taras after the man without consulting me first?”
“My apologies, sir,” Gordian offered. “Time was of the essence, I knew you would want the stranger followed, and who better to do so than Taras?”
Marcus mulled it over. Gordian was right. He did want the stranger followed, and they would have lost too much time if Gordian had come to the barracks to get orders from Marcus. One of the reasons he chose Gordian as his Second was the man’s ability to think on his feet and act accordingly. Once again he’d proven himself a good choice. “Good. Very good. Thank you, Gordian. You may go.”
Gordian stood and walked to the door, he was just about to close it when Marcus thought of one last question. “Wait.”
Gordian poked his head back into the room. “Yes, Centurion?”
“Which direction did the stranger go?”
“West, toward the Mount of Olives.”
“Probably going to the Gardens of Gethsemane,” Marcus mused. “Isn’t that where the rabbi from Galilee is staying? What’s his name?”
“Jesus, sir?”
“That’s the one. Is he staying at the Gardens?”
“I believe he is staying with some of his followers in Bethany, but he can often be found in the Gardens, preaching to any who will listen.”
