Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  As he watched Ephraim walk away, something nagged at him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The man’s story checked out, and he appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary Jew. He certainly didn’t speak or act in any way odd that Marcus could think of, but for some reason he still didn’t quite trust him.

  Then, as he watched his men walking around the site, gathering shovels and clinking and clacking in the cobbled street, he realized what it was that bothered him about Ephraim: his walk. He didn’t walk like a peasant from the outer provinces. His back was too straight and his bearing too… authoritative. Even now, shuffling away, Marcus could barely hear him. The whole way to the house he made hardly a whisper of sound, as though he had long ago grown accustomed to sneaking around. Marcus recalled Gordian had said as much when Lurio first spotted him leaving the Damascus Gate.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the belief that Ephraim had told him the truth. Marcus knew how to read men; it was part of being a centurion, and he liked to think of himself as a good one. When he looked into the man’s face after nearly severing his head, he’d seen the truth of his words, however odd they seemed. Yet there was something in the back of his mind he couldn’t quite place. Not a lie, exactly, but somehow he doubted Ephraim had told him everything.

  “Centurion?” Taras asked, “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Taras looked down the street at their departing ex-prisoner. “You don’t trust him, do you?”

  Marcus shook his head, not the least bit surprised his friend had been able to read him so easily. “Do you?”

  “Not as far as I could throw him. Something about that man just isn’t right. He moves too quietly, too easily to be a simple peasant from Sepphoris.”

  Marcus nodded, glad he wasn’t the only one who thought so. “Did you find anything in his house?”

  “Nothing to indicate he is lying. Just some worn furniture and a few writing instruments: parchment, a quill pen, a personal seal, that sort of thing.” Taras held up the seal he’d taken from Ephraim’s desk; a dark piece of wood about five inches long and one inch in diameter. The steel tip bore a stylized E. “Nothing unusual.”

  Marcus looked at it. Taras was right. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, his unease bothered him. “Follow him, anyway. I want to know where he goes in the city before he comes home. If he tries to leave Jerusalem, arrest him. But be careful,” Marcus looked down the street to where he could just see the outline of Ephraim as he walked silently away. “There’s more to our friend than he shows.”

  Taras nodded and set off to follow, but then he stopped and turned back to face Marcus. “Centurion?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a request to make of you, sir.”

  “Of course. What is it, Taras?”

  Taras hesitated. He looked over his shoulder in the direction Ephraim had gone. He seemed unsure how to proceed. Finally he sighed and turned back to Marcus. “It will keep until later, sir. Tomorrow, morning, perhaps?”

  Taras was holding on to something, or perhaps he was letting go of something. Marcus knew his northern friend had been courting a Jewish maid of late. He also knew her father would never allow such a union. Marcus smiled, feeling true warmth for the first time since finding Didius's body in the street. He thought he had a good idea what Taras's request might be.

  “Very well, Taras. Tomorrow, then. After you give your morning report?”

  Taras nodded. “Thank you, sir.” Then he turned and sped down the street after Ephraim, making no more noise than Ephraim had. Marcus watched him go. He felt a stab of regret that he would soon be losing his closest friend. But if it meant Taras would get out of the Legion and spend the rest of his days in the country with a wife who adored him and a family, then he considered it a good thing. If Marcus had any brains, he would have long ago done the same.

  The sound of sandals on gravel reminded him there was work to do. He turned away from Taras's departing back and pointed to one of the legionaries. “You. Find my scribe. If he sleeps, wake him. Tell him I will meet him in my chambers in one hour’s time.” The legionary saluted and went to do as Marcus bid.

  “You,” Marcus pointed to a second man, “Find the undertaker and bring him here. This body must be moved and given a proper burial.” The second legionary saluted and sped off to find the undertaker.

  “And you,” Marcus said to a third, “You remain here and keep watch. I don't want anyone to disturb the body before the undertaker arrives.”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier replied.

  Marcus turned to the remainder of the gathered legionaries. “The rest of you men are dismissed. You may go about your business.”

  As the group dispersed, Marcus thought about his upcoming meeting with the scribe. Ephraim could not be trusted, that much was obvious. Yet despite these misgivings, Marcus knew in his heart Jesus was the cause of his brother’s death. He didn’t have any real evidence, but he wouldn’t need any. Not when the people had taken to calling Jesus the Messiah. He smiled as he walked away from Malachi’s body to meet with his scribe.

  “The son of God,” he mused. “No, Nazarene. I won’t need any evidence of your treachery to see you brought to justice. Not when you have provided so much else I can use to snare you.”

  He had a message for the Sanhedrin.

  Chapter Twelve

  A short while later, much too short for Marcus's liking, he found himself talking to a comely young woman and her oldest son as the three of them sat on thin cushions in a modest house in the Upper City. Their eyes grew bright with moisture as they listened to the news every soldier’s family fears will one day find them. The man of the house had been slain. Not just killed, but murdered in cold blood by those who sought to overthrow Rome though treachery and guile rather than honorable combat. The zealots made life difficult not only for the Romans and their families, but for all the law abiding people of Israel who only wished to live their lives in peace. Now they had taken something irreplaceable, not just from Marcus, but also from Adonia and her four children, the three youngest of which were currently playing in another room.

  “He was killed by a zealot named Malachi, a butcher who also followed Jesus of Nazareth.” Marcus said. “I believe the Nazarene is behind it. I've received reports that he’s trying to incite the Jews into an uprising. Didius…” he still had trouble saying his brother’s name out loud, “Didius didn’t do anything at all. He was only in the wrong place at the wrong time, and for that Malachi killed him.”

  “But I know Malachi, Marcus. He is not a zealot,” his sister-in-law said. Though her eyes were red and puffy, she had yet to break into tears. In looking at her face, however, Marcus knew she was close.

  “Yes he was, Adonia. You can never tell with them. They are masters of hiding and spineless warfare. Cowards, every one.”

  “But I’ve been to the Gardens on nights when Jesus was there, and I’ve heard him speak. He’s never said anything about rebellions and war. He talks about peace and forgiveness for your fellow man, and also of love for the Jews’ lone God.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Was Didius with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was Didius with you when you heard Jesus speak? Or Opilio?”

  “What difference could that make?”

  Opilio, fifteen years old and already wiser in the ways of politics than his mother could ever be, answered for him. “He doesn’t speak of rebellion in front of Romans, mother. He does so when only Jews are present. Is that what you are hinting at, Uncle Marcus?”

  Marcus nodded, proud of his nephew. “He knows when Roman soldiers are within hearing range. He has spies everywhere.”

  Adonia shook her head. “But why would they murder Didius? He was nowhere near the Gardens of Gethsemane last night.”

  Marcus sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “I believe Malachi wanted to get through the Middle Gate, and one of the soldiers questioned him. Malachi was large, strong, a
nd skilled with a blade. He was a butcher, after all. For that matter, he might have had friends with him who helped. Who can say for sure? Malachi is dead. I have seen the body. A pity, too. I would have liked to question him.”

  “I would have liked to help, Uncle.”

  Marcus looked at his nephew, startled by the harsh tone of his voice. Upon reflection, he realized he shouldn’t be too surprised. Opilio was a fine, strong young man. Passionate and honorable, just like Didius. In fact, he was the spitting image of his father. The boy’s voice carried not a trace of hysteria or depression, only a calm, smoldering anger. Marcus thoroughly approved of this; glad he didn’t have to worry about a reckless youth out for revenge. He’d lost a brother already; he didn’t plan on losing any more family to Jesus and his ilk. He nodded to Opilio, and returned his eyes to the patch of floor between his feet.

  “What of the other man?” Opilio asked. “Ephraim. Was he also involved, uncle?”

  “I can’t say. There is something he’s not telling me, that much is certain. But I have no idea if he is involved with the zealots or if he, like your father, was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I spoke to several people in the area, and they all confirm that he is new to the city. Several of them have told me they heard him say he was born in Sepphoris. Every one of them, however, feels there is something odd about the man.”

  “Are you having him watched?”

  “Of course I am having him watched. I was not made a Centurion because the uniform complements my appearance, Opilio.”

  The boy cringed, and right away Marcus felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but he wasn’t going to let a fifteen year old boy question his ability to do his job, no matter what dreadful news he’d brought. Confused and frustrated, his gaze slid back to the pale wood floor and he said nothing else.

  “So what happens now?” Adonia asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the three of them.

  Marcus looked up. “I am going to arrest the Nazarene tomorrow morning. The Sanhedrin will accompany me and they will present their case to Pilate. As it is, I have no evidence of Jesus's treachery. But the Sanhedrin will demand his execution based on the claims that he is the son of their God. The Prefect might be reluctant, but once I fill him in on my suspicions, he will go along with it willingly enough. He trusts my instincts, and as long as the temple priests are pressing for it, he won’t need evidence. Not even Tiberius would want Pilate to offend the Sanhedrin unnecessarily.”

  “So what will happen to him?” Opilio asked.

  “He will most likely be crucified.”

  Opilio nodded. “I want to be there.”

  “Of course. In fact, half the city will be there, I’m sure.”

  “No, uncle. I want to be close. I want to see the look on his face when they flog him. I want to smell his blood. I want to watch as the cross is raised and he realizes what his actions have cost him. I want to watch him die.”

  Marcus, stunned by the vehemence in his nephew’s voice, could only stare at the boy in silence as he tried to find a reason to tell him no. Less surprising was the realization he couldn’t think of a single one. Opilio deserved no less than what he asked for. Marcus had reluctantly presided over several crucifixions already, an unfortunate fact of his station, and he knew how unpleasant they could be for the spectators as well as the condemned. In this case, however, he thought he might enjoy the spectacle for a change. Opilio should have that opportunity, as well. Didius was his father, after all, and the Nazarene would die whether the boy was there to watch or not. “Very well, nephew. I’ll see to it you have a good spot.”

  “Marcus, no,” Adonia said. “He’s too young—”

  “Too young to have his father killed in such a cowardly fashion by enemies of Rome?” Marcus interrupted. “I agree, Adonia. I don’t like it, either, but the boy deserves justice, and I will not be the one to deny it to him.”

  Adonia lowered her eyes and nodded. Marcus's heart nearly broke when he saw the tears finally fall from her cheek to land on the floor. The news that her husband was murdered hadn't pulled the tears from her eye, but the idea of her son witnessing a crucifixion had done the job. He disliked having to hurt his sister-in-law like this, but he reminded himself that life sometimes hurts. There were times when the best you could hope for was to stand up and keep moving. That’s what Adonia needed to do now, and Opilio, too. If watching the execution of the man responsible his father's murder would grant the boy a measure of peace, then so be it. In any case, Marcus had only spoken the truth; Opilio deserved Justice. So did Adonia. So, too, did Marcus. He would not be swayed.

  “I must see to the other children,” Adonia whispered. She stood on shaky legs and walked to the next room, where Opilio’s younger siblings waited to learn the purpose of their uncle’s visit. Adonia pulled the door open, and for a brief instant Marcus saw the curious but worried face of little Prisca as she stared through the doorway. Ordinarily her pretty face would light up at the sight of her uncle, but not today. Today her jubilance seemed muted, subdued somehow, as though she already knew something was wrong even if she didn’t know what it could be. Marcus wanted to give her a reassuring smile to let her know everything would be all right, but he just couldn’t do it. The harsh truth of the matter was it wouldn’t be all right, perhaps never again, and Marcus knew it. Then the door closed and he was left alone with Opilio, who remained silent.

  He heard Adonia’s muffled voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but by the screeching of seven year old Prisca that followed, he figured she’d just been given the news of her father’s death. As the other two children joined in the sad chorus, Marcus felt his own eyes grow damp. He stood and paced through the small room, his anger boiling inside him like a cauldron. He hated this. Hated hurting his sister-in-law, hated having to tell her that the man she loved was dead. He hated having to show his young nephew the more brutal side of the Roman Legion. He hated hearing his nieces and nephews in the next room cry for their dead father. Most of all, he hated that his brother was gone, taken from him by a man who spoke so often of love and forgiveness in one breath while ordering the deaths of Roman citizens in the next.

  He looked at his nephew again, wanting to see how the boy would stand up to the sound of his siblings’ reactions and wanting, as well, to be ready to offer comfort if it was needed.

  Opilio’s eyes filled with tears. After a short time spent listening to the sound of his brother and sisters crying in the other room, he stood and ran through the front door. Marcus started to stop him, then thought better of it and let the boy go. Opilio would need time to sort through the emotions churning inside him. Marcus knew this because he had yet to sort through his own.

  Marcus had never seen the Nazarene, but as he stood in his dead brother’s house he pictured a hooded man standing in the Gardens spouting his treason to all who would listen, poisoning the souls of those foolish enough to heed him. He thought of the man telling the zealots to kill any legionaries they found alone; men with wives and children who only wanted to do their jobs and make the streets of Jerusalem safe for everyone.

  “May the gods damn you,” he said to the image in his mind. His fist clenched at his side, and the entire room took on a reddish cast as his rage built to a raging maelstrom inside him. He would catch the Nazarene, by the gods, and Opilio would get his wish. Marcus and his nephew would both watch as Jesus died, and if Marcus had his way, the Nazarene would die very, very slow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Taras followed Ephraim through the city, taking care to always stay just far enough behind to keep from being seen or heard. Taras was as skilled as anyone at threading his way silently through the shadows, his occupation as one of Rome’s elite secret killers demanded it, but even he could not help but be amazed by the stealth of his subject.

  Only a few hours ago, he would not have been able to move through the city streets without jostling and shoving his way through a never ending throng of peo
ple. Now, at this late hour, he found the city all but deserted. While the odd person could still be seen here and there, running through the city on whatever errand had him up and about in the wee hours, overall Taras and his quarry had the streets of Jerusalem all to themselves.

  Once Ephraim was far away from Marcus and the other soldiers, his odd shuffling gait ceased and he began to walk on the balls of his feet in absolute silence. In addition, he kept to the darker shadows on the sides of the city streets almost as if by habit. As though he’d learned long ago to stay hidden. More than once, Taras – a skilled tracker – thought he lost his quarry only to see him emerge from a shadow further down the street, leaving Taras hard pressed to catch up while maintaining his own silence. Taras could appreciate such skill, of course, but it only confirmed what Marcus suspected.

  Ephraim was dangerous. From what Taras could see, he was very dangerous.

  Where are you going, Ephraim? Taras had already determined the man’s path through the city was too direct to be the random wanderings of a man who simply needed to clear his head. As they passed through the Middle Gate, where Didius's blood still clung to the wall like rusty moss, the man paused to look at the stain. Taras could not quite make out Ephraim’s face in the darkness, but he had the impression the other was smiling. Then the man was off again, and Taras had to wonder if his feelings were legitimate or just the result of his suspicion.

  He soon realized Ephraim was heading in the direction of the Damascus Gate, and he recalled Marcus's order that the man not be allowed to leave the city. He’s off to warn Jesus, no doubt, Taras thought. He’s in league with him, I’ll wager. His anger started to boil. Jesus and his band of followers were turning out to be nothing but trouble. Cutthroats and brigands, every one of them. He prepared to arrest the fleeing zealot as he left the city, as Marcus ordered. Why did you really kill Malachi? Taras wondered. Not that he cared. Let them all kill each other. Rome, and Judea, would be far better without them.