by David McAfee
Judas watched, wide-eyed, as the small bag flew through the air. He made no attempt to catch it as it sailed toward him and landed on the ground by at his feet with a metallic clink, spilling silver pieces in the dirt and on his sandals. Judas’s face tightened. He didn’t look like a man who’d just been given thirty silver pieces; he looked horrified. He stared at the coins lying on the ground with an expression of fear and loathing. Then, with a sigh, Judas bent over to pick up the money. The tears in the man’s eyes surprised the legionary.
Epidius turned to look at the Damascus Gate. One of the guards had noticed him and was running his direction. Good, I can get some help. He turned back to Judas, but the man had already walked away. Epidius stared at his back as it grew smaller and smaller. He could swear the man’s shoulders bobbed up and down, like a child overcome by sobs. He watched for several minutes until the strange man disappeared around a bend in the road. Good riddance, he thought. Now to get Taras to the city, and the sooner the better. He would be glad to get off this road and back behind the gate.
Since setting Taras down and catching his breath, Epidius had the odd sensation he was being watched from the brush. The feeling raised gooseflesh on his arms and made him uneasy. He attributed it to a soldier’s sixth sense, an animal instinct that kept men alive in the field. He’d thought it must be because of Judas, but now Judas was gone, and he hadn’t made a single move toward Epidius or his fallen comrade. Yet the feeling persisted. He spat on the ground where Judas’s footprints lingered, and chalked it up to nerves.
Jews. He shivered, rubbing his hands on his arms to calm his screaming nerve endings. The gods take them all. He turned to meet his fellow legionary, who was now only twenty or so feet away. “This is Taras, he’s a legionary under Marcus,” he said, pointing at the prone soldier. “He’s alive, but only just. Help me get him to the infirmary.”
The guard said nothing, just grabbed hold of Taras's legs behind the knees, circling his arms around and underneath them. Epidius snaked his arms under Taras's shoulders and hefted him off the ground. Together, the two legionaries carried their fallen comrade back into the city.
* * *
From his hiding place behind a stand of acacia trees, Gordian watched the two soldiers carry Taras away with a mixture of relief and triumph. Until the other soldier arrived, he’d thought he would have to send a message to the guards himself. Octavius had taken too much out of Taras. Or perhaps Taras was not as strong as he thought. Either way, until Epidius had come along, Gordian thought Taras would die before he could speak to Marcus, and that was no good.
No fear of that now. Taras would make it to the infirmary, and Marcus would most certainly visit him there without delay. Gordian smiled. Taras would tell Marcus it was Jesus who’d had him tortured, and then he would also tell him the Nazarene planned an open rebellion against Rome. Those two charges would ensure the centurion’s swift departure for the Gardens of Gethsemane and seal the rabbi’s fate. Gordian’s only worry was Marcus would be so enraged by what he heard that he might execute Jesus on sight, rather than waiting for Pilate to give the order. It was a risk, but not much of one. Marcus had spent his whole life in the military; he knew how to follow orders. Iron discipline would keep his sword in check. And if it didn’t, then so what? Jesus would die, anyway. Sooner was just as good as later as far as Gordian was concerned. In fact, sooner would be better for him, because his brother would get what he wanted early, and thus Gordian’s new life could start sooner than expected.
He would have to kill Taras, of course. He couldn’t let anyone know about the tunnels below the fields. The door was hidden in such a way that, unless you knew it was there, you would never find it. If Taras tried to backtrack, he might be able to remember the door’s location. Gordian couldn’t have that. His brother would not like his secret halls revealed to the Roman Legion, or anyone else for that matter. He would have to sneak back into the barracks after Marcus left. Marcus would, no doubt, issue an order for his arrest once Taras told his story, so getting into the barracks to kill him and then getting back out again would be tricky, but Gordian thought he could manage it.
He knew of an underground passage into Jerusalem. The zealots would have paid handsomely for such knowledge, but he’d kept it secret just in case he ever needed it. It would lead him under the city wall and right up to the floor of the barracks. Originally designed as an escape route in the early days of Rome’s occupation of Israel, it had never been used. Through the years, and over many changes of personnel, its existence had been forgotten. Gordian had learned of it from his brother, but gods knew where his brother had acquired such an intricate knowledge of a complex built long before either of them was born. Probably from someone on the Council.
A seldom used storage room just down the hall from the infirmary hid the tunnel’s entrance, and since Taras would no doubt be in the infirmary soon, Gordian felt sure his errand tonight would not take long. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the gift he would receive when he finished. Then he turned from the city and walked the three or so miles back to the door hidden in the dirt from which he and Taras had exited the tunnels.
Once there, he pushed his way through the door and headed down the halls to a chamber lined with fresh straw. He lay down in the soft, warm straw and tried to get some rest, knowing he would need it for the busy night ahead.
Chapter Nineteen
“Centurion!” The shout brought with it the urgent sound of sandaled feet pounding through the hall. “Centurion! Come quick!”
Marcus cringed in his chamber. He knew from past experience the sound of running feet through the barracks accompanied by shouts of ‘Centurion! Centurion!’ never boded well. It usually meant he had to buckle on his sword and armor in a hurry and deal with some catastrophe or another. Today of all days he didn’t need yet another distraction, especially since he was already very late for his meeting with the Sanhedrin. It sounded like he would be later still.
He flung his door open just as a sweaty, out-of-breath legionary raised his fist to pound on it. “What is it?” Marcus asked. “Are the Sanhedrin here?”
“No, Centurion. We found Taras.”
Nothing could have made Marcus happier. At last! Now we can get on with this. “Excellent. Where is he?” Marcus was already buckling on his sword, ready for the walk to the Gardens of Gethsemane to arrest the man responsible for his brother’s death.
“He’s in the infirmary, Centurion. He’s badly injured.”
“The infirmary?” Marcus stopped midstride to turn and look at the messenger. He recognized him as a new recruit serving under Gavros. His mind scrambled for the man’s name. “It’s Epidius, isn’t it? What do you mean he’s injured? How badly? What happened to him?”
“I don’t know, sir. He was unconscious when I found him outside the city, and he hasn’t said much since. He keeps repeating your name, as well as that of some rabbi. Jesus, I think. But that’s all we can get out of him. He’s very weak. I’m not certain, but he appears to have been tortured.”
“Tortured?” Marcus's breath caught in his throat. He narrowed his eyes at the young soldier. “By who? Who would dare?”
Epidius paled. “I don’t know, sir. There wasn’t time to—”
“Never mind,” Marcus interrupted, shoving past him. “I’ll find out myself.” He took to the halls at a dead run, not caring if anyone stepped in his path. About that he needn’t have worried; any legionaries in the corridor who saw his face promptly made room for him to pass, and those who didn’t were shoved aside as he passed by. None complained, of course. It was common knowledge among the men that further angering an already enraged centurion was not healthy.
Marcus stormed into the infirmary just as Justus, the physician, laid Taras on a raised platform to examine him. Justus was a small man, barely topping five and a half feet. His bald pate was bordered by the wild remains of his graying hair, which framed his ears in a tangled mass of tight curls. His faded blue ey
es stared out from a mass of crow’s feet and remained fixed on his patient as Marcus entered the room.
Without waiting for an invitation, Marcus walked right up to the platform and looked at his friend. His hands balled into fists at the sight of the legionary’s dry, cracked lips and sunken eyes. “Taras, can you hear me?”
“He’s not conscious, Centurion,” the physician began. “He’s hurt very badly. You should leave now while I—”
Marcus's gloved fist interrupted the doctor’s admonition when it connected squarely with his jaw, sending him to the floor with a crash. The physician lay sprawled on the stone looking up at Marcus in stunned surprise.
“I didn’t ask your opinion, Justus,” Marcus growled. “Leave us. Now.” Like most Romans, Marcus had little faith in doctors and medicine, viewing them as nothing more than charlatans who would as soon steal your coins as do anything useful to help you. The only reason Marcus suffered the physician’s presence at all was because Tiberius, ever enamored of all things new and fashionable, had taken a liking to the “art” of medicine and ordered a physician to accompany all the troops of the Legion. But Tiberius wasn’t here, and Marcus wanted the diminutive physician to know without doubt just who ran the barracks.
Justus apparently had no illusions about who was in charge. He scrambled to his feet and ran out of the infirmary, clutching his jaw in his hand and not looking back. I probably broke his jaw, Marcus thought. He’d be hearing about that from Pilate before the day was out. Marcus would deal with that when he had to. For now he had something much more important to attend to. He looked again at his fallen friend, who appeared as though he was already dead. Marcus examined the wide red welts around Taras's wrists and ankles. He’d been in the military long enough to know what that meant; someone had strapped Taras to the rack.
The thought turned his vision red as he tried to imagine who in the city would dare torture a Roman soldier. By the gods, whoever it was had made a huge mistake. Pilate would have no qualms about executing someone who treated his legionaries with such malice. That is, if I let the bastard live long enough for Pilate to put him on trial, Marcus thought.
He touched his hand to Taras's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Taras, can you hear me?”
At first Marcus feared the physician had been correct. Taras was unconscious and unable to give him the answers he needed. But then his eyes fluttered open a crack, and he looked up at the centurion.
“Mary?” Taras whispered, so softly Marcus almost could not hear the words. “Is that you, Mary?”
“No, Taras. It’s me. Marcus.”
“Marcus?” At first he seemed confused, but then a flash of recognition lit his features “Marcus!” Taras's eyes flew wide open and he tried to sit up, but he only rose halfway from the bed before he fell backward with a grunt of pain.
“Lie still,” Marcus said. “I can barely hear you, Taras.”
“Thirsty… so thirsty.”
Marcus reached for his flask. He popped the top off and poured some of his water into his friend’s mouth. Taras took several large swallows, and Marcus pulled the flask away, fearing his friend would cramp up if he drank too much. “Better?” he asked.
Taras nodded, and even managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“Who did this to you?”
“It was Gordian.”
“Gordian? My Second?”
“He’s not your Second anymore, Marcus.” Taras shook his head feebly. “He’s aligned himself with Jesus of Nazareth, and they are plotting to overthrow Rome in Israel. I heard the Nazarene talking about it. He plans to kill you. He—” Taras was cut off as another soldier entered the infirmary.
“Centurion?”
Marcus rounded on the intruder. “What do you want? Whatever it is, I am not available. Find Gordian…” Marcus trailed off as he though of Taras's words. It was Gordian. He’s aligned himself with Jesus of Nazareth, and they are plotting to overthrow Rome. Was it possible? Or could it be the ramblings of a delirious mind? Taras certainly appeared lucid, and Marcus had come to trust his judgment over the years. “No, not Gordian,” Marcus corrected himself. “Find Habitus and get him to help you. Do not disturb me again.”
“But sir, it’s the Sanhedrin. They sent one of their own to speak to you.”
Damn it all! Marcus had forgotten about the blasted Sanhedrin. Doubtless they’d been waiting for his arrival at the temple so they could all go to the Gardens and arrest Jesus. “Tell him to wait.”
“I informed him you were busy, sir. He refused to leave. He said to give you this.” The soldier held out a small piece of parchment, rolled and sealed with the symbol of the temple.
Marcus stared at the letter, not wanting to read the blame he knew he’d find there. Grunting, he took it, cracked the wax, and read the message. When he finished, he looked up at the legionary who’d brought it.
“Is the representative of the Sanhedrin still waiting?” Marcus asked.
The soldier nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I will be right out.”
“Yes, sir.” The legionary brought his fist to his chest in salute, then turned and left the room.
Marcus turned back to his injured friend, who had closed his eyes again. “Taras?”
No response. Marcus put his hand underneath Taras's nose, feeling for breath. When he was satisfied the man still lived, he removed his hand and leaned over. “I swear to you, Taras, I will find Gordian, and he will pay dearly for what he’s done. Jesus, too. They’ll both pay. For you and for Didius.”
With that, Marcus turned and left the room. As he exited the infirmary, he spied the physician sitting on the floor nursing his jaw. It wasn’t broken, after all. He supposed that was good news. “You, Justus. Get in there and see to Taras.”
The man leapt to his feet and all but ran toward the room where the fallen legionary lay. Marcus grabbed his shoulder on his way by and forced the man to face him. “If he dies,” Marcus said, “I’ll see to it you spend tomorrow morning hanging from the cross, even if I have to make up a charge. I’ll order my men to let your body rot on Golgotha until not even the vultures are interested in it anymore. Do you understand?”
Justus nodded, his eyes wide as saucers.
Marcus let go of his shoulder and walked down the halls to where the messenger waited. He had an appointment with the Sanhedrin, and by the gods it was time he kept it.
* * *
Back in the infirmary, Justus noticed a slip of parchment on the floor. He looked to make sure his patient was still unconscious, then looked out into the hallway to see if anyone was nearby. No one. Good. He knew he probably shouldn’t read an official message to the centurion, but his swollen jaw and injured pride demanded some small amount of satisfaction. Although he would never openly defy Marcus, he could take a small bit of enjoyment in doing so by covert means. Thus he opened the rolled piece of parchment and read the words written on it. There weren’t many.
Centurion Marcus,
We do not need Taras to identify Jesus. We have another. His name is Judas. As I write this he waits for us in the city. Send word back with the messenger when you are ready to move. We await your reply.
Caiaphas
Justus gasped and dropped the letter back to the floor. Caiaphas! The high priest! He wiped the tips of his fingers on his tunic, certain he could feel the flesh burning. Justus wanted no part of anything between the Sanhedrin and the centurion. No good could ever come of such a thing. He would be much better off to pretend he’d never even seen the letter. He left it on the floor and went to tend to Taras, wanting more than anything to make sure the fallen soldier survived his wounds, for both their sakes.
Chapter Twenty
Marcus arrived at the temple shortly after suppertime with six of his finest men in tow. It hadn’t taken long to get there. His mounting rage at the murder of his brother and the torture of Taras gave him a great deal more energy than a man his age should possess, especially since he had not
eaten anything since breakfast. A single thought forced his feet to action, lending a cadence for him to march by.
The Nazarene.
Over the last thirty-six hours, he had become Marcus's driving obsession. Ever since the morning of the previous day when he’d been forced to look upon Didius's severed head lying in the middle of the street, trails of spittle and the prints of several boots plainly visible on his brother’s lifeless face, Marcus had been determined to bring the killer to justice. And although Malachi, the actual killer, was already dead, Marcus could still bring down the man who’d orchestrated the whole thing.
That man was Jesus of Nazareth.
Just thinking about the rabbi made Marcus's blood burn. His steps quickened as he pictured Jesus's hands bound to the crossbeam. First Didius and now Taras. And just when the Hell did Gordian become a traitor, anyway? How did such corruption occur in his ranks? It was all that blasted Nazarene's fault.
Marcus fumed as he walked. Jesus had tangled with the wrong centurion. Marcus would see him dead before the week was out, strapped to a cross on Golgotha like all the other criminals in this wretched city. If Pilate wouldn’t execute the rabbi, Marcus would do it himself.
Thus determined to see justice done for the sake of all those Jesus had killed or caused to be killed, Marcus marched up to the temple and demanded to see Caiaphas.
“You may not enter the temple,” the Sanhedrin at the entrance said. “Wait here while I tell Caiaphas you have arrived.”
Marcus hadn’t wanted to enter the temple of the Sanhedrin and their ludicrous One God anyway, but he detested waiting outside. Still, to anger the Sanhedrin would be to anger Pilate, and he was not in any position to lose favor with Judea’s Prefect. So, fuming at the delay, he found a spot to sit down and rest his tense muscles while he waited.
