by David McAfee
“Hello, legionary,” Mary said. “Any new business to discuss?”
That was their cover for their daylight meetings. Taras was just an ordinary legionary talking to the lady of a wealthy household on matters of import. Mary thought the ruse had worked quite well in the past, and Taras didn’t have the heart to disillusion her. Most of her neighbors saw right through it, but so far none of them had said anything. Most, like the woman at the fence, simply glared at Taras when Mary’s attention was somewhere else.
But Taras had decided not to live this particular lie any longer, and he didn’t hesitate. As soon as he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around Mary and kissed her, hard, right in the middle of the street. He heard the collective gasps of a score of people who witnessed the display, but he didn’t care. He felt no fear or shame, and his elation at finally making their relationship public overshadowed the angry murmurs from the gathered Jews. If anything, Taras felt relieved to bring their love out in the open because it meant he would not have to sneak around to be with her anymore. Besides, tomorrow he would be leaving this blasted city forever, and Mary would be with him. The two of them would move to the outskirts of Rome and start their lives there, away from zealots and violence, away from death and her father, away from the judging eyes of those who disapproved, and far away from the influence of the Sanhedrin.
After her initial moment of surprise, Mary returned his passion. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. The two stood that way for several heartbeats, ignoring the muttered insults from the shocked observers.
After a few moments, Taras reluctantly pulled away. He looked at Mary’s olive face, flush with pleasure, and he smiled. Then he ushered her into a nearby doorway, not wanting to be overheard or seen. He chose one that was deep and sheltered from the sun by an overhang. There he grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. He longed to kiss her again, but first thing’s first. “Is Abraham home?”
“No,” she said. “He is still in Bethany.”
“Good.” He removed his arms from her shoulders and grasped her hands. She smiled at him, her eyes radiant and sparkling. Taras felt his heart ache just to look at her. His arms broke out in gooseflesh, and he almost couldn’t speak past the sudden lump in his throat. “Marry me, my love. I can’t stand this hiding any longer.”
“Oh, Taras…” her smile vanished. Her lower lip trembled as moisture collected in the corners of her eyes. “Why would you ask me this?”
“Don’t you want to marry me?”
“Of course, but—”
“But nothing. I love you, Mary. Aren’t you tired of hiding?”
“Yes, Taras, but you know the Temple will never allow it.”
“I don’t give a damn about the Temple. Look at this.” He pulled his release papers out and showed them to her. “I'm leaving Jerusalem tomorrow morning, never to return. I want you to come with me. We will not need anyone’s approval to marry in Rome. There is a small field I know of deep in the Roman countryside where olive trees and grapevines grow wild. Beside the field is a small cottage, just big enough to start a family. I have some money saved, and we will buy it. Or if not that one, then another. There are many such fields and cottages in the Roman countryside. None as grand as your current house, but it will be all ours, and the two of us can make it our own. That is the life that waits for us away from this wretched city.” Taras swung his arm in a wide arc, indicating the whole of Jerusalem.
Tears built up in her eyes as he spoke. Her lips turned up, hinting at a smile. “Is this real?” She asked, pointing at the paper.
He nodded. “It is. I am free to leave anytime I wish. Will you come?”
She hesitated, and a single tear spilled from her left eye and rolled down her olive cheek. She turned to look at her father’s house, not quite visible from where they stood in the doorway, and her shoulders slumped. His heart lurched in his chest. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave her father, her family, and everything she’d ever known to follow him to a foreign country where she wouldn’t even speak the language. He’d been foolish to expect it of her. It was asking too much. His own eyes began to sting with tears when she turned back to face him. He squared his shoulders, preparing his heart for the coming refusal.
“Yes,” she said, crying openly now. “I will.”
* * *
Taras walked away from Mary’s house with a renewed spring in his step that didn’t diminish even as he was forced to push and shove his way through the growing horde of people making their way to Pilate’s house. No matter how many times the crowd jostled him, or how many of them tossed insults his way, Taras's face beamed with a smile he could not contain.
She said yes.
Tomorrow, he and Mary would be well on their way to a new life together in Rome, and the Jews of Israel could scorn and insult some other poor soul. Before he left her house, they made plans to meet in the market square two hours after sunset. That would give the streets plenty of time to empty. He would have a wagon and a pair of draft horses waiting to carry them out of the city, and they would no longer have to worry about her father.
Taras just needed to take care of one last detail. He had to see to Jesus's execution. Seeing Mary and getting a much needed break from his day helped to cool his despair, but it hadn’t given him any insight into how to go about fulfilling his promise to Ephraim. And so he began walking aimlessly through the streets of Jerusalem. A little less than two hours remained before Pilate would pronounce his judgment, and Taras had yet to come up with a plan that would ensure the Nazarene went to Golgotha. Time was running out. Think, damn you, Taras! Think!
He wandered the cobbled streets for almost half an hour, and soon found himself far away from the area of Pilate’s house. This area spoke of less affluence and more hunger. The prostitutes of the city lived here, as well as the thieves and beggars. Of significantly more importance to Taras than the prostitutes, beggars, and thieves, however, was the fact that many zealots frequented the area, as well. To him, this fact alone spoke volumes about what sort of people the zealots were.
His mind weary from running around in circles, he stopped to sit, resting his back against a wall. It was no use. He could think of nothing that would aid him in his task. Dejected, he watched as scores of people walked by. He noted the shabby clothes and lean builds of many of the area’s inhabitants as they went about their early morning affairs. Strange that it had never occurred to him before just how many poor lived in the city. Looking at the crowds as they walked by, at least half of them looked underfed or maltreated in some way.
Could that be right? He wasn’t sure. His perception might be off, and he was certainly in one of the poorer sections of town. Yet even from these wretched hovels people spewed forth to cast their voices at the Judgment, which would happen in less than two hours. They probably want to make sure they get a good view. Taras wrinkled his nose. He’d never enjoyed crucifixions. Too long and boring for his taste. Granted, the victim suffered a great deal during an agonizing and slow death, but for a public execution, he’d take a beheading or a drawing and quartering any day. Both were fast, efficient, and quite a deterrent to would-be criminals. Something about having your arms and legs ripped from your torso seemed to scare people out of breaking the law, and what was the point of public executions if not to put the fear of justice into the hearts of wicked people? People, Taras mused, like Jesus.
Taras stood and paced along the cobbled street, walking through the impoverished sections of Jerusalem. The city’s poor led hard lives. It was a pity they wouldn’t get paid for their vote. Many of them looked like they could use a good meal.
Taras stopped in mid-step, and a man and woman walking behind him were forced to sidestep or bump into the legionary. The man swore at Taras under his breath, but he didn’t notice, his mind was too busy turning over his new idea.
A pity they won’t get paid…
“That’s it!” Taras said aloud, startling the couple who’d ju
st passed him. He turned and ran for the barracks, his plan forming in his mind as he went. The centurion of any barracks kept a safe hidden in his chambers. The safe would be heavy with gold and silver from Rome, which the centurion used to maintain his complex and pay his men. There would be a great deal of money there, as large groups of soldiers were expensive to house, train, feed, and clothe. With Marcus dead, his chambers would be empty. Taras knew the hiding place of the centurion’s safe. More importantly, he knew where Marcus kept the extra key. It wouldn’t be stealing, really. Marcus was dead, after all. And the money would go to see justice done for the betterment of Rome.
Jerusalem’s poor would feast tonight, and Jesus would hang from a cross.
Chapter Twenty Five
Adonia jumped as a heavy fist pounded on her door. She’d just gotten word that Marcus, too, had been killed, and she wondered what dreadful news would come to her now. She looked at the door and decided this time she would not answer it. Far better to let whomever it was leave and take their ill news – and she was certain it would be ill news – with them.
Unfortunately, Opilio held no such compunction. Before she could tell him no, he ran to the door and yanked it open. There in the entry, framed by the morning sunlight, stood the dark silhouette of yet another legionary. The man, quite tall and muscular with the golden hair and ice blue eyes of a northerner, stepped through the doorway but stopped just inside, obviously waiting for an invitation.
“What is it, this time?” Opilio asked, his arms crossed over his chest. He scowled up at the legionary, looking unimpressed by his size or manner. “Is my other uncle dead, as well?”
The soldier at the door looked shocked to be addressed in such a manner. In truth, Adonia cringed at the disrespectful tone of her son’s voice, especially to a legionary. Her husband’s death had been a terrible blow to all of them, and losing Marcus so soon after had almost crushed the boy. The strain was taking its toll on Opilio’s manners, which could be dangerous. Many legionaries could be very unforgiving if slighted, and she feared for her son’s welfare if he could not control his temper.
But after a moment, the legionary smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, however, and Adonia noted for the first time how dejected and worn down the man’s face looked. “You must be Opilio,” the soldier said. “Marcus told me a lot about you. My name is Taras.”
Opilio’s entire manner changed. He dropped his arms to his sides and the scowl left his face. “You knew my uncle?”
Taras nodded, and Adonia moved to get a better look at him. She noted the sad look in his red-rimmed eyes as he said the name of her dead brother-in-law. It was a feeling she knew all too well. Her heart, which in two days’ time had been broken twice, now ached a third time for another soul whose loss showed so clearly on his face.
“He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” She asked from the other side of the small room. Taras looked at her from his place just inside the doorway. He nodded, but said nothing.
“Come inside, please,” Adonia said. “Sit with us.”
Taras entered the house and crossed the room. Opilio followed behind him after closing the door. When the three were seated in the front room, Taras looked back at the closed door as though afraid it would overhear him, then he spoke. His words were so hushed she had to strain to hear them. “I have news. Jesus has been captured.”
“We know,” she replied. “We heard the news from one of the street vendors who passed by on their way to Pilate’s house. Pilate is expected to have him crucified in just over an hour.”
“He may yet walk free.”
“What?” Opilio’s face turned a bright red. “Why would Pilate set that treacherous, conniving—”
“Today is Passover,” Taras cut him off. “The Prefect is obligated to release one condemned prisoner. He doesn’t know about Jesus's involvement with the zealots, and I can’t get in to tell him because of the guards at his door. I have it on good authority that Pilate is going to let the people of Jerusalem decide. He will put Jesus on his balcony with Barabbas and let the citizenry choose which of the two men he will pardon.”
“Barabbas?” Adonia asked, confused. “Isn’t he the one who killed five legionaries in the barracks last night?”
“The same.”
“No!” Opilio shouted. “No, if he does that, the people are sure to free Jesus. No one wants Barabbas loose in Jerusalem.”
Her son was right. Earlier that morning Adonia overheard her neighbors talking about the zealot’s near escape in hushed, fearful tones. The entire city feared him, since he seemed inclined to kill anyone he thought might support Rome. Everyone seemed relieved to know such a dangerous man was locked away. They felt safer. They, like Pilate, didn’t know Jesus was the true danger. Her anger, which she had kept under control for far too long, finally flared to the surface. “How can that be? The man responsible for my husband’s murder will go free? What a ridiculous tradition.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Taras said. He pulled six large bags from his belt and plopped them on the table. Adonia heard the clink of metal as they hit. “I have an idea, but I will need your help. Both of you. There is precious little time.”
Adonia listened. Taras's plan would work, of course. She felt sad and relieved at the same time. The people of Jerusalem might lose some of their integrity today, but at least they could make sure Jesus never hurt anyone else again.
* * *
Taras stood in the midst of a bustling crowd gathered in front of the Prefect’s house. He’d been there for about an hour, going from person to person and placing a gold coin in every hand he came to. Before he released the coin, he uttered a single sentence to each hand’s owner.
“Barabbas goes free.”
Many people looked at him, confused. Still others handed the coin back and turned away, unwilling to be part of such a thing. But most only smiled, then nodded in agreement, and Taras relinquished the gold to them. He’d changed out of his legionary’s uniform to better blend in, but he still stood out among the gathered crowd. Tall and fair haired, he’d always been easy to spot among the Romans, as well. Not many northmen served in the Legion. But Taras grew up hearing of the great empire to the south, and as a child he had dreamed of belonging to something so grand. When he was old enough and strong enough, he left the house of his father and journeyed to Rome, where he adopted the name Taras to blend in and enlisted in the military. At the time, Rome needed soldiers badly, and so he was permitted to join.
After a few successful campaigns, he’d been sent to serve under Marcus, and the centurion had seen the potential in him right away. Marcus himself commissioned Taras for Rome’s elite group, sending him to Carthage to train with Rome’s best and most devious killers. In a few short years Taras became one of the deadliest men in the Roman Legion, serving his country with love and pride. His loyalty, brains, and fighting skill made him very valuable to Rome, yet Marcus signed his release papers so he could start a new life. And now Marcus was dead. Taras reminded himself of that as he wandered through the crowd dispersing Roman gold, knowing it would serve a greater purpose in bringing his centurion’s killer, one of the most dangerous zealot leaders in recent memory, to justice.
Taras loved Rome. He served her with all his heart and soul. He truly believed the gods favored the Empire and that divine hands guided Caesar’s work on earth. The idea that Jesus meant to try and overthrow Rome sent his pulse racing and shortened his breath. How could a man seek to overthrow the gods? To even think such a thing merited death in Taras's opinion. And death was exactly what the Nazarene would get. Taras, Adonia, and Opilio had spent the last hour making sure of it.
While he went about handing out his murdered friend’s gold, he heard many rumors spreading through the crowd. Some said Jesus claimed to be the Son of God. Others said he was God. Still others spoke of blasphemy and even treason. More than once, Taras heard the people refer to Jesus as ‘King of the Jews.’ Upon hearing this, he could not help but smi
le. Such a title would not sit well with Pontius Pilate.
He couldn’t see either of his accomplices, but he knew they were out there, working the crowd closest to the Prefect’s house. Like him, they handed out coins and told the people to free Barabbas. He just hoped, between the three of them, they would be able to buy enough votes to sway the rest of the people. It had been Opilio’s idea to start at the front of the crowd. He reasoned that those men and women closest to Pilate would be the first ones heard when the voting began. Once the voting seemed to go one way, many of those left undecided would likely side with the majority. He was right, of course. People were like sheep. They would follow along with whatever the greater numbers seemed to want. He had to give the boy credit; it was a good idea, and it showed the boy’s intelligence. It struck Taras as the type of thing Marcus would do.
When Pilate finally brought the prisoners out onto the balcony, Taras stopped handing out coins and turned to stare at the two men standing behind the Prefect. The crowd, which had been murmuring a steady din for several hours, fell silent. Taras tensed. The fulfillment of his vow hung on what the crowd would say next. Would the people he paid keep their word? Would those paid by Adonia and Opilio do likewise? There was nothing more any of them could do now. He waited, and listened.
“Citizens of Jerusalem,” Pilate began. “I bring before you two men. This one,” he pointed to Barabbas, “is a murderer who has killed many. While this man,” he pointed to Jesus, “is guilty of no crime. Both have been sentenced to death, yet you have a custom of asking me to release one man from prison each year at Passover. If you wish, I will free the King of the Jews.”
A few of the people, very few, could be heard shouting their agreement that yes, Jesus should go free, but they were being drowned out by the rest of the crowd’s overwhelming chant:
