It was in Caesarea where Marcus caught up with Vara, at the construction site of a granite building. Marcus grabbed him from the edge of a crowd and yanked him out of sight behind a scaffolding. “Are you mad? For the past year, every effort has been aimed at keeping the peace, and now you jeopardize it? Why?”
“Take your hands off me,” Vara demanded coldly. “So, you came across the rebels I executed at Neapolis.”
Marcus tightened his fist. “What rebels? Those Galilean farmers—one of them barely a man?”
“Really?” Vara fired back. “They were seen in the governor’s courtyard with the ringleader bar Abba and were also part of the disturbance in Jerusalem. We caught them fleeing after bar Abba escaped.”
“They weren’t fleeing,” Marcus clarified, “they were simply going home! They live near Pella. Did they offer any defense?”
Vara lifted his chin. “Against maiestas?”
Marcus crossed his arms. “Let me guess. You were one of the two witnesses. Who was the other?”
“Tribune Felix,” Vara stated, watching Marcus’s reaction.
Marcus was stunned. The one honorable young Roman officer Marcus knew had been turned? Had he been bribed or threatened?
Marcus pushed away from Vara in disgust. After he’d made his report about John the Baptizer to Pilate’s secretary, Marcus and Carta immediately left Caesarea.
Marcus and Carta stopped by his mistress Miryam’s estate. With dreams of ending their previous quarrel and stepping into the role of father, he quietly mounted the stairs to her room. But she was not there.
He was exploring the items on her dresser when he spotted something protruding from the shelf beneath the desktop. When Marcus tugged at it, it came free. It was a scroll of parchment, with Miryam’s handwriting.
Dearest Barak, it said. In that instant the horror of her betrayal pierced him more keenly than any arrow ever had.
Marcus waited three hours before Miryam returned home.
“Where have you been?” he barked at her.
“With Joanna,” she explained, smiling.
“Liar!” he yelled, charging at her and grabbing her arms in a vise grip.
“Marcus, let go of me! You’re hurting me!” she pleaded. “All right, I wasn’t at Joanna’s. I went . . . to get rid of . . . the baby!”
Her confession hit him like a body blow. His anger dissipated, replaced with . . . something else. Flickers of Jesus with the children swam across his vision. He felt a keen sense of loss.
“It’s not . . . what I wanted,” he murmured.
At those words, she transformed into a wild creature, kicking, hitting, and scratching him. He held her off easily until at last she crumpled, exhausted, on the floor.
Then he looked up at the heavens. “Is this all there is?”
He stumbled from her room and out of the villa.
“Master,” Carta said, as soon as he saw Marcus, “your face?”
Marcus put his fingertips to his cheek and they came away bloody from where her nails had scratched him. “It’s nothing. To Tiberias, swiftly.” He knew he had to be there when the news came out that Miryam had betrayed him and he had rejected her. He would paint the picture that he was tired of her, nothing more.
No one needed to know of the wounds other than those on his cheek . . . the deep wounds in his soul.
Chapter 25
Marcus had never liked having to attend Herod’s feasts. Now he liked them even less. Miryam no longer accompanied him. Rumors swirled about her and her onset of madness. Marcus sidestepped them all. But it was growing more difficult to sidestep Herodias’s lascivious daughter, Salome. Pilate appeared to delight in summoning Marcus to report on the progress in the Galil at such feasts, perhaps to ensure that Claudia noticed Salome’s advances on her former lover.
For Marcus, dining had become a dangerous affair.
Claudia detested Herod’s banquets in the Galil even more than she did those of Rome. The only part to be enjoyed was the food. Even that, though, gave her indigestion on nights like this, when Pilate seemed to be fixed on vexing her. She was always seated in direct view of Marcus.
This night, as soon as she saw Marcus, she very deliberately turned from him. From her vantage point she noted Salome staring at Marcus, devouring him with her eyes.
Pilate also must have noticed the display of attention. “All the elite of the region are here.” Then, to needle Claudia, he added, “Politics creates strange bedfellows, they say.”
Claudia smiled through gritted teeth. “Spoken from personal experience, my love?”
“The centurion owes me a report,” Pilate noted. “Shall I call him over?”
Above Claudia’s protests, Pilate did so. Marcus and Claudia barely made eye contact when he reached their table, and both looked away immediately.
“So, Centurion,” Pilate commented, “what news from the frontier? Is Rome safe from a Jewish savior?”
“I will answer your question with three of my own,” Marcus responded. “What if there were a general who could feed an army of thousands on a single basket of bread? What if he could heal his wounded soldiers? Even raise up those killed in battle to fight again?”
Claudia grappled with this story. What was Marcus doing?
“Anyone we know?” Pilate inquired blandly. “Is this part of a Jewish myth . . . or merely lavish sampling of Herod’s refreshment?”
“It is a man of no significance to the rulers of this world. The son of a carpenter.”
Claudia still could not understand what this was about.
Pilate laughed and helped himself to an ample portion of the refreshment. His cup was immediately refilled by a slave posted behind him. “I thought you were serious! Then he will not call down fire from heaven?”
“If he wished to, I believe he could.”
Pilate narrowed his eyes. “Then I see no reason you shouldn’t continue to serve Rome in the Outlands. Samaria. Galilee. The wilderness. You may serve me more effectively there, keeping a close eye on the matter.” His eyes flicked to Claudia and then back to Marcus. “That way—”
His next words ended abruptly since Herod chose that moment to raise his glass and begin his usual long round of toasts. When the crowd responded loudly and got to their feet to cheer, Marcus took the opportunity to bow himself away from Pilate and Claudia and exit the stuffy hall out into the garden, where he could breathe again.
All that was on his mind now was making his way as quietly and quickly as possible toward the stables. Going through the garden ensured that none would take notice of his leave. After the round of toasts, the already intoxicated guests would be too filled with wine to notice his absence.
When a footstep sounded on the pathway, though, he paused.
As Marcus took his leave, Claudia felt the room grow too warm and stifling. With a nod toward Pilate, she wove her way to the side of the room and then out the door to the garden.
Once outside, she walked rapidly toward a bench that appeared rarely used, since it was hidden in the shadows by day and nearly impossible to find at night. There she could rest awhile, away from the clamor.
Then a shadow loomed, one the size of a man, on the pathway.
Her heart beat rapidly. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
“Marcus,” came the answer.
Marcus. She knew she was safe. But then anger flashed. “Go away. You are the last person I want to see again . . . ever.”
His shadow moved closer. “Yes. Well, I am leaving again shortly.”
“I’m glad.”
She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Then you will be safe.”
She was strangely relieved. The politics of Herod and Pilate grew more dangerous every day.
Marcus lowered his voice. “No one is safe. I know that. I have known it my whole life.” His tone was gentle, tender . . . the way it used to be with her.
She switched the subject. “There’s a rumor that you have grown too fond of the Jews.” Her eyes met his.
“Miryam, you mean.” He shook his head. “She is a madwoman. In love with someone else from her youth. I can’t live with that.”
“An old story.”
“A woman without discretion. I have no more time for romantic games.”
Why, Claudia wondered, am I pleased to hear that the love affair between Marcus and the woman is over? “Philo . . . will miss you.”
“The boy is no part of Pilate, Claudia.”
“No. Not at all like Pilate.” She avoided his gaze. “So where will you go?”
“Religious leaders draw rebels like moths to flame. Your husband favors the military tactics of Praetorian Vara to keep order here in Jerusalem.”
She flinched at Marcus’s emphasis on husband. “Terror and intolerance, you mean,” she fired back.
“That sums it up,” he stated simply. “But temperance in ruling the Jews is the only hope Rome has to keep a Jewish rebellion from exploding.”
“Pilate is hardly a man of temperance,” Claudia remarked.
“You, on the other hand . . . I believe Tiberius had a purpose for requiring you and the boy to come here. You offer another perspective on what is happening in Israel.” He paused. “Perhaps it would be wise for you, personally, to keep him informed.”
She nodded. “That I will.”
“I am glad you are here,” Marcus murmured.
Claudia saw a flicker of admiration in his eyes, and it was too much—too much pain to think of what might have been. She took a step away from him. “How are things going in the far outpost you are now banished to?” she flung toward him.
“We hunt rebels . . . and spy on prophets,” he stated. “John the Baptizer is imprisoned now, but new prophets arise. One is Jesus of Nazareth, the Baptizer’s cousin.”
“I would like to see these prophets in action.”
He tilted his head toward her. “For the sake of Rome?”
“For the sake of truth,” she replied.
“Truth.” He sighed. “I’ll let you know if ever I find it.”
“Good luck to you, Marcus. And to us all.”
He turned to go, then swiveled back toward her. “If you are able, Claudia, get the boy out of Jerusalem. Trouble is coming. This is a city of riots and assassins and violence. You can find a peaceful life away from the plotting here. Go to the governor’s residence in the city of Tiberias. If Pilate needs an explanation, tell him the air is sweeter in Galilee.”
“My very thoughts tonight,” she agreed.
“Then farewell, Claudia. ” He strode away into the darkness as a cloud covered the moon.
Chapter 26
As soon as Marcus received the urgent message, he and Carta left for Kuza and Joanna’s home. Kuza, Herod’s one sensible steward, and his wife had become friends of Marcus and Miryam during his post in Galilee. Their little boy, Boaz, was dying. His grieving mother sat on the floor beside him, holding his limp hand. The sadness in the room was palpable and crushing.
Marcus was standing by a window in the boy’s bedchamber when Miryam rushed in and knelt by Joanna’s side.
“Oh, Miryam,” Joanna sobbed. “The light is going from my life . . .” She collapsed in her friend’s arms.
At that moment, Kuza fell to his knees. “We are being punished by the Eternal!”
Marcus stiffened. “What kind of god would murder children?”
“It is his will,” Kuza whispered.
“You’re all crazy.” Marcus crossed the room and lowered himself to take Boaz’s hand. In a tender voice, he said, “Maybe there is something . . . someone who could help. In Judea I saw a rabbi heal a child—a cripple—with my own eyes.”
Kuza lifted his eyes. “Where is he? I will crawl on my knees, if only . . .”
Marcus got to his feet. “By last report, he’s staying in Cana. Come on, Kuza. We’ll ride all night. Fetch him back here. He’ll work his miracle on Boaz.”
Marcus and Kuza traveled from Capernaum to Magdala. But when they entered the boulder-strewn road to Cana that wound upward into the hills, their horses became winded. Since it was dark, they set their course by a star . . . and soon were lost.
Is this a fool’s errand? Will the boy die before we can even reach Jesus? Marcus wondered, but he had to do something to help his friend. Kuza was clearly exhausted, only his desperation driving him on when his own strength had failed.
It wasn’t until noon the next day that Marcus and Kuza reached Cana. Jesus was speaking in a rocky field. Kuza stumbled forward. When faces turned hostile because of Marcus’s Roman dress, he halted at the back of the gathering and let Kuza go on alone.
“Sir,” the steward called out, “will you help me? My only son is dying!”
Mutters of resentment swept the crowd at this request. Then a man shouted, “Your master arrested John the Baptizer. You have no right to ask for anything!”
Kuza cried out to Jesus, “I have no one else who can help me!”
The crowd quieted when Jesus got to his feet.
“Please, I have traveled all night to find you. If you can help him,” Kuza pleaded.
Jesus scooped up a boy about the same size and age of Boaz and hefted him high onto his shoulder for the crowd to see.
The crowd evidently got the unspoken message. The life of a child is all this father is asking for. The muttering ceased.
Kuza fell at Jesus’ feet. Jesus handed the boy on his shoulders to one of his talmidim. Then he grasped Kuza’s arms and lifted him.
As tears flowed down Kuza’s face, Jesus said, “Go on home. Your son is alive.”
Marcus was stunned and dismayed. That was all? The healer would not come with them to touch Boaz? He thought about the journey home and the great weight of sadness to follow. Had Kuza lost his wits? Accepting merely the promise of this country rabbi? How devastated would he be when he returned home . . . and found Boaz food for worms?
But, strangely, Kuza was smiling. “Thank you. When you come to Capernaum,” he told Jesus, “you must stay with me.”
The entire journey back to Capernaum, Marcus wrestled with his emotions. He had sensed something unusual happening at the Jordan when the young crippled boy had been healed. But he had not known that sick child personally. This time the beloved son of his friends was ill. Marcus understood the hole that would be left in his parents’ hearts if the boy died.
He and Kuza were by the outskirts of Magdala when he spotted Carta, riding out with all speed to meet them. Marcus’s heart sank. So it was over.
“Master!” Carta called. “Lord Kuza! Boaz is alive!”
The reunion of parents and child a short while later was indescribable. Marcus looked with longing at the scene, then gazed at Miryam, who stood in a corner of the room. But when he touched her arm, she ignored him and left the house.
He followed her into the grapevine arbor. A light rain fell.
“Miryam,” he said softly, “come with me to see the power of this man. To hear him. Maybe he can help.”
“Go see this healer yourself!” she spat back. “I’m not sick. You’re the one, not me.”
Mar
cus slumped. Rain now sluiced down. “Yes, you’re right. I wasn’t saying it’s only you. Maybe it’s everyone. Me too. The truth is, I’m a Roman . . . not even worthy to ask him.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m content with my life the way it is.”
His heart ached for her, for him, for what might have been—first, with Claudia, and next, with Miryam. Was every possibility for love and family for Marcus destined to be a failure?
“I have been a fool,” he stated dully.
Then he hurried up the steps into the torchlight of the house and took his leave.
A couple of days later Marcus visited Kuza’s Capernaum home again. Joanna and Boaz were off to Nazareth to see the healer, Jesus, and to bring him gifts. The two men had the opportunity to talk in a straightforward manner.
“Herod Antipas is furious I went to Jesus to beg a favor,” Kuza explained. “I am being accused of using bad judgment.”
Marcus frowned. “Are you in danger?”
“No,” Kuza said, but he still looked worried. “I need to stay out of sight for a while, though. Perhaps Herod will forget about my indiscretion if nothing new reminds him of it. But, my friend, I understand if you want to keep away from me.”
Marcus lifted a brow. “Rome has no particular interest in Jesus. Being your friend won’t harm me.”
“Don’t be hasty with that decision,” Kuza corrected. “Herod is looking for any reason to execute John the Baptizer, and he will find one. Anyone connected to the Baptizer will be suspect . . . especially Jesus, his cousin.”
Marcus thought about Vara’s use of the charge of maiestas as a method of eliminating people. What if Herod applied the same accusation to Jesus? Marcus’s mind leaped to the natural conclusion. And I, a Roman officer, was the one who took Kuza, Herod’s steward, to meet with Jesus. Rumors of suspicion would then seal Marcus’s fate. Kuza’s forewarning was founded. Now Marcus more fully understood the situation. But it wouldn’t stop him from acting when he needed to.