“Here is what I have heard,” Marcus offered in response to the direct command. “The Jewish high priest keeps his position by permission of Rome. His family receives part of every tithe and every sacrifice. The common people know this. And they know the high priest only survives because of Rome.”
Laughing without real mirth, Caesar said, “And I hear the high priest is richer than I am. Sejanus, remind me to raise their taxes.” He motioned for Marcus to continue his recitation.
“So, if this is true,” the centurion resumed, “then the Jews despise the Jewish leaders almost as much as they hate the half-breed Herod and Rome. Anyone who represents the oppression of Rome inherits the whole load of their hatred.”
As soon as the word oppression was out of his mouth, Marcus regretted it. Holding his breath, he wondered if he had gone too far, spoken too frankly. After years of guarding his emotions, had he allowed himself to think and speak as a Briton and not as a Roman officer?
“Oppression?” Caesar repeated in a disbelieving tone. “Have I not been merciful? Have I not offered the Jews Rome’s protection? If they refuse to yield, then by the lash and the cross we will teach them the meaning of mercy!”
There was an awkward silence as all considered the lions’ den into which Pilate was about to be thrust.
Severus cleared his throat, but it was Caesar who spoke again. “You, Longinus. You speak truth that no one else has dared whisper. I will send an edict with you to place in the hand of the high priest. Tell him Tiberius Caesar requires that the Jews make sacrifice every day to their god on my behalf. In this way I demonstrate my respect for their religion and their god.”
Sejanus interrupted. “Respect! They don’t deserve it. The last Primus Pilus of our legion there was kidnapped and murdered by Jewish rebels and left to be eaten by vultures.”
Caesar turned toward his Praetorian prefect with narrowed eyes. Despite Marcus’s dangerous words, Sejanus was closer to receiving a dose of Imperial rebuke.
Severus offered, “The Jews are an educated people, much in love with learning. They are a people of law, not like the barbarian Cherusci. Perhaps their leaders can be reasoned with? And the might of Rome always remains the final response to broken treaties.”
Caesar nodded. “And so we are agreed. If Pilate is to have any chance to succeed with diplomacy, he must be supported by someone who understands the judicious application of force. You.” He pulled up the sleeve of his toga and pointed a bony finger at Marcus’s chest. “You, Centurion Marcus Longinus, are that man. You are hereby appointed the chief centurion, the Primus Pilus of Judea. You will leave tomorrow so that all is in readiness for Pilate’s arrival.”
Chapter 9
Claudia sat on the edge of the bed beside her sleeping son. Jono, who often slept in a cubbyhole down the hall in order to be near the young master in the night, was not there now. He had been banished to the servants’ quarters by Pilate.
Reaching out a tentative hand, Claudia brushed a lock of hair back from Philo’s forehead. Her tender gesture uncovered one of his ears, revealing a familiar and much-loved distinctive earlobe. It was identical to . . .
Philo’s eyelids fluttered to match Claudia’s heartbeat. “Mama?” he asked drowsily. “Time to get up?”
“No, shh, baby. Sleep. Go back to sleep.”
Philo grasped his mother’s fingers, sighed deeply, and slipped back into sleep.
A noise from the hallway made her turn her head. Pilate stood there, glowering at the two of them with barely concealed hostility.
Claudia tucked the covers around Philo’s shoulders. She got to her feet and, without hurrying, bent to kiss his cheek before exiting the room.
At a peremptory summons from her husband, Claudia followed Pilate back to his study. He walked ahead of her as if she were a slave, never speaking nor even looking to see if she obeyed.
Diamond-shaped shelving made of mahogany held hundreds of scrolls. Unread Greek philosophers jostled for space with unstudied legal codices. Ignored military histories shared cubbyholes with unopened genealogies.
The only parchment in view was spread across the claw-footed table in the center of the chamber. It was a map of the eastern reaches of the Roman Empire, displaying Syria, Egypt, Judea, and the border with Parthia.
Pilate circled the table and hunched over the map. His fists pressed into the work surface until his knuckles turned white. His mouth clamped into a humorless line. “Judea! We have a month . . . a month!” He spoke tersely, spitting out the words as if tasting acid.
Claudia regarded him coldly. “You heard Father. This is your last chance.”
Slamming his fist into the middle of Jerusalem, Pilate demanded, “You can change his mind. You must! This is exile. Judea’s a prison where everyone is doomed to failure.”
Claudia shrugged. “Didn’t you hear? I’m to share in this exile . . . this punishment. I can’t change his mind. Don’t you understand him at all? Prison? That will be the least of your worries. If you disobey, the next words out of his mouth will be to order your execution.”
Pilate savagely jerked a chair away from the table. The brass feet screeched on the stone floor like a sacrificial rooster being slaughtered. He sank into the seat and pressed his hands into his temples. “He’ll listen to you,” he argued. “He always has. You have a month to soften him.”
Claudia’s head shook in denial of this assertion. “If even your friend Sejanus can’t move him . . .”
Pilate whined, “There, in Germany, what I did, I did for friendship. I feared for Longinus’s life. I wanted to keep him—” This was such a transparent falsehood that Pilate abandoned the excuse midsentence.
“Friendship,” Claudia scoffed. “Ambition, you mean! You don’t know the meaning of friendship. You and Sejanus have made certain Marcus Longinus never got any assignments except those no one else would tackle. You fear him. You fear how I feel about him.”
“And still he won’t die,” Pilate lamented.
Disregarding the outburst of evil honesty, Claudia tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Now it’s all come back on your head. Judea! Judea, and Philo and I are condemned to go with you.”
Lifting his gaze from staring at the wavy line of the Jordan River, Pilate retorted, “It’s because Caesar wants you and that cripple out of his sight. Whose son is he anyway, Claudia? That cripple?”
Claudia charged around the table, clawing through the air toward Pilate’s cheeks.
Roughly seizing her wrists, Pilate wrenched her hands away.
“Let go of me,” Claudia demanded. “Don’t touch me. You’re hurting me.”
Pilate thrust her aside. Claudia tripped over another chair and fell, cracking her head on the shelving.
As she lay sprawled on the floor, Pilate stalked past her and out of the room. Over his shoulder he added, “So . . . I have my answer.”
Despite the late hour, Pilate found Sejanus wide awake. While Pilate waited, Sejanus dispatched messengers to the guard barracks and to the city prefect of Pompeii, and sent a letter to the commander of the garrison at Alexandria.
The home Sejanus occupied was modest, almost Spartan, in size and furnishings. As commander of the Imperial Guard, Sejanus had already aroused envy because of his close contact with Caesar. Because of this, he kept any display of wealth to a minimum.
For those who knew how to read such signs, though, it was the location of Sejanus’s house that was most meaningful. No more than a minute’s walk from Caesar’s palace, it lay at the intersection of the Appian Way with the street leading directly to the Praetorian barracks. The former cavalry officer was at the nerve center of both pol
itical and military power.
Telling his servant he was not to be disturbed, Sejanus closed the door to his office. Motioning for Pilate to be seated, he tapped a forefinger on a document awaiting his signature. “Senator Paulus Hadrianus is guilty of maiestas. He is not properly respectful of the emperor’s dignity, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”
Pilate frowned.
“He will die for it,” Sejanus added. “The last words he will hear when the silk cord goes around his neck will be, ‘You are no friend of Caesar.’ ”
“Hadrianus? That grumpy old man?” Pilate interjected. “He’s no threat to Tiberius. He campaigned with Augustus!”
“Yes,” Sejanus agreed with weary patience, “and he never stops making unfavorable comparisons between our present emperor and the last one. He will die for it.” With two knife strokes of a pen, Sejanus signed the death warrant but left it in Pilate’s view. “The world is divided into two camps. Between General Severus and me. Your rival, Marcus Longinus, stands with the general. And where do you stand?” Sejanus tilted his head, studying Pilate.
“Isn’t that obvious?” Pilate retorted petulantly.
“I knew you’d come here tonight. At the Imperial supper you showed yourself angry, frustrated, and fearful. You will never make a successful politician unless you learn to control your face, Pilate. At the very least I hope you kept your mouth shut.”
Pilate ground his teeth. “I should have left Longinus to die in the forest.”
Sejanus snorted. “Don’t forget who you’re speaking to! You did leave him to die. I know the truth of it all. It is the centurion who could have let you be dismembered by the Cherusci after you disobeyed orders. Instead, at great risk to himself, Marcus rescued you from your foolish ambition. You tried to win glory for yourself . . . and you failed. And now your rival again wears the crown, while you are banished.”
Spreading his hands in appeal, Pilate winced at the blunt reminder. “What am I to do?”
Musing aloud, Sejanus continued, “Severus and Longinus are connected, just as you and I are. The general opposes my route to the throne. He prays daily that you will fail again so I will be further humiliated.”
The link between Pilate’s shortcomings and Sejanus’s disgrace made Pilate grimace again.
“There is no room for mistakes this time,” Sejanus ordered. “Know this. If you do not rule the Jews well, I will not support you. I will not intercede for you. It was hard enough convincing Caesar to give you this posting.”
“You did this?” Pilate uttered with astonishment. “You contrived to banish me to Judea? I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend,” Sejanus corrected. “Caesar was so upset with you he was ready to have you strangled for failing to follow orders and for getting ambushed. He already had a list of eligible suitors for your widow. It was all I could do to make Caesar talk himself into giving you one more chance.”
Swallowing hard, Pilate lifted his chin and declared forcefully, “The Jews. I will crush them.”
Sejanus shrugged, unimpressed with Pilate’s display. “Caesar has given Marcus Longinus the post of Primus Pilus of Judea. You may have a month, but he sails at dawn. Never doubt he is there to look over your shoulder and report to Caesar. It’s late. Go home. Keep your mouth shut. Stay out of trouble. Learn what you can about the ways of the Jews.”
Walking Pilate to the chamber door, Sejanus added, “Tiberius is already weary of the affairs of state. He will soon sail for Capri and leave the government in my hands. I’ll be free to weed out all who oppose us. You need a year without a disaster—a few years at most. You needn’t be heroic, just competent. You’ll be able to return here in honor with a great future ahead, only remember—” Sejanus clapped Pilate on the shoulder, then pointed at the newly signed order of execution. “He had a future once . . . but no longer.”
Chapter 10
Marcus, accompanied by Carta, arrived at the seacoast at midday following the banquet. The centurion was struck by how rapidly the sweet and sour smells of the capital were replaced by the tangy salt and exotic scents of foreign travel.
Nineteen miles southwest of Rome, the bustling port city of Ostia provided Rome with access to all the riches of the Empire. Dates and figs and wine from Antioch were being unloaded, as were grain from Alexandria and pomegranates from Ephesus. The reach of Rome was wide, and had to be, in order to feed its insatiable appetite.
After arriving at his ship, Marcus worked nonstop. “Quintus,” he ordered, “detail two men to see that my horse is properly stabled. Detail four more to load enough grain and hay for the trip.”
“Right away.”
Marcus’s transport to his new assignment was not a warship but a commercial vessel. Using two masts for sails, as well as triple-banked oars, it was capable of carrying either fifty thousand measures of grain or seven thousand amphorae of wine.
Sailing eastward, it was bearing neither. A continuous cycle of slaves toted bags of rock dust down into the hold. Pulverized volcanic ash from Vesuvius, when mixed with lime and gravel, was capable of forming the strongest concrete, even setting under water and growing stronger as it aged.
“Cassius,” Marcus said to his second-in-command, “have the men help with loading. And keep them moving.”
Soon a double line of Roman legionaries trudged up and back down the gangplank, loaded with supplies and ballast. The constant loop turned the ship into an anthill of activity.
“Doesn’t Judea have enough dust of its own?” Quintus groused.
The grit escaping from the sacks filled hair and eyes and mouths with bitter brown residue.
“Not for proper Roman engineering,” Marcus corrected. “This dirt was used to create Herod’s man-made harbor at Caesarea Maritima. Also much in demand for the aqueducts Rome wants to crisscross the land of the Jews.”
Before dawn, boy and bird sat together at the window and searched the empty sky above the majestic buildings of the Forum. A pair of doves soared over Palatine Hill.
Starling, her splinted wing decorated with yellow flower petals, perched on Philo’s finger. She trilled.
“Jono says all your friends have flown south,” Philo explained. “The flock lives out the winter near Jerusalem—the land where my father will govern and we will live. I will take you there, little friend, and perhaps you will find your mother and father.”
Jono came to the door. “You are awake early, young master.”
“Starling woke me up. She was calling for her family. I fed her bread crumbs, and she ate out of my hand.”
Jono lowered his broad face. “I knew an old man who had a starling as a friend once. The bird learned to speak in human words. It sounded exactly like his wife, who was a shrew. When the woman died, the bird continued to scold and tell the man what a fool he was. And so the old fellow was never lonely.”
Philo addressed Starling. “Little bird, you will only speak kind words . . . like my mother. Not like my father.”
Jono’s smile faded. He straightened and towered over the boy. “Your father rode out to tend to matters at the estate. I came to tell you I must be away today.”
“Where?”
“I will accompany your mother on a day’s journey to visit an old friend. Someone she knew when she was a girl.”
“Can’t I go too, Jono?”
“Not today.”
“Who will be my legs?”
“Hyllie. A strong fellow.”
Philo slumped. “But he has no tongue. He cannot speak even a word. I will spend a day without any conversation.”
“The gods have given you Starling to tal
k to when you are alone. Teach her some good word . . . a word to speak to your heart. A simple word. Short. Something you want to remember if the days are long and dark and you are without company.”
Philo tucked Starling under his chin and tried not to let his tears spill over. Jono covered Philo’s head with his enormous hand as if to bless him.
The big man turned to go but then hesitated. He looked back. “You have not said. What is the first word you will teach your bird, young master?”
Philo pondered the golden eyes that blinked at the pale morning sky. “I think she is searching for those who left her behind.” Starling ruffled her gleaming feathers and gripped Philo’s finger with her claws.
A wistful half-smile returned to Jono’s face. “How can such a tiny thing know of longing and family? It is a mystery.”
“Mother says animals know such things as we know. I wish I could run like other boys. Starling wants to fly.”
“She will fly again one day.”
“And if only I could walk.”
Jono nodded. “So, what word will you teach her?”
Philo placed his lips near Starling’s head and whispered, “Hope.”
Jono left the boy as the great city awakened. Farmers’ carts trundled over the stone pavement toward the Forum. Bakers and fishmongers hawked their wares in the canyons of the streets.
By and by Philo spotted Jono alongside Claudia’s sedan chair, weaving through the crowds and vanishing around the corner.
The smell of fish penetrated the curtains that hid Claudia from the plebian rabble on the quay. Flies buzzed angrily, blending with the sounds of hawkers, sailors, and prostitutes milling nearby.
“Jono, come here,” Claudia commanded. Her voice trembled.
The giant put his ear to the opening in the drape. “Yes, my lady?”