Glaring all around him from atop his horse, Valerius charged through the streets with Flavius and their squad of ten legionaries. He accosted three different horse-herders, ordering them to report to the garrison with bills of sale proving they owned their animals. He confiscated two camels whose lips were dripping from disease and sent them to the veterinarians at the Roman stables, while their Arab owners bawled. He sent his legionaries into the marketplace with calipers to check merchant scales for fraud.
“You’re on a rampage, sir,” said Flavius.
“Go to the palace. Tell my Vice-Legate Carolus to send for the tradesman-builder Caspar Corvinus. I shall see Corvinus today.”
Looking up from reading his incident reports, Valerius was startled to see Caspar Corvinus’ broad, dark face, grinning, only inches from his. Valerius shouted, “Don’t creep up on me!” and the two men embraced and thwacked each other on their muscular backs. Valerius was always happy to see this Arab-African Berber ex-slave. Corvinus’ fellow North African tribesmen had long ago bought him his freedom, and he’d become a Roman citizen and a prosperous builder.
Corvinus looked Valerius up and down and said, “So now you’re an important character. All because of your skinny brother. Not because you amount to anything yourself.”
“I have a mission for you, Corvinus. A secret mission, to save my neck.”
“To me, your thick neck may be worth saving. Tell me what you want.”
“First tell me about your life since I last saw you. You’ve become quite the notorious businessman after leaving the Roman Navy, haven’t you?
“I do well enough. I have more freedom than the Legate of Judea, I imagine.” “Yes, and I’m wondering what kind of crimes I should arrest you for. Bring us drinks, Rufus!”
Over bowls of wine, Corvinus told Valerius that during his navy service he’d made friendships with strong men, and after his discharge had become wealthy in the construction trade, trafficking in cement, marble and stone, building structures from temples to warehouses all over the Mediterranean world. Construction was a rugged trade, and Corvinus maintained a small private militia in addition to his workers, who themselves were as tough as gladiators.
“You’re in a great position to help me, Corvinus. Can you turn your projects over to your managers for a few weeks? Then you could take care of a little business to ensure that my brother and I have the opportunity to go on breathing.”
Valerius explained Tullius’ plot to Corvinus, and asked him to go to Rome. “You’re to speak with my friend from the War College, General Septimius, and to others I know in the military’s upper echelons. Your mission is to find out which men in the Legion’s high command support Senator Tullius and his faction, and to send me their names. Next, go to the German front and ferret out Tullius’ agents amongst the legionaries there – the men that are ready to stab me in the back if I were to show up there for battlefield duties.
”Tell each of them up close, breathing in their faces, that the family of Verus is going to have them executed if they don’t sign an oath of loyalty to the Emperor-to-Be and his clan.”
Corvinus grunted assent. “Valerius, you and your brother are Rome’s best hope.”
“I appreciate the thought. Yet don’t mention my name at all when you talk to those soldiers. Say you’re acting at the command of the Verus family. Be no more specific than that.”
Corvinus rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I see. You want them to think of your clan as tough and connected. Even though it’s not like it used to be. This is one of your ploys.”
“Well, Corvinus, you know I’m tough enough. And I’m connected to you.” Corvinus said, “Yes. You’re tough like an old chunk of dried horsemeat. Just the kind I like."
When Corvinus left, Valerius picked up a quill and took out a sheet of parchment. It was time to write his brother about the threat from Tullius. Valerius knew that the ploy he’d instructed Corvinus to carry out would not provide absolute protection from Tullius, nor from whomever else might want him and his brother dead. Yet it should buy time. Politics could be such a deceitful game. And a dangerous one.
He wrote Marcus’ name on the top of the paper. He knew it would be difficult to send the letter without it being read by the conspirators. Like anyone of importance in the Empire, he was under surveillance from the power-possessors in the Senate and elsewhere. Yet he’d find some way to slip it past the covert watchdogs.
How I long to get rid of those corrupt Senators. How many times have I asked Antoninus, the Emperor, to make me Prefect of the City of Rome? To have me in that office would benefit him much more than me. He owes me some consideration; he’s my adoptive father, and he even put me in line to become Emperor until he decided to give Marcus that exalted position instead. The office of Prefect is powerful enough to do real damage to the corruption. Even if Antoninus doesn’t trust me, or like me, my brother could convince him to give me the appointment. Yet Marcus won’t listen to my pleas either. Why am I so undervalued by the two of them?
His frustrated thoughts rattled in his brain, but he couldn’t commit them to paper. A sudden visual memory scattered his thoughts – an image of the woman he’d seen in the Hebrew quarter.
Impatiently he swept the parchment off the desk with his forearm.
His jaw set, he changed into a worker’s coarse tunic and slipping past his bodyguards, he went out a rear door of the palace. No matter what it took, he would find the woman with the crimson scarf.
He went to the house where he’d seen her take the small boy who’d nearly been crushed by an oxcart. Pacing the street in front of her house, he saw no one come out or go in for over an hour. He began roaming the nearby streets and marketplaces. Nothing.
He He hoped she hadn’t been at the Temple Wall that morning when he drove the Hebrews out of harm’s way. He’d been rough, and he would not wish her to think him brutal. He had to see her again, although he wasn’t sure why. He could be quite persuasive, so maybe he could talk her into helping him flush out any Zealots that might still remain. Maybe she could help him find the radical who’d tried to kill him in the Jupiter temple by pushing a statue over at him. If he failed to make an arrest soon, Rome would put intolerable pressure on him.
If she were a sensible woman, she would help him find the man, because she’d realize that such attacks made life in Jerusalem worse for everyone, especially for the Hebrews.
But maybe she’s not a sensible woman. Maybe she’s a radical herself.
After a few hours on foot in the city, he was feeling like a dolt. She was one amongst tens of thousands, and for him to look for her on his own like this was preposterous. Still, the markets might be places she would frequent. As he was scanning the crowd at the Persian marketplace, she abruptly appeared in front of him, looking straight at him.
He stared back, frozen, as she strode past him without a second look. He followed her.
At a marketplace stall, she studied vegetables while he studied her. He feigned interest in an eggplant and looked at her furtively.
Suddenly she spoke in Hebrew. “You’d best buy that eggplant, Roman. You’ve been fingering it for two minutes now.”
Feeling idiotic, he stared at her wordlessly.
“You are Roman,” she went on. “You wear those coarse garments to try to seem otherwise. But it does you no good. You’re obviously Roman. Why don’t you say anything? Don’t you understand Hebrew? Must I speak to you in Greek or your slippery-sounding Latin?”
He whispered in Hebrew, looking around him. “I hoped people might take me for a resident or a slave. My name is Valerius. I’m a centurion.”
“A centurion? One of those who beat my people?”
“I have never beaten your people.”
“Tell me your full name.”
He hesitated. What if she recognized his name and knew he was Legate of Judea? He took a breath.
“Severus Valerius Annius Verus. And yours?”
“Samara beth Isaac.” She set her shopping bag down, crossed her arms, and looked him over critically. “Your cognomen, your family name, is Verus, meaning a true man. Are all the men of your clan true, or is that just a word you use? And you have two praenomina or personal names. Why? It’s unusual.”
“I added Valerius when I was in school. I didn’t like being called Severus. There was a general by that name I didn’t care for.”
He waited to see if she would catch the reference to Junius Severus, who crushed one of the Hebrew revolts. If she had, she didn’t show it.
She went on, “Valerius means a strong man. You seem muscular enough, like all of you Roman soldiers. Your nomen, your clan name, is Annius. What does that mean? That you’re the man of the year?”
“You know quite a bit about Roman names,” he said. She had shown no sign of recognizing that he held the highest Roman office in Judea.
“Just because I learn about something does not mean I like it,” she said, her voice steely. “I’m a merchant. I study you for my own safety. We do business with you Romans every day. What about you? Why are you in Judea?”
“I was ordered here in part because I know Syrian, Hebrew, Egyptian and several other tongues of the region.”
“Interesting. How did you learn those languages?”
“I studied them with tutors in my youth, and later, after my military service, when I was posted for three years in Alexandria.” He looked at her intently: her piercing grey-green eyes, her proud chin. With her belligerent attitude, she was not a person he could ask for help in spying on Hebrew insurgents. He was alarmed that feelings for her had begun to stir in him again. That was dangerous.
He asked, “Have you lived in Jerusalem all your life?”
She flared up. “What are you after me for, Roman? If you’re looking for sex, thousands are ready for you. Why go after a Hebrew girl?”
His Hebrew failed him as he stared at her, transfixed by the symmetry of her features.
“I’m not in favor of sex,” he blurted. “I mean, I would never have sex with you. I mean – ”
Two old women nearby stopped shopping and nudged each other, staring.
Samara’s eyes narrowed. “Are you just a slave, a lying slave? Did your master send you to find out about me?”
“No, no. I’m well born. Can we go somewhere and talk?”
“Where would that be? To your bedroom?”
“I must go. I shall seek you out another time.” He fled, blushing furiously.
She hurried back to her father’s house, vexed. How could I have let myself talk so long with that Roman, just because of his blue eyes? It had been years since she’d felt so attracted to a man, and the feeling dismayed her. She had almost been intoxicated by the warmth that came off his skin.
Well, at least she had recovered quickly, and was pleased with herself that she’d defied him successfully without letting her feelings of attraction be noticed. I must be so overworked and so on edge that I let my guard down. How could I let such silly feelings rear up in me? He’s a Roman, after all. A Roman!
Was he trying to seduce her? He didn’t act like a seducer. It was puzzling, the way he became tongue-tied and blushed, then hurried away from her. Maybe he was harmless. Yet even if he turned out not to be, she could handle him, keep him in his place.
When he had turned to flee, she noticed his thick shaved neck. It was like the centurion’s she had seen on horseback at the Temple Wall. And like the Roman’s that helped with Kitan’s fallen oxcart, the one who tried to help the little boy who was knocked unconscious. That Roman had blue eyes that she had seen through his faceplate. This Roman at the marketplace had blue eyes too.
She shook herself, angry. So what? Many of these brutal Romans have blue eyes. Yet his were penetrating, distinctive.
The centurion at the Wall was harsh and cruel, and the one who had offered to help the little boy was tender and solicitous.
This one, just now at the marketplace? She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he was certainly awkward. Could this man with the compelling blue eyes have been all three of them? This – Valerius?
Not likely. There were over three hundred centurions in the garrison, supervising its twenty-four thousand soldiers.
She wondered why he seemed so nervous. Maybe he needed care. All men needed to feel cared for, yet few of them would admit it.
She felt a flush of gratitude for having her cousin Ephraim to care for, to teach and reassure. Certainly, she could never help this Roman, even if he were needy. He was of Rome, she was of Judea. The gulf was too great.