By midmorning in the Roman garrison’s courtyard, the sun was glaring on the pale sand, the air shimmering with the heat. A sweating legionary named Atticus stood at attention, lank black hair pasted to his forehead. At his side was his soldier friend Helveticus. Behind the two of them, eight legionaries stood in two stiff ranks. Opposite the Romans, a white-robed Arab nervously shifted from foot to foot.
A small crowd chattered and watched from the back of the courtyard. All were awaiting Centurion Valerius Claudius Cato, who was to judge the case of a fierce argument between Atticus and an Arab saddle maker.
Abruptly Centurion Flavius, in full uniform, entered the courtyard. In the archway behind him, Valerius appeared, in formal military tunic, and the crowd craned their necks to see this officer who had lately been holding hearings in the garrison. Flavius was the only one there who knew that this officer was the Legate of Judea in disguise.
The week before, when Atticus had gone to the Syrian market to pick up a new custom saddle he’d ordered, he took his friend Helveticus along. Although Atticus had agreed in advance on a price, when the saddle merchant gave him the bill, Atticus spat out a curse, snatched up the saddle and defiantly threw down a handful of coins that totaled much less than the amount due.
The merchant had wailed in protest; Atticus shouted a threat, shoved him, and then headed to the street. The Arab had lunged after him, shaking his fists angrily, shouting “I want my money, I want my money!” But Atticus laughed and escaped easily.
When they arrived back at the garrison, Helveticus was worried about the possible repercussions of what his friend had done, and presented himself reluctantly to Valerius to tell the whole story.
Valerius had taken Helveticus’ report seriously. After Valerius waited a day to see if the Arab saddler would lodge a complaint against the legionary, none was forthcoming, so he sent a party of soldiers to escort the saddler to the garrison for a hearing. He knew that the soldiers who brought the merchant in would be perplexed, maybe angered. The Arab hadn’t even asked for a hearing, they would say. Why cater to him?
Valerius paused in the archway that led into the courtyard, took a deep breath, and entered quickly. His gaze swept over the legionaries stiff at attention. Although many of them knew and liked him, behind their blank sweating faces, he knew, there was resentment. Where did a mere visiting centurion from Alexandria get the authority to hold such hearings?
He was uncomfortable with their being more people than usual gabbling amongst themselves in the rear of the courtyard: Hebrew, Syrian and Roman, merchants and bureaucrats, off-duty legionaries, slaves between errands, a few bored aristocratic wives. Rufus told him that people on the street said many things about this Centurion Valerius: that he was the broadest, tallest, most muscular man in the garrison (untrue); that forging his armor required two extra pounds of iron (true, and maybe he should lose some weight); that he had Hebrew blood (untrue).
Valerius took his place on a raised ceremonial chair. He’d become weary of the skirmishes the legionaries were always having with local merchants, petty officials, whores, gamblers, tailors, armor-makers, saddlers like this one.
The Roman occupation of Judea had become a long-term, settled fact of life; consequently, the legionaries were becoming more arrogant and harder to control. Valerius found himself having to rein them in more often. Hotheaded legionaries could provoke incidents that might instigate native uprisings – the last thing that Valerius wanted. His desire to keep the city stable and peaceful was quickened by the thought of what could happen to him if he failed.
There were Senators in Rome who salivated at the prospect of sending more troops to Judea, locking the province down. And Valerius was vulnerable; his brother wasn’t Emperor yet. If he didn’t handle this well, he could be plucked out of Jerusalem, made an example of, and who knew what would happen next?
He looked at Atticus’ thin, dark face, typical of so many from southern Italia. He knew that the soldier would speak in flat, clipped “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” answers, so Valerius was alert to read the emotions beneath the words.
He asked sternly, "Legionary, how long have you served the Empire?"
"Almost twelve years, sir."
"So more than half of your tour of duty is complete."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, do you think you can settle down and stop trying to cheat merchants? Because if you cannot, you could easily lose your investment of more than a decade’s time. I could have you dismissed from the Legions with no pension and no land. Is that what you want, soldier?"
Atticus’ eyes narrowed; Valerius felt the urgency of Atticus’ panic and anger. "No, sir."
"Have you received your pay for this month yet?"
"I receive it in three days."
"The day you receive it, come to my quarters and show me your bill from this merchant marked ‘Paid in Full.’ Is that clear?"
“Yes, sir.” Valerius noticed Atticus’ shoulders relax.
“Is that going to leave you enough to live on?”
“I can manage, sir.”
“That is, if you cut down on your drinking and whoring.”
Atticus’ shoulders went back up towards his ears. Valerius could almost smell his aggravation. "May I go now, sir?" Atticus asked.
“Just a minute.” Valerius turned to the Arab.
"Merchant. This legionary is going to pay you the full amount he owes you in three days.”
The merchant nodded and grinned in relief. He and the handful of men who’d come with him turned to leave the courtyard, but Valerius called after him: “Stop, merchant. You’re not done here.”
The Arabs halted.
“Merchant, I heard that you nearly struck this soldier. You may be in the right, yet remember that you’re part of an occupied country. If you ever strike a Roman, no matter how he may provoke you, Rome is going to destroy you. Don’t forget it.”
The merchant was frozen; the only thing about him that moved was his Adam’s apple as he gulped nervously.
Valerius slid off his chair and onto his feet. “You are dismissed, merchant. Legionaries – dismissed.”
The merchant and his friends hurried out of the courtyard. Valerius had a bad taste in his mouth from the injustice of what he had just told the saddle maker – yet it was true.
The soldiers quickly dispersed except for Atticus, who approached Valerius. "Sir. Thank you, sir."
Atticus seemed genuinely grateful at being off the hook. Perhaps he really would stop gambling, whoring and taking advantage of others, at least for awhile.
Valerius put a hand on his shoulder. "Atticus, listen to me. You’re one of my friend Flavius’ eighty men, and I don’t relish having to fetch your body from a gutter some night. Keep out of trouble. Save your money. Some day you’ll have a family who’ll thank you."
Atticus mumbled, “I’ll try.”
Valerius wheeled, striding out of the courtyard through the garrison’s main gate and into the clamoring boulevard. He headed for the Palace of the Legate, with Rufus and four plain-clothes bodyguards by his side.
Rufus said, “At the palace, sir, you have far too many documents stacked on your desk. Maybe you should give me some of them to throw away and we can say they never arrived.” Valerius smiled, but didn’t answer.
On their way to the palace, they were compelled continually to sidestep piles of rubble left over from the demolition of Hebrew buildings. “Rufus, we’re still plundering this place after so many years of occupation. You’d think we could stifle our greed at least a little.”
Rufus looked at him curiously. “But, sir, you did sign the permissions for the Hebrew homes to be demolished.”
“I only signed off on tearing down a few buildings near the stone quarries. Yet when the corporations came in from Rome, they took out twice as much, including shops and houses in the Temple precincts. What was I supposed to do?”
“Make them stop?”
“By sending soldiers against the corporations? The Senate would have had my head. The corporations have come to possess more power than the Senate itself, and their chief aim is profit and plunder.”
Rufus tried to temper the frustration he heard. “Don’t forget though, as a side effect, the corporations do a lot of good work for us – many great buildings, new inventions.”
Somewhat mollified, Valerius said, “Yes but, can Judea ever become a peaceful province as long as Rome views it as a source of booty?”
To Rufus’ dismay, Valerius began speaking loudly. “We started by plundering the great Temple, winning their everlasting resentment. Then we further insulted the Hebrews by using the gold from the Temple to rebuild the Coliseum in Rome. Even worse, the Hebrew sect who call themselves Christians were thrown to wild animals in the Coliseum as entertainment. Has Rome no shame?”
Rufus didn’t like seeing Valerius get so worked up over Rome’s wrongs. It never did any good. He felt pangs of worry for his master and wondered what he could do to help him be calmer. He said, “At least those days are gone, sir. No one is being sacrificed in Rome any more.”
Valerius nodded. “It still disgusts me that we did those things!”
They passed a Hebrew couple, their limbs stick-like, squatting under a piece of canvas propped up on stilts. Around them were a cooking urn and baskets of clothing. Here they sit with all they have, thought Valerius sadly.
“My brother could stop all this exploitation of the lands we have conquered and occupied by showing Emperor Antoninus that Rome would be better served by more creative, human ways of treating our subject peoples. I’ve sent Marcus my well-thought-out advice about that many times.”
“How many letters have you sent him now, sir?”
“The last one was number one hundred twelve. At least one every month since our uncle Emperor Antoninus refused the throne to me and made it clear that Marcus would be the sole ruler of the Empire. Even though I’m the older one, by a year.”
“Being older should have meant you’d be first in line.”
“I know. But my uncle didn’t care about that.”
“You’ve told me that Marcus agrees with some of your ideas,” said Rufus.
“Marcus answers my letters about twice a year, and seldom responds directly to anything I suggest. I know he believes in much of what I express to him, but he keeps saying things like ‘Talk to me about that in the future; it’s not practical now.’ It sometimes feels like I’m tossing my letters into a pit.”
“Neglecting your good advice is truly his loss, sir, and the Empire’s.”
Valerius looked at his slave quizzically. He wasn’t always sure whether Rufus was being serious or just placating him.
In his palace library, Valerius gazed at the plethora of scrolls and sheets of papyrus and vellum on his desk. He almost smelled the sweat and blood these papers were about. Mostly they were complaints about conflicts between Romans – legionaries, bureaucrats or merchants – and locals: businessmen like the Arab saddler, and a variety of women, respectable and otherwise. He wished Rufus was right that he could let Rufus throw some of this away. Yet how could he, when they were all unsettled complaints?
He allowed his thoughts to shift to an undercurrent that had been with him since the day before: Who is Samara beth Isaac? What does she think of me?
Well, she’d believed that he was a centurion. He was glad she’d accepted his ruse. If she realized he was really the Roman Legate, she’d see him as one of her people’s chief oppressors and would never have conversed with him.
Yet if he saw her again – which he’d like to do – he’d eventually have to tell her the truth before she found it out on her own.
The question was, would she forgive him for lying to her, for telling her that he was a mere centurion? Would she forgive him for being the Roman overseer of Judea?
He was never comfortable with deceit, though it was sometimes necessary.
He remembered lying to his brother when Marcus was thirteen and he was a year older. They were living their idyllic life on their grandfather’s wooded estate. One morning Marcus startled Valerius with a shout: “The barbarians are here!” They saw five or six Gothic tribesmen from the forest, with their long thick brown dreadlocks and tattooed torsos, nosing around the granary. The brothers frightened them away by shouting at them and throwing rocks. Later, Marcus asked Valerius if he’d noticed anything missing. Valerius knew that four large sacks of wheat were gone from the granary, yet he didn’t want Marcus to go running after the Goths and create a fracas with his exaggerated, self-righteous sense of justice. They could afford to lose a little grain.
So Valerius had lied. He’d felt justified in it, yet it didn’t feel comfortable.
It was the same when he deceived Samara about who he was. He’d had good reason to do it, yet it still made him uneasy. He really didn’t like the messiness of trying to keep track of one’s lies or having to defend them if caught.
But why should I care? She’s a woman I don’t even know!
As if that weren’t enough to distract him, other problems kept worming into his mind. The most urgent one was the report he’d have to file about that damned Jupiter temple intruder, whoever he was.
Sergius Caius, the soft and venal high priest, was complaining about the lack of suspects in the break-in. And now the flabby lawyer Aspergus was monitoring him too, on behalf of Senator Tullius.
If Valerius failed to catch the trespasser, who could tell what Tullius would do? Appoint a special Senate investigator to breath down his neck? How could I have let the vandal in the temple push me aside and run off into the night? How could I explain that to my brother? Especially when I fail to understand it myself. These Hebrews and their provocations were driving him crazy. Especially that Samara beth Isaac.
He picked up an ink-pot of especially dark and rich Egyptian ink, its wax seal intact. His brother had given it to him upon Valerius’ assignment to Judea. It was as if Marcus was saying, Go on, keep sending me letters, even if I don’t answer them.
Yet he felt a chill; he really had nothing to smile about. Sometimes it seemed as though Tullius was planning to assassinate both Marcus and Valerius. The walls of his study seemed to press in on him. He pictured himself hurling the inkpot against the wall. It would create such a satisfying black splash.
Tullius had said there were some who supported Valerius for the throne and wanted to get rid of Marcus. He allowed his mind to wander into his fantasies of being Emperor. e wondered who these so-called If I took the throne, I’d turn the Empire around. I’d stop trying to kill off the barbarians. I’d negotiate with them, and educate them, and infiltrate them, and assassinate their leaders. I’d do anything to avoid this constant drain of the lives of Rome’s young legionaries and this ravaging of Rome’s economy, with half the tax money going to war. If Tullius knew my mind, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of me.
At the thought of being assassinated, the image of Samara promptly returned to his mind. His heart tightened at the prospect of being taken out of the world before getting to know her. But why? She was a stranger to him. Unfortunately, she was also a rebel.
It seemed that knowing of her existence had given him something more to live for – something even more compelling than cleaning up the corruption in Rome.
Sa-ma-ra. Hebrew names always meant something. He pulled out a thick codex of Hebrew words. After awhile he found her name. It meant “protected by the Lord.”
She’d better have some protection, the way she used that sharp tongue of hers. Yet there was something fragile and warm about her, too, something difficult to resist.
He would have liked to write his brother about the many issues on his mind – of course, not a thing about his fantasies regarding Samara. Marcus needed to know about Tullius’ violent intentions, but how could Valerius inform him if the letters he wrote were being read by Tullius’ local henchmen?
He paused for a moment, quill in hand. The moment turned into minutes. The walls of the room were still closing in.
He put down his quill, shoved the papyrus aside, and picked up the inkpot. Would he now fling it across the room? No; he should channel his frustration into a quest. He had to talk with Samara again, and soon.
In fact: now.
“Rufus! Get my guard. I’m returning to the garrison and going out on patrol.”
“But you just returned from there, sir.”
“Just stop your infernal comments and fetch my guard!”