Walking through the streets by himself in disguise allowed Valerius time to reminisce without having to interact with people unless he wanted to. Savoring this rare freedom, he remembered the voice of his brother Marcus when at eighteen Valerius had joined the Legions, refusing Marcus’ offer to be Co-Emperor: Marcus had said, “Remember, Severus Valerius, in the legions, you’ll just be pretending to be a soldier. You’re really a ruler. You were born to be a Roman ruler.”
Now, Valerius realized, he must take steps and do things he’d never done in his life. He was used to defending and protecting the Empire as a soldier and bureaucrat, yet he’d never had to out-maneuver conspirators who had started directly to threaten having him and his royal family members killed.
He slowed his pace along the cobbled street, as Samara came back into his thoughts. What a tumultuous distraction she was! He would be meeting with her in two days to listen to her strange proposition to take her to Africa. It was so startling to hear her say that she sympathizes with the rebels. What was he supposed to do with an admission like that from a woman he had feelings for?
That was unsettling, yet nowhere near as unsettling as the threat to his life and his brother’s life from Tullius.
Now he would have to absorb himself wholly into the politics and intrigues that threatened him. Could Samara fit into that? He had no idea how.
He passed a tinware merchant squatting on a blanket, keening “Plates and cups!” A boy came up to him with a basket of fresh flatbread and said, “Last chance to buy my bread for dinner! Buy it now, because it’ll be gone in an hour!”
Sadly, reluctantly, Valerius realized that after today, he could no longer patrol the streets in disguise. He’d miss this vibrant street life. Tomorrow he’d return from the garrison to his palace, where he’d thread his way through the halls with their kowtowing subordinates and whispering gossips. Now, though, it was time for him to organize his men to defend him.
At the garrison, he strode through the grounds, knocking on doors and summoning startled soldiers and officers to join him in the courtyard. Now he had to connect in a new way with Flavius’ eighty men. He had to make them his own. Everything has changed. The thought pounded through his brain.
Scanning the faces of the eighty who stood at attention before him, he explained why he had deceived them all that he was Centurion Valerius, not the ruler of all Judea and the brother of the next Emperor. He told them that from now on, they’d have new and different responsibilities in Jerusalem, and that he’d be asking some of them to follow him into dangerous missions. He informed them with great sincerity that the days he’d spent living here with them in disguise were the best days of his life.
After his announcement, everyone was still. He said “At ease,” but no one moved. One man raised his hand. “Sir. Begging your pardon, but did you really have to deceive us about who you are? Didn’t you trust us to keep your secret?”
“Legionary, I’ve stayed here with you so I could patrol the streets and seek out possible enemies of Rome. I had to be undercover. If just one soldier had too much to drink one night in some inn and bragged about his commander being the Legate in disguise, word could have spread throughout the city.”
“Sir,” said another soldier, “you say you’ll have new types of assignments for us. What can we expect?”
“Helping the population rebuild the homes, shops and roads destroyed during the conflicts. We’re going to show the Hebrews that we can be trusted. Also, for some of you, there may soon be expeditions to other lands. Your centurion Flavius is now a special officer under my direct command. Also, some of you shall be working under me to carry out special missions in various places, perhaps beyond Judea.”
“What if the Hebrews revolt again?”
“Then the revolt will fail. But don’t look for signs of a revolt where there are none.”
Flavius scowled sternly in an effort to conceal his grin. He was fairly jiggling with enthusiasm for these new adventures. Valerius said, “Dismissed.”
Some began to filter out of the courtyard, but most of the men gathered in clusters, talking excitedly. Turning to Flavius, Valerius said with a hint of sadness, “This will be my last night at the garrison. From tomorrow, report to me at the palace. You’ll be taking my function of recruiting informers amongst the people to look for Zealots.”
“I can do that. I have some in mind already.”
“I’m going to miss riding patrol with you, Flavius. I must rely on you now to keep your hot head on your shoulders.”
“When I visit you, sir, you can douse me with ice water.”
“Tonight, bring me the service records of our eighty men. Now let’s go have dinner in the dining hall.”
From his eighty-man unit, he would choose about half – the most loyal, most fearless ones – for a private armed force to protect him, his brother and his brother’s family: Faustina and the children. He would call his guard the Amicii Veri – friends of the Verus family, friends of truth – and put Flavius in charge of them. They would be on alert to be called up for duty anywhere and any time Valerius might need them.
Now, also, he must decide what to do about Samara. A troublesome prospect. Her image appeared in his mind, sharp and clear.
She was so strong and determined, yet still, he sensed her fragility and tenderness. The combination made him tremble with desire. How this unsettled him! He couldn’t do his duty if he were infatuated with a non-citizen, a provincial native – a woman who may even be an insurgent, a Zealot. When she pushed him aside fleeing the Jupiter temple, he was unable to draw his sword, and he still couldn’t figure out why.
The memory vexed him. For all he knew, she would try to do him harm again.
“Sir?” asked Flavius. “Are we going to the dining hall?”
He shook himself, realizing he’d been standing stock still, staring at the empty space his eighty men had just vacated.
As he and Flavius strode across the courtyard, he saw a slim figure approaching, struggling with a load of bulging cloth bundles and leather bags. It was Walid, showing his widely spaced teeth in a huge grin.
Flavius asked, “Are you sure it’s wise to allow this boy to come into the garrison so freely?”
“He’s an Arab, Flavius, not a Hebrew. He’s no Zealot; he wishes no harm to the Romans. He and his bags are always searched before he gets in.”
“Hello, Sir Second Solomon,” said Walid. “It’s good to see you.”
Valerius disliked the epithet, but ignored it. “What do you have today, Walid?”
“Oh, many good things, sir.” The boy smelled of cardamom. He unrolled a carpet, spread the contents of his bags on it, and produced small squares of cloth to wrap and tie purchases into parcels. Flavius squatted on the ground, grinning, and began to taste Walid’s delicacies. Three kinds of figs. Four varieties of olives, three of raisins. Pickled eggs: tiny pigeon eggs, fat peacock eggs. Breads and cakes of various tempting types.
Walid said, “Your slave Rufus told me he wishes to buy some of everything, yet he must have your approval.”
“After today, Walid, see Rufus at the Palace of the Legate.’
“Yes, sir. Why, sir?”
Valerius laughed. “Walid, I’m not the centurion I pretended to be. Tell me, did you never suspect that I’m the Legate of Judea?”
Walid’s eyes bulged. He fell prostrate before Valerius. “Sir, you must help me, sir, if you’re the Legate. Help me escape my fate.”
Troubled, he extended a hand to the boy. “Stand up, Walid. What fate?”
“Sir, it’s my brother, sir. He says I must join his business. He says I have no choice. Our whole clan requires that I do it. All I wish, sir, is to go on as I am now. I support myself, sir, and I bring money to my family every night. Yet he says I must join him – and my father agrees, as well as my other brothers and my cousins.”
Flavius put a bundle of pickled pigeon eggs down and stood to listen to the exchange.
“What is your brother’s business?” Valerius asked.
“He’s a thief, sir,” blurted Walid.
“A thief?”
“You must not tell anyone I said so.”
Valerius’ pulse accelerated. Walid was like Samara. Like her, he needed rescuing from family madness. “Walid, I shall help if I can. What kind of thief is your brother?”
“With his men, he burglarizes homes, raids caravans, and assaults merchants and innkeepers to extract money from them. He wants to use my business contacts to expand his thievery.”
Valerius shook his head. “I cannot permit you to join him, Walid. Have I ever arrested any of his band?”
“Oh, no, sir. He wouldn’t dare steal from the Romans. He’s a very traditional thief, sir; he only robs his own people. He wishes to keep his head, after all. He has ambitions.”
“What sort of ambitions?”
“He says he’s going to be the Sheik of Jerusalem, sir: the person to whom all the Arabs turn to right their wrongs.”
“And he would be the chief wrongdoer. Well, Walid, why don’t you wish to join him?”
“Because I wish to live safely, sir, and honestly.”
“What do you want to do about it, Walid?” Valerius asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know. What choices do I have?” he sniffled. “I shall be kind to my victims. They shall call me ‘The Kind Thief.’”
“All right. Listen. I think I know a way out for you.”
Walid wiped his eyes and looked up. “Tell me, sir.”
Walid’s eyes widened as Valerius explained his plan.
After Walid said his goodbyes and gave profuse thanks, Valerius was already worrying about the course he planned for the boy. He’d told him he could arrange for him to join the Legions. The Legions might give Walid a comfortable post and a good way to escape his family’s skullduggery. Yet it also might take his life.
Flavius had been watching the conversation attentively. Valerius asked, “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse recruits turn out well.”
“Flavius, I’ve been wanting to talk with you again about your over-concern with the Hebrew revolutionaries. How long has it been since a major Zealot attack?”
“Almost fifteen years, if you don’t count the little things they’ve been doing to us all along. There was the raid on the temple the other night, which seemed to be pointless.”
“Yes, it did,” Valerius said, concealing a tremor of nervousness. “It seemed to be the odd act of a lone fanatic.” Valerius wondered if he would ever be able to tell Flavius that the temple raider was a Hebrew woman – one with whom he was meeting privately in two days.
Flavius went on, “The last serious case was that young Hebrew horse-poisoner, and that’s been ten years now.”
“Flavius, I’m not saying we should let our guard down, I’m saying we should stop expecting the worst. You know the saying: expecting the worst makes people do their worst.”
Flavius grinned. “Now you sound like your brother, sir. A philosopher. Yet you haven’t stopped recruiting informers, have you? Have a sweet cake.”
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Valerius bit into one of Walid’s cakes, swishing his feet in the basin of warm scented water Rufus had brought him.
Samara.
He would be meeting her in two days.
His thoughts obsessively probed her every aspect. Her perfect face, her almond eyes that flashed in rage and crinkled with laughter. What would it be like to touch a woman so brimming with spirit and emotion? His pulse raced at the memory of her elegant figure and finely sculpted features, her exotic scent. As a merchant trader, she seemed to understand the world in ways he hardly knew. But this damned Hebrew partisanship of hers, siding with the rebels. It could get her killed. For that matter, it could get me killed. For all I know, she’s plotting to kill me herself.
He hastily dried his feet with a towel, sat in bed and turned to the half-unrolled scrolls scattered around him. He had to get through these service records to find soldiers he could trust. He watched his oil lamp glow steadily, then flicker, then glow steadily again.
“Uh, excuse me, sir,” said Rufus from the next room.
“Tomorrow, Rufus.”
“Sir –”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now,” said a female voice. “I insist.”
He was startled to see a tall hooded woman slipping into his bedchamber.
Julia again, he thought impatiently: the loose wife of the horse trader. Why would Rufus let her in? Does she still think she can seduce me?
“Sir Roman. You look too comfortable.” The woman shook her hood back to reveal her face.
It was Samara.