“Drove them all out,” said old Hatshup, grinning and bobbing his grizzled head. “Sent them packing, he did! Every last one of them. They say you could hear those money changers howling and whining all the way across the Hinnom Valley!”

Livy looked up from the flat, round loaf of bread she’d been halfheartedly nibbling. Somehow she didn’t seem to have much appetite this morning. She’d missed the perfect chance to escape —all because of Quintus and his fear of dogs! She chewed the dry bread and swallowed hard.

“He’s an amazing man, this Jesus of Nazareth,” Hatshup was observing. “I don’t care what the priests say about him.”

From her place in the corner near the charcoal brazier, Livy stared across the smoky kitchen at the gray-haired Egyptian gardener. He was squatting on the stone floor beside the big clay oven, slurping hot broth from a wooden spoon. Slowly she realized what the old man was talking about. The scene in the temple. The man with the whip of thongs —the one Procula said she’d seen in her dream. Livy listened with greater interest.

“He’s a good deal more than amazing if you ask me!” said Cook, turning from the big kettle and shaking her ladle at the old man. Her sleeves were rolled up for work, and her flabby upper arms jiggled as she gave her head a vigorous nod. “Some think he might be the Messiah!”

Livy laid her bread aside. “What’s the Messiah?” she asked.

No one responded. Instead, bald Melanus put down his bowl, wiped his chin, and rose from the table. “Some?” he scoffed. “Like the rabble that followed him into the city on Sunday, for instance? Ignorant peasants! Waving their palm branches and singing songs about the ‘Son of David.’ Honestly!” He gave Cook a condescending smile. “My dear woman, do we really need any more messiahs? What’s the count so far this year?”

“Well, there’s the one who caused all that trouble up in Galilee last fall,” volunteered Hatshup. “Leader of the zealots. What do they call him?”

“Bar Abbas,” said Cook with a snort. “Fine messiah he’d make!”

“What are zealots?” asked Livy.

“Freedom fighters,” said Hatshup. Tipping up his bowl, he gulped down the last of his broth. “The kind who’d like to see Master Pilate and the rest of the Romans on the end of a skewer!” He smiled and nodded, then rose shakily to his feet and handed his bowl to Cook for a second helping.

Freedom fighters! thought Livy. She pulled the piece of parchment from her belt and made herself a note:

Bar Abbas. Freedom fighters. Find out more.

Looking up, she noticed Quintus, who sat beside her munching his own loaf of bread. He watched her intently with narrowed eyes. “What are you writing?” he asked.

Livy made a face at him and said nothing.

“Yes, indeed!” laughed Melanus as he started toward the door. “I’d say old Bar Abbas has more muscle in his arm than this fellow from Nazareth. Perhaps he’s your messiah after all!”

Cook stopped stirring. Dropping the ladle into its rest and wiping her hands on her apron, she turned a withering glance on the retreating steward. “You mark my words, Melanus,” she said, shaking a finger at him. “The real Messiah —when he comes —won’t be a thing like that Bar Abbas!”

Livy was becoming exasperated. “What are you talking about? What’s a messiah, anyway?”

Cook turned and looked at her. “The Deliverer,” she said with an earnestness in her voice that nearly took the girl’s breath away. “The Liberator. The true King. The One who will set us all free.”

“And long may he reign!” said Melanus with a smirk. “But just remember: Anyone who goes around talking about a king other than Caesar will be severely dealt with. And I do mean anyone,” he continued, glancing around the room.

“The same is true of anyone whose quest for freedom leads him or her to challenge the authorities,” he added. “Rebels must not be tolerated. That’s Master’s view, and I share it.” He stepped out into the passage. “Now! To work, all of you. The day’s wasting!” He strolled off, the back of his bald head reflecting the dim light as he went. Old Hatshup tottered after him, grinning and muttering.

Livy pursed her lips, bowed her head, and wrote again: Messiah. Liberator. King.

What if it’s true? she thought, biting the end of the stylus. Would he set me free?

“Now, then . . . no dawdling, you two!”

The voice of Cook startled Livy, who shoved the parchment and stylus into her sash. Cook was standing over her, waving a thick finger in her face and pulling Quintus up from the bench by the collar of his tunic. “I’ve put on a stew for the midday meal,” Cook continued, “but I need more water and firewood. Hurry up, now, or I’ll send old Melanus after you with a big stick!”

Quintus got up and grabbed a water jar. “I’m going!” he said.

“You too, Missy,” said Cook, taking Livy by the arm and hauling her up from her seat. The piece of parchment fell to the floor beside the brazier as the big woman shoved her toward the courtyard door. “Out to the fuel bin with you. And keep that door shut . . . The courtyard gate too. I’ve seen one of those street dogs nosing around out there —a big black one —and I don’t want him anywhere near my stew!”

“A big, black dog?” said Quintus, turning pale. He clutched the water jar to his chest and hurried out toward the fountain.

Livy stood at the door, chuckling as she watched him go. Suddenly an idea struck her. Perfect! she thought.

She walked into the courtyard and glanced around. No one. Even the guard had stepped away from his post for a moment. Livy ran to the gate. Sure enough, there was the dog —a big, snuffling, woolly black thing —a lot like the dog that had jumped all over Quintus at the temple.

Slowly and soundlessly she unlatched the gate and pushed it open. Then she hurried to the fuel bin, grabbed an armload of grape wood, and carried it into the kitchen, making sure to leave the door just slightly ajar.

“Here’s the fuel, Cook,” she said, trying hard not to smile.

“Over there,” said Cook, waving a bouncing arm at the opposite wall. “Now you just keep stirring this,” she added, handing the ladle to Livy, “while I —”

The door flew open. A black blur exploded into the kitchen. Cook screamed. Picking up the skirts of her tunic, she hurried out the door.

The big black dog knocked over a table, scattered a bowl of shelled lentils across the floor, and bounded over to the pot. Laughing, Livy dipped a ladleful of broth into a bowl for the hungry animal. “Good boy!” she said. “You were great! Right on time too!”

The dog barked happily, wagged his tail, and began lapping up the broth. Livy leaned against the wall, watching him eat and smiling. Who would’ve thought a woman that size could run so fast? she thought. I wish it had been Melanus!

She stroked the dog’s head and filled the bowl a second time. “But Quintus is the one I really wanted you to meet. I wonder what’s taking him so long?”

She reached for the door and yanked it open. “Quintus!” she called. “Where —”

Staring, she caught her breath.

There in the doorway stood the dark man in the gray, hooded cloak. It was the same man she remembered seeing at the temple the day before.

He smiled at her from behind a thick black beard. “Good morning,” he said. “I believe you have my dog.”