Rebekah's Treasure (41 page)

C
AESAREA
M
ARITIMA TO
J
UDEAN
D
ESERT
70 A.D.

CHAPTER 10

Fear is a strange thing. It always finds you out. And what I’ve feared has finally come to pass. Someone has recognized us. Even now, that little weasel Rebekah calls “Argos” stalks us as we walk through the marketplace. Though he walks along the shops—his shadow clinging to the walls like mold—I’ve seen him. He’s been hanging around for days, especially around Demas. I know Argos recognizes him; perhaps Aaron, too, though without his beard Argos may yet be fooled. I’m only glad Rebekah has kept her promise and stayed away, for if Argos were to see any of us together it would end our charade, and perhaps our lives, for that weasel would surely inform the Romans.

He still bears the scratches my normally gentle Rebekah gave him. Benjamin says we should give him more than scratches. He has suggested we kill the Greek since so much is at stake. But I’ve cautioned against it. Now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

“Demas! Is that you?” Argos suddenly cries, breaking his silence and stepping from the shadows of the shop walls then scurrying, like a rodent, among the crowd. The knots on his head blow in the breeze making him look like he wears a cluster of writhing serpents. Now he moves with the boldness and determination of a legionnaire; the pride, too, for he walks as if expecting people to make way. Surprisingly, several do; frightened by the knots, perhaps, since Isis has many followers in Caesarea.

My hand moves to the dagger hidden beneath my robe as I look around for his companions.
Hashem
has blessed us for he is alone. It will be easier to take him down, if it comes to that.

“Demas!” he shouts again, darting and weaving among the crowd.

Demas continues walking alongside the block as though he doesn’t hear. I know that Demas, too, has feared this encounter for we have discussed it. Demas has walked the block for weeks looking for Esther, and in the process buys several slaves every day to avoid suspicion. Even now, he’s inspecting a strong, broad man with a thick crop of silky brown hair that hangs across his forehead like a stallion’s mane. And judging by the defiant look on the slave’s face, he’s just as wild. But the muscular slave looks oddly out of place among the emaciated men on either side of him.

“Demas?” Argos calls out yet again.

Demas continues to pretend he doesn’t hear.

But my sons hear. Aaron draws his
kaffia
across his face. Then he and Benjamin push forward. With a wave of my hand, I caution them to stay back, while I myself bob and weave through the crowd hoping to head Argos off. This man can undo us all.

And then it happens. Argos breaks free of the crowd and heads for Demas. When he reaches him, he yanks Demas’s arm, making him turn. “Eeeew! It
is
you! Oh, I knew it! But . . . what are you doing here!” Argos’s voice is loud, angry, as though he bears Demas a grudge.

Demas’s face is the color of ash. His lips part, but before he can say a word, I’m beside him. “Is this the cook you promised?” I say. “Judging from his size, he knows how to keep his belly full.” Demas’s eyes widen in confusion, for I’m talking nonsense, trying to throw Argos off. And though it seems I’ve thrown off Demas instead, there are too many watching to stop now.

“He seems a good match for a gaggle of squawking women,” I bellow, “someone who can handle them from here to Damascus. And I
must
have someone to handle them for the sake of peace. You know two women over one fire is a recipe for strife unless there is a man to
oversee them. And don’t we have twenty such contentious women in our camp?”

“I cook,” the broad man on the block says suddenly, as if I were talking to him. “And I can handle women.”

“Oh?” I say, relieved I don’t have to continue my babbling. Then I eye the silky-haired slave, wondering why such a fine specimen of manhood has not been purchased already. I gesture for him to bend down so I can read the wooden placard that hangs around his neck. “It says you’re a runner. That you’ve run from your previous master. But he didn’t brand you. Why?”

The broad-shouldered slave smiles. “He tried. When I knocked the teeth out of four of his best men and flattened the noses of three others, he stopped trying, and sold me to this one.” The large man gestures with his chin to a thin slaver who has been standing nearby, listening.

“So you’re a brawler.” My interest is peaked.

“I’ve had my share of fights in the minor circuses, before being purchased by a fat magistrate as his bodyguard.”

In spite of myself, I chuckle. “And then the magistrate found himself in need of protection from
you
?”

The slave’s smile deepens. “He would have had me killed if he hadn’t wanted to recover at least part of the large sum he laid out for me.”

“Enough talk, Thracian,” the slaver says with a quivering voice, as though fearful of both the large man and the possibility I’ll lose interest.

I brush the dealer away with the wave of my hand, my eyes still on the slave. “I’m not a gambler. I’ve no desire to risk my money either. How do I know you won’t run?”

“You don’t.” The Thracian’s hands are bound together in front. He brings them up and pushes his flowing hair away from his eyes. “But you see my worth. I’m strong. I can work hard.”

“I’ll make you a bargain of him,” the nervous slaver blurts. He steps in front of Argos who has, all the while, been listening with a perplexed expression. “You can purchase him cheap. He’s an ill mannered Thracian, but with a firm hand, he can be tamed, I’m sure of it.”

“Offer eight-hundred
drachmas
,” I say to Demas without looking at the slave or the dealer, “and not one
drachma
more.”

“Done!” the slaver says quickly. “The Thracian is worth three . . . maybe four times that, but yes, I’ll let you rob me. It is done.”

I turn and push past Argos. The little Greek is now beside himself, having been so ignored. He waves his arms, then jumps up and down. “Something is wrong here. There is mischief afoot. I sense mischief afoot!” He looks at me and points to Demas. “This man is not what he seems!”

I draw my dagger. “Go away,” I hiss. “Can’t you see we are conducting business?”

“I won’t be dismissed,” Argos says, white with rage. “You can’t dismiss me! I know this man. He’s a beekeeper! Something’s wrong here.”

Now we are drawing an even larger crowd. People stare and whisper. The owner of the Thracian wrings his hands. Several other slavers eye Demas suspiciously. And despite my orders, Aaron and Benjamin move closer.

When Demas twists around to count out the eight-hundred
drachmas
, Argos shrieks, “Don’t turn your back on me! I know who you are. Don’t think I don’t know!” It’s evident Argos is bent on making trouble—Argos, who is used to having his way; Argos, who is used to people listening when he speaks.

I’m about to shove the little Greek aside when someone shouts, “Make way, make way.” And when I see two lictors with their birch rods coming toward us, I quickly sheathe my dagger.

The lictors look fierce and greatly agitated as they move along the path cleared for them. When they get closer I see, for the first time, that the jewel-bedecked Market Manager is walking behind them.

The Market Manager’s flabby face quivers with displeasure as he clutches his ivory baton. “What is the meaning of . . . .” He stops when he sees Argos. “Oh, it’s
you
. Is it your intent to make a habit of disrupting my market? Well! What do you have to say for yourself this time?” The Manager doesn’t even try to hide his contempt. His face is a storm as he
waves his baton in the air, and for an instant I think he’s actually going to crack Argos over the head with it. Was he thinking of Rebekah? Was he remembering how his leg was healed?

Argos’s silence is like a spark that sets the Manager’s face on fire; his cheeks burn like coals. “Are you deaf?” he shrieks. “Answer me, or by Jupiter I’ll send you straight to prison.”

Argos takes a deep breath as though gathering courage. “I know this man,” he says, pointing to Demas. “A beekeeper for Isis, posing as a slave dealer. I tell you, something is wrong.”

The Market Manager’s eyebrows, looking like feathers, arch upward. “A beekeeper? Hardly. I’ve done business with him. A keen eye, he has, for flesh; and a shrewd negotiator, too. I see no fault in him.”

“I tell you he’s a fraud, and up to no good!”

“
You
tell me? Who are you to tell me anything?” The Manager’s doughy cheeks shake as he pinches his lips together. “This is my market.
I
do the telling. Now for the last time, state your grievance.”

“Perhaps . . . I’ve overstepped,” Argos says, dropping his voice as well as his chin as though finally sensing the Manager’s ill will. “Perhaps I’ve been too zealous. But as a good citizen of Rome, I merely wanted to point out that something could be wrong here.” Oh, how contrite and submissive he is now! The man could be a play actor in the court of Caesar.

The Market Manager looks at him sideways, studies him a moment, then nods, as though taking him more seriously. Whether it’s because of Argos’s tone or because he has revealed himself to be a Roman citizen I cannot say, but Argos has the Manager’s attention now. I tense. If he is believed, we are all doomed.

“You claim he’s a fraud,” the Manager says, turning his gaze to Demas. “Very well. We shall see. I will test him.”

“But sir, his father was . . . .”

“Silence!” The Manager waves his eagle-topped baton in the air, causing the many rings on his chubby fingers to glint in the harsh sun light. “You, slave dealer, tell me, what can a master do if a slave is injured or killed by another?”

Demas, tall and broad, with one soft hand cupped beneath his chin, smiles. “Under
lex aquilia
, he could sue for damages or charge the killer with a capital offense.”

“And if the slave is despoiled by another? And falls into evil ways? What then?”

“The master has a
praetorian action in duplo
against the offender, and the offender must pay twice the assessed damage.”

“And what if the slave incurs a
naturalis obligation
? What is the master’s responsibility?”

“None sir, unless the slave was employed as his representative, in which case the master could be liable to an
actio institoria
.”

The Manager throws up his hands. “Enough! This man is no fraud!”

“Yes . . . he knows the law,” Argos says, looking wild, desperate. “I tried to tell you his father was a slaver. But
he
is a beekeeper.” Argos is so bent on proving his point that he again seems heedless of the Manager’s growing impatience. His enmity toward Demas must be great, indeed, for him to be so reckless. “He would never return to the trade of a slaver,” Argos stammers. “He told me so himself! I
know
something’s not right here!”

“First you accuse someone of stealing a cup without proof. Now you proclaim this man a fraud when it’s obviously not so, as my testing proved.” He signals his lictors. “Take this madman away.” Then he adds, “For my part I’d throw you straight into prison. But since you are a citizen, you are entitled to a trial. The Procurator will deal with you.”

“No!” Argos shrieks. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

One of the lictors grabs his arm, but Argos pulls away, then narrowly dodges the second lictor. And then he does something foolish. He bolts. He actually tries to run away, but he doesn’t get far for his path is littered with people.

“Stop him!” The Market Managers shouts. With that, one of the lictors takes his long bundle of white birch rods and swings it at Argos’s head. But it hits him in the neck instead and drops him in his tracks, but not before I hear the sound of bones cracking.

Even before Argos hits the ground I know he’s dead, that his neck has been broken. He lands face down on the paving stones, his knotted hair fanning out around his head.

“Look what this worthless goat has made me do!” the Manager says, hardly glancing at the prone body. “Now I’ll have to waste endless hours explaining this to the Procurator.” He waves his hand in disgust. “Remove him.” Then turning to Demas he says, “Now, what was your offer for this slave? Eight-hundred
drachmas
, I believe you said?” He points to the broad man on the block. “Of course you know he’s an import, which means you’ll have to pay me an extra tax.”