The Last Disciple (25 page)

“My affairs with Bernice are of no concern to you,” Maglorius repeated.

Alypia waved him away, apparently weary of argument. Valeria knew better. Whenever her stepmother lost an argument, she pretended she didn’t care in the first place.

Maglorius moved to Quintus and, still holding Sabinus, murmured a few instructions on using the wooden swords. Quintus appeared happy to try the new moves.

Alypia pointed the slave, who had been standing discreetly at the edge of the courtyard, toward Valeria.

The slave set the tray of food down on the couch beside Valeria and bowed slightly before escaping the courtyard and the argument that was sure to follow.

“Eat,” Alypia commanded her stepdaughter.

Alypia was now thirty. Her hair was naturally dark, matching Valeria’s, but like many other Roman women, she wore a blonde wig made from the hair of slaves from northern Gaul. Her fingers were full of ornate gold bands, her earrings made of bunches of emerald beads. On each wrist was a gold bracelet formed into the shape of a snake. There was no mistaking her wealth or her position as the wife of a high-ranking Roman administrator.

“Eat,” she commanded again.

“Oh, Mother,” Valeria said, rising and throwing her arms around Alypia’s neck, “thank you so very, very much for releasing me from the bondage of an arranged marriage.”

“I have done no such thing.” Alypia pushed herself loose from her stepdaughter’s embrace and forced Valeria back onto the couch.

Valeria pretended surprise. “I don’t understand. You asked me to eat.”

“It was not a request. It was a demand.”

“But, Alypia—” Valeria kept the same pretended surprise in the tone of her voice—“you know my vow. I’ll starve myself to death before I allow myself to be sent to Rome to marry an old man. Why would you ask me to eat if I am still expected to do this?”

“Don’t play games with me,” Alypia said.

Valeria dropped her act. “This is not a game. I would rather die than marry against my will.”

Even as she spoke, Valeria felt her mouth water at the sight of the bread and the honey and the fruit.

“Child, child, child,” Alypia said.

“Obviously I am not a child if I am expected to become a wife.”

“You are a child if you refuse to acknowledge the ways of the world. A woman must marry well. From within the marriage, there are ways of persuading a husband to do what the wife wants, without the husband knowing he is receiving such guidance. And ways for a wife to find pleasure outside the marriage.”

Valeria closed her eyes. She knew what her stepmother would recite next. That no Roman father would let a child, let alone a daughter, dictate his decisions. That Roman women were helpless unless married. That a Roman marriage was simply a contract of convenience, often broken if something more convenient arose. That Romans feared and ridiculed the concept of consuming love.

Yet . . .

What was it she felt for Maglorius? Something so deep and profound, something that she must keep hidden at all costs. Something—

A slap across her face jolted Valeria from her reverie.

“Listen to me, child!”

Valeria was stunned. Not once had her stepmother ever struck her. Valeria brought her hand to her face in disbelief, lightly touching the skin of her cheek that was hot with pain.

“I will not apologize,” Alypia said. “You are foolish to refuse to eat.” She smiled unpleasantly. “After all, most stupid is the man who judges another man by his clothes or circumstances. Accept what life has given you, just like your hero Maglorius has.” Alypia let the word
hero
drip with sarcasm.

“Like Maglorius,” Valeria said, “I refuse to live a life of falsehood, manipulating the people around me to suit my selfish will.”

Alypia’s eyes narrowed with an emotion close to hatred. “Is this what you think of me? False and manipulative?”

Valeria let her silence be the answer.

“As for false and manipulative,” Alypia said, “there are things about Maglorius that would surprise you greatly. He . . .” She stopped herself.

“He what?”

Alypia glanced to the corner of the courtyard, where Maglorius squatted beside Quintus.

“He what?” Valeria persisted. “If you are going to make accusations . . .”

“Silence, child,” Alypia hissed. “You have everything. Wealth, position, and whatever your heart desires.”

“To have an old man touch me like a lizard crawling across my skin?” Valeria asked. “How repulsive. You want me to accept my fate because that is exactly what you chose. If you can’t be happy you don’t want anyone else to be—”

This time, Valeria’s eyes were open. She saw her stepmother raise her hand. Valeria accepted the blow with defiance and did not touch her stinging cheek. She stared resolutely at her stepmother for several moments, then leaned forward, lifted the tray of food, and turned it over, letting the dishes crash into pieces on the courtyard floor.

Ben-Aryeh caught up with Vitas just before he reached Sebaste’s city gates. He discovered that Vitas didn’t even have a servant to help him with the two donkeys. “You travel alone,” Ben-Aryeh said.

Vitas was in the process of mounting one donkey. A rope tied the second to the first. “Except for these two.” Vitas indicated the donkeys. Smiled. “Good listeners, both of them.”

“What of the servant I saw with you in the market?”

“Someone I found in the city to watch the donkeys while I looked for you.”

“I see,” Ben-Aryeh said. He glanced down the road, where it disappeared around the curve of a hill barren of trees. There was no way around it. Florus was in Jerusalem! Getting to Jerusalem as soon as possible outweighed his pride.

“I’d like to travel with you,” Ben-Aryeh said. He waited for the Roman to remind him that barely an hour earlier he’d given a couple of insulting reasons why he had no intention of sharing the journey.

Vitas surprised him with graciousness. “I’m glad you changed your mind. You take this donkey then. The other one has a habit of setting its feet down hard, as if it knows how to hurt a man’s back.”

“Are you suggesting that I am too old to deal with—?”

“You’re my guest,” Vitas said. “It’s that simple.”

Again, graciousness when Ben-Aryeh was determined to be rude. Ben-Aryeh hoped that the Roman would soon give him reason to dislike him again.

They departed Sebaste.

Together.

The Seventh Hour

To meet Maglorius, Queen Bernice had smudged her face with dirt and grease and bound her hair tightly. She’d thrown on the loose clothing of a man and covered her head and face with as much of her headcovering as possible. She’d worn clothing that the Greeks preferred, and since Greeks were clean-shaven, her lack of a beard aided in her disguise.

She felt vaguely ridiculous, disguising herself in this manner, as if she were playing a child’s game or rather what she imagined children might have played, for the memories of her own childhood consisted of continuous doting by various servants and no time alone or with other children.

Yet she saw no other way to accomplish what she felt necessary, and she was gambling that among the thousands who moved through the Court of the Gentiles, there would be no particular reason for anyone to examine her too closely.

Still, because of her disguise and because she had no servants or bodyguards in attendance, she felt vulnerable and exposed as she walked down Solomon’s Porch. It was a tremendously long covered porch—roughly a quarter of a mile—with hundreds of columns and arches, running north and south at the eastern perimeter of the Temple Mount.

Shaded from the sun, the man she sought stood as arranged, beneath the fifth arch of Solomon’s Porch, counted from the southeast corner. As she’d also arranged, he carried two empty turtledove cages and leaned against one of the marble columns that supported that arch.

Because she was simply one among hundreds upon hundreds in the busy Court of the Gentiles, Bernice did not expect that Maglorius would notice her on her approach.

Now that she knew he was there at the appointed time and had not left because of impatience, she slowed to give herself time to examine him, something she enjoyed doing at every opportunity.

There was something about the calmness of his square face that immediately intrigued her. As she walked closer, she was again drawn by the fascinating history written across his face, by the cheeks and forehead that bore long-healed scars, forming slashes of paler skin against his tanned face. The power suggested in the stillness of his alertness stirred desire within her, a siren of desire that she immediately put aside.

As she drew close, he spoke to her. “You make a very poor man,” he said. “Walk with less elegance.”

It shouldn’t have surprised her that Maglorius would see through the disguise. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”

“You said you have some information that is of great urgency.”

Normally, she preferred banter with him, but she had not lied about the urgency, so she became direct. “It is Florus,” she told him. “He approaches Jerusalem with an army.” Maglorius was one of the few aware that Bernice had spies who reported any activities of the procurator, so she didn’t explain how she knew of what Florus intended.

“The entire city knows this.” He smiled softly so that his next words did not seem like a rebuke. “I see no urgency in that information.”

“I need you to protect me as we join those who go out to greet Florus and his army.”

“You have never struck me as one overly concerned about the Jews,” Maglorius said.

Queen Bernice drew a deep breath. Fought the sympathy and regret and outrage that threatened to overwhelm her as she remembered how and why Matthias died in her chamber.

“I can promise you,” she told Maglorius, “that has changed.”

When Sebaste was well behind Vitas and Ben-Aryeh, the Roman broke the silence of their travel with a question. “Could Jerusalem fall?”

“Certainly not!” Ben-Aryeh said, instantly insulted. “Have you seen its glory? The eighth wonder of the world, some call it. The temple is atop a mountain that is like a fortress unto itself. How dare you ask such a question. If you think that Florus and a couple of cohorts could . . . could . . . could . . .”

It was rare for Ben-Aryeh to be speechless, but for the upstart Roman to imply that Jerusalem was like any other outpost of the empire was an outrage.

“It isn’t Florus I’m thinking of,” Vitas replied, as if deep in thought and oblivious to Ben-Aryeh’s reaction. “But whoever will have to clean up the mess that he might start.”

“Send five legions,” Ben-Aryeh shot back stoutly, believing this was a discussion that concerned national pride. “Or even five more. Ten legions could lay siege, and Jerusalem would be standing twenty years later. The city’s walls are unbreachable. It has a water source that can’t be quenched. And the storehouses of food inside the city would last for years.”

“What I meant was—”

Ben-Aryeh was glad to be angry with this Roman again and would not be stopped. “Every Jewish man in the city would give his life in protection of the temple. You Romans think you can conquer all, but there is no city in the empire that would fight so hard and so long to resist.”

“I see,” Vitas said mildly when Ben-Aryeh stopped to catch his breath. “You’re aware that the empire may lose battles but has yet to lose a war.”

“Judea could be laid waste entirely,” Ben-Aryeh answered, “but Jerusalem will still be standing. Remember, you are talking about the dwelling place of the one true God. I suggest we end this discussion before—”

“I now understand why your history is filled with so many rebellions,” Vitas said. He was grinning, which made Ben-Aryeh even angrier. “Here we have two grown men unable to pass a pleasant afternoon’s journey without political speculation.”

“Enough! What you call politics is a matter of deep faith to us. God will preserve His holy house until He has sent the promised Messiah.” Ben-Aryeh reined in his donkey until it stopped. He allowed Vitas to gain at least twenty yards ahead before he prodded his own donkey forward again.

There,
Ben-Aryeh thought,
I will follow at this distance the entire journey.
It gave him satisfaction when Vitas half turned and noticed the separation.