The Hidden Flame (33 page)

As the Roman stadium loomed before them, Jacob interrupted Linux's thoughts. "I have been approached by the Zealots." A hint of pride could be heard in his tone.

Linux stopped in his tracks and stared at Jacob.

"At least, I think it was them," he said. "They sought me out through a friend. They asked what I was doing, spending time with you." Jacob's face was turning red. "I said you were my friend. They didn't like that at all."

Linux gripped the sleeve of Jacob's tunic and drew him off the crowded lane. "What exactly did they tell you?"

"They said that there were better ways for a strong young Judean to spend his days than ..." Jacob's gaze dropped to the ground.

"Go on, my boy. I have been called worse than whatever name they might use."

"They said the Roman dogs had only a brief time left in Judea. And you would flee with the others."

"Did they?"

"They said they could offer me purpose and direction. One in keeping with my heritage. But that if I came with them, I would never return." Jacob's expression was very solemn. "I told them I wanted to be a legionnaire. They ..." He kicked at a stone.

"Yes? Go on."

"They spat at the dust by my sandals. They said that such actions would cast me out forever from the Judean clan."

Linux could see Jacob was in great conflict over this. He knew all the arguments that were available to him. How the Romans ruled the greatest empire the world had ever known, how joining the legionnaires would make him part of the most powerful army on earth. But all Linux could think of just then was how Peter's shadow fell upon people lining the Jerusalem street, and they rose from their distress and they danced.

Linux steered the boy back onto the road. "Come, lad. The day awaits."

The lane was by now lined with makeshift stalls. Greek merchants selling sweetmeats, roasted meats, carafes of rough local wine, fruit, and rice. Colorful paper parasols were used by the commoners to shade against the sun. Closer to the arena, vendors gathered about the gambling stalls, vying for customers by shouting their odds over coming events and gladiators. Competing fans jeered and booed as bets were placed against their man.

Surrounded by the wealthiest and most powerful people in Judea, the two aimed for the southern gates, where the prelate's standard flew alongside the emperor's. This entrance was flanked by the consul's own household guards. Linux returned their salute and entered the shaded passage. The stone walls glistened from a recent cleaning and smelled of lemon and thyme. He reentered the sunlight and started down the stairs toward the governor's stand. Then he realized Jacob was no longer beside him.

Linux hurried back to where the stairs had emerged from the stadium shadows. Jacob stood at the entrance, his mouth agape as he stared around the stadium.

For Linux, the amphitheater was like a hundred others situated around Roman provinces. It crowned a hill just northwest of Gethsemane and the Mount of Olives. Unlike the theater built southeast of Jerusalem or the hippodrome to the southwest, this stadium was a multipurpose affair. Large enough to hold the region's entire Roman population, along with a number of its Hellenistic allies, with the additional rows of wooden seats erected above the initial stone structure. The result gave it a steep and somewhat unfinished look, as though someone had started building and then lost interest midway through the job. Compared to the coliseum of Rome, though, in which four such provincial arenas could have fit, Linux did not find it all that remarkable.

Linux gripped the boy's shoulder and felt him start as though coming awake. "Come."

"The stadium touches the clouds!"

"Not quite."

As the two descended the stairs, Jacob kept his gaze fastened on the arena sands. "Look-two bears dancing on their hind legs!"

Linux hardly glanced at them. "Astonishing."

"And there, those men leaping up, forming a human pyramid! How do they-?"

"They are tumblers, and they spend their lives in practice." Linux moved to look into the royal enclosure. A brilliantly colored awning offered shade against the sunlight. Three sentries stood beside wooden pillars decorated with flowering vines. A pair of incense burners spiced the air. There were a half dozen people already seated, eating and laughing and giving scant attention to the performances in the arena. Linux made sure the consul was not yet among them. Then he turned back to Jacob. "Come, we have work to do."

Beneath the arena's sandy base was a netherworld of dimly lit chambers. The stone walls trapped all sound, and the place rang with such clamor it was impossible to identify any single noise. The few windows were all set high on the outer walls, and sunlight fell through tightly barred openings. Torches sputtered and fumed along the dim hallways. The larger chambers were sectioned off into cages holding all manner of beasts-hyenas, tigers, bears. And men.

Three ramps led up to barred doors, through which slits of sunlight and the crowd's tumult poured. Beyond the third one, Linux entered the quarters set aside for the arena's chief officer. The burly soldier bore the seared features of a former desert dweller. His name was Crasius, and his voice was hoarse and low, no doubt from a wound that creased his neck. "You are late."

Linux pointed Jacob into a dimly lit corner. "Where are your men?"

"This is genuine, the offer you told me about?"

"Gather your men," Linux said. "I want to say this only once."

The officer seemed ready to argue. But in the end he rose and stumped to the doorway. Clearly the men had been waiting for his signal, for at his shout eight legionnaires swiftly filled the chamber. Crasius settled back into his leather-formed chair and barked at Linux, "Be quick about it."

Linux reached into his shoulder sack and slowly extracted the scroll bearing the governor's eagle. "I need a team willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish the prelate's will."

"What is the task?" Crasius growled.

"You will only know upon the day. And only if you agree."

Another man laughed, a rough snarl. "What kind of deal is that?"

"The kind that will free you from this place." Linux waved the scroll so that the eagle glinted in the torchlight. "The task bears great danger. But in return for carrying out the prelate's orders, you all will be restored to your former ranks and positions. But not here. You will be sent to a more ... shall we say, hospitable place."

The soldiers surrounding the chamber's walls bore the mark of mercenaries, with cruel eyes and leering features and brutal strength. No doubt brawlers and thieves and brutes, they lived by force alone. They had been assigned here as punishment for a variety of crimes, though deemed too valuable to kill or maim outright. It was hoped a stint in the arena's bowels would teach them to obey. Only just reopened, it meant these men faced months and perhaps even years imprisoned here in the cellar teeming with animals and noise and odors. And fear.

Linux added, "And you will be paid well. In gold."

"Words are cheap," Crasius sneered.

"You will have this in writing. And your first payment upon agreement."

"This can only mean we aren't expected to survive."

"There is great risk. But also great reward."

The officer pointed at Jacob. "What's the boy doing here?"

"He serves me. And he plays a vital role in this assignment." Linux rose from his seat. "I go to see the consul. I expect your answer within the hour."

When they returned to the royal enclosure, Linux settled Jacob by the front railing. "Wait for me here. Enjoy the show. We have work to do later."

"Yes, sire." Jacob's attention had already been snared by more performances upon the arena sands.

"I will be back soon."

Linux climbed the enclosure stairs and bowed toward the figure on the miniature throne. "My sincerest gratitude for today's invitation, sire."

"Ah, Linux. Excellent." Marcellus, on an elevated dais to bring him to eye level with those standing about, was seated on a gilded chair at the center of his shaded enclosure. Now that the prelate had arrived, the royal patio was crowded, the prattle brittle with forced gaiety. Marcellus looked annoyed. "I was wondering what was keeping you."

"Forgive me, sire. I needed to see to one other matter before I could make my report."

"Your report? Ah, yes, of course.... Yes, well then. You mean you found what you required in the arena?"

"I did, sire." Linux was baffled. He assumed the prelate had ordered him here to grill him about the Temple treasure. Instead, Marcellus gave every indication of having forgotten the matter entirely.

"That's all fine and good. But something else has come to my attention, and I wish for your counsel." He motioned to the steward who hovered by his shoulder. "Bring Linux a chair."

Several heads came around at this. Linux watched in amazement as a second gilded chair was placed upon the dais, an honor normally granted only to visiting royalty, close allies, or intimate members of the prelate's own family.

Marcellus must have noticed Linux's astonishment, for he said, "And should not I choose to seat a trusted adviser? Is that not well within my rights? Or am I breaking another custom of these pestilent Judeans?"

The steward replied smoothly, "Indeed it is a most worthy act by Your Excellency." He held the chair's high back and nodded Linux into the seat.

Linux eased himself down, as though testing the chair's ability to hold his weight. The prelate swished the air with an ornately carved fan, its handle fashioned from ivory and gold. "I have been in this country less than a month, and already I despise it."

The steward approached once more, this time offering Linux a jewel-encrusted goblet. He started to wave it away until he saw the cautionary glint in the steward's eye. Linux accepted the goblet and placed it, untasted, on the chair's arm.

Marcellus said, "Please tell me that this land improves with time."

"I wish I could, sire. And perhaps your experiences will prove rather in contrast to my own."

The steward bent over the prelate's shoulder and murmured, "Sire. Your visitors."

"Oh, very well. I suppose I have no choice." The fan moved faster still. "That pesky tribune has finally left for Damascus, and my own commander is still out somewhere on the sea between here and Rome. So you must act as my adviser."

Linux bit back his immediate response. There were several higher-ranking officers still present within the Antonia Fortress. "I stand ready to obey, sire," he said instead.

"My adjutant informs me of your current living situation. Really, Linux, residing above the garrison stables? It is disgraceful that an officer on official duties for the governor sleeps in chambers not fit for a Judean goatherd." Another flip of his fan. "No doubt it's the work of that despicable Bruno Aetius. We are well served to have him gone."

Linux opened his mouth to explain, but again did not speak. What was he to say, that his friend, a disgraced centurion who had joined the followers, had chosen it? That Linux liked the freedom, while granting him a proximity to the Antonia Fortress and to other soldiers? That all his life had been spent in just such a situation, close to power, yet isolated?

Marcellus went on, "I can only assume there are suitable apartments within the soldiers' fortress?"

"Indeed, sire. But they are reserved for the tribune and his staff."

"Oh, nonsense. I am prelate, am I not? The tribune serves at my discretion." He used the fan to summon his steward. "Inscribe an edict. As my adviser on military affairs, Linux Aurelius is to be granted the fortress apartment of his choosing. And he is to select a staff from among the soldiers. An appropriate stipend is to be added to his pay. And any other of the usual benefits."

Linux's head was spinning with the sudden change. He watched the fan flip back and forth, knowing with utter certainty that the largess could just as swiftly be stripped away. He managed a weak, "I am most grateful, sire."

"Good, that pleases me." Marcellus said to his steward, "Show in the Judean visitors." When Linux moved to depart, the fan waved him back.

The arena's chaotic din formed an echo for the clamor in Linux's brain. He stared around him, yet saw nothing. He sipped from his goblet but could not name what he drank. He did note Jacob, stationed behind the patio's front pillar, appearing very disturbed by something. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

The steward had returned, leading two Judeans in formal robes. As soon as they came into view, there was no room in Linux's world for anything else.

The older Judean walked forward with a regal bearing, the trailing edge of his robes draped over his left arm. He bowed, lifting his left arm higher still, as though attempting to keep his robe from touching the patio's stones. "Thank you for speaking with us, Excellency," he said, his tone as stiff as his bow.

"I fail to see why matters related to your Judean Temple could not wait for my next regular audience," Marcellus said testily.

"Were it merely a matter related to Temple affairs, sire, we would not even have dreamed of troubling you on a day of such festivities."

"Oh, very well, very well." He indicated Linux. "I suppose you must know my military adviser, Linux Aurelius."

"An honor that has evaded me until now." The elder bowed a second time.

"I am Verres."

"Verres is my emissary from the Council.... What is it you call yourselves?"

"The Sanhedrin, Excellency. Though I do not have the honor of counting myself among that select group. I am merely their spokesperson."

"And who is this you have brought with you here?"

"My associate, Ezra, a representative of the Judean merchant community. We thought a voice from within the trades might illustrate to Your Excellency just how serious-"

"Yes, yes, I understand all that. But why is this compatriot of yours dressed this way?"

The Council's emissary faltered. "Sire?"

Linux tore his gaze away from the face of the second man and explained quietly, "Verres is a Sadducee, sire. Ezra is a Pharisee."