The Last Disciple (20 page)

The man with the knife looked at Queen Bernice and smiled a sad smile. He gestured at the stone in her hand. “Seems effortless to hold, does it not?”

“What is your name?” Bernice asked again. She returned the man’s smile. Anything to pierce his shell of detached calm.

“Matthias. But that doesn’t matter. Nor does the name of my village. What does matter is that at one time I believed a man’s actions could make a difference in this world.”

The stone in Bernice’s hand had begun to warm from contact with her skin. It was smooth and felt comfortable.

“Brigands raided the roads near our village regularly,” Matthias continued. “Soon, few of our people dared to travel. We received no visitors either. Word reached us that many of the other small villages nearby faced the same danger. A few weeks ago, I took it upon myself to visit Caesarea, to appeal to Gessius Florus for help. I went through my village, telling others of what I intended, and collected a purse for the expenses. Most in the village were happy to contribute. All wished me well. I traveled to Caesarea. I sought an audience with Procurator Florus.”

“He was not sympathetic,” Bernice said. She was fully aware of the corruption of Florus.

“I did not get a hearing. His servants took my silver and promised I would see him. But the promises were hollow, and later I learned he wasn’t even there. During my time in Caesarea, I learned more about the man that Rome had sent to rule us.”

Matthias stared at his knife blade as he spoke. “Albinus, the former procurator, was a thief. I was told when he learned that Florus would replace him, Albinus cleared the prisons by taking bribes from all except those who deserved the death penalty. He infested our land with the brigands who plagued our village. And Florus—”

The man in front of Bernice sighed. He stood and stripped off the uniform of a palace guard. Beneath it he wore simple peasant’s clothing, freshly washed. He threw the guard’s clothing into a heap at the far corner of the chamber.

“Do your arms tire?” he asked as he paced in front of Bernice, the knife held loosely in his left hand.

With the stone out in front, her arms did feel the strain. Only slightly. She felt a quivering of the muscles on the underside of her upper arms.

“Florus,” Matthias said as if he had not interrupted his own narration, “made Albinus seem benevolent in comparison. I was told that he joined in partnership with the brigands that Albinus had released, taking a share of their spoils. In short, even had I been granted an audience with him, my request for soldiers to patrol the roads near our village would have been ridiculed. So I decided . . .”

Matthias stopped at the window and stared down on the city of Jerusalem. He did not speak for minutes.

Bernice took advantage of his inattention and lowered her arms to her lap. She was surprised at the relief her muscles felt. Who would have guessed that a stone that small could take so much effort?

“A city of great beauty . . . ,” Matthias mused, speaking to himself. “And this view of the temple. So magnificent. I would have wished for my children someday—” His voice broke. He remained motionless, as if trying to regain his composure.

Bernice watched for his slightest movement, ready to lift the stone before he turned to her.

“I decided that if Rome could not help,” he said, still facing away from her, “perhaps the king and queen of our own people would intercede. After all, if the people of Judea are happy with their rulers, it will remain at peace. And a peaceful Judea is a Judea that will send yearly tribute to Rome. And if Caesar is happy with the taxes received, Caesar is happy to continue to grant authority to the royalty. I am only a peasant, but have I judged the political situation correctly?”

He turned, knife still in his hand.

She was able to lift her arms in time.

He looked at her hands to assure himself that she still held the stone in front of her.

“What you say is true,” Bernice answered. She stared at the stone in her hands. It was her life. And perhaps her death. “But if it was an audience with me or my brother that you sought, this is not the way to do it.”

Although she’d rested her arms, they immediately began to quiver again. She hoped the trembling wasn’t visible to Matthias.

“I’m afraid it is too late for that audience,” he answered. His voice was dead. “Far, far too late.”

Sitting against the wall, Bernice shifted her weight.

He noticed. “Your arms. How much longer can you hold it out like that? Until I am finished saying what I need to say?”

“Your story,” she said. She was at the point where she desperately realized he needed to finish it. Soon. “Why are you here if it is not an audience you seek?”

“This audience is not the one I intended as I returned to my village to report what had happened in Caesarea. I wanted to see my family, to rest with my wife and two children. Then come here to Jerusalem. But a day after my return, a gang of brigands openly attacked our village. They were led by a certain man named John, of the village of Gischala. I pray to God that someday you will have him punished.”

“That is why you are here? Because this John of Gischala raided your village?”

“It was not a raid. It was a warning to other villages. You see, the people of my village had united. Our attempt to appeal to Florus had failed. But that failure did not matter. It was our resistance to the brigands that drew John of Gischala into our village.”

Matthias stopped. He moved to the window again and stared at the temple as he spoke. “And since it was I leading our villagers to unite, John of Gischala stormed my household. There were ten with him. He wanted to not only punish me but for my fate to be a warning to others.”

Because he was staring down on the city again, Bernice dropped her hands in her lap. Her arms felt as limp as strands of dead grass soaked in rain. She could not believe how much the weight of such a small stone strained her muscles.

“Ten men,” Matthias said. “Armed with short swords. You realize the significance of that, don’t you? Short swords. Roman military weapons. Jewish brigands, armed by Rome. Ten plus their leader. Against me and my wife and two children. They bound me, just as you are bound.”

He turned away from the window. Quickly. Too quickly.

Bernice tried raising her hands before he noticed, but the movement caught his eye.

He knelt beside her and placed the point of the knife beneath her chin. “You have failed. My story wasn’t finished. Yet you could not bear the weight of the stone. You have brought your death upon yourself.”

Market sounds of Sebaste carried into the courtyard where Vitas and Ben-Aryeh stood in the shadow of Herod’s fortress. While Vitas had watched silently, Ben-Aryeh argued with the guard to find a captain with the authority to allow them to visit prisoners.

Vitas did not want this distraction to keep him from immediately leaving for Jerusalem, but the message he’d received from Queen Bernice upon stepping off the ship in Caesarea had directed him to go to Sebaste, to the prison with Ben-Aryeh and learn what he could from the men they needed to see.

Until he’d received the message from Maglorius, the one bearing the seal of the Bellator household delivered by Ben-Aryeh, Vitas had believed there was little urgency to reach Jerusalem. But that had changed after reading the warning from Maglorius.

As Ben-Aryeh argued, Vitas observed, trying to get a sense of the man. As a fighting man himself, Vitas could see that although Ben-Aryeh appeared diminutive and vaguely comical as he walked, he was a man with a deceptively strong build. He had short, bowed legs, mismatched to a muscular upper body that should have belonged on a much taller man. Nor was his face particularly handsome. This was a kind way of describing the peculiar angles of his cheekbones and nose. Yet there seemed to be the power of a lion caged inside him. Vitas decided this was a man who deserved respect.

The guard departed to find his captain, and Ben-Aryeh leaned on his staff, the red rag now removed. “It would have been easier if you’d made it plain to the soldier that you have been sent to Judea by Nero. We would not be forced to wait like this.”

“Fama malum quo non aliud velocius ullum,”
said Vitas.

“Ah, Latin,” Ben-Aryeh said. “We’re to stop speaking Greek between us as a common language? Good then. Let me reply in Hebrew. It will reduce what we can say to each other, and I might actually be able to endure any time I spend with you.”

“I apologize,” Vitas said. “The saying slipped out. What I said was that nothing moves faster than gossip.”

But Vitas had established something. This cagey old Jew didn’t understand Latin or preferred for Vitas to believe it. He’d keep watching and learn which it was.

“You,” Ben-Aryeh said, “Nero’s right-hand man, afraid of gossip?”

“I would prefer that Florus did not know I was here.”

“So,” Ben-Aryeh said, “you are not an official delegate sent by Nero?”

The man pretended surprise, Vitas thought. Through earlier correspondence, Vitas had arranged from Queen Bernice to assist him in all matters in Judea. Ben-Aryeh was obviously here because she had sent him to meet Vitas. The first scroll from the Jew, from Queen Bernice, had simply explained that if Vitas was here to learn more about the Roman rule of Judea, he should hear directly from the Jews of Caesarea the reason for their imprisonment in Sebaste. Did Ben-Aryeh know this already? Did Ben-Aryeh know the reasons Vitas had given the queen for his trip to this province?

Regardless of what Bernice told Ben-Aryeh about the circumstances,
Vitas thought,
he would have seen in the market square that I traveled alone and certainly come to the conclusion that there was no official delegation.
Which meant the old fox was asking the question merely to see how much Vitas was prepared to divulge.

“This fortress,” Vitas said, knowing that by evading the question he was also giving Ben-Aryeh a certain type of answer, “Herod built it. Impressive. Who did he need protection from?”

Ben-Aryeh did not follow Vitas’s gaze to the high walls of thick stone blocks. “He imprisoned his own sons here. Alexander and Aristobulus. This was well after he’d murdered their mother, Mariamne. One of the enemies of Herod forged a letter implicating his sons in a revolutionary attempt. So he had them strangled. Herod also wanted the firstborn in every household killed on the day of his own death, so that the entire nation would be in mourning.”

Ben-Aryeh finally looked up at the walls. “Who did he need protection from? His own people. Do you still find it impressive?”

“Only the hatred in your voice.”

“You Romans have set up the politics well in our land. You give our royalty its power. Our royalty, in turn, has the authority to capriciously give or revoke the position of high priest. Our religious leaders, then, cannot cross the royalty without crossing Rome, and so Judea remains helpless against you because our royalty and our religious leaders always remain at odds. Do you have any idea how many priests Herod slaughtered, backed by Caesar’s sword?”

“At least two hundred in three separate bloodbaths.”

Ben-Aryeh glared at Vitas. “So now you let me lecture you on Jewish history when you think you have the answers?”

“Rome keeps extensive archives,” Vitas said. “The Jews have a fascinating history.” Vitas gave Ben-Aryeh a wry smile. “Very little seems to get solved by discussion.”

“Our bloodshed is a result of Rome meddling in our affairs.” Ben-Aryeh glared again. He turned his gaze from Vitas, making it clear that the conversation was over.

Vitas enjoyed the old man’s prickliness. It was refreshing after years of sycophants in the imperial palace.

“I intend to begin my journey to Jerusalem immediately after we leave the prison,” Vitas told Ben-Aryeh.

“You told me that earlier. I am not a stupid or forgetful man.”

Vitas remained polite. “I repeat it to let you know that you are welcome to travel with me, if your affairs here are finished as well.”

Ben-Aryeh snapped, “My affairs were to visit the men in prison. I have delayed that because I was forced to wait for you.”

“Forced?”

“What Rome wants, Rome gets,” Ben-Aryeh said, still looking beyond Vitas. “Your pressure on Bernice became pressure she in turn placed on me. If I please her, there are fewer difficulties at the temple. And that makes it easier to serve God.”

“You have my apologies for Bernice’s request. This detour to Sebaste was not my idea. I, too, am here at her suggestion.”

Ben-Aryeh swung his head to examine Vitas, as if trying to decide whether Vitas was speaking truthfully.

“You could have visited the prisoners while you waited for me,” Vitas continued.

“Nothing travels faster than gossip. Like you, I have no desire for Florus to know I was here until I am well on my way home. But unlike you, I don’t have the protection of Nero, so my fear is well justified. What is your reason for fear?”

“Perhaps it isn’t fear,” Vitas said. Then, even knowing that Ben-Aryeh’s resentment would probably make all of their conversations into a clash, Vitas went ahead and repeated his earlier invitation for the old Jew to travel with him to Jerusalem. “After all, if there is nothing else to hold you here and if you want to be gone before Florus discovers what—”