Fishers of Men Read online

  A man came forward with a flask of water and a length of cloth. Rubrius snatched them from him. “Here,” he said, taking Marcus’s arm. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding until we can get you to the surgeons.”

  Marcus glanced down. His whole lower arm was covered in blood, and it was dripping from his fingers to the courtyard tiles. “No surgeons. I won’t have those Greek butchers touching it.”

  Rubrius grinned. Hardly a soldier in all the legions felt differently. It was far safer to face the heat of battle than to submit oneself to the knives of the army surgeons. The centurion went to work, moving swiftly but efficiently. He poured the flask of water on the arm, scooped another from the fountain, and repeated it a second time. He peered at the wound, then began to wrap the cloth around Marcus’s arm, binding it tightly. “You’ll have a nice scar to impress your future wife.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said through clenched teeth. “I’ve been hoping for such a thing.”

  Rubrius chuckled. With the arm wrapped, he took out his dagger, cut off a length of rawhide thong from his scabbard, and tied the bandage on tightly.

  As he finished, Marcus turned and looked to where the mother worked frantically over her son. She had torn a large piece from her robe and was pressing it against the boy’s chest. “Is he dead?” he asked quietly.

  Rubrius shook his head. “No, sire. But he is bleeding badly.” He guessed what Marcus was thinking. “If we try to take him, he will die immediately. If we leave him, he will die shortly.” He took a quick breath. “If you’re up to it, sire, I would recommend we make our departure.”

  Marcus gave him a quick nod.

  “What about the women, sire?” the leader of the quaternion asked. “Shall we bring them?”

  Deborah, wife of David the merchant, shot to her feet, the front of her robe now stained with her son’s blood. “You will have to kill me to do it,” she said in a low voice.

  When Marcus hesitated, the squad leader, barely glancing at the woman, frowned deeply. “Sire, they have resisted arrest.”

  Too tired to wrestle with another moral dilemma at the moment, Marcus waved his good hand. As the soldiers stepped forward, Deborah lunged to the left, diving for the broken dagger that lay on the courtyard tiles. She never stood a chance. Two soldiers pounced on her, driving her to the ground. The sister dodged in to help but went right into the arms of two more men. Kicking and screaming, the women were dragged back from the wounded Simeon. In moments their wrists were behind their backs, bound tightly with cords. Realizing that struggle was only making things worse for them, the mother said something, and both went quiet.

  Something in the expression of Sextus Rubrius caught Marcus’s eye. “You don’t approve?” Marcus said.

  Rubrius turned, a little surprised that he was being observed. “Sire, the boy has gone.”

  Marcus swore. He had forgotten about the boy. He swung on the nearest two soldiers. “After him!” he shouted.

  Rubrius jumped forward. “Sire!”

  The soldiers, who had started to move, abruptly stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “With the tribune’s permission, sire.”

  “Speak.”

  “In this country, the rooftops are all connected. You can go almost anywhere in the city without coming down to the streets. The Jews call it ‘the road of the roofs.’”

  Feeling light in the head, Marcus wasn’t sure what Rubrius was saying.

  “Sire, the rooftops here are what the alleys of the Palatine Hill are to the thieves and whores of Rome. Only the very strong or the very foolish venture in after them.”

  “I see.” Marcus nodded to the two who were at the base of the stone steps. “All right, let him go.”

  Rubrius spoke again. “Sire?”

  Marcus turned to him fully now, sensing the urgency in his centurion.

  “We would be well advised to forgo searching the house.”

  There were cries of dismay from the men. Looting was a legitimate way to supplement a soldier’s meager income, and the spaciousness of the courtyard and the fineness of the house promised a lucrative day indeed. Though Marcus had never liked the practice, he accepted it as one of the realities of life.

  “Explain!”

  His centurion did so in a rush of words. “The boy was sent for help, sire. David is a prominent man in Capernaum. He is widely respected. I think it would be wise if we formed the cohort and left immediately for Tiberias.”

  Marcus rarely heard Sextus say anything in a hurry, and that alarmed him as much as his words. “Even with a full maniple?” he asked grimly.

  “With the Galileans, if this gets out of hand, a full cohort could be cut to pieces.”

  That settled it. There was not one shred of cowardice in this centurion of his. “All right! Form up the men. Put out guards front and rear of the column. Bring the women. Leave the young man to die.”

  This time Rubrius stirred but didn’t move.

  “What?” Marcus almost shouted it at him.

  “Sire, prisoners will only slow us down.”

  His eyes narrowed. He had a sudden suspicion that his centurion was more concerned about the prisoners than he was about getting away quickly. His jaw tightened. “No! They come with us.”

  “Yes, sire.” There was no more hesitation. Rubrius began barking orders in staccato fashion. Though the disappointment at the loss of booty was clearly evident in the men, the soldiers sprang instantly into action, the clatter of their sandals rattling on paving stones. The two women were led away, the daughter sobbing hysterically. The mother tried once more to break free and get to her dying son, but she was dragged back.

  Taking a deep breath, Marcus straightened and moved slowly to the outer gate of the courtyard. He waited for the others to go through, then stopped for a moment and turned around. The newest tribune of the Tenth Legion Fretensis looked at the body, seeing the blood seeping slowly onto the tiles. Earlier that day he had gloried in the power of Rome. Now he felt slightly sick.

  There was a noise behind him. He turned to see Rubrius holding the gate open for him. There was considerable anxiety on his face.

  Wincing at the pain, Marcus stepped out into the street. Waving help away, he pulled himself up into the saddle, then wheeled his mount around. He didn’t wait to see if the cohort was coming. He spoke softly to his horse and started off, feeling the cold October rain against his face.

  IV

  15 October, a.d. 29

  They were up at dawn at the insistence of Sextus Rubrius. Marcus’s arm ached like fury, but he too wanted to be out of the Galilee. The rain had stopped during the night, and as they moved out of Tiberias, the sun was just rising above the eastern hills of Gadara, turning the surface of the lake into a blinding mirror. They took the road that led directly west from Tiberias, climbing steeply up the western hills to the Galilean highlands. This was not as good a road, but it meant they did not have to head back toward Capernaum to connect with the main highway. At Rubrius’ recommendation, they would go almost due west to the port of Ptolemais. There the two women would be turned over to the slave auctioneers and shipped off to Rome. That route also bypassed Sepphoris and the other Zealot hot spots. It was longer but considerably safer.

  It was a hard climb for men in battle dress, but Rubrius wouldn’t let them slack off in their readiness even though they were out of the city. But the men were rested, and they were anxious, and that gave strength to the march. By the third hour of the day they had rejoined the main road, and by midday they were approaching Mashkanah. From that point on, the forest began to thin out and they would be in open country the rest of the way to Ptolemais. As they stopped at a stream for a brief, cold meal, it was obvious that the men were beginning to relax. There had been no sign of any trouble, not from the rear, not from the advanced scouts. Rubrius, however, did not relax. He allowed them only ten minutes’ rest, then drove them on. He would not be completely comfortable until they were back down on the coastal plai
ns where the Zealots had little or no influence.

  It was less than half an hour later when Rubrius raised his hand. Marcus pulled the mare up, squinting in the bright sunshine. Up ahead about a quarter of a mile, six of the advanced guard were coming back down the road toward them. They had three men between them, marching them out in front at the point of their spears.

  “What is it?” Marcus asked, resting his arm on his leg to ease the pain.

  Rubrius shook his head, peering first at the oncoming trio, then around at the surrounding hillsides. The trees were scattered, and the pines were giving way to oak and thick patches of bushes. Suddenly Rubrius stiffened, leaning forward.

  “What?” Marcus said, straightening.

  “That’s David ben Joseph,” Rubrius said.

  “Who?” And then as he heard a cry behind him, he knew the answer to his question. The woman and daughter had seen who was coming too. There was a choked call from behind him. “David!”

  Marcus turned in the saddle. “Watch them,” he said to the men who had the two women contained in a hollow square of marchers. The girl was weeping for joy now. The mother was standing with her shoulders thrown back, her face filled with triumph. Then he turned back. He felt a little chill as he saw Rubrius searching the countryside on both sides of them now. “What does this mean?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I’m not sure,” Rubrius grunted. Then he turned. “Look alive back there,” he called in a low voice. “Keep a sharp eye.” It wasn’t necessary. All up and down the line, the men had their hands on their swords or gripped their spears tightly. They were looking around nervously.

  As the party approached, Rubrius moved forward. He stopped a few feet away from the approaching group, and the soldiers stopped too. “David?” Rubrius said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk to your tribune, Sextus.”

  Marcus’s mind was still sluggish from the shock and loss of blood of the day before, so it took him a moment to realize that his centurion had called this Jew by name and the Jew had used the centurion’s given name.

  Rubrius turned to Marcus, raising a questioning eyebrow.

  “Bring him forward,” Marcus answered. Then to the man he said, “Are you alone?”

  “I have my two servants with me.”

  As the merchant came closer, his two servants came up with him. Both carried bulging leather bags.

  From behind Marcus the woman suddenly cried out, “Oh, David. They’ve killed Simeon.”

  David’s eyes seemed to take in everything all at once—his wife and daughter, now roped together, the sullen look on the faces of the soldiers who guarded them, the rest of the column, now on full alert.

  “Simeon is still alive,” he said. His eyes lifted to Marcus. “Barely.”

  “Blessed be our God,” Deborah cried. Then in a rush, she went on. “They came for the taxes, David. I told them you would be back soon. They wouldn’t listen.” Her head jerked up to stare at Marcus. “This tribune wouldn’t believe me.”

  “And so you tried to kill my son?” David asked quietly.

  Rubrius stepped between the merchant and Marcus. He shook his head. “Simeon was a fool, David. He let his temper override his wisdom. He attacked the tribune with his dagger.” His head came up a fraction, and what he said next came very softly. “It was I who struck him.”

  David took that in, then raised his gaze to Marcus once again. For a long moment, the two of them stood there, their eyes locked, taking the measure of one another. What Marcus saw was a man in his early forties, strong of feature and with compelling, powerful blue eyes, eyes that showed no fear. He also saw understanding in David’s eyes, as if what Rubrius had said helped explain a great deal to him. Then David’s gaze dropped to look at Marcus’s bandaged arm.

  He nodded slowly. “I saw blood in my courtyard, Tribune. I see now that it was your blood as well as that of my son.”

  “Sextus was right,” Marcus said. “Your son was a fool. We did not come to your house seeking trouble.”

  “I told you my husband would come,” Deborah cried. “Why wouldn’t you give us more time?”

  David barely seemed to hear. His eyes never left Marcus’s face. “My son is like a spirited stallion, and it is difficult to rein him in.” His eyes flicked to Sextus Rubrius for a moment, then back. “However, he has been reined in by the swift action of Sextus here. The physicians are not yet sure he will live.”

  Again it struck Marcus as odd that this Jew should refer to a Roman centurion in such a familiar fashion. Then he remembered that Rubrius had lived in Capernaum. Had these two become friends in that time? Could that be? A Roman soldier and a Jew friendly to one another?

  David went on, speaking carefully now. “It is possible that my son shall forfeit his life for what he did.” There was a sudden challenge and pleading in the blue depths of his eyes. “Is that not sufficient payment for the wrongs committed yesterday?”

  Marcus straightened. He looked at Rubrius, but the leathered face of his centurion was unreadable, so he went on. “Your payment was due. You were given fair warning.”

  “I was delayed in Damascus. It takes time to raise ten thousand shekels.” He half turned. “But I have your payment with me.”

  The two servants held out the bags and shook them softly. There was the rattle of coins.

  David waited until they came up beside him, then turned back to face Marcus. “Ten thousand shekels for my”—there was suddenly bitter mockery in his voice—“assessment,” he said. “I have brought an additional tenth of the assessment as a penalty for being late.”

  Marcus had to fight back letting the surprise show on his face. A thousand additional shekels? That was a concession of no small proportion. And yet . . . “Your son interfered with the legal duties of a Roman official. That is a crime punishable by death.”

  “It is,” David said gravely. “And Rome is famous for its justice.”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed, but he detected no sarcasm this time. The older man seemed to mean the words exactly as he had stated them.

  The merchant went on, quietly now, but in great earnest. “But Rome is also known for other pietas—what you call the virtues—honor, duty, courage, respect for family.”

  This time Marcus couldn’t help himself. His eyes widened in surprise. From the time he could understand his first words, his father and grandfather had taught Marcus about the pietas, the Roman character, the virtues that made Rome great. Did this Jew know of such things?

  “I see in your eyes,” the merchant went on calmly, “that unlike some of your countrymen you have not only been taught in the way of the pietas, but you have not forgotten them either.” There was a long pause. “I deeply regret that my journey was delayed to the point where this terrible thing has happened. But you have your taxes now, with penalty. And while your blood stains my house, so does that of my son. Justice has been done. Let us be done with it.”

  Marcus took another deep breath, keenly aware now of the throbbing pain in his arm and the numbness in his fingers. When he didn’t answer, he saw David’s eyes narrow slightly.

  For a moment Marcus thought the man was going to offer him more money, but he didn’t. He simply waited, his eyes looking deeply into Marcus, perhaps searching for the virtues he seemed so sure were there. It was good the Jew did not offer more. A thousand additional shekels was an important concession, a just penalty for being overdue. More than that, however, would have constituted a bribe. And while his countrymen—including the governor under whom he served—might be famous for accepting, indeed, even demanding, bribes, Marcus Quadratus Didius, oldest son and heir of Antonius Marcus Didius, was not. An attempt to bribe him would have been deeply offensive to Marcus.

  “And what if I simply seize you and put you in bonds along with your wife and daughter?” Marcus said, curious now. This man was no fool. Surely he had considered this possibility. “Then I have the taxes, the penalty, and you.”

  David
seemed thoughtful. Then without warning, he gave a piercing whistle. Marcus started as the hillsides on both sides of the road suddenly came alive. Men stepped out from behind trees. What seemed to have been bushes suddenly rose up and became men with branches tied to their heads and backs. Stones that seemed too small to hide a fox now revealed men on one knee with bows drawn and arrows nocked. There were a hundred. Then two. Then three.

  A cry went up and down the Roman line. Soldiers spun around, whipping out their swords, dropping their spears to the level. Rubrius fell back, grabbing his sword to stand beside his commanding officer.

  Finally silence descended on the site. David, who hadn’t moved at all, spoke again, his voice more conversational than challenging. “I have no desire for a confrontation. All I wish is to have my wife and daughter returned to me and the whole affair forgotten.”

  “You would attack a Roman column?” Marcus cried, still stunned, but feeling anger.

  “I have no desire for a confrontation,” the merchant said again with great patience. “All I wish is to have my wife and daughter returned to me.” He motioned to his servants, and they took one step forward and laid the two bags of money on the ground. “You have your taxes and a penalty. Roman law and justice have been satisfied. Let us be done with it.”

  Marcus was fuming, and yet he couldn’t help but marvel. The man was as calm as a sleeping child. Finally he looked down at Sextus Rubrius.

  The centurion nodded quickly. “Say the word, and we shall fight our way clear, sire.”

  “But?” Marcus was learning to read the subtle nuances of his centurion’s face.

  “As he says, we do have what we came for,” Rubrius said carefully. He took a quick breath and lowered his voice. “We could distribute the extra thousand shekels among the men,” he said. “It would serve in lieu of the looting they had to forgo.”