The Thief (31 page)

“This girl”—the servant eyed Nissa—“is looking for your son.”

Nissa stepped closer. One woman was small, just like her, but
old enough to be her mother. Her hair was covered in soft blue wool, and her white hands lay open in her lap. The other woman was beautiful. Long, dark hair framed a face that was almost impossible to look away from. Nissa’s hand went to her dirty face and wild hair.

Cedron came from behind her. He didn’t spare a glance for the beautiful woman but knelt in front of the older one. “I am Cedron. We’re looking for Jesus. Do you know where he is?”

Her child-sized hands fluttered like white doves. “They’ve gone to the garden to pray.”

Nissa’s heart sped up. “What garden? Where?” She bit her lip, forcing herself to remain calm.

“Gethsemane. On the Mount of Olives.”

All the way across the city?

Cedron raised his palm, stopping Nissa before she could speak. He addressed the older woman. “When did they leave?”

The woman looked from Cedron to Nissa. She bowed her head and was silent. Cedron turned to the other woman. “What is it? What happened?”

The beautiful woman looked unsure. “They said . . . just that they were going to pray, but Mary believes Jesus’ time has come.”

“His time?” Cedron’s brow creased. “What do you mean? The time of revolution?”

Pounding feet interrupted any reply, and the gate in the courtyard burst open. A man dressed in the robes of the Pharisees appeared in the open doorway, panting. His face was covered in beads of sweat. “Mary. Where is Jesus? I must—” He bent over, coughs wracking his body.

Cedron went to the man. “Joseph, what is it? What happened?”

The man caught his breath and straightened. “Judas. He’s going to hand Jesus over to the Sanhedrin.”

Cedron grabbed him by the shoulders. “He can’t. We’re not ready.”

Not ready?
Nissa turned to her brother. Not ready for what?

“He is. I was just there. They’re sending temple guards to arrest Jesus right now. Where is he?”

The beautiful woman answered, “He’s at Gethsemane.”

Joseph wheezed. “I thought they were coming here. I don’t know—” A deep cough doubled him over. “I don’t know if I can make it to them.”

Cedron grabbed Nissa’s shoulders. “You have to get to Jesus. You’re the only one who can make it in time. Tell him, ‘Not yet.’ We don’t have the weapons or nearly enough men.”

Irritation rose in her. She should have known the Zealots were planning something and that Cedron was involved. But far too many Romans filled the city. It would be a bloodbath, and of Jewish blood. They waited for her answer—the Pharisee, the beautiful woman, and the quiet, older one. But Cedron was right; he’d never make it to Jesus in time, and neither would the Pharisee. And if Jesus was arrested, her hope for Dismas would be in vain. “I’ll find him before Judas does.”

Cedron nodded. “And I’ll warn the Zealots. Make sure they don’t do anything until we’re ready.”

Nissa darted into the courtyard and through the open gate. She broke into a run, heading across the upper-city streets she knew so well. If she reached Gethsemane in time, she could warn Jesus, save him from whatever the Sanhedrin—and the Zealots—had planned. Then he would have to help Dismas.

Chapter 28

L
ONGINUS UNBUCKLED HIS
sword and threw it on the floor of his room. He’d saved it and his reputation with the men. He’d be back to Gaul within months, but he felt no triumph.

He struggled out of his armor and sat heavily on the cot, his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on his clasped hands. Tomorrow he’d crucify an innocent man to save a woman who had betrayed him. He’d give his sword and everything he owned to change what he knew about Nissa.

How could he not have known? He’d seen the Mouse—Nissa—twice, even caught her once. She was a liar, a thief, a murderer.

Cornelius had barely glanced at Gestas and Dismas in the carcer before assuring Silvanus that they were the thieves from the marketplace. The Sanhedrin had condemned them in moments. Tomorrow at dawn, they would go to Pilate for sentencing and then to Golgotha with the murderer Silvanus had brought from Galilee. Three crosses and more fodder for death’s unquenchable appetite.

His body felt heavy, like he’d never be able to rise again. Yes, he would go back to Gaul, but then what? Whether in Jerusalem or Gaul, he’d spend the rest of his days alone, waiting for his own end. He’d felt the terror of death in Caesarea as Scipio’s blood had pooled on the stones, in Britannia as the light in his father’s eyes had dimmed. He knew death would return for him.

His success with the thieves would earn him Pilate’s gratitude, but with only a day before the feast, it seemed that Jesus wouldn’t need Longinus’s protection after all. Longinus wouldn’t meet the man who had performed miracles, and he’d never get the answers to his questions.

Marching feet stopped outside his door. “Longinus.”

What did Marcellus want at this time of night? “Enter.”

His optio ducked his head into the barrack. His voice held a note of urgency. “It’s about Jesus.”

“What is it?”

“The Sanhedrin. They’ve sent guards to arrest him.”

Longinus jumped up. So they’d found him. “What are the charges?”

“Blasphemy. They are gathering witnesses.”

Blasphemy. Just as Stephen had said. A death sentence according to their law. “Why tonight, right before their feast day? That makes no sense.” He walked to the door. “Where is he?”

Marcellus moved aside to let him leave. “A sentry at the temple, he heard they were going to the Mount of Olives. There’s a garden there where he goes to pray. One of his disciples—Judas is his name—is going to turn Jesus in to them.”

Longinus rubbed a hand over his face. “When did they leave?”

“The priests were gathering the temple guard and—”

He brushed past Marcellus, not waiting to hear the rest. “I’m going to stop this.” The man had healed the blind, cured lepers. He deserved a warning that his own disciple was about to betray him. And those pompous Jews had no right to arrest a man on trumped-up charges.

Longinus sprinted down the Via Praetoria and through the Praetorian gate. No time to saddle Ferox. The Mount of Olives wasn’t far, and the temple guards weren’t known for moving fast. Not like the Romans. He could get there before them.

He sprinted through the temple gates and veered through the portico, deserted now that the money changers and animal
sellers had gone home. He pounded across the Court of the Gentiles and reached the gate leading out the east wall of the city.

Only as he left the city did realize why he felt so light, why his
feet seemed to fly along the stones. He clutched at his belt. He’d left his sword in the barracks, along with his armor and helmet. He should go back for it.

No. He increased his pace. He’d be too late. Already the temple guard might be in front of him. He wouldn’t need it anyway if he got there in time. A cool wind smelling of dry earth pulled at his hair as he crossed the shadowed Kidron Valley, stumbling over the rough ground.

He was barely winded when the Mount of Olives rose before him, dark and silent except for where the moonlight turned the leaves of the olive trees to silver and the wind rustled through the twisted branches.

He started the climb, his breath even and strong. Halfway up the mountain was a garden carved into the hillside. The glow of the moon threw fantastic shadows from the gnarled trunks of olive trees, and the heady scent of terebinth eddied through the darkness.

This had to be the one. Gethsemane.

He skirted the open area where an ancient olive press stood guard, the chirp of insects and the rustle of the leaves the only sounds. It would have been a beautiful garden, but the winter’s lack of rain had left the bushes stunted and the ground rustling with dead leaves instead of lush green grass. The skeletons of dried bushes and naked fig trees shivered in the wind. This had to be the place, but where were Jesus and his disciples?

A noise like a low groan sounded from what looked like the oldest part of the garden, where the tree trunks were thicker than two men and heavy branches blocked the moonlight. Tangles of twisting roots clawed at his sandals as he stepped into the gloom.

Another moan, like a man in pain, slowed him. Was he too late? Had they found Jesus and beaten him, left him to die? He
moved farther into the shadows and around an ancient tree. Before him, a patch of moonlight illuminated a man—a man lying on the ground, his head resting on his hands, his body hunched as though in agony.

Longinus froze and scanned the murky shadows. Had this man been struck down? His hand went to the empty place where his sword usually hung. Could this be Jesus, the man he’d been searching for all these months? Longinus eased closer, still under the cover of spreading branches.

The man lifted his head. His hair was matted, sweat slicked his skin, and his mouth twisted in a grimace of misery. Dark droplets of blood trickled down his face.

“Abba,” the man called out, his eyes closed, “take this cup from me.” His hand clamped over his heart like it was being ripped from him.

What did that mean? Was he speaking to his god?

Even as he watched the man agonize in prayer, anxiety rose in him. There wasn’t much time. The temple guards could be searching the garden for Jesus. He must warn him that one of his friends was coming to betray him. He pushed aside a low hanging branch and moved to enter the clearing.

As he stepped forward, agony hit him like a battering ram. The blood in his veins flowed cold as a suffocating weight pushed down on him, stealing his breath. Fear clutched at his heart, a terror he knew well.

Death. Its grip was merciless, its power invincible. He had never felt it this close, this excruciating. Longinus staggered and leaned against the twisted trunk, trying to bear up under the sudden and unexpected onslaught.

Jesus raised his gaze to the sky; his face was twisted in torment. Indescribable groaning came from his mouth, too deep for words but the meaning was clear: loneliness, betrayal, agony.

The sound cut into Longinus more deeply than any blade. The air in the garden pressed down like a mountain falling on him, pushing the breath from his chest. The fragrance of roses
and terebinth soured to the smell of rot and decay. The chirps of insects warped to a scraping chant that grated against his ears.

Death walked in this garden, and he was helpless against it.

Longinus fell to his knees. An abyss of despair opened before him, begging him to drown in it. He’d thought there was no pain deeper than watching his friend die, no torment greater than Nissa’s betrayal. This was an ocean compared to those drops.

As his vision dimmed and the hand of death dragged him down to the pit, he heard the words of Jesus. In what language, he didn’t know, but they reached out to him like a beacon of light in the dark.

“Not my will, Abba, but yours be done.”

Longinus’s vision cleared. The moon poured light on the garden, and stars flamed like torches in the sky. The breeze rustled the leaves over his head and cooled his wet cheeks. He pulled in a deep, rasping breath. His legs shook as he struggled to his feet and leaned against the rough bark of the olive tree.

What had happened? What kind of evil had passed by him? An evil he couldn’t fight with a sword, but that this man had vanquished with his words.
Not my will, Abba, but yours be done.

Jesus was standing now, his back to Longinus.

It was time to warn him, speak to the man he’d wondered about for so many months. Longinus started forward, his legs still quaking, but a blaze of torchlight stopped him midstride.

Voices rang out, and a dozen torches flickered through the trees, arcing out to surround the man in the clearing. The flames glittered on the gold embroidery of the temple guard uniforms. Behind the temple guards, a troop of Pharisees and priests labored up the hill. Even Caiaphas trudged up the path with a handful of slaves and scribes.

Longinus moved out of the trees. If they ran now, they could get away. These men weren’t trained to give chase. They could
lose them in the dark, find a place to hide. A new sound stopped him—one he knew like his own voice. Commands shouted in Latin, marching feet, and the clank of armor and shields.

A column of fully armed legionaries pushed into the garden behind the priests. Silvanus rode in front, his vitis raised and his sword at the ready.

It was too late to run. They’d never escape the legionaries. Longinus had missed his chance to warn Jesus. And now what could he do—unarmed and outnumbered? He pressed his back against the tree, his heart hammering in his chest. If they found him here, he’d have some explaining to do to Pilate.

Three of what looked like Jesus’ disciples struggled in the grasp of six legionaries overseen by Cornelius, but Longinus couldn’t even help Jesus’ friends. Without his sword, his vitis and insignia, he was naked, as helpless as a baby, more pathetic than the unarmed temple guards.

Slipping through the shadows of the trees, he made his way closer to Jesus and finally was able to clearly see the man he’d looked for all these months. Jesus stood tall in the moonlight, his long white tunic unbelted and streaked with dirt. His head was uncovered, and his hair clung damply to his face.