The Thief (4 page)

Nissa had heard the lament countless times. Mama had given birth to Nissa late in life, when she and Abba both had been sure their only child would be the one cursed with blindness. They’d rejoiced in the hope of a boy who could care for them in their old age. Instead, the Lord had cursed them again with a plain, clumsy daughter—a daughter who had been a disappointment to them for twenty years.

Her mother snatched the jar of grain and hurried to kneel at the stone quern, pouring out a generous measure to grind but spilling as much on the dirt.

Nissa curled her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms.
We don’t have enough grain to waste, Mama.

Her father stood with his hands on his hips. His hair, almost completely gray, was bushy and unkempt, as was his beard. His eyes were bloodshot, and his full lips cast in a perpetual frown. “I come home to no food, a wife who can hardly stand up, and no daughter to wash my feet after a day of labor.” He pushed past her and lowered his body onto a bench beside the door.

Day of labor? Abba hadn’t labored today, unless he counted throwing dice as work. He’d left Amit tied up instead of carrying bundles of kindling to sell in the wood market. Cedron squeezed her arm. She bit down on her lower lip and patted his hand.
Don’t worry. I won’t make him angrier.

She poured water into a wide clay bowl and brought it to her father. Kneeling before him, she untied his sandals like a good Jewish daughter.

He set his dirty feet in the water. “And where were you when you should have been preparing bread for us?”

Nissa tensed. What could she say? “I found work for the day. Weaving.”

“And did you get paid?” her father jerked, tipping the bowl sideways and sloshing water on the ground.

Nissa lunged to rescue the bowl before it broke. “She . . . she said she’d pay me tomorrow.” Her voice wavered like an old woman’s.

“Give it to me.” Her father held out his hand.

She shook her head. “I don’t have it.” That was the truth.

His hand snaked behind her neck and closed on her hair. He jerked down until she was forced to look up at him. “You have it. I know you. Now give it to me.”

He demanded her money when he’d spent the day gambling his away? “When Elijah returns.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back.

Her father’s face darkened with anger. “Don’t get mouthy with me, girl.”

Didn’t Abba understand? They needed the money for rent. “But Gilad was looking for you today.”

“I curse Gilad and the womb that bore him. He stole enough from me today. I’m the father and the head of this family.” He stood, dragging her up by her hair. The bowl pitched to the side and broke against the rocky ground. His other hand dipped into the folds of her belt and came back empty.

“Where is it?”

She shook her head and blinked back tears from the stinging pain in her scalp.

He released her hair and pushed her away. “Why did the Lord curse me? A blind son and a daughter who can do nothing right. You got a job weaving! The woman must be as blind as your brother. Your fingers can neither weave nor spin. And your cooking! No wonder no man wants you.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “Now. Give me what you earned today.”

“No.” She wrenched away, pain scorching through her injured shoulder. She ran behind her mother—still swaying over the wheat—as if she could help her. “You’ll only gamble it away. Like you do with everything we earn. Why don’t you go gather wood and sell it, use your own money for the dice!”

He came after her, his fist raised.

But she couldn’t stop. Words flew from her mouth. “I won’t work so you can throw dice with the pagans and so she”—Nissa tipped her head toward her mother—“can drink up the rest in cheap wine. The neighbors call you
am-ha-arez
, and they are right!”

Her father swung. She saw a burst of stars as his fist connected with her cheek. Pain arced behind her eyes. She fell to the ground with a swallowed cry.

“Stop, Abba!” Cedron stood suddenly, holding out his hand. “Father. I have it. I took it.”

Abba was breathing heavily, but he didn’t advance on Cedron.

“You are right.” Cedron showed the coin to his father. “You are the head of the family. According to the law, it belongs to you.”

Her father stalked to Cedron, snatched the coin from his hand without a word, and ducked into the dark house.

Cedron shuffled toward Nissa, his hands out until he touched her bent head. “I’m sorry, Nissa. I had to.”

Nissa sniffed and buried her throbbing face in his chest. She would have done the same if Abba had been hitting him. But Abba never hit him. Only her.
I should have given it to Gilad. At least then we’d have the rent paid.

She’d have to find another way to pay Gilad. The money Cedron brought in from begging wouldn’t keep them fed. Her father was right: she couldn’t weave or spin, her bread was always burnt, and her lentils were hard and tasteless. No man would marry her; no woman would hire her. She was a failure at everything—everything but stealing.

Chapter 3

L
ONGINUS URGED FEROX
past the Pool of Siloam, up the Stepped Street, and toward the upper city. The evening trumpets sounded as the last groups of merchants and slaves hurried into the darkening streets.

His fingers tightened on the reins. How he wished he could wrap them around the little thief’s neck. He was sure he’d seen the boy turning a corner into the lower city. They all looked alike, these Jews. And they weren’t about to help him find the two thieves who had made a fool of him today.

His head pounded, and his stomach growled. He was a Roman centurion, by the gods. He’d battled barbarians from the north and been outnumbered by Numidian troops. But he’d lost a little thief in the streets of Jerusalem just as he’d lost the Samaritan who had killed Scipio.

He snapped the reins, and Ferox loped past the temple and over the bridge that crossed the Tyropoeon Valley. The upper city stretched before him in the twilight. Lights glowed in the courtyards of the wealthy priests and merchants; voices and snatches of music drifted on the breeze with the scents of cooking fires and roasting meat.

What he wouldn’t give to be stationed back in Gaul, with its quiet villages and peaceful people. Even Rome would be better than this provincial dung heap. After this feast—which
one was it again?—he’d go back to Caesarea, where he’d be reminded each day of his failure to get revenge for Scipio.

Longinus had spent months searching for the Samaritan with the scar on his face, the scar Scipio had put there. He’d almost had him—twice. The first time, a girl had gotten the best of him; the second time, a band of lepers.

His hand rested on the sword at his side. Even his father’s sword, his most precious possession, hadn’t been able to help him against the horde of diseased cripples who had attacked him on the road in Galilee. For months, he’d watched his skin for signs of sores or white flaking, worrying with every itch that he’d contracted the hideous disease that plagued these people.

At least no one saw me terrified by a band of half-human invalids.
He’d screamed like a woman as the lepers had closed in around him, smelling of rot and death. Then he’d run like a coward. If his men had seen that, he’d have lost every iota of respect. And a centurion without the respect of his men didn’t deserve the insignia on his breastplate.

Now he’d failed again. Longinus had ridden the streets of the upper city first, then the lower, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dirty little thief and his tall partner. Instead, he’d almost killed the blind Jew and his belligerent sister.

The weight on his heart eased, and his lips twitched. He’d never seen a Jewish woman so dirty or who smelled so bad. And she had a mouth as sharp as his dagger. He’d thought all Jewish women were meek as doves, content to hide behind the walls of their courtyards and the folds of their mantles. A woman hadn’t scolded him like that since he’d said good-bye to his mother. Looked like at least one of them had some spirit, even if she was as plain as a brick wall and smelled like a stable. Her father would be hard-pressed to find a husband who could keep that wildcat in check.

He slowed Ferox to a walk as they ascended marble steps that led to the deserted agora in front of Herod’s palace. The broad square, the upper city’s locus for trade and assembly, was
empty of all but the hot wind that swept in from the eastern desert.

A massive arched entrance, wide enough for three chariots, led to the palace built by Herod—not the current fool but his father, the one they called Herod the Great. Just past the arch, another set of marble steps led to a vast central platform, where Pilate sometimes appeared to speak to the Jews or pronounce sentence on prisoners.

On each side of the platform stretched identical marble palaces, one named for Herod the Great, the other for Caesar. Even by Roman standards they were magnificent, towering over the upper city. Gardens, groves of sweet eucalyptus, and fountains fringed the polished stone walls.

But Herod Antipas didn’t live in his father’s magnificent memorial. He stayed in Caesarea, far away from the Jews who disdained him. Pontius Pilate, the legate and provincial governor, resided in the palace during the great feasts, when he marched his cohorts to Jerusalem to display the might of the empire, but even he didn’t stay in the city long. The god of these Jews made him nervous. He’d leave Jerusalem as soon as he could.

After two weeks in the city, Longinus well understood Pilate’s avoidance of Jerusalem. In the last few days, the population of the city had swelled to ten times its usual number. Pilgrims from Damascus to the Dead Sea filled the streets to bursting. More Jews meant more trouble. It only took one radical to spark dissent, and a conflict could turn into a riot. Suddenly, you had a rebellion on your hands. Everyone knew Pilate needed to avoid any sign of rebellion in Judea.

The Jewish leaders assured Pilate they came together only to worship their god. The one and only God, they said. Longinus shook his head. Surely this god had deserted them long ago, just as Jupiter had deserted him when Scipio lay dying.

Gods. They’re all the same.
They cared nothing for the people scurrying like ants in the sand, making sacrifices and asking for mercy. He’d learned that the hard way.

He turned Ferox to the north, where his cohort—four hundred eighty men led by six centurions—camped between the three great towers of Phasael, Hippicus, and Mariamme. Three more cohorts made camp at the Antonia Fortress. Rome believed in an extravagant show of force, even against unarmed and untrained Jews.

The eighty men under his command would be eating their meal and getting ready for guard duty or a game of dice. The lucky ones looked forward to an evening furlough.

Longinus’s chest tightened in familiar grief. After half a year, he still expected to see Scipio waiting for him in their quarters with a grin and a scheme. Two weeks in Jerusalem and Scipio would have known every tavern in the city and half the women—and he would have dragged Longinus to enjoy both whenever they were off duty. Longinus let out a long breath. His days of wine and women ended when his best friend died in the streets of Caesarea. Not just his best friend but also the best legionary he’d known in his fifteen years in the Roman army. How could he enjoy the pleasures of this life while Scipio languished in the underworld?

As he entered the garrison, smoke drifted from the mess hall, bringing with it the aroma of roasting venison. His hollow stomach rumbled. At least the hunting parties had been successful. Food first, then the bathhouse and a good night’s sleep—if he could block out the sound of Silvanus’s snores.

Longinus shared his quarters with one man instead of seven like the rest of the legionaries, but he’d take seven reeking recruits over Silvanus any day. If he had to spend another ten years bunking with the head centurion, he just might kill the man in his sleep. His only hope was that Silvanus would be sent on a diplomatic mission somewhere in the empire—Britannia would suit him well. It was as cold and brutal as he was.

Longinus slid off Ferox as a legionary took the reins and led the horse to the stables for his own rubdown and dinner. Longinus started toward the camp kitchens but halted at the shout of a
gruff voice. A heavyset legionary approached, a red-plumed helmet under his arm. He was shorter than Longinus but heavily muscled. His cropped black hair and swarthy complexion did little to hide his many battle scars.

Longinus groaned.
Not Silvanus.
Was it too much to hope that Cornelius hadn’t told the story of the thieves to the head centurion?

“Longinus. Empty-handed again, eh?”

Curse Cornelius.
Longinus grunted and turned back toward the mess tent.

Silvanus clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me to the bathhouse.” His smile was closer to a grimace and his invitation more like an order. But Silvanus was his
primus pilus
and must be obeyed. Longinus pushed thoughts of food aside and fell into step beside the head centurion. They left the camp and strode toward the Jaffa Gate, where a slave stood beneath the arched doorway of a modestly appointed building.