Jerusalem's Hope (21 page)

Leaving the aqueduct behind, Marcus rode toward Herodium. In addition to the castle on the summit Herod the Great had created a palace for his guests at the foot of the hill. An enormous artificial lake stood amid an orchard of date palms and transplanted balsam trees. In the midst of the otherwise barren surroundings and perched on the edge of a wilderness, it was a place where members of the monarch's entourage took their ease.

Marcus wondered how much ease was possibly experienced by a visitor to Herod's brooding tower. The suspicious monarch was apt to see hidden meanings and secret plots behind innocent observations . . . and a stay at Herodium could easily move from palace to dungeon in short order.

A trio of legionaries were bathing naked in the pool. They did not stop their diving and spouting when Marcus rode up. Since Marcus was not their officer, they apparently recognized no need to show respect for his rank.

Idumeans,
Marcus guessed from their swarthiness; bazaar toughs hired to make up the complement of a legion. Certainly not soldiers Marcus would have permitted to remain part of First Cohort when he commanded.

The low wall enclosing the pool was marred with chalked graffiti.
Lucius likes goats
, read one scrawl.
Pythias used to be hot-blooded,
ran another,
but now there's only hot wine in his veins.

None of it was very clever or original. Marcus had heard the witticism about Pythias applied to the aging Emperor Tiberius.

There was an air of seediness and decay about the place. Two of the palm trees had been sawn down, their ragged stumps left to rot. The trunks of the balsam trees were scarred with the slashes of those who stole the valuable sap. Lawns and shrubs were dead. Dust was heaped in the corners of the sunken garden paths, and a thin green slime floating atop the pool was ignored by the bathers.

Since Judea had been made a province ruled directly by Rome rather than a client state, Herod's palace belonged to the emperor for the use of his representatives. But Governor Pilate seldom left Caesarea on the clean seacoast. He rarely forced himself to visit Jerusalem; Herodium, never.

Leaving the crumbling guest facilities behind, Marcus urged Pavor toward the hill's north side. Here Marcus found a legionary who at least was in uniform and knew how to salute. Entrusting Pavor to the legionary's care, Marcus entered the underground tunnel that pierced the cone and was the sole entry to the fortress. A walk of several minutes took him through a black tube poorly lit at irregular intervals by smoldering torches.

Emerging from the tunnel, Marcus found himself beside another pool likewise surrounded by trees and garden, but located inside the basin of the hollow cone. Five stories of fortifications stretched upward above him. It was rumored that additional, secret levels existed below him in labyrinthine tangles.

Cities, monuments, temples, and towers had all been constructed by Herod and named to venerate the emperor, deceased relatives, or powerful friends.

But this lonely mountain, this malevolent symbol of arrogant authority poised on the skyline like the broken fang of a monstrous beast, Herod had chosen to name in honor of himself.

Herod had built the place to last for the ages, as an outpost against marauders coming out of the desert, a palace, and a retreat of last resort from revolution. It was also the royal mausoleum.

On the far side of the colonnade encircling the garden was a marble dome as large as a small house. It was placed so beams of sunlight would penetrate even the two-hundred-foot depth of the hill, illuminating Herod's crypt.

On the carved sides of the tomb were representations of everything Herod believed worthy of remembrance from his reign: leading military campaigns, receiving a coronet from the hand of Augustus, designing the harbor of Caesarea, laying out an aqueduct. All the scenes offered chiseled depictions of the king of the Jews as a heroic figure. Given a particular pride of place was a profile of Herod beside a view of the front of Jerusalem's renowned temple.

Clearly Herod wanted his memory linked both with what he had done to honor the man-god of the Romans and the favors he'd performed for the unnameable God of the Hebrews.

Sometime in the thirty-odd years since his death and burial here, someone had hacked off Herod's nose. Vengeful relative, vicious rebel, or idle soldier?

A voice spoke from behind Marcus. “My grandfather worked on this place a half century ago.” It was Oren, the Jewish stonemason. He was covered in lime dust, and there was a bloody scrape down one shin. The man appeared to be exhausted. “My father labored on Herod's tomb there, and the two of us on the Temple.” He gestured toward the detailed outline of the sanctuary.

“The workmanship is very fine,” Marcus praised.

“Now I wonder if I'll ever worship there again.”

“Why?” Marcus inquired. “There's no shame in building an aqueduct.”

“May have to take my family and move away” came the reply. “Alexandria, maybe. There is work to be had there for stonecutters. You heard what the shepherd said: I'm apostate, defiled, cursed.”

“That's paid for,” Marcus corrected him. “Soon forgotten.”

Oren shook his head. “As long as the aqueduct stands, it will divide Jews like me who worked on it from those like Zadok who hate it. Temple money or Beth-lehem sheep, it doesn't matter. Once declared Korban, they belong to the Almighty alone. I knew it but took the job anyway . . . my family has to eat, don't they? Don't they?”

Uncomfortable in the presence of so much unmanly emotion, the stoic Roman changed the subject. “You're hurt,” Marcus said, indicating the leg wound.

“It's nothing,” Oren replied. “Bad piece of stone. It cracked as we lowered it into place in the arch and tumbled down. I jumped clear just in time . . . almost,” he concluded ruefully. “My own fault really. I inspected the blocks for soundness, but I must have missed that one.”

“Will you be going up to the City for your Passover?” Marcus asked, knowing that the Jewish laborers could be excused for the religious holiday.

“Not me,” Oren argued. “I'm defiled, remember? It's already too late to get cleansed in time for the ceremony.”

“Because of a Roman waterworks and a Jewish lamb?”

Oren disagreed. “We're all defiled anyway. All of us stoneworkers.” He pointed over Marcus' shoulder. “We're sleeping in a tomb.”

There was an indecipherable air of evil and decomposition about the place. Marcus sensed it, though he wasn't given to superstition. Could it be a remnant of the malevolent executions Herod had carried out? Or was the smell of death really coming from Herod's tomb?

“Where's the harm in a grave?” Marcus maintained stoutly. “He's only food for worms.”

Oren looked grim. “They say he was eaten up by worms
before
he died. If there is any lingering wickedness connected with any tomb, surely it must be this one.”

And this was the place where the aqueduct laborers were housed and where the Roman soldiers guarding the construction were bi vouacked. Rebel attacks and simmering revolt outside, evil spirits inside, and Marcus caught in the middle.

It was the grizzled Samaritan centurion Shomron who led Marcus to his luxurious quarters in the lower palace of Herodium. Shomron was drunk and uncharacteristically jolly. The grease from the stolen roast lamb clung to his beard. A single louse paraded boldly across his bald dome from the eastern thicket of fringe to the west.

There were many marble baths in Herodium, Marcus noted, yet Shomron had not found a use for them.

The two centurions, old and young, ascended a staircase to a dark, wide corridor paved in marble.

Shomron puffed, “You having the
corona obsidionalis
as your crown of honor and being the hero of Idistaviso and all. I suppose you won't mind sleeping where the mighty have slept, eh?”

“I'll sleep mightily, no matter where I lay my head tonight,” Marcus replied.

“There's not much for a man of action as yourself to do here. But it's a fine, easy duty. Quiet. No trouble.”

“I've been chasing rebels in the wilderness most of the last months.”

“Well. Yes, not much for us to do. But it's cream of the quarters for officers.” He threw back a bronze door and thrust the torch forward to reveal an elaborate suite adorned with cobwebs and marble pillars surrounding a round canopied bed. Polished bronze mirrors on every wall caught Marcus' dim reflection in the light. The floor was an intricate geometric mosaic. The entire room was overly feminine and rivaled the most elegant brothels in Rome.

“Not decorated for a soldier.” Marcus hung back.

Shomron guffawed. “I was garrisoned in this fortress as a lad forty-one years ago. While the old butcher king was on the throne slaughtering everyone he took a suspicion to. Fifty of us stinking up the barracks while he's up here in luxury conjuring demons and murdering his relatives. I'm glad to have moved up in the world, I can tell you!” He winked. “I'm sleeping in the old butcher's bed myself now!”

“And what is this?” Marcus sensed an eerie chill as he scanned the chamber.

“Mariamme's room. The Hasmonaean queen. A true descendant of the Maccabee clan. Herod poisoned her in a fit of rage, and as long as I was around he regretted her dying. Wandered these corridors crying for her. Wailing her name in fits till he died.”

Marcus ached between his shoulder blades. He hadn't slept in a proper bed in weeks. But this was not the place he wanted to start.

“Not for me.” Marcus could clearly picture the dying queen convulsing on the floor at his feet. “Officer's quarters will do.”

Shomron's face puckered in disappointment. “Suit yourself.”

He retreated back into surly silence as he led Marcus down the winding staircase to the dreary row of cells that served as bedrooms for servants and soldiers. He slapped the door with the flat of his hand, indicating this was the place.

Handing off the torch, Shomron padded away toward the wine cellar without another word.

Marcus entered the musty chamber. Four unadorned stone walls. A narrow bed. A rack of dowels for hanging spare gear. It had the safe, familiar feel of a barracks. He could have been in the military quarters of any fortress between Rome and Alexandria. Here he could close his eyes without thoughts of butcher kings, murder, and madmen roaming the halls of Herodium.

Carefully he untied his bedroll and took out a bronzed leafy crown. The
corona obsidionalis
was the highest award for bravery in the Roman army. It was all Marcus had left to prove he had once been a rising star in Rome. But when Marcus had impulsively offered this crown, along with his sword, to Yeshua of Nazareth, the Master had declined both. Instead he had promised Marcus that one day he would wear a crown in Jerusalem, and that Marcus would be at his feet in that hour.

Did Yeshua mean to claim the throne in Jerusalem next week? When the city was packed with citizens from all over the Roman empire? Not now, Marcus hoped. Not when every sword of Rome in Jerusalem would be ready to strike.

Marcus hung the
corona
on the wooden peg beside his sword. He groaned audibly as he threw himself across the sagging rope bed and closed his eyes.

One day perhaps he would again offer Yeshua the crown, as well as his sword and his loyalty. For the present there was an aqueduct to be built for Pilate and the Jewish Sanhedrin. There were also angry shepherds to placate. Not a difficult duty. No glory to be gained in the Valley of the Sheepfold. It was a well-known maxim that Rome continued to thrive by the execution of ordinary tasks, not in dreams of glory.

Tonight Marcus slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

ADADAV

E
met's mind was as cluttered with weary thoughts as his muscles were full of aches. A day spent tending Old Girl and her flock in volved mucking out, sweeping up, hauling water and feed, and innumerable occasions of tying and retying the disguising fleece shawls and bonnets.

And Emet was in misery because he couldn't tie properly

Avel and Ha-or Tov gabbed nonstop over their barley soup about what they had seen and done in the fields around Migdal Eder. Their talk was full of commentary in regard to the Roman water project and the Jewish workmen.

Emet was too downcast to take part in the discussion.

He replayed what he had seen in the stable. In particular, he thought about the black lamb named Bear. One day earlier the lamb was clearly in trouble: skinny, weak, and headed for death. Now he had energy enough to try to butt Emet, and to annoy his sisters and his adoptive mother with his antics. Bear ate almost nonstop too, indulged by Old Girl as he pushed in ahead of Lily, Rose, and Cornflower . . .