The Hidden Flame Read online

  Over and over her answers were the same. "I do not know."

  His patience quickly came to an end. "Then what are we to do?"

  "Wait," responded Abigail.

  "Wait!" Jacob attempted to scoff but was near tears. "It was not to be this way. I need Alban now. I did not even get to say farewell. To receive instructions of what I am to do. How can you say wait? For what? For whom? What if they don't make it? How will we know?" His words tumbled over each other, a litany of his frustration and grief.

  "If they do not make it, Herod will be boasting of it from here to Rome," Abigail finally said, trying to rein in her impatience. "Even if they do make it, he might claim they did not just to save face. There is nothing that we can do, Jacob, but wait. They will send word when they can. They will send for us when the time is right."

  But Jacob failed to be convinced. Abigail could feel him withdraw from her in the blackness of the night. It hurt deeply. Had she found Jacob, merely hours ago, only to lose him in his sorrow over Alban? She prayed not. But for the moment her heart felt even colder than the night's chilly arms encircling them.

  C H A P T E R

  Two

  Caesarea Twenty-five months later . . .

  THE SIGHT THAT GREETED LINUX as he stepped once more upon Judean soil was of children playing. Two youngsters raced along the top of the stone harbor wall. Linux was instantly transported back to his brother's villa. The two girls Linux had left behind in Umbria were both blond, and these scampering children were dark haired. Yet both pairs shared an impish laughter and an ability to find joy in chasing a butterfly or a dog through dust and sunlight. Linux had dreamed of his twin nieces almost every night since leaving Umbria, his country of birth, for Rome, and from there to Judea. Another committed bachelor might have considered it a recurring nightmare. But after what Linux had discovered while in Rome, he felt the dreams contained his one tiny shred of hope.

  "Linux! You are indeed a sight for sore eyes!" The harbor master was a former ship's captain from Tyre. Horus liked to claim he had skippered a Phoenician pirate vessel, but Linux knew he had served Rome long and well, both on sea and land. Some years back, a ship's timber had pinned Horus to the deck during a storm. As he walked toward Linux with hand outstretched, the harbor master's gait rocked like a ship in heavy seas. "What news of Rome?"

  "The women are as lovely as ever." Linux dredged up the sardonic grin the harbor master would have expected. "And much lonelier, now that I have departed."

  "And the husbands breathe much easier, I warrant." Horus slapped Linux on the back and steered him toward the stone hut from which he supervised the comings and goings of all vessels in the harbor. "You and I will share a glass."

  "My belongings ..."

  Horus pointed to his assistant. "You. See to them. Come, Linux. I must hear of all the wailing ladies."

  But once inside the hut's shadows, the harbor master's humor vanished like the mist on the Mediterranean at dawn. "Wine?"

  "Tea. I have much to do before sundown."

  "I can imagine." Horus stuck his head out the cabin's door and bellowed, "Where is that scurvy dog!"

  "Here, master!"

  "Tea! Good food!"

  "Just tea," Linux corrected.

  The harbor master looked at him askance. "You have been at sea for weeks, my man!"

  "Almost two months," Linux agreed. "Two weeks since our last landfall."

  "We received fresh bread from the baker not two hours ago-"

  "Just tea. With my thanks." Linux ignored his growling belly.

  Horus gave his servant the order and slouched into his chair. Linux noted the table beneath the window piled high with charts and scrolls. The man's badge of office, the emperor's seal, held down an unfurled manifest, no doubt awaiting his calculation of the duties to be paid.

  Horus asked again, more subdued this time, "What news of Rome?"

  "Are you sure you want to hear, old friend?"

  "Everyone in Caesarea is feasting on rumors, all of them dreadful. The truth can hardly be worse."

  "I would not wager on that."

  "So it is true. Sejanus is in trouble."

  Linux sighed and stared out the window. Since Emperor Tiberius had retired to his palace on the island of Capri, Rome had been ruled by his deputy, Sejanus, whose only official title was head of the Praetorian Guard. Tiberius remained officially the ruler of the empire. But the emperor was increasingly interested only in his own pleasures. What was most troubling to Linux was that many of Rome's powerful and wealthy citizens were following Tiberius's example, letting whatever gratification caught their fancy sweep them away into increasing debauchery.

  "Sejanus battles constantly with the Senate," Linux finally said. "And he is losing."

  The harbor master scowled. "This does not bode well for the likes of you and me."

  The servant appeared in the doorway. "Tea, master."

  Linux accepted his mug with a nod of thanks and said, "Let us walk."

  "The sun is blistering," Horus protested.

  "To remain hidden away is a danger for us both," he murmured.

  Horus followed him out into the afternoon light. "You are so fearful of spies?"

  "I do not yet know for certain what we face," Linux said, his voice still low. "I can only tell you what I found upon my arrival in Rome."

  "Then tell me."

  Horus was an old friend and one of Linux's most trusted allies in Caesarea. Linux also knew that whatever he told Horus would make its cautionary way through the garrison's ranks. News traveled fast in a provincial capital. And the information thus carried provided the only hope of survival.

  Fourteen months earlier, Linux had returned home to northern Italy. His brother's first wife had died, and Castor was remarrying. Linux had received an official summons, his older brother using the opportunity to test Linux's loyalty. Linux's visit home had not gone well, he freely admitted to the harbor master. The only part of that experience Linux failed to share was how he spent much of the time playing with his nieces, his brother's daughters from the first marriage. The little ones missed their mother terribly, and now with their father giving his attentions to his new young bride, the girls felt totally adrift.

  While in Umbria, Linux heard of events further south in the capital. The old emperor, Tiberius, seemed incapable of focusing on anything other than his pleasure gardens on Capri. His deputy Sejanus repeatedly came into conflict with the Roman Senate. In defiance of Sejanus and Tiberius, the Senate ordered Pontius Pilate's return from Judea in disgrace. In his stead, the Senate had appointed a trusted ally as replacement consul to Judea, a man named Marcellus.

  Fortunately Linux had not been caught up in the unfolding political turmoil. Nor had he been included when the orders arrived, commanding Pilate to present himself before the Senate. Since Pilate could be banished, or even executed, along with his entire cadre of senior officers, Linux's exclusion from the whole sorry scenario was a very good thing indeed.

  But what Linux had found awaiting him in Rome so disturbed him that even now, nearly five hundred leagues away, his gut still clenched in the telling.

  Horus stared silently out over the crowded Caesarea port, though Linux doubted his old friend actually saw very much at all. Finally the man muttered, "How is a simple officer of the sea to survive all this?"

  Linux repeated what an ally in Rome had told him. "Be extremely careful in everything you say, everything you do-maybe even everything you think."

  "When does the new prelate arrive?" Horus leaned on the stone wall circling the harbor.

  "He was to leave the week following my departure. I was ordered ahead to ..." Linux waved that aside. It would not be appropriate to further discuss imperial business with the harbor master. He said instead, "We were struck by two storms. There is no telling when his vessel will dock. Or at which port."

  The two youngsters chose that moment to come racing up. The stone wall placed the boys' smiling faces at eye level w
ith the two men. "Uncle, come play with us."

  "Can't you see I'm busy here?" But Horus's growl contained a genuine fondness. When the two ran away, laughing, Horus muttered, "Young scamps," though his pride was apparent.

  "You're their uncle?"

  "In a manner of speaking. Their father was a mate of mine. His ship went out three winters back and never returned. I have been adopted by them. As have half the men who work under me. They are delightful one moment and rascals the next."

  Linux leaned forward so as to watch as they raced to where an old sailor repaired a fishing net. The shorter of the two boys took up one of the arrow-shaped shuttles. The ancient mariner fitted his large hand around the smaller one and helped him weave the rough twine as the other child watched silently. On some unseen cue, the two boys started singing about fishing on a summer's dawn and the ladies who waited back home, clearly a song taught to them by seafaring men around the harbor. The sailor leaned back and laughed out loud, the sound rusty with disuse.

  Linux suddenly asked, "Have you ever thought of marrying, Horus?"

  Horus turned from the wall toward the stone hut. "Women and the sea are like oil and water. They do not mix."

  Linux fell into step beside him. "I have heard the same of soldiers and wives."

  Horus's eyes grew wide in obvious alarm. "Don't tell me your heart has been stolen by a lass back in Rome."

  "In Umbria," Linux confessed. "Two of them. My brother's daughters. They laugh like those two there."

  "Can they cause the same mountain of mischief when they have a mind?"

  "No doubt." Linux looked back at the boys, his heart twisted by the memory of his last day with his brother's twins. He had entered their room to find the girls arguing over a tiny carved wooden doll. He had gently teased them into reconciliation, bringing laughter to their eyes. It did not last long. They had wept inconsolably when Linux had told them he was leaving for Rome.

  Linux kicked at a small stone with his scuffed sandal, shrugging to hide his deep emotion, and dared to murmur to the sun and the hot summer wind, "I do miss them."

  Two days later, Linux left Caesarea for Jerusalem in the company of a mounted troop. He had not planned to travel so. But orders had been issued from Bruno Aetius, tribune of the Jerusalem garrison. Without a governor in place, the tribune commanded all Roman troops in Judea, and Bruno Aetius's order was that all Roman soldiers taking to Judea's roads must travel in strength. So Linux attached himself to a troop assigned guard detail and set forth.

  He was not sorry to see the back of Caesarea, which was very odd, for it was the only truly Roman city in the entire province. And Linux held no love for Jerusalem, none whatever. But perhaps at the moment Jerusalem was preferable. Caesarea, the Roman capital of Judea, was at present a boiling pot. Rumors swirled, and the people fretted. And the news from Rome ... Linux shook his head.

  Their first night on the road, they camped in the very same ruined village where Linux two years past had escaped a late-season rain in the company of a stranger who became a friend.

  Around the fire that night, Linux asked the troop's commander, "Did you know the centurion Alban?"

  "Knew of him." The officer was a hard-bitten man of middle years named Cyrus, suggesting someone from a far-flung province still holding to the Greek ways. "He was a friend of yours?"

  "Perhaps the best it has ever been my good fortune to know."

  Cyrus took no ease by the fire. He did not sit in the camp chair so much as crouch at its edge. His eyes constantly surveyed the perimeter, out where light from the soldiers' three fires was swallowed by the night. "Is it true what they say, the centurion went native?"

  "He married a Judean. He gave up his commission. That much is true."

  "I meant no offense, sir."

  "None taken. And on the road, I am Linux." He studied the officer across the fire from him. Linux would have expected a more relaxed demeanor at a campfire after a decent enough meal, especially with a double guard posted. "Do you expect trouble?"

  "On these roads, always. Much has changed while you've been away.

  "I thought it bad enough before I left."

  "Bad then-now worse."

  Linux nodded.

  "I'm not talking about changes at the top," Cyrus said. "Governors come, they rule for a time, and they go. My concern remains with the men under my command."

  "My friend Alban might have voiced the very same words." When the other officer continued to study the night, Linux went on, "Pilate had planned to banish the centurion for failing him in a duty. Though in truth Alban failed no one. He merely reported news that Pilate did not wish to hear. But before he was to depart for his new posting, Alban-"

  Linux stopped when Cyrus leapt to his feet. Linux rose and gripped his sword, listening intently, but he heard nothing. The night was utterly still, without a breath of wind. Their fire crackled, sending cinders flying up to join the stars overhead. "What is it?"

  "Perhaps nothing." Cyrus replaced the sword Linux had not even seen him draw and gradually lowered himself to his seat. "What was the news your friend brought back to the prelate?"

  "That the Judean prophet known as Jesus of Nazareth, the one who was crucified, was . . . alive."

  The officer focused fully upon Linux. "I have heard this rumor. His followers are growing like a wildfire."

  "Alban is one of them."

  A high-pitched shriek pierced the darkness, and a soldier just on the edge of the nearest campfire collapsed into the dust. Cyrus leapt forward, hollering, "To arms!"

  The night was suddenly filled with a whirring sound. Linux rolled and came up beneath his shield as arrows rained down upon the campground. Two hammered into the wood of his shield. Linux crouched more tightly, drawing his head down to where it almost rested on his knees. Around him, he saw that even the legionnaires who had been fast asleep now hunkered behind their shields. Clearly these men had been attacked before.

  Once again arrows hammered against his shield, one thumping down within inches of his shin. Another soldier shouted in pain. Cyrus shouted, "They're hidden in the rocks to the west! Attack!"

  Linux roared with the others. He unsheathed his sword and raced for the rocks.

  He leapt upon the stone to the left of Cyrus. But all they found was empty sand turned silver in the starlight.

  "Squads of three! Spread out! Search every defile!"

  But Cyrus sheathed his sword and motioned for Linux to follow him back into the camp. As Linux helped him tend to the pair of wounded men, he asked, "Should I search with your scouts?"

  "My men won't find anything, but I gave the order to be safe. These attacks never vary. They come with the night, they strike in stealth, they slip away and vanish." Cyrus patted one of the soldiers. "These are just flesh wounds. We'll bathe and bind them. You'll both ride tomorrow. The surgeons will leave you with some scars for the ladies to admire."

  Cyrus lifted his head and called his men back. They returned facing outward, a tactic so ingrained their officer needed to give them no instructions. Linux knew none would sleep again that night.

  "Who were the marauders?" Linux wondered.

  "We know nothing for certain."

  "What, you have not captured any?"

  "Not in eight months of such attacks."

  Linux recalled the troubles with bandits he and Alban had faced. "Parthians?"

  "Not this far west. Though we hear they have grown bolder on the Damascus Road. No, this is trouble that has grown up here in Judea."

  "Do they have a name?"

  Cyrus swept the night with his gaze. "They call themselves Zealots."

  C H A P T E R

  THREE

  EZRA ALWAYS FELT A VAGUE SENSE OF ENVY when visiting Gamaliel in Jerusalem's Temple Quarter. A broad avenue ran from the Temple to the citadel, from one center of Judean power to the other. Most priests who served on the Sanhedrin, the Temple Council, lived along this road. But it was not Gamaliel's position among the Temple
priesthood and the larger Judean community that sparked Ezra's jealousy. It was something else.

  "Welcome, old friend. Welcome." Gamaliel, elder Pharisee and long-time mentor to Ezra, received his childhood friend in the main room overlooking the courtyard. A central fountain cast rainbows that were being scattered by the afternoon wind. "How was Alexandria?" Gamaliel waved Ezra toward chairs adjoining a small carved table.

  Ezra sighed and nodded as he seated himself. "Filled with chaos and confusion, like the rest of the empire." He was a senior merchant, whose trading empire had stretched out from Jerusalem as far as Damascus on the east and Rome to the west. He nodded his thanks as a servant washed his hands and feet in the traditional manner. He accepted a silver goblet and tasted the fruit-flavored water. The priest certainly lived well, Ezra noted as he gazed around the large room. "What is new in Jerusalem?"

  "So much has happened. . . ." Gamaliel's voice faded at the sound of footsteps hurrying down the side passage. Both men turned toward the arched opening.

  "Ezra!" The woman moved quickly across the room, almost tripping in her haste and joy. "How dare you stay away so long!"

  "There were difficulties, Miriam. I do apologize."

  "Your son and daughter are well?" She sat down on a wooden bench situated near the chairs.

  "They seemed to thrive upon the journey, unlike their weary father."

  "They are young. They are free of tutors and boundaries, off on an adventure with their beloved father. How could they not enjoy such a trip? Our own son wailed inconsolably when he learned you had taken the children."

  "Next time he may come as well."

  She waved her finger. "If you even dare mention such a thing, I will give you-"

  "Shah, Miriam," her husband chided, though he smiled. "Shame."

  Ezra listened to the woman discuss her and Gamaliel's children, then join in with her husband to describe the changes in Jerusalem-the dismissal of Pilate and the awaited arrival of the new governor, Marcellus. Then there were the rumors that the tribune of the Judean garrison, Bruno Aetius, was to be sent back to Damascus. Some of the news Ezra had heard in Alexandria. Other items were new. He tried hard to pay attention, for these were two well-connected, intelligent and trusted friends. But his envy formed a cloud of pain and remorse in his mind and heart, such that it was difficult to follow the conversation at all.