Woman of Sin Page 12

  She rose hesitantly, quickly adjusted her garments, and ran her fingers through her tangled black hair. Her mantle had long since been ripped from her and she felt strangely bare without it, though she held onto the blanket. Her movements brought the centurion’s eyes back to her and she stopped, paralyzed.

  Could it be that he looked—ashamed? He refused to look directly into her eyes, and a slow red crept into the greenish tint of his face. Reaching up, he unhooked his red cloak and dropped it onto the floor, then promptly heaved the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot. Alysia’s eyes widened and she shrank still further into the blanket, which she held against her as if it were a magic shield.

  After a while, the soldier shifted position, wiped his face with the cloak, and cleared his throat.

  “Young woman, it occurs to me you have been somewhat—misused. My men had no right to force you to come with us.” He paused and peered painfully at her. “For whatever happened last night you have my genuine apology.”

  She could only stare at him with her mouth open. The centurion continued, with great effort, “I must get you out of this fort. Not only for your own protection, but—for other reasons. If I agree to see that you are escorted safely home, do I have your word you will say nothing of this to anyone?”

  Alysia saw no need to make promises to him, since obviously he had to get her home somehow. “I—I cannot say that I will not discuss it with anyone, but I will not seek to charge any of you with a crime. Nothing good would come of making this widely known. I should not like for anyone to know about it.”

  “I am not exactly—rational—when I am drunk. And I remember very little. Weren’t you with someone when you were taken?”

  “My family.”

  “What will they do?”

  “The man to whom I am betrothed will be very angry.”

  The centurion winced. “I believe we must have thought you were a prostitute. You are…uncommonly beautiful. Again, I apologize.”

  She looked down and said nothing.

  “Please, I must have your word. There is a man I know, a diplomat, who can take you home and perhaps reassure your family. But he is at Herod’s palace. If I take you there, you must remain silent and allow me to explain the situation to him. If you break your word, we will all swear you are lying; we will say that you propositioned us. Do you understand?”

  “I understand very well, Centurion.”

  He waited a moment, then drew himself up with a grimace and staggered to the door. He slid back the bolt and bellowed for a sentry, holding his head as if it might fall off at any moment. The door was unbarred, and without a backward glance the centurion left the room.

  It seemed a long time later that he returned and escorted her from the upper hall into one of the reception rooms below. He had washed himself and straightened his uniform. Three of the other men had gathered there; she supposed the fourth was lying insensible in his quarters. They were subdued and eyed her gloomily as if she were responsible for the present situation.

  “Go and make yourself presentable,” the centurion said irritably. “And get rid of that,” he added, snatching away the blanket she still held against her. With a disgusted air he threw it on the floor.

  Alysia saw her mantle lying on the tiled floor near the blanket. She retrieved it and stalked angrily toward the room indicated by the soldier. It proved to be a washroom, with a large basin of water on a marble pedestal, linens and a bronze mirror hanging on the wall. She washed her hands and face and tried to improve her appearance.

  In the other room, the centurion looked from one surly face to another. “Don’t tell me you’re unhappy because I barred the door! You would be in far worse trouble had I not done so.”

  Servius said, “Are you not overly concerned, Marcus? Just send her home and be done with her.”

  “This is your fault, Servius, and by the gods I’ll never listen to you again! First I let you talk me into visiting Herodium, and then drinking all the way back! The Jews in her town could bring trouble over this. It will require more diplomacy than I can offer. I will leave her with a friend of mine, one of Herod’s advisors whose task it is to smooth things over with the Jews. He will see to her well-being. And some monetary recompense may be necessary—more than I can provide.”

  “You are making too much of this,” said the other man coldly. “She is not important—it is nothing. Send her home, or get rid of her somehow. Don’t involve anyone else.”

  “As I said, Saltus is a friend. He will know the best course of action.”

  “You’ve grown soft over the girl,” Servius muttered, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  The centurion allowed the remark to pass. “This is a serious problem. The new commander is due to arrive in the next few days and this must be resolved beforehand. Pontius Pilate doesn’t mind making trouble for the Jews, but this Paulus Valerius has a reputation for exacting justice no matter who it involves, and he will not let the incident go without an investigation. Where would we stand then? We could only say we were too drunk to know what we were doing. I doubt that will exonerate us in his eyes!”

  No one said anything. Alysia came back into the room.

  “She has given her word that she will say nothing, in exchange for being returned safely home.”

  “And you believe her?” Servius almost sneered.

  “She has her own reputation to protect,” Marcus replied. He looked at Alysia. “Let’s go.”

  She fell in step behind him, only too glad to be leaving the company of the other soldiers, who stared after her like dogs thwarted of a bone. The centurion now wore a crested helmet and a fresh mantle over his uniform. Alysia followed him down a flight of stairs, across a courtyard, and this time went through a less conspicuous doorway to the street below. Other soldiers and guards watched them curiously, and she was careful to draw her mantle over her head and half over her face.

  It was a cloudy day, and uncomfortably warm. Marcus told her to walk in front of him. “And don’t try to run away,” he growled. “Keep walking straight ahead until I tell you to stop.”

  A viaduct ran directly from the Temple area to Herod’s palace, but the soldier chose not to use it. Instead they walked on the street level, mingling with many others who hurried here and there and paid them no mind. They passed several houses of exquisite design, some of which looked like palaces. On they went until they came to another upraised platform, similar to the one the Jewish Temple had been built upon. It, too, was walled all around, with towers standing at each end. They were now in a large market area, quite different from that of the lower city; here were the gold and silversmiths, the jewel and silk merchants, the master tailors. The people were obviously aristocrats, well-dressed, moving about more sedately than those she had seen yesterday.

  Suddenly the centurion stopped and stood completely still for a moment, staring up at the entrance gate. He seemed to be debating upon his course of action. Alysia held her breath, then his heavily creased face took on a look of resignation and he gestured for her to precede him. She climbed a steep flight of steps, and stopped short as she came in direct view of a long row of Roman guards. Paralyzed, she saw the centurion speak to one of them. He nodded toward her, frowning, and she followed him through the gate.

  Alysia’s mouth dropped open. Never in her life had she seen anything so magnificent, even in Rome. An immense courtyard spread out before them, with a Roman-tiled floor decorated by mosaics of pomegranate leaves. Groves of trees and clipped hedges surrounded it, along with marble benches and bronze fountains. A huge pond dominated its center. At either end stood two villas, all marble and gold; between them were other stately buildings. Columned porticoes lined the other two sides of the pavilion. Sentries stood at their appointed places, and slaves in their native dress hurried importantly on their errands. Here and there groups of people were gathered in conversation.

  “Yes,” said Marcus, noticing her stunned expression. “Rich as Croes
us.”

  Alysia swallowed and whispered nervously, “What if this friend of yours has better things to do than taking care of me?”

  “There is little choice in the matter. And he owes me a favor.”

  Alysia forced herself to remain still and clasped her hands together. Marcus spoke to one of the other guards. The guard consulted briefly with a man who sat at a desk beneath the portico across from them, then returned at a brisk pace.

  “Ambassador Saltus has left for Caesarea, Centurion. He sails for Rome tomorrow.”

  Alysia’s heart sank and she looked quickly at Marcus, sensing his quandary. “I will return to Bethany alone.”

  “That is absurd. Do you know your way through this city? If something were to happen to you my men and I would be worse off than before.”

  She had had enough of him thinking only of himself, as if she were responsible for his predicament! As always, her patience ended abruptly and her temper soared out of control.

  “Then what do you propose, my gallant Roman?” she gritted out, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  The centurion shrugged his shoulders, unaware of her foul mood. “We will return to the fort and make other arrangements. Perhaps we could—”

  “No!”

  Looking at her face, Marcus was filled with alarm. All activity stopped at the sound of the angry and vehement voice.

  “I will not return with you to your men! And you cannot force me!”

  “You are mad,” he said, glancing uneasily at the spectators now staring at them with amused interest.

  “Leave me alone! I will find my own way back.” Alysia whirled, then felt him grab her arm.

  “Have you no gratitude, woman?” he snarled, and she saw a trace of the meanness in him that had been so manifest the day before.

  “Grateful!” Her voice rose in pitch. “After what you have done?”

  Her words reverberated throughout the courtyard. Alysia stopped, aware that she had become the center of attention. She saw out of the corner of her eye that several people were coming toward her.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” Marcus whispered harshly, but Alysia only snatched her arm out of his grasp.

  “What goes here, Centurion?”

  Marcus abruptly came to attention. Alysia saw a rather short man, surrounded by slaves or bodyguards, with a florid face in which were set small brown eyes. His graying hair fell in oily curls; he wore a scarlet robe over which hung a black cloak, heavily embroidered with gold threads. Jewelry adorned his thick neck, arms and fingers. His gray-streaked beard came to a point on his chin.

  “What have you done to put this young woman into such a fine rage?”

  “My, er, slave—”

  “Slave!” Alysia cried. She was too indignant to care who discovered what had happened to her. “This Roman and his contemptible soldiers took me against my will from my friends on the road to Bethany.”

  The oily man fixed the centurion with a stern look. “Is this true?”

  Marcus licked his lips. “With respect, Herod Antipas, this matter does not fall within your jurisdiction.”

  Herod smiled benignly. “Quite true, Centurion, but perhaps you would not like the incident to come before the new commander. I am certain I can be of service.” He turned to a guard and ordered crisply, “Escort these two to my receiving chambers.”

  The ruler of Galilee marched sedately ahead, followed by his retinue. Marcus and Alysia were obliged to trail after him. The people around them had gone back to their own pursuits, as if such occurrences were not unusual. She was regretting her outburst, although she did hope the centurion was suitably anxious for his own welfare.

  They reached the massive building at the north end of the great court and found themselves in a marble-walled chamber furnished with chairs and couches, statues, tapestries, and a thick Persian carpet. Herod seated himself in a throne-like chair in the center of the room. His attendants disappeared, but two more emerged from an arched doorway to stand over him and wave huge palm leaves, stirring the still, warm air.

  Herod regarded his visitors with a sober eye. “And what is the complaint, Centurion?”

  Marcus opened his mouth, but Alysia had already begun. She told the story in detail, with a vivid description of the state of Marcus and his men when they abducted her. The centurion groaned inwardly, then widened his eyes in surprise. She was taking care to tell of his consideration toward her after he had regained his senses.

  “I cannot blame you, Centurion, for your rashness when under the influence of strong drink…and such beauty. However, neither can I condone your actions. You did well to bring her to me. I shall say nothing to Pontius Pilate, nor to your superior officers. I shall see that the matter is handled with tact. There is no reason for you to remain here.”

  Alysia was surprised when Marcus hesitated, and she saw him glance at her with almost a look of pity. But then he moved with a clatter of his sword, bowed briefly, and left without another word.

  “What is your name, child?”

  She told him.

  “Where is your family?”

  “I have no real family. I am living with friends in Bethany.”

  “And they, I presume, will be looking for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “My dear, you must not hold the actions of a few simple-minded soldiers against the entire garrison. The important thing is that you are quite safe now, and you must allow me to…compensate you in some way.”

  She supposed he meant money. Before she could haughtily refuse, he said, “There is a storm coming in from the west. A bit early this year for storms, but as you can see, it is already raining.” His head moved smoothly toward the window; there was indeed a fine sheet of rain spattering onto the pavement outside. Thunder rumbled with the threat of more to come.

  “You must stay overnight as my guest. I have a stepdaughter about your age whom you will enjoy meeting.”

  His words caught her off guard. “No—I will not trouble you. Could you send a messenger to Bethany so my friends may come for me?”

  “I will send a messenger, yes—to say that you are safe and will arrive in the next few days. Neither your friends nor you should venture out in this storm. As for my messenger—he is used to such danger. And he has a very fast horse.”

  Without waiting for a reply Herod smiled and clapped his hands. The heavy bronze door swung open and a bald, Germanic-looking slave waited expectantly.

  “Show this young woman to a room near Salome’s. Have one of the women find her some clothes. Of course, Alysia, you must keep whatever they give you as your own.”

  Alysia perceived that she was being bribed, and there was something else…she didn’t like the way he looked at her; in fact, she didn’t like anything about this king, or whatever he called himself. He might be rich and important, but that didn’t mean she had to obey him. Especially since he governed Galilee, not Judea.

  The slave bowed. As Alysia opened her mouth to protest, Herod said, “There will be a feast tonight—I have invited many guests, most of them are already here. I wish you would attend. I would deem it a returned favor.”

  A burst of thunder startled her, and before she could speak Herod turned away and left the room, swift as a fox into its den. She gave a sigh of frustration and followed the slave.

  The apartments to which she was led proved no less magnificent than the rest of the palace. The bedroom was brightly lit against the darkness of the approaching storm. A jewel-studded, purple silk canopy covered the enormous bed. Small cedar boxes reposed on an ornately-carved table drawn close to the window. When she looked inside she saw they were filled with scented balsam, powdered rouge, kohl for lining the eyes and salve to redden the lips. Clothes in the Roman fashion and shoes of every description stuffed the closets.

  Beyond the bedroom was a large sitting room, with a lounge for reclining and benches to accommodate guests. To the left, hidden by a screen made of reeds, stood a huge marble bathtub. An open
cedar chest revealed thick towels and bottles of lotions.

  Alysia caught her breath. The shutters had been closed at the window and she pushed them slightly open. Rain was pouring down now, but she could still see the vague outline of the Judean mountains in the distance.

  She closed the shutter and returned to the bedroom where she sat upon the bed. Something wasn’t right. She should not have agreed to stay here…although, with all this luxury, it was certainly tempting…

  She was incredibly tired. Her powers of reasoning seemed to have deserted her, nor did she feel capable of analyzing the situation in which she now found herself. She would think about it later, after she’d had just a few moments’ rest…

  * * * *

  The first rain of the season had wet the city as Paulus and his wife arrived in Jerusalem. It had been a four-day journey over roads that left much to be desired; the Jews were not road-builders and only a few had been paved by the Romans. As they entered the city through one of the north gates, the smell of wet, dirty streets and gutters, food and the smoke from extinguished cooking fires filled the air. This, and the sight of the skull-shaped hill where executions were carried out, were unfortunately the first impressions Megara received of her new home. The splendid sight of the Temple was hidden behind the Antonia Fortress from this angle, and not until they had proceeded some distance could she see the buildings erected by Herod the Great, the father of Antipas. Her indignant frown began to lift somewhat as they drew near to Herod’s palace, where she was to reside.

  Some miles back (and soon to her chagrin) she had abandoned her carriage, choosing to arrive in a fashionable, covered litter carried by slaves. Paulus rode on horseback, as he had the entire way, and behind them marched a detachment of legionaries in full military dress…but bearing no standards. Their shields were plain but prominently displayed, along with their swords and javelins. Without wanting to antagonize the Jews, Paulus felt it wise to emphasize the strength and readiness of his troops.