‘Show me the tunnel. I’ll go alone.’
‘No.’ Kleopatra reached for another towel from the pile the slaves had left. ‘I’ll show you where the listening place is,’ she said. ‘It’s safe. You’ll see when we get there.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gessius Florus, Governor of the entire Roman province of Judaea, had dressed hurriedly and badly. His breath, he knew, smelled of sleep and the silvered mirror in his suite showed that his hair had been combed by a madman with a horse brush.
On top of these things, or because of them, he was in a foul temper, but too afraid to show it openly, which left him irritable and sweating and added a twitch under his left eye that had only afflicted him twice before. His father had beaten him the first time it appeared. The second time, Nero had given him governorship of his most eastern province, which post ought to have ensured his wealth for life. It ought not to have necessitated a desperate night ride across a haunted desert in the company of a king too weak to control his own counsellors.
Florus thought of saying these things aloud. The words crowded on the brink of his tongue, jamming up against his teeth, so that when the king’s latest favourite flung open the door to the governor’s private chambers — unannounced, no slave or steward in attendance — no words came out; he simply stood there, gaping, as this man, this nobody, this silk-clad, sleek, smooth, invisible, too-visible intruder stood on the threshold.
He was a spy; Florus was not an especially clever man, he knew that, but he was also not as stupid as his reputation claimed. So he had realized early that this man who could melt into a crowd and disappear faster than ice on a hot day was not all that he seemed.
Soon, it had become apparent that he was a favourite not only of the king, but of the Emperor Nero. In Florus’ experience, Nero had always favoured unusual men and Saulos was certainly that.
Florus had studied him harder after that; had found him fluent, voluble; he used his hands a lot when he spoke. He was excessively neat, always dabbed his lips with a clean patch of linen after eating, but physically he was still a nobody, of indeterminate height with indeterminately brown eyes that sometimes might seem to lighten to grey, with mid-brown hair cut to mid-length which curled, but not too tightly. He was terrifyingly indistinct. And he was here, in Florus’ room. And he was dangerous.
‘My dear Florus!’ Saulos offered a deep bow. Florus was compelled to return it, at least in abbreviated form, and when he rose again he found that Saulos had dismissed the half-dozen slaves that had been attending to Florus.
Even as he turned, the last remaining pair were backing out of the room, covering their faces with their hands to hide relief. Saulos held his smile fixed until they had gone, and then turned and thrust a fragment of something pale into Florus’ hands. He thought it might be a cloth to wipe his lips, then realized there was writing on it, and the emperor’s personal mark, and that Saulos was speaking.
‘This is the original message. It’s in code, as you can see. This’ — another fragment was pressed into his hands, this one neater, less fragile — ‘is the translation. I can show you how the one becomes the other if you wish?’
‘No, just let me read it.’
Since childhood, Florus had read with difficulty, moving his lips as if speaking the words aloud. Today, he moved them less than he had ever done before. His tutors would have turned cartwheels of delight. The thought calmed him.
From the Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus to the Leopard, greetings and our good will on your endeavour. We learn that you are in Caesarea safely, and that you will shortly be in a position to uproot the enemy of our peace. Your reward is our blessing and our lifelong care. Daily, we await further news.
Florus lowered the paper. ‘Nero wasted a message-bird for this? It says nothing.’
Saulos smiled as if Florus were his student, and had successfully parsed some difficult point of grammar, or understood the finer points of geometry. He said, ‘My lord proves yet again why his appointment here was so well deserved. This was a test to see that the birds were reaching me untampered. We arranged the text before I left. Anyone trying to counterfeit a message would not say so little.’
‘They surely would not. When did you get this?’
‘It was waiting for me here in Jerusalem. Along with this…’
Saulos opened his hand to show another translated message. With dread pooling in his gut, Florus smoothed it open and read again.
From the Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus to Gessius Florus, governor of all Judaea, greetings. You are ordered to aid us in our repair of Rome after the devastations of fire. Our treasury is sorely pressed. We require, therefore, that you relieve the Temple in Jerusalem of its funds, of which our need is the greater. Do this with all speed, by our order.
The paper fell from Florus’ fingers, a fluttering moth, ignored by them both.
‘We are to take the gold from the Hebrew temple?’ Florus asked. ‘All of it? This can’t be true.’
‘Not all of it. Not the sacred treasure, the many-branching candlestick, the table, the trumpets, the altar. Those can be left. If we take only the coins now, that should be enough. I am told there could be as much as fifteen talents in gold.’
‘ Fifteen talents? Why do they keep so much?’
Saulos’ vocal hands described a small, pious movement in the air. ‘Their god requires gold for his works, I imagine. But if Nero needs it to rebuild Rome… We would have to say his need is the greater.’
The sinking sensation in Florus’ lower abdomen became fluid and turbulent until he thought he might disgrace himself there, in front of this fastidious, smiling demon. He folded his arms over the small mound of his belly. Somewhere high in the walls, a rat twitched; even the vermin, it seemed, were appalled at what he had said.
He began to pace to keep his bowels closed, and, pacing, he spoke as he thought. ‘Nero wishes peace in Judaea. He told me so at every meeting before we set sail and he has sent message-birds to me three times already this year, saying exactly the same. After the bloodbath of Britannia, and after the fire, we cannot afford another war. Those were his words exactly; I have the messages yet if you wish to peruse them. And he is right; however poor the treasury, however stripped of funds, if the emperor orders us now to rob the Hebrew temple of its gold, the War Party will have their holy war and not a man in Jerusalem will stand against them. You must understand this. If we try to do as this asks, there will be war — and we may fail. If the High Priest stands against us, if he sets his holy men at the temple gates to block them…’ Florus closed his eyes against the image of Roman legionaries hacking their way through a wall of unarmed priests to gain access to the Temple’s wealth. ‘We can’t do it,’ he said, with finality.
‘Ananias won’t stand against you,’ Saulos said, as if that were consolation. ‘You forget that Rome has the power to command him, not the Hebrews or their god. He takes his orders from you and you take them from Nero. That’s why he’s High Priest. If he disobeys, then we find another to take his place who understands where true power lies.’
Florus found that his fingernails were digging into his palms. He forced open his hands. ‘Everyone knows that true power lies with the man who commands the largest army. Do you know how big the Jerusalem garrison is — or should I say how small? We have half a legion, all of them infantry.’
‘We have half a legion of solid Roman soldiers, not the Syrian trash who kept the peace in Caesarea. They are famed throughout the empire.’