M. Scott - The Coming of the King

‘There’s enough here to arm a thousand men, and rearm them when their blades break or they lose their shields over the edge. Elsewhere, there are provisions enough to feed them for ten thousand days.’ Pantera heard pride in his own voice and, this once, did nothing to smother it. ‘These are only Herod’s supplies. The garrison will have had their own: enough for five hundred, plus repairs. With these, we can fit out the foremost among your men as if each one was a legionary.’

Menachem was at his side, shoulder to shoulder, heartbeat to thudding heartbeat. They stood together, welded by sunlight and purpose. ‘And then all we have to do,’ Pantera said, lightly, ‘is teach each man how to fight as if he was Roman.’

M C Scott

In haste, but with Jucundus’ impeccable planning, the royal family of Judaea had abandoned Caesarea. In greater haste, with less planning, they packed to flee Jerusalem.

Kleopatra left Iksahra tending her great cat and the falcons in the beast gardens and pushed her way into the palace where slaves, servants, guards, attendants, secretaries, grooms, cooks, vintners, chambermaids and collectors of firewood for the royal family seemed bent on creating for themselves a unique kind of hell in which no one person could speak coherently to any other, or hear what was being said, but where each vied to increase his or her own volume, the better to be heard, and thus, manifestly, reduced the chances of anybody’s hearing him. Or her.

‘Where’s Jucundus? I said Jucundus. Have you seen Juc-’ Kleopatra let go the slave she had caught and ploughed down the corridor to a half-open door beyond which danced a helmet plume in black and white.

‘Jucundus?’ She caught him by the elbow. ‘They say you’re not going to Syria? Why not?’

His eyes were brown and sad, like an aged hound left behind in the kennels when the hunt bays on a fresh trail. ‘I am sent back to Caesarea, lady.’

There was a shadow in his voice that was worse than the pain in his eyes. She knew him, as he knew her: after Agamemnon, he had taken the rough skills of a wild rider and given them a stately polish. He had taught her to fire a bow and to use a sword in the way of the legions, which was more disciplined than Agamemnon’s wild warrior swings.

He had taught her history and Latin and the ways of men in the world. If she had a father, it was not the distant king in a foreign land, who had died too soon and sent her mother back to the court of her childhood, it was this man, who stared at her now, shaking his head, with his lips pressed in a string of silence that warned her — begged her — to ask no more.

He said, ‘I heard what befell you. I am sorry. I…’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m well. But my aunt and Hypatia…’ She was more afraid than she had let herself know. She dashed away new tears with the back of her hand and scowled at Jucundus.

He said, ‘Your lady aunt, the queen, is held below, in the cellars. It might be wise to take her food and water.’

‘She has none?’

Jucundus took her shoulder and turned her in the direction of the kitchens. ‘The guards are from the garrison, but some are men who know you. You would be permitted entry, I think, when we are not. You could take what she needs.’

‘Where’s Saulos?’

‘On the fourth floor with Vilnius, discussing plans for Estaph’s crucifixion. They want it to be public, but not to cause a riot.’

Kleopatra gaped. ‘Anything will cause a riot. They could crucify a dead sheep just now and it would cause chaos, you know that.’ She caught at Jucundus again, suddenly young. ‘Don’t go. Please.’

‘I would stay if I could, but my orders are unambiguous. I am to return to Caesarea and take control of my men. They have… not acted as I would have wished. Go now.’ He pushed her again, more firmly. ‘Think of your aunt, not me or yourself. She needs you.’

*

The slaves’ corridors were blocked with a panic of near-naked men and women, rancid with the stench of fear, unbearably hot. Kleopatra barged and bullied her way through until she came to the door to the cellars. The guard who stood before it was one she knew by sight, although she could not remember his name.

As an alternative, she produced her most blinding smile. The guard flushed, which was a good sign. She made her eyes wide. ‘Have you seen my cousin?’

‘Lady, he was in his chambers, making ready for the off.’

‘It’s true, then, we are leaving? Where to?’

He eyed her with genuine concern. ‘Were you not told? You’re leaving for Antioch in Syria at tomorrow’s dawn at the latest. Lord Saulos had his men searching for you all morning.’

‘They found us. I had gone hunting, with the beastwoman. We caught a quail. See? I cooked it for my aunt.’

He had already looked at the basket she had brought from the kitchens and had smelled the stolen meat beneath the warming cloth. She grinned at him, as if that simple act made him a co-conspirator.

The guard became flustered and picked at his mail. She saw him dead with a knife through his throat, and closed her eyes that he might not see it too.

She said, ‘Are you going to Damascus with us?’

He was older than she’d thought; lines etched his eyes, his mouth, the prickles of beard beginning on his chin, where white mixed with black, to the detriment of both. He said, ‘Lord Saulos has ordered that one company is to go, the rest to stay. The centurions will draw lots to choose those who will leave. If they have done so, I haven’t heard the result yet.’

‘Which do you want? To go, or to stay?’

He drew himself tall. ‘A courageous man does not fly in the face of battle.’

‘Of course.’ Kleopatra looked up at him. ‘I am told I must go with my uncle, but I would take food and wine to my aunt first.’

Her basket was full: a flagon of wine, dates, almond cakes, a roast quail stuffed with garlic from the previous night, a bundle of the hard, unleavened bread that the hunters took on long days and swore kept them happy from dawn until dusk. She held it up a second time. ‘With your permission?’

His orders were to let no one through; they both knew that. Behind them, chaos held the corridors, but within it were only slaves. He winked. ‘Be quick.’

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. He was smiling as the door shut behind her.

Three more guards blocked her way. The first was at the top of the stairs and the second stood by the lit torch in its wall bracket, at the place where the corridor branched, right to the wine cellars, left to the dungeons. Both of these let her past on the grounds that if she had got through the door at the top, it must be with permission.

The last was less easy, but he was at least a man she knew by name as well as by sight. Surinus of the second century of the garrison Guard stood round the corner from the cells themselves, out of the line of view of the prisoners, lest he be bewitched by the two women within. He kept his sword permanently drawn and had on enough armour to face down a squadron of Parthian heavy cavalry.

This deep underground, this close to the prisoners, he was a lot more unsettled than his brethren, less willing to allow a relative of the queen’s to pass. His blade blocked her path, un-yielding.

She held up her basket, as she had three times before, so that he could see the innocence of its contents. His blade did not move. ‘Lady, I can’t let you pass. I’ll be flogged and you’ll be taken to Damascus in chains. Go back. I’ll let them know you tried.’

‘They know already,’ Kleopatra said. ‘They can hear every word. It’s like a grave in here, there’s so little sound.’

He shivered, and tried to hide it. She raised her basket. ‘They need food,’ she said, ‘or they’ll die and then how will Saulos treat you?’