The Saved Man

By Karen Mann

Four young men find themselves immortal in the first century A.D., the time of the Emperors Augustine, Nero, and Caligula; of Jesus; of the fall of the Jewish Temple; and of the end of Pompeii. What will happen as they realize their lovers—soulmates—will die and they will not?

Join writer Daniel Lockheart in the 21st century, as he unravels the 2,000-year-old story of Lucas, Alexander, Justus, and Mattius.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. Tripp
• Release date: Apr 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310479199

Book preview

Chapter 1

Present Day: Lucas Appears

The blade of the knife did not glint in the dark alley. Still, it sliced his skin and liver, a gash eight inches long, two inches deep. He grabbed his side—blood, a warm waterfall through his fingers, flowed from the wound. His cry, one of a Roman soldier, meant to scare barbarians, split the midnight air. The attackers—two, slight, hooded and masked, figures—ran, leaving a faint odor of fear in the cool October night.

Lucas fell back against the brick wall. He had been unprepared for the attack—not even an attempted robbery—from shadowy figures appearing in the narrow, slightly rancid alley, the whispered slash of the knife.

Just leaving for a midnight walk in his uptown Manhattan neighborhood, Daniel witnessed the attack. Oi! No! He often walked this late, had never thought it dangerous. Now, bloodshed in the alley.

Stunned, he took the wounded Lucas to Daniel’s apartment. The apartment smelled of old newspapers, stacks of them four-feet high in neat rows around the floor. Three windows overlooked a park across the street. A streetlamp and a full harvest moon helped light the room.

In the desk chair, near the windows, Lucas pulled off his shirt and wiped his hands on it, leaving a trail of blood. He was of slender build, mid-twenties, metallic gray eyes. Daniel could see the wound was not bleeding; it was a gaping mouth, straight and grim. The wounded man smelled of evergreen, not of fear, not of worry.

It will heal, you know. Lucas’s voice, rich and solemn, filled Daniel’s head. No one must know. An accent—British, it seemed, yes, a lilting British. As if he’d been in Daniel’s apartment before, Lucas opened a drawer in the desk, rustled around, and found a roll of clear packing tape.

Daniel watched—scriiitch scriitch—as Lucas ripped off a piece of the packing tape at the serrated edge and taped across the center of the wound pulling it together as best he could. He finished with two more pieces, one on each side of the first.

There. Lucas patted the edges of the tape; it was shiny, smooth. Mammoth butterfly strips—the tape held the skin as securely as stitches. It will heal by morning, he announced with surety. He placed the tape dispenser between an orange and a tangelo in a bowl on the desk.

Having watched all this in silence, Daniel asked, his voice, shaky and clearly American, Eastern, Where did you come from? He was a tall, slender man; his dark hair and beard were closely cut, like matching shadows on the top of his head and on his face. He was a self-made monk, mostly hiding in his apartment, always the scribe, always writing.

Gwen’s apartment. Lucas’s eyes were dark in the dim light. His face was relaxed.

That’s not what I meant. Daniel knew of Lucas. They’d passed in the hallway. Lucas frequently visited Daniel’s elderly neighbor, Gwen. Hadn’t he meant to ask what was happening? Why now?

How could such a wound only be taped, its own sort of package, closed and secret? He’d seen how deep it was. His thumb would have plumbed the depth through the skin and muscle and entered the liver. Yet, he knew—if he could believe his eyes—he knew who this was.

Gwen likes it when I visit her. Like a violin, Lucas’s voice came, light and easy. Gwen’s apartment was across the hall from Daniel’s in the brick apartment building—a two-story fourplex, split in half by a long hallway. Gwen lived with her daughter, Hannah. We were married. Once.

Daniel rubbed his forehead: Gwen was ninety; Lucas was his age. Daniel reached into the desk drawer—the one Lucas had left open. From it, Daniel pulled a cigar box. It contained a dozen or so newspaper articles, all laminated, from publications spanning the last three centuries.

The headlines read, Man Survives Fifty-Foot Fall, Doctor Claims Man Regenerates Three Fingers, Hero Saves Family in Flash Flood, Victim Escapes Fire Unscathed; others also proclaimed acts of unusual bravery or incredible survival. Over years, Daniel had saved the articles, piecing together an unbelievable scenario, yet he knew these impossible men existed.

Quite a collection, Lucas said, as he shuffled through them. He replaced them in the box, the box in the drawer.

Daniel’s lips compressed; his forehead furrowed as he walked between his stacks of newspapers and magazines to a solid bookcase on the opposite wall. From a shelf he pulled a large, old book. The title on the slightly warped cover was Legends of the World. The spine creaked as he opened it. The pages were dotted with age spots, but the paper was smooth, high quality of a long ago time. He read aloud: The Saved Man: Legend has it that at the Crucifixion Jesus demonstrated ultimate forgiveness by giving eternal life on earth to a man, maybe more than one.

Yes. Lucas, now beside Daniel, quoted from the Bible, ‘...the Son gives life to whom he is pleased to give it.’ You know, that’s why Jesus came. He grinned, an ironic grin.

"So I’ve heard. To give eternal life...but not in the flesh."

Patting his chest, Lucas said, Evidence to the contrary. Finished with the topic, he looked around the apartment.

Daniel retrieved a shirt for the victim and considered how his apartment would look to a first-time visitor: odd, he supposed. He was a terrible pack rat, but for good reason, he thought.

Now clad in an I’ve been to Wall Drug, South Dakota T-shirt, Lucas sat with Daniel on the navy leather couch. From where Lucas sat, the room was shadowed by stacks of newspapers and magazines. Taller than his head, the stacks were like strategically placed chess pieces with pathways between each stack for easy access, but also so one could better navigate through the apartment. His breathing quickened but he tried to remain calm.

Daniel ventured, Now about The Saved Man.

Alexander. Justus. Mattias. Myself, Lucas, Lucas said, closing his eyes. Four.

Like the gospel writers.

No. Lucas stretched his neck, first one side, then another. The four of us met him, you know. We saw him at the temple. That last week. Spent his dying day with him.

At the crucifixion. Four men gambling for his clothes.

His belongings. Casting lots. To determine the order we would choose.

What did you win?

I chose the knife. Useful for hundreds of years but, you know, it’s quite worn now.

A knife’s not mentioned in the Bible.

Like a melody, Lucas’s voice slid with humor: The Bible doesn’t mention everything. The spiraling lights of an ambulance flashed on the walls, but the anticipated siren did not sound. It wasn’t only his robe.

I guess you’d know. Daniel laughed a quiet laugh, conveying ease and humor.

Lucas sobered. I know much more than I want to. His gray eyes were sad as he gazed into the past two thousand years, seeing himself as he was then: His dark hair was short, in haphazard curls. He was clean-shaven. In his Roman equestrian tunic and hob-nail sandals, he clomped on stony ground riddled with scroungey cockle flowers and weeds in a Jerusalem breeze, dusty and dry.

Lucas’s life marked the same number of years as the calendar: all of what was known as A.D. And what had he seen? Wars and famine, centuries of man’s interactions with humans and nature. One could see that had not gone so well, or was it fair to flatly condemn civilization? Life was a cycle, a continuum, good interwoven with bad.

Breathing erratically, Lucas put his hand on his stomach, raising a crinkle from the tape, and stood up. Claustrophobia. He put his hand out toward the stacks of newspapers as if to ward them off. I’ve had it, you know, ever since Pompeii. Nine feet of ash before...I got out. A shadow of memory darkened his eyes—the barometer of his feelings. His mouth tightened. Lucas maneuvered through the stacks. His head now above them, they seemed a bit like gravestones, casting angular shadows on the floor and walls.

Daniel, defending his overwhelming stacks, explained he was a writer and used the publications—magazines and newspapers from New York to Beijing, Reykjavík to Sydney—for research. The room had a dry atticy smell, which Daniel had grown accustomed to. The couch was along the wall by the apartment door, perpendicular to the windows. In front of the middle of the three windows overlooking the street were the desk and chair—the only other furniture in the room overwhelmed by these odd stacks.

Lucas paused at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books and books and books. He gazed upward and across. So many. Have you read them all?

Someone asking a simple question to him about him made Daniel realize that he was ready for conversation and that he yearned for interaction, for give and take. As odd as the situation was, Daniel felt pleased that Lucas appeared. Daniel had been alone too long. Trina—his wife or rather his ex-wife—had moved out two years ago, and he seldom left the apartment, much less had anyone in. He’d kept himself hidden and it was time to acknowledge a broader life.

Yes. Reading is a writer’s best teacher. Daniel’s eyes went to his laptop and printer on the large desk. The accompanying chair was well-padded and sturdy; his well-worn SUNY hoodie was flung over an arm.

And these binders hold your manuscripts. Slowly, Lucas’s long index finger drew a line across a section of the bookshelf which held a number of slender three-ring binders—blue, red, green. Twenty-three. And none published.

Gazing at the binders he’d been collecting for ten or so years, Daniel remembered how he felt upon completing each manuscript: a new idea would seize him, and he was ready to begin anew, but lately...he’d run out of ideas.

Settling back on the couch, Lucas became silent. Daniel dozed off and on until Lucas roused, pulled up his shirt, and ripped off the tape. Unbelievably the wound was nearly gone.

Daniel ran his fingers across the place where the wound had been. The eight-inch gash, no longer a grand canyon, was a shallow slice surrounded by inches of smooth skin and firm muscle.

He was startled by a knock at the door. He glanced at his watch. Just after 1 a.m. From his desk chair, he took the jacket, soft to his touch, and pulled it on to cover any remnants of blood that might be on him.

Hiding a view of his apartment, Daniel opened the door enough to slide into the hallway. He faced two men dressed in NYPD blues.

Sir, the tall black officer said. Neighbors reported a scuffle in the alley. There is fresh blood outside this building. He pointed to the doorway at the back of the building that led to the alley.

There have been two stabbings in this vicinity in the past week, the other policeman said. He was also black but stockier and older. They seem unprovoked. He rested his hand on his holster; its leather creaked.

Shaking his head, Daniel said, I don’t know anything to help you. He had to protect Lucas. Who would believe it anyway: this sort of self-healing, the implications of a wound, possibly fatal, disappearing so quickly? Yet Daniel had known of Lucas’s existence; he had been prepared; he had the book of legends, the collection of articles.

The policemen smelled of tacos. Gangs, we think. With his left hand, the tall officer rubbed his chin; his fingernails were clean and neat.

Here? Daniel didn’t think of his neighborhood as having gangs; maybe it had changed over the years he’d lived here and he hadn’t noticed.

Teens. Trying to be cool, the stocky one said. His voice was raspy as if he were or had been a heavy smoker. A rise in robberies too.

Damn TV violence—makes it look so easy, the other one said.

Video games.

Daniel stared at them, uncertain what to say. They looked as if they wanted to continue their clichéd discussion. Probably all of the above. He grinned amiably, hoping to urge them on their way.

Sorry to bother you, the tall officer said. He started to knock on the door across the hall.

Daniel said, An elderly woman lives there. You will frighten her. And her daughter.

The officer, his hand poised in mid-air, turned toward Daniel. Have them call us if they know anything helpful. The officers handed Daniel their business cards. Each man touched the brim of his hat and turned toward the front door.

Daniel was a bit faint; a lot had happened in a short time. He backed into his apartment, shut his door, and leaned against it. He felt the vibration from the closing of the front door of the building as the officers left.

At least they didn’t bother Gwen and Hannah. In the darkness of the apartment, Lucas’s soft and rich voice surrounded Daniel. Gwen was ninety; Hannah, reclusive, unmarried and in her fifties, took care of her mother. You know Gwen’s my wife.

I don’t think so. Daniel returned to the couch, settling into his favorite corner, from where he could see against the sky the dim outline of treetops in the park across the street.

All right. She divorced me, but I cannot keep it straight.

You’ve had a lot of wives, Daniel said, partly a question, partly a statement. Lucas was a living history book.

Lucas turned the focus on Daniel. You do not share your manuscripts with anyone. Also a statement delivered as a question.

"I write because I cannot not write. I’ve tried other things, but nothing satisfies me as much. Not a job and not being married," he added sadly. Though being married had made him happy for a while; he’d wanted to stay married.

You know they are not books unless you publish them.

It’s a question artists struggle with all the time. Are they artists if no one sees, or appreciates, their work? Is an actor an actor if he never finds a part? A singer, a singer if no one hears? If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? Daniel’s hand went to his chest. I am a writer; to be an author, I would need to publish a book. He settled his hand, palm open, into his lap.

Why do it? Lucas’s eyebrows arched, his eyes wide and curious.

Daniel had given this question a lot of thought. The joy is in the writing, not the hawking of the books, the book reviewers, agents—all the trappings that make it a business. Too many people don’t do what they love.

And the money?

A myth. Only the gilded few make money. He grinned, a bit cynically. Anyway I do not need money...any more money. He heard a Jimmy Buffet song blaring from a car’s stereo as it revved past. He felt, or imagined he felt, the vibration of the bass in the floor. He thought of his sleeping neighbors—and wondered if they were still asleep.

Rising from the couch, Lucas stood by a window near the desk. His rich baritone voice interrupted Daniel’s thoughts. I would not want to be a research specimen. Or to be looked upon as a space alien or a merman. Yet Lucas knew he had the advantage of Daniel’s isolation and lack of ambition. You seem settled. I will tell you my story. He pointed to the computer. To write down. He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, as if settling down for a long chat. It’s time to set it down.

Daniel considered the opportunity that Lucas was offering him. A one of a kind story, an impossible story, yet true.

Why not? Things had not worked out with Trina, even though he had tried very hard. He loved her very much. He sighed and returned to the present. Here’s something that might give my life purpose.

Lucas spoke softly. "I could get the others to help. He paused. He had not seen Matt or Alexander or Justus for many years but he would have no trouble finding them and bringing them to Daniel’s apartment. Would they be as willing to share their story as Lucas was? But he had decided. Yes, it should be everyone’s story. Not only mine." Lucas had been conscious of his skin zipping itself back together, faintly sounding of Rice Krispies in milk. The slash was fully healed.

Chapter 2

33 A.D.: Before the Beginning

Lucius Flavius Artorius Valentinias, known as Lucas to his familiars, was a mostly happy man. He was well aware that the gods had given him a good life, and like all good Romans, he never failed to give thanks at opportune times to the appropriate god who might help his life and his family members’ lives go well. Today he placed his usual offering, a twist of evergreen, in the lararium—the family altar—as he left the villa at Caeruleus and asked the genius—protector—of the house to take care of his home and family. Caeruleus was a two-thousand-acre farm where Lucas raised and bred horses and trained charioteers for the Blues team. The farm was located four miles north of Caesarea Maritime, a major harbor city built by Herod the Great a few decades earlier. Located in Judea, Caesarea was on the east coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

Today was the last of three days of races held every few months at the hippodrome. By tomorrow, Lucas’s latest group of charioteer trainees would be off to other cities around the empire. This week all racing factions—Blues, Greens, Reds, and Whites—were showing off their latest recruits. Faction representatives from all over the empire and beyond were watching to see if they were interested in any of the new charioteers or the horses. Though they might wish it, these recruits would not immediately go to the Circus Maximus in Rome, every charioteer’s dream. Lucas had held the title of the winningest charioteer at Circus Maximus three years running before he’d returned to Caeruleus, six years ago, to train recruits.

His second reason for returning had been to test a theory of his, which was that one could improve the quality of the horses by taking care in how the horses were bred. Previously horses from Africa and Spain had been favored, but Lucas had seen characteristics in horses from Persia and Germania that he knew would be good for racing. While it had taken all this time (only one foal was born to a mare each year) to see concrete improvement, he’d now been shown with last year’s crop of foals that he was right and that he could continue improving the lines of chariot horses and racing horses.

On the way, now, to Caesarea, Lucas stopped at a crossroad to leave spring flowers—purple-splashed yellow crocuses and wild blue fitch—at a lar compitale. Caesar Augustus had had lars compitales set up at all major crossroads across the empire for travelers to honor him and the gods of safe passage. Here at the outdoor altar, where they turned to follow the temple road into Caesarea on the way to the hippodrome, Lucas prayed, Safe passage for all pilgrims.

To Lucas, safe passage included chariot laps around the hippodrome. And for the horses and charioteers, he murmured. Hoping to arbitrate a successful day for the Blues, he added, May the gods smile on us today. He looked around at the string of dusty horses and charioteers who stood behind him.

All—charioteers, grooms, and slaves—raised an arm straight up, fingers in a V for victory, and shouted Blues! several times with a thrust of their hand to the sky.

Joining the cheers, Lucas gave a hearty laugh of pleasant expectation. He was completely confident that the day would be as successful, on all counts, as the first two days of the races had been. Today, he was only riding in the first race, but that would free him to continue his business of the trading of charioteers and the selling of horses.

Thirty years ago, Lucas’s father, Artorius Flavius Dentatus Calvinias, had been appointed by Caesar Augustus as Blues faction manager, and Artorius’s position continued under Emperor Tiberius. Of course Artorius did not manage the business alone. His brother Primus managed the horses and charioteers in Rome, while Lucas bred horses and trained new charioteers in Caesarea. Artorius oversaw the business, in particular the numbers, and he held the reins on the gambling, both public and private. Altogether the family business was quite successful.

Even though Lucas’s mind was on today’s races, he was aware that his brother Alexander was riding nearby. They were half-brothers by Artorius. Alexander had come to live with their father at the age of six when his mother, Ambrosia, Artorius’s mistress, died. Lucas was sad that his brother had never warmed to him. It was as if Alexander had felt uncomfortable in their home, and in eighteen years, Lucas hadn’t been able to change that.

**

Alexander Flavius Artorius Ambrosianus rode near Lucas, but Alexander made no attempt to carry on a conversation with his brother. Alexander had only returned to Caeruleus a few days ago from Epidaurus, the temple of the great healer Asklepios. While Alexander had made the journey to escape a difficult situation at home, he’d also gone to learn more about medicine, as healing had always been his passion; in fact, he had remarkable healing abilities. This recent sojourn added to his knowledge and the training he’d previously received at Cos, another of Asklepios’s temples.

His wife, Junia, had taken to bed within hours of his return. She, of small frame, was startlingly large with their first child, though the birth was still weeks away. After an initial effusive greeting, she would not look at him, and he was unsure—or could not admit—why her initial enthusiasm at his return had evaporated.

She had only said, Go away, and refused his touch when he wanted to examine her, but he insisted, causing her to become agitated. He sedated her with some poppyseed juice and then achieved the examination.

The baby had moved well, so it was hardy. Yet over the past few days he had grown concerned about Junia. She seemed well enough physically, but there was a sort of air—a bit of a sour odor—about her that worried him. From her eager greeting upon his return to her taking to her bed before nightfall—she’d brought up Ginevra, Lucas’s wife, again.

As always, Alexander denied the accusations. Why acknowledge feelings that were scarcely acted on? Junia could not have known of Ginevra and Alexander’s history—they’d kept it a secret—from before Alexander and Junia’s marriage contract.

He felt Junia was even more irrational than before his trip. He first noticed her jealousies shortly after they had moved to Caeruleus to live with his family more than a year ago. While before he had thought her young and excitable, he now thought of the word mad in connection to her behavior.

Their marriage had been the typical business arrangement. Junia had only been fourteen, Alexander, twenty-two. His father had arranged it while Alexander was in the military, but Alexander had had no objections—a marriage to further the family business, much like Lucas’s marriage to Ginevra seven years earlier, was to be expected. Alexander had thought, since he couldn’t marry the woman he loved, marriage might help him forget his feelings toward her.

Anyone could see that Junia adored Alexander and was eager to marry him. She’d confided in him that she could not believe her good fortune in marrying a young man from such an important family; her two older sisters had been married off to senators—old and haughty, with ugly feet and too large ears.

People often commented on what an attractive couple dark-haired, blue-eyed Junia and blonde, green-eyed Alexander made. He, much like Adonis—the Greek god modeled in marble and found in temples; she, petite, skin like alabaster, full and red lips.

Now riding along with the caravan heading for the races, Alexander remembered the day he had left for Epidaurus and Junia’s bright look, reminding him of a child—she, only sixteen. She had heartened him that day, making him think perhaps they could be happy. He’d hoped their newlywed quarrels, her jealousies, would become part of the past. She put her dainty hand over the slight swelling of baby and said, Alexander, I hope to have a boy for you.

He had leaned over and kissed her forehead. He knew he was supposed to want a boy but he only prayed for it to be healthy—a healthy girl would be preferable to an unhealthy boy. Even so, Alexander could never expose an imperfect child to the elements to die, as was the practice of many Roman families.

As a healer Alexander was committed to life, though he was certain his father would expect Alexander to follow the ways of the Romans—Artorius would want only robust babies to carry on the family line and business. Still there was no reason to think the baby would be other than perfect—now, if Junia would only show something of her former self.

Today, Alexander’s and Lucas’s sister, Flavia, was riding beside him. They were well within the walls of the Caesarea, riding by the shops near the harbor, almost to the hippodrome. She turned to him, her brown eyes wide with excitement, and said, I will advise you who to bet on today.

Should I take your word for it then? Alexander grinned at her, his green eyes softened for he was fond of his older sister. Did you help train the racers? He knew she had not, but she was as interested in the horses as if she’d been a man.

Lucas is taking the mare I want for myself to Pilate, Flavia said, letting her full lips purse in a pout. He says I can choose a lesser one—one that he could not get as much for. He is too like our father—only thinking about the money. She tossed her long ringlets, sending the scent of cassia his way. Her hair was yellow, a false color but her idea of fashion and beauty.

Alexander shrugged. Lucas is a good son. But it is hardly about the money for him. He wants his charioteers to be the best; he wants to have the finest horses. He simply enjoys what he does. The wind ruffled Alexander’s short hair; it shone in the sun.

But the mare. Moving her horse a bit closer to her brother, Flavia caught the scent of mint from the bag of herbs Alexander always had with him. Flavia lowered her head and looked at Alexander through long, dark lashes.

Many times over the years Flavia had persuaded Alexander, with this same look, to intervene for her with Lucas or their father. I will not talk to Lucas, Alexander said, his eyes shining with humor. You, dear sister, will have to fend for yourself.

But you are the favorite, she said, a bit too coyly.

Now a darker green, Alexander’s eyes narrowed, and the smile disappeared from his face. He rode ahead of his sister.

She called out, Alexander, I did not mean to displease you.

But he urged his horse into a canter. He was tired of feeling pulled between the people he cared about. He loved Ginevra, but she was married to his brother.

And Junia, how had she, within days of meeting her sister-in-law, honed in on that secret.

Alexander, I see you love her, Junia had confronted him.

I am, and will ever be, true to you, he’d replied, as visions of Ginevra over the years bombarding his thoughts. He wanted no one if he could not have Ginevra so it was easy to pledge faithfulness to his wife. Junia scarcely knew how fortunate she was; no wife of a Roman would ever expect a promise of fidelity.

Junia said, "Can we not live in Rome? Anywhere away from her."

My father would not allow it, Alexander lied. He could not leave Ginevra; he had tried distances, the military even, and he had not fallen out of love with her. Stealing glimpses of her, having smatterings of conversation, being in the same room for supper—for those bits of pleasure he had to stay. You must forget this silly suspicion. She is my brother’s wife. That truth was most bitter to Alexander.

When they were alone and Junia could monopolize his time, she was cheery, but Alexander often had to be out and about on the farm because scarcely a day went by without someone needing his healing abilities. When Alexander was away, Junia sat with Ginevra to be sure that she was not with Alexander, and even his briefest moments with Ginevra were interrupted by his wife: and as it should be. Finally he’d had to leave—jealousy oozed from Junia and it was unbearable to him. His guilt was a desperate feeling matched only in intensity by his feelings for Ginevra.

What was ahead for Junia and him, for their baby? The smallest of voices said, And what was ahead for Ginevra and him? an impossible love.

**

Flavia’s husband, Justus, was a Roman centurion—the leader of one hundred soldiers—stationed in Caesarea under Pontius Pilate’s command. Justus hoped to achieve tribune rank by the end of the year. This ambition, he believed, was for love of his wife. She had married him even though he was beneath her rank; his own family was of the merchant class. The Pedius Ralla family hailed from the east beyond the reaches of the Roman Empire, but their highly successful textile business allowed them to be accepted in Roman society along with the old families. Flavia’s family was of the equestrian class, the class below senator. Even though Justus’s family had wealth, he was always concerned that others might criticize that Flavia had married him.

Flavia’s father and the rest of her family were amenable to letting her make the marriage she wanted—only Lucas was distant, often brusque and impatient with Justus. Alexander was cordial, even deferential.

Justus and Flavia were happy together. His love for her created a great desire in him to have a child and that had not happened. He believed she was as sad about the barrenness as he was, and the idea that she might be sad was unbearable to him.

He knew she would be at the races today, but he was busy getting ready to go to Jerusalem—a trip for a fortnight. He would march with his men, though he could easily have secured a horse if he chose. He took pride in his profession and was intelligent about the way he performed, always thinking ahead to be most efficient, most indispensable. Maybe he could get away for a brief time, long enough to see Flavia. He knew where some cassia grew. He would take some to her; it was her favorite fragrance.

**

It was an unusually cool April day—a nice breeze from the Mediterranean; the yellow sun god well on his ride across the massive blue sky. The crowds would not suffer from the heat as there was still moisture in the air from yesterday’s rains, but it was probably nearing the last of the rain before the dry season set in. Yet even heat would not keep people away from chariot races—the best entertainment offered in this part of Judea. Twelve-thousand people cheered from the stone-bench stands.

On the return leg of the grand processional, Lucas looked ahead to the new carceres, the starting gates, that his family had had installed recently. They replaced the Greek-style starting gates of Herod the Great. Lucas thought the Roman-style better—angled in a way where each chariot was the same distance from the starting line. In addition to the gates, they’d added a spina, a wooden barrier down the center of the track.

After the grand processional, Lucas dismounted his gaily caparisoned parade horse and stepped into his chariot. He pulled into his starting gate and waited until the last second before it opened to tighten his grip on the reins.

High above him, he felt the great kick, which pulled back the latches and opened all the gates simultaneously. He slapped the reins against the stallions’ backs. A few flies hovered over their backs but only for an instant as eight briga—two-horsed chariots—sprang forward to run seven laps around the track.

Lucas quickly settled into third place, behind Quintus Rutilus, Lucas’s rival and counterpart of the Greens faction. Quintus was in the lead and near the spina. The second place chariot was driven by Sevenus, one of Lucas’s trainees. Sevenus was holding a position away from the spina and trying to gain on Quintus. Lucas knew the horses of his teammate’s chariot were fleet enough to win from that position. Quintus always overfed his horses as if bulk made strength for speed.

As Lucas rounded the turning post, he caught, out of the corner of his left eye, the crash of two chariots that had tangled before the turn. One more chariot was out soon after, having misjudged a turn; however, all of the wrecked chariots were off the track by the time the first three came around again. The remaining two chariots were well behind, which Lucas regretted because his team of horses, Charger and Surety, always did better when spurred on by galloping horses at their tails. His best hope for winning was to pull ahead of Sevenus, but Lucas was pleased to notice that Sevenus’s driving was flawless and short of Sevenus losing concentration or one of the horses failing, Lucas did not think he would catch up.

Lucas did not gain the advantage on Sevenus until after the beginning of the sixth lap, and as he began to move up, he noticed the rising level of cheers from the spectators. The desire to win surged through him. Lucas hugged the turning post, missing the curb by the narrowest measure. He rounded the left-hand turn into the seventh lap, gliding between Sevenus and the spina. He could now concentrate on Quintus, whose thick dust Lucas was inhaling. He could hear the rumble of Quintus’s deep voice even above the cheering crowd. Lucas knew Quintus would