The Adulteress

By Jeannette DiLouie

Set in 1st Century Jerusalem, "The Adulteress" follows Keziah, a young Jewess, and Roman soldier Demetrius as they navigate Judean life during Jesus' time. Both filled with prejudices and incorrect notions of how life is supposed to be, they go on to create even more misguided philosophies together after an accidental meeting one day. Demetrius quickly develops an unhealthy attachment to Keziah, who is betrothed and then married to an older priest. And for her part, Keziah selfishly uses Demetrius as a distraction from her abusive husband. Yet their difficult situations and poor decisions ultimately lead them to a complicated discovery that can't help but forever change their worldview.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeannette DiLouie
• Release date: Dec 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491085844

Jeannette DiLouie

Jeannette DiLouie was born a New Jersey girl and will die the same even if she grew up in Pennsylvania, lived in Maryland and is now back in Central Pennsylvania. She’s also a cookie dough-eating, travel-obsessed bookworm, and an editor who loves helping other writers achieve their own dreams. Ethnically half-Italian, Jeannette is tragically addicted to carbohydrates. Also ethnically half-Scottish, she’s counting down the days when she can go visit that lovely land again. And being just under five-foot three, she happily claims her short-girl rights to climb on any shelf or counter she needs to. If you enjoyed these past pages, she would love to see you rate and review them on Amazon and/or Goodreads. And if you have a fiction (or non-fiction) story of your own that you’d really like to write or are already writing, check out www.InnovativeEditing.com, Jeannette’s business page. It’s full of free and paid resources… all devoted to genuine writers and making their publishing goals achievable.

Book preview

The Adulteress

By Jeannette DiLouie

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com 

The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.

Copyright 2013 © Jeannette DiLouie

All Right Reserved

Dedication:

To my amazing mother and sisters who gave their honest opinions, insights and support over and over again. There’s no way I could have done it without you. I love you ladies to death and beyond.

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVII

List of Scriptures Cited:

About the Author

Chapter I

D eath to Rome and death to the Romans!

The shout was loud, even in the busy marketplace with all its natural chaos. It rose above the sounds of chickens squawking as they were manhandled out of wooden crates, and the cries of vendors straining to be heard over the competition.

How the voice of a single foolish zealot carried over all that, Keziah didn’t know. But it did nonetheless, and she swiveled her head for a curious glance his way. She could see him just as clearly as she could hear him, since he was standing several heads above everyone else. It was obvious he’d found something to climb on top of, though she couldn’t see exactly what that something was when she was still so many yards away.

It’s either their death or ours, the beardless boy continued, his arms outstretched, his eyes passionate. Are we really going to stand by and let them overrun us with their heathen customs and barbarous reign? Or are we going to show them once and for all what Jews are really made of?

Keziah shook her head and kept walking. She might only be fifteen years old, probably about the same age as the plainly dressed zealot. But she still knew the proper answer to his hotheaded questions. As God’s Chosen, her people were far superior to the Romans in religion and manner; but Caesar had the definite upper hand when it came to military might. There was no use denying it and even less point resisting it. So why bother?

The Messiah would come soon enough anyway, she was sure, and then Israel would be free from all oppression forever. Until that happened though, there was little use fighting their unwanted occupiers. Besides, the Roman soldiers were more a symbolic nuisance than anything else, since they did little more than march through the city a few times a day. It was their way of reminding Jews like her to keep the peace, a warning she personally had little problem obeying.

Apparently, some others disagreed.

How long are we going to let them treat us like a conquered people? The young man demanded. How much more of their oppressive presence can we tolerate?

Like most of the crowd, Keziah gave him a wide berth when she made her way past. There were a few people, mostly men, who were standing around the zealot, listening with dark scowls and angry gestures of agreement. But they were the exception. While most Jews didn’t exactly appreciate the Roman presence in their land, they valued their daily lives too much to make a fuss about it. Just as long as Rome didn’t interfere very heavily with their everyday commerce and religious practices, it could be tolerated.

Barely, but still tolerated.

It was either that or risk some Roman form of death, which wasn’t a pleasant thought. The zealot so publically airing his grievances might think his treasonous words worthwhile in the marketplace. But he’d probably change his mind quickly enough if he found himself rotting in a Roman dungeon or hanging miserably from a cross.

Even if his message was worthwhile, Keziah still wouldn’t have stopped to listen. She had an errand to run, the same exact one she had run the morning before and the morning before that and the morning before that: delivering her father’s lunch at the Temple.

He had never been absentminded before, as far as she could remember. But for the last two weeks, it seemed he’d forgotten to pack a meal every single day. So every single day, her mother would wrap up a hunk of bread with a handful of dried dates and a thick slice of cheese, fill up a small flagon of wine and send Keziah off to find him.

Keziah wasn’t allowed into the area where her father actually worked, but she knew her limited access wouldn’t restrict her ability to find him. There were plenty of places she could go inside the enormous Temple grounds, including its main enclosure. Called the Courtyard of Gentiles, it encircled everything else like the outer peel of a huge, rectangular onion.

From the outside, set up at the city’s highest point, that first enclosure was mainly made of blindingly white limestone bricks built up like a fortress. Walking toward it, Keziah could see other structures jutting out from behind the closest wall. There was the Courtyard of Men, which took up a mere fraction of the larger Temple. And then above even that was the towering magnificence of the Holy of Holies, the sacred place inside the Temple where El Echad, the One God, came to visit when he saw fit. That final building stood significantly higher than everything else around it, drawing attention from both inside Jerusalem and outside: a beacon to weary travelers still miles away.

The whole enormous structure was breathtakingly beautiful, especially when the sun hit its golden accents. Keziah always found her chin lift a little higher whenever she passed it by, much less when she went inside. So she could feel it rise again when she slowly climbed the spotless white steps, moving upward until she could see right through the rows of bright white colonnades into the Courtyard of the Gentiles beyond.

It was something to be monumentally proud of, despite the half-dozen Roman soldiers she could also spot mingling there.

They were in full uniform, with their polished bronze breastplates and their equally shiny helmets that covered most of their heads and necks, and much of their cheeks and foreheads. They stood in perfectly aligned intervals, watching over everyone inside to make sure that nobody preached any words of sedition against Caesar. Not that their presence did much good in that regard. The Jews had their ways of saying what they wanted to say, even if it was for no better purpose than to complain.

Passing through the colonnades and beneath the exquisite cedar roofing, Keziah’s eyes wandered over the massive open space in front of her. At that hour, with the sun so directly overhead, there weren’t many people milling about; even the Roman soldiers had carefully tucked themselves into shady places. Across the courtyard, past the steps leading into the Court of Women and beyond, she could hear the faint sounds of cows lowing from the Temple market. But she ignored the noise, setting out instead toward the middle ground. It was an area where she was allowed to enter and the silent soldiers could not. Ever.

It was hard not to smile, if only internally, at that distinction.

There was a low wall of sorts that marked the division between the two areas. Every so many yards, it featured signs etched into solid stone and painted over with bright red dye, each one warning non-Jews to keep out on penalty of death. The men and women who were allowed past could choose between milling about in the open or walking further in, up a short set of stairs and through another doorway into a much more private spot. There wasn’t any real roof to cover the towering walls there, just permanent awnings, but it was still completely hidden from Gentile eyes. To ensure that, Temple guards regularly patrolled the area with full authority to dispatch anyone who dared to disobey.

Keziah wasn’t afraid of them when she crossed the threshold and climbed the steps though. She had the right to be there. She was someone. A Jew. An Israelite. A descendant of Abraham.

Yes, she knew very well that she was only a female descendant, whose greatest calling in life was to honor her parents and whomever they chose to be her husband. But even with that decidedly low position, Keziah was still aware that she was valuable. She still mattered. She was Chosen.

The Court of Women she stepped into was a far smaller area inside those walls, where Jewish men could mingle freely and Jewish women could go to pray. But its size just made it more intimate, if a space that could easily hold a few thousand people could be called any such thing.

It was always in there that she found her father waiting for her, under the cedar awnings in the corner furthest away from where she entered and closest to the Court of Men. It was almost like he purposely forgot his lunch just so she could bring it to him. And just as suspicious was how his cousin, Shelah bin Judah, always happened to be there too.

They were the same age, her father and Shelah, or very nearly so. Technically Keziah had never asked how old the other man was. She merely assumed they were both in their late thirties since both their beards were more gray than black, and their faces were similarly lined around their eyes. The only thing that seemed to suggest otherwise was the deference her father always gave his cousin, almost to the point of reverence. But she knew that had nothing to do with the respect due an elder.

Shelah had something her father didn’t: a son. Her parents had only ever managed to have one child, and a daughter at that. They never brought it up, at least in front of her, but Keziah still felt that failure often enough. She wasn’t a son who could follow in her father’s priestly footsteps or take her mother in if need be. She was just a girl and, as such, a burden. Nobody needed to explain that her parents didn’t really feel complete without a male heir to carry on his lineage.

Shelah, on the other hand, had no such black cloud hanging over his head. When his first wife didn’t produce any children at all, he promptly divorced her, choosing a new bride who conceived three sons in rapid succession. One of them had died in early childhood, but the other two grew up healthy and strong to start families of their own.

Then, right after her youngest got married, she gave birth to yet another son. Weakened from two full days of childbirth, she had died on the third day with the baby in her arms. And just two weeks later, the little one passed away as well.

Since that had been just a year ago, Keziah couldn’t help but take the story personally at the time. It wasn’t as if she had been very close to either Shelah or his wife. But at fourteen, waiting anxiously to become a woman herself, it was close to impossible for her not to consider the possibility that she could die the same way someday too.

That reminder came to the forefront once again when her best friend was betrothed only a short while later. Hadassah was barely three months older, which put Keziah’s own marriage prospects into sharp focus. It made her desperately hope her father would select someone like Hadassah’s chosen husband: a nice young man and a skilled potter who had been smitten with his bride for months.

Keziah didn’t expect a tradesman, of course; not even one whose mentor sold his ornate works to the best of the best in Jerusalem. She understood that she would be given to a Levite, probably a priest or a priest’s son. But hopefully, despite his sacred duties, he would still like to smile.

Unlike Shelah. Or her father, for that matter. She couldn’t remember the last time he had really looked happy. In the past, she would have attributed that impassivity to his solemn calling. Lately however, she almost thought he might be depressed about something, though what exactly she wasn’t sure.

Walking over to stand in front of them, Keziah didn’t bother to greet either man. She knew it wasn’t her place to interrupt her elders, especially in the House of God. So she stared silently at the ground instead, waiting patiently for them to finish their conversation. Her father, who stood about half a head taller than Shelah, nodded at her. The gesture was small, yet there was once again something about the movement that made her wonder why he seemed so down. It was only his eyes that showed any such sentiment and only from a certain angle, but it was enough for her worry.

Shelah, meanwhile, with his thin face and thinner nose, managed to largely keep his attention on his fellow priest while still making Keziah feel immensely uncomfortable. She could sense his gaze heavily every time he so much as shifted his eyes her way.

She couldn’t understand why he made her feel so ill at ease when she was dressed so modestly. Her hair was almost completely covered with one white and another light yellow veil, and her pale purple tunic wasn’t revealing anything it shouldn’t have been. The latter didn’t exactly hide her feminine form, but it didn’t cling to it either. As far as Keziah was aware, she looked perfectly respectable with all the propriety a Jewess was expected to display. Yet under Shelah’s sideways glances, she felt like she needed an extra few layers of protection.

Keziah stared more intently at the ground, her cheeks burning, her stomach slightly queasy. She knew she was naïve to a large degree, but that didn’t mean she was a complete simpleton. She had already reluctantly entertained the idea that her father hadn’t really been forgetting his midday meals at all; that there was something else going on altogether. It was just that she would very much rather not dwell on the possibility, especially considering Shelah’s last wife’s sorry fate.

Marriage and childrearing were supposed to be a woman’s highest calling, Keziah knew, the redemption from the sin of her gender. As the religious leaders taught, Eve’s original offense resulted in humankind being banned from the beautiful Garden of Eden, a wicked decision that had to be paid for over and over again with humility and submission. It didn’t always seem fair, but it was the way things were. She had long since accepted it for what it was: something she couldn’t change even when she really, really wanted to. Even when she was standing there in the cool, calculating presence of Shelah bin Judah.

Neither her father nor his cousin spoke a single word to her while they finished up their conversation. And when Shelah finally took his leave to disappear back into the Court of Men, he only said goodbye to his colleague.

Keziah wasn’t unhappy to see him go, though it did sting when her father finally turned her way, only to sigh.

Facing her so directly, it was much easier to see some quality in his face that she couldn’t quite fathom, something bleak and even despairing, like he had accepted something less than perfect. He awkwardly patted her on the shoulder when she handed him his meal, sighed again and then told her to run along.

It was a disconcerting command to obey when she really wanted to ask him what was going on. But she did as he’d asked, pausing only once to look over her shoulder right before she left the Court of Women.

He was already talking to another priest though, so she meekly went on her way.

Back on the dusty streets outside the Temple, Keziah mingled with the crowd that swarmed past the taverns and inns on either side. The smell of warm, baked goods and sweetened fruits drifted to her, and her stomach rumbled in acknowledgement that she hadn’t eaten her own midday meal yet. That made sense, since her father came first. But with her daughterly duty taken care of, Keziah seriously considered taking off running toward her house in the Upper City as fast as the people around her would permit.

As if mocking her cravings, a troop of Romans decided to make their way down the street right at that moment. And since everyone knew the Romans got first dibs on nearly whatever they set their minds to – including the roads – she hastily pressed herself backward and out of the way, knocking into a few people in the process and being knocked into as well.

Step on my foot, why don’t you, a familiar voice trilled happily in her ear.

Keziah whirled around as much as she could against the push of so many bodies, already knowing who was there. Just as expected, Hadassah stood slightly behind her, her prettily plump figure properly swathed in a lavender halug, the tunic tied at the waist with a sash of dark blue fabric. Between that and her matching veils, she should have looked every inch the wealthy merchant’s daughter. Instead both her traditional head covering and her betrothal cloth, the latter of which was supposed to hide her face, were slipping dangerously. The haphazard way the folds fell exposed too much of her dark, lustrous hair and attractively rounded cheeks, a sight made even more shocking by the fact that she obviously didn’t care to fix them.

Your veils, Hadassah, Keziah scolded, reaching out to adjust the impropriety.

Her friend cheerfully slapped her hand away. You’re such a Pharisee sometimes, I swear. Everything doesn’t have to be completely in place all the time, you know.

Personally, Keziah wasn’t sure what was so wrong with being a Pharisee. Yes, they made rules for everything, interpreting the Holy Laws much more strictly than perhaps necessary. But wasn’t it better safe than sorry?

Even though her father didn’t quite belong to the popular sect, Keziah didn’t have any bad opinions of them. Hadassah, on the other hand, thought they were a bunch of uptight, boring prudes, an opinion she had no problem stating whenever she felt.

That was why Keziah didn’t bother defending them to her friend, choosing an altogether different tactic to get her point across. What would Aaron say if he saw you like this?

Hadassah grinned wickedly. It didn’t matter that her mouth was almost completely hidden by her veil; the expression showed very clearly in her eyes. Aaron likes me like this. He says it makes him want to kiss me even more.

Keziah gasped in shock, but her own lips turned traitorously upward despite her best attempt otherwise. Hadassah usually had that effect on her.

Have you let him kiss you? She leaned in to whisper the scandalous words.

Apparently she lowered her voice too much, because her friend scrunched up her face in confusion. What did you say?

Repeating herself, Keziah barely raised her volume, craving the answer but still extremely worried about who might be listening.

Not surprisingly, Hadassah shook her head a second time, her expression slightly exasperated. I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me. Wait until the soldiers pass.

Keziah nodded, risking a glance at the Romans coming down the road. The centurion with his red cape and matching plumed helmet had already passed by, followed by ten soldiers in much more common garb. All of their swords were strapped to their sides, safely sheathed and dangling from thick leather belts against simple brown shifts that showed off more of their legs than modesty dictated. But otherwise they wore no protection, not on their heads and not on their shoulders or chests.

That general lack of armor didn’t make them look any less intimidating though. It was hard to see them as anything but unsafe, knowing that they had full authority to mow through the crowd should they feel the need to display Roman authority in Jerusalem. Which, admittedly, they never did.

Yet the possibility that they could was one of the many reasons why Keziah did her best to stay clear of the men as a general rule. That and the fact that they were unclean and Gentiles, and were known to frequent the local whorehouses.

Everyone knew they weren’t to be trusted in regards to women, and so every Jewish girl was schooled in keeping her distance from them to maintain her chastity. Of course, everyone also knew the soldiers were just as carefully instructed to keep away from the local girls, for fear of disturbing the peace. Dalliances weren’t worth it on either end, no matter how pleasant the soldier or attractive the woman.

The truth was that, except for the odd zealot here or there, Jerusalem wasn’t at war and trouble didn’t usually come up, at least not between the different nationalities. That wasn’t to say they liked each other, with the soldiers and stationed Roman upper class considering the Jews inexplicably stuck up and irritating, and the Jews certain that the Romans were overwhelmingly undesirable. Yet they all took great pains to tolerate each other anyway, complaining about it all the while.

Hadassah either hadn’t gotten the larger memo or simply didn’t care. Probably the latter, considering how very sly she sounded in Keziah’s ear.

That one’s rather attractive. Hadassah nodded at one of the last soldiers in the short procession. If I wasn’t betrothed to Aaron...

You wouldn’t, was her shocked retort, made as much to assure herself as anyone else who might be listening. They’re uncircumcised!

No, Hadassah agreed easily. I wouldn’t. But still, you have to agree that the Roman girl who gets that one is a lucky woman.

Keziah risked a glance at the Gentile in question. His olive-tinged skin was perhaps a shade lighter than his sun-tanned companions, but otherwise he blended in fairly well with them as far as she could see. Looking at him specifically, she did notice that he filled out his woolen tunic nicely across the chest, and that the lines of his calf and arm muscles weren’t unattractive either. He had a small dimple in his shaved chin, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes and a typical Roman nose, which seemed just a slight bit too large for his face. And while he wasn’t exceptionally tall or exceptionally burly, his shoulders were still solid enough to indicate that he could probably hold his own in a fight.

He looked ready for one too, she thought, with his chin lifted so severely, his back so rigid and his eyes shifting restlessly along the crowds on either side. He looked like he didn’t trust a single one of them. Not that he should, she supposed. Because not one of them trusted him either, and most of them wouldn’t shed a tear if someone did dare to kill him.

You just like him because he’s not scarred or old like the rest of them, Keziah risked pointing out. It makes him look better than he actually is.

Hadassah rolled her eyes. They’re not all scarred or old. Just the first five and the last two.

There are only ten, Keziah laughed, despite still being scandalized.

That got a laugh in response. So there are.

The soldiers were moving further down through the crowd past the girls, who immediately went back to their business. Romans were more than common in Jerusalem and usually put out of mind easily as soon as they were out of sight. For her part, Keziah simply didn’t see the point of dwelling on their presence more than she absolutely had to. They were what they were, where they were. It had been like that ever since she could remember, and she didn’t expect it to change anytime soon. Not until the Messiah came along.

I wonder if Aaron would look good in a soldier’s tunic, Hadassah mused at her side, while they both weaved their way around men and women in tunics and head coverings of varying colors.

Still near the Temple, they were technically in the Lower City where all the merchants did their business and lived the vast majority of their lives. But they were in the more ritzy section, toward the Upper City, where both of the girls lived in their comfortable, white marble mansions.

Hadassah’s home was admittedly much nicer than Keziah’s. Her father was an extremely successful trader in the kinds of spices the current tetrarch, Pontius Pilate, liked to keep his kitchens stocked with. But neither girl cared all that much about such things; their oddly symbiotic friendship was all that mattered to either of them.

That closeness didn’t save Keziah’s cheeks from reddening at the latest inappropriate comment though. She never quite knew how to react when Hadassah said the brazen things she did.

Hadassah grinned even more widely. Do you think after you’re betrothed and married, you’ll stop blushing every time I say something about men?

I don’t blush every time! Keziah protested, knowing her argument had little value.

Uh-huh. Hadassah raised both brows skeptically.

With little other recourse than to either admit she was wrong or excuse herself, Keziah chose the latter. I had better get back home. My mother will be wondering where I am.

Coward, Hadassah laughed.

Keziah didn’t argue, merely gave her friend’s hand a squeeze. I’ll see you tomorrow at market day?

Of course!

And with that, they went their separate ways, Hadassah likely to Aaron’s pottery shop, since neither of her parents tried to restrain her comings and goings like they probably should. The youngest of seven, she was doted on and spoiled to sometimes ridiculous degrees.

Keziah didn’t begrudge her that privilege like she could have, though she did wonder from time to time what it would be like to have such a family. With four sons, Hadassah’s parents had no need to be disappointed in their three daughters. But even without the boys, Keziah didn’t think it would have mattered much; each child really was special in their eyes.

Allowing herself one small sigh of longing at the thought, Keziah banished it far from her mind within the next few breaths. With chores waiting for her back at home, she had no time for such sentimentality.

Even if she did, it wouldn’t do her a bit of good anyway.

    

DEMETRIUS WAS IN A foul mood.

That wasn’t anything new, admittedly. Ever since receiving his orders to report to Judea, of all places – and not even Caesarea, but Jerusalem – life no longer carried the luster he had enjoyed back in Rome.

Just the thought of Rome had him sighing, though he wisely let the breath out through his nose so that nobody could tell. He couldn’t afford to show any softer side to the wretched people he was charged to watch over. They were some of the most stiff-necked, disagreeable plebeians he had ever met. And he had met some particularly unlikable people during his tenure as a soldier.

It was, he supposed, the nature of any conquered people to resent their conquerors, not that Rome had done any such thing to Judea. Not technically, at least. Yet the way the Jews acted, the soldiers had come in raping and pillaging to their hearts’ content. Which they hadn’t.

Still, their general aversion was to be expected. What wasn’t nearly so justified, in Demetrius’ opinion, was how they took it to a whole new level with their Chosen People spiel. Every time he walked through their crowded markets or their sometimes cobbled streets, which they wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Rome, he could feel their disdain. Even the women with their veiled heads and downcast eyes: Whenever he passed them by, they managed to look down their noses at him despite their submissive posturing.

He had seen it on the face of one particular girl just moments ago. An attractive enough thing from what little he could see of her, she had managed to drill her distaste of him through his skin with her dark, compelling eyes.

A muscle in Demetrius’ cheek ticked as he tried to keep his expression impassive. For a minute, he could do little more than concentrate on moving one sandaled foot in front of the other, focusing on the gentle bite of the leather thongs into his ankles and lower calves. If he thought about anything else, he knew he might start yelling. Yelling at the crowds who parted to either side of the busy market wherever his centurion stepped. Yelling at Rome for wanting anything to do with the region. And yelling at himself for ever deciding to join the legion.

What had he been thinking?

Demetrius had to work at keeping his face straight again, this time so as not to smile. The urge had nothing to do with amusement. Not at all. It was just that he knew very well why he had joined the military four years ago when he was merely fourteen. Technically, that had been well before the legal age of consent to enlist in such a harsh lifestyle. But like a number of other boys his age, he had managed to slip through the cracks. The twelfth legion had just suffered a number of casualties on the Germanic fronts, and so it was willing to take just about anyone who could swing a sword.

And if Demetrius knew how to do anything, it was how to swing a sword.

With a centurion for a father, Demetrius had been given little choice but to learn how to thrust and dodge and hack. He could still remember the tall, intimidating man showing him the correct way to hold a weapon and running him through mock drills. His sire hadn’t been the most gentle of men, though Demetrius had adored him anyway, practically worshipping the ground he walked on.

Then the centurion fell in battle, proving his son’s religion grossly overrated. As the new man of the family, Demetrius knew he had to do what he could to provide for his mother and two younger siblings. So while his mother continued selling the vegetables she grew, he had joined the army.

He still sent most of his monthly stipend back home, along with a letter in which he tried to make everything sound much less dreary than it actually was. Demetrius didn’t want his family worrying about him being miserable. He wanted them to be happy and thrive and think he was doing the same. Even if that was very, very far from the truth.

He focused on his feet again until they made it back to the barracks, the strategically placed Antonia fortress with its intentional proximity to the Temple. Their trip through the city was completed, another wasted afternoon from his perspective.

Nothing warranted their daily treks through the streets except for the general surliness of the Jews and their hopes of a coming Messiah who would overthrow Rome. Since Caesar didn’t like even the remote possibility of being overthrown, one troupe or another went out on a march every day, showing their presence in and around the markets and the Upper City and Lower City and Temple grounds. Though of course they didn’t go into the Temple past the so-called Court of the Gentiles.

That would have started an instantaneous riot.

Like all the other Romans, Demetrius had noticed how the Jews didn’t seem to care exactly who had commissioned the admittedly exquisite structure. It didn’t matter that the utterly insane King Herod hadn’t been a Jew by birth or even out of religious conviction, but merely because it was convenient. It didn’t matter that he taxed them far more than Rome required or ate pork frequently, a meat the Jews thought unclean. No, the Temple was sacred to them, pure and untouchable regardless of how it was saturated through and through with a madman’s touch.

And mad Herod had been. It was even rumored that, in a fit of rage, the monarch had once ordered a porcupine skin fitted over a local rabbi’s head inside out so that the unfortunate teacher’s face and neck were lacerated with the creature’s quills. Demetrius had seen some disgusting things in his day: men beaten with rods and lashes or hung up on crosses to slowly asphyxiate in the oppressive sun, and women taken without any consideration or respect. But somehow, in his mind, that all paled to the porcupine quills, which made him sick to his stomach just thinking about.

It proved, he supposed, that he did indeed have a squeamish side. Soldier or not.

Herod, apparently, hadn’t had any such weakness. His brutality was clearly recorded in the history books from several decades ago, when he reconquered the land with Marc Antony’s support. From what Demetrius understood, Herod’s Jewish soldiers and their Roman backing had razed the land, especially Jerusalem. Calling it a bloody coup didn’t do it justice.

Yet again, the Jews seemed perfectly content to ignore the deceased monarch’s brutality when it came to their precious Temple. The hypocrites.

You look about as miserable as one of those Pharisees always moping about. The comment came from behind, followed by a good-natured slap on the shoulder. How about a little amusement to get your mind off your troubles?

Demetrius didn’t turn around, shrugging off the hand. And what kind of amusement are you suggesting, Gaius?

He didn’t wait for an answer, moving further into the solid stone barracks, which were well lit by open windows and burning torches strategically placed between the arches. The place had been encased by a high wall to keep out zealots and mischief makers. But they still had to take special precautions everywhere, as evidenced by the on-duty soldiers standing guard around various corners.

It was a horribly boring job to have, as he knew firsthand. Worse even than patrolling Jerusalem’s streets.

Gaius followed behind him closely, apparently taking no offense at Demetrius’ lack of enthusiasm. Actaeon and Luscius are playing dice again, and everyone is betting on the two.

Betting on who will win, who will throw the first punch, or who will suffer the most lasting injuries? Demetrius didn’t really care when it came down to it, but he found his mouth moving anyway.

All three, was the cheerful reply. You know how they are.

After three months in Judea, Demetrius definitely did know how they were: Both were hotheaded fools only ever brought to rein by the heavy hand of their commanders. Sure, they offered some entertainment, as did Herod’s amphitheater and the local whorehouse. But in his mind, none of it could compare to what Rome had.

Somehow, his homeland’s distractions actually managed to distract whereas, in the land of the Jews, Demetrius found far too much time to think. That was never a good thing, especially considering exactly what he’d been thinking about lately.

For all of the superiority that Rome automatically afforded its natural-born citizens, Demetrius was beginning to wonder if the Jews didn’t have it right after all. Not that the self-righteous airs fostered by the Pharisees held any appeal to him whatsoever. Those men lived by such strict rules, it was surprising they ever walked out