Caesar's Lord, page 42
The warrior Geta had every reason to be bitter. His lot in life had been hard. And things didn’t look like they’d be getting better anytime soon.
Geta limped his way through the streets of Aelia Capitolina—the true name of this backwater city, not the stupid “Hierusalem” the Christians liked to use. Their religion was the cause of many of Geta’s problems. He hated all Christians and prayed that the gods of Rome—or his own Germanic gods—would smite anyone who worshiped the Jewish criminal who was crucified in this city.
Fifteen years ago, Geta’s life had held so much promise. Things were vastly different in those days. He was an outstanding cadet in speculator school, able to run faster and fight harder than any of his peers. Then he got a commission into the Roman army as an elite operative and quickly caught the eye of his superiors. He was even the son of Emperor Licinius by his concubine Inga, a connection that would surely prove beneficial when the right time came. The future seemed unimaginably bright. Now all that is gone!
The last time Geta saw Licinius was upon the walls of Thessalonica at the failed escape attempt. Caesar Crispus, the pretty-boy prince with a charming smile, had arrested them both. Geta was demoted and sent to serve with the Tenth Legion on the fringe of the empire in Palaestina. As for Licinius—who could say where he was being held now? Probably in a dungeon much worse than the cell Geta had tried to rescue him from. Constantine was a cruel and vindictive overlord who took vengeance on his rivals.
The sun was hot on this late summer day, but Geta pressed toward his destination. Walking long distances was difficult due to his limp from a broken leg many years ago. A man had stamped on his shin in a fierce duel, and the injury had been crippling. Though Geta could still get around, he couldn’t march with the troops or fight in combat. That meant only the most menial jobs in the army were available to him. Once he had been an invincible speculator. Now he was a cleaner of the latrines. That was Geta’s downward trajectory in life. Every morning when he woke up, he had to swallow the bitter pill of the Fates . . . then do it again on the morrow.
The main street of Aelia, known as the Great Cardo, was bustling with midday activity. The grand avenue ran north and south, bisecting the city into halves. Colonnades on both of its sides allowed pedestrians to walk in the shade, giving shopkeepers the chance to snare them as they passed. Geta reached an intersection and turned right. After descending a steep slope, he crossed the Lower Cardo, which ran through the ravine called the Valley of the Cheesemakers. The effort of ascending the valley’s other side brought sweat to Geta’s brow. At last, he reached flat ground near the smaller of Aelia’s two forums. Just beyond that was his destination: the temple of the healing god, Aesculapius Serapis.
The focal point of Aesculapius’s worship was the healing waters gathered in twin pools. Even the magician Jesus, when he walked the streets of Aelia before his well-deserved execution by Pilate, had drawn upon these waters’ power when he healed a paralytic. The Christians believed the claim of their scriptures that an angel would stir up the Pool of Bethesda and the first person into the water would be healed. Little did those fools know that their “Christ” was just a charlatan and their “angel of the Lord” was actually Aesculapius!
An attendant greeted Geta at the gateway into the temple complex. “You have a gift for the god?” he asked.
Geta withdrew a coin pouch from his knapsack and handed over a silver argenteus. “May I find favor before the mighty one,” he said as he entered the holy precinct.
The worship of Aesculapius—who was associated at this shrine with Serapis, the Aegyptian god of healing—normally involved three aspects. First, there had to be a cleansing of the body and spirit. Then there was an overnight stay during which the god would visit the sleeper in a dream. Finally, there was a prescribed therapy given by the god—or maybe even a miraculous cure.
Geta went through the first step by bathing in the temple’s pools and washing himself with ritual ablutions. He also cleansed himself with oil and a strigil, then spent the afternoon contemplating an idol in a small, quiet garden. It took him all afternoon to go through the process. By the end of the day, he was hungry, yet his body was relaxed. “Drink this,” said one of the Aesculapian priests as Geta got ready for sleep. “It is a potion that opens you to dreams.”
During the night, a dream did come to Geta—not a tranquil one but a terrible nightmare. He tossed and turned beneath his covers, sweating and afraid. Dangers seemed to close in, and a shadowy figure in black entered his room. Then a serpent appeared, entwined around a pole. “You need many treatments!” the snake said in a whispery voice as it loomed over the bed. “Come back and worship me every week with many gifts, and you shall be healed.” Geta thought he heard the sound of someone exiting the bedroom, but he couldn’t be certain because the dream world was mixed with the real in his mind. After the figure in black departed, the room fell silent again.
The next morning, a priest interpreted Geta’s nighttime visitation from Aesculapius. “Clearly, your limp cannot be cured at once. That is why the snake told you to return often. Over time, there are massages and stretches that will reshape the joints of the leg. Perhaps even the bone can be reformed. It will require many visits here.”
“And many gifts to the god?”
“Of course. How else would he be prompted to notice your sufferings? He is a deity, after all. He does not experience the things of mortals, nor observe them unless you draw his eye to your plight.”
“I shall do it,” Geta vowed. “My limp vexes me. It is the cause of all my problems.”
The Aesculapian priest smiled wisely at this. “Your healing is assured, my friend. Go now and receive your massage. Then I will see you again, one week hence. Bring the same silver coin—and if you also offered some sweet cakes to the god, that would probably be noticed by his all-seeing eye.”
“Yes. I will bring silver and sweet cakes. Soon I shall be whole again.”
“Not soon,” the priest countered. “But eventually. Farewell.”
After the massage, Geta did feel more limber and quicker of step. He walked back through the streets of Aelia Capitolina to the ruins of its citadel, where three towers from the original fortress were still standing, only one fully intact. When the defensive walls were destroyed long ago, these towers remained as a fortification for the city’s garrison. The Tenth Legion had manned a camp here for many years, though few soldiers were left now that the bulk of the troops had been transferred to a distant seaport.
Geta’s leg was starting to ache again as he made his way toward his barracks. When he reached the building, a messenger was waiting. “The new centurion has arrived from Caesarea,” the man announced. “He demands your presence right away.”
“What would he want with me?”
The messenger shrugged. “I do not know. I only know you had better go at once. He seems like a harsh commander.”
Geta straightened his tunic and smoothed his rumpled hair with his fingers before heading to the camp headquarters. It was located inside the tower called Hippicus. Upon entering, Geta was immediately ushered into his commander’s presence.
“You are Valerius Geta?” the centurion asked. He was oiling a sword blade while he talked, and as he moved the rag, the veins on his muscular forearms stood out like vines on a tree branch.
“Yes, sir.”
“Valerius, eh? The family name of Licinius. Any relation to the former augustus?”
“His son, sir. Not by a legitimate union, but by a courtesan of high esteem.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that your father has been executed?”
Wait . . . did he say . . . executed? My father is dead? Curse Constantine and his double-dealing ways!
Despite Geta’s shock and anger at the announcement, he managed to control his response. Though the news was disturbing, he didn’t let it show. And he certainly didn’t doubt the centurion’s words. Powerful warlords like Licinius usually didn’t last long after they lost their battles against their rivals. Geta took another moment to collect himself, then said, “I had not heard that, sir.”
“It happened last summer, with much secrecy. We are only now learning of it. Does it disappoint you?”
“Perhaps you can understand, sir, it saddens me. That is natural for a son. And yet”—Geta gathered his strength for a colossal lie—“my loyalty is not to Licinius but to the rightful augustus of our realm, Emperor Constantine.”
“So you say, son of Licinius! The army does not agree.” The muscular centurion sheathed the sword he was oiling, then walked around to his desk and bent over a ledger. After writing a brief note in it, he said, “Valerius Geta, you are being dishonorably discharged from the Tenth Legion Fretensis. Your crimes have become known to us, including the escape attempt at Thessalonica. Your pension is revoked, along with the allotment of land that would have been yours with an honorable discharge. And do not try to complain! Just be glad you weren’t executed for your treason.” The centurion pushed the ledger across the desk. “Sign here before you leave the premises. Or make an X if that’s all you can do.”
Stunned, Geta couldn’t move. It was only when the centurion barked another sharp order that Geta finally shuffled to the desk, wrote his name next to the words dishonorably discharged, and set down the stylus with a shaky hand.
“You may leave now,” the centurion said with a backhanded wave.
Geta’s mind reeled. Hardly able to comprehend what had just happened, he turned to leave the centurion’s office. He had just reached the door when his commander stopped him. “Wait! I have one more order before you go.”
Geta turned around. “Yes, sir?” he said meekly, knowing that any hint of disrespect could result in a harsh whipping, or even death. He was just an expendable civilian now.
“Clean the latrines on your way out of camp. They’re filthy. Leaving them in good shape is the least you can do for the army you have served so poorly.”
Though Geta had many things he wanted to say in response, he knew that uttering any of them would get him killed on the spot. There was only one reply he could make. “Yes, sir,” he said with a bow that looked humble—though inside, he was seething. “It has been my greatest honor to serve Rome.”
“Rome doesn’t need you anymore,” the centurion said.
The ship Flavia was about to board was a trading vessel known for its speed more than the size of its hold. Called the Gazelle, it had established a place for itself in Mediterranean shipping by transporting goods that were highly valuable yet quickly perishable. It was said that the Gazelle could bring unsalted fish from Carthago to a table in Rome without any spoilage. On today’s journey, however, the swift freighter wouldn’t be transporting any fish. The cargo was of infinitely greater value. Empress Helena and her retinue were about to embark on their pilgrimage to the holy land of God.
“I can’t believe I’m wearing a soldier’s uniform again,” Rex said to Flavia as he stood beside her on the dock at Portus. “I keep trying to leave my army career behind, but it keeps finding me anew.”
“Because you’re good at it,” Flavia replied. “The imperial family needs you. They know what you can do.”
“I can at least do better than the man I replaced. My work probably won’t get me thrown to the panthers.”
Flavia shook her head and shuddered, then let that fearsome subject drop away. Instead, she bent down and picked up her leather travel bag, which was fully packed and heavy. “Ready to board?” she asked as she started toward the gangplank—and was gratified to find that Rex didn’t try to carry her pack for her as if she was incapable. By now, he knew when to be gallant and when to hold back.
They had just stowed their belongings below deck and returned topside when they were greeted by Pope Sylvester, who had come aboard to pray with the empress and wish everyone well. “Vitus and Candida!” he called. “Come over here. I wish to speak with you.”
When they reached the bishop, he drew them close and spoke in a serious tone. “I want you to obtain some things for me in the holy land.”
“What sorts of things?” Rex asked.
“Real things. Tangible objects that are connected with the scriptures or the Savior. He was an actual man who walked this earth. His feet went here and there to places that truly existed—and still exist three hundred years later. I need proof of this. Reminders for God’s people that their Jesus didn’t just ‘seem’ to be human, but he was a true man in every way.”
“We will do it,” Rex promised.
“And may the Lord lead us to many evidences,” Flavia added.
Sylvester took each of them by the hand. “My prayers will go with you,” he said with a gentle squeeze. “God speed you on your way, my children.”
The Gazelle finally set sail about an hour later. Rex had declared it to be a beautifully built ship, with taut, well-trimmed sails and just the right lines for speed. When the vessel made it all the way to Neapolis on the first day, Rex told Flavia that this was surely going to be a swift and efficient trip.
And it was. At the end of two weeks, the travelers reached the island of Cyprus. In the port of Paphos, the captain decreed a one-day stopover to make some minor repairs and give his crew a rest. Rex and Flavia used the opportunity to go for a walk in the countryside, a welcome change from the feel of a ship rolling under their feet.
Flavia had gotten ahead of Rex a little ways when a movement near her feet caught her eye. She froze. Terror seized her as she spotted a huge viper, angry and coiled within striking distance of her exposed ankles. It was as thick as her forearm, with brown spots along its body and a triangular head that signaled its poisonous bite. The eyes of the snake were thin slits, watching her every move. A malevolent hissing warned her to stay back—but Flavia was afraid to retreat lest she prompt a deadly strike.
“R-Rex!” she cried in a shuddery voice. “Snake!”
“Stand still! Don’t make a move. Then step back when I tell you.” Rex circled the snake and approached from its side. He held a hiking stick, which he extended until he had caught the viper’s attention. “Slowly step away,” he ordered when the hissing creature had turned its head, and Flavia was able to do so without incident. Rex retreated as well. They decided to head back to the ship rather than risk another encounter with the deadly serpents in the area.
Two days later, after spending the night in the open sea, the Gazelle sailed into the spacious harbor of Caesarea, capital of Palaestina. It was a remarkable city, carved out of the seashore and endowed with magnificent buildings by the ancient Jewish king, Herod the Great. A lofty temple dedicated to Herod’s patron, Caesar Augustus, met any traveler who entered the harbor. Today, however, the temple didn’t bustle with emperor worship like it had in times past.
Helena’s retinue was met at the docks by the city’s scholarly bishop, Eusebius. Because of his short stature and round belly, his walk as he approached the empress on the pier reminded Flavia of a duck’s waddle. Helena dipped her chin graciously to the little bishop, then everyone followed him toward Herod’s former palace, where the imperial visitors would be staying. The palace was situated on a peninsula that jutted into the sea—still impressive even now, three and a half centuries after its construction.
During the week that the travelers stayed in Caesarea, Bishop Eusebius announced his intention to join the pilgrimage to Hierusalem. Technically, because Caesarea was the regional capital, its bishop had supervision over all other churches in Palaestina. But the bishop of Hierusalem’s church, a man named Macarius, didn’t like that arrangement. He had even gotten Emperor Constantine to grant him some independence while they were at Nicaea.
“You’ll like Bishop Macarius,” Rex assured Flavia. “He doesn’t look at all like a churchman. He’s rugged and has long hair. His arms are strong because he works with wood in his spare time.”
“I’ve heard his doctrine is orthodox as well.”
“He is a workman approved unto God in two ways,” Rex quipped.
Though Flavia rolled her eyes, she also had to smile at the thought that her barbarian husband could make a biblical joke. For many years such a thing would have seemed impossible to her.
The overland journey to Hierusalem required an overnight stay at Lydda, where Saint Peter had healed a paralytic, according to the Book of Acts. The next day, as the imperial carriages ascended from the coastal lowlands into the Judean hills, Flavia began to grow increasingly excited. Hierusalem . . . at last! It was a lifelong dream of hers to enter the city of God and discover its mysteries. She was certain the Lord would speak to her from his holy habitation. But what will he have to say?
The road from Caesarea entered Hierusalem at a huge, monumental gate. Passing through it, Flavia found herself in a public square with a tall column at its center. On top of it was a golden statue of Emperor Hadrian. Though he had been an efficient emperor in many ways, he also had a bad reputation among Christians for what he did to Hierusalem. Around a hundred years after the time of Christ, Hadrian decided to refound the city in honor of the pagan gods. He called it Aelia after his own family name, then added the term Capitolina to signal its dedication to the divine triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, who were worshiped on Rome’s Capitoline Hill. Hadrian erected many temples around the city. He even dared to build a shrine to Jupiter on the Temple Mount itself. All Jews were banished from the region, including many Jewish Christians. Fortunately, some Christians of Gentile birth had been able to keep the word of Christ alive in the city where he was crucified and resurrected.
A wealthy local businessman had vacated his home near the camp of the Tenth Legion so Empress Helena could stay there. Rex and Flavia were given lodging in a beautiful guesthouse next door, not far from the Hippicus tower in the citadel. Immediately, Flavia fell in love with the guesthouse. The graceful old building was made of white, rough-hewn stone, and its floors were strewn with eastern carpets. There were many cozy nooks and decorative arches. Bronze lampstands and potted palms in the corners gave the place a charming, exotic feel. Its Christian proprietor called it Glory House.
