Ever the Twins Shall Meet

A novel by

C. Norman Noble

Ever the Twins Shall Meet

Copyright © 2008, C. Norman Noble

All rights reserved

ISBN 13: 978-0-9786971-9-8

(E-Pub platform)

Smashwords Edition – February, 2012

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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No part of this book, either in part or in whole, may be reproduced, transmitted or utilized in any form or by any electronic, photographic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or entry into any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner, by way of the author, except for brief quotations embodied in literary articles and reviews.

Book and Cover Design: OPA Author Services, Chandler, Arizona

Published by Ironwood Publishing, Chandler, Arizona

c/o C. Norman Noble at normnoble@gmail.com

GLOSSARY

Days of the Week

Solis (Sunday) – Sun

Lunae (Monday) – Moon

Martis (Tuesday) – Mars

Mercurii (Wednesday) – Mercury

Jovis (Thursday) – Jupiter

Veneris (Friday) – Venus

Saturni (Saturday) – Saturn

Roman Months Of The Year

Janus, Roman god of doors, beginnings, sunset and sunrise, had one face looking forward and one backward (January)

Februarius, Latin to purify. On February 15, the Romans celebrated the festival of forgiveness for sins; (February)

Martius, Mars was the Roman god of war (March)

Aprilis, perhaps derived from aperire, to open, as in opening buds and blossoms) or perhaps from Aphrodite, original Greek name of Venus (April)

Maius, Roman goddess Maia was mother of Mercury by Jupiter and daughter of Atlas (May)

Junius, named after Juno, queen of the gods (June)

Julius, renamed for Julius Caesar in 44 BC, who was born this month; Quintilis, Latin for fifth month, was the former name--the Roman year began in March rather than January (July)

Augustus, formerly Sextilis (sixth month in the Roman calendar), re-named in 8 BC for Caesar Augustus (August)

Septem, Latin for seven--the seventh month in the Julian or Roman calendar, established in the reign of Julius Caesar (September)

Octo, Latin for eight—the eighth month in the Julian calendar. The Gregorian calendar instituted by Pope Gregory XIII established January as the first month of the year (October)

Novem, Latin for nine--ninth Roman month (November)

Decem, Latin for tenth month (December)

Some of the Roman Gods and Goddesses

The Romans inherited and assimilated their gods and goddesses from the Ancient Greeks.

Apollo was the god of the arts, especially poetry and music.

Bacchus (Dionysos) was the god of wine and mysteries

Diana (Artemis) was the goddess of the hunt and protector of children

Juno (Hera) was the goddess of marriage; consort of Jupiter

Jupiter (Zeus) was the god of the sky; ruler of the Roman pantheon

Mars (Ares) was the god of war

Mercury (Hermes) was the god of merchants; messenger of the gods; god of travel

Minerva (Athena) was the goddess of wisdom, war, and crafts

Neptune (Poseidon) was the god of the sea and earthquakes

Venus (Aphrodite) was the goddess of love and beauty

Vulcan (Hephaistos) was the god of smiths and metal-workers

Ceres was goddess of agriculture and the harvest

Roman Money

The basic unit of currency in the ancient Roman world was the bronze coin called an as. A sestertius, another bronze coin, was worth four asses. A silver coin, the denarius, was worth 16 asses.

2 unciae = 1 sextan

6 sextantes = 1 as

2 asses = 1 dupondius

2 dupondii = 1 sestertius

4 sestertius = 1 denarius

25 denarii = 1 aureus

Ancient Terms & Definitions

Pergamena = It was in Pergamum that the discovery was first made of how to produce parchment and the resulting product was called ‘pergamena’ from the city’s name. Although it seems like a stretch, it is from this that the English word for ‘parchment’ came.

Pater = Father

Pater familias = the ruler of the family – father or grandfather

Parens = grandfather or ancestor [Latin]

Pope = father [Greek] -- In ancient Greece, it was a child's term of affection

Papau = grandfather [Greek]

Legate = commanding general of a Legion

Primus Pilus = senior centurion of the legion

Mikra Asia = what the Romans called Anatolia (ancient Turkey)

Popina = a tavern

Gladius = Short, double-edged thrusting sword

Valetudinaria = Roman military hospital

Century = Roman army unit of one hundred men (sometimes only eighty)

Vappa = You good for nothing! (Roman expression)

Di Immortales = Immortal gods (Roman expression)

Dis vos aufert or Dis te aufort! = The devil take you (Roman expression)

The Monthly Daytime Temperatures
For Smyrna & VicinityJanuary (48° F)

February (50° F)

March (52° F)

April (61° F)

May (68° F)

June (77° F)

July (82° F)

August (81° F)

September (73° F)

October (64° F)

November (59° F)

December (50° F)

Dedication

I have dedicated my past books to my children who are my greatest accomplishments, and to my wife who has inspired and encouraged me. This book I have dedicated to the Lord who has saved me and given me this bountiful life.

Prologue

This story begins in Smyrna, by far the oldest city on the Aegean coast. From a modern perspective, the year was 88 AD, during the reign of Emperor Titus Flavius Domitianus. Twenty-two years earlier, a young man, Lucius, and his new bride, Sentia, sailed from Corinth to Ephesus to begin their married lives working with Timothy as missionaries for the fledgling church of Jesus Christ. With the help of a son, they spread their work to churches in Ephesus, Priene, and Smyrna. It is with their son Marsallas that this story receives its start.

Greek mythology says Smyrna was founded by the queen of the Amazons, a mythical nation of women soldiers. The name Smyrna, according to that same legend, was derived from myrrh, a small tree that grows abundantly in the region. It was already a prosperous town in the 7th century BC. The poet Homer, whose birthplace is claimed by several cities (including Smyrna), is thought to have written the Iliad here between 750 and 725 BC. The Lydian King Alyattes sacked the city about 600 BC and the Persians sacked it again around 545 BC.

Afterward, Smyrna was an unimportant scattering of villages until 334 BC, when Alexander the Great seized the city. It is said that while on a hunting expedition in the surrounding area, Alexander became tired and fell asleep. In a dream, he was advised to move the city three miles to the south, atop the present acropolis, Mt. Pagus. This new city—the Smyrna of the Bible—grew and became an important commercial center.

After the time of Alexander, the King of Pergamum captured the city. Still later, after the fall of Pergamum, it passed into the hands of Rome. Even before the founding of the Roman Empire, the city was a faithful ally to Rome. In 26 AD, the city won out over several area cities for the right to build a temple to the Emperor Tiberius, and from then on it became a center for the cult of emperor worship. The city never wavered in its loyalty to Rome, and the emperors protected Smyrna and contributed heavily to its development.

Chapter One

Late Martius, 88 AD

Dexius stifled a snicker from his hiding place. “He’s the one,” he heard a shopkeeper shout. “He robbed my store yesterday. I can’t believe he had the nerve to come back.” Two legionnaires placed the struggling man in custody. The shopkeeper swung wildly at the accused robber, who ducked as the blow sailed over his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t remember?”

“That’s him,” another shopkeeper joined in. “He’s changed clothes, but there is no mistaking the face.”

“I wouldn’t do something like this,” shouted the man, who was barely in his twenties. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.” He moved violently to pull away from the tight grip of the legionnaires.

“He’s lying. I’m not stupid. He looked right at me when he stole the sandals,” growled the shopkeeper. “Only this time he’s not smiling, but it’s the same face.”

One of the legionnaires slapped the back of his prisoner with the flat of his sword as he led the young man away. “Move on, thief. Your days of stealing are over.”

Dexius and his fellow shoplifter, Alypius, moved cautiously from their concealment and slipped down an alley, heading for another part of Smyrna. Returning to this part of town was not an option, at least not while the memory of the robbery remained fresh with the shopkeepers.

“That was very strange,” Alypius said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The man they arrested looked exactly like you.” He was genuinely puzzled, frowning as he and Dexius walked toward their room over the meat market.

“Are you certain? I’ve never seen myself in a mirror.”

“I’m certain. He could have been your twin. Do you have brothers?”

“I have no brothers.”

***

“In there, thief!” Marsallas was pushed into a cold and dank cell at the far end of the narrow corridor. His sandals splattered across the wet floor as he shuffled to a wooden bench that was the only furniture. The guard banged the heavy door shut and slammed a bolt into place.

Marsallas stared vacantly at his surroundings, wondering how long he would be there until appearing before a magistrate. It was still morning. I should be out by afternoon, he thought.

By mid-afternoon, he began to worry. Not only was he languishing in jail, he was hungry and thirsty. “When do we get fed?” he yelled.

Silence.

“I said, ‘when do we get fed?’”

“You missed it,” a voice somewhere down the corridor answered. “We only get fed twice a day.” Someone else completed the message; “We’ll get our slop at sunset.”

Marsallas sat down on his bench dejectedly, staring at the wall. The chains that bound his wrists were heavy and painful. In the limited light, he thought he saw a rat scurry across his cell floor.

***

There was no trial. There was no need. Roman justice was swift in the face of irrefutable evidence. Two eyewitnesses had identified Marsallas as a thief—and a dumb one at that—for he had returned to the scene of his crime while memories were still fresh.

The Primus Pilus, senior centurion of the legion stationed in Ephesus, was at the garrison in Smyrna attending to other matters when the crime was brought to his attention. “The courts are overcrowded without having to deal with clear violations of the law,” he said. “I won’t have a magistrate’s time wasted when it is obvious what the punishment should be.” Waiving his hand, he assigned prisoner status to Marsallas, placing him in the charge of the Centurion Varro.

***

“No!” Marsallas screamed when he heard the decision. “I’m a status civitatis, a Roman citizen.” He clung to the bars of his cell, glaring at the Centurion who brought the news. “I’m entitled to a trial to prove my innocence.”

Varro scoffed. “That claim of citizenship may work in Roma, but we’re too many stadia from there to let it affect us here.” He shook the chains that bound Marsallas’ wrists to make certain they were secure. “The Primus Pilus has decided. That settles it. You’re now in my custody. I have a work party that leaves for its new assignment this very afternoon. You will leave with us.”

“My grandfather is Aemilius Calvus Marcus, former Tribune of the Korinthos Legion. I’m a citizen of Roma. I demand that I be taken before a magistrate.” Marsallas’ face turned red.

“Yes, I can see just by looking at you that you are the grandson of a Tribune. And don’t let this uniform fool you,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I am the grandnephew of Emperor Titus Flavius Domitianus. I have been assigned to this lowly position of Centurion as a grooming for my rightful, upcoming place in the Senate.” His scorn of Marsallas’ claim was obvious as he whirled on his heels and stomped down the stone corridor of the jail toward an office on the floor above. “I anticipate my transfer to Roma any day now,” he shouted as he climbed the stairs. Marsallas heard a raucous laugh from behind a slamming door, followed by derisive laughter from his fellow prisoners.

Chapter Two

Late Martius, 88 AD

A scream jolted the encampment. Nearby, in the darkness, a terrified woman was being attacked. Then came a muffled sound, as if someone had clamped a hand over her mouth. Then silence. Marsallas struggled for sleep. It was almost dawn. Soon he would be rousted and his march resumed.

***

Hours later, the sun beat down on the company of prisoners as it moved toward a destination known only to the Centurion. The sun was a fiery ball set against a blue, blue sky. Though pleasantly warm for the month of Martius, it was not hot. Nevertheless, Marsallas’ brow dripped with sweat and his skin glistened.

His feet were raw and bleeding. Blisters had formed and burst. “I can’t go on,” he whimpered, stumbling into the man walking beside him. “The pain is beyond bearing.”

“Ha!” grunted the man who marched beside him. “What choice do you have?” shoving Marsallas off his shoulder. “The Romans leave no slaves behind.”

“I’m not a slave,” he protested vehemently, forgetting for a moment the pain in his feet.

“You sure look like one.”

“What does a slave look like?” Marsallas protested.

“A lot like you,” was the rejoinder. He shuffled on. “A lot like you.”

The deep-rutted highway was intolerably dusty, thanks to the numerous wagons and countless travelers walking between cities. All gave the prison detail wide birth as it made its forced march east.

Later, Marsallas asked, “How much further do we have to go?” His whimpering had stopped. There was no point; no one cared.

“What do I look like, some sort of travel expert?” The man grunted again. “None of us knows. And these soldiers seem little interested in our questions.” Marsallas’ companion spit unsuccessfully; spittle dribbled down his chin. “Wherever it is, the work will not be pleasant.” He wiped his face with his forearm. “I know that much from experience.”

***

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. Marsallas limped. The pain in his feet was agonizing, distracting his attention away from Atilius, the man who walked beside him. Finally, just before twilight, the column came to a halt. The Centurion dispatched five men and a legionnaire to a nearby farmhouse for water. When they returned, they told their compatriots that they were near the town of Turgutlu and most likely were headed for Sardis, one more day’s march away.

Expectation soared. At least the march would end.

***

The next afternoon, as the column approached Sardis, Marsallas saw men at work. Some were building a retaining wall, others were hauling rocks and sand, and still others were working on a roadway leading to a small temple. None of the workers looked up. It was as if there was no point in paying attention to the world around them. They were going nowhere and nothing mattered other than doing an acceptable job so that they avoided punishment. As Marsallas watched, he saw lips moving but he heard no sound. The men were talking but none dared to raise his voice, even though the closest legionnaire was fifty yards away.

***

They marched on to another site where a large temple was nearing completion. From the statuary, they could see that it was to be the Temple of Artemis. As many as one hundred slaves, under the close supervision of a dozen legionnaires, scurried around performing various tasks. It seemed the heavy work was over, for the building was up and the masonry was nearing completion.

“Stop!” Centurion Varro suddenly bellowed. The ragged column came to a standstill.

“See that trench?” He pointed toward a freshly dug, deep channel. “Over there, slaves.” Varro jabbed at the hole. “That’s where you will find yourselves if you misbehave. It will be your grave.”

This squat, over-stuffed, ugly Roman officer, already hated by Marsallas, swaggered before his prisoners, enjoying the power he held over them. Once, when he had visited the farm owned by his father’s friend Brennus, Marsallas had seen a tiny rooster strut around the barnyard just like this man. It may have impressed the chickens, but Marsallas was unmoved. Varro’s voice was higher than most men and always hoarse. There was an ugly scar on his face, running from his left ear to his chin. Did he get that from an enemy or a fellow soldier? Marsallas wondered. A beard would have suited him. He was shorter than most, but taller than a dwarf.

Varro had the chronic posturing of a little man, long bullied as a child by others of greater stature. His voice was hard, implacable, barking orders impatiently; giving his legionnaires little time to respond. Marsallas thought that death might sound like this.

“This is where you will work. This is where you will work hard.” His antagonism increased and his voice rose as he pushed his way into the exhausted horde. “If you displease me; if you fail to obey my instructions, you will die! You will be thrown into the pit and buried alive.” His right hand clutched his short sword, giving subtle testimony to the fate that might await them.

The men stood stunned, petrified. “We can’t let them kill us,” one murmured, out of Varro’s hearing.

“There are more of us than them,” another whispered through clenched teeth, gesturing with his head toward the legionnaires. “Let’s revolt. We’ll be free.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” an older man said, loud enough to be heard by most. “We can’t stand up to their swords. I have seen a squad of sixteen defeat an armed militia of fifty. We would all be killed and thrown into the very pit we seek to avoid.” All of the prisoners looked around at the menace that surrounded them, smothering the idea of an uprising.

***

Varro assigned Marsallas and Atilius as co-workers to gather bricks and haul them to the bricklayers. Prisoners carried baskets on their backs. Crude wooden platforms held up the baskets with leather straps that went over the shoulders.

Atilius was a mountain of a man, solid throughout with a granite-like chest and shoulders. His thighs were chiseled firm. It was difficult to believe anyone had made him captive. It must have taken many men, Marsallas thought. At least he’s equipped to do this work.

Even so, they both struggled with the task; particularly Marsallas whose feet were raw and blistered. It was backbreaking work, but fortunately, the workday only held a few more hours. Relief was not far away. Then they could rest.

Marsallas couldn’t believe that he was a prisoner. “How long will I be here?” he asked during a brief respite.

“Forever,” Atilius answered. “I don’t know anyone who’s left. Then, I’ve only been here three years. Maybe someone left before I came.”

“That can’t be. I didn’t steal anything. There’s been no trial. I’m a Roman citizen.”

“And your argument is . . . ?”

Then he understood. This was a life sentence.

***

That evening in the relative quiet of the barracks, Marsallas and Atilius became acquainted. “We got off to a bad start,” Atilius whispered as he leaned close to his new partner. “You were whining about your feet and I was angry that I was still a prisoner.” He looked to see if Marsallas was paying attention.

“You weren’t a compassionate listener,” Marsallas said, now smiling. “At least your feet didn’t hurt. I was angry that I was a prisoner and my feet hurt. I was entitled to a little sympathy.”

“Ha! You’re new at being a prisoner,” Atilius laughed. “Prisoners receive no sympathy—for anything.”

Marsallas chuckled at the remark. “I’ve already come to that conclusion. Even in my situation, I realized that I had to be in control of myself.” His lips curled into a smirk. “At first, I had a touch of self-pity. Why me? But that faded within hours. I realized that if I was to get out of this; it was going to be up to me. There wouldn’t be any outside help.”

“So your plan is what?”

“Escape.”

“Sounds simple enough. Why didn’t I think of it?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t. It’s the first thing I thought of.” He suppressed a smile.

“If you should escape, where would you go?” Atilius asked with an indulgent grin.

“Anywhere. Well, not back to Smyrna, that’s for sure, but anywhere else. Maybe I’d go to Ephesus, where I was born.”

“That’s where I’m from,” Atilius smiled. “That’s where I’d go, too.”

“It’s a big city. The chances of my being recognized by the authorities would be slight; less than that, even.”

“When was the last time you were in Ephesus?”

“Five years ago.”

“A lot has happened in those five years,” Atilius said, reminiscing as he spoke.

“I know. My grandfather went to Ephesus last year and told us how the city had grown. Among other things, he said the Exchange near the Stoa had been converted into a Basilica. He wasn’t happy about it. Now, it’s just a house of worship to the gods with statues of the emperor and his wife lining the halls.

“And he said that the theater now has three stories that will seat 25,000. From what I can tell, Ephesus is starting to rival Roma.”

“Your grandfather was right. There’s more than that happening. On the corner of the Agora, there’s a giant, two-story fountain that’s called the Water Palace. The fountain is connected to another fountain, which is located opposite it to the west of the Agora. There’s a cistern in the upper part of the fountain, and around it are statues of the Emperor,” Atilius said with a touch of remorse. “I get the feeling that the Emperor thinks he is a god.”

“Then you haven’t heard. Emperor Domitian knows he’s a god. The Roman Senate will only deify an emperor after his death. But Domitian, like Caligula before him, couldn’t wait for his own death so he deified himself. He even declared that the Gods had bid him to do this. Five years ago, he had coins minted that said, ‘Divi Caesar Matri’—mother of the divine Caesar.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look at the coin. It shows Domitian’s son looking up at his mother who is divine. Now, it stands to reason that if Domitian’s wife is divine, surely Domitian is divine, too. It was a way of deifying himself without boldly making the proclamation.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable is right. From what you say, I guess I won’t recognize the city.”

“No, I doubt that you will.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll have to take you with me when I leave. I’ll need a guide.”

The two young men’s laughter was met with reprimand from another part of the barracks. “Quiet down! We’re trying to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Marsallas whispered back.

Turning to Atilius, he said, “We’d better get some sleep ourselves. The morning’s going to come soon enough.” He lay down on the dirt floor and shut his eyes.

***

It came without warning. Dusk was near and the second workday was almost over when Atilius accidentally dropped a load of bricks, and some of them landed on a guard’s foot.

“Vah!” the man screamed. “Eheu! You did that on purpose.” He hopped up and down, clutching the injured foot in his hands. Atilius mumbled, “Sorry,” as he stooped to pick up the bricks. The legionnaire stopped hopping and drew his gladius, ready to strike.

It was Marsallas’ turn to yell. He leaped at the legionnaire, shoving him aside seconds before he was able to deliver a blow to Atilius. Reaction was swift; two other legionnaires quickly restrained Marsallas. Varro saw and ran to the scene.

“A prisoner may not strike a Roman soldier.” The Centurion spoke evenly, without emotion, but a furious flush rose in his cheeks. “You’re new and don’t seem to understand this point. I’ll help you understand it clearly,” he sneered, but speaking almost in a matter-of-fact tone—as if he were explaining what he had for dinner the night before, not making a threat.

Marsallas felt sweat running down his back, and a chill overcame him.

“Stand against that tree.” There was the sound of pleasure in the Centurion’s voice, almost giddy, like a child about to receive a much-desired present. Marsallas did as ordered.

“Face the tree.” Marsallas obeyed.

A lash struck his back, ripping the flesh.

“One!” A gleeful voice shouted from among the guards.

“Two!” The soldier was counting, as Marsallas’ body sagged.

The lashes continued. Only the first few hurt.

Then it stopped. “Bring me another!” the angry Centurion commanded as he looked at his broken cane.

Moments later, with a new stick in his hand, the count and the lashes continued.

Finally, “Nineteen. Twenty.” It was over.

“Get up!” The Centurion kicked Marsallas who had fallen to the ground. “Your work is unfinished.” His face was evil, his lips fleshy, his smile cruel.

Marsallas struggled, pushed up with his arms, and then collapsed back onto the ground.

“Get up!” the Roman was screaming. “Or are more lashes to your liking?” Looking around, he shouted, “You, Atilius. Pick him up.”

Atilius ran over and pulled Marsallas to his feet.

The Roman snorted, “Bring him here!”

With Atilius’ help, Marsallas made it to the Centurion.

“By Jupiter! Look me in the eye!”

Marsallas’ stare was vacuous, glazed, seeing nothing.

“Listen, you son of a donkey.” The Centurion said coldly. “If you ever strike a Roman again, it will cost you your life. Do you understand?”

Marsallas nodded numbly.

“What? I don’t hear you.”

Marsallas nodded again. “Yes.” His voice was weak. “Yes, I hear you.”

“But do you understand me . . . ?”

“That’s enough, Varro,” Atilius intervened, glaring at the Centurion as he put his arm around Marsallas and led him toward the remaining pile of bricks. “You made your point.”

Atilius stooped to resume his job. Marsallas could only watch. Varro stomped away, seemingly satisfied that he had accomplished his purpose.

***

Later, when they were alone in the barracks, Marsallas asked, “Why did you do that?”.

“Why did I do what?”

“Tell Varro to leave me alone.”

“How can you ask? You saved my life.”

“But you risked his anger.”

“Not really. I have been with him for a long time. He’s a bully only when he finds someone weaker. He knows I am not weak.”

“Nor am I.” Marsallas grimaced as he drew to his full height.

“I suspect you’re right, except when you have suffered twenty lashes.”

***

The pain was excruciating. He stood, moved his hands behind his back, and gingerly touched the raw flesh with the tips of his fingers. His back was aflame. Stripes from the cane crisscrossed his skin. Marsallas had not recovered enough from his beating to resume his brick-hauling task, but his recovery didn’t matter to the guards. He had to work no matter his condition.

Fortunately, the work was tedious, not grueling. At first, his lower back hurt from the strain, but Atilius showed him how to lift the loads without injuring his back. “Squat,” he counseled. “Then put the carrier over your neck, and stand slowly. It will take the weight off your back and put it onto your thighs and shoulders. Don’t ever put the carrier over your neck, then bend and lift. If you don’t, you may never walk upright again.”

The two men worked the rest of the morning in silence, partly because they had little to say, but mostly because the guards discouraged conversation—and the guards were usually nearby.

At eleven o’clock that morning, everyone took a break. The Romans were taskmasters, but they knew how to keep their slaves and prisoners healthy enough to perform useful work. Periodic rest, water and food were essential. The sun was surprisingly hot. The prisoners’ dark wool tunics were meant for the winter months, not for weather like this, but they had no other clothes.

Marsallas and Atilius escaped the heat by sitting under a tree. In silence, they ate their meager ration of bread, fruit and cheese until Marsallas asked, “How long did you say you had been a prisoner, Atilius?”

“Three years.”

“What did you do?”

“I stole a chicken.”

“You’ve been a prisoner for three years just for stealing one chicken?”

Atilius nodded his head. “Just for stealing one chicken.” He stared at his last piece of cheese. “It belonged to a wealthy merchant in Ephesus. He had two hundred or more in a large pen. I was starving.” The cheese disappeared into Atilius’ mouth.

Marsallas nodded, gnawing on a tough piece of bread. “He must have been cruel.”

A look of sorrow crept across Atilius’ face as he chewed and swallowed the hard cheese. “I think that’s the way the rich are. There is no kindness in them.” His chest rose and fell as he breathed deeply. “Perhaps some day I will repay his kindness.” A sardonic smile crossed his lips. Then, he asked, “What did you do to end up here?”

“I was accused of robbing a shopkeeper’s store.”

“Did you?”

“No!”

“Then, why . . . ?”

“Two eyewitnesses swore that it was me.”

“What did the magistrate say?”

“Nothing. I was denied trial, even though I claimed status civitatis. They wouldn’t listen.”

After a few moments of silence, Marsallas spoke again. “Neither of us should be prisoners, and it appears that we’ll continue to be prisoners as long as we do nothing about it.” He picked up a stick, nervously twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m a little new at being a convict, but it seems to me that escape should be possible.” Lowering the stick to the hard-packed ground, he drew in the dirt.

“Listen,” he said, “Varro is going to find a reason to kill me. I know he is. For reasons I can’t explain, he hates me. I can’t stay here much longer.” He expelled air from his lungs loudly. “So here’s my plan.”

Atilius interrupted with a whisper, “Marsallas!”

“What?”

“Varro!” He nervously tilted his head toward the approaching Centurion.

“What are you two doing?” Varro barked. “It’s time to get back to work.” He glared at Marsallas and Atilius. “And put down that stick,” he commanded.

Atilius furtively rubbed his foot across Marsallas’ sketch in the dirt, all the while looking at Varro. “We were just going, Centurion.”

***

As they walked to their assigned work place, Atilius continued the discussion they had begun before the interruption. “You’re right. The escape is relatively easy. It’s staying free and avoiding capture that is difficult.”

“Why?”

“The Romans don’t take kindly to prisoners running away. It’s not just the shame of losing a man; it’s the encouragement it gives others to do the same. So they take great measures to recapture escapees. And when they recapture them, the punishment is death—in front of the group they ran from.” Then he asked, “Why did you draw the symbol of the fish in the dirt?”

“Did I? I was just scribbling.”

“No, you weren’t. You did that quite deliberately.”

“Well, let me ask you a question. Why do you ask?”

“Because to some, that drawing has meaning.”

“Like what?”

“Stop toying with me, Marsallas.” They had reached the brick pile where work was to begin. Atilius stopped and swung his carrying sack off his shoulder. “You’re a Christian.”

Marsallas’ heart tumbled as fear gripped him. What if Atilius reports me? What if he tells Varro I’m a Christian? His mind raced. I shouldn’t have made that symbol in the dirt. The pounding in his ears blotted out all surrounding sounds of resuming labor. He began to fill his own carrier with bricks, stealing glances at Atilius, who was working alongside him.

Many minutes later, as they carried their third load of bricks toward the bricklayers, Atilius declared softly, “I’m a Christian, too.”

“You are?” Marsallas blurted our the words loudly before he could stop himself. “I mean,” he said in whispered tones, “You are?” He looked furtively to see if anyone was paying attention. They weren’t.

Atilius frowned and didn’t answer right away. After a few moments, he said, “We’ll talk about this later,” and continued his work without looking at Marsallas.

***

It was obvious to Marsallas that his new home at the construction site had been built as a temporary fortification, not a fortress. Yet he could see from its internal layout, though it was a rather small citadel, that it followed the same pattern as one that would house a Roman legion. Built in a rectangle with parallel sides and rounded corners, it was surrounded by a defensive system comprised of three components; a ditch; an inner wooden rampart, and an outer palisade surmounting the rampart. The design kept people out—and it looked like it would keep people in.

The camp itself was divided into three main areas: the Praetorium, located at the center of the camp where Varro's tent was pitched; to its left and right were a military store, a workshop, and an area that housed the grain and military supplies, along with the carts and baggage animals needed to haul it; and at the rear of the camp were barracks for the two hundred prisoners and eighty legionnaires. There was also a bathhouse. Fortunately, Romans considered bathing as essential, even for prisoners.

The main entrance to the camp—the Porta Praetoria—faced the direction from which any potential danger would arise. At the rear of the camp was the Porta Decumana—the only other way out. It faced a mountain.

Discipline was as severe for the legionnaires as it was for the prisoners. Varro was particularly cruel to his men. He was known as “Cedo Alterum”—get me another—due to his habit of beating his soldiers until his vine cane broke.

After they had eaten their evening meal and were alone, Atilius shared his story. “My grandfather was named Demetrius. He was a silversmith, an artisan who designed silver shrines at the Temple of Artemis. His business was very good. It was good; that is, until a man named Paul and his two Macedonian companions, Gaius and Aristarchus, came to Ephesus and began preaching that man-made gods were not gods at all. That was twenty-five years ago.”

“What does that have to do with you being a Christian?” Marsallas asked, thinking that perhaps Atilius was talking about something else.

Atilius held up his hand. “I’m getting to it.” He breathed deeply. “My grandfather made a good living making idols, but his business shrunk almost overnight. People were flocking to hear this new message. So my grandfather called a meeting of all the tradesmen in Ephesus and incited them to riot. He told them that Paul was leading large numbers of people away from worshipping the Goddess Artemis and that her divine majesty was being discredited. He got the tradesmen into an uproar. They seized Gaius and Aristarchus and dragged them to the theater, but Paul escaped. It took the City Clerk to calm them down and bring about the release of these two men. I think they would have killed them otherwise.

“Anyway, the damage was done. His business never recovered. But he told me that didn’t matter because he came to believe what Paul and the others were saying.”

“How did that happen?”

“One night he went to a meeting where Paul spoke. I guess he must have been hungry for the message, because when Paul finished, my grandfather became a follower of Jesus.”

“What happened then?” Marsallas wanted to know.

“He gave up his shop and went to work for a friend who made fine wooden cabinets. In time, he became part owner of the business. Because of the persecution, he had to keep his faith secret, but he never avoided an opportunity to share his belief when it seemed safe to do so. He raised my father to be a Christian. And my father raised me the same way.”

Marsallas cautiously rubbed the tops of his aching feet. “My parents are Christians, too,” he said. “They came to Ephesus from Korinthos over twenty years ago to help a man named Timothy with his ministry. It hasn’t been easy because of Roman persecution, but the Gospel has spread anyway.”

“Many of my friends have listened to the Christian message because the Romans said that they couldn’t.” Atilius added, “How crazy is that?”

“It’s human nature, I think. If you tell me I can’t do something, I’m likely to think of a way to do it.”

“A moment ago, Marsallas, you mentioned the name Timothy. I know him. Do your parents still help him?”

“Yes, but they do so in Priene. Timothy asked them to start a church there.”

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?

“I had a twin brother, but he died when I was three.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know much. My parents still find the memory too painful to talk about. I just know that he died.”

“What about you, Atilius? Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“I have two sisters. Both are younger than me.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“So am I. Well, I will be in five months.”

***

Marsallas didn’t remember his brother Crispus. They were only three years old when his twin died. Marsallas’ earliest memory was as a five-year old. The man, John, who was close to Jesus, the Son of God, came to their home to cheer on his parents as they labored with his uncle Timothy. Marsallas remembered the family gathering in the exedra, a room located off the small colonnaded garden, to hear this man. He sat at the feet of his father, listening with awe as this old man shared his passion along with his encouragement. John spoke for three hours, as daylight turned into darkness. No one minded. All were spellbound by his words; even Marsallas.

Seemingly, from that day forward, he understood the mission of his family and he worked to help in any way a child could. By the time he was a teenager, he was known throughout the Christians community as an evangelist-in-training. His loyalty to his family and their task was intense. His devotion to his God was without measure.

Then he visited Smyrna and his world turned upside down.

***

All the days were alike now. Early in the morning, they marched to the work site. Just before noon, they ate a meager ration of food. In the very late afternoon, they returned to the compound where they ate another meager meal.

Once a week, in the evening, they marched to the baths. That was the only event that Marsallas looked forward to. If there was one detail about the Romans, it was their predilection to cleanliness. More like health clubs than just places to go to take a bath; public baths played a role in Roman life. Going to the baths regularly was regarded as a necessity. In a non-prison setting, public baths were not just seen as a place to get clean, but they also served as a place to meet and socialize with friends. They were a gathering place to tap into local and city gossip, a place to get an athletic workout, and a place to get warm in the winter (baths were some of the only buildings to have furnace heating).

Construction was slowed by the lack of building materials, so a new project was devised to keep everyone busy; road construction. “It’s easy,” a legionnaire said as the prisoners gathered near the project. “You start by digging a ditch three feet deep along the way the road is to go.” He gestured down the path. “You fill this with a thick layer of dirt and gravel. Then you set down a layer of cobblestones and fix it with cement. You finish it with a layer of gravel, compressed as tightly as possible—and that finishes the job.”

“That will take weeks,” a prisoner complained.

“You have something else to do?”

***

Centurion Varro took to drinking heavily and was rarely seen at the worksite. His cruelty was not missed. His deputy, Fabius, his face plain with a mouth full of teeth, was not nearly as harsh or demanding. In fact, he was a rather nice person; someone who Marsallas actually liked, except for the fact that he was a soldier and Marsallas was a prisoner. Fabius was a Gaul, taken in battle by the Romans eight years before. Today, as a Roman citizen, he was loyal to the Emperor Domitian. While battle-hardened, he was pleased with his assignment to guard duty rather than combat. “My interest,” he confided to Marsallas one day, “is to live a long life, settled down on a farm with a wife and children.”

“Is that a reasonable hope?” Marsallas wanted to know.

“If I can stay out of combat.”

“How can you do that?”

“I’m not certain. I’m hoping that no one will notice me.”

“Well, Fabius, we’re in a rather remote part of Anatolia—what the Romans call Mikra Asia. And you’re not in a legion. Perhaps you can remain unnoticed, as you put it.”

Nodding his head toward a new load of building blocks that were arriving on a wagon, Marsallas left the officer, walked over to the cart and began to help in its unloading.

***

“On your knees, pig.”

Varro was on rampage. A prisoner had mistakenly complained about his food rations to another prisoner and was overheard by a legionnaire. In turn, he told Varro who stormed out of his tent looking for the culprit. Forcing the criticizing prisoner onto his knees, Varro screamed, “Stretch out your arms.” Then, to a waiting legionnaire, he said, “Put a heavy stone in each hand.” The legionnaire did as ordered. To the prisoner, he said, “Keep your arms extended. Don’t let the stones hit the ground.” Shouting obscenities, he handed the legionnaire his cane and turned on his heels. As he walked away, he ordered the legionnaire to make certain the prisoner did as instructed. “If he doesn’t,” he shouted over his shoulder, “hit him with the cane I gave you until he complies. He is to stay like this until I return.”

Varro didn’t return for thirty minutes. By then, the prisoner’s back was shredded by gashes from the whipping he had received.

***

That night, in the barracks, Marsallas surveyed the other captives, surprised at how many older men were imprisoned. The thought that he might be enslaved for years, like them, frightened him.

“How long have you been a prisoner,” a newly arrived prisoner asked of a man with long, white hair who stood nearby. “For years, I imagine,” he said, as he looked at the others who started to crowd around. Slowly, he walked to within a few feet of the man he had first addressed, poking a finger into his chest. “Did you ever think in all those years about escaping? Or were you too afraid?” His gaze lifted toward the others. “What about the rest of you? What’s kept you here? The legionnaires are at half-strength. You outnumber them, five to one.”

“We can’t fight them,” said someone in the back. “They have weapons. We have none. Even if we had weapons, we don’t know how to use them.”

“Well, you’re right. If we tried to fight them all at once, we would surely die. Roman soldiers are trained to fight an attacking enemy. They fight in teams. But get them alone, they’re no different than you or I.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Marsallas asked.

“That we disable them, one by one. When we’re working at the temple, the legionnaires are always standing apart. They’re never together. If we form teams of five, we can kill them one at a time before they can form into a contubernium of eight.”

“How will all this be coordinated?” Marsallas pressed on. “It would take extraordinary precision, not to mention incredible luck.”

“I didn’t say I had detailed plans. This is just an idea that I think is worth pursuing.” He smirked at Marsallas. “You don’t want to stay here the rest of your life, do you?”

Marsallas was cautious in his response. “You ask shallow questions for one who knows so little about us. Not a man here wants to spend his life a prisoner, and you know that. As for staging an uprising, come back to us when you have a carefully thought-out plan. Until then, keep your mutinous thoughts to yourself.”

He turned and walked away as the audience dispersed.

***

After the lamps had been extinguished that night, Marsallas and Atilius talked. Speaking in hushed tones so they wouldn’t be heard, Atilius whispered, “That man made me think. Maybe we could overpower the guards if we went about it warily. It couldn’t be spontaneous. We would have to be very careful, but it’s worth thinking about.”

“Perhaps, but there is something about that man that worries me.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure, but he’s brand new in the camp and he’s already stirring up trouble. He doesn’t know anything about us. And another thing. Since coming, he has never been given a difficult job; he has never been in trouble with the guards. Even Varro seems to be nice to him. What if he’s a collaborator? What if Varro planted him here to uncover troublemakers?” Marsallas glanced around nervously.

“Rather than plotting an escape with him, I would rather we do it on our own. We have a greater chance of succeeding. And we don’t have to trust anyone else or worry that someone will betray us.”

After a pause, Atilius said, “You speak with wisdom, my friend. I hadn’t thought about it this way, but I agree. We need to isolate ourselves from him. To do otherwise may only bring trouble; terrible trouble.” He settled down onto his mat and closed his eyes.

Then, as quickly as he lay down, he propped himself back up. “Before all this started, I had a question I wanted to ask you. Then I was sidetracked by this talk of escape.

“You said that your parents came to Ephesus to work with Timothy. What kind of work did they do?”

“There was a lot of teaching that had to take place. Remember, most of the Christians in Ephesus were Jews who came to realize that Jesus was the Messiah they had been waiting for. At first, these Jews didn’t want to leave Judaism altogether. I mean, tradition dies hard. They wanted to carry on their old Jewish worship practices yet mix in their new relationship with Jesus.”

“How did that work out?”

“It was awkward at first. They knew they couldn’t do both together. The result was doing both, but not at the same time. They worshiped in Synagogue on the Sabbath morning, and then gathered again in the evening for the celebration of the fellowship meal which was commanded by the Lord.”

“So what did your parents do then?”

“My father is half Roman, half Jew. Because of my grandmother, he is very familiar with Jewish traditions so he has been able to help the Jews in their transition. My mother is Roman but a very excited Christian. Together, they have worked with the new converts, helping them to understand not only the Gospel message, but also how to apply it to their lives.

“Five years ago, Timothy asked them to move to Priene and start a new church. They did this with joy because that meant the Gospel was spreading.”

“Did you move with them?”

“What do you think? I had no choice. I was not yet a man.”

“What did your grandparents think of all this?”

“My father and mother both were born with privilege. My father’s father was a Legate—the commanding general of the fabled Korinthian Legion. My mother’s father was the Tribunus Laticlavius; second in command of that Legion—and now he’s a Senator in Roma. My family moved from Korinthos to Ephesus before I was born to escape the decree issued by the Emperor Nero that all Christians be arrested.” His chest puffed out a little. “They are very proud of the mission we have taken, because now they are Christians, too.”

Chapter Three

Early Maius, 88 AD

“I heard Fabius telling some of the other legionnaires that when we finish with the Temple, we’re going to build a bath-gymnasium complex.” The face that Atilius was making revealed disgust.

“Maybe you are,” Marsallas sneered, “but I’ll be gone.”

“Where do you think you will be?”

“Not here.”

“And how do you propose to get out of here?” Atilius asked.

“My feet have healed. I’ll walk.”

“No, Marsallas, what I really mean is, how will you escape from here?”

“I haven’t worked out the details yet.”

“I rather expect that you haven’t.”

A tiny smile played across Marsallas’ face. “But it will come to me.” Then his smile broadened. “I think I’ll use you as a diversion. You will cause a problem at one end of the camp. When all the guards rush over there, I’ll go out the other end.”

Atilius slowly shook his head. “I had no idea you were a comic.” He looked at his new friend with amusement. “If anyone is going anywhere, it will be me.”

“Well then, it sounds as if anyone is going anywhere, it will be us.”

***

Two hundred prisoners were crowded into an encampment designed for one hundred. At times, anonymous shouts were heard as one prisoner in one barracks yelled for food, followed by others in other barracks with the same complaint. Dissention was rampant. But not one soul was ready to take on the Roman detachment to obtain their rights. Shouts from the shadows were sufficient to relieve their frustration.

***

Exhaustion was widespread. Even the guards were tired. They all were getting weaker. Their food rations had gotten smaller. They rose at dawn every day, received an allowance of bread, loaded heavy stones onto wagons, followed them out to the temple, worked, paused for a meager noonday meal, resumed work, returned to the encampment, ate another meager meal, and were confined to their barracks.

One evening, a legionnaire wobbled across the compound, looking much like a child’s rag doll. Marsallas watched from his barracks and nudged Atilius. “Do you think he’s drunk?”

“He certainly acts like it.”

“I thought Varro didn’t allow drinking.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Then how’s he getting away with it?”

“Varro doesn’t seem to be around. I haven’t seen him in some time. Maybe they got drunk together.”

***

After several days’ absence—oh, he had been observed that one time when he punished a prisoner who had complained about his food ration, but he hadn’t been to the work camp—a fracas in the courtyard outside the barracks brought Varro to the scene. The legionnaires had already broken up the combatants when Varro arrived. The little man never seemed to be first at any sign of trouble—but he was always there--eventually. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Two of the prisoners don’t seem to like each other, Centurion. We don’t know what the fight was about, but it’s over.”

“Bring the men to me,” he barked. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I don’t allow fighting in my camp,” he said when the men had gathered. “Who started it?” He glowered at the prisoner who stood closer to him. Receiving no answer, he shouted at the other prisoner, “Who started this fight?” Again, no answer.

His jowls started to puff and wrinkles covered his face. He looked less like a soldier and more like a strange dog that Marsallas had once seen in Priene.

“Very well,” he said, hatred oozing from his mouth. “You two,” he pointed at two nearby Legionnaires, “control these men. Pull their arms behind their backs.”

He walked in front of the first prisoner. “Give me your right hand.” The man struggled against the restraint applied by the legionnaire, but did as instructed. Varro grabbed the hand in one of his; with his other hand, he seized three fingers and bent them backward to the wrist. Bones cracked with horrifying sounds as the man screamed in pain.

Varro dropped the hand and walked to the next prisoner. “Give me your right hand,” he demanded.

***

“I have a plan,” the prisoner who had proposed the mass escape said that night. “It will work. Now, who’s with me? I need ten men to lead ten small groups. The tasks will be simple, but the leaders must be brave.” He looked around his gathering. “Come on, this isn’t the time to be shy. You want to escape, don’t you? You’re brave, aren’t you? You don’t want to wait for Varro to do something bad to you—like he did this afternoon—do you?”

“Count me in,” Marsallas heard someone say as he and Atilius walked toward another part of the barracks.

“Me, too,” said another. And on it went until ten had agreed to participate as leaders.

“Like leading lambs to slaughter,” Marsallas muttered to Atilius. “With all my heart, I believe this is a trap. Our new prisoner is a legionnaire—I can feel it. These men who have joined him are going to die.”

“Why?”

“Because Varro has an insatiable lust for inflicting pain. And I believe that Varro is behind this.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

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