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Cedron.
    “You are right.” Cedron showed the coin to his father. “You are the head of the family. According to the law, it belongs to you.”
    Her father stalked to Cedron, snatched the coin from his hand without a word, and ducked into the dark house.
    Cedron shuffled toward Nissa, his hands out until he touched her bent head. “I’m sorry, Nissa. I had to.”
    Nissa sniffed and buried her throbbing face in his chest. She would have done the same if Abba had been hitting him. But Abba never hit him. Only her. I should have given it to Gilad. At least then we’d have the rent paid.
    She’d have to find another way to pay Gilad. The money Cedron brought in from begging wouldn’t keep them fed. Her father was right: she couldn’t weave or spin, her bread was always burnt, and her lentils were hard and tasteless. No man would marry her; no woman would hire her. She was a failure at everything—everything but stealing.

Chapter 3

    L ONGINUS URGED FEROX past the Pool of Siloam, up the Stepped Street, and toward the upper city. The evening trumpets sounded as the last groups of merchants and slaves hurried into the darkening streets.
    His fingers tightened on the reins. How he wished he could wrap them around the little thief’s neck. He was sure he’d seen the boy turning a corner into the lower city. They all looked alike, these Jews. And they weren’t about to help him find the two thieves who had made a fool of him today.
    His head pounded, and his stomach growled. He was a Roman centurion, by the gods. He’d battled barbarians from the north and been outnumbered by Numidian troops. But he’d lost a little thief in the streets of Jerusalem just as he’d lost the Samaritan who had killed Scipio.
    He snapped the reins, and Ferox loped past the temple and over the bridge that crossed the Tyropoeon Valley. The upper city stretched before him in the twilight. Lights glowed in the courtyards of the wealthy priests and merchants; voices and snatches of music drifted on the breeze with the scents of cooking fires and roasting meat.
    What he wouldn’t give to be stationed back in Gaul, with its quiet villages and peaceful people. Even Rome would be better than this provincial dung heap. After this feast—whichone was it again?—he’d go back to Caesarea, where he’d be reminded each day of his failure to get revenge for Scipio.
    Longinus had spent months searching for the Samaritan with the scar on his face, the scar Scipio had put there. He’d almost had him—twice. The first time, a girl had gotten the best of him; the second time, a band of lepers.
    His hand rested on the sword at his side. Even his father’s sword, his most precious possession, hadn’t been able to help him against the horde of diseased cripples who had attacked him on the road in Galilee. For months, he’d watched his skin for signs of sores or white flaking, worrying with every itch that he’d contracted the hideous disease that plagued these people.
    At least no one saw me terrified by a band of half-human invalids. He’d screamed like a woman as the lepers had closed in around him, smelling of rot and death. Then he’d run like a coward. If his men had seen that, he’d have lost every iota of respect. And a centurion without the respect of his men didn’t deserve the insignia on his breastplate.
    Now he’d failed again. Longinus had ridden the streets of the upper city first, then the lower, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dirty little thief and his tall partner. Instead, he’d almost killed the blind Jew and his belligerent sister.
    The weight on his heart eased, and his lips twitched. He’d never seen a Jewish woman so dirty or who smelled so bad. And she had a mouth as sharp as his dagger. He’d thought all Jewish women were meek as doves, content to hide behind the walls of their courtyards and the folds of their mantles. A woman hadn’t scolded him like that since he’d said good-bye to his mother. Looked like at