The Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

least one of them had some spirit, even if she was as plain as a brick wall and smelled like a stable. Her father would be hard-pressed to find a husband who could keep that wildcat in check.
    He slowed Ferox to a walk as they ascended marble steps that led to the deserted agora in front of Herod’s palace. The broad square, the upper city’s locus for trade and assembly, wasempty of all but the hot wind that swept in from the eastern desert.
    A massive arched entrance, wide enough for three chariots, led to the palace built by Herod—not the current fool but his father, the one they called Herod the Great. Just past the arch, another set of marble steps led to a vast central platform, where Pilate sometimes appeared to speak to the Jews or pronounce sentence on prisoners.
    On each side of the platform stretched identical marble palaces, one named for Herod the Great, the other for Caesar. Even by Roman standards they were magnificent, towering over the upper city. Gardens, groves of sweet eucalyptus, and fountains fringed the polished stone walls.
    But Herod Antipas didn’t live in his father’s magnificent memorial. He stayed in Caesarea, far away from the Jews who disdained him. Pontius Pilate, the legate and provincial governor, resided in the palace during the great feasts, when he marched his cohorts to Jerusalem to display the might of the empire, but even he didn’t stay in the city long. The god of these Jews made him nervous. He’d leave Jerusalem as soon as he could.
    After two weeks in the city, Longinus well understood Pilate’s avoidance of Jerusalem. In the last few days, the population of the city had swelled to ten times its usual number. Pilgrims from Damascus to the Dead Sea filled the streets to bursting. More Jews meant more trouble. It only took one radical to spark dissent, and a conflict could turn into a riot. Suddenly, you had a rebellion on your hands. Everyone knew Pilate needed to avoid any sign of rebellion in Judea.
    The Jewish leaders assured Pilate they came together only to worship their god. The one and only God, they said. Longinus shook his head. Surely this god had deserted them long ago, just as Jupiter had deserted him when Scipio lay dying.
    Gods. They’re all the same. They cared nothing for the people scurrying like ants in the sand, making sacrifices and asking for mercy. He’d learned that the hard way.
    He turned Ferox to the north, where his cohort—four hundred eighty men led by six centurions—camped between the three great towers of Phasael, Hippicus, and Mariamme. Three more cohorts made camp at the Antonia Fortress. Rome believed in an extravagant show of force, even against unarmed and untrained Jews.
    The eighty men under his command would be eating their meal and getting ready for guard duty or a game of dice. The lucky ones looked forward to an evening furlough.
    Longinus’s chest tightened in familiar grief. After half a year, he still expected to see Scipio waiting for him in their quarters with a grin and a scheme. Two weeks in Jerusalem and Scipio would have known every tavern in the city and half the women—and he would have dragged Longinus to enjoy both whenever they were off duty. Longinus let out a long breath. His days of wine and women ended when his best friend died in the streets of Caesarea. Not just his best friend but also the best legionary he’d known in his fifteen years in the Roman army. How could he enjoy the pleasures of this life while Scipio languished in the underworld?
    As he entered the garrison, smoke drifted from the mess hall, bringing with it the aroma of roasting venison. His hollow stomach rumbled. At least the hunting parties had been successful. Food first, then the bathhouse and a good night’s sleep—if he could block out the sound of Silvanus’s snores.
    Longinus shared his quarters with one man instead of seven like the rest of the legionaries, but he’d take seven reeking recruits over Silvanus any day. If he had