“Decimation has a way of restoring one to loyalty,” the soldier said, looking squarely into Marcus’ eyes. “Sending me here made sure of it.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile.
Marcus stared back at him, unafraid. “I came to see the temple.”
“There is no temple. Not anymore. Titus’ orders were to tear it down stone by stone until nothing was left.” His mouth tipped. “We left one section of wall.” He looked at Marcus again. “Why are you so interested in the temple?”
“Their god was supposed to dwell in it.”
“If there ever was a god here, there’s nothing left of him now.” The soldier’s gaze swept across the stretch of devastation. “Not that Rome will ever convince the Jews. They still come here. Some of them just wander through the ruins. Others stand by that cursed wall and weep. We send them away, but they still come back. Sometimes I think we should tear the whole thing down and crush every stone to dust.” He let out his breath and looked at Marcus again. “Nothing will come of it. There aren’t enough men left in all Judea to make any serious trouble for Rome. Not for generations.”
“Why did you tell me you were part of Civilis’ rebellion?” Marcus asked.
“As a warning.”
“A warning against what?”
“I’ve fought campaign after campaign for twenty-three years so that men like you could recline on comfortable couches in Rome and live a life of ease and safety.” His hard mouth curved sardonically, his hard eyes flicking over Marcus’ expensive tunic and brass and leather tooled belt. “You’ve the stamp of Rome all over you. Take warning. I won’t raise a finger to save your neck. Not here in this place. Not now.”
Marcus watched him walk away. Shaking his head, he picked up his mantle and put it around his shoulders.
He left his horse hobbled on the small mount and went into the ruins. As he picked his way through the fallen stones and gutted buildings, his thoughts were focused entirely on Hadassah. She had been here when the city lay under siege. She had been hungry and afraid. She had been here when Titus broke through. She had seen thousands put to the sword and crucified.
And yet, never once had he seen the look in her eyes that he had just seen in those of a Roman soldier.
She had given the small insignificant coins of her peculium to a Roman woman who had no money for bread. And she had given it freely, knowing the woman’s son had been a legionnaire who had taken part in the destruction of her homeland.
She had lost everyone here, father and mother, brother and sister. Somewhere among these broken-down buildings and the blackened rubble lay the forgotten bones of those she had loved.
The Jews believed their god had promised that Abraham’s descendants would become as numerous as the stars in the heaven. The multitude had been reduced to the thousands, and those scattered across the Empire, yoked to Rome.
Marcus looked around him and wondered how Hadassah had survived at all.
“God has not deserted me.” Her words echoed in his mind.
“Here is the evidence, Hadassah,” he whispered, the dry hot wind stirring up dust around him.
“God has not deserted me.”
Marcus sat on a block of granite. He remembered clearly the first time he had seen her in Rome. She had been standing among other slaves Enoch had brought back from the market—men of Judea, emaciated of body and broken of spirit. And she had stood among them, small, thin, shaved bald, eyes too large for her face . . . eyes clear of animosity, but full of fear. He had been struck by her frailty then, but hadn’t felt pity. She was a Jew, wasn’t she? Hadn’t her people brought destruction on themselves by civil war and insurrection?
Now, here, he saw Roman retribution.
Did any people deserve so great a devastation as this? He hadn’t cared then. Without thought of what a slave girl had been through, he had looked at her and seen nothing to interest him. He had said she was ugly, unaware of the beauty within her, the gentle spirit, her capacity for love and loyalty.
She had been a child during the fall of Jerusalem. As a child, she had seen thousands die of bloody civil war, starvation, annihilation. Men. Women. Children. How many thousands had she seen nailed to crosses around this city? How many more had she walked beside on the journey north to arenas and slave markets?
And still, with evidence of the physical trauma she had suffered and the yoke of slavery around her neck, there had been a sweetness in her face that day in the villa garden. A sweetness that remained unchanged even to that day when she had walked out into the sunlight of the arena, her arms spread.
“God will never desert me. . . .”