Marcus The Speculator

Marcus Valerius Severus, Speculator of the Roman Empire, ducked beneath the rainbow of fabrics draping the market alley. He briefly savoured the cacophonous smell, burnt cumin, roasting coffee, the sudden dirt and herbal mixture of root vegetables and cabbage. The weighty aromas of argon and olives came wave after wave, street after street, stall after stall, while humans and animals accosted from all angles and directions with more wares, more shrill-voiced, incomprehensible advertisements for sardines and nuts and rare medicines, while beggars clawed the streets with draped bodies and shining eyes and malformed clay cups for coins; while holy men ripped through the chaos with the authority of God Himself, while some knelt and some spat and most stared in mute obedience with the great matter at hand.

Marcus stepped aside from the black-robed procession, and if they knew anything about his role as a speculator, they didn’t show it. Pharisees. He’d have to ask Eleazar about their status now that the cult had re-emerged since the execution. No. Eleazar ben Nathan was just a scribe, and every Hebrew in Jerusalem knew him, or at least who he used to be. He needed someone more…

“Marcus!” The light-framed boy suddenly leapt on his back, clawing on his expensive tunic. Marcus stumbled, upsetting the throng around him, but steadied himself quickly.

“Abner! How many times have I said,” Marcus flipped the boy deftly over his shoulder by recentering his weight and levering against the joint at the armpit. The motion would have shattered a grown man, as Marcus knew full well in his time in Caesar’s army, but Abner caught himself deftly on one hand and launched away like a squirrel to his favorite tree. The boy laughed, nabbing a date from the stall nearby and gesturing to the wary shopkeeper with his head. “Don’t worry, my uncle will pay you, kind sir.”

“If that is your uncle, then I’m…” Abner backed away in feigned horror.

“Here you are, my good man.” Marcus placed a coin in the would-be fist of the fig merchant. “Please forgive my, er, nephew. I am afraid I indulge him too much.”

Satisfied by the authentic bite marks in the soft gold, the shopkeeper waved them away. Abner led Marcus to a quiet alley, one they had used before, which held an abandoned stall far from the prying eyes and ears of the main market thoroughfare.

Abner handed over an object folded into layers of filthy cloth. “I think this might interest you.”

Marcus took it with a heavy air of doubt. “This wasn’t what we agreed upon. I need information, not…” He unfolded the cloth to reveal a rusty dagger. “Not this, Abner. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It was his, Marcus! I took it from his house. It’s proof!”

“Proof of what? That he owns a knife? Everyone has a knife, Abner, I have two that you know of on my person right now.”

“No, you don’t understand. Look at the handle.”

Marcus turned the blade around until he found the small, circular seal. It was plain black with three thin, white stripes running across. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“No, you are an ignorant imperial. That is clearly the symbol of the Pharisees, you can see it on their scarves and cloaks. The same, Marcus. You know what means?”

“So, you think this proves that our murderer, the one they let go, was actually a Pharisee?”

“It makes sense, right? Why did they want him instead of the other? Why did they get that crowd all riled up for an execution?”

Marcus turned the knife over in his fingers thoughtfully before handing it back. “Abner, this is a clue. A clue can be helpful, but it is not the same as evidence. There’s no way I can bring something so flimsy to Lucius, let alone Pilate. Here.” He flipped the boy a tiny pouch of coins, which Abner snatched out of the air. “I appreciate the effort, but information is more valuable than any trinkets you may find, no matter whose house you claim they belong to.”

Abner weighed the tiny pouch mournfully. “I don’t have anything new for you, and this is less than you promised.”

“That’s fine, Abner. Show me that place that makes the good bread, I can never find it, and I’ll happily buy you breakfast instead.” Abner grinned eagerly and started down the alley. “But in return,” the boy stopped in his tracks, “You will tell me more about how the Pharisees are getting along now that our friend Jesus has refused to stay dead.”

As they wound through the market, Abner gave his account in a low whisper to avoid the powerful reach and ears of the Pharisees. Indeed, the conservative sect had been losing popularity over the years due to their legalism, their supposed hypocrisy, and their failure to publicly admonish Hebrews who openly served the imperials. It seemed that the people, especially citizens of Jerusalem, were waiting for someone to come and put them in their place.

At first, it seemed that John, the wild prophet, would fill that role and spoke boldly against their exacting and often cruel interpretation of the Torah. But the man was executed long before he ever came to Jerusalem and could establish any firm following. Marcus was only vaguely familiar with his fate as the somewhat disturbing story had made the rounds in the region. Apparently the king had divorced and then wed his niece, who was also his sister-in-law, while his brother still lived. Shocking indeed, even for someone who had lived in Rome. When John spoke out about the obvious impertinence, the new young wife called for his head. The King had obliged.

For a few years after that, it was quiet. The Pharisees went on unchallenged. That is, until Jesus. John was his brother or cousin or something, and all of his previous followers quickly joined the new voice. The soft-spoken man drew enormous crowds out in the countryside, and the local Pharisees were challenged and rebuffed nearly daily as he made his way, town by town, miracle by miracle, to Jerusalem. There, matters became worse, and the Pharisees were forced to take action.

“And now,” Abner said, munching happily on the square pastry, “Now they’re up against it. The imperials, Pilate, all of them wanted Barrabas to burn for what he did, and then the Pharisees let him off the hook. There were many people here in Jerusalem, including myself, who thought Jesus was… well... that he was an answer to some question. That is, until he died. Like John.”

“Okay, so where do things stand now?”

“Oh well, I mean, you were there. Jesus was so popular, I just don’t know how they would have turned against him so quickly without something going on. And that’s how most people around here think. The Pharisees had something big to do with it, and if Barabbas was somehow related to the Pharisees…”

“Then not only was this about revenge, but also about protecting their own. Abner, I think you might be…”

Just then, two men burst into the small bread stall where they had been sitting. Both men grabbed Abner by the shoulders and dragged him away. Marcus, stunned, hesitated before following. “Stop, wait! Put him down.”

The two men moved quickly, hooking Abner’s shoulders and elbows against his body, while his feet bumped and dragged noisily down the street.

“In the name of Pontius Pilate, I command you to stop!”

They stopped. The wrestled with Abner, who squirmed like a coil of snakes, and turned to face him. “And who are you?”

“I am Severus, speculator, in the service of Caesar. Unhand that boy at once.”

The two men looked at each other, and then one spoke in a deep, broken Latin. “You’ll have take that up with Pilate, speculator. He wants to talk to this one.”

Malnourished, natural small, and now bruised and broken and pale and still, Marcus had always thought Abner was closer to 20 than 12, and the dead, chained body in the cell added to the weight of age. He was shocked, but he was also furious. As speculator, Marcus had a broad authority to recruit local agents for information and other services, and not even someone as high as Pilate would go this far. He hired a servant, one he was certain was Hebrew, to share the boy’s religion, to take the body back to his family, somewhere far to the west near the sea.

That settled, Marcus came like a storm into Pilate’s chambers.

“Why, Marcus! What a fascinating expression you have. Join us, will you?”

Pilate lounged on his huge, satin couch with several female attendants holding various refreshments, including wine, fruits, and cheese. The Prefect of Judea was a humble, thoughtful man, but he also recognized the expectation of his rank to appear in such a state of languid self-indulgence. He offered Marcus a nearby seat, and a cup of wine appeared in his hand.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Then speak, dear friend.” Marcus gave him a pointed look that finally had an effect. “Away, ladies. Prepare another place for dinner, please, as our guest will stay, if I am correct?”

Marcus nodded, watching the servants as they left. When the thick curtain that divided the inner and outer courtyard fell, he spoke, “How could you do this?”

“Marcus, I have no idea what you are referring to, but I can tell you are very upset. Does it have to do with the Barabbas case?”

“Of course it does, that’s the only reason I’m still here.” He reached over for a date and ate it whole. “Except these, of course. Why did you come for Abner?”

“Abner?”

“The little market thief whom the centurions brought in last month? The one who spoke Latin? You approved him as my clerk.”

“Yes, yes, the little boy who was not a boy at all. He was quite clever, as I recall. Has something happened to him?” Marcus studied the prefect. The feigned decadence, the confusing airs of gaiety, ambivalence, frivolity. Pontius Pilate was no dilettante and no fool. You could not survive in Judea with only wealth or connections. This was a fiercely volatile country whose people were constantly on the edge of full-scale rebellion despite the brutal occupation, destruction of their holiest sites, and regular executions of rebels and traitors. Pilate faced the general ire of every native Judean daily and had to wield his significant but not infinite powers wisely.

“Your men took him this morning, and now he is dead. Beaten to death in his cell, I surmise.”

“Oh goodness, I am completely at a loss. Believe me, Marcus, I would never do anything to impede a speculator’s investigation. I had wanted the boy to translate a note we received anonymously, and I was expecting him when you arrived.”

“You sent men to find him? Locals?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s died in your care, Pilate.”

“I promise it was not my intent. He was to be brought to me, not the jail.”

“Let me see the note.”

“Certainly, but you won’t make much of it. It’s the local dialect, sadly.”
Marcus studied the letters and markings with no comprehension. He had picked up a few words from the market, but the local language was completely obscure. Rumor had it that the Hebrews somehow read it backwards. “What is the significance?”

“Just something I’ve been researching, not sure it will amount to anything. It wasn’t worth the mix-up with Abner, and I am very sorry for what happened. Those responsible will be flogged, rest assured.”

“And I will bear witness to both.”

An attendant offered him a cloth and a bowl of water, and Marcus wiped his face and blotted his clothes to remove the red spots. The flogger had been theatrically aggressive with Pilate and himself in attendance, and the result was multiple sprays of blood from the backs of Abner’s executioners. They howled in pain before slumping limp in their chains, to Marcus’ satisfaction. He returned Pilate’s raised glass with a nod and left.

Marcus reached his temporary home, a hole in the ancient inner wall. The door was huge and sturdy, and he turned 3 heavy locks before swinging the door open. He pulled the door shut and started to turn the locks again when he felt the point of a blade in his back.

“Do you have the note?”

Marcus turned to look and noted the marking on the blade handle. “So you’re a Pharisee after all, Barabas?” The knife pressed into the soft tissue of his back, drawing blood.

“The note. Now or you’re dead.”

“I don’t have it.”

“I’m supposed to believe you?”

“It’s the truth. I can’t tell you what to believe.” Barabbas scoffed and then roughly pulled Marcus to a seat in his tiny office. At knifepoint, Marcus followed instructions to tie his hands and knees together. Then the haggard man searched every corner of his home, upending tables, urns, emptying pots and pans, breaking dishes and precious glasses before finally returning to Marcus seating and panting.

“Where is it?”
Marcus slowly brought his head to his bound hands and pointed at his forehead. “Here. I memorized it.”

“What do you mean?”
“It’s proof, Barabas. Proof from a witness that you were hired by the Pharisees to assassinate a Roman citizen. Pilate has it, and it’s only a matter of time before you are brought in and tried, again. And this time, murderer, there will be no Jesus to save you.”

“You can’t! You don’t know anything. I’ll kill you!” Barrabas lunged and Marcus shifted his weight backwards, sending his chair toppling. Barrabas tripped and caught both of Marcus’ feet on his chin, instantly knocking him out and sending the knife clattering across the dirt floor.

Marcus the speculator breathed quietly and slowly edged his hands out of his bonds. He took the knife, still stained with his own blood, and cut away the rope at his legs. He went out in the street to send a message to Prefect to retrieve a murderer for immediate execution. “And I will be there to bear witness.”