The prefect remained in his tent with his boys. Purpurio wondered if he was awake even though the sun was climbing to its highest point.
Names were called and written on the vellum sheet in Titus’s careful hand. The soldiers were spelled by ranks and allowed a cup of watered vinegar and a handful of dried fruit. The tribune sipped diluted wine poured by his aquilifer. It was as tedious a process as Purpurio had anticipated.
In the end, after the last name was called and the final Jew had stepped forward, there was a discrepancy of six names between the ledger and the freshly penned list on the lictor’s sheet.
The young priest was questioned but had no answers.
The tribune summoned old Bachus forward and told him to take three centuries into the town and find the six fugitives. The prisoners were ordered to sit on the ground. The remaining soldiers stood guard over them, leaning on shields and speaking quietly. The young priest was in agitated conversation with the lictor. Troublesome damned Jews, thought Purpurio, and repaired to his tent until Bachus returned with the slackers.
The troops dispatched to the town returned at sundown with only four of the missing six. Bachus reported that they indeed found all the fugitives but were forced to kill two as they resisted capture. A third man and a woman were killed as well when they protested the taking of their son. Bachus candidly added that the town was in a bit of an uproar since their young men were taken. The soldiers left under a hail of stones thrown by some of the town’s children. The centurion decided to withdraw his men rather than make an issue of it.
“Best that you did,” Purpurio agreed. “You’d be half the night pursuing the little bastards through that labyrinth. And even then not come up with even one of them.”
“Aye, sir.” Bachus nodded. “What of the four we found?”
“Ligatures for them,” the tribune sniffed. “They’ll be the first to die.”
The four miscreant Jews were dragged before the others and strangled with bowstrings until their tongues turned black and legs ceased kicking. A moan of terror rose amongst the Jews, and they backed from the executions until halted by the spear points at their spines.
“What is this?” The young priest rushed forward spouting his atrocious Latin.
“What did you think this was?” Purpurio snarled. “I told you they were not to be conscripted. To what other purpose do you think we would put this filthy lot? They are to be executed.”
“By whose order? What have they done?” the young priest cried, turning to the lictor crossing six names from his list with the stroke of a stylus.
“It is by order of the prefect Gratus, and therefore the Syrian legate, and through him the command of Tiberius Rex himself!” Purpurio said heatedly.
“I would speak with this prefect!” the young priest proclaimed.
“What is your name, Jew?” the lictor asked, stylus poised above vellum.
“I am Yusef Kayifas.”
The lictor spelled the name as best he could at the bottom of his tally.
Joseph Caiaphas.
Titus wished to recall the name of this Jew. He was intelligent yet pliable, qualities valuable in the law and politics. A political Jew of some standing might be of use one day to Titus either in his service as lictor or in any higher post he sought.
“I am of the priestly course of the Sadducees, and so passively interested in the affairs of Rome. I offer no offense other than to ask for what crime these men will be murdered!” Kayifas demanded.
“Executed,” came a quavering voice.
Valerius Gratus exited his tent, walking like a man twice his age. His eyes shone black as polished ebony, and his skin appeared like candle-lit parchment in the failing sun.
“They are to be executed for crimes against the Empire,” Gratus said, stepping up to Kayifas and holding himself in a parody of the decorum expected from a man of his station.
“What crimes?” Kayifas demanded.
“They are Jews. And Jews cause no end of trouble. These will be done away with as a reprisal for those crimes, as an object lesson in the dangers of defying the will of Tiberius and all who hold his imprimatur.” Gratus’s voice trailed away at the end into a wracking cough.
“But execution.” Kayifas stepped closer to the prefect. Purpurio made to grab the Jew’s arm but Gratus waved him away.
“Allow him to speak, Tribune. These Jews provide me distraction with all their talk, and his accent is amusing for now.” Gratus tittered. “Tell us, Jew. What alternative do you offer?”
“They might be sold as slaves,” Kayifas offered. “Near a hundred able young men you hold here. They are worth a fortune to flesh traders.”
Gratus’s eyes swam in his head at this. He put a hand to the back of the lictor’s chair to steady himself.
The wily young Jew had discerned the weakness in their prefect, Purpurio realized. He suspected this current action was motivated by payment of some kind. Now Gratus’s mind was whirling with the possibility of compounding the graft in his purse with the sale of these captives.
“You speak well and you speak plain, Jew.” Gratus nodded slowly. “I will sleep upon this decision. These prisoners live until morning at the very least. We shall see with the sun’s rise whether my mercy will be further strained.”
With that, the cagey old pedophile stumbled back to his tent.
Kayifas turned to the huddled men and spoke honeyed words. Each man dropped to his
