Four

Justus stared down at the young woman in his arms and shook his head. He was surprised they'd caught her, as fast as she'd been running.

He carried her easily; her frame was thin and hunger-worn. He stepped, uncaring, over yet another pile of bodies. Behind him, he could practically feel Drusus' enmity. True, Drusus had seen her first, but the obsequious, dark-eyed tribune was looking only for pleasure, while Justus had seen her, and known.

This was the girl his father had told him to find.

He knew it sounded crazy—which is why he'd never tell anyone his real reasons behind bringing her back to Rome with him—but somehow he just knew. His father said it had been like a voice as clear as any other, instructing him that Justus should find a wife in Jerusalem and bring her home.

That was how Justus had felt when he'd lifted her chin and seen those fathomless, haunted dark eyes.

She's the one, Justus, the voice told him.

It was the ultimate test: if the girl survived the march back to Rome, he could make her his wife. Any woman that could surpass the rigors of the journey would certainly be strong enough to bear healthy children, as well as free Justus of having to look after a sickly wife for all his days. He'd watched his father lose three wives in succession—a process which Justus wished to have no part of in his own marriages. He would marry once, and never again.

"Your tent has been assembled, Centurion," said a young soldier from beside Justus.

"Very good, Alban," Justus told him with a nod.

They were passing the Women's Court now. The gaunt prisoners moved about inside, some wailing for lost relatives, some screaming to be released, some verging on death. The bodies were piled high atop a cart. One older woman screamed as she lunged forward and began shouting something in Hebrew at a soldier.

The man laughed and slapped her, motioning for two soldiers that had been standing to the side to get her out of the way as he moved on.

Justus found himself frowning. He looked down at the Jewess in his arms, and then back at the soldiers herding the Jews along. He disliked the cruelty some of his fellow soldiers showed to them. Most were stubborn dogs that had caused nothing but grief for the Empire and all who served it, but Justus found excessive cruelty usually had the adverse effect. Rather than creating respect or submission, it seemed only to encourage feral behavior in return, which meant more trouble for Rome and the men who served her. A firm hand was necessary to show Roman superiority; cruelty only served to undermine it.

Justus roused himself from his musings as he brought the Jewess into his tent. This was hardly the time to become encumbered in philosophy. Such thoughts were dangerous—one did what one was ordered, and no less. It was the way of a Roman soldier, and the way of the world.

IIIIIIII

When Keziah's eyes opened, her entire body instantly protested.

Her head was pounding, her feet were sore, her legs ached, and she could feel the sting of sunburn on her cheeks and ears. She shifted on whatever it was she was lying on and moaned a little. A headache. That would only make things more pleasant.

How had this happened? Where was her mother? But as her eyes focused and her mind began to catch up with the rest of the world, she wished she had not woken up at all.

She was lying inside some type of tent, covered in a woolen blanket she'd never seen before, staring at a Roman signet across the tent.

Her eyes skimmed the tent, but then something rang in her head. A Roman signet? She bolted upright, and wished she hadn't. Her head throbbed and she put a hand to her forehead. "Where am I?" she whispered. "Oh, Jesus, where am I?"

The tent flaps rustled then, and Keziah jerked the covers up to her chin, her eyes wide as a young man entered the tent. He was dressed from head to foot in Roman gear, and from the shorn blonde hair, to the signet ring on his finger, to the hardened line of his mouth, he was every inch a proud Roman soldier. But then she saw his eyes and knew instantly where she was.

He was the soldier from the street—the one who'd chased her down, and cornered her in the alleyway. He'd taken her. She was a captive—the captive of a Roman.

Every pore of her body screamed in protest as the soldier crossed the tent in powerful, measured strides and knelt before her. He captured her chin in his calloused fingers, and Keziah felt repulsion fill her.

"So you're finally awake," he said in Greek.

Keziah didn't reply, but instead lifted her hand and removed his hand from her chin.

He grabbed her wrist. "Don't do that again," he said in a low voice. His eyes narrowed in his tanned, sun-lined face.

"Then don't touch me," she said in Greek, hoping she had pronounced the words correctly.

He rose slightly to sit closer to her on the bedroll. "Listen well, little Jewess. My name is Centurion Justus Triarius Appius, and you are now my slave. If you work hard and do as I say, you may become my wife. If you disobey, or cause me more trouble than I think you are worth, you will find yourself in the tent of a lesser man, or lying on the side of the road. Do I make myself clear?"

Keziah understood most of what he said, and fury burned within her. "You foul Roman dog," she hissed in Hebrew. "God will strike you down. You are a pagan, and I despise you."

Justus couldn't understand what she was saying, but her eyes said it in a language spoken by all. The glimpses he had of her in the streets of Jerusalem gave him the impression that she was sweet, quiet, soft-spoken. But somehow he had found a sharp-tongued young woman with fire in her eyes.

Justus swore and let her go. This had been a bad idea. He walked to the tent entrance, and looked back at her once more. Her hair was ratted, her face was streaked with dirt, and he could feel her animosity from across the tent. Everything rational within in him said he should clean her up, take his pleasure, and send her on her way. Make her someone else's problem. And yet—somewhere within him, that same voice from the alleyway spoke in its unyielding, quiet way: Wait, Justus. Wait and see. She's the one.

"I'll have some water sent in," he said in Greek. "Get yourself cleaned up. We're leaving your god-forsaken city at dawn." He stepped out, then paused and stepped back in halfway. "And… don't go getting delusions of some grand escape. You won't succeed. Do you understand?"

The girl didn't say anything, and didn't move, but her eyes seemed to scream at him.

Justus stepped out of the tent and found himself feeling safer amongst the hubbub of wailing Israeli prisoners and Roman soldiers barking orders and throwing things than he had inside his own tent, with that fiery-eyed Jewess, staring at him with hatred in her eyes.

IIIIIIIII

A young man of medium height with light brown hair and brown eyes brought a tub of water to the tent. He didn't speak, but set the tub near Keziah. He never looked at her, and as soon as he took a quick look around the tent, he left.

Keziah was clutching the blanket to herself, covering her body. She sat still for a few moments longer, listening to the shouts outside the tent. She felt a single tear make a pathway through the dirt caked on her cheek and she wiped it away.

Don't cry. You must never let them see you cry.

And sitting there, on a Roman palette with barely clean water in front of her, Keziah vowed to herself that she would never let that cocky centurion, nor any other Roman, see her shed a tear.

Resolve strengthened, Keziah left the blanket on the bedroll and knelt in front of the small tub before she dunked her hands into the warm water. She rubbed her hands around in the water and washed her forearms, then her upper arms. She cupped her hands and pressed the water to her face, then carefully washed her hair, her feet, her legs.

She squeezed her hair, letting the water drop into the now dirty basin and then shook her head back and forth a few times. She braided her hair quickly, then returned to her place on the bedroll.

She sat in silence for a long time, not praying, not thinking, not even being. Every part of her was numb, and she didn't know what to do with herself. It almost came as a relief when the centurion returned, since it gave her something to do.

She watched him throw the tent flaps aside impatiently and stride across the tent without looking at her. He laid his palms flat on the table in the eastern corner of the canvas enclosure and stared down at some Latin writing for a long time.

Keziah took the opportunity to study him. His height was not what made him intimidating, but his broad shoulders, steady gaze, and solid frame certainly did. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and his jaw was firm. Every second she looked at him, Keziah hated him more. He stood for everything that had destroyed her home, her family, her life, and she felt anger as she'd never known it as she watched him

He lifted his head and looked her over. He gave her a little half smile, and Keziah simmered with indignation. She stared back at him, unblinking, and he looked a little thrown off-balance.

When he finally left the tent, Keziah sank back into the covers, pulling the woolen blanket over her head and shutting her eyes tightly. She wanted to escape this horrible Roman world, where nothing was as it should be, as well as the reality that her family was truly—gone.