Chapter 4

Longus had to drop to his knees to fit through the narrowing passage. Whoever dug the opening had made it large to start and then reduced the size. At least there were thin pipes to allow air in. They had been sunk into the tunnel at various distances, but usually lay flat against the earthen roof. Someone like Rachel could easily pass through the shaft, but Longus’ girth made the process more difficult.

He lay flat on the ground, although his stomach impeded a complete descent. He felt as though he were a billow, forcing air to pass through him as his body rose and fell with his agonizingly slow movement. He had to dig his elbows into the ground to move ahead, throwing up little clouds of dust. He could not get much of a toehold for a push. If he raised his head too much, he contacted the dirt above him. Once, he smacked his head into an extended air pipe.

He could move only a little in any direction but forward. Someone had carefully placed rocks, possibly cobblestones liberated from a street above, along the sides to hold back the soft earth. While the result was a hard wall, it also confined him into a limited area with uneven surfaces and plenty of ways to added bruises. Longus felt he was discovering them all.

His heaving sides brushed against the walls, roughing his skin. Once or twice, he thought he was caught, but then broke free. Rachel had to push his feet to give him extra oomph.

A dank smell surrounded him. He kept stifling a cough. Rachel did clear her throat once her twice, but that may have nothing to do with the musty odor. Her position behind him wasn’t the best considering that his agitated stomach did not respond well to the bread and honey followed by the wild run through a crowded neighborhood.

Because of the darkness, she kept bumping into him anyway. She obviously could move faster, but there was no way to reverse positions. As it was, Longus couldn’t see anything in front of him, but gamely inched forward. The dampness seeped into his clothes. His knees and thighs ached from scraping along the rough-hewn ground. His elbows simply hurt. Gritting his teeth, which reduced the amount of dirt he was swallowing, Longus struggled down the tunnel.

He couldn’t help thinking how much his life had changed in a matter of days. Saturday, he had been contently stuffing himself with exotic food and drowning it all with a flagon of undiluted wine. Now, Thursday, he’s crawling through a dark tunnel with a strange woman who had turned him into a wanted criminal. He would have shaken his head with dismay had there been enough room.

Having nothing else to do but to move awkwardly and mindlessly along, he again searched through his memory for something he had specifically done to anger the gods this much. There was no question he had done something. He had realized that two days ago. However, his initial ideas about broken plates and damaged home altar hardly seemed so awful a transgression as to warrant this kind of reaction. Besides, which god had he offended? It couldn’t be all of them. The tunnel would have collapsed if that were the case. He would have been with Pluto by now, a poor, wandering shade.

Deciding on the correct god to placate kept his mind occupied as he struggled forward. There were so many. He decided none of the female deities were involved. At least, no story he had learned about the goddesses implied they would bury someone. They were more likely to have him torn apart, like Attis, or condemned to death in battle, like Hector.

He mentally scanned the list of male gods. Jupiter? He would have sent a lightning bolt. Besides, his interest was more directed toward females. Mars? No, the little scratch the soldier gave him would hardly constitute something sufficiently vicious for the god of war.

After pausing to clear some dirt from his mouth, Longus finally hit upon an acceptable answer: Bacchus, the god of wine and revelry. The evidence was overwhelming: this gruesome descent into the bowels of the earth started soon after paying for the vendor’s grapes and then stealing bread and honey, all of which were clearly in that god’s purview. The vendor definitely had not looked like a deity, but gods were known to disguise themselves. Jupiter had turned himself into a swan. Why couldn’t the god of wine have transformed himself into a very ugly tradesman with tangled hair and rancid breath?

At the moment, Longus considered himself fortunate not have been forced to throw himself down a well, as had happened to Callirhoe who had somehow insulted such a god. A river nymph married to a river god, she scorned a priest of the god and died for her behavior. Or cut apart by his father, which is what happened to King Lyurgas’ son because the monarch, founder of Sparta, put Bacchus’ followers in prison.

Then, again, he might have been driven insane, a Bacchant specialty.

Faced with such dire prospects, he had no idea how to remove the curse upon him. After all, he had joined in Bacchant revelries without any hesitation, drinking and carousing with all the enthusiasm of a true believer. However, he had never performed a single religious ritual, offered a prayer to the debauched god or left any offering at the god’s shrine. He was aware that some pious folks had created a kind of cult around Bacchus, which consisted of daily prayer and chaste behavior, but he had never opted for that approach. The god of wine deserved hearty, continuous toasts, not piety.

Once safely extracted from this living tomb, Longus resolved to seek out the temple of Bacchus and make amends. He’d even be willing to drain another flagon of wine in honor of the god or host an orgy, anything to get the curse lifted.

Feeling better at having explained his situation, he resolutely shoved his right elbow into the ground and wiggled forward. The left followed and the right again. Then, he smacked into something solid with his forehead. He worked his arms forward and felt around. There was a wall in front of him, rich with the smell of soil. The tunnel had ended, but Rachel didn’t.

“Oof,” she cried. “Why did you stop?”

“I can’t go anywhere,” Longus told her, feeling a tremendous headache. There couldn’t be much air in their small chamber even with the pipes. The tunnel was also hot, despite the trickle of water that accompanied their passage. The unusual physical effort forced him to take deep breaths anyway. Now, stuck at the chamber’s end, he was straining to breathe. He felt only despair. He had worked so hard and come so far only to be trapped. He could not imagine backing up. His elbows wouldn’t survive that. He would simply die here. No pyre would be necessary, not that anyone would have purchased one. In many ways, he was already buried.

Rachel pulled back from him. He could hear her taking short, quick breaths, too.

They stayed there for a moment, panting, unsure what to do.

“There’s no way to go?” Rachel asked.

Longus felt the sides and the wall in front of him. Everything seemed solid. “No,” he replied wearily. He really felt like putting his head down and sleeping.

“Maybe there’s an opening above us,” Rachel suggested.

Longus considered that, although there was no way for him to see. He tried, but only dislodged dirt trapped on his eyelashes. He would have to turn over. That turned out to be a struggle. The process was akin to a whale attempting to breach in mud. He had to put his weight on his left leg, push against the stones on the side and then, inch by inch, get his great stomach pointing north. The process took several minutes of intense effort. Dirt sprinkled down like rain. He wasn’t able to move a finger across his face and clear his eyes. There was no way to incorporate the sleeve of the pallium for that chore.

Finally, he could look up. The ceiling appeared no different than the floor, but there was a faint, strange, square outline. His left arm was pinioned by his weight, but the right was free. He reached up tentatively, not wanting to dislodge more dirt into his face. The distance was only a few inches. Pushing with his fingers, he felt a flat piece of wood. The sensation was electrifying. He ran his hand along it. It wasn’t much different from the wood slab that marked the entrance to this tunnel.

“I think it’s some kind of door,” he said.

He pushed against it with an open palm, but did not feel it move. Shifting so his shoulders were higher, he reached the few inches over his head and pushed again. The results were the same. He expected the wood to pop out or do something, but it seemed wedged in place and determined to stay there. There wasn’t a hint of give.

“It’s stuck,” he said, sagging back. Holding his arm above his head was too hard. He was already so exhausted that even a minimal effort seemed difficult. He lay flat, sucking in the meager air emitted by a pipe that emerged a few inches in front of the wood.

“Try knocking,” Rachel said.

Longus gathered himself. Knocking? When did he ever have to knock? He simply walked in. The thought of walking up the wall struck him as funny. With a little more available energy, he might have laughed. He turned slightly so his right arm could be employed and patted the door.

No answer.

“Can’t you hit it harder,” Rachel said. It was not a question. She sounded exasperated.

Longus felt anger surging. A woman telling him what to do? And a snip of one at that? Didn’t she remember who he was? He didn’t say anything, but let the furious thoughts roll around his head. It was bad enough a god was angry at him. Now he was taking orders from a teenager? He balled up his right hand and struck out against the wood, bruising his knuckles in the process. He fought off a cry of pain. No woman was going to hear that.

“Do it again,” Rachel ordered.

Longus clenched his fists in frustration, but before he could lash out, he heard strange sounds. Something was being moved. Light edged around the wood. It had not been completely removed, but soothing air surged toward him. He gulped gratefully. Then someone, a man, spoke in a harsh, cold tone. The voice came down the pipe, distorted and faint, but sufficiently audible.

מאיפה אתה”“

Rachel shouted her name. “He wants to know who we are,” she translated.

“It’s about time,” Longus said. “You tell him my name is…” The voice interrupted him.

“האם אתה לבד”

“He wants to know if I’m alone,” Rachel continued. She called back, לא “ .” Her loud response echoed around the small room and added to Longus’ headache. She then added: “אני כאן עם רומי. הוא סתם טיפש גדול. הוא לא נשקפת סכנה.”

“What did you say?” Longus asked.

“I just told him your name,” Rachel said.

Suddenly, dirt fell in a sudden shower. Longus closed his eyes. When he opened them, the wood had been removed. Longus blinked, adjusting to the burst of light. He could make out a man peering down. He was small with billowing black hair and a beard. He stared at them with dark, suspicious eyes.

“How did you get in here?” he asked in Latin.

“The astrologer, Olympus, helped us escape some soldiers,” Longus replied wearily. He just wanted to get out of this earthen prison. Maybe he could get a decent meal. At least the sudden flow of fresh air was helping him revive a little.

The man seemed to be thinking. He turned and slid the wood partially back into place. Longus could hear more voices. He could not understand what they were saying. No one seemed ready to lift them out. “Rachel,” he demanded, “tell them to help us.”

“That won’t do much good,” Rachel said. “They must be hiding from the soldiers themselves. They are Jews. They are afraid of being arrested. They don’t know us.”

“Then tell them something in your language. We can’t stay here,” Longus whined. He could imagine the wood sliding back into place, consigning them both to this desolate grave.

Rachel shouted: “מתי סבא שלי הוא בן יהודה”

From the sound, Longus could decipher the last word, a name. “Your grandfather?”

“Yes,” Rachel told him. “They probably know everyone in the community.”

The wooden door slid open. The man was smiling. He reached down. Longus put his right arm up. His hand extended above the opening into empty space. The man grabbed it in an iron grip. However, Longus’ heft made movement difficult. Others were recruited. Longus thought they were going to take his arm and leave the left of his body behind.

“I don’t bend that easily,” he shouted.

Using his left hand, he pushed against the tunnel wall while digging his heels into the ground to get some movement. Finally, he could stand. With one arm raised, his head poked through the opening. His knees ached as did his back. He gulped the air gratefully. He could see a small room with at least five or six men and as many women, several holding children against their bodies. He managed a smile, trying to appear benevolent. They stared at him and shrank back.

His left shoulder hit the sides of the opening and would go no farther. The men tried to pull him through with no success, despite tugging vigorously on his extended arm. If anything, he managed only to generate more clouds of dirt that rained on Rachel below.

“שומן בתחת,” one of the men muttered. The others laughed.

“I’m trying,” Longus whined with wounded pride. He didn’t know what they said, but it probably wasn’t nice.

He wiggled his left arm slowly up his side past his chest and in front of his face. The shoulder protested, but at least it could get through the opening. The process hurt as the outside of his shoulder dug into the wooden frame. Two men grabbed one arm; two the other. They didn’t coordinate their efforts very well. For a moment, he understood how a sacrificial animal must feel as it was torn limb from limb. However, after a few moments of tugging, he was lifted a few inches above the opening.

One man gamely tried to lock his arms around Longus’ upper chest and tried to heave. That had no effect. Longus easily outweighed several of the men together. None of them were very big anyway. Like pulling a ship into a glass bottle, however, they gradually forced his thick body through the opening. He helped by pressing down with his arms. His stomach was the next big obstacle. He sucked it in as best as he could. The scant hint of space was enough. More dirt fell as he struggled. The door frame held. Inch by inch, he continued to emerge.

His hips were the last impediment. They plowed into the wood. By then, the aristocratic stripes on his pallium were visible. He could hear the men talking and gesturing at it. The color had been stained brown, but they recognized them and knew what they meant. Longus hoped the men helping him appreciated the importance of his presence.

Hands held him securely until he was finally pulled through with an audible pop. He was rolled to the side and lay there gasping. The men who aided him were exhausted, too.

Rachel was hoisted up with far more ease. She sat down beside him.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He rolled over and almost laughed aloud. Rachel was a fright. Her brown hair was caked with dirt. Smudges marked her face as though someone had finger-painted all over it, while her tunic was stained and muddy. Then, he realized that his condition couldn’t be much better. If anything, she was thin enough to move along the tunnel without contacting the walls. His white pallium had been dyed chocolate and was still damp.

Bacchus certainly knew how to humiliate someone, he thought. He glanced around. No one was offering him wine. He certainly could use an amphora of it.

Instead, an older woman with her hair covered in cloth with deep lines across her forehead bent over him and washed his face with a damp cloth. He smiled up at her. She seemed so stern. She did not show any feeling. Her dark eyes were cold, almost fierce. He didn’t really care. He had no energy and simply lay on the ground, staring at the ceiling. He had no idea where he was and didn’t bother to ask. That would have required a lot more effort than he could muster.

Another woman tended to Rachel.

The process took several minutes, including a bowl of water to wash off hands and feet. The ministrations left Longus feeling a little better, but sill completely spent. He hoped this escape did not involve any more effort.

After the women left, the man who first greeted them knelt down between them. He introduced himself as Eliezer ben Simeon.

“I am sorry not to be more hospitable,” he said with no accent. “It has been a difficult time.”

“No wine?” Longus said.

“Not here,” Eliezer said. “We will join the others soon enough. Christ was looking out for you. We only stopped here on the way to a safer place.” He also apologized for being unable to provide clean clothes. There was no point in explaining. His tunic, like those of the people in the room, was worn and dirty.

Longus realized they had probably left everything behind when they fled. He had done the same thing.

“I can buy a drink,” Longus said, holding up his purse.

Eliezer took it. “We are a commune,” he said. “Following Christ’s guidance, we share all.” He took the purse and checked inside with a pleasant cock of his head. “This will help,” he said.

“It’s not very much,” Longus said and then realized that his paltry amount would be a treasure to someone with nothing.

“Keep your life free from the love of money, and be content with what you have,” Eliezer quoted solemnly. He tied the purse to the band around his middle.

Longus watched his money vanish. He closed his eyes in mournful sorrow. It was hard to be content with nothing.

Meanwhile, Eliezer gestured at the others in the room, waving at them to leave. They filed out slowly, closing the door behind them. As they did, Eliezer carefully slid the wooden covering back over the tunnel. He then placed a heavy stone over it and brushed the sand from the dirt flooring over the entry, completely concealing it.

The realization that they were still not safe should have galvanized Longus, but he was already started to fall asleep. The unusual and extended exertion had drained whatever energy he normally could claim. He blinked, trying to stay awake, but drowsiness swept through him. He shut his eyes again. He could still hear Eliezer, although the sound of his voice was drifting away, too.

Eliezer glanced at Longus and turned to Rachel. “Did you come from Judea?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Patmos.” Eliezer looked puzzled. “It’s a Greek island,” she explained. “My uncle asked me to go there and get a letter from my grandfather. He had sent it earlier and wanted it back. I found the letter, but not my grandfather,” Rachel continued. “Do you know where I can find him?”

Eliezer nodded. He seemed to be trying to find the right thing to say. He finally said, “הוא ישן עם אבא שלו.” He sounded very somber.

Rachel bent her head into her hands. Longus opened one eye and studied her. She was sobbing. “What’s the matter?” he asked, propping himself up with his arms behind him.

“He’s dead,” she replied.

“Who? The Emperor?”

“My grandfather,” Rachel said. Tears dribbled down her cheek.

Longus patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but he must have been an old guy.”

“He was a good man,” Eliezer said. “I knew him well. He died a martyr. He spoke out at the new Emperor’s ceremony, citing our holy prophets. The Romans killed him.”

Blinking, Longus shook his head. Had there been two people who interrupted the ritual? No, that was not possible. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I only saw Perspectus say something.”

Eliezer disagreed. “Ben Mattathias did that.”

Longus didn’t like the tone. Eliezer obviously thought he was stupid. “I know my own slave,” he said.

“Slave!” Eliezer burst. He glared at Longus. “He told me he worked for an id ….” He stopped mid-sentence. “Ah,” he said. Then, he quieted and spoke to Rachel: “הלטיני שלו הייתה צריכה להיות שם Perspectus.”

Rachel translated: “Perspectus must have been his Latin name,” she said. “I feel better knowing he died for his faith.”

“He really knew where to find the vendors with the best vegetables,” Longus added hopefully.

Eliezer shook his head. “It’s a Jewish talent,” he said dryly. “You should see us with fruit, too.”

Longus brightened. “Yes, he could find that,” he enthused.

“We can’t stay here,” Eliezer interrupted. “It’s not safe.” He checked at the door. “We are only a few hundred yards from Olympus’ home. The Guard is still searching.” He extended a hand to Rachel, who stood up. He ignored Longus, who laboriously struggled to his feet.

“You can stay,” Eliezer told him. “You are a citizen. They will not harm you.” He pointed at the stripes.

“Little you know,” Longus said. “They would cut me down on sight.”

“They certainly would have no trouble identifying you,” Eliezer snapped.

Before Longus could reply, Rachel held up a hand. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “My uncle asked me to bring this letter back from my grandfather.” She shook, and a roll of parchment fell from under her tunic to the ground. She picked it up. Dirt stained its surface in dark streaks. Here and there were marks of water damage. She handed it to Eliezer.

He slowly unwound it. He scanned the writing and then turned to look at Rachel.

“האם אתה יודע מה זה אומר,” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s in Greek. I don’t read Greek,” she said.

“Neither do I,” Eliezer muttered. He checked the whole scroll.

Longus waited. This was his moment. “I can read Greek,” he announced proudly. They turned and looked as if a mule had spoken. “All educated Romans can read Greek,” he protested. “I went to school. I come from a very important family. We had tutors. We were not illiterate peasants.”

“Can you read this?” Eliezer asked. He hesitantly handed over the parchment. Longus took it. Someone had written with dark ink, which was soaking into the surface. He recognized the words immediately. He had seen this writing earlier on the scroll in Perspectus’ bedroom.

“It’s in Kone,” he said.

“Is that Greek?” Eliezer asked worriedly.

“It’s a type of Greek,” Longus explained. “It’s not the formal Greek of Plato and Aristotle, but more like street language.”

“Does that you mean you can’t read it,” Eliezer pressed. His voice took on an agitated tone, as if sure that Longus would be useless.

Longus pulled himself up. “It’s all Greek to me,” he said. Actually, he could understand only some of the words. He recognized the alphabet, but Kone contained many idioms. He pretended to read, moving his eyes across the letters. He wiped off some invisible dirt. He rolled the scroll open wider and then closed it back up. Rachel and Eliezer watched him with undisguised anxiety.

“Well?” Eliezer encouraged.

“It’s some kind of letter,” Longus said. He could read the greeting. Besides, Rachel said her uncle had sent it to her grandfather. It was definitely addressed to someone.

They heard noises outside the small home. They all stared at the door. “We can read it later,” Eliezer decided quietly. He took a half step toward Longus, who rolled up the scroll and held it tightly against his chest. Eliezer started to say something, but thought better of it.

He led them out the back door. They emerged on a small street with apartments and homes all around. People were hurrying along the cobblestones, avoiding the occasional pothole. Rainwater collected in the gaps between the stones served as troughs for various dogs. Smoke filled the air, billowing in dark clouds. Ashes drifted around them, blacking already drab building exteriors and faces. Longus glanced around. All that effort in the tunnel and they had not covered much distance.

Rachel and Eliezer hurried ahead. Behind them, Longus grimaced and forced himself to put one foot forward and then the other. This was no different than elbowing his way through the tunnel. There was just more air. Everything hurt. He willed his legs to follow his companions, but could not go very fast. The other two were almost running. He could barely totter. Even the scroll, seemingly so light, had morphed into an anchor in his hand. People stared at them. He didn’t care. He just wanted to energy and strength to move. There was no point praying to a god for assistance, not with one of them having a vendetta against him. He would have to do this alone.

His companions kept looking back with exasperation. He saw them, but could only continue to lumber as best he could through the swirling crowds. Somewhere, probably not far away, the Guard was continuing its relentless pursuit. Longus was sure that, if he glanced over his shoulder, he would see their helmets bobbing above the crowd. He wouldn’t have minded stopping to look, but his forward momentum, however limited, kept him trudging on.

He grabbed a sweet cake off a vendor’s table and continued, ignoring the outburst his action prompted. The little bit of food sparked a resurgence. He now shuffled his feet rather than stumbled along.

Finally, he made it across the street and through another alley. He couldn’t see them when he came out on another street. Eliezer shouted. Longus saw him up the block to the right. Frustrated by his own inability to walk, Longus turned. He was almost crying. He hadn’t wanted Rachel to see him weep in the tunnel. Now, in front of hundreds of people, he could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks.

He saw a small knot of teenagers in front of him. One had an evil, sinister grin. There was a knife in his right hand. The others were armed, too. Longus stopped. He no longer cared. Let them end his life. He would willingly throw himself on the blade.

The teen with the knife stepped to a nearby stall where a calf had been hung. He deftly sliced a small piece off a side. Blood ran down the flank. The teen then put the raw meat in his mouth and let the blood spray across his face. He then licked his lips. Longus shuddered.

“Get away from him,” Eliezer shouted, sprinting down the crowded road. He had a large stick in his hand. The teens turned and then stepped back. They seemed determined to respond, but then thought better of it.

Panting, Eliezer stopped next to Longus. “Come on,” he said sharply and reached for the scroll.

Longus jerked it away. They faced each other a moment before Eliezer retreated. Longus expected that. The three stripes on Longus’ pallium may have turned brown. They may have become buried under the muck and mud of the tunnel, but Eliezer already said he knew they were there and what they meant. Longus was a high-caste Roman. Even in his deplorable condition, he could not be trifled with, especially by an outsider who may not have even been a citizen.

Longus straightened. The gods wanted him to live. So be it. He was tired, so hungry that his stomach was sending out orchestral signals and so sore that even the slightest movement generated spasms racing through his body, but he had not lost his ability to think. He could not surrender the scroll. That was his only asset now, as precious as gold. As long as he held it, Eliezer and his companions couldn’t desert him to the teens who were watching nearby or the soldiers who were not much farther behind.