Gladiators

Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Antelogium

Capitulus I

Capitulus II

Capitulus III

Capitulus IV

Capitulus V

Capitulus VI

Capitulus VII

Capitulus VIII

Capitulus IX

Capitulus X

Capitulus XI

Capitulus XII

Capitulus XIII

Capitulus XIV

Capitulus XV

Capitulus XVI

Capitulus XVII

Capitulus XVIII

Capitulus XIX

Capitulus XX

Capitulus XXI

Capitulus XXII

Capitulus XXIII

Capitulus XXIV

Capitulus XXV

Capitulus XXVI

Capitulus XXVII

Capitulus XXVIII

Capitulus XXIX

Capitulus XXX

Capitulus XXXI

Capitulus XXXII

Capitulus XXXIII

Capitulus XXXIV

Capitulus XXXV

Capitulus XXXVI

Capitulus XXXVII

Capitulus XXXVIII

Capitulus XXXIX

Capitulus XL

Capitulus XLI

Postlogium

Also by Edna Cline:

The Portrait Postmortem

To:

The United States of America and her ‘centurions.’

(past, present, and future)

Acknowledgments

Jere Adams—(Editorial)

Alexey V. Braguine—(Edits)

Earl P. Chittum—(Line reading)

Erin J. Collins—(Biblical references)

Bren C. Cubbage—(Mil./Edit consultant)

1SG RET. M.E. Cubbage—(Military consultant)

Patrice C. Ferguson—(Consistency/Quality)

Neva Franks—(Line reader and Research)

Esther McConville—(Sounding board)

Carol S. Montague—(Line reader)

Pam Reese—(Research/Facts)

Tony R. Wilson—(Cover)

Foreword

To the readers:

As a copy and technical editor, Gladiators was far beyond my usual realm of editorial prowess. Not only was I about to suggest everything from spelling and grammar corrections, but I’d stepped out of my comfort zone. I was in a portion of history of which I had little knowledge. This book was written in omniscient point of view, a point of view I rarely see. The main concern I had was my own ability. "Are you sure you’re up to the task?’’ This question hit me between the eyes each and every time I opened my program and sat down to blue pencil the pages. My best bet, I finally decided, was to stay in contact with the author via instant message.

Hundreds of instant messages passed between the author and me. We discussed everything from thoroughbred horses to wolf-dogs; from color to weather, all pertaining to the book. Some nights we chatted for a while before we pressed forward into the questions I had for that day, ever reaching for an alternate way to write a difficult sentence to make it easier for the reader.

Ms. Cline and I continued our evening talks, sometimes deep into the wee hours. Not only was the novel edited in format, but by suggestions made during these talks. The end result is an action packed fiction novel based upon historical and Biblical figures during the days leading up to the very beginnings of Christianity. Many times I had to remind myself I was on the job, not reading for pleasure, go back to where I left off the night before and nit-pick through punctuation and current editorial trends. Gladiators worth every re-read word.

Step back into history and be prepared to read an entertaining and informative look into the life of a Roman soldier circa 1 A.D. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Bren Cubbage

Antelogium

Iron-plated heels clicked in resonant staccato undertones against narrow granite steps as eight Praetorian Guard unit commanders marched single-file into the dim underground annex. Upon entry, each saluted his fellow officers before he assumed his prearranged seat at the conference table.

One throne-like chair remained vacant.

Light from several well-placed turtle shell sconces cast harsh shadows upon L. Seius Strabo’s blockish features, as he rose from the commander’s chair. Once on his feet, Strabo reached into the leather pouch that hung from his belt. Seconds later, he cupped a delicate, blood red rose in his enormous palms.

Around the conference table, eyebrows vaulted, mouths twisted into grimaces.

Strabo tied a gold-colored cord to the rose’s stem. Afterward, he stepped onto a stool to knot the other end of the string around the hook in the ceiling installed for such occasions.

His viperesque countenance darkened as he hopped down from the stool. Strabo gripped his command staff with thick, iron-strong fingers. With a swift, fluid movement, he tossed his oak truncheon onto the center of the table. Upon impact, the pommel’s weight caused a loud thunk to reverberate against the stone walls. "I call this meeting of Caesar Augustus’ Praetorian Guard unit commanders sub rosa," he hissed, while he jabbed his left index finger toward the fragile blossom.

Above them, Roma’s ‘classified information’ pendulum swayed.

Around the table, mouths fell into rigid lines.

Men. You will notice the empty seat among us, Strabo continued, while he pointed to the empty chair. "Several days ago, our beloved Imperator, Caesar Augustus, assigned T. Bracia Octavio to the Praetorian Guard."

The men held their peace.

Several blows of the praetorian praefect’s palm against the oak table shot thunderous explosions into the air. "Defenders of Roma! This will not be! How would the Emperor of Rome, having a Praetorian Guardsman with an Egyptian wife look to the Roman people? Did not, just twenty-five years ago, Cleopatra seduce our beloved Antony? The whore cast so great a spell over Antony that he abandoned his current wife and lawful children to couple with her on the Nile. Also, did not Antony and the Egyptian woman die—each by their own hand—twenty-one years ago? And, before seducing Antony, did not the Egyptian woman cast the same spell over our beloved Julius Caesar?"

Several light grunts of affirmation filled the air.

"Men! That debauchery still haunts the consciousness of the Roman people. I know not why our beloved imperator overlooked Octavio’s Egyptian woman. Still, there are ways to keep a man from a seat on the Guard. Indeed, a tragic waste of a good soldier. However, our duty is to protect both the emperor’s public image and his military one."

Those assembled nodded their approval.

All eyes upon him, Strabo walked among his men to hand each a broken piece of dull gray pottery with notations on it. Read your orders then destroy the notes before you leave, he whispered. With this spoken, the Praetorian Praefect mounted the stool, once more, to untie the suspended rose. One by one, he tossed the petals onto the table, making five blood-like splotches. After tomorrow’s evening meal, the targets will be full and slow. T. Bracia Octavio, his parents, his woman, and his infant son must die.

One of the unit commanders tensed his shoulders and jaw in reflex.

Capitulus I

Terullus leaned back, right hand atop his full stomach. Good supper, wife! he lauded. Raising his palm, he gave Flavia’s backside a light smack while she cleared the table. Very good. You surpassed yourself tonight.

Flashing a pleased little smile, Flavia Secunda ignored Terullus’ affectionate pat in order to lug the weighty clay plates into the kitchen.

Terullus sighed in happiness as he came up from his recline at the table to venture toward his favorite chair in the atrium. The hearth’s steady crackle, the fire’s woodsy fragrance, and his full stomach left him satisfied and content. A soft giggle drew his attention to Istar.

His son’s woman placed the hearth broom aside to rinse her hands in a bowl. Since Octavio married in Egypt, and Roman law did not acknowledge foreign unions, Terullus objected, with much thunder, when his son took up with this Egyptian woman. In time, though, Istar’s gentle spirit proved him wrong. In many ways, she established herself as an excellent companion for Octavio. She mended, cleaned, cooked, marketed, wove, and kept her mouth shut, as well as any Roman wife he knew of—or better. Istar also birthed a strong, healthy boy a year after she and Octavio moved into the little house beside his. Moreover, Terullus certainly voiced no objections against the spirited four-month-old grandson asleep in the wicker basket in the corner. Old Roman prejudices, he supposed, die very hard.

I think I should lock you in the cellar and keep you little forever, Istar cooed, hovering over the basket while she tickled the baby’s nose.

Humph! Terullus grumbled while he stretched his legs toward the hearth. "I tried that with his father. Trust me. It does not work," he quipped.

Istar’s delicate giggles filled the air as she rocked the basket a little longer.

When is my son hauling his carcass back home? He was supposed to help me clean those kilns for tomorrow. The man eats and then vanishes like a ghost.

Istar turned her face from the basket, shrugged. Her shoulder bones’ delicate sculpt evident even under the pale green fabric which made her outer tunic. He said the Guards wanted to talk to him.

Concern for Octavio’s welfare made Terullus crease his brow. "Odd. Why would they want to see him this late at night?"

It was not my place to ask.

While he shook his head, Terullus hoisted himself to his feet. He lifted his cloak from its hook on the wall. All is well, I suppose. However, I best hurry. Still have to clean and rinse those kilns for tomorrow’s firings. T’is late, but… He chuckled. I hoped my vapor of a son could help me, or I would have left earlier. Perhaps I saw him for a moment or two at dinner.

As Terullus slipped from the warm house into the blustery autumn, he heard his son’s woman sing to Octavio the Younger, or Octaviate, as the family called him.

*     *     *

Istar settled the baby across her shoulder and patted his back. In time, two healthy burps erupted from the small, wiggly bundle. Good. Happy and full, she praised. After she changed his body cloth, she returned him to his basket.

The steady gait of horses’ hooves against cobblestone drew Istar toward the door. The small hook and eye latch tempted her to open it. However, she left it in place. Instead, she peered through the window to see if Octavio had returned home yet.

Under the street lantern’s radiant crest, six Praetorian Guards and their mounts waited. The lead man and his horse tightened their postures for a moment.

Istar’s heart raced in rib-pounding cadence. Each fully-armored man held a blue shield with a ring of four gold scorpions painted on it, not the standard emblem. "Mater! Hurry! The Guards! Something happened to Octavio." Concern for her husband almost made her open the door. However, wisdom clearly dictated against such.

I am coming, Flavia called from the kitchen.

As she waited for Octavio’s mother, fear chilled Istar to the spot. She pulled the curtains back further. Through the window, she eyed the men’s horses. Streaks of half-dried blood splattered the lead horse’s ribs and flank. However, Istar detected no injury on the animal. The sight of blood and no source wound exploded her fear into raw terror. Mater! A film of sweat ran down her face.

The rider mounted upon the lead horse nodded to his colleagues. At their commander’s signal, the six dismounted. In unison, they marched through the gate, toward the house.

A volley of thunderous blows rattled the door on its hinges.

Open up, by order of Caesar Augustus!

Shaking, Istar pulled the cellar door open. After which, she snapped up the basket. Despite fear, she slid Octaviate and his basket into the cool, dark space. After which, she bolted the door. Her son’s life ensured, Istar hauled the cumbersome rug across the trap. Her heartbeat almost overwhelmed her, but she continued her work. Those yellow scorpions on the shields meant the praetorians wanted blood.

Seconds later, two men, followed by a third, burst into the house. She found herself snared within a sword-wielding Praetorian Guard’s talons. The icy blade that indented the underside of her throat told Istar that her Octavio was no more.

Where is the old man! a gruff voice demanded in vulgarized Latin.

Rivulets of sweat trickled down her face. I… I do not… , Istar stammered, trying to force her panicked Egyptian tongue to flex around the Latin words. She could not tell them she did not speak their language very well—yet. Her lips parted in an attempted plea for her life… for her son’s life.

Terror paralyzed her voice. Istar’s heartbeat quickened until it felt like her heart and lungs would burst.

Istar’s last sensation was the numbing agony of her throat peeling from her neck bones. Flavia’s shrieks rang deep in her ears as Istar slipped through a tunnel-like void. Her journey down the River Styx had begun. Concerns for the afterlife abounded. What if a wild animal desecrated her body? What if her heart did not weigh in the Sun God’s balances? Would her restless Ka haunt the city as a vengeful, evil spirit? Who would recite from the Book of the Dead for her?

*     *     *

While his smoke-colored gelding plodded along the shadowy deserted forest path, Terullus sniffed the crisp autumn wind. Physical exhaustion and cold settled upon him like a well-worn hooded cloak as his frame swayed in cadence to the horse’s movements. Anticipation of Flavia’s homemade ale, the roaring hearth, and a game or two of Carrion with Octavio, fortified him along the journey.

As the birds screeched their calls, Terullus peered through the falling, misty shadows. Something predatory about tonight, he considered. Even the falcons are hunting before cockcrow. Icy gales lashed across his back and shoulders as he spurred his horse into a gallop.

A shadowy, caped figure scurried from the alley behind the stable, rat-like, darting from shadow to shadow.

An old man’s imagination, he thought. Yet, the image of what he thought he saw made the hairs on the back of his neck raise.

Inside the stable, Terullus dismounted. Once on the ground, he walked his gelding into its stall. In a flash, he snapped the lever across the door. Tilting his head, he listened. Quiet? he wondered. Too quiet. No. You are being foolish. The women must be in the back of the house where you cannot hear them. You are just being suspicious, you old fool. Still . . . After he lit a torch, he slipped the iron key into the lock. A crusty, red-brown hand-shaped splotch beaconed from the center of the door, now swaying on the top hinge.

Shivers darted up and down his spine. Blood! Flavia? Istar? What by the… His heart pounded against his ribs like a bird trying to escape a trap, while Terullus followed the bloody trail through the tiny alcove, into the kitchen.

Gasping, he knelt beside Flavia and took her mangled hand in his. Her cold, rigored joints informed him that she departed well over an hour ago. Lacerations crisscrossed her decimated face, arms, and hands. The almost decapitating slice across her throat informed Terullus of what took her from him.

Forcing himself to stand, Terullus left his wife’s corpse to search for his son’s woman and his grandson. Despite concentrated effort to walk, he staggered like a drunkard.

His son’s woman lay stretched across the hearth, the only wound on her corpse—an open throat. Evidently, they caught her unawares, unlike Flavia, who apparently fought her assailants in vain.

In that instant, Terullus understood. Octavio, also, was no more. The whole family was gone. He shut his eyes. A second later, he threw back his head to cry out. However, no sound emerged. Only silent agony erupted from his convulsing mouth. The anguish remained frozen within him as he dropped to his knees.

‘I think I should lock you in the cellar and keep you little forever.’

What? he asked the voice in his head. What are you talking about?

‘I think I should lock you in the cellar and keep you little forever,’ the voice repeated.

What! he demanded, while he pulled himself upright. Who are you? Why do you give me senseless riddles like some Delphian Oracle? Why do you mock my grief? He remembered Istar’s child-like giggles, while she placed Octaviate into his basket. Hope dared spring into his heart.

His hand trembled as he slipped the torch’s cone through a brass ring which extended from the wall. Terullus seized the heavy rug’s bronze edge in both hands. While taking slow, calculated breaths, he pulled the cover from the cellar door. Octaviate! His heart raced at full palpitation as he threw the trap open. "It is your grandfather—your avus!" Garrote-like tightness filled his chest while he listened for the baby’s wail. Are you down there, little one? he asked, voice shaking with dread.

Nothing.

Terullus crawled into the tiny cellar and groped around in the dark for the baby. At last, he felt warm, tender infant skin and the fuzzy wool blanket. His pulse quickened as Terullus hoisted his blanketed grandson alive from the chilly cellar. Terror, grief, rage, frustration, and gratitude for the baby’s life flashed through his emotions like lightning against the pitch-black night. Curling into fetal position, Terullus rocked on his rear while he clutched his grandson against his chest. He wanted to sob in relief as each tiny heartbeat pit-patted into his frame. However, his tears remained captive within him.

*     *     *

With shaking fingers, Terullus slipped both jeweled rings off Flavia’s slashed fingers. He laid his hand on her necklace, but found it saturated with gore. No time to clean this one, he realized. So, he abandoned the jeweled string. After he washed his hands, Terullus used his work knife to slit her clothing from neckline to hem. In the folds of her undergarments, he found three denarii and ten sesterces. Istar, a nursing mother at the time of her murder, would have no jewels or money on her.

Flavia’s intact inner clothing indicated thieves had not descended upon them. Robbers would have plundered the undergarments. Something far more sinister than thievery lay afoot. The fact his son yet remained unaccounted for reaffirmed Terullus’ suspicions of political mayhem. He had to get himself and Octaviate out of Roma. The Guard would hunt them down after Strabo discovered the ‘oversight.’

He found the false-bottomed pot, constructed from two pieces which he had gummed together and sealed with glaze, in the corner. Istar kept the vessel’s twin at Octavio’s house and he planned to raid it later. Fear and anger overcame him. Trembling with rage, he seized the fireplace poker, raised it above his head, feet braced on the floor. "Selfish fool!’

Crash! The pottery vase exploded wide open under the metal rod.

Monster!

Crash!

See what evil your ambitions have wrought.

Crash!

With the savage vehemence he felt Octavio’s skull deserved, Terullus shattered the object with his fireplace poker, taking four more blows than necessary. He scooped its contents from among gray, yellow, and gold shards. He knew where Flavia kept two other money and jewelry reserves. So, he raided her treasuries. All coins, small valuables, and potential barter trinkets went straight into his sack.

He laid two body cloths on the table and stashed jewels and coins between them. After he switched Octaviate’s cloth with the bejeweled ones, Terullus placed the boy into his largest quiver, one of mythic proportions that held fifty arrows. Fortunately, little Octavio’s full belly let him sleep well. So, all Terullus needed to do to stifle the child’s feeble protests was rock the quiver.

Before leaving his house, Terullus snapped the images of Jupiter, Vesta, and Isis from the hearth, sticking them into the large traveling bag already stuffed with body cloths, powders, ointments, clean swaddling wraps, and a pottery infant feeder. Terullus had made the small terra-red milk vase, complete with a feeding spout, for a client whose wife had perished in childbirth. However, he needed it for Octaviate now.

After he slipped through the night and cannibalized his son’s house, as he had his own, Terullus hurried into Octavio’s stable and took two horses.

*     *     *

Under the glimmering outside torches, the world sank into a monochromatic blur of black, gray, and dark green shadows. Half-frozen crystals of icy, vaporous mist clung to his skin and clothing.

By fate, an experienced river rat, met him at the mouth of the Tiber.

Terullus handed him two of Flavia’s amethyst rings.

Without question, the man rafted Terullus, his quiver, and both horses down the Tiber’s inky, moonlit waters, toward Port Ostia. Erie silence, broken only by a rhythmic slosh when the pole churned the surface, knotted Terullus’ stomach. He focused on not being ill as he gripped the raft’s side rail. Small tremors shot through his body like many icy spears.

Huffing and tired, Terullus hoisted the quiver upon his shoulders. Under night’s cover, he disembarked onto the shore. Fortunately, little distance separated the dock from the port. He managed in perhaps forty paces.

Apparently, the passage-taker also sold goats, chickens, and sheep. For, secured within small pens, the animals awaited whatever was to be their fate. Piteous bleats, bawws, and clucks rang in his ears.

Terullus stared, wide-eyed at the penned animals, as he slapped his forehead. Milk! Off all things to bypass, he forgot milk for the baby. Next ship out, he instructed the man at the passage booth. And, a she-goat, please. I have weak lungs and goat’s milk is medicinal.

The man scrutinized him, brows aloft. I doubt if I should let you. You could be an escaped criminal—coming out here—this time of night—just one travel bag.

All I need is in the quiver and the bag, he answered, with patience. Next ship out and a she-goat.

‘Next ship out.’ I still do not like the sound of that. Too criminal for me. The Praetorians cleaned one house real good tonight, I heard. Nasty business. Under the dim moonlight, the man pointed out one of the horses, his bejeweled fingers glittering like multi-colored stars.

Without hesitation, Terullus gave the passage taker the little golden mare’s lead. Just when he wondered how the man acquired such fine gems, Terullus thought he noticed a shadow slip through the brush. He had no time to wonder if it was real or if he was just being suspicious. Tonight, however, someone was, indeed, out to get him. Leaving Rome was all that mattered.

A clay ticket slid into Terullus’ hand as if of its own accord. Judaean Provinces, the man whispered. A bit later, the man brought one of the she-goats for Terullus’ inspection.

He nodded as he accepted the animal’s lead.

The boatman’s shadowed figure tilted his head toward a Roman Galleon. Its golden brown, scorpion-like shape, the sail at full mast, bobbed atop the waves like a float in a horse trough.

Weeks later, the ship reached safe port in Joppa. From there, Terullus, his goat, and his quiver, journeyed, via camel caravan, the dusty, filthy thirty-five miles to Jerusalem.

Libre I

When I was a child, I spake as a

child, I understood as a child, I

thought as a child: but when I became

a man, I put away childish things.

I Corinthians 13:11

(KJV)

Capitulus II

From the donkey cart’s seat, Octaviate nestled against his grandfather’s thin, solid frame. The donkeys’ braying sounded in his ears. After a moment, he grew bored. So, he peered at the whizzing cobblestone road through the cracked, broken slats in the wagon floor. Grinning, he swung his legs back and forth, since the bottom did not reach his feet yet. "I cannot wait until I grow up, Avus." He looked at his grandfather.

His grandfather cast him an offhand glance. One day, you will think childhood was the best time in your life.

Ha! grumbled Octaviate, his bottom lip curled in a pout. "I hate being six. I have to remember all those silly rules. Go to sleep. Get up. Wash my face. Feed the sheep. Eat again. Wash my plate. Help with the sheep-work. Then, I have to go to sleep, even if I am not tired."

His grandfather chuckled. I understand.

Balancing himself on the seat as the wagon jolted along, Octaviate crossed his arms. "Know what I hate most about being six?"

Noooo. What?

I have to eat when I am not hungry. He stared into the pale blue sky. The cool spring breeze made the weather perfect in his sight. Though he loved and revered his grandfather, Octaviate crossed his arms. He wanted to play outside on a night like this. Under normal circumstances, the weather was too hot or too cold. He liked working. But, tonight was too perfect. After a bit, he thought of something he loathed worse than eating wheat. Oh, he added. And, I hate whippings.

Learn to do what I say, and you will not get so many.

Octaviate raised his voice in jest. But, Grandfather, I just have to be what I am.

Well, you need not be such a willful little tyrant about it, his grandfather snapped. "But, there is something you do need to know."

He looked up.

Rumor has it the King of the Jews was born in Bethlehem. Since we are going there on business, I need to warn you. Herod the Great has ordered all little boys two years and younger killed. Should anyone ask how old you are, tell them the truth. Say six.

Will they not know I am more than two?

They might not give a care. Just tell them, and they have no excuse. But, we are Roman, and you are older. So, it is fairly safe for us.

Staring up the long, meandering road, Octaviate sighed as wind blew through his cropped, raven hair. He took his gaze off the path as he turned toward his grandfather. What business are we going to Bethlehem for?

Eli Benhadad wants to buy some of my ewes for breed stock. You know the Benhadad family. But, you cannot play with Josiah tonight. We are in sort of a hurry.

I wish I could, he said, watching the long, hazard-strewn road ahead of him. Thus, Herod the Great and the local gossip vanished from his thoughts.

*     *     *

Octaviate stayed on the wagon seat while his grandfather darted toward the house.

Josiah’s uncle will come out soon to watch you, his avus called past his shoulder. Stay put until he gets here.

He liked the Benhadad family. And, he often played with their son, Josiah. But, his grandfather said he wanted to make haste tonight. So, he would have no time with his friend.

Soon, chilly gales forced him to wrap up in the yellow and light green wool blanket his grandfather stored in the wagon for cold desert nights.

Octaviate waited in silence until Josiah’s uncle emerged from the small dwelling. When the old man reached him, he put a hand on Octaviate’s shoulder.

Moments later, the clatter of horses’ hooves against cobblestone demanded his attention. Two mounted soldiers charged after a woman clutching a baby in her arms.

Stop in the name of Herod the Great! one of the soldiers bellowed, circling his sword over his head.

The woman kicked up dirt clouds as she fled toward the shadows on tiny feet to run straight into a third soldier. Sword aloft, he wheeled upon her with a vengeance. She held onto her son for dear life. But, her efforts proved futile. For, the soldier easily killed her before he hacked the child into pieces.

Watching the glittery sword from under the blanket, Octaviate circled his fingers protectively around his neck.

The soldier’s partner rode up to the wagon, his horse snorting, and its nostrils flaring. Boy! How old are you!

It took all his self-control to not wet himself as he scanned the soldier. The man’s dreadful visage and stony brown eyes looked like those of a dead man Octaviate once saw. He remembered his grandfather’s instructions. I am six, Good Sir. My grandfather is in that house over there selling ewes to this man’s younger brother. Hoping the soldier believed him, Octaviate pointed to the house. Grandfather is the man in the sheepskin coat. He is very old, but good, most of the time. You can ask him how old I am, if you want. Terrified, he pointed to Josiah’s uncle. Ask him. He can tell you, too, if you do not believe me.

Josiah’s uncle nodded. This one and my nephews are older than two. The youngest is ten. You are free to go to the house and check if you want.

The first soldier grunted, "Herod the Great said two years and younger," to the second soldier.

Horrified, Octaviate sat, frozen.

The soldiers grabbed the infants by the feet and dashed their heads against the rocks while their mothers screamed, only to be put to the sword themselves. The older boys also met like bloody fates.

Soon, three more soldiers arrived with shovels and a small wagon. They dug a pit, and threw the bodies and body parts inside it as if the dead were mere garbage. Laughing, one of the soldiers, tossed oily blankets onto the pile and lit them. The blazing flare illuminated the night while thick smoke filled the air with a ‘burned meat’ stench.

So much for the King of the Jews, one of them scoffed, leaning on his shovel handle.

While the last rays of dusk faded into a vermilion sunset, the Bethlehemites opened their throats in a universal howl of anguish. Bruised women, nearly unconscious from their struggles, crawled on all fours, sobbing and beating their breasts in sorrow. Others sat alongside the road dumping ashes over their heads. Some of the