Saul’s white Arabian charged the chasm. Sweat flew from the colt like warm rain. Saul did not care. He and Obadiah had run worse courses than this.
He wiped his hand on his coarse wool tunic and tightened the reins. Lose them here and the mountain would finish the argument. Obadiah never hesitated. Twelve feet of air. The colt gathered and launched. A headwind hit them midair. They came up short. Forelegs caught the far slope. Hindquarters hung over the drop. Hooves clawed, slipped, caught. For one instant Saul felt them tipping backward. Then the colt found purchase and scrambled onto the trail.
The delay had cost them. Marcus came on. His mare—the finest Roman money could buy—took the gap at a gallop, landed clean, and did not break stride. Saul heard her behind him. He grabbed mane and drove his heels in.
The trail narrowed along the cliff until there was barely room for one horse. They thundered under a stone arch. Saul eased his grip. Nowhere to pass now. They rounded a blind corner. Marcus was beside him. The trail had widened. The smirk was already there as the mare slipped by on the right—younger, stronger—and took the lead.
Saul’s stomach tightened. Nowhere ahead. Then he saw the slope below. To call it a route would have been generous. It was the side of the mountain. He pulled left. Obadiah left the trail. Horse and rider went over the edge. Saul leaned back as the colt fought for his feet. Stumble left. Recover. Stumble right—Saul came out of the saddle. His left ankle caught. The rest of him hung against the horse’s side. His right foot hammered rock and dirt. The first impact flashed. The second was worse. Then another. When he could no longer feel the foot, he became afraid.
He caught the saddle with both hands and hauled until his forearms burned, threw himself across Obadiah’s back, and dragged into the seat. The slope leveled. They burst onto the lower trail ahead of Marcus. Saul grinned like a thief. Obadiah stretched into a gallop. They crossed the finish outside the Roman encampment. To the handful of soldiers watching, it looked easy. Saul dismounted.
The moment his right foot touched earth, pain went through him so hard he nearly screamed. He caught the saddle and looked down. Most of the skin was gone. Blood ran from the mangled foot. His torn big toenail hung by a thread. He swallowed. Balanced on the good leg. Turned first to the colt. Obadiah was unhurt. Only then did Saul breathe.
Marcus galloped in, swung down, and ran. “I had you, Saul!” He laughed. “I finally had you. And somehow—yet again—you found a way. “
Saul leaned his forehead against Obadiah’s neck and said nothing. Marcus’s smile faded. “You could have killed yourself. You could have killed both of you. What is it in you that has to—”He saw the blood pooling under the foot. “Gods.”
Saul’s face had gone gray. “I’ll be fine. “He wobbled and grabbed mane. Marcus turned to shout for the surgeon. Behind him came the sound of a body hitting the ground.
“The foot looks much worse than it is.”
Marcus stared at the surgeon, who did not look up from the work. “Nothing broken. He’ll keep off it a week. “Irritation in the man’s voice. Marcus disliked it. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said, ice over the words. “I’ll call if I need you. Dismissed.”
The surgeon saluted and left muttering. Marcus watched him go. Five lashes for the condescension alone—except Saul would never forgive him for it. Roman citizen or not, Saul was still a Jew to these men. Worse: a Pharisee who knelt to Jehovah every morning.
Marcus had long ago stopped asking him to be quieter about it. Saul snored. Marcus pulled a chair to the bed. Color was coming back into his friend’s face. “Well, Saul. I hope the victory was sweet. I’m going to have a great deal of explaining to do to Pilate.” He was already overdue in Jerusalem. Pilate was not famous for patience. If anything he had grown less hospitable since the trial and execution of the Nazarene a few months back. Rumor said the dead man’s ghost was haunting him. Marcus almost laughed. Spirits were for frightening children, not prefects.
Then again, he had never thought Pilate particularly stable. Change was in the wind. From Marcus’s seat, it could not come soon enough. He stopped worrying. With a week to think, he could invent an excuse. Saul muttered in his sleep.
“Saul?” The muttering went on. “Can you hear me?”
Saul was no longer in the tent. There was only light. It blinded him. He shut his eyes; the brilliance came through the lids. When he forced them to slits, there was still nothing but light.
Then a voice. Faint. Distant. “Why do you persecute me?”
He strained. Again: “Why do you persecute me? “Louder. “WHY DO YOU PERSECUTE ME? “He clamped his hands over his ears. It made no difference. The voice was inside him.
Silence. The light dimmed. He lowered his hands. A man stood far off, walking toward him. Or trying to. Each step came with a hitch. One leg folded strangely, then straightened. Arms bruised and torn. Long hair stiff with dried blood. The head leaned as if the neck had given up. Still he came.
Saul wanted to step back. His legs would not move. Closer. Stones had torn the flesh. One side of the jaw hung wrong. Blood had dried black along the neck and tunic. Saul understood. He had seen what stoning did to a man. He had seen it many times. The figure stopped a few feet away. Saul tried to close his eyes and could not. The man lifted battered hands, set them against his own head, and turned his face toward Saul. Then he smiled. Not a hideous smile. A gentle one. That was worse. The broken mouth moved. “Why do you persecute me?” Saul woke with a cry. He jerked upright, still half sure the dead man had followed him out of the dream .Someone beside him. Marcus? “Marcus…”His friend leaned in.“ Help me.” Saul reached. Marcus reached back. Saul’s eyes clouded. The terror went as fast as it had come. He collapsed. Marcus shouted for the surgeon.
“He’s delirious,” the physician said, after a look that barely qualified as an examination. “Drugged is more like it.” A small laugh. “I’m surprised he woke at all, with the myrrh I gave him. He’ll be incoherent for hours. ”May I go, sir?”
Marcus waved him out. He sat again. “Drugged…”A thought arrived. Marcus smiled. “I may never get another chance like this. “He shook Saul’s shoulder. Nothing.
Perfect. “Saul. Do you remember when we were boys in Tarsus, and we both wanted the same girl? “He frowned, theatrical. “What was her name?” He waited. “Rachel.
“Saul did not stir. “I’ve wanted this off my chest for years. “Harder to say than he expected. “I didn’t love her. “He shifted in the chair. “I was angry with you. You were always beating me in those races you tricked me into. Every time I thought I had you, you found a way.“ A glance at the bandaged foot. “Apparently some things never change. “He leaned back. “I knew you’d fallen in love with her. I knew it. It didn’t matter. Rachel was a competition I could win. “A pause. “So I won.
“Saul stirred. Marcus waited until the breathing settled.
“What I didn’t expect was what it would do to you. You never said a word. Not once. But I knew I’d hurt you. “The confession was becoming uncomfortable. Marcus did what he always did when something became uncomfortable. He blamed Saul. “Of course, it isn’t entirely my fault you can’t handle rejection. There were other girls. Plenty of them. “He looked at the sleeping face. “What was so special about that one?
”Silence. Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “I’ve never understood that about you. All these years I’ve watched you keep women at a distance. The moment one gets close, you find a reason to disappear. “Softer than he meant. “You still love her, don’t you? “The softness embarrassed him. He stood and paced. “Anyway. I feel guilty. I have for some time. I’ve been too proud to say it.”
He stopped. “And since you won’t remember any of this, now seems an excellent time.”
A breath
“So.”
Another. “I apologize. “Nothing but the tent and the breathing.
Marcus smiled, broad and relieved.
“Well. That was easier than expected. I feel considerably better. “He slapped his thighs.
Rachel?” Saul’s voice went through him like cold water. Marcus froze. Turned. Saul had not moved. “Rachel?” he whispered again. Marcus watched him a long time. The humor left his face. “I really am sorry, Saul. “He left the tent quietly.