LITMIR.BIZ

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and sisters, something your mother wished to give you. I will inform you of the wedding date as soon as we set it and I will hope for your arrival then.

      Your father,

      Consul Clovius Longinus

      Chapter 14

      Devastated, Adas stared at the letter. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He remembered the premonition he had at Golgotha about never seeing his mother again. Hot tears blurred his vision. Marsetina was more than his mother; she was his confidant and guide. She had encouraged him to pursue his ambitions. When his last two letters went unanswered, he should have set aside his pride and written to his father. Adas lived far away from his parents, but it was always a comfort knowing they were reachable. It was only a matter of distance and time. When it was his choice, he was content to stay away. The finality of death eliminated that choice forever.

      Adas analyzed his father’s choice of words. The formal tone was indifferent, at best. The apparent dismissal of his mother’s death amplified Adas’s lifelong resentment toward his father. With all his strength, he hurled the scroll at the wall. Pieces of it clattered to the floor. He snatched up the letter and shredded it. Taking hold of the broken spool, he jerked the bolt in the lock, opened the door, and threw it out. It hit the wall of the officer’s quarters across the lane. Two centurions walking down the lane abruptly stopped their conversation and looked from Adas to the broken pieces. He slammed the door so hard; the window lattices shook. He rammed the door bolt into the casing so violently something cracked. He managed to get to a chair and fell into it. Immediately he jumped to his feet, grabbed the chair, and raised it over his head. With a consuming fury, he smashed it against the door repeatedly until the wood frame and reeds shattered. Bits of splintered wood pelted him. Adas stood, panting with exertion and rage. He had contemplated his own demise, but never considered his mother’s death.

      He stumbled back until his bed forced him to sit. He looked at the scraps of papyrus on the floor. Aquila had described Marsetina’s death like it was an inconvenience. He had the audacity to announce he had already selected a new wife to bear him children. The memories of bitter disputes with his father, his guilt over Yeshua’s execution, the attack by his men, Valentius’s hatred, and now the death of his mother bonded into an overwhelming cascade of despair. Adas wanted to scream.

      An icy chill went up his spine. Valentius must have read every word. Adas remembered the sneering look on the centurion’s face when he handed him the broken scroll. No doubt, he must have smiled at the calculated wording of the letter. He pictured Valentius savoring Marsetina’s death. Valentius’s mockery of his loss and exploitation of Adas’s privacy ignited a passion he had never experienced.

      Adas snatched his knapsack from the floor. He grasped the dagger and pulled it from the sheath. The yellow wolf eyes gleamed at him from the handle. The weapon felt good in his hand. Valentius had endangered his life at every opportunity for two years, and he set Adas’s own men against him. Like the wolf, Adas would go for the throat.

      Striding across the room, he pulled on the lock bolt, but it wouldn’t move. He pulled again. It still wouldn’t move. In frustration, he jammed the dagger into the wooden door, grasped the bolt with both hands, and pulled as hard as he could. It twisted slightly. He repositioned his hands and tried jerking the bolt. Pain tore through his right hand as it slipped. Adas cried out and cradled his right hand against his chest. He stood panting, his heart thundering as he leaned against the door. The injury had reopened. The intensity of the pain snapped him out of his fugue. His breathing slowed. His fury ebbed. Despair took its place.

      Adas had never felt such anguish. Even the heartache of leaving Dulcibella behind in Caesarea did not equal the pain he felt now. His mother was dead and dismissed by her husband of twenty-seven years. His father hadn’t even bothered to call her by name. All he cared about was continuing the clan of Longinus.

      Adas stared at his bandaged hand. If he had not already taken the dagger to his own hand, he certainly would do it now. Somehow, the physical pain helped to lessen the misery in his heart. It was only a distraction, but one he welcomed. He threw himself on the bed and sat with his back against the wall. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but the shadows had shifted through the windows when his emotions were finally spent. He got up and examined the door bolt. In his fury, Adas had caused the bolt to be jammed in the casing by a broken nail.

      With his anger drained, Adas shuddered to think how close he came to ruining his life. There would have been no going back. He would have been executed for murdering Valentius. Adas pulled his dagger from the door and pried the damaged metal casing from the frame. The pain in his hand forced him to stop. The edges of the gashes were red and hot. He poured water over his palm into the basin. Adas picked up his ruined tunic still lying on the floor and tore a strip of linen from it. He re-bandaged the wound.

      He thought of Mary witnessing Yeshua die on the cross. Her heart was torn into pieces as Adas’s was, but she blamed no one, cursed no one, not even God for allowing such a cruel death. She only grieved. Jamin had told him to go to the market place. He resolved to find the young man who helped save his life. There was something he wanted Jamin to do.

      Adas picked up his knapsack, dumped everything out on the bed, and slipped the strap over his shoulder. He left his quarters to find Cassius, who would be on duty in the main hall. Adas found him sitting at a desk writing out duty rosters on slate tablets.

      “Cassius, I need a favor.”

      “Sure. What is it?” Cassius set a tablet aside.

      “Could I borrow Draco? Venustas’s hoof is still infected.”

      “Sure, he’s probably bored.” Cassius looked up. “Adas, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Adas shook his head. “Take the beast for a stroll. I think you both need one.”

      Adas hurried to the stables. The newest member of Nikolaus’s team ran over when Adas entered the arena. He asked for Draco. The boy brought the stallion and dropped to his hands and knees next to the horse. It was customary for a slave to ‘back up’ a rider. Roman saddles had four saddle horns, but no stirrups.

      Adas put his hand out to the slave. “Get up,” he said as he gripped the child’s wrist, and pulled him to his feet. He gaped at the centurion. Adas tied the strap of his knapsack on a back saddle horn. “You’re new. What is your name?”

      “Calais, Sir,” He kept his eyes respectfully lowered.

      “Is Nikolaus back there?”

      “He is, Sir. Here he comes now.” Nikolaus emerged from the stables leading a couple of saddled horses. Two decurions stood nearby, talking while they waited. “I’ll get him.” The boys hurried back to Adas.

      “Nikolaus, if Tribune Salvitto approves, I might add a new kitchen slave to the Saturday morning class. Calais, how old are you? Do you work well with horses?”

      “Eleven years, Sir. Yes, Sir. I love horses. They are big, but they never hurt me.”

      Adas managed a smile. “You are old enough to be in the class. Would you like to join?”

      The child was speechless. Nikolaus elbowed him. “I—I would like it very much. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Centurion Longinus, Sir.”

      “I will speak to Tribune Salvitto about you as well. Nikolaus, tell me if any stallions get rough around Calais, since he’s new here.”

      “Yes, Sir.”

      Adas grasped a front saddle horn, jumped, and threw his right leg over the saddle as he pulled himself up. “Nikolaus, could you get someone in maintenance to replace the lock on my door? Remove the broken chair, too.”

      “Of course, Centurion, I will see to it.”

      “Thank you.” Adas reined Draco around into a brisk trot.

      Calais stared after him. “Does he always get on his horse without help?”

      “Yes. He is—unique.”

      “What

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