The Magic Circle, Katherine Neville [parable of the sower read online .TXT] 📗

First, the Master’s presentation of himself as the divine servant whose chief task is to ritually cleanse the temple and all who are about to enter it. Submission. And then the comparison of his body and blood with bread and wine—an Isaac-like gesture, as if he were offering himself as both matter and spirit in lieu of the ritual offering usual on such occasions. Self-sacrifice.

If only his arrest had not come so soon, that night in my garden, and he’d been able to complete his initiation of young Johan Zebedee as he’d intended. (Though I can well see why Johan resents you so today, since you are now the only disciple who ever received the full initiation directly at the Master’s own hands.)

Finally, you must have guessed, as I did, from Maryam Mark’s letter that if the Master planned every detail of the meal, it was likely no more than he did with the other events of that week. Perhaps his stress on the appointments of her upper chamber was designed to conceal the significance to him of a few specific objects—for example the chalice he drank from at her home, which you’ve told me she later entrusted to you at his request.

It occurs to me now that he seems privately to have arranged for each of us individually to take one of the objects that he touched—or that touched him—in his last hours on earth, and to keep it in a special place until his return. For instance, the garment he wore that Nicodemus preserved after we washed the body. Or the spear-tip that pierced his side, which I was instructed to remove from the haft of that Roman centurion’s javelin and to preserve, as I have to this day. I believe these objects may possess some sacred power—and may be far older than we imagine.

But quite a few have been entrusted to me by others, as you know, for Britannia was one of the few outposts that has remained independent of Roman occupation or influence—that is, until now. It’s this alone, Miriam, that makes me fear for you to come here with the chalice. I believe the time has come for me to share some information with you that you ought to know, should anything happen to me.

Perhaps you recall, twelve years ago, just before the Master’s death, the trip I’d just returned from? At the request of the Sanhedrin, I’d been on a special mission to Capri where I had successfully petitioned the emperor Tiberius for the return of exiled Jews to Rome. What perhaps you were not aware of is that my escort to Capri on that occasion, and my advocate in that plea, was none other than the man who has just invaded Britain: Claudius.

Furthermore, as our newly minted emperor is likely aware, that interview with his uncle Tiberius was not to be my last. Indeed, I was with Tiberius on the isles of Paxi not a week before his death. And if Claudius has learned what we were doing there, we must wonder whether he had more than one motive in this recent expedition to Britain. He has left behind three legions, now busily engaged in building roads and setting up townships in preparation for the long occupation of Britannia he clearly foresees. They’ve used native forced labor to build a temple at Camulodunum.

The emperor Claudius may have failed to find what he sought here. But it seems he plans a more extended visit in future.

Rome: Spring, A.D. 56

CONFLAGRATIO

While I yet live, may fire consume the earth

. —Nero

As his slaves untied the curling ribbons and unwound his long blond hair, curl by curl, it tumbled in a tempestuous mass over the emperor Nero’s bare shoulders. He sat naked before the full-length glass, analyzing himself with cold blue eyes.

Yes, it was true. He was actually beginning to resemble Phoebus Apollo, as everyone claimed. His facial features were so sharply chiseled as to be almost pretty. He dabbed a bit of rouge on his lips to heighten their voluptuous appearance. This explained his appeal, practically since infancy, to both women and men.

After shaking his hair loose—it fell in abundance nearly to his waist—he stood up, the better to admire his remarkable physique in the glass: those hard, sinewy muscles toned by several years of competing in wrestling at the Olympiad in Greece—where in fact he’d just won several first-class medals. Ah yes, that shouldn’t be overlooked. As a reminder to himself, he leaned forward and jotted a note: Give province of Olympia its freedom.

To think, he had still several years before twenty, and already ruler of the largest empire in world history—and surely the only emperor ever who possessed the voice of an angel and the body of a god. All this had fallen into his lap, only because his beautiful mother Agrippina had been clever enough to marry her uncle Claudius, who then conveniently died from eating that batch of fortuitously poisonous mushrooms. Nero had Claudius deified soon afterward, explaining as part of the eulogy that it was appropriate since, after all, mushrooms were known to be the food of the gods.

The servants had just pulled his purple silk toga over his head, arranged his curls, and finished draping the gold-star-spangled cape over his shoulders, when his mother herself arrived in Nero’s private chambers. She looked beautiful, as always, so he took her into his arms for a warm hug and a warmer kiss on the lips.

“Darling, you won’t believe what I’ve planned for us for this evening,” Nero announced, drawing her away the better to look at her.

Then he undid the sash that closed the bosom of her toga and pulled the fabric away to expose her beautiful breasts. Truly, the twin golden globes of a goddess, he thought—but after all, she was only yet in her thirties, wasn’t she? As the servants and slaves cast their eyes discreetly elsewhere, Nero bent his blond head over