Avenging Angels (Bad Times Book 3)

turned to see that the tribune had stepped back onto the ramparts from his quarters. The man was half Aelius’s age but from a better family, though not exalted enough to keep him from duty in this pesthole. He wore immaculate armor that was more decorative than anything else. It shone with silver bosses and trim to mark his rank. It would also mark him for slings and bows were they in battle. His head was bare, and Aelius envied him that.
“Have they nailed the bastards up yet?” The tribune stepped to the battlements and shielded his eyes to scan the hill at Calvariæ Locus.
“Not as yet, Tribune,” Aelius replied. He suspected that the tribune’s eyesight was not so keen. A shifting crowd was clearly visible on the flanks of the hillock, but no crosses had been raised. Soldiers stood in a ring encircling the crest of the hill. As miserable as it was atop these walls, it would be pure hell standing down in the dust and suffering the invective of the mob.
“These Jews are mad,” the tribune spat. “Only one god and they are afraid to even say his name. They build a temple without one statue to worship. What does their god even look like?”
“I hear that they believe he looks like a Jew,” Aelius offered.
The tribune snorted at that.
“They’re very wrought up over something, Tribune,” Aelius said.
“This Jew they’re nailing up today. He’s something of a hero to them. He spoke against the raising of the eagles and incites the Jews to riot with his words.” The tribune dipped a cupped hand in an urn of tepid water and dribbled it over his face.
“Should the prefect not have held off this execution, Tribune? At least until the pilgrims have departed the city.”
“Pilate keeps his own counsel. The rebel dies today, along with a pair of thieves.”
A collective moan rose from the crowd about the hill as the first cross was raised. The sound broke up into shouts of anger. The words were not decipherable from here, but then they would have been in that damned dog’s bark of a language in any case. Still, the tone was plain, and Aelius could see the ranks of the soldiers close up, their shields forming a seamless wall. A second and third cross were hauled upright. A naked male body hung from each, suspended from nails through wrists and ankles and supported by a rope about the torso to keep them upright and prolong the punishment.
The men would be hours dying. Tormented by thirst, scalded by the sun, in agony from long spikes driven through their wrists and ankles. Ropes were tied about their arms and beneath their ribs or else their own burden would tear them from the nails. Many in the crowd would be family or followers. Others stood in the glare to watch from morbid curiosity men slowly die. These last would drift away once the three men lost consciousness.
The man suspended on the center cross shouted in words indecipherable to the men on the walls. Was he pleading for mercy to his god or cursing the fate that brought him here? Perhaps he called out to loved ones or proclaimed his innocence to his tormentors. His face was turned to the sun and he howled upward, muscles straining against the fire in his limbs.
“What is the name of the rebel condemned today, Tribune?” Aelius asked.
“Yeshwah bar Abba,” the tribune said. “The mob calls him Barabbas.”

2
Paris Canal, St-Martin
“These are in extraordinary condition,” the dealer said, squinting through a jeweler’s loupe at the pair of coins in clear plastic cases.
“You say that like it’s a problem,” Lee Hammond said and gestured to the waiter for a refill. They sat on an open-air veranda enjoying the cool night air a story above the street. They had a postcard view of the lights of the city and the cars and buses buzzing by. What made traffic so picturesque in Rome, London and Paris and such a pain in the ass everywhere else?
“Over two thousand years old. Stamped with a clear profile of Hamilcar Barca, the Carthaginian emperor. And uncirculated,” the dealer said and removed the lens from his eye.
“Les mêmes à nouveau. Deux doigts,” Hammond said when the waiter reached him. Lee was holding two fingers clamped together to indicate the depth of Maker’s Mark he desired. The waiter nodded and departed.
“They are heavily tarnished, of course. Exposed to water or dampness for a long period. You were wise not to clean them.”
“Yeah. I watch Pawn Stars.”
The dealer squinted and pursed his lips.
“TV show in the states. So what are they worth?”
“These are heavy coins. Surprisingly heavy. They were struck for a special purpose, perhaps as part of ransom or some other large transfer of funds.”
“Uh huh.”
“It is highly unusual to find coinage of this weight and quality. While a thinner coin might be kept as a keepsake or token, currency like this was most often melted down for its metal worth. To have two such examples survive is remarkable.”
“Yeah, yeah. How much?”
“By weight alone, they are worth a touch over two thousand euros.”
“So about three kay American. What’s their collectible worth?” Hammond said, accepting the tumbler from the waiter. Liquid gold with a single ice cube sliding on the bottom.
“Two times their going troy ounce value. Perhaps three times that at auction.”
“No auctions. This has to stay private. Very private. Secret even.”
“Ah. Well, I know some collectors, of course. But I would have to remove one of the coins from its case and examine it more thoroughly. Strictly so that I might offer them my assurances.”
“Sure. Take them both. Do whatever tests you need,” Hammond said.
“You have more?” the dealer said with an arched eyebrow.
“A shitload.”
The dealer squinted again and tilted his head.
“I have beaucoup. Mucho beaucoup,” Hammond said, murdering two languages in one pass.
The dealer nodded with a pleased smile and slipped the plastic cases into a pocket of his jacket.
“I go then. Will you be