Free The Painted Messiah by Craig Smith

two shy of fifty he nevertheless maintained the extraordinary vitality of a man who has made a living with his physical abilities. Standing only an inch or two above average height Cornelius carried close to three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He had never won a footrace, but then neither had he ever needed to run from the battlefield. Where he stood the battle always went well. His quickness with the short sword was legendary, his courage the sort that had made Rome the ruler of the world.
    It was the custom of their generation for a Roman to shave each morning, but Cornelius's slave shaved his entire head for him. The effect was to reveal innumerable scars, lumps and dents. Cornelius had a broad, grim mouth and a long flat nose that had obviously been broken a few times. Like almost all senior centurions Cornelius enjoyed the prestige of a war hero simply by virtue of his rank. The backbone of the Roman infantry, such men were known to be the greatest fighters in the army. After a lifetime of war, many of these individuals were so skilled at combat that officers rarely made a critical decision without first consulting their most senior centurions. A centurion finishing twenty-five years could generally expect to retire to a farm in the countryside and live comfortably to the end of his days, but for men like Cornelius, still in good health, extended tours of duty were possible. These men would then generally work with commanders.
    Pilate had a dozen tribunes in his service, children of wealthy senators and equestrians getting their first taste of military life. Such men were relatively useless and yet required a great deal of attention, being as they were the future of Rome. No commander could attend to business and give them much of his time, so it devolved upon the most senior centurions to see that they learned the workings of a Roman army.
    Cornelius returned to the great hall a few minutes after Pilate had sent him to bring the priests in. With a rare and, to those who did not know him, frightening smile, the centurion announced, 'They refuse to enter the building, Prefect. They ask rather that you come to them outside.'
    Pilate blinked in surprise. The prefect appointed the high priest of the Temple of Jerusalem. The priests served him, as he served the emperor. He had rather have waited six months than give them the satisfaction of travelling first to Jerusalem, no matter how pressing his business with them. They had come to him after an unconscionable delay of a fortnight and now refused to see him unless he came outside his hall to meet them? 'Refuse?' he stammered. 'They refuse?'
    'They fear they will contaminate themselves by entering a pagan hall.'
    'That's ridiculous. Send them in!' Cornelius gestured toward the imago standard, bearing the tiny bronze head of Tiberius, then swept his arm around the hall to indicate the other standards and pennants carried by the troops Pilate commanded. Many of these displayed the image of an animal. Besides these the hall quite naturally contained various stone images of gods and men - all contaminants to the Jewish sensibility. 'Their religion forbids them to look upon the images of men and beasts, Prefect.'
    'Tell Annas—'
    'The high priest is not here. He has sent his sons to greet Caesar's new prefect.'
    Pilate stood, the back of his thighs aching, his chest heaving. 'The high priest is not here? Do I understand you correctly, Centurion?'
    Cornelius seemed suddenly uncertain of himself. He reported only what the priests had told him, that is to say, what the servants of the priests had told him, and did not care to endure the wrath of an imperial officer - especially as it ought to have been directed elsewhere. 'That is the impression they have given, Prefect.
    Perhaps I am mistaken, but I don't believe he is here.'
    Having come to his feet and the end of his patience, Pilate marched out of the hall. By the time he arrived at the courtyard his fury was absolute.