Read A Chapter:  Ever the Twins Shall Meet

Crispus stifled a snicker from his hiding place. “He’s the one,” he heard a shopkeeper shout. “He robbed my store yesterday. I can’t believe he had the nerve to come back.” Two legionnaires placed the struggling man in custody. The shopkeeper swung wildly at the accused robber who ducked as the blow sailed over his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t remember?”

“That’s him,” another shopkeeper joined in. “He’s changed clothes, but there is no mistaking the face.”

“I wouldn’t do something like this,” the man, barely in his twenties, shouted. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.” He moved violently to pull away from the tight grip of the legionnaires.

“He’s lying. I’m not stupid. He looked right at me when he stole the sandals. Only this time, he’s not smiling. But it’s the same face.”

One of the legionnaires slapped the back of his prisoner with the flat of his sword. “Move on, thief. Your days of stealing are over,” and led the young man away.

Crispus and his fellow shoplifter moved cautiously from their concealment and slipped down an alley heading for another part of Smyrna. Returning to this part of town was not an option, at least not while the memory of the robbery remained fresh with the shopkeepers.

“That was very strange,” Alypius said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The man they arrested looked exactly like you.” He was genuinely puzzled, frowning as he and Crispus walked toward their room over the meat market.

“Are you certain? I’ve never seen myself in a mirror.”

“I’m certain. He could have been your twin. Do you have brothers?”

“I have no brothers.”

 “In there, thief!” Marsallas was pushed into a cold and dank cell at the far end of the narrow corridor. His sandals splattered across the wet floor as he shuffled to a wooden bench that was the only furniture. The guard banged the heavy door shut and slammed a bolt into place.

Marsallas stared vacantly at his surroundings, wondering how long he would be there until appearing before a magistrate. It was still morning. I should be out by afternoon, he thought.

By mid-afternoon, he began to worry. Not only was he languishing in jail, he was hungry and thirsty. “When do we get fed?” he yelled.

Silence.

“I said, ‘when do we get fed?’”

“You missed it,” a voice somewhere down the corridor answered. “We only get fed twice a day.”

Someone else completed the message; “We’ll get our slop at sunset.”

Marsallas sat down on his bench dejectedly, staring at the wall. The chains that bound his wrists were heavy and painful. In the limited light, he thought he saw a rat scurry across his cell floor.

There was no trial. There was no need. Roman justice was swift in the face of irrefutable evidence. Two eyewitnesses had identified Marsallas as a thief—and a dumb one at that for he had returned to the scene of his crime while memories were still fresh.

The Primus Pilus – senior centurion of the legion stationed in Ephesus was at the garrison in Smyrna attending to other matters when this crime was brought to his attention. “The courts are overcrowded without having to deal with clear violations of the law,” he said. “I won’t have a magistrate’s time wasted when it is obvious what the punishment should be.” Waiving his hand, he assigned prisoner status to Marsallas, placing him in the charge of the Centurion Varro.

“No!” Marsallas screamed when he heard the decision. “I’m a status civitatis--a Roman citizen.” He clung to the bars of his cell, glaring at the Centurion who brought the news. “I’m entitled to a trial to prove my innocence.”

Varro scoffed. “That claim of citizenship may work in Roma, but we’re too many stadia from there to let it affect us here.” He shook the chains that bound Marsallas’ wrists to make certain they were secure. “The Primus Pilus has decided. That settles it. You’re now in my custody. I have a work party that leaves for its new assignment this very afternoon. You will leave with us.”

“My grandfather is Aemilius Calvus Marcus, former Tribune of the Korinthos Legion. I’m a citizen of Roma. I demand that I be taken before a magistrate.” Marsallas’ face turned red.

“Yes, I can see just by looking at you that you are the grandson of a Tribune. And don’t let this uniform fool you,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I am the grandnephew of Emperor Titus Flavius Domitianus. I have been assigned to this lowly position of Centurion as a grooming for my rightful, upcoming place in the Senate.” His scorn of Marsallas’ claim was obvious as he whirled on his heels and stomped down the stone corridor of the jail toward an office on the floor above. “I anticipate my transfer to Roma any day now,” he shouted as he climbed the stairs. Marsallas heard a raucous laugh from behind a slamming door, followed by derisive laughter from his fellow prisoners.