Mirah came back alone. She dropped to her knees before me, putting her eyes on a level with mine. “What happened?”

“The Jews in Cyprus revolted.” My hand tightened around the cup. “By the time I arrived, it was already all over. Just the bodies to clean up.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh. Oh, God.”

“No, I didn’t see much of Him over in Cyprus.”

Mirah jumped to her feet and began to pace, arms folded tight about her neat sashed waist. “It’s everywhere.” Her voice was taut. “As soon as we came back to Antioch, I started to hear the rumors. In Alexandria they’re saying a hundred thousand Jews were slaughtered. And now in Cyprus—”

“It wasn’t the Jews who were slaughtered in Cyprus.” I tossed off the last of the wine in my cup. “They did the slaughtering.”

“Good,” said my wife.

I stared at her. “Children,” I said finally. “Mothers, old women, old men—innocents. Slaughtered.”

“The Romans are doing it to the innocents in Alexandria!” Mirah’s voice rose. “And in Mesopotamia—dear God, do you know who the Emperor sent to clean out the Jews there? That commander of yours, Lusius Quietus!”

“Mirah—”

“And do you know how he cleaned out the province? By killing every Jew he could get his hands on.” She gave a little blind shake of her head. “If what you say about Cyprus is true—well, at least they killed a few in return.”

“They killed thousands, actually.” I rose from my chair. “You know how many I helped bury? There was one woman who looked like you. A little thing with reddish hair. She must have been pretty. Not that I could tell, after she’d been stripped, raped, and stabbed a few dozen times. Roman legionaries aren’t the only ones in the world who ravage and murder.”

“And what will happen now, because of a few Roman citizens killed in Cyprus?” Her voice was shrill. “How many Jews get to die in return for one Roman woman?”

“Oh, it was more than one,” I snarled. “And they couldn’t even tell me why they went on a killing frenzy. Why they woke up one morning and decided to kill off every neighbor they had who didn’t celebrate Shabbat at week’s end.”

Mirah still stood hugging herself as if she were cold. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t.” I turned away from her. “I never will.”

“Hundreds of years—” She spoke jerkily. “Being blamed every time a plague comes or a drought hits—being murdered or exiled or robbed of what we own every time a new emperor has a whim—”

“None of that has ever happened to you,” I snapped, whirling around again. “You and your family, perfectly peaceful and prosperous and living in the thick of Rome for three generations—”