The Last Disciple (47 page)

“This Messiah.”

Darda nodded. Again with a faint twitch of a smile. “It is the Lamb against the Beast. Do you understand the significance of this?”

Damian recited a portion from the letter. “‘Wisdom is needed to understand this. Let the one who has understanding calculate the number of the Beast, for it is the number of man. His number is 666.’”

Then Damian sketched out the Greek symbols in the dirt at their feet. “I’ve seen it represented as this graffiti.”

“But I don’t have the understanding,” Damian said. “That is why I have enlisted your help. Who is the Beast?”

Darda stood abruptly. “Our conversation ends here. I warned you about one question that I would not address. And that was it.”

“Surely you are joking,” Damian said. “What harm can there be in—”

“I will speak nothing more on the subject.”

“What about your desire to spread confusion against Nero?”

“Not at the cost of my life,” Darda said. He turned and stepped inside the shop and quickly shut the door.

A clunk of wood told Damian that the old Jew had barred it in place.

Interesting,
Damian thought.
Very, very interesting.

Prima Fax

Here was Nero, stepping forward from his dinner companions, with a strange hunger in his eyes that immediately deepened the foreboding that had steeped Vitas’s soul since the invitation to Nero’s palace.

To arrive at this inner chamber, its entrance guarded by six soldiers of the Emperor’s Guard, a slave had led Vitas and Sophia through the halls. During the long walk, their sandals slapping on polished marble, they’d exchanged frequent glances that mirrored their unspoken opinion of the grossly ostentatious luxury that reflected the crass taste and sheer megalomania of an emperor well past the edge of madness.

Nero reached to clasp the forearms of Vitas in greeting. “Back from Jerusalem!”

Nero’s breath smelled of wine and garlic. His hands on Vitas’s forearms were hot. Nero’s blond curly hair was thinning, and it clung to his scalp because of a sheen of sweat. His once handsome face was swollen from years of wine and food and decadent living. The table behind him was piled high with delicacies.

Vitas accepted Nero’s greeting without recoiling and managed to keep his eyes directly on Nero’s face as the emperor continued his effusive greeting. “I understand you were able to step in and quell the disturbances in Jerusalem.”

“I had little to do with that,” Vitas said. “I merely happened to be there during the few days of riots.”

Nero stepped away and inspected Vitas up and down. It gave Vitas a sense of violation, but he smiled and nodded as if they were brothers.

“Modest as always.” Nero began to applaud slowly but emphatically. “All of Rome salutes you. Indeed, Caesar salutes you.”

Immediately, the dozen dinner guests standing in clusters nearby did the same.

Vitas took no satisfaction from this accolade from the man who held the most power in the entire world.

Still, there was the sense of foreboding that Vitas could not escape. “When Nero pretends to be a friend,” the wags in the forum were fond of saying, “beware what he takes with one hand while his other arm holds you in an embrace.”

There was another reason Vitas wished there had been no applause. He now led a secret life, married to a Christian.

“And here we have a wife whom the hero obviously deserves.” Nero cast his eyes on Sophia. This inspection, unlike the one bestowed on Vitas, was more than cursory. Nero allowed his eyes to caress the woman’s curves and did not hide a smile of predatory satisfaction. “Welcome too. May your evening with Caesar be a memorable one.”

One of the dinner guests chuckled.

Vitas recognized the almost womanly tones and did not glance over to confirm. Helius.

Sophia returned Nero’s inspection with a fixed smile. Vitas could only guess how she felt. True thoughts about Nero were best kept hidden, even after the evening ended and they were absolutely certain they were alone; who knew when a slave might betray carelessly spoken words?

“Please,” Nero said, “let me make introductions. Some you know, of course, but others you don’t.”

He waved his arm dramatically and began with a short man whose dark eyes glittered with intensity. “This, my friend, is Chayim,” Nero said unnecessarily. Vitas wondered why Nero was making a point of telling Vitas what he already knew. “A Jew. You know what they say. You don’t have to be a Jew to be stupid, but it helps.”

Chayim lifted a wine goblet in the direction of Vitas and forced out a laugh that fooled no one but Caesar.

Nero pretended to suddenly remember something. “I’m sorry! I’d forgotten, Gallus Vitas. Your wife, too, is a Jew, is she not?”

Now Vitas understood. It gave Nero the chance to insult Vitas and Sophia. Vitas’s skin prickled with renewed foreboding. Before, Nero had always treated Vitas with respect. What could this mean?

“She is a Roman citizen,” Vitas said.

Nero applauded again. “Well spoken!” He continued the introductions. “To the left of Chayim is Aulus Petillius. He was once handsome, I’m told, but as you can see, he hasn’t aged well.”

Aulus lifted a glass and forced a smile. Nero’s words were truth; Aulus had heavy jowls beneath a round face and a heavy thatch of dark hair. Although his hair was his own, he dyed it, and most believed it was a wig.

Nero moved on, guest by guest, passing by Helius and Tigellinus, who seemed to be eyeing Vitas with anticipation.

Vitas shivered and hoped with desperation that he and Sophia would survive an evening with the madman.

As Nero finished the introductions, Vitas concentrated on remembering each face and name. He hoped Sophia was doing the same. He had warned her to drink only watered wine and to keep her senses about her. Tonight was not a night for social blunders.

Caius Sennius Ruso paused on the path of his hillside garden and surveyed the last living man of the twelve disciples who had once walked in Galilee with Jesus. John, son of Zebedee.

John, ahead up the hill on a bench beneath an olive tree with a nearby lantern giving him light, seemed unaware of Ruso’s approach.

Ruso did not think that John was in prayer. No, John was gazing at a slightly upward angle, as if looking into the sky beyond the twisting dark branches of the tree, smiling as if memories were speaking directly to him.

Not for the first time did Ruso wonder about these memories that John must have of the three years spent with Jesus. Whenever John spoke of Jesus, it was as if only days had passed since their time together, not more than three decades.

These were memories that glowed behind John’s eyes when he spoke of his faith. John was now in his midfifties, and although sun and wind had creased his face with wrinkles, he had none of the fears and worries or greed and selfishness usually etched into a man’s face by that age. His dark hair had begun to pepper, but lean living had kept his face thin, and from a distance, especially when he was walking, his energy and carriage made him appear much younger.

Ruso realized he’d been staring, and with a self-conscious cough, he moved forward again. John did not like to be the center of attention, whether it was from one man or a group.

Ruso was careful to greet John well before arriving, as if to compensate for the moments he’d paused and watched his older friend. “Things are well?” Ruso asked as John rose and smiled.

“Always,” John said. “You are too kind.”

Ruso snorted. No sense beginning the usual argument with John, the one where Ruso tried to extend every available luxury that came with his wealth and where John politely and insistently refused.

Ruso had inherited a substantial fortune. As a senator, for years he had lived a life of luxury here in his estate on Capitoline Hill in Rome. Yet with all he had, for most of his adulthood, he’d also been unable to escape a nagging sense of emptiness. On a business trip to Ephesus, he’d heard of a remarkable teacher, and curiosity had led him to the teacher—John. Ruso’s conversion to faith in Jesus had been gradual, yet certain.

He’d grieved for John when political circumstances forced him into exile on Patmos and rejoiced at the chance to be among those who had helped John leave the island a few years later. When John had insisted on coming to Rome to comfort believers in the midst of the Tribulation, Ruso had had to fight long and hard to convince him to stay here on the estate instead of in the slums of the city. Even so, John declined any special treatment and insisted on his daily visits into the depths of the city.

“You are rather well dressed to visit the prisons with me today,” John said. “And you are home much later than usual.”

“Today, unfortunately, I’m forced to meet with some lawyers.”

It was a lie. Ruso intended to meet with a couple of military men to make travel arrangements. Their connections would ensure the secrecy his plans required. Ruso deeply regretted the need to lie to his friend. But he had no choice.

“Lawyers need comfort too,” John said dryly. His eyes met Ruso’s. “But I doubt you came here just to tell me that.”

Had John heard the lie in his voice? As a senator, Ruso was an expert at public oratory, and proud of the inflections he could put into his voice as needed. But John was uncannily perceptive.

“I’m here to beg you to leave Rome,” Ruso said, hoping his calm voice masked his unease. With John, there was no sense in trying to ease into a subject; he always seemed to see past any conversational screens. “Your life is in danger.”

“So are the lives of all believers here,” John answered with a smile of irony. “This is the solution then? All of us leave the city? Including you?”

“There is a slave hunter of great repute. Named Damian. You are the only one he is pursuing.”

John sat on the bench again. “My friend, you are asking me to flee the same tribulation that I have encouraged all believers to endure with the same faith in God shown by our Master.”

“You don’t understand. If Damian is on your trail . . .” Ruso paced beneath the branches of the olive tree as he spoke. “I did not fear the other two slave hunters seeking you for bounty in the last months. They weren’t as bright, men who lived in the lower-class world and had no access to this world.”

Ruso put up a hand to stop the protest he knew would come from John. “Yes, in our Father’s eyes, there are no divisions between classes. But in this world, where we both live until we can be with the Father, economics dictate certain things and for convenience in conversation, I speak of lower class and upper class. Most slave hunters can never breach the upper-class world, but Damian comes from a patrician family of great influence. He knows how to move among the upper classes, indeed, is welcomed by them. For he may be a contemptible slave hunter, but he is also the brother of a war hero, and a member of one of Rome’s oldest and most distinguished families.”

Ruso continued pacing. “And he is good, John. Very good. For the last six months, he has searched the entire world for the slave of a senator who escaped with a chest of valuable jewels. The entire world! And found the slave too, bringing him back to justice in Rome. I’ve used all my connections to inquire as to who has recently hired him to find you, but so far, I’ve learned nothing. But it must be a man of great power and influence. That has me worried.”

“I will find another place to live,” John said quietly. “It is unfair to put you and your family at risk.”

“I am not worried for me!” Ruso realized he had raised his voice and apologized. “I worry for you, my friend. Yesterday Damian was at a neighboring estate and interviewed Barbatus.”

John cocked his head in recognition of the name.

“Yes, Secundus Nigilius Barbatus. Who released you from Patmos. Damian was inquiring as to who secured your release and why.”

“You are in danger then,” John said softly, obviously understanding the implication.

When Ruso and some of his friends had approached Barbatus, Nero had not yet begun his persecution of the believers. Barbatus had had no reason not to release John, who’d been placed on the island by local officials tired of the trouble that John’s preaching caused in the Jewish community.