The Last Disciple (53 page)

He paused, examining Vitas. “I’d thought perhaps it would be amusing to let you fight some gladiators. After all, a military hero should provide good entertainment. But now that I see your pitiful condition, it may have to be the lions.”

Another pause. “No,” Helius said, “perhaps an elephant. We’ll have you tied to a tusk. Your face is already beaten beyond recognition. The same fate may as well await your body.” He shrugged. “No matter. What’s important are the provisions of your will regarding your entire estate.”

Vitas stared straight ahead. All he saw were the boots of the guards. The dark walls of the subterranean hallway with the torchlight gleaming off the stone.

“Normally,” Helius said, “it would be expected that you bequeath your entire estate to the emperor. That, along with a confession of your guilt. But I have a proposal for you.”

The feet of the guards in Vitas’s vision shifted. Then walked away.

Helius had dismissed them. He knelt beside Vitas, whispering in his ear. “You have certain properties on the coast. I think it would be appropriate if you gave them directly to me. Nero won’t miss them.”

Vitas tried to spit. But his lips were so big that they had almost cracked under the pressure of the blood throbbing through them. He couldn’t work up the moisture.

“Ah,” Helius said, “I sense anger. I am correct, aren’t I? It’s very difficult to read your emotions when your face looks like a melon.” He flicked Vitas in the face several times with his forefinger. “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. I’ll have to have more criminals beaten like this.”

Vitas tried to swing a punch, but from the ground it was impossible.

“Behave,” Helius said. “You are going to die, so do it with dignity. And do it in such a way that you spare Sophia from the same fate as yours.”

Vitas became very still.

“Ah, I do have your attention.” Helius knelt closer. “If you draw up the will as I request, she will live. I promise.”

“Guarantee . . . ?” That simple word took several seconds for Vitas to speak.

“What guarantee do you have that I will deliver on that promise? Perhaps none. But you do know she won’t be spared if you cross me.” Helius seemed to ponder it further. “Actually, request for your lawyer to send her to a safe place before the will is executed.” Helius laughed. “
Executed.
Such a fitting word, don’t you think?”

He prodded Vitas. “Really, you should keep a sense of humor about this. It’s all you have left.”

“Send . . . my . . . lawyer. Will . . . do . . . it.”

“Excellent.” Helius rose. “Don’t you feel much better now?”

“Send . . . Sophia . . .”

“I think not. Nero wouldn’t approve. Most definitely not approve. He’s quite upset, you know. At both of you. He looks forward to watching you die in the most horrible way.”

The feet of the guards returned into Vitas’s narrow range of vision. Rough hands lifted him to his feet. They began to drag him back into the cell.

“The lawyer will be here first thing in the morning,” Helius said. “Do get a good night’s sleep.”

Chayim found himself alone against five men holding knives in outstretched arms. He backed away from them until the outer wall of a warehouse stopped his retreat.

“What’s the only thing better than a fool alone near the wharves?” the largest of the five asked his companions.

Since the question was not directed at Chayim, he didn’t answer.

“A rich fool!” the same voice laughed.

Chayim was in a district of Rome unfamiliar to him. Down by the Tiber, where the ships were unloaded during the day.

“Let’s strip him and fillet him like a fish!” one voice said from the darkness.

Chayim edged along the wall, feeling behind him with his hands.

“Ho, ho!” the leader said. “There’ll be no escape for you. The rings on your fingers are worth a year’s wages, no doubt. You’ll have no need for them anyway, as we’ll be chopping your fingers off to get them.”

“My advice to you is to leave,” Chayim said. “I’m not here looking for trouble.”

“We have a jester!” The leader had a scarred face and wore an eyepatch. “A jester come down to the slums for entertainment. What is it you seek? A girl? A boy?” The man waved his knife closer to Chayim’s face. His voice turned nasty. “Whatever it is, rich fool, it has cost you your life.”

“Enough,” Chayim said. “I offer you one last chance to leave.”

“Otherwise, what?”

Chayim kept silent.

“Boys, let’s gut him.”

The small thud was barely audible. But the groan of surprise was louder.

The leader fell to his knees, and his knife dropped to the cobblestone. He twisted in agony, revealing the thrown military sword that had pierced the center of his belly. He held the sword with both hands, looking down with his mouth gaping in disbelief.

Before any of the others could react, six guards of the prefect rushed forward. All were in full armor, including head plates. The others formed a line behind their shields and brandished their short swords.

Shouts of dismay greeted that action, then the thumping of feet against cobblestone as the street gang fled.

Chayim stepped around the man on the ground. The soldier who owned the sword pulled it out. Blood streamed from the blade.

“I’ll see that your pay for services is doubled for each of you,” Chayim said to the soldiers. He pointed at the first soldier’s sword. “Please wipe that clean. We don’t need to terrify our prey with all that fresh blood.”

Hora Duodecima

“Lengthways,” the soldier said. He’d been sent up by the centurion to supervise Sophia’s death.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Sophia wore a robe and stood just inside the chamber where a hot bath had been prepared for her.

The soldier stood at the entrance. She followed his eyes as he scanned the room, making sure there was no possible way for her to escape. A knife and a jug of wine had been set beside the bath. There was a pile of towels too. Otherwise, the room was empty, except for the vapors rising from the hot water.

“If you cut your wrists lengthways,” he said, not unkindly, “the bleeding is much more efficient.” He motioned on his own wrist, tracing a path along the tendons. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve been sent on more than one of these assignments. From all I can tell, it is a painless way to die. You’ll faint and then—”

“Thank you,” Sophia said curtly.

He moved his eyes to her face. “You can’t take this personally, you know. These days, Nero looks for any excuse to confiscate an estate.”

Sophia bit back another curt remark, telling herself that this young soldier truly was trying to help. “You’re a good man,” she said slowly. “And one I trust will allow me the modesty I require.”

“Of course.” His young face colored with embarrassment. “I’ll wait outside.” He took a step.

“How long?” Sophia asked, stopping him.

He understood immediately. “If you have the courage to make the cut deep, five minutes, perhaps. The hot water helps you bleed faster.”

“Good-bye then,” she said.

“I’m sorry for you,” he answered. “And I’m impressed that you are behaving like a Roman.”

Instead of a Jew,
she thought silently.

He nodded once and left her alone.

Sophia winced at the scalding heat of the water but forced herself in as quickly as she could. Once totally submerged, she took the jug of wine and poured half of it into the water. Then she took the knife and placed the blade against the softness of the underside of her wrist, testing its sharpness.

A small cut opened immediately. She was amazed at how easily the cut deepened and widened. She placed her wrist in the water and watched the blood swirl and fade, a tiny tendril that disappeared like a fleeing snake.

She wasn’t ready, however, to finish slitting her wrist.

Not for the first time since Vitas had been taken away did she silently ask herself a question she wished she could ignore. Was this the consequence of her marriage to an unbeliever? When he’d proposed, she’d convinced herself she could help all Christians by marrying someone with influence with Nero, but now she wondered if it had only been a rationalization brought on by her selfishness and passion for Vitas.

And this was the result. The reputation and estate and household of Vitas in ruin. Vitas captive somewhere. And these orders for her own suicide.

Yet she knew God loved her. She clamped her other hand over the small wound, closed her eyes, and prayed. She prayed for Vitas. She prayed for her unborn child. And she prayed for courage.

Finally, she was at peace.

Ready for what was ahead of her.

“Everything is set?” Cornelius asked as he stepped forward toward Damian. Cornelius had hidden himself for as long as possible by walking just behind a group of peasants who were driving goats toward the center of the city.

Damian swallowed his distaste. A distaste for the slave, who was willing to sell another human being into captivity. And a distaste for himself, because as Damian could not deny to himself, he was willing to broker the sale.

“How I conduct my business is of no concern to you,” Damian said. “You should worry more whether John, son of Zebedee, will take his customary route as you promised.”

The bleats of the goats faded, but the approaching sound of soldiers’ sandals slapping the cobblestone replaced it.

“I don’t want John to see me,” Cornelius repeated. The approaching soldiers—a dozen of them—obviously bothered him. His eyes shifted from one direction to another, alert for any threat.

“What difference does it make?” Damian asked. “He won’t live long enough to return and punish you.”

The soldiers passed by without any incident.

“I don’t want him to see me,” Cornelius repeated. He rubbed the triangular brand on his forehead nervously.

“Don’t waste my time,” Damian warned. He didn’t want this slave to have a sudden attack of conscience. Damian pointed at the mouth of the alley, barely wider than two men with their arms spread. “We need to be ready for you to identify him.”

Cornelius looked at the ground. As if he had just realized the consequences of his actions. Still keeping his eyes downcast, he spoke. “He cannot know it was I who betrayed him.”

“You will do what is necessary to identify him for me as he passes by.”

“No,” Cornelius said with resolve that surprised Damian. He lifted his head again and stared directly at Damian. “Otherwise I will walk away right now.”

“I have already purchased your freedom from Barbatus.”

“I will return to him and become his slave again. I do not want John to see me.”

Damian sighed. “Then we will do it your way. As long as it gets done.”

Cornelius gritted his teeth briefly. A muscle along the side of his jaw twitched. “It will be done,” he said. “I will deliver him to you as promised.”

Chayim rapped on a door hidden in the recess of an alley. He wondered if he’d heard movement inside.

He rapped again.

And a third time.

“‘I am the way, the truth, and the life,’” Chayim said. This, the slave Rikka had told him in the morning, was the code. Three times a knock at the door. Then the phrases that all inside would recognize. “‘No one can come to the Father except through Me.’”