The tavern Vitas entered with Titus Flavius Vespasianus was so well shuttered that oil lamps were necessary for light, as if darkness, still an hour away, had already cloaked the city.
It took less than a minute for silence to settle upon the crowded tavern as, one by one, the patrons noticed the newcomers. The dice and knucklebones at the gaming counter stopped rattling, the prostitutes ended their chatter with the most promising drunks, and the lone singer near an oil lamp in the corner abruptly quit halfway through a verse.
“This is the trouble with visiting the slums,” Titus said out of the side of his mouth to Vitas. “One must dress down to fit in. But to do so risks fleas of the worst sort.”
Titus wore a spotless silk toga. Dim as the light was, it clearly showed his elegant handsome features. He’d been a best friend to Brittanicus, the son of Claudius, who had reigned as emperor before Nero. Titus’s time in the royal courts showed in the confident way he held himself, in the style of his haircut, and in his articulate manner of speaking.
“Perhaps you could say that louder,” Vitas answered. He wore a simple tunic and was slightly taller than Titus. Leaner. Vitas was nearing thirty, six years older than Titus. Each was obviously well muscled and healthy and showed a full set of teeth—ample evidence of their wealth and rank to the members of the underclass who filled this tavern. “Or perhaps you could repeat it for the few at the back who were unable to hear it the first time.”
Already, a few large men—stooped from years of hard labor—had begun to rise from their tables, knocking over cups of beer in their haste.
“Speciem illorum uberum suis non amo,” Titus said in clear reference to the two approaching men, using formal grammar to emphasize the common insult.
Vitas shook his head sadly as two more men rose from their seats. I don’t like the look of those sows’ udders, Titus had just called out.
“Please,” Vitas said to the men, “no need to get up in greeting. We were told we might find Gallus Damian here.”
As the prostitutes eased out of the way, none of the four men slowed his approach.
“Notice how they come in pairs,” Titus declared loudly, calmly adjusting his toga so he could move freely in a fight. “It simply proves what I said. Sows’ udders.”
At that moment, deep in the emperor’s palace in Rome, the second most powerful man in the empire was about to discover a different kind of terror, hidden within a scroll with a broken seal.
“Leave me alone,” Helius said to the slave who had entered his chamber with the scroll. “I’m extremely busy.”
His sarcasm dripped with the authority of a man who’d once been a slave, now speaking to a subordinate. Because of his relationship to Nero, that meant nearly anyone else in the empire. The irritation Helius endured because of the summer heat was increased by the fact that he had always found this particular slave ugly.
“Tigellinus said—”
“I am occupied.” Helius interrupted the slave, spitting out each word.
Indeed, Helius was busy allowing two other slaves to tend to him. A woman was trimming his hair in the latest style, and a teenage boy was applying makeup to his face.
The slave with the scroll—a man in his forties with sparse gray hair—seemed miserable. “Tigellinus wants you to look at the graffiti,” he persisted. The slave only persisted because Tigellinus knew Helius was preparing for a night of debauchery with Nero and had foreseen that Helius would not be interested. Accordingly, Tigellinus had promised to have the slave severely whipped unless Helius read the scroll. And, since Tigellinus was the prefect of the Praetorian Guards, the emperor’s soldiers who policed the city, Tigellinus was one of the few men in Rome with power nearly equal to Helius’s.
“Graffiti?” Helius echoed. The first sensation of dread rumbled within his bowels. If this came from Tigellinus, it could only refer to certain graffiti that infuriated Nero. Nero’s nightmares had not lessened; tonight’s fun was intended to distract Nero from his demons.
“This . . . ,” the slave said as he began to unroll the scroll. The back of it—the side facing Helius—revealed a single three-letter Greek word, large enough to be visible at several paces.
Helius sucked in his breath as his guess about the graffiti was confirmed. He recovered quickly, hoping neither the woman behind him nor the boy applying his makeup had detected that quick intake of breath.
“This scroll comes from Tigellinus?” Helius said as casually as he could. “And where did he get it?”
“A young Jew stopped him in the streets and showed it to him. Tigellinus had him immediately arrested.”
“You were with Tigellinus and witnessed this?”
“I was there,” the old slave answered.
“Tigellinus read it?”
“Yes.”
“And the Jew that he arrested?”
“Tigellinus instructed me to tell you that the young Jew has been detained and is under guard.”
“By Tigellinus?” Helius asked, hoping the answer would be otherwise.
“By Tigellinus.”
If Tigellinus had handled it personally instead of ordering soldiers to watch the young Jew, this was as important as Helius feared. For, if Nero got wind of it, he would be unbearable. Everything that mattered to Helius depended on the whims of Nero, whose patience was already nearing an end because of the apparent powerlessness that Helius and Tigellinus had against the symbol on the back of the scroll.
Helius forced his mind away from consequences. He was too familiar with the horrible ways that men and women who displeased Nero met their deaths.
Helius sighed, as if the issue of the scroll was a mere irritation. “As I said, I am busy. Have Tigellinus deal with this matter.”
Obviously conscious of the whipping that Tigellinus had promised, the slave persisted. “He instructed me that you must read the scroll.”
“I am very occupied.” Helius needed to pretend that nothing about the scroll interested him. He paused, as if coming to a sudden thought. “You read it to me.”
“Of course,” the slave said.
“Wait. Are the contents of the scroll written in Greek? or Latin?”
“Greek,” the slave answered as he unwound it. “Like the back of the scroll.”
“Are you calling me stupid?” Helius said. His bad mood had worsened the instant he’d seen the single Greek word. Yes, the next weeks would be hellish if Nero discovered this.
“No, I—”
“I saw the back of the scroll. Telling me it is in Greek too is like telling me you think I’m too stupid to read Greek.”
“I apologize,” the slave said, dropping to his knees and bowing.
This humiliation pleased Helius. He hated ugliness.
The teenage boy giggled at the slave’s apology. Since the boy was attractive, Helius decided not to reprimand him. “Go on, then,” Helius told the old slave. “Read me this letter as Tigellinus has insisted.”
In Smyrna, less than a half mile from the tavern where Vitas and Titus were about to brawl, a man named Aristarchus heard screams on the other side of the blanket hung over the arch leading to the inner courtyard. With a fist already clenched, he punched the blanket, shook it off as it wrapped around his arm, and let it fall behind him onto the mosaic floor.
Marching through the arch, he ignored the views afforded by the courtyard’s windows. To the west lay Smyrna’s port and the sea beyond, while the hilltops stretched to the azure sky in the east. He had long taken his wealth and the palatial estate for granted, and this day was no exception.
He stalked toward the center of the courtyard, stepping into the long shadow that his body cast in the late afternoon. Directly ahead, a midwife and three other women were focused on his wife, Paulina, and did not notice Aristarchus until he was a few paces away. Their momentary shock at his breach of tradition nearly allowed him to reach Paulina, crouched on the birthing chair behind them. Paulina seemed unaware of his presence as she shut her eyes and
screamed again, fighting the intense pain of a prolonged contraction.
“Move aside,” he barked. But for the depth of his anger, his manner of expression would have been comical, for he was a small man with a high-pitched voice.
“How dare you!” the midwife said, breaking out of her brief frozen shock. “Out!” She grabbed his arm and spun him back toward the archway.
Normally, she would have prevailed. She was a large, wide woman and by nature, bad-tempered.
Aristarchus, on the other hand, had become tamias, “treasurer,” of the town council of Smyrna, through cultivated deviousness, and rarely engaged in open confrontations. Today, however, his anger overpowered his instinctive political nature. He stiff-armed the midwife’s belly with the hand he had not yet unclenched. As she staggered back, he twisted loose and turned on the three other women, Paulina’s sisters, who had formed a protective half circle in front of Paulina.
Paulina gasped in relief when the contraction passed. The exertion had flushed her face and drenched it with sweat.
“Stand aside,” he ordered. “I will speak with my wife.”
The three women, dark-haired and dusky-skinned like their sister, all wore identical frowns.
“Leave,” the eldest said. She’d never respected Aristarchus and had no compunction about showing her scorn now. “Men have no part in this. Ever.”
Aristarchus opened his fist and dangled from his fingers a thin silver chain. A small silver cross hung at the end. “She will answer me this. I demand to know if what I’ve just heard is true.”
“My sister,” the eldest said, teeth clenched, “has been in difficult labor since last night. Wait until tomorrow. Better yet, wait until she has fully recovered. This is her time for a child not for an argument.”
Paulina moaned as a new contraction gained strength.
The midwife rushed to her and mopped the sweat from her brow. With surprising gentleness, the midwife murmured, “One more contraction is one closer to bringing you a beautiful baby. Don’t be afraid to push, my child.”
Aristarchus opened his mouth to argue, but as Paulina began to scream again, he realized his efforts would be wasted.
When the contraction finally passed, he did not hesitate to continue. “Is she part of this cult?” he demanded, shaking the chain and the cross. “Is she one who shares the blood?”
The sisters closed ranks, and Aristarchus shoved them aside to shout into Paulina’s face. “Are you? Is what I’ve discovered today about your secret faith true?”
Paulina was panting, exhausted, yet the light in her eyes was strong. “I am,” she said simply.
“That Jew slave servant of yours, Sophia—she has corrupted you, hasn’t she?”
“By leading me to the living Christos she has led me to a great peace. She—”
“She will no longer be part of this household. Now renounce Christos. Here and now in front of witnesses. It is not too late to save my reputation and the position that supports your family. Renounce your faith!”
Paulina’s face tightened. “I cannot,” she whispered. “The Christos is my Savior.”
“No! I preside at a temple where Nero is worshiped as almighty savior. Do you want to destroy my livelihood?”
Paulina could not answer as the contraction overwhelmed her. While he continued to screech at her, she began to moan.
“You’re one of them, are you?” At the main gates of the amphitheater, a short guard with a powerful build leered at Leah. “You don’t look it, but I’ve learned never to judge by appearances.”
“One of them?” Leah asked. She could not guess at what the guard meant by “appearances.” Leah was young, just at the age of marriage. She’d dressed plainly, covering most of her long dark hair. She knew men looked at her with desire but never felt that she was attractive enough to deserve their attention.
“Don’t play stupid with me. You love to see their fear, don’t you?” The guard took from her the bribe he had demanded earlier and jabbed a thumb in the direction of the chaos behind him.
On the ground level of the amphitheater, twenty or thirty people jostled toward the opening where prisoners were forced out onto the sand. The sunlight pierced the opening and clearly showed the lustful joy on the men and women jeering at a new group of men passing by on their way to death.
One of them.
Leah could not comprehend why the Romans enjoyed the death cries rising from the arena let alone understand the pleasure Nero himself took in all his public perversion and his imaginative manners of torture. A Jew born in Rome—the Jewish community was strong and large and vibrant—Leah had managed to avoid even being near any of the games that took place when politicians needed to placate the mobs with entertainment.
One of them.
Those in the small crowd ahead taunted the prisoners. Some—both men and women—reached out to grab them indecently.
“Take care you don’t end up in the arena,” the guard laughed, a sound more like a bark than anything. “At the last games, half a dozen spectators found themselves out on the sand. They died as quick as the condemned. What a spectacle that was!”
Leah hurried away and tried to shut out the sounds and sights of the guards using spears to prod the condemned forward. She left behind the opening of sunlight and the rumble of cheering, and she followed the tunnels deeper beneath the stands, down into a damp darkness lit by torches.
The tension facing Vitas in the tavern grew as the four thugs approached.
“I say pretty boy cries for his mama first,” one man called out, pointing at Titus. “And I’ll put money on it.”
“A simple yes or no is all I need,” Vitas said, his voice loud but calm. “Have any of you seen Damian tonight? Help me and I’ll gladly buy drinks for all.”
That drew cheers but didn’t stop the forward movement of the four thugs, though the spacing of the rough wooden tables made their approach difficult. As the first one neared, Titus smiled politely, then stepped forward and kicked him in the groin.
The large man fell to his knees, his body temporarily blocking the path of the other three. Seconds later, the man on his knees retched.
“Isn’t it wonderful to go out on the town and get drunk?” Titus said pleasantly to the fallen man.
Two of the other men roared and leaped over the fallen man in an attempt to tackle Titus. He stepped behind Vitas, then onto one table and onto the next.
“Excuse me,” Titus said to the patrons at each table, who were too stunned to react. “Excuse me again. And again.”
Hopping from tabletop to tabletop, Titus was on the opposite side of the tavern in moments, leaving Vitas to deal with the large drunks.
Despite the beer they had consumed, the men were sober enough to appreciate the short sword that Vitas held in front of him, a sword he had drawn from beneath his tunic with such amazing quickness that it seemed he’d been standing on guard with it the entire time.
“Gallus Damian,” Vitas said. “Surely you know him. I was told this is where many of the gladiators entertain themselves the night before the games.”
“And who is asking?” This voice came from a man seated alone. All the other tables were crowded beyond capacity, but this man had his entire table to himself.
A low murmur went through the crowd in reaction to his question.
The man rose slowly. Moved toward Vitas.
The drunks fell backward trying to get away, dragging their stunned companion with them. Other spectators parted with reverent fear and made room for the new man.
The man repeated his question to Vitas. “Tell me, who is asking about Damian?”
Standing directly in front of Helius, the sparsely-haired slave scrolled to the top portion. He held it at arm’s length, betraying his farsightedness. The back of it showed the top of the single Greek word that had disturbed Helius.
“Wait,” Helius said. “Unscroll it so these two can see the back of it again.”
At his instructions, t
he woman and the teenage boy looked closely at the three-letter word.
“Do either of you read Greek?” Helius asked.
Both shook their heads.
Helius sighed his disgust at their ignorance.
“But I’ve seen it before,” the boy said, eager to please. “Like graffiti . . . on the walls of the emperor’s palace. And once at the games. A Christian was dying. A lion had swiped open his belly, then moved on to another one. The first Christian was near the wall. He rubbed his hand on his bleeding belly and with his blood smeared that same word across the wall for everyone on the other side of the arena to see.”
This was what Helius had not wanted to hear. If this boy had seen it and recognized it, so had far too many of the people who wandered the city.
“You’re sure?” Helius said.
“Most sure. Look at it. It’s easy to remember, especially with the snake in the middle.”
Yes, Helius thought, easy to remember. Far too easy. And Nero, too, had seen it on the palace walls. So far, Helius had managed to laugh it off with Nero, but the word had shown up far too often in the last weeks. If only, Helius wished, every Christian in the city were already dead so none remained to scrawl that mark in public places.
“What does it mean?” the boy asked.
“Nothing of importance,” Helius said. “Make sure you don’t powder my face so thickly that it is obvious.”
In one way, Helius was telling the truth. It was nothing but three Greek letters.
But in another way, the center symbol gave the appearance of the writhing serpent and represented its hissing sound, and that made it truly ominous. The first letter was the initial letter of the name of Christ. The last letter was a double letter, which began the Greek word for “cross,” stauros. And the symbol of the snake was trapped in between the two.
The Last Disciple Page 3