It was ominous in appearance.
And because its constant use in defiance of the persecution made so little sense to Helius, its mystery made it all the more ominous.
“Read the letter,” Helius barked at the old slave. He spoke to the woman and the boy. “You two, both of you, keep busy.”
One of Paulina’s sisters tried to push Aristarchus away from his exhausted wife as her birthing moans grew again in intensity.
He stood his ground, yelling at Paulina. “Don’t you understand? I am treasurer! I am a priest in the temple of Nero! You can serve any god but the Christos!”
Her moans continued to grow louder as the next wave of pain crested.
Aristarchus spoke to the eldest sister, his anger slipping into pleading. “The Christos demands service to no other gods. Our city depends on the largess of the divine Nero. Will the people allow me to remain treasurer if word spreads that my own wife refuses to worship Caesar?”
Agony ripped another scream from Paulina.
“Push,” the midwife urged. “Push!”
“Any other religion!” Aristarchus pleaded hoarsely. He struggled to make himself heard above the noise of his wife’s screaming. “Any other religion would make room for emperor worship! There are dozens to choose from. I won’t stand in the way of them! In every other matter of our marriage I give you what you want! But here, I put my foot down. No Christos, or I am ruined!”
“Push! Push!”
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “Even the Jews in this city reject the Christos! You must do the same. Listen!”
No one did.
The midwife lifted the sheet to check Paulina’s progress. “Push! Push! Your child is nearly here.”
Paulina shrieked, a mixture of torment and relief and joy.
“Push! Push!” The midwife caught the baby’s head as it entered the world. Its shoulders twisted sideways and the rest of the tiny body followed.
Paulina wept with relief.
The midwife gently placed the baby in Paulina’s arms, allowing the new mother to cradle it as she cut and tied the umbilical cord.
Aristarchus had stopped his ranting, mesmerized by the miracle that few Roman men witnessed. And briefly, one other item took priority over his fear for his employment and social standing. “Is it a boy?”
He didn’t wait for the answer but peered for himself. A sneer crossed his face. “She serves the Christos and gives me a daughter.”
Paulina ignored him and held her daughter close. “She’s beautiful,” she crooned, her pain and agony obviously forgotten. Serene joy lit her features. “Beautiful. And look at all her hair.”
“What’s her name?” one sister asked, sponging Paulina’s face with a damp cloth.
“Priscilla,” Paulina answered. “In honor of a woman in Ephesus who—”
“The baby will be given no name,” Aristarchus snapped. “It will not live the nine days to the lustratio.”
This was the official ceremony to name a Roman child and present it to the community.
“No!” cried the eldest sister. “This is Paulina’s first child. She is young. She has many years to give you a son.”
“Exposure,” Aristarchus said firmly, sensing triumph. “I will not sell the child or kill it. Exposure is my decree and my command. Exposure to the elements until it dies.”
A cacophony of sounds assailed Leah in the darkness beneath the amphitheater, sounds of quiet desperation. Groaning. Fear. Beyond those sounds coming from the prison cells on each side of the tunnel, she heard the occasional distant roar of animals trained to do the executing later.
Since Nathan’s arrest, Leah had slept only a few hours each night, spending the rest of the darkness tossing and turning as she tried to avoid thoughts of how her brother might actually die.
Yes, she’d spent far too much time in the horrors of the future; now it was upon her.
She wanted to be brave. Needed to be brave. For Nathan.
For her teenage brother. Nathan, the one of impetuous good humor who brightened their home and lives every day. Nathan! The baby of the family. Adored by all. About to die!
She lifted the hem of her dress, blocked out her fear, and moved deeper into the darkness. As she left the last shafts of light behind, the air seemed to close in on her, and her throat tightened as smells of suffering added to the sensation of smothering—body wastes accumulated in each cell, vomit, and the cloying, nauseating sweetness of alcohol from those fortunate few with enough money to bribe the guards and acquire the numbing forgetfulness from wine.
In this terrible labyrinth of doom and death, as darkness fell on Rome, Leah began to search for her brother.
In the Smyrna tavern, tension increased as the hulking man approached Vitas.
“Who are you to be asking ‘who is asking’?” Titus called from the corner. He began to move back toward Vitas. It was obvious that Vitas would not be able to easily defeat this new opponent.
The man didn’t dignify Titus or his question with even a glance. He continued to lumber toward Vitas, his eyes focused on the short sword that Vitas held out in a defensive position.
“Who are you to ask about Damian?” he repeated to Vitas.
Someone shouted drunkenly, “Rip him apart, Maglorius! Your hands are enough!”
Maglorius. This name Vitas recognized.
A living legend.
Although Maglorius was in his fifth decade and bore the healed slashes of gladiator blades and lions’ claws, he still radiated strength and power. His hair was not dark like most Romans’, but a sandy gray, reflecting his Iceni heritage. Common lore among the mobs said that the army had captured Maglorius during his tribe’s first revolt against the Romans in Britannia, then shipped him to Rome to be humiliated in the public display of Vespasian’s triumph. Afterward they sent him to the arenas to die as a gladiator. Except, as his presence in the tavern proved, he’d survived for over a decade already, had found a way to live by killing others.
“Who am I to ask?” Vitas said, unafraid. Every nerve tingled as he watched Maglorius the way one lion watches another. “That is my business. Not yours.”
“I have saved Damian’s life during training half a dozen times over the last year in gladiator school,” Maglorius said. “He is one of the most wretched citizens to take the oath. The only way he’ll survive his first fight in the arena tomorrow is if I save his life again. I think I have the right to ask who is looking for him.”
Vitas grinned and could see by Maglorius’s reaction that it was unexpected. “Because anyone who wants Damian is either collecting an unpaid debt or wants to punish him for seducing a wife or daughter.”
Maglorius grunted agreement.
That should have been the first warning for Vitas: that Maglorius, an obvious loner, had protected Damian over the last year. Damian, who’d been forced to make vows as a gladiator because of his gambling habits, was much more likely to inspire enemies than friends.
By then, Titus had reached Vitas’s side. He, too, watched Maglorius with a wary eye.
“I don’t understand you,” Titus said to Vitas. “When we were younger, you would happily have begun a brawl. Now you exhibit nothing but patience and maturity. Let’s have some fun. We’ll fight this man, then talk.”
“Forgive my friend, Maglorius,” Vitas said. “After our time together in the legions he believes he is invincible.”
“You bear a striking resemblance to Damian,” Maglorius said quietly. “Are you the brother he has mentioned? Vitas? All the way from Rome?”
“I am. And this is Titus Flavius Vespasianus.”
“Son of Vespasian? Who commanded a legion in Gaul?”
That should have been the second warning for Vitas. Maglorius asked about Vespasian’s time in Gaul and avoided the much more obvious connection: Britannia, where nearly twenty years earlier, Vespasian had famously fought thirty battles, subjugated two tribes, and captured twenty towns.
“Yes, Vespasian is my fathe
r,” Titus said proudly.
Maglorius reexamined Titus. And smiled slightly. Dangerously.
That should have been another warning for Vitas. He was too anxious to find Damian. Too anxious to prevent his younger brother from dying in his first fight as a gladiator. Vitas knew Maglorius was right in his judgment about Damian’s poor fighting skills.
“I will lead you to Damian,” Maglorius said. “You two appear able to take care of yourselves, but the streets of a harbor town like this are no place for strangers at night.” He gave them a slight smile. “Trust me. It’s too dangerous.”
Vitas shrugged.
“But first,” Maglorius said, “let us have a few drinks. I have no intention of going anywhere with a parched throat.”
As the woman continued to trim his hair and the boy continued to apply makeup, Helius listened to the slave with his eyes closed, as if the old slave were a harpist performing a beautiful melody. Yes, that was the picture Helius wanted to present to these three. Total serenity.
“‘Here is a copy of something from the archives,’” the slave began, reading slowly from the scroll. “‘If the emperor Tiberius found this important enough to bring it to Senate vote, then you should be aware of it and end the tribulation you have brought upon the innocent.’”
“That was the portion addressed to Nero?” Helius asked, eyes still closed, speaking as if the scroll were devoid of any significance, as if the cursed Greek graffiti on the back of it were a mere curiosity.
“Yes,” the slave said, almost absently. It was obvious by his concentration on the scroll that he was reading ahead with considerable interest.
“And what comes next is from the archives?” Helius asked. “A matter brought before the Senate by Tiberius.”
“It would appear so,” the slave answered.
“Continue,” Helius said with a wave. “All of you.”
The slave read the rest of it to the audience of Helius and the boy slave and the woman slave. Helius was focused on the contents of the letter and unaware that both the boy and the woman had stopped their attentions to him, so absorbed were they by what they heard. It wasn’t until the slave began to roll up the scroll that Helius opened his eyes and noticed they had listened so intently.
“Fine, then,” Helius said. He was proud of his ability to remain calm. On the inside, he was shaking. If Nero heard of this—
No, he commanded himself sharply. Do not think of consequences. Think of what must be done next.
“No one else knows of this scroll except Tigellinus?” Helius asked.
“I was with him the entire time,” the slave answered. “From the moment the young Jew was arrested to our arrival at the palace. Until I read this to you, Tigellinus was the only one to open the scroll.”
Helius stood and addressed all three slaves. “Wait here until I return.” He noticed the puzzled looks on their faces. His hair had not been completely trimmed, nor had all the makeup been applied. “Something I ate disagrees with me,” he said as he left the room and closed the door.
That should have alarmed them. Men like Helius rarely explained themselves to people like them.
Helius found a couple of soldiers down the hallway. “In my chamber,” he told them, “you will find a man, a woman, and a boy. I overheard them discussing a way to murder me.”
Both soldiers straightened. When slaves spoke of murdering their masters . . .
“Yes,” Helius said. “Go in there and cut off their tongues. Immediately. Then drag them to the Tiber and behead them and dispose of their bodies. Say nothing of this to anyone. Especially not to Nero. If he believes there is another plot brewing within the palace, no one will be safe.”
The soldiers saluted.
The last plot against Nero had resulted in a six-month indiscriminate bloodbath.
“It will be done,” the first one said.
“Good,” Helius answered. “Very good. Remember, if I hear any rumors about this, I’ll know who is responsible. And then Tigellinus will see to it that you are punished in the same manner.”
“It will be done immediately,” the second soldier stressed. “And we will say nothing.”
They turned and half walked, half sprinted toward Helius’s chamber and the slave and the woman and the boy who were unaware of how soon and how cruelly their lives were about to end.
Helius let out a sigh.
This, at least, would ensure no one else knew about the scroll. He’d find Tigellinus in the garden, and they would plan a course of action.
Helius touched his face. He did not anticipate this matter would delay whatever fun Nero had planned for them. Helius hoped that enough of his makeup had been applied so he would look decent for the evening’s festivities.
But first he needed to speak to Tigellinus.
In the courtyard, Aristarchus reached for his daughter. His firstborn. The baby he had decided to kill by exposure.
“No,” Paulina wailed.
“It is my right as father,” he said. “You cannot stop me.”
Her sisters could not go to her defense. They knew the father’s place in his household. He could deny the right of the newborn child to be reared. He could choose to sell, kill, or expose the child. And if he chose exposure, he could leave the baby outside the house or in a public place.
“Please,” Paulina said. Exhausted as she was, desperation gave her strength. “Let me keep my child!”
Aristarchus smiled his satisfaction, thinking that perhaps the gods had favored him by bringing to his attention his wife’s secret faith this very afternoon.
“Perhaps I will let you rear it.” He paused.
The baby’s suckling broke the brief moment of silence.
“Renounce this Christos,” he said. “And the baby will live.”
“I cannot.” Paulina began to weep. “He gave His life to spare mine.”
“Then the baby is exposed. Tonight. In the public square outside the temple of Caesar. Beneath divine Nero’s statue. That will let all of Smyrna know that I honor Caesar despite my wife’s foolishness.”
Paulina tried to speak but could not through her broken sobs. She clutched the baby with one arm and stroked her head with her other hand.
“You are all witnesses,” Aristarchus said, arms crossed. “Tell all who will listen. I give this baby as a sign of my allegiance to the divine Caesar.”
“No! No!” Paulina managed to cry out again through her sobs.
“One last chance,” Aristarchus said. “Will you renounce Christos?”
Paulina clutched the baby tighter.
“Trouble!” the midwife said. “She is . . .”
The midwife pointed. Beneath the birthing chair, blood was pooling in a dark, obscene circle.
The sisters hurried to find sheets to stem the hemorrhaging.
“What do you answer?” Aristarchus demanded of Paulina.
She was incapable of answering. She was slumped over the baby, unconscious, her arms still holding her tightly.
“There,” Aristarchus said, “I have spoken. Let it be done as I have commanded.”
Vespera
When she finally found Nathan, Leah expected to see the same despair that she’d seen in the other cells crowded with prisoners as she had peered inside, straining her eyes in the dimness to find her brother.
The prisoners gathered in her brother’s cell, however, were not catatonic or drunk or wailing like those condemned to the arena for murder or robbery or arson. Instead, they were quietly singing hymns as they held hands. They were men and women and children, a dozen of them, making a joyous sound that seemed to brighten the cell as surely as if each had been holding a candle.
Nathan noticed her immediately and rushed away from the group. It was only a couple of steps, and he tried to embrace Leah through the bars.
“Nathan!” Leah began to weep.
“My sister, my sister,” Nathan said, stroking her hair.
It took several moments for Leah to realize
that her brother was giving her comfort, when she’d fully expected in this situation that she would have to provide it for him.
He had matured somehow and was different.
“Why are you here?” he said. “You shouldn’t have risked this.”
“The message came that you needed to see Caleb. And he’s . . .”
“Yes?” he said with a trace of his former impatience for life to move quickly. “Where is he? Is everything all right at home?”
She nodded, lying to a loved family member for the second time that day.
It was not all right at home. Their father was furious that Nathan had abandoned the Jewish faith, heartbroken that it would cost his son his life. Caleb, the eldest brother, shared the fury and heartbreak and had valiantly tried to reconcile Nathan with their father in the days after he announced his faith in Jesus of Nazareth as the promised Messiah of the Jews. The few months until Nathan’s arrest had been almost as unbearable as the days that followed it.
“Where is Caleb?” Nathan asked. “I didn’t want or expect you to come here. It’s too dangerous.”
“Caleb has been called by the emperor,” Leah said. She knew it was the opposite, that Caleb had sought the emperor’s ear; he’d taken her into his confidence so they both could lie to their father. And now she passed the lie on to Nathan.
“Called to the emperor? Called? Or arrested?”
Leah frowned, briefly clutching her throat. “No. Not arrested. Caleb has not turned away from our father’s faith.”
Nathan closed his eyes briefly. “I wish so badly that you would understand. It is not turning away from the faith of our fathers. Jesus is the fulfillment of the Law and the Prophets and the promises of God.” He opened his eyes. “I’m sorry. You’ve heard me say that many times. I will continue to pray that you and Caleb find this faith.”
Leah did not understand. Here was Nathan. In a horrible cell. Facing a horrible death. And he prayed for others to share his faith? Still, this was not the time or place to engage in the familiar arguments that had torn apart their family before Nathan’s arrest.
She clung to the bars, wanting to hold her younger brother. He was so handsome. So young. He did not deserve to die.
The Last Disciple Page 4