The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

As Helius regarded the handsome, black-haired, young Jew in front of him, he thought with regretful tenderness that it was a pity such a fine specimen would have to die.

  “Nathan was arrested because someone reported to the authorities that he is a Christian,” Caleb said. “A man named Vitas spent a great deal of time interrogating him.”

  Helius made a waving motion as if impatient. In the last months, Vitas had interrogated more than a few Christians, trying to learn if they were the threat to the empire that Nero decreed. Helius had been part of the interrogation of Nathan, as Vitas tried to prove the Christian beliefs were not treasonous.

  “As I said,” Helius answered, pretending not to be familiar with Nathan, “your brother deserves his fate. Nero has made it very clear that the Christians are a treasonous group. What does that have to do with this letter?”

  Helius held up the scroll marked with the three-letter Greek word that Christians had been placing across the city in public places.

  “It was the only way I could think of to get an audience with Nero.”

  “I serve in Nero’s stead,” Helius said. “Why did you want this audience?”

  “I love my brother,” Caleb said simply.

  “How touching.”

  “My father is a famed Jew named Hezron,” Caleb continued. “A man considered to be the greatest rabbi among the Jews in Rome. An excellent scholar and a wise old man with years of experience in debate. I have followed closely in his footsteps, and many feel I am already close to an equal in learnedness.”

  “Delightful.”

  “I do not say this to boast but to let you know that I can deliver on my promise. And that my reputation will have credibility in circles that matter.”

  “I haven’t heard your promise.”

  “First,” Caleb said, “I want your word that if I am successful, you will release my brother from the arena.”

  “Of course,” Helius lied smoothly. “But that’s assuming what you have to give in exchange is worthwhile.”

  “You have the material from the archives,” Caleb answered, “and you know how damaging it could be to Nero.”

  Helius shrugged.

  Caleb smiled with confidence. “A wealthy merchant knows a simple fact. If there is no apparent need for a good, create that need. Then the sales of it will be easy. I found what I did in the archives to create that need. That in itself should show you I am an excellent scholar.”

  “I fear nothing from the archives.”

  “Then why am I still alive?” Caleb asked. “You must think I possess something of value.”

  “You must love your brother a great deal to risk this.”

  “If I give you proof that makes the archive matter meaningless,” Caleb said, “let him live.”

  Helius stared at Caleb.

  “Yes,” Caleb said, “I can prove for you that Jesus of Nazareth—whom the Christians call Christos—was not divine.”

  The naked baby had been placed on the cold stone pavement directly beneath the statue of Nero at the temple in Smyrna. Vitas knelt in front of it and in the moonlight saw that it was a baby girl.

  Vitas was filled with confusion.

  What was he doing here? The father who had decided to leave the baby exposed was doing nothing wrong in the eyes of Roman law. Vitas had seen the bodies of dozens of exposed babies left in public places and had well been able to ignore their fading cries.

  What was he doing here? It was against centuries of tradition to do anything but ignore the dying baby. And how could he save the tiny girl, even if he picked her up this very moment?

  The baby’s cries ripped at his heart.

  What was he doing here? In Rome, he’d managed to spend four years in a cocoon, wrapped in the luxuries of wealth, determined not to step outside into a world filled with these tragedies. As a member of Nero’s inner court, he’d taken great effort to remain a decision maker, to avoid involvement in implementing any of the plans that sent men or women to their deaths.

  What was he doing here in front of this baby? Why did he care?

  An image sprang to his mind: a young Jew named Nathan, taken by arresting soldiers from a small Jewish household and hauled in front of the defacto triumvirate of Helius and Tigellinus and Vitas, the three men who formed the power base that served Nero. This young Jew had been utterly unafraid of the prodding spears of the soldiers and the harsh questions from Helius and Tigellinus. But the intended interrogation of the boy had become almost like a conversation between peers, almost to the point where Vitas had felt like a student at a master’s feet, trying to understand where the young man could draw such strength and peace in front of the terrifying power of Rome. Strength and peace. Two things Vitas wanted to possess.

  What was he doing here on the pavement, kneeling in front of the weakening baby?

  Since the day of the arrest of that boy named Nathan, Vitas had been unable to escape the questions Nathan had posed. Questions about soul and purpose of life. Questions about a man named Jesus, crucified by Pontius Pilate during his clumsy attempts to govern Judea.

  Vitas wanted his life in compartments, for compartments sealed away pain. Yet since arresting Nathan, Vitas had become too aware of the suffering of others. He was irritated at that growing weakness and irritated that the dreams he’d almost escaped since returning to Rome had recently begun to haunt him again.

  What was he doing here?

  If he took the baby, he breached law. And most certainly betrayed a long-standing tradition of the empire.

  If he didn’t take the baby, she would surely die within the hour.

  If he took the baby, what of all the other children in this world who suffered? Titus had been right. The task was overwhelming.

  Yet if he stood and left the baby where she was still wailing, would her cries join the other wails of his dreams?

  Vitas sighed. He had enough money. Perhaps . . .

  Vitas took the baby into his arms, trying to warm the trembling little girl. He would wrestle with what to do as he held her. That was his decision for now. The baby quieted briefly.

  Footsteps alerted him to the presence of someone approaching from behind. “What do you think you are doing?” The demand came from a woman’s voice.

  Vitas rose awkwardly, still holding the baby. She began to wail again.

  He turned.

  “I . . . I . . .” Vitas could not answer, for that, of course, had been the same question he’d been struggling with since reaching the baby.

  The moonlight shadows from the statue that fell across the woman prevented him from seeing her face clearly. She was tall, seemed young. And she was clearly indignant, for her arms were crossed.

  This attitude startled Vitas. It was night. The woman was alone. She should have been frightened. Her courage, however, intrigued him.

  “Did Aristarchus send you?” She strode forward and pulled the baby from his arms. Moonlight flashed across her face. He’d been right. She was young. Perhaps a couple of years younger than his brother Damian. A girl recently turned woman, with an air of something he could not define, but something that plucked at his heart.

  “Are you not content that the baby has been condemned to exposure?” she demanded. “Or are you here to ensure her death arrives sooner?”

  “No, I . . .”

  The woman wrapped the baby in a blanket she carried, bent her head, and began to croon. The soothing sound worked and the baby’s wails became whimpers of hunger.

  “Are you the mother?” Vitas asked. He was bewildered at the turn of events.

  “Go away,” she said. “Don’t follow.” With that, she began to retrace her steps across the square.

  Suddenly three men broke out of the darkness beneath the columns at the front of the temple. They ran toward the woman.

  Vitas heard them first, then saw their fast approach . . . and the silhouettes of the swords in their hands.

  “No!” the woman cried.

  Without pausing to consid
er the rashness of his action, Vitas leaped forward.

  “Your brother.” In front of Caleb, Helius made a great show of sighing. “Explain to me these Christians. Are they not merely a fringe of your religion?”

  “No.” Caleb lost his cool watchfulness. “They are blasphemous. They believe that Messiah already arrived. More than that, they claim that Jesus was the one and only Son of God, claim He is actually equal with God.”

  “Your brother, then, has chosen to die for the very same Jesus who you say is a fraud?”

  “Yes,” Caleb answered quietly.

  “You still love him, even though it must be dividing your family?”

  “Yes.”

  “It strikes me as odd how much people are willing to give for this man Jesus and what He teaches,” Helius said. “Nothing in my experience has shown that kind of devotion to any other philosophy. Tell me, what would cause your brother to give up the Jewish faith and do this to your family? From everything I know about Jews, you would rather die than have your God insulted. Yet your brother and hundreds of others like him are turning their backs on their families, causing great rifts and hardships. And, yes, facing executions for their faith. What is it that gives them such determination?”

  Helius realized he had spoken his thoughts in a way that revealed too much. He waved away any answer that Caleb might have given. “My job is to protect Nero,” Helius went on quickly, as if explaining his slip. “My job is to ensure he doesn’t face troubling questions. He has millions of subjects and the entire world to administrate. He should not have to worry about things like this.”

  Helius lowered his voice. He was excellent at faking sincerity, and he knew it. “I will continue to be frank with you. The Christians were a convenient scapegoat for the Great Fire of Rome. Yet now rumblings of sympathy have begun for them because of how cruelly they are killed.”

  Helius shook the scroll. “So, yes, your proof would be of value to Nero. What exactly do you propose?”

  “I have gathered different letters circulating among the followers of Jesus,” Caleb said. “I have the knowledge and skill as a Jewish scholar and rabbi to prove from them that Christ Himself was a liar and a false prophet.”

  “You don’t need to prove it to me,” Helius said. “I’m not a believer.”

  “I propose that you find a Jewish rabbi who is a believer,” Caleb answered. “Let me debate him as if this were a Roman court and you were the judge presiding over the case. Record it as any other case brought before a judge. And when I have proved my point, release the records to the public. Once the claims of the Christians have been shown as ridiculous, they will no longer be a threat to Caesar.”

  Caleb was very earnest and naive, and Helius found that attractive.

  “Then,” Caleb continued with that naiveté, “you will have no reason for my brother to die in the arena.”

  “Your proposal has merit,” Helius allowed. “Let me think it over.”

  “Please,” Caleb said. “My brother faces the lions tomorrow.”

  “It will take some time to find an opponent for you.”

  Caleb shook his head. “There is a respected rabbi already in your prisons; he is a Christian. His name is Zabad. Let him take the opposing side. Tomorrow.”

  “You’ve given this a great deal of thought.”

  “I love my brother.”

  “Enough, I suppose, to arrange with Zabad to lose this so-called trial case.” Helius was a good-enough negotiator to pretend resistance to the idea.

  “I expected you would guess that.”

  “And?”

  “There is a way to ensure that each side debates in fairness,” Caleb said. “Offer freedom to the winning side. And death to the other.”

  The suddenness of the treachery of Maglorius had caught Titus totally unaware. To save his life, Titus tried to stomp the heel of his sandal onto Maglorius’s toes.

  Maglorius kicked Titus’s supporting leg as Titus lifted the other. Titus staggered to keep his balance, unable to deliver the blow he intended. Nor did it succeed in loosening the grip of the massive forearm around Titus’s neck.

  “You don’t think I’ve seen and learned every trick a dying man tries to avoid his death?” Maglorius asked. “Meet your gods with dignity.”

  Titus fell slack against the forearm at his neck. As if he’d been choked unconscious.

  Maglorius removed the knife from Titus’s ribs and jabbed it into his buttocks, drawing a yelp. Titus straightened.

  “Any words you want me to deliver to your father?” Maglorius asked.

  “I can’t believe fate transpired against me like this,” Titus wheezed. “What are the chances of meeting the one man in the entire empire who—?”

  “You Romans have a saying,” Maglorius growled. “De inimico non loquaris sed cogites.”

  Don’t wish ill for your enemy; plan it.

  “It . . . wasn’t . . . chance?” Titus could barely speak, so great was the pressure against his neck.

  “It wasn’t chance. When Damian joined the gladiator school and spoke of his brother and his brother’s friend Titus, son of Vespasian, I knew I would have to keep Damian alive against the hope that someday you would visit him. So tell me, what shall I write to your father in the letter that will be delivered to him after your death?”

  “He will have you crucified for this,” Titus managed to say.

  “Tonight you die, and tomorrow I will welcome death in the arena to free myself of the memories of watching my wife and child die. So speak your last words before I leave your body beneath the statue of Caesar to let the world know that I finally had my revenge against the empire.”

  Titus tried to twist free but knew the man holding a knife against him was utterly serious. And utterly capable of killing him in an instant. So he became serious himself. “Tell my father that I loved him dearly, although I didn’t speak it in his presence.”

  “As you wish.”

  Titus closed his eyes in preparation for the knife to be slipped between his ribs.

  A shout reached them.

  “Help! Titus! I need you!”

  “It’s Vitas!” Titus cried. “My friend is in danger!”

  Maglorius withheld the death stab.

  “I owe him my life,” Titus said. “If you understand honor at all, release me. Please. Kill me later, but let me first repay my debt to him.”

  The sound of running footsteps neared them.

  It was a woman, impeded by a burden in her arms. She stumbled on uneven pavement and fell, shielding the baby from the fall with her own body. She shrieked with pain as she landed on her shoulder.

  “Behind me,” she gasped, lying on the ground beside Maglorius and Titus. “Three against one.”

  “I beg you,” Titus said to Maglorius. “You did not hear me beg for my life, but I beg you to allow me to help my friend.”

  Before Maglorius could answer, the fight was upon them.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t agree to the terms given you by the bestiarius.” Leah was in tears again. She’d delivered to Nathan the offer, and he in turn had spoken to the others. Now he was in front of her again.

  “The children will be saved,” Nathan said. “But I will not become a slave.”

  “As a slave, at least you’ll still be alive. Our family can find a way to purchase your freedom.”

  “Could I live in peace,” he answered, “knowing that I, of all the men and women in this cell, am the only one to flee from the chance to stand strong against tribulation?”

  “This is your life!”

  “‘The people who are destined for prison will be arrested and taken away,’” Nathan whispered. He’d reached through the bars with both hands and gently cradled her face. “‘Those who are destined for death will be killed. But do not be dismayed, for here is your opportunity to have endurance and faith.’ These are the words of John, the last disciple of our Savior. We are living through the Great Tribulation, and he has given us co
mfort.”

  “I don’t understand,” Leah pleaded, grasping her brother’s wrists and keeping his hands pressed against her cheeks. “I’ve explained how you can arrange it so you don’t need to face the lions tomorrow. You can change your destiny.”

  “What is our destiny?” Nathan asked. “For all of us, is it not death?” He answered his own question. “I’m not afraid of dying, Leah. I am afraid that my family will never understand what faith in Jesus means. The real tragedy is not to die young. The real tragedy is to live a long life and never use it in service of the Master. If my death leads you to eternal life—”

  “Live! Live among us! Teach us this faith.”

  Nathan shook his head. “I’ve done everything I can to show you and our father and Caleb already. If you understand that I’m not afraid of death, I pray you’ll finally understand as well.”

  “Walk away from the arena! We need you.”

  “You are grown. Caleb is a fine young rabbi. Our father . . .”

  “. . . is heartbroken,” Leah finished for him. And feels utterly betrayed, she thought. So betrayed I was too afraid to let him know I’ve come here today.

  Nathan took a deep breath. He, too, was fighting tears. “I am heartbroken too. But if I have been called to be a witness in the arena with the others who believe, I cannot deny my Savior. And if Father will believe too, he is only a single heartbeat from joining me.”

  “A single heartbeat?”

  “His final heartbeat. I wish I could get you to understand the urgency. All that stands between each of us and the end of time is our last gasp of breath on this earth. Then we will be joined in triumph.” Nathan closed his eyes. “Or separated by the final battle as God destroys all those souls who have rejected Him. John gave us the vision of those times.”

  Nathan opened his eyes again. “You must believe, Leah. We must be on the same side when God judges the living and the dead. I am so certain of it that I do not fear tomorrow.”

  “Please. As your sister, I beg you. Take advantage of what the bestiarius offers. It is your life! Nothing can be more important than that.”

  “Faith is more important.” Nathan began to stroke Leah’s hair through the bars. “The others have agreed to what the bestiarius asked. The children will be spared. That is a far greater blessing than we could have expected. They will be spared and always remember the faith of their parents. Rejoice in that.”