The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “I cannot.”

  “Then I ask this of you. Ensure that the bestiarius keeps his word.”

  “How can I do that?” Leah asked.

  Nathan explained what the others had requested.

  “I can’t,” she cried.

  “You must,” he said. “Think of the children. Not of me.”

  Leah wept, and he simply held her hands until finally, he had to beg her to leave and return to their home.

  In Britannia Vitas had weathered the final stand against Queen Boudicca, when she and thirty thousand tribal warriors had attacked the legion. He’d stood shoulder to shoulder with other soldiers, hacking and stabbing with his sword against waves and waves of attackers.

  He was no coward.

  But he knew the odds were against him now if he remained in the square.

  Below were two others to help him fight. So after the initial charge that had deflected the three pursuers from the woman and the baby, he saw no shame in running away as well, following her down the hill, hoping to draw them to Titus and Maglorius, where the odds would suddenly change.

  The moonlight was bright, and it seemed as he grew closer that Maglorius was standing behind Titus, actually holding a knife to his friend’s side.

  The woman was on the ground, cradling the baby.

  Then, as if making a decision, Maglorius abruptly moved away from Titus and faced uphill, knife poised.

  And Titus found his short sword.

  The pursuers were nearly upon him as he approached. Vitas was in full stride, and his forward foot hit the same uneven stones that had tripped the woman. He, too, stumbled, and his shoulder rammed into Maglorius.

  Maglorius fell to his knees.

  In that moment, the nearest pursuer swung his sword at Maglorius.

  Maglorius grunted in pain and tried to rise.

  Titus had already begun to counterattack, and the next moments were a blur of frenzied action, of steel against steel.

  Vitas gave no thought to each thrust and parry. For to think would be to hesitate, and to hesitate would result in death. He relied on instinct and years of hard training as a Roman soldier.

  Almost immediately, it became apparent to the pursuers that these men were no fighting civilians who could be expected to quail under the barrage of an attack.

  “Enough!” one shouted. And ran.

  The other two instantly spun away.

  Vitas leaned, hands on his knees, heaving as his lungs burned for air.

  Titus leaned beside him, speaking as he gasped. “They’ll be back. Did you see that they were city guards?”

  “I see no cowardice in an organized and prudent retreat,” Vitas managed to say. He turned to Maglorius to check for agreement.

  Maglorius was on both knees, clutching his side. Blood soaked his tunic. He stared wordlessly at Titus and Vitas.

  Titus picked up the knife that Maglorius had dropped. He advanced on the fallen man. Maglorius mutely clutched his wound as blood streamed through his fingers. He swayed as he watched Titus and the knife.

  “This is yours,” Titus said gravely, handing Maglorius his knife. “Thank you for allowing me to help my friend.”

  “We must go!” the woman said. “Those men were sent by Aristarchus.”

  Neither Titus nor Vitas responded.

  “He’s the treasurer of Smyrna,” she said. “This is his baby. He must have known I would try to save it.”

  “Local government.” Titus cursed.

  “They don’t know who we are,” Vitas said. “We’ll be safe.” He stared at the woman. “But you won’t be. Not if he had men waiting for you at the temple.” Vitas made his decision. To the woman, he said, “What is your name?”

  She bowed her head. “Sophia.”

  “You can find a wet nurse for the baby?”

  She nodded.

  “Then stay with us until we reach my brother’s villa,” Vitas said. “I’ll keep the baby safely there while you get the nurse. And a doctor.”

  She hesitated.

  “Listen,” he said. “My brother is the last person any authority would suspect of hiding a baby.”

  More hesitation, then a slow nod.

  “Vitas,” Titus protested. “A baby. This is not our concern!”

  “Maglorius,” Vitas said, ignoring his friend, “you will direct us to Damian’s villa.”

  Maglorius grunted, and it was obvious even that was an effort.

  “But, Vitas, Maglorius—”

  Vitas interrupted him. “Help me lift.” He leaned down and draped Maglorius’s arm over his shoulder. He stood and let the bleeding man lean against him.

  “Ah, well,” Titus said, the good humor back in his voice as he supported Maglorius from the other side. “With luck, we’ll find a doctor skilled enough to keep you alive. And with more luck, I’ll be out of this city before you are healed enough to fulfill your vow of vengeance against my father.”

  Jupiter

  Hora Quinta

  Leah had lied to her father again and found another excuse to leave the apartment. But he was so distracted with worry about Caleb that he had only muttered and waved good-bye. A messenger had brought a note from Helius saying that Caleb had been invited to remain in the palace during the night, but no Jew trusted Nero.

  She found a place to sit halfway up in the amphitheater. The smell of beer and wine was overpowering; most of those around her were drunk, and as they jostled to see the action better, spilled on themselves and those around them.

  Leah was miserable—she was here to witness her brother’s death, indeed to ensure it would be spectacular. This had been her promise to her brother, and it consoled her little knowing that her action—and the actions of the men and women who had agreed to help the beast master—guaranteed that twenty children would be released from the same death.

  She wished she knew exactly when Nathan would be brought forth, for then she wouldn’t have to endure the savagery below her.

  A bull and a bear had been released onto the sand. Each wore a collar of leather, and both collars were attached by a long iron chain. Almost instantly, the bull spun and charged the bear.

  The bear reared, roaring, and swatted a massive forearm in retaliation. The rush of the bull took it well past the bear, and when it reached the end of its chain, the weight of the bull snapped it backward, while the same force bowled the bear onto its back.

  The bear bawled in more rage and found its feet.

  The bull snorted and shook its head. Blood poured from a gash on its neck.

  But this fight wasn’t the real entertainment.

  In the corner of the arena, three guards armed with spears and whips forced a man closer to the center of the sand. This man wore only a loincloth, and he was armed with a long pole that had a hook at the end of it. His task was to uncouple the chain between the bull and the bear.

  His fear was obvious, and he repeatedly tried to get past the guards to the safety of the walls behind them.

  The mob shouted out catcalls. Despite herself, Leah could not tear her eyes away from the sight as the guards snapped their whips and slashed their swords at the man.

  Finally, he turned to his task.

  In their anger, the bull and the bear were oblivious to his puny efforts to separate them.

  Distant cries of the gulls from Smyrna’s harbor reached Vitas as he rested on cushions in Damian’s rented villa. Soon after Vitas had arrived the night before, Damian and Titus had departed, promising to send back a doctor. The doctor had arrived, but they had not returned, and Vitas could only assume they were in pursuit of the pleasures that they expected would not be denied to Roman men with fat purses full of gold.

  Bright as the morning was, little sunshine filtered through the windows, which Damian had draped to allow Vitas to sleep late.

  This villa was much smaller than the one Vitas had secured. Still, given that Damian had had to pledge himself to a gladiator school to escape debtors, it was still substantially
more than Vitas expected his brother could afford. Most of the other gladiators had stayed together at a squalid inn during the week of festivities before today’s event.

  Maglorius was on a blanket against the far wall, all but his face covered with a sheet stained with blood around his midsection. He was unconscious; his face was flushed and his breathing labored. Vitas had watched the doctor work on him through the night, cutting and sewing that had been hampered by the dim light provided from oil lamps.

  In another corner of the room stood a wicker cage filled with swallows. The small birds fluttered from side to side within the cage, squeaking alarm as Vitas paced inside the room. He thought it strange that Damian found interest in them, but had not had a chance to ask before his brother had left with Titus.

  There was a knock on the outer door, and Vitas hoped it was Sophia. She’d followed them to the villa to learn its location, then left the baby as she went for a wet nurse. Upon her return, the doctor was already there, and she’d left quickly again without stating her next destination, trusting Vitas with the wet nurse and the baby.

  During the all-too-brief time together in the villa, Sophia had quickly explained the circumstances of the previous day. How Aristarchus had forced her friend Paulina into an impossible choice, how Paulina had awakened and begged her elder sister to find their servant Sophia and ask her to steal the baby before once again lapsing into unconsciousness.

  The knock on the door was repeated. Vitas moved toward it, his hand on the hilt of the sword. He called out, and the answering voice was not Sophia’s nor a city guard’s.

  Instead, it was Damian’s.

  Vitas opened the door, and the sunshine made him squint.

  “My brother!” Damian said, not quite drunk but definitely not sober. “Maglorius still lives?”

  Vitas nodded, deciding not to point out that if Damian truly had been concerned, he would not have left in the night to seek women and wine. “The doctor you suggested is excellent.”

  “The best your money could buy,” Damian said. “And I assure you not a bit of it was spent on the wine that we enjoyed without you. As for the women . . .”

  Damian was several years younger than Vitas. His body, despite the abuses he heaped upon it with great regularity, was still trim and muscular, his belly flat. His hair was a mixture of blond and red, and below a nose that had been broken several times and not once set properly lay the grin women seemed to consider irresistible. The lower portion of his left ear was gone, and the baby finger of his right hand crooked from a break that had not healed well.

  Vitas smiled tolerantly at his brother, accustomed to seeing him in the high spirits brought on by spirits. Then Vitas frowned, suddenly understanding Damian’s reference to women.

  Behind Damian, Titus staggered through the doorway into view, clutching a wineskin in each hand. Three painted women in blonde wigs and diaphanous gowns, obviously prostitutes, followed Titus inside.

  “Edepol nunc nos tempus est malas peiroris fieri,” Titus announced with great gravity.

  Now’s the time for bad girls to become worse still.

  “The sooner the better,” one of the women said in a teasing voice. The three fanned out to examine the villa, cooing at the expensive art and furniture.

  “What’s this?” one of the women said, peering through an arch into an adjoining room.

  “No,” Vitas said quickly. “Give them peace.”

  “Them?” Damian asked, trying to focus. “You already have other women? Brother, how did—?”

  “The wet nurse and a baby,” Vitas said. “Didn’t Titus explain that I would hide them here?”

  “He was in no mood to listen,” Titus said. “He had other things on his mind and I was very happy to follow.” He swayed slightly as he pointed at the prostitutes. “See? I made the right choice, did I not?”

  Damian leaned against a wall for support. “Titus, more wine! Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow I may die.” Damian burped and waved his hands with exaggerated eloquence. “May die? I am certain to die. And that will be today. With Maglorius half dead, there will be no one to protect my back in the arena. That baby you saved has cost me my chance at survival.”

  Another burp and a lurch toward Vitas. “What were you thinking, anyway? A baby girl? Why not save your energy for one much older?”

  Vitas was trying to move the women away from the doorway to give the wet nurse peace. He turned and said over his shoulder, “No, Damian. This afternoon will not see the end of your life.”

  “Titus,” Damian said, “more wine!”

  Damian took the wineskin that Titus offered, tilted it, and drank deeply. “Yes, it will see the end of my life. Let me assure you, brother, I am a pitiful gladiator. Bet against me so that at least you will profit from my lack of skill. But save some money for the funeral, for my recent fortune has been spent on my own villa and these women.”

  “Didn’t you tell him that either, Titus?” Vitas asked.

  Titus gulped from the other wineskin, then gave Vitas a crooked smile as some wine dribbled down his chin. “Not a chance. I don’t know where he got the money that he spent on wine and women to celebrate his last hours alive, but I have no intention of ending the fun too early.”

  Titus pointed at the women. “I mean, look. Would you want to send them away? They’ve promised to remain as long as we want.”

  They leered. One moved to Vitas and pushed him onto some cushions.

  “As a matter of fact,” Vitas began, trying to stand up. “I’m going to insist that—”

  She pushed Vitas down again and forced herself onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to kiss his ear.

  “Hey, hey, stop that. Let him speak.” Damian squinted. “What do you know about the arena that I don’t?”

  “Drink more wine,” Titus encouraged Damian. “There is plenty of time to tell you later.”

  “Later I die in the arena,” Damian said. He shrugged. “Perhaps getting more drunk isn’t a bad idea. With luck, I won’t even see the sword that kills me.”

  Titus winked at Vitas. “Come on, my friend. Listen to your brother and set aside your stoic front. Eat, drink, and be merry.”

  The woman in Vitas’s lap began kissing his ear again as one of her friends wrapped an arm around Titus’s waist.

  Vitas looked up to see Sophia in the open doorway. Wordlessly, she marched past him to the room with the wet nurse.

  “Sophia!” Vitas struggled to get to his feet, but the cushion was deep and soft and the woman on top of him too heavy, so he couldn’t get the necessary leverage.

  Moments later, Sophia emerged with the wet nurse, a heavy woman holding the baby.

  “Wait!” Vitas pleaded.

  Sophia gave him a look of burning scorn and ignored him as she stepped into the courtyard.

  Vitas finally pushed the blonde-wigged woman onto the floor. He hurried past Titus and Damian, who stared at him with openmouthed amazement.

  He dashed through the doorway and chased Sophia and the wet nurse and baby down the steps that led to the street. “Wait!” he called out again. “It’s not as it appears.”

  This morning in a room of the imperial palace, Helius surveyed the three other men with a measure of satisfaction.

  One was a slave, ready with stylus to record the debate as if it were a legal trial. The man was gap-toothed and short and squat. Helius found the man’s thick eyebrows disgusting. He’d chosen the slave for two reasons. The man was definitely excellent at transcribing conversations. He was also a man whom Helius found offensively ugly. Since Helius and Tigellinus had agreed that they did not want any person alive to pass on what happened in the room this morning, Helius had decided it would be efficient—if a slave must be executed—to ensure that the world has one less ugly person. Not even Vitas would learn what happened.

  The second man was Caleb, who’d requested the help of slaves to groom him before this event. This was something that Helius found comme
ndable, of course, and the man’s obvious intelligence and good manners gave Helius some regret, given what he intended for the man’s fate.

  The third man was named Zabad. He was also a Jew, one with surprisingly red hair and beard. He was in his midthirties. Like Caleb, Zabad was a respected rabbi. With one difference.

  Zabad had become a follower of the Christos. He and his family—a wife and two daughters under the age of six—had been arrested. His family was in prison this very moment. Helius had promised Zabad that if he successfully argued the divinity of the Christos, Helius would end the persecution on the grounds that it was not seditious to proclaim another person divine, like Caesar, if that other person was truly divine.

  Helius, of course, had lied.

  He hoped that Caleb would be persuasive. If so, Helius would proudly bring Nero the transcript and set the emperor’s mind at ease, ridding Nero of his insecurity because of the Christians’ determination to die rather than give up their faith in the Christos.

  On the other hand, if Caleb did a poor job, Helius had no intention of letting Nero even know this debate had occurred.

  Yes, it was a politically astute move, and as the two Jews in front of him sat opposite each other on cushions, Helius congratulated himself on his brilliance.

  Was it any surprise, he asked himself, that he was the second-most powerful person in the empire?

  In the amphitheater, the doomed slave darted into the melee between the bear and the bull. He bounced off the side of the bull as it spun to attack the bear. This met the lusty approval of the drunken spectators around Leah.

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. But curiosity overcame her when the shouts of approval reached a new level.

  The bear had fallen, and the bull was too exhausted to do much more than push it along the sand.

  The condemned man took this opportunity to reach in with his pole and snap loose the shackle at the collar of the bull’s neck. The chain fell loose.