The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  He’d walked through the gates, been forced to take a wide detour around the temple, and, asking directions again and again, had finally found his way through the labyrinth of streets to Ephraim Gate.

  And stepped back outside the walls.

  Just like that, all the wealth and luxury were gone; ahead were huts and hovels on freshly packed dirt streets. And the smell.

  Vitas grimaced.

  Not from distaste but from remembered horror.

  There was too much in the air that reminded him of his time in Britannia, of torched wagons, of corpses of horses and humans, of headless bodies hung from posts as an unsuccessful deterrent to other tribesmen.

  He closed his eyes and endured the stab of remorse that came with any reminder of those days in Britannia.

  Even this close to Sophia, he could not escape it.

  The moment passed, and Vitas stepped forward, sidestepping dung from oxen that pulled carts loaded with hides. Here in the leather district, no taxes were paid for someone to tend to the cleanliness of the streets.

  Vitas left Ephraim Gate behind and moved farther into the near slums of this quarter.

  This was where Sophia had chosen to live and work? This was what she’d found after refusing to stay in Rome? What was it that drove her to it? Yes, she’d explained her faith in the man crucified by Pilate, but as much as Vitas had tried to understand, he found it was impossible.

  The squalor here made it even more difficult to understand.

  As he strode forward, an ironic grin crossed his face. Sophia had explained that following her faith meant reaching out to the sick and the poor. Here, most certainly, was the place to find them.

  With each step, Vitas became both more certain and more uncertain. More certain that he’d made the right decision to leave Rome and look for her. More uncertain as to what her response might be. After all, she’d rejected him once already.

  He could only hope that she would see him with new eyes once she realized he had been willing to travel halfway across the world to see her again.

  And there was something else. Something that Ben-Aryeh or Bernice never would have believed.

  Vitas truly did want to expose Florus and his abuses.

  Vitas had seen how the injustices of Roman rule had driven the Iceni to revolt. Had seen the horrors inflicted upon them. Seen the families torn apart. Seen mothers and sons . . .

  There it was. The stab of remorse again.

  Ben-Aryeh and Bernice never would have believed that Vitas wanted to use his power and influence to prevent revolt from forcing Rome to destroy yet another of its provinces. But it was truth.

  Maybe, in the end, that would be an added reason for Sophia to look at him with new eyes.

  With this uncertain hope in his heart, Vitas found the leather warehouse as Maglorius had described it in the most recent correspondence.

  He breathed relief.

  Whatever her reaction to his unexpected arrival, at least he could take her to the palace and keep her safe from the army that had entered the city.

  Vitas moved past the vats of tannin and stepped directly into an area where women lifted and dropped scraped sheep hides into short vats full of dark, vile liquids.

  They all stopped movement immediately.

  Vitas was glad not to be in expensive dress. He would have been embarrassed at the contrast to the poverty etched in the faces and hands and clothing of these women.

  “I’m looking for Sophia,” he said.

  “You and every other man in this district,” one of the women cackled.

  “Hush,” another one said. To Vitas, the second woman said, “She was here, but left with . . .”

  “With a large man,” the first screeched. “One I would have gladly entertained myself.”

  “How long ago?” Vitas asked the second woman.

  “Not long.”

  “Right before some fools came running in here and warned us that the soldiers might attack the city,” the first woman said.

  “What?”

  The first woman nodded, her dark eyes gleaming. “That man, the one that took Sophia, he tried telling men on the street that the soldiers would attack.”

  “What did he look like?”

  When the first woman finished her description, Vitas knew without a doubt that it had been Maglorius.

  And if Maglorius had warned about an attack . . .

  “Hey!” the first woman yelled at Vitas. “Where are you going?”

  He broke into a run.

  “Come back,” she shouted. “You’re better looking than the other one.” Her laughter followed him.

  And then he was back on the street, uncaring of the startled glances of those who saw him running toward the city walls.

  And then the distant screams reached him.

  Valeria was standing at the entrance of an alley into the main street of the market when an urchin slipped behind her and stood so close that the knife he pulled was invisible to any observers.

  Valeria had been using the vantage point to pretend a casual surveillance of the crowds, as if she were simply a pilgrim overwhelmed by the diversity and noise of the marketplace. Truth was, she’d been bored among the luxuries of home. Here was life in all its confusion.

  From the alley behind her came the smell of raw lamb, for in the less desirable side streets, butchers set up shop, hanging meat from hooks and waving away the flies that tried to settle on the gleaming carcasses of lamb and chicken. Fishmongers, too, set up stalls here, with the unblinking black eyes of their wares staring upward at the awnings that sheltered them from the sun.

  The large, shady halls along the main street to her left and right held the more desirable goods provided by goldsmiths, jewelers, and importers. Had she wanted, Valeria could have purchased from a dazzling selection of luxuries from India, Persia, Egypt, Greece, Media, Arabia, and Italy—jeweled cups, silks, purple wall hangings, ointments, perfumes.

  This activity she craved. She did not want to become the wife of a wealthy old man, an accessory like jewelry for him to show off in public places. She wanted to be part of all this.

  She’d listened as a nearby writer, reed behind his ear, haggled with a pilgrim over the cost of a letter that the pilgrim wanted to dictate to send back to his family in Parthia. She’d found the pilgrim’s nasal whining amusing and thought of how she might retell it to a friend, if she ever had one outside the sheltered existence of her family’s mansion.

  Then came a tug on her purse.

  By the time she turned and realized the straps had been severed by the urchin, the dirt-smeared boy had already begun to run, dodging among the people of the crowded market who were oblivious to the theft.

  Valeria thought of calling out but hesitated. She’d escaped the upper-city villa and was here without permission. Calling attention to herself might lead to repercussions greater than a stolen purse.

  As she hesitated and watched the urchin escape, there was a flash of movement ahead. A man stepping out of another alley lifted his arm and held it horizontal to the ground. The thief, who’d been looking backward to see if there was pursuit, slammed his neck into the arm and fell backward as if a giant beam had dropped onto him from the sky.

  The man grabbed the boy by his collar and lifted him effortlessly.

  Maglorius! In simple peasant clothing, almost indistinguishable from most of the other men on the street. Unless one looked closely and saw the solid bulk of muscle beneath the rough cloth.

  Maglorius smiled grimly as he hauled the urchin back toward Valeria.

  A few people moved as if to question Maglorius, but on closer examination of the determination and anger on his face, parted for him.

  Maglorius still held the boy completely off the ground as he reached Valeria. The boy was blinking from a greasy face, obviously not recovered from the stunning impact and suddenness of his fall.

  “You have this young woman’s purse,” Maglorius told him. “I advise you to return it to
her.”

  He was too dazed to comprehend the command.

  Maglorius shook him several times. “The purse.”

  The boy handed it to Valeria.

  Maglorius kept his grip on the urchin’s collar. “There is a reason you have strict orders not to leave the villa without me or one of your family’s slaves,” Maglorius told Valeria. “And this rascal is one of them.”

  Valeria responded by opening the purse and shaking it upside down to show Maglorius it was empty. Nothing fell from it.

  “And there is a reason,” she countered, “that I keep my gold in a purse hidden inside my clothing and use the outside purse to fool thieves. Your protection was welcome but hardly necessary.”

  “This is a dangerous city,” Maglorius growled, as if he’d forgotten he was still holding the thief at arm’s length. “If you are going to steal away from the villa, at least dress in a way that doesn’t scream to the world that you are a Roman from the upper city.” He shook his head. “And at the very least, don’t dress in such a way that even a corpse would sit up and take notice of your beauty. That only adds to the danger.”

  “Danger?” Valeria certainly did not want to acknowledge that at his compliment, her heart had begun to beat faster. “Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, and Parthians. All live in Jerusalem in peace. You yourself have told me it is one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world.”

  “Every city has its underworld,” Maglorius said. “This one too.”

  The urchin coughed to get their attention.

  “One moment,” Maglorius told Valeria. He swung the boy around to look him directly in the face. “You attempted to rob a Roman citizen,” Maglorius said. “Is crucifixion how you want to end your short life?”

  The urchin shuddered. Crucifixion was a torture that lasted for days. Maglorius was making no idle threat; this was often the fate of thieves.

  “Or would you prefer being sold to the arenas? Wild beasts would enjoy a morsel like you. And the crowds would be delighted to watch your limbs torn from your body.”

  The boy began to squirm.

  “Frightened?” Maglorius asked. He didn’t need an answer. “Good. Don’t be stupid. Look for work. Not plunder.”

  Maglorius held the boy as he dug into his own pocket for some coins. Then he dropped him, who remained motionless in disbelief.

  Maglorius extended his other hand and showed the boy the silver. “Take this.”

  The boy’s eyes widened at the sight of a month’s wages. He reached for it.

  Maglorius clamped his wrist. “Spend it wisely and find work instead of thievery. Now go, before I change my mind.”

  The boy tried to yank free.

  “One last thing,” Maglorius said. “If Roman soldiers start attacking the citizens, run hard and far and give as much warning as possible to as many people as possible. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  Maglorius released him.

  Like a mouse darting into refuge among grain bags, the urchin disappeared.

  “A month or two ago,” Valeria said, “I believe you would have dismembered him yourself. And now you grant him freedom? and money? What has come over you?”

  “We need to leave the market area,” Maglorius said.

  “Avoiding my question, Maglorius?”

  “Walk with me.” He took her arm so she had no choice.

  “May I presume it was coincidence that you were nearby?” Valeria asked.

  “Hardly,” Maglorius answered. “Walk faster. It is unseemly to drag you along.”

  The terseness of his voice was alarming to Valeria, but she pretended not to have heard it. “If not coincidence, then I can conclude you followed me from the upper city.”

  “That is my duty. I am, after all, the bodyguard and watchman.”

  Valeria wondered what destination Maglorius had in mind. They were not climbing upward on the cobblestone street to the wealthy part of the city. But down. Toward the temple, where smoke rose from the altar sacrifices.

  When Maglorius spoke, it sounded like he was straining to be casual. “Walking the markets is hardly anything one would suspect a young woman who has not eaten in three weeks capable of.”

  “I am resilient and hardy.”

  “And you also have a servant bribed who hides the greatest portion of each meal and takes it to you in the dark of night.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because that servant came to me for permission for it. But if your deception is discovered, there will be little that we can do to help you further.”

  Without warning, Maglorius turned her onto another side street. Here, flax spinners were intent on their work. It was quieter than the main street.

  Ahead, a dark-haired young woman in poor clothing stood in the shade opposite the flax spinners. The woman watched their approach as Valeria answered Maglorius.

  “I’m not worried.” Valeria spoke in a low voice. “Alypia spends hours each day with slaves attending to her baths and perfumes and hair. Father, he is in love with numbers. Neither really knows what happens in the household. Only you.”

  “That, too, is my duty.”

  There was something touching and vulnerable about his protectiveness, and Valeria stopped him.

  She was almost hesitant. But there were only days before she would be sent to Rome to be married; it was obvious by now that her hunger strike was not working as a bluff. Unless she truly did end her life—something she’d never had any intent of doing—she would be on a ship, perhaps never to see Maglorius again. She wanted him to know how she felt.

  “I cannot see how I will avoid being sent to Rome,” she said. “So please let me tell you this now, since I may not have a chance before I am sent away. Many times, I have wished I were a slave in another household. Not the daughter of a dusty old man who barely knows I exist.”

  She was about to tell Maglorius that as a slave, she might then be free to dream about him in the way a woman dreams about a man.

  But his sharp reaction interrupted and surprised her. “Do not be so harsh on Lucius,” Maglorius said. “You are judging him by his saddle, the past that has taken him to where he is now.”

  She’d never thought of her father as anything except an old man. She’d never wondered about him as a young man, always assuming he’d spent his life among the accounts of taxes. “Are you suggesting he is anything but what he appears?”

  Both were standing where Valeria had stopped Maglorius. She noticed again the dark-haired woman staring at them and was vaguely jealous. Even in peasant’s clothing, the woman was beautiful. And she seemed to be interested in Maglorius. Too interested.

  Distant shouts and screams reached them. Maglorius took her arm and moved her so forcefully that she stumbled.

  The screams continued. The flax spinners around them stopped work and cocked their heads to listen.

  “Maglorius!” Valeria said.

  Maglorius ignored her and called ahead to the dark-haired woman. “Sophia!”

  She stepped forward.

  “It is as I feared,” Maglorius said.

  “Who is this?” Valeria asked.

  Again, Maglorius ignored her. “Sophia,” he said to the woman, “I will not lead both of you into danger. We’ll go to the lower city, and I’ll leave you there where you’ll be safe.”

  Ben-Aryeh came to consciousness in the gully off the road. Flies crawled across his face. He spat blood and sat up, wiping slowly at his face.

  His donkey was gone.

  Ben-Aryeh rolled to his feet and staggered out of the gully and up to a high point to look for help. The nearest caravan was at least a mile away, just beginning to ascend to Jerusalem. Ahead, another half mile away, were the gates of the walls of Jerusalem. But no one between here and there.

  No one near.

  He took deep breaths to regain his composure. No bones felt broken. His head throbbed, but if that was the worst of it, God had truly smiled upon him. Whatever had been s
tolen could easily be replaced.

  But where was Olithar?

  Ben-Aryeh took a step forward, then cocked his head. Had he heard correctly? Muffled sobs?

  “Please . . .” It was a woman’s voice.

  From behind one of the massive boulders on the opposite side of the highway, where the hills rose.

  “Please . . .”

  Ben-Aryeh adjusted his sandals. Then his cloak. He began to climb toward the sound. The sobbing had a heart-rending quality to it, and when he rounded the boulder, he discovered why.

  The young woman was bleeding across her face. Her dark hair, loosened from a shawl, was spread over the ground where she lay. Her dress was torn.

  She had curled into a ball, knees tucked into her arms. “Please . . .” Her sobs made her incoherent.

  Ben-Aryeh rushed forward and threw his cloak over her. He knelt. It did not matter to him that contact with her blood defiled him and that he would now have to go through the weeklong cleansing ritual.

  The woman had been beaten. Probably by the same brigands who had attacked him.

  She opened her eyes as his shadow fell across her. She flinched and sobbed louder.

  “My child,” he said, “I am a Sadducee. A priest of the temple. I am here to help not to harm you.”

  How he wished he had water. But the leather bags were attached to his donkey. And it was gone.

  She reached for him with bare arms.

  “My child,” he repeated. “My child.”

  She squeezed him and clutched him as he helped her to her feet, careful to make sure that his cloak covered her and let her retain her modesty.

  Together, Ben-Aryeh and the injured woman tottered down the hillside and back onto the road. Their progress was so slow that the caravan behind them was much nearer now.

  “We’ll wait here,” he said, pointing back at the wagons. “There should be someone with water. And you can rest as one of the wagons takes you the remaining distance into the city.”

  “No! Please no!”

  “My child . . .”

  “Is it bad enough that you, a total stranger, must see my shame? How many men will there be in that caravan? Merchants to enjoy my loss of innocence.”