The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “But—”

  “I can walk. Help me. In the city I have friends. Just take me to the city gates.”

  She clung to him, begging until he consented then, holding his cloak, took her first limping steps toward the gate.

  “I will get stronger,” she said. “I promise.”

  The Ninth Hour

  “This is absolutely unacceptable.” Ben-Aryeh’s assistant, Olithar, spoke to Queen Bernice. “Ben-Aryeh’s arrangement with you was total discretion. By sending a messenger to the temple for me, you risk that secrecy, and you also put me in a bad light.”

  Vitas sat on a nearby cushion, squirming with impatience. While he had reached the public courtyard of the royal palace a half hour earlier, he’d only just been escorted to this inner chamber. Vitas badly wanted to press Bernice for an escort of men to help him search for Sophia.

  They’d barely had time to appraise each other—this after months of correspondence—when Olithar had arrived.

  Upon entering the room, Olithar had given Vitas only a quick glance. Again, the fact that Vitas was dressed simply had served him well. There’d been no flicker of recognition, which meant that earlier when Vitas had passed Olithar on the road to Jerusalem, he had not appeared important or unusual enough for the assistant to give him a second glance.

  Here, too, Olithar must have decided that Vitas was a servant of some kind, because he ignored Vitas completely.

  “Ben-Aryeh’s arrangement with me,” Bernice snapped, “as you well know, means that Ben-Aryeh provides help when I need it. I do not need to justify my request to him, let alone to you.”

  Arrangement? Vitas wondered, not for the first time, what it was that had obligated a proud man like Ben-Aryeh to wait in Sebaste for his arrival.

  “Furthermore,” Bernice snapped, “I did not send for you. I sent for Ben-Aryeh. Where is he, if not at the temple?”

  Olithar shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? He went to Sebaste days ago.”

  Vitas was glad that Olithar’s back was to him. That meant Olithar did not see his reaction to what was obviously a lie. It had been two hours since Vitas had left Ben-Aryeh with Olithar just outside the city, as Vitas had recently informed Bernice. Time enough for Ben-Aryeh to make it to the temple. Especially if Olithar had done so. And here, Olithar was pretending he hadn’t seen Ben-Aryeh at all.

  Vitas, however, said nothing to contradict the assistant.

  “Listen to the screams that reach us even here,” Bernice continued in a commanding tone. “What led to this? What happened when the chief priests and leaders met with Florus? What caused Florus to send out his soldiers? I can’t send him a message until I know.”

  Vitas remained motionless. Invisible to the two of them.

  “I wasn’t there,” Olithar said.

  “Are the priests gathered in the safety of the temple?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ve heard. Tell me now.”

  Olithar shrugged. “Florus was in no mood for discussion. When the chief priests and leaders arrived, he gave orders that those who insulted him be handed over. Immediately.”

  “Ananias? What did he say?”

  “From what I understand, he began a long flowery speech describing the hotheads as youths at an age when all men make impetuous choices. It sounded rehearsed. He went on to say that even he and Florus had probably done things they regretted later. It was obvious to all of us that the speech had no effect on Florus except to make him angrier, but Ananias spoke as if he were in love with his own voice. When he suggested to Florus—not requested—that it would be fair to pardon the hotheads, Florus exploded. He sent for his centurions and, in front of all the chief priests and leaders, ordered them to take their soldiers and plunder the market and kill anybody in sight and not to stop until they heard further orders from him.”

  “My worst fears . . .” Bernice closed her eyes and shook her head. Then made her decision. “You will deliver the message to Florus for me. Wait for his reply and bring it back to me immediately.”

  “No,” Olithar said.

  “No? Our people are dying!”

  “I want to help,” he answered. “But this is not the way. Florus is already incensed at the temple priests. He may not even give me an audience, and if he did, his anger would only increase if he thought I was trying to stop his orders.”

  “It must be done!” Bernice was frantic. “Take the risk!”

  “A lowly assistant going behind the high priest’s back to the procurator of Judea? My days in the temple would be over. I would be useless to you and Ben-Aryeh.”

  Bernice paced back and forth. Finally, she knelt. She untied her sandals. She rose and tossed them to the side. “Get me a sackcloth and ashes,” Bernice said grimly to a nearby servant. “I will go to him myself in bare feet, and certainly he will listen to my supplication.”

  “You cannot go!” Olithar said.

  “Who else can?” Bernice asked. She spoke to the servant again. “Send for a horse for me.”

  Maglorius and Valeria reached the next intersection, an even smaller alley, cloaked completely in shadow. Here were the residences of the lower city. Grimy walls, crooked doorways.

  Sophia led them.

  “Where are you taking us?” Valeria asked.

  Sophia spoke quietly, almost shyly. “I have a friend who will help us. She is a . . .”

  Sophia glanced at Maglorius. He nodded.

  “She is a follower of Jesus,” Sophia said. She turned forward again, leading them farther into the narrow alley.

  Valeria had heard vague rumors about this new religion. She didn’t get a chance to ask Maglorius about it.

  “This I must tell you about Lucius . . . ,” Maglorius said, speaking carefully as he guided her behind Sophia.

  Valeria found it odd that Maglorius referred to her father with the intimacy of her father’s praenomen, but she didn’t interrupt.

  “Although he is wealthy, he is filled with sorrow. He has been denied what he truly wants in life.”

  The shouting and screaming behind them grew louder.

  “My father has no strong desires,” Valeria said. “Except for more money.”

  “You know nothing about your father,” Maglorius said.

  The sound of confusion behind them was a distraction to Valeria. “How can you say that? I’ve grown up in his household.”

  “Lucius has been betrayed repeatedly during his life,” Maglorius said. “It is enough to make anyone a tired, dusty old man. I can only imagine his disappointments, living with the results of that betrayal yet taking responsibility for those who depended on him, despite his legal right to spurn that responsibility.”

  Again, the reference to her father by his praenomen. How strange. “Maglorius, you speak in circles. What responsibilities could you mean?”

  “I am as much to blame as anyone,” Maglorius said. “In my defense I can only say it happened before I met the Christos. Since then, I have taken steps to change what I can about the life of deception. . . .”

  “The Christos? You, too, are a follower?”

  A peaceful smile crossed the ex-gladiator’s face as he nodded.

  Valeria once again became aware of the screams. She glanced around. “The soldiers?”

  “This morning the Jews sent a delegation to Gessius Florus, imploring forgiveness for the actions of a few rash young men. He did not give it to them. Florus is determined to stir up a revolt.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the politics of Judea. Both Jewish and Roman.”

  “It is my duty.”

  “I thought your duty was to protect us.”

  “Which is why I must be aware of the politics. Florus is an enemy of your family, for your father, Lucius, knows too much about the abuses Florus heaps on the Jews. And Florus is desperate to keep reports of this from Caesar. Lucius is respected in Rome and would be a credible witness against Florus.”

  They had not stopped moving. Valeria w
as completely lost in the twisted streets of the lower city. “You are telling me much more than I have ever heard from you,” she said.

  “Events force me. Just as I feel I must tell you the truth about Lucius and my part in his betrayal. Instead of these events, I wish that you were on a ship going to Rome.”

  Maglorius let the distance between them and Sophia lengthen. He spoke softly, to keep their conversation private. Valeria did the same.

  “You wish for me to be married against my will?” Valeria had a wild impulse to take his hand, confess her emotions, and hope Maglorius would take her away from the arranged marriage.

  “I wish for you to be safe,” he answered.

  Sophia stopped without warning and rapped on the door in front of her. She knocked in an odd sequence, and moments later the door opened. Sophia spoke to the person who answered in low, urgent tones. The door opened wider. Sophia beckoned, and Valeria and Maglorius followed her inside.

  Even after the dim light of the alley, it took Valeria a few moments to adjust to the even dimmer light inside the house. The few pieces of furniture in it were made of rough wood.

  A woman, perhaps only a few years older than Valeria, shut the door behind them. This woman’s belly was swollen with pregnancy.

  To Valeria and Maglorius, Sophia said, “This is Sarai. She is a follower of the Christos. You can trust her and her husband, for he, too, is a follower.”

  Maglorius let out a long breath of relief. “I’m going back to get Quintus and Sabinus now. Please wait here.”

  Confused, Valeria wanted to deny the fear around her. “This is ridiculous. We do not need protection. Take me home.” She turned to Sarai and half bowed. “Thank you for your offer, but it won’t be necessary.”

  Maglorius squeezed Valeria’s shoulder. “Your family is in danger. Don’t you understand? Because of the events of the last weeks, Florus has sent his soldiers into the upper market to slaughter innocent Jews.”

  “My family is Roman. They are safe.”

  “I don’t believe it is a coincidence that Florus sent soldiers to the upper market as well as to the rest of the city. Your family’s mansion is nearby. I believe the soldiers will attack it.”

  “Why?” The conversation seemed surreal to her.

  “No family will be safe. Especially if some, like yours, have been marked by Florus for the silence that will come with their deaths.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I know.”

  “Are you suggesting that Roman soldiers will be instructed to kill my parents? instructed by a Roman procurator?”

  “I am suggesting that this is an evil world and in the confusion of soldiers sent out to destroy, anything can look like an unfortunate accident. Something a man like Florus would be highly aware of.”

  “Not my family. Impossible. My father—”

  “Lucius does not have the power to stop these events.” Maglorius released her shoulder. “Listen to me. You will remain here until I return with Quintus and Sabinus. You will—”

  Three Roman soldiers burst through the door, swords drawn. Their faces were flecked with gore, and they screamed with bloodlust.

  Against the advice of Vitas, Bernice had chosen to gamble.

  After dismissing Olithar, she’d argued to Vitas that because it was not a formal battle but a melee of soldiers set loose to pillage and kill, the individual Romans would rather choose targets who were helpless than stand ground and risk their lives unnecessarily by fighting a group of armed royal guards.

  Vitas had argued in return that if Florus was determined to have this riot, no amount of supplication would deter him.

  She’d said she was going, and he could choose to join her or stay behind. It was a remarkable first meeting.

  He’d chosen to go with her. Sophia was in the city somewhere. He would need help to find her, especially under these circumstances.

  Cries of horror and screams of pain were constant. Among the confusion of men and women running from soldiers in the crooked narrow streets, it was difficult for Vitas to determine the source of any specific cry of horror. What he could see allowed him to understand that no one was safe, even those who had chosen to hide in a house or a shop.

  Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were behaving no differently than a mob rioting and looting out of control. Their military gear gave them a double advantage over mere rioters, however. Soldiers clearly recognized other soldiers, of course, and did not waste time fighting each other. And they were protected by breastplates and leg and body armor, armed with razor-sharp swords, and were at the height of physical fitness. Few among the Jews had a chance in an individual battle; those who seemed to put up good resistance were immediately swarmed by other soldiers.

  Because those who fled into the shops and houses were often forced out within minutes by soldiers who broke down the doors, the streets were constantly refilled with people fleeing soldiers, and soldiers pouring back into the streets to pursue them.

  The slaughter had been happening for nearly an hour. The streets in places were red with blood, visible even to Bernice on the balcony of the palace. Frequently, those fleeing the soldiers slipped on the blood and were killed where they fell. Not frequently enough, a soldier would fall, and the pursued would gain a short reprieve until another soldier spotted the quarry.

  The only advantage the unarmed populace had against the soldiers was the soldiers’ greed. They’d been given permission by Florus to plunder at will, and whenever a soldier stooped to search a body for jewelry or coins, it gave any civilians nearby a better chance to escape.

  Vitas saw all this from his own horse, as he and a contingent of guards surrounded Bernice.

  She sat astride a white horse, wearing a sackcloth. Her hair was loose and gray with ashes, her feet bare. The horse was surrounded by a dozen palace guards, all carrying spears and shields.

  She guided the horse at the pace of a walking man, and her mount remained within the protective cluster of the guards on foot and other guards on horseback.

  Vitas marveled at her composure. Bodies were everywhere. Stabbed. Headless.

  The wounded filled the doorways where they had crawled—if they could—for safety. Other wounded, too butchered to do anything but groan from where they fell, littered the streets.

  The blood in places actually flowed, as if there had been a heavy rain, and Bernice’s horse snorted nervously, sometimes prancing sideways. It took all her skill as a rider to keep it under control.

  These were images Vitas had hoped never to see again, not after his time in Britannia. Yet here he was. And just as helpless to stop the carnage as he’d been there against the Iceni.

  As their short journey continued, Roman soldiers occasionally rounded a corner and stopped in surprise at the sight of the phalanx of guards.

  Bernice’s argument proved correct. Each time, the soldiers ignored them. Some soldiers turned in pursuit of a man or a woman still trapped in the markets. Others were too heavily burdened with luxury goods from the looted shops to do much except continue in the direction they’d been walking.

  Finally, they arrived at the gate of the Antonia Fortress.

  Bernice called to the guard at the tower.

  The gates did not open.

  “I am the queen of the Jews!” she called. “I demand an audience with Florus.”

  The Roman above her disappeared.

  Screams from the city streets continued to echo. The smell of burning wood drifted in from some of the shops that were now blazing.

  Florus appeared. Above her. At the tower rampart.

  “What is it?” He was forced to shout above the horrible noises of the markets.

  Queen Bernice dismounted. She knelt on the stones of the street, craning her head upward to send her voice to Florus. “I am here in supplication,” she cried. “Barefoot. Bareheaded. I beg of you to call your soldiers away from the killing.”

  Florus laughed. “I killed your messenger. Why sho
uld I not kill you, too?”

  “I am begging you. Please, please listen.”

  Two Roman soldiers marched down the street toward them.

  She did not notice, but Florus did. “Find a child!” he shouted at them. “Bring the child here and decapitate it in front of the queen of the Jews!”

  “No!” Bernice screamed. “No!” She stood, throwing her hands skyward. “I beg of you!”

  “Two children!” Florus yelled at the soldiers. “Now!”

  “You cannot do this!” Bernice cried. “How can I convince you to stop this?”

  “Three children!” Florus shouted at the soldiers, who had begun to trot away at his earlier order. “The younger the better!” He leered down at Bernice. “When will you Jews learn not to infuriate Rome?”

  “I beg you!”

  Florus laughed. “Perhaps you should offer me more than supplication! It will make up for all the times at banquets you have ignored me as if I were rotting meat. Or perhaps I’ll just take you without any offer on your part!”

  He motioned to the royal guard beside him, pointing downward. Seconds later, the gate to the fortress opened, and soldiers swarmed toward Bernice and her guards.

  “Leave!” the captain of the royal guard shouted at her. “Now.”

  Bernice hesitated.

  The Roman soldiers slowed to a walk and threw up their shields. Standing side by side, the shields made an impenetrable barrier.

  As they advanced, two royal guards grabbed Bernice and threw her on her horse.

  “No!” Bernice cried. “Florus, stop this!”

  “Come up and visit!” Florus taunted from his view. “Show me how badly you want your people spared.”

  Another palace guard grabbed the reins of her horse and turned it back toward the palace.

  Bernice twisted, trying to call out to Florus again.

  Yet another guard jabbed his spear into the hindquarters of her horse, and it bolted forward toward Vitas. Her own guards parted to let her through, then fell in rank to face the Roman soldiers.

  Vitas looked up at Florus from his horse.