The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “Wonderful,” Tigellinus said. “Shall we throw dice to decide who has the pleasure of telling Vitas that he has an invitation to the amphitheater prisons?”

  “Not so fast.”

  “Nero’s actually going to let him live?”

  “Nero has a different fate intended for him. After all, wouldn’t it be nice to strip Vitas of his land and money and reputation before he’s executed?”

  “And his wife?”

  “That’s the genius of Nero’s plan,” Helius said. “It will nicely take care of her, too.” He explained.

  “Yes, indeed.” Tigellinus pounded Helius on the back with delight when Helius finished. “Lucunda macul est ex inimici sanguine.”

  What a pleasant stain comes from an enemy’s blood.

  “Welcome back, brother.” Vitas hurried through the garden to hug Damian.

  “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” Damian returned the hug. “Isn’t this your first week back in Rome? And all I brought from my travels was a wretched slave for the arenas. You’ve returned with a wife.”

  “Sophia,” Vitas said. That one word never failed to fill him with a heady mixture of emotions. Sophia. Romans were supposed to marry for convenience or politics. Vitas felt blessed that her presence in his life was so much more. And he found it ironic that he now thought of it as a blessing; much as he wanted to resist, her quiet demonstrations of faith in the one true God had moved him closer and closer to that faith himself.

  Vitas blinked and realized that Damian was regarding him with a quizzical, humorous look.

  “She does have your heart, doesn’t she?” Damian said. “And are the rumors true? She’s the Jew you rescued in Smyrna, right? Then followed to Jerusalem?”

  “And the rumors about you are true? A slave hunter beyond compare?”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “Are you?”

  They both laughed. Vitas pointed them to a bench under the shade of a tree.

  When they were seated, Damian’s face lost some of its humor. “What of Maglorius? Is it true he murdered the elderly Bellator and is now a fugitive?”

  Vitas sobered too. “It’s true he’s been accused of it. And it’s true that he disappeared in Jerusalem.”

  “You know more than that, don’t you?”

  “Alypia, I’m told, is in Rome now in charge of Bellator’s estate.”

  Damian grinned. “I remember her well. She’s without a husband now, you say.”

  Vitas shivered. “Stay away from her, Damian. That one would steal your soul.”

  “Maglorius survived her.”

  “As a fugitive from the law. He—” Vitas paused—“you haven’t been hired to find him, have you?”

  “No, but you’ll find it interesting who did hire me, almost as soon as I stepped back into the city.” Damian waved away the question before Vitas could ask it. “First, Maglorius.”

  “Bellator left behind two children. A daughter almost grown and a young son. They, too, disappeared during the riots in Jerusalem. I’m convinced Maglorius is still there, looking for them.”

  “And his own son? With Alypia?”

  Vitas looked around before he answered, even though he knew they were in total privacy in the garden. “The boy’s name is Sabinus. He’s with us, but this is a matter of extreme discretion.”

  “Of course. I’ll say nothing.”

  “Sophia promised to care for the boy until Maglorius can return.”

  Damian shook his head. “There you are, collecting more strays of the world.”

  Vitas thought of the old Jew in their household too. “You don’t know the half of it. But we’ve got enough money. Why not?”

  Damian shrugged.

  Vitas said, “Tell me, brother, who has hired you now?”

  “First,” Damian said, “let me thank you for starting me in this career. I find myself suited to hunting for slaves.”

  “Probably because it’s still a shocking endeavor to the truly respectable families in Rome.”

  Damian laughed. “Naturally.”

  “And the person who hired you?”

  “I’m sure you’d find out as soon as you return to the imperial palace,” Damian said. “Helius.”

  “Helius!”

  “Yes. And he’s offered a large reward to find the man. You might find this interesting, too, since the fugitive is a Jew. And I’ve been sworn to secrecy. But since you’ll soon know from Helius anyway . . .”

  “Who could Helius possibly want that badly?”

  “His name is John. Son of Zebedee. Apparently claims to be one of the disciples of Jesus.”

  “I know of him,” Vitas said quietly. He was careful not to let a new set of emotions cross his face. He knew how important Sophia’s faith was to her. How could he tell her that his own brother was about to join the persecution? And worse, would be in pursuit of the last living disciple who had followed Jesus?

  “How could you possibly know of him?” Damian asked.

  Here was a secret Vitas needed to keep from his brother. To protect Sophia. Vitas did not want to contemplate the horror that would occur if Helius or Tigellinus found out about her faith.

  “He is the author of a letter that’s been circulating among the Christians,” Vitas answered. “This letter has caused Nero a lot of trouble.”

  This was one of the few secrets he’d kept from Sophia. That Helius and Tigellinus had spoken of the letter with Vitas, wondering how to deal with the threat. There were moments—many of them—when Vitas hated Sophia’s faith for the trouble it might bring to the happiness of their marriage.

  “I haven’t heard of the letter.” Damian leaned forward. Less a brother and more a professional hunter of men.

  “That’s the way Helius wants it,” Vitas answered.

  “Tell me more.”

  Vitas hesitated. Helius obviously had an agenda for sending Damian in pursuit of John. If Helius had not given Damian information about the letter, it was for a reason. Vitas could only guess at that reason; if Damian knew of it, it might be leverage someday against Helius.

  Yet Damian was his brother. Who knew if the information might someday protect Damian? Vitas made his decision. “Here is what I know,” Vitas said. He began to explain.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sophia entered the garden, interrupting the two of them.

  Vitas rose, smiling.

  Sophia! She was dressed as a Roman wife, and servants had tended to her hair.

  What beauty! His heart ached to think that she loved him as he loved her.

  “Damian,” Vitas said, “please meet—”

  “We’ve met,” Damian said, standing. He gave her a hug. “Remember? Smyrna? Long ship journey where my brother spent every one of his waking moments with you and probably every moment of every dream as he slept?”

  “I wanted to introduce her to you as my wife,” Vitas said.

  “I’m not big on formalities,” Damian answered. He turned to Sophia. “Welcome to the family, small as it is.”

  Sophia leaned toward Vitas and whispered something in his ear.

  “Really?” Vitas said. “You are not joking?”

  “Really,” she answered, her smile glowing on her face.

  “And I can tell Damian?” Vitas asked her.

  She nodded.

  “Brother,” Vitas said, “our family won’t be so small anymore. Soon you’ll be an uncle.”

  “Congratulations!”

  Vitas could see that Damian meant it sincerely.

  It seemed like the perfect day.

  As long as Vitas could force from his mind that his brother was about to begin pursuit of John, the last disciple.

  As Vitas stood there in the garden, arm around Sophia, he wondered if there was some way—perhaps by trading political favors with Tigellinus and Helius for the first time ever—he could convince them to drop that pursuit.

  Without, of course, revealing that his own wife was a follower of Jesus. Because that wo
uld be death for both of them.

  “Do you remember me?”

  Leah had carefully chosen the place for this confrontation. A crowded marketplace. With competing vendors of wine, live chickens, pottery, fresh vegetables, all shouting to be heard. In a public place like this, her conversation would be as private as if she were alone in a courtyard with the slave she’d finally found after six months of searching. And here, with hundreds of people milling from one vendor to another, she was as safe as if a dozen soldiers protected her.

  She’d just touched the elbow of the slave and when he turned, she glanced at his forehead for confirmation, stared directly into his eyes, and asked the question.

  “Do you remember me?” she repeated. She knew this was the man. Although there wasn’t anything distinctive about his size or features, the brand on his forehead was unforgettable: a triangle with a circle in the center.

  The slave’s brand was as unforgettable as the circumstances that had brought him briefly into her life. “My brother was Nathan, son of Hezron. A week after he died . . .”

  Leah took a deep breath. The memories were painful. It still seemed like only a day had passed since Nathan had been martyred. Not months. A year. “A week after Nathan died,” she said, “you were the one who appeared for the letters he had hidden in our household. You drew the Greek symbol, spoke the password that Nathan had instructed me to listen for, took the letters, and left without speaking.”

  The man blinked. “No. You are mistaken.”

  But his cheek muscles had tightened slightly, and since she’d been hoping to surprise him, she knew he was lying. “Secundus Nigilius Barbatus,” Leah said.

  He flinched again.

  “He’s the ex-governor of Greece,” she continued. She pointed at the brand on the man’s forehead. “As it is plain for the world to see, you serve in his household as a slave. You’re an administrator for him, in charge of household affairs. That, I presume, is why you freely roam this market.”

  He shook his head in denial.

  “Your name is Cornelius,” she said. “It took me months to learn what Roman used the triangle brand to mark his slaves and then weeks to find you.”

  “I have no time for idle chat with a strange woman,” he said. “So if you’ll excuse me . . .” He tried to push her aside. He was about her height and hardly any larger in width, and he was unsuccessful.

  “I know who you are,” Leah said. “I want my questions answered. So don’t try to run from me. I’ll scream that you’ve robbed me.”

  He looked from side to side, as if estimating his chances.

  But she’d calculated correctly. Too many people. If he ran, it would look far too suspicious.

  “I want those answers,” Leah said. “You are one of them. If you don’t talk, I’ll turn you in to the authorities. And you know exactly what charges I’ll accuse you of. Sedition. You’ll die in the same way my brother Nathan did. In the arena.”

  “This is plainly ridiculous,” he answered. Without conviction.

  She stared directly into his face. “I may scream for help right at this moment. I’m sure the cohort of soldiers at the far end of the market will be very interested in what I have to tell them about you.”

  A moment later, his shoulders slumped. “All right then. What are your questions?”

  Hora Septina

  “Are you a follower of the Truth?”

  This dangerous question was not what Chayim, the son of Ben-Aryeh, had expected upon his invitation to a small garden that overlooked the lake on the palace grounds of the Golden House of Nero.

  Chayim sat on a shaded bench, facing the two on an opposing bench who had invited him. Helius. Tigellinus.

  “I am most assuredly not,” Chayim said, trying to hide the fact that he could not find moisture in his suddenly dry mouth.

  Helius and Tigellinus said nothing to Chayim’s vehement denial of faith in Christ. They simply stared at him, unsmiling.

  Helius was refined, smooth, silky.

  “Ask my slaves,” Chayim said quickly. “Ask anybody in the palace. I do not leave at night. All my associates are known to be faithful to the emperor. I am not a follower of the Truth.”

  “All right then,” Helius said in an ambiguous way. Without preamble, he turned to Tigellinus. “Shall we discuss the problem that Antonia’s marriage refusal presents?”

  “It’s not a problem,” Tigellinus growled, as if Chayim were not sitting on a bench opposite theirs. “Nero has already instructed me to have her killed. He is furious she rejected him.”

  “That goes without saying,” Helius replied. “Our problem is a matter of how her execution should be presented to the mobs. Otherwise most will believe Nero is simply getting rid of the last of the offspring of Claudius.”

  Months earlier, Nero had kicked Poppaea, his previous wife, to death in a fit of anger after she chided him for coming home late from chariot races. Along with his wife died the baby in her womb. This, of course, was the reason Nero was now looking for a new wife.

  Yet against all that, there was a compelling reason for Antonia to accept his offer. What Nero wanted, Nero took.

  “Antonia?” Helius said. “She was a fool to reject him. We denounce her. There have been rumors floating that she was prepared to stand at the side of Piso if his plot to kill Nero had succeeded.”

  Tigellinus shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll get the letter drafted that invites her to open her veins.”

  Helius laughed. “She’d better be more efficient at it than her half sister.”

  Octavia, Antonia’s half sister and Nero’s first wife, had died too slowly to suit the soldier sent to kill her. Her veins were open, but terror slowed the blood flow, so she was suffocated and beaten so badly that when Poppaea finally received her head, it was beyond recognition.

  “I’m delighted you mentioned Piso,” Helius said, “for that brings up another matter. Gallus Vitas.”

  Tigellinus sighed. “Let’s get these tedious matters out of the way quickly. I have a chariot race to attend.”

  Chayim wondered why they spoke so openly about this after they’d invited him here. After that mysterious question about whether he was a follower of the Truth. Was it to let him see the corrupt power they exercised so openly and freely?

  “Nero’s already decided Vitas’s fate,” Tigellinus said. “Why bother me with details?”

  “You need to give me the soldiers to send to his estate,” Helius said. “I know his slaves are fiercely loyal to him. We need to make sure that everything is taken.”

  Chayim knew this was true. When Nero appointed a magistrate these days, invariably his instructions were simple: “You know my needs. Let us see that nobody is left with anything.”

  “Also,” Helius continued, “Nero’s asked us to come up with a reason to present to Senate. Word will get out quickly after tonight, and I’d prefer the mobs did not know about the support Vitas has for Christians—”

  “Had,” Tigellinus said mildly. “Get into the custom of speaking about Vitas in past tense.”

  Helius grinned. “Of course. As for the reason behind it, I’d like to suggest that Vitas had involvement with Piso. That plot against Nero was an endless spiderweb. Does it matter if Vitas was actually part of it?”

  Tigellinus obviously saw no reason to protest.

  Helius turned to Chayim. “Nero’s invited Vitas and his wife to tonight’s dinner party. It suits Nero to copy something that Caligula had done on occasion at similar banquets. I think you’ll find it amusing.”

  Helius explained the rest of the details as Chayim was forced to listen, still wondering why they discussed it in front of him.

  “We’d better have excellent guards in attendance,” Tigellinus said. “Vitas has a remarkable reputation as a soldier.”

  “Of course,” Helius said. “This goes without saying.”

  “Then don’t say it,” Tigellinus snapped. He stood abruptly. “You handle the rest of this.” He strode away wi
thout bidding either farewell.

  “Such a beast, wouldn’t you say?” commented Helius to Chayim. “I find his unpredictability so attractive.”

  Chayim hoped Helius had not decided he was attractive. They were very secluded out here in the vast garden.

  “You’re not a follower of the Truth?”

  “No.” Chayim kept his voice steady.

  “That, of course, is a good thing. Tigellinus and I, well, you might have guessed we are efficient at dealing with matters that disturb Nero. It would disturb Nero if a member of his court were seditious in any manner at all.”

  Yes, that was the reason they’d spoken so freely. To show him their deadliness and power.

  “Have you a coin?” Helius asked.

  The sudden changes in subjects bewildered Chayim, keeping him off balance. He guessed that, too, was deliberate.

  Chayim fumbled to find one, noting the shakiness of his fingers. Yes, he was afraid.

  “Look at Caesar’s portrait,” Helius directed Chayim. “What is he holding?”

  Chayim examined the coin. Nero was engraved on the back of the coin. Holding seven stars.

  Helius nodded when Chayim pointed this out. “And although you are a Jew, you understand the significance of those seven stars. Yes?”

  Now Chayim nodded.

  “Explain it to me,” Helius said.

  “Rome has seven hills. Stars are bodies of the heavens. Nero . . .” Chayim faltered. All of the religious training of Chayim’s youth urged him to say that Nero claimed to be divine. Yet to dispute Nero’s claim to be a god meant death. Especially in the presence of Helius.

  Chayim chose life. “Nero is divine. He holds those seven stars.”

  Helius smiled. As if his question had been a test of sorts.

  Chayim pushed aside his conscience for denying the one true God of his father and his people.

  “You would agree then,” Helius said, “that for any other man in the world to claim those seven stars in his right hand, it would be an act of treason? That man would essentially be claiming what is Nero’s?”

  “Certainly,” Chayim said, feeling on safer ground. He knew of no man who had done so.