The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “You will not go, no matter what I say?” But Ruso knew the answer. He and John had discussed John’s vision on Patmos countless times. John had been given a vision of the fore future, and of the far future, and of the final future. John had seen heaven and the end of time. Because of it, he feared nothing.

  John answered as Ruso expected. “I will not leave Rome, even if Damian was walking up the path at this very moment with soldiers to capture me.”

  Ruso gave an involuntary look down the hill and shuddered, as if seeing Damian and the soldiers at that very moment. “I pray to God it won’t happen,” he said. “I pray it is His will that your light shine in this world for many years longer.”

  “Your wife,” Nero said, placing a hand on Vitas’s shoulder with half-drunk familiarity, “she brings to mind a shy doe at the stream. The hesitation, the awareness. As if danger might lurk in the shadows of the trees, ready to pounce. It is—” Nero stopped himself and belched— “yes, it is quite alluring, I find.”

  Other conversation quieted. It was a couple hours into the dinner. Already, many of the guests had risen from the couches to vomit in a nearby room before returning to gorge, some of them several times already.

  Vitas struggled for words to fill that silence. His foreboding deepened even further.

  “That one is like a fox in heat.” Nero pointed at a woman who was lifting a plate of hummingbird tongues, her fingers greasy and flecked with food. “She radiates a sense of hunger for a man. It is a different kind of attraction, I must admit.”

  The woman—Gloria, if Vitas remembered her name correctly—smiled as if the emperor had bestowed upon her a wonderful compliment.

  “This one—” Nero pointed at another woman—“is rather too fat for my taste. Her expensive dress hides defects that only a husband should be aware of.” He giggled. “One might ask how I know.”

  The husband, quite drunk, simply shrugged.

  “Does your wife please you?” Nero asked Vitas, his eyes returned to Sophia. “Does she please you the way a woman should please a man? Or is her shyness pretended?”

  Before Vitas could think of a suitable answer, Nero stood. He tilted forward slightly and recovered his balance. “Actually,” Nero said to Vitas, “I have suddenly decided I am not interested in your opinion. Not when the Caesar can decide for himself in the tradition of Caligula.”

  Vitas grew cold with shock. Surely Nero would not . . .

  “Come, my dear.” Nero extended a hand to Sophia. “I have a bed in a nearby room. We shall not be long. And when I return, I will give all of our guests a frank appraisal.”

  As Vitas shifted to find his feet, Nero placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him to remain on the couch. “Surely,” Nero said, his eyes half closed, “you would not deny the deity?”

  When Vitas pushed upward, Nero tightened his grip, digging his nails into Vitas’s shoulder. “Caesar takes what he wants.” Nero spoke sweetly, a tone that belied the viciousness of his clawlike grip. “Because a god will not be denied anything from mortals.”

  Again, silence. Some, like Tigellinus and Helius, had amusement on their faces. Others, like Chayim the Jew, carefully studied the contents in the bowls of food in front of them.

  “I . . . ,” Vitas began.

  Sophia’s pleading eyes transfixed Vitas. Nero’s other hand was still extended to her.

  “Might I remind you that Tigellinus,” Nero said, “is cocaptain of the cohorts. He is very familiar with the punishment handed to those who defy a god.”

  In response, Tigellinus belched.

  Nero released his grip on Vitas and took Sophia by the hand, forcibly lifting her to her feet beside him. “I take it then,” Nero said to Vitas, “that I have your permission?”

  Sophia shuddered.

  Six guards outside the room. Tigellinus nearby on his couch. And Nero, a man who had people killed for falling asleep at the singing performances he forced upon them.

  Vitas could utter the words he wanted to speak. It would result in his death. Merciful and quick if Nero was inclined. Or slowly if Nero was not. Either way, Nero would still take his wife. And perhaps have her killed as well.

  “I do have your permission.” Nero smiled. “After all, I would not sample her without it.”

  Inside Vitas, helpless rage fought against the impossible choice he faced. To ensure that his wife was not killed and to keep his own life, he would have to allow the unthinkable.

  “Please,” Nero said. His bloodshot eyes seemed maniacal. “I must hear it from you. Yes?”

  Vitas’s mind told him to agree, but his heart and soul would not let him.

  Nero shrugged. “I’ll be happy to take your silence as permission.”

  Nero pulled Sophia forward. “Well, then, I shouldn’t be long. I’m sure all our guests are anxious to know how well or badly this young woman is capable of pleasing a god.”

  He led Sophia through a curtained doorway at the back of the room.

  She did not meet Vitas’s eyes as she followed.

  Then rage and love overpowered all of Vitas’s rational thoughts. With a roar, he rose from his couch and charged forward, instinctively reaching beneath his toga for his short sword.

  But it was gone, taken from him during the earlier search by the guards.

  Still he roared. And still he charged, with a killing hatred filling his every sense.

  Nero had begun to turn, a look of sudden fear on his face.

  Then Vitas was on Nero, reaching for his neck. His fingers closed on the soft cartilage of Nero’s throat and he began to throttle him.

  Then Tigellinus was upon Vitas, battering his head with the hilt of his sword.

  Vitas clung to Nero, clung to consciousness. Blood streamed in his eyes, but Vitas fought on, blind.

  As the hilt came down again and again with savage force, Vitas was dimly aware of another sound.

  Applause. From the dinner guests who were well amused by the scene.

  And moments later, the applause dimmed to silence as blackness took away any conscious thoughts Vitas held.

  Saturn

  Hora Quarta

  Loud cries of pain came from the hillside olive grove below the mansion. Chayim lifted the hem of his toga and hurried toward the sound. He’d walked from the palace through the streets of Rome to get to the countryside manor of Aulus Petillius, an acquaintance who owned the mansion, and was sweating heavily in the morning sun.

  The cries of pain continued, and as Chayim moved into the shade of the first olive trees, he also heard a pattern of thuds punctuating the screams.

  The ancient trees with their twisted trunks and labyrinths of low-hanging branches blocked his vision, but the screams grew louder. It wasn’t until he reached an oil press in the center of the grove that he realized fully what was happening.

  Chayim immediately recognized the person swinging a small wooden pole down on the huddled body of a young woman. Aulus Petillius: the older, fat man with the heavy thatch of dark hair on his scalp who had sat near him at the banquet the night before.

  The woman was in slave’s clothing. She was not screaming in protest, for it was an owner’s right to administer punishment at whim. Her cries of pain were involuntary exclamations that each new blow from Aulus forced from her body.

  “Petillius!” Chayim shouted. “Petillius!”

  Chayim’s voice stopped Petillius at the top of his swing.

  Petillius turned, startled. His face seemed vacant from thought, and it took him several seconds of blinking before he replied, almost as if Chayim had awakened him from a dream. “Is it that time already?” He sputtered out his words, breathing heavily from exertion. “I’d forgotten you promised to visit this morning.”

  The slave on the ground shifted slightly and whimpered. Chayim saw that the young woman had short hair and her face was splotched from tears.

  “Normally I would not mind returning at a more convenient time for you,” Chayim said, “but it was a distance
to travel.”

  “I would hear nothing of it,” Petillius said. “It will be a simple matter to call a slave to prepare us food and drink.” He scowled. “But not this one. She is worthless. Claims that illness has made her weak. But I know it is nothing except sheer laziness.” Petillius poked her with his pole. “Am I right?”

  “It is a fever. I sleep poorly and I’m always thirsty.” The young woman spoke from beneath a protective arm over her head.

  “You disagree with me?” Petillius thumped her again. He looked over at Chayim. “You’ll excuse me while I finish this task?”

  “Please,” Chayim said. “Don’t.”

  “Come, come,” Petillius said. “You’ve come this far. What can it matter how long I delay lunch?”

  “I have plenty of time. But—” Chayim stepped forward and knelt beside the slave—“she appears seriously injured. As a friend, I would hate to see you face any legal difficulties.”

  “Bah. The laws that protect slaves are theoretical. No one I know has faced a judge for punishing one.” Petillius prodded the slave with the end of his pole. “No blood. See?”

  Chayim stood. “She is not an animal.”

  Petillius was astounded. “Of course not. She’s a slave. Do you have any idea how cheap slaves are these days? Animals, on the other hand—”

  “She’s human,” Chayim said quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’s human. I believe if you treat her with kindness you’ll see in time that—”

  Petillius laughed so hard his jowls swayed. “It’s early in the day for drunkenness, my friend!”

  “Let me buy her,” Chayim said. “You said slaves are cheap.”

  Petillius stopped laughing as abruptly as he’d begun. “My slaves aren’t cheap, however. And this one has a child.” He named an outrageous sum.

  “You just finished telling me that she’s lazy,” Chayim observed mildly.

  Petillius cut the sum in half.

  “Look at her,” Chayim said. “It will take days, perhaps weeks, for her to recover from the beating.”

  Petillius cut the sum in half again.

  “It seems,” Chayim said, “that we have come to an agreement. Now, if you don’t mind, would you be able to provide me with water and food for her?” Chayim paused as he touched the woman’s neck lightly with the backs of his fingers. “And a blanket. The poor woman is shivering.”

  “Today?” Ruso said, trying to hide his anger but fairly certain it was obvious. “It’s enough of a danger to all of us that you brought someone up here at all. But you do it today?”

  “I had no choice,” Cornelius said. “She threatened to turn me in to the authorities. I met with Damian today and made arrangements. Without me, what of our plans for tomorrow?”

  The sun was beginning to set. They were on the hillside, just beneath the grove of olive trees that John used as a private retreat. Ruso had never asked John but guessed it reminded John of the Garden of Gethsemane outside Jerusalem, the garden that Jesus had often used as a similar retreat.

  A young woman stood on the hillside, watching them.

  “This is not good at all.” Ruso’s lips tightened as he looked past Cornelius at the woman, who was just out of earshot. “If she found you, obviously, someone from the meetings has been indiscreet.”

  Cornelius offered the faintest of smiles. “That, at least, is not one of our worries.” He rubbed his forehead. “Her name is Leah. She is the sister to Nathan, son of Hezron. Nathan had instructed her to hold the copies of the letters of Matthew and Luke and of the one of John’s vision. I was the one you sent to retrieve them, remember?”

  “That was months ago,” Ruso said, slowly and sadly. He continued to stare at Leah while speaking to Cornelius. She did not look away from his steady gaze. “But how did she ever find you in a city this large if someone did not tell her about you?”

  Cornelius rubbed his forehead again. Closed his eyes. “I’ll never escape this mark. On the days she went to market, without her father knowing, she began to make inquiries about it until she learned which household branded slaves this distinctly. After that, it was only a matter of time . . .”

  “But if she hasn’t turned you in to the authorities, what does she want? Money to keep her silence? If so, I have plenty. We’ll send her on her way. You know John will be gone before she can return and make further trouble.”

  “No, not money,” Cornelius said. “In the days after Nathan died and before I arrived, she’d read those letters. She wants to know more about them.”

  “She searches for our faith?” Ruso asked in astonishment. “Even after what happened to Nathan?”

  “Especially because of what happened to him. She says she’s not able to stop wondering why he allowed himself to be killed in that manner.”

  “But here,” Ruso said. “Why bring her here?”

  “To meet John.” Before Ruso could protest, Cornelius rushed on. “After all, tonight will be his last night on this estate.”

  “Only if you are successful with Damian,” Ruso answered.

  “Either way, John will know we’ve betrayed him,” Cornelius said. “Do you think he’ll stay here on the estate after that?”

  Ruso didn’t need to answer that question. “As you wish,” Ruso said to Cornelius after a short, grim silence. “Take her up to meet with him. But first let me know exactly what arrangements you made with the slave hunter for tomorrow. It is extremely important that John does not suspect anything.”

  Chayim followed Petillius toward the mansion. They did not move quickly. Although it was less than a hundred yards to the gate, Petillius stopped to rest often.

  “Were you impressed?” Petillius said, leaning against a tree. “Because I can tell you that I was. I’ve never been onstage, of course, but looking back, I think I have a natural talent. Don’t you agree?”

  “The beating was severe enough,” Chayim said.

  “That was not acting. I’ve never liked that slave. Do you think I’d sell you one that was special to me?”

  “You are a wise man,” Chayim said.

  “But my acting? Surely you saw ability in that.”

  This was not a time to express dislike or disdain. “I agree. Not only ability, but ability with what seemed like years of practice.”

  “Far from it. As you well know, it was only last night that you asked me for this favor. And I was certainly into my cups when you did. It was a miracle I remembered the time we arranged for you to appear, especially after all the excitement that followed the attack on Nero. And more of a miracle that I acted so consummately with so little time to prepare. Don’t you agree?”

  “As we spoke in front of your slave,” Chayim agreed, hiding an ironic tone, “I was almost convinced myself that you truly meant to beat her. I had to keep reminding myself that we’d rehearsed it briefly last night.”

  “We had?” Petillius sounded disappointed. “I must have really been in my cups.”

  “That only makes your effort today more outstanding,” Chayim said. “Not less.”

  “Quite,” Petillius said. He heaved himself forward, beaming with self-satisfaction. “Now let’s get you food and drink for the slave.” He stopped. “Did you tell me why we went through the charade of me beating her like that?”

  Chayim shook his head. “I thought it would best protect both of us to keep it a secret.”

  “Why is that?” the fat man asked.

  “Two names.” Chayim dropped his voice to a whisper. “Helius and Tigellinus. I think I need not say more.”

  Petillius’s eyes widened. “Enough said,” he whispered back. “I’ll never speak of this to anyone. Ever!”

  The distant roar of lions first pulled Vitas back into consciousness. He lay in dirty straw, on his stomach and face. He rolled over, spitting to clear his mouth.

  The roar of lions continued. Along with a strange thunder.

  Vitas sat, slowly. It was dark. Smelled like a sewer.
<
br />   His head was throbbing. He reached up and touched it gingerly. Discovered straw sticking to the most painful area. He pulled at the straw, and razor sharpness seemed to attack him. He dropped his hand and groaned.

  He began to make sense of his surroundings. The enclosure was a small dark cell, with the only light coming from a torch on the other side of a small opening in the door.

  Was it day? night?

  How long had he been here?

  Why was he . . . ?

  The memories of his attack on Nero flooded him.

  Sophia! He groaned with spiritual anguish.

  Sophia. Where was she? What had happened to her?

  He tried to stand. He couldn’t find the strength.

  He collapsed.

  It finally occurred to Vitas to be surprised that he was still alive. An unsuccessful attack on Nero should have resulted in immediate death.

  Vitas touched his skull again, thinking more clearly. He realized a piece of straw had dried into the blood of the gash above his ear. He gritted his teeth to pull it loose. Again the razor pain, but the straw came loose. He felt the warmth of blood trickle down onto his ear.

  He heard the roar of lions again. Wondered why he knew with such certainty that it belonged to the great beasts.

  Then he understood.

  The roars came from above him.

  As did the thunder.

  Only it wasn’t thunder. But applause and the shouts of the crowd.

  He was in the depths of the amphitheater.

  That answered his question as to why he was not yet dead. Nero had obviously decided it would be more entertaining to save Vitas for a public display.

  He groaned again, consumed by thirst. Consumed by anguish over the uncertainty of Sophia’s fate. Consumed by fear.

  What would be worse?

  His death?

  Or trying to avoid the thoughts of what Nero might have done to Sophia?

  How he wished for the faith that gave his wife peace in all circumstances.

  Chayim returned to the depths of the olive grove, carrying a tray with water and food. He knelt beside the slave woman. “What is your name?” Chayim asked gently.