“There is an ending to the Tribulation.” Damian recalled what he’d read in the letter. “An ending that happens because the Beast dies. And then the unthinkable. Civil war.”
Azariah shrugged. “If the prophecy were true.”
Yes, Damian thought, this is why Helius fears the letter! Prophecy of Caesar’s death. Nero’s instablility would be worsened to hear of this.
Except for one thing. The Beast in the letter could not be Nero. So Nero would have nothing in this letter to fear.
“I have tried gematria with all the names of rulers I know,” Damian said. “The number 666 does not give me a beast I would recognize. And certainly not Nero.”
“It doesn’t?” Azariah smiled, then wrote a vertical column of letters on the scroll. “Look, here is the Hebrew alphabet. And here—” he sketched a second column beside the first—“the Greek alphabet. Simple, yes?”
“All right.”
“The first ten letters of both alphabets correspond to the first ten numbers, 1 through 10. But the second ten correspond to the next ten tens.”
“So kappa, the tenth Greek letter, is 10, but the eleventh, lambda, is 20.”
“Good. And the third ten letters—”
“Are hundreds, of course,” Damian said, impatient. “I understand that Hebrew gematria uses the same principles as Greek. But John’s letter was written in Greek so why discuss—?”
“Because the writer expects much of his audience to be Hebrew,” Azariah said, obviously anticipating Damian’s objection. “And he knows they will apply gematria accordingly.”
Azariah took the scroll and etched out a few more letters. “As a Roman, you cannot be blamed for not knowing that Hebrew does not use vowels. This is how we spell Nero Caesar.”
“Six hundred and sixty-six,” Damian said after a brief calculation. “Nero is the Beast!”
In the prison cell, the stranger grabbed Vitas by the hand. “Are you drowsy yet? warm?”
“Who sent you?” Vitas asked. His tongue felt thick. “What was it I drank?”
“Do you feel this?” the stranger asked.
Vitas was vaguely aware of a pinching sensation on the back of his hand. “Yes,” he mumbled. “I’m not dead yet.”
“Drink more.”
Vitas had no willpower to refuse when the stranger put the jug up to his lips again.
“Empty?” the stranger in his cell asked.
“Who sent you?” Vitas asked again. Or thought he asked again. It was difficult to tell if he’d spoken or simply thought the question.
“Do you feel this?” came the question once more.
“Feel what?”
The stranger dropped Vitas’s hand.
Vitas was dimly conscious of it landing on his own thigh. “Felt it,” Vitas announced with great seriousness. “That was my hand. It’s at the end of my arm.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
More rustling. Had the stranger just draped something around Vitas’s neck?
Then came a hard blow directly across Vitas’s face.
“Wait!” Vitas protested. He tried to lift his hands to protect himself, but his arms were rubber.
Another blow landed.
And another.
“Was the letter coded this way to get past the censors?” Damian asked the rabbi.
“The author of this letter probably knew his treason would be obvious to any careful reader,” Azariah said. “There is enough in it already to suggest that the Beast is Nero. But there is an element of safety, because a Roman censor scanning it would definitely not see Nero as 666, while most of John’s audience would. More important is how uncanny the coincidence between the gematria of Nero’s name and all the layers of symbolism that a Jew sees in 666.”
Azariah’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Almost as if an angel truly had given John the vision.”
Damian had no interest in alleged supernatural inspiration of the letter. Only in finding out what he could about John. And more importantly, finding out what Helius feared about John and John’s vision.
“Could Helius or Nero know of this naming of the Beast?” Damian said.
“All they would have to do is ask questions as you did. Darda and I aren’t the only rabbis in Rome.”
“So, in essence, the author of this letter says that Nero is the Beast who opposes the Lamb. . . .”
“The Beast identified, but the empire itself is also the Beast, and will continue to reign even after an apparently mortal wound.”
“Civil war.” There it is, Damian thought. That far-fetched implication again.
“If you can believe that would ever happen,” Azariah said.
“And it predicts when Nero will die,” Damian said calmly, hiding his reaction. A prediction of when Nero would die! What an incredibly important document! Nero placed great faith—and fear—in any omens or prophecies that alluded to him. And to have one that spoke of his death!
“Yes. But remember the other improbable prophecies. That the temple in Jerusalem will fall, for example. If you’ve ever seen the temple high on the mount, you’d know how . . . well . . . how stupid that prediction is.”
“Just for a moment, consider what if the impossible happened, that the temple did fall, as the self-proclaimed Messiah Jesus also claimed,” Damian said. “What would that say about Jesus?”
John was Damian’s prey, but by nature Damian was curious. And here, Azariah had made the same statement about the fall of the temple as had Darda. Yet to have a prediction about Nero’s death! If there was any way Damian could find validity in the prophecies of the Revelation, it would be that much more valuable to him.
“Vindication, I suppose,” Azariah said slowly. “On several occasions Jesus called judgment on those who were about to kill Him. Used a Jewish prophecy phrase that means exactly that and was used repeatedly in our ancient writings: coming on clouds. He combined that phrase with another from a psalm of coronation and exaltation. Jesus declared to them, ‘Hereafter you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of power and coming on the clouds of heaven.’ I remember the wording I read because of the absolute audacity of Jesus’ claim. In effect, He was claiming deity in pronouncing judgment over Jerusalem, and if Jerusalem and the temple were to fall within the near future—may it not be so—it would mean that Jesus, not Caesar or another Jewish messiah, is Lord and King.”
Azariah paused before continuing. “And there would be an incredible irony. He claimed to be the Lamb that was slain to redeem us. With the temple gone, there would be no other way to reach God but through Jesus. If He truly was divine.”
“What do you think of the accuracy of the other predictions John made?” Damian asked. Knowledge was power, a secret like this that much more so.
“As I said, the way it is written is so incredible I could believe it was divinely inspired. Yet the obvious impossibility of the events happening as predicted—the falling of the temple, civil war in the empire—lead me to one conclusion. . . .”
Azariah let out a deep breath. “John is vainly trying to comfort those fools who already believe in the equally impossible notion that Jesus was resurrected and was and is the promised Messiah.”
Damian nodded, very glad that his brother, Vitas, had told him about Helius and the letter.
But he knew Helius would not see it in such a harmless manner. Helius would immediately understand what Damian understood. The danger of the prophecy to Nero’s peace of mind. And that Nero’s perception of such a threat would make life very difficult in the palace. And throughout Rome.
This would make John a valuable captive indeed.
But the fact that two other slave hunters had died under mysterious circumstances gave Damian good reason to worry about his own life.
If John, son of Zebedee, held the key to this, there was a double reason for Damian to capture him.
The stranger held Vitas up in a sitting position as he struck Vitas again and again.
Vitas was acute
ly aware of the sound of the beating. Of the thud of wood against his flesh. How long it continued, he didn’t know.
And barely cared.
Without warning, the blows stopped.
The stranger dropped him in the straw. Vitas barely felt the man’s touch as he slipped what felt like a scroll inside his clothing and against his chest. A moment later the man patted Vitas’s chest, as if satisfying himself that the scroll was in place. Then Vitas listened as the stranger crunched across the straw toward the cell door. Torchlight silhouetted the stranger briefly as he opened it.
Then Vitas was alone again.
Hora Undecima
Sophia sat in the garden near the stable, singing a lullaby to Sabinus. Aside from prayer, pouring her love out to this baby was the only way she was able to quell the fear and speculation about the fate of Vitas. And her own fate, too.
Ben-Aryeh approached, leading five Roman soldiers. This was the moment she had been dreading all day.
The night before, guards had dragged Vitas’s unconscious body from the feast. Nero, almost too drunk to stand, had continued to move her into a private chamber. Moments later, he’d passed out. She had stared at him for some time, shuddering at the evil written across his face, even as he lay unconscious. She’d wondered if she could do anything to help Vitas and had realized the only thing to do was flee the palace and do what she could the next day.
Repeatedly Ben-Aryeh had urged her to flee the mansion on the hillside, telling her that Nero would regret allowing her to escape so lightly. But she could not leave the estate until she knew what had happened to Vitas. She had sent servants back to inquire about him, but no news had reached her; some servants had yet to return. And if they had any information that might allow her to help Vitas, how then could she do so?
She’d lost her family in Jerusalem. Would she lose the man she loved now?
As hour after agonizing hour passed, prayers had been her spiritual comfort; Sabinus and his good-natured play at her feet had been her earthly comfort.
As she rose, holding Sabinus, to meet Ben-Aryeh, a young servant girl hurried from where she had been waiting nearby.
“Take the child and go,” Sophia told the servant. She wrapped Sabinus in a blanket. “You have been instructed.”
The servant girl nodded.
Although Ben-Aryeh had not been able to convince Sophia to leave, the wily priest had insisted they plan for the worst. A letter had already been sent to Sophia’s friend Paulina, asking her to care for Sabinus should it be necessary.
As the servant girl walked toward the stable, Sophia watched the soldiers intently. If they tried stopping the girl, all was lost. They ignored her, and she was able to leave the garden before the soldiers reached Sophia.
Sophia closed her eyes briefly, offering a prayer of thanks. Nero had not decided to destroy all of the family. Only her. For if death was not involved, a messenger would have arrived. Not soldiers in full military gear.
The lead soldier stood three feet away and appraised Sophia. Ben-Aryeh stood to the side, his face inscrutable. His shoulders were bowed, as if he were making himself as small as possible. She had never seen him this abject.
“Her servant does not lie to us,” the leader said to the others, his eyes full on Sophia’s face. “This is his wife. I saw her with Vitas last night.” Then he spoke to Sophia, offering a scroll. “Nero has orders for you.”
“I do not read Latin,” Sophia answered. She felt faint. The situation was unfolding as Ben-Aryeh had predicted. Early in the morning, he’d gone to the head servants of the household to ask them about the ways of the Romans and grimly reported back to her.
First would come the soldiers. With the scroll.
“Very well,” the soldier said. “Nero invites you to open your veins.”
Suicide.
She had been prepared for this, but the calmness of the soldier’s words still unnerved her. Sophia drew several deep breaths, forcing herself to behave with dignity. “You will allow me as is customary to free the household’s slaves?”
The soldier grunted and nodded.
“Let me ask you,” she continued. “Does he want my head?”
It was a relevant question. She’d heard about Octavia, Nero’s first wife, and the soldier who had severed her head to take back to the emperor as proof of her death.
“What does that matter to you?” the soldier asked. “Dead is dead.”
“If Nero wants my head, I should like to have my makeup and hair prepared,” she said coolly.
“He does not want your head,” the soldier growled. “Nor do I have the time to wait.”
“Allow her a hot bath,” Ben-Aryeh interceded. “At least make it painless for her.” He pulled a pouch from his tunic and shook it, making the sound of the coins inside very obvious.
The lead soldier nodded. “Very well.”
Ben-Aryeh tossed him the gold. “I will order the slaves to prepare a bath,” he said to Sophia.
“As hot as a person can stand,” Sophia said. “And have them leave wine.”
“As you command.”
Ben-Aryeh hurried ahead, leaving the soldiers to escort her from the garden back to the mansion.
Tri via.
Damian stood at an intersection of three roads. The major of the three was the Via Sacra, just south and east of the center of Rome.
As was customary for any intersection of three roads—known to the Romans, of course, as tri via—a sign had been placed in a conspicuous spot. On the sign were the postings of any minor matters that passersby felt were important enough to write down for the public to know.
As he waited along the Via Sacra for the slave named Cornelius, Damian scanned the trivial postings. A wedding announced. Rewards for lost valuables. A plea to help find a donkey that had disappeared.
It was an ingrained habit for Damian to read anything in the path of his eyes. In this moment, however, during a calm and cloudless midafternoon, his mind barely registered the postings.
His thoughts should have been on the imminent capture of John, son of Zebedee. The arrangement that Damian had made with Cornelius was simple. Cornelius would take him into a nearby alley that John traveled through every day around this time. Cornelius would wait, hidden with Damian, and when John passed by, make identification of John so that men hired by Damian could make an immediate and discreet capture.
His thoughts should have been on this. But because Damian had become an expert at surprising his prey with similar and sudden captures and because he trusted the men who were already in place and waiting to make the capture, Damian allowed his mind to drift to that meeting with Rabbi Azariah earlier in the day.
It was a given, unless something unexpected happened, that John would be captured well before sundown. Yet now Damian wasn’t quite sure if he should deliver John immediately to Helius.
Because Damian now believed he understood exactly how much John was worth to Helius.
Helius arrived with three guards, each carrying a torch. He, however, refused to enter the squalid cell that held Vitas. He sent the guards in to pull Vitas into the hallway.
When the guards dropped Vitas, he fell to his knees.
Helius grabbed Vitas by the hair and lifted his head. Then gasped and stepped away. “By the gods!” Helius said. “Your face!”
In the time that had passed since the stranger had entered Vitas’s cell and administered the quiet and efficient beating, Vitas’s face had swollen monstrously. He saw through the slits of his puffed eyelids. His forehead was knotted with purple bruises. His lips were like sausages.
Vitas could keep his balance only by remaining on his hands and knees, like a dog. He felt the weight of the scroll sagging against his tunic. Even had he found the emotional and physical energy, reading the scroll would have been impossible in the darkness of the cell. But it was obviously important, and he knew he must keep it from Helius.
“The guards had fun with you,” Helius said, laughing. “I
t’s just as well that Sophia can’t see you now.”
“Sophia!” Vitas found energy. “Sophia!”
His teeth were not broken, nor were there any cuts on his face. The wooden dowel used to beat him had been strangely padded.
“Your precious wife,” Helius sneered. “I suppose you want to know her fate?”
“Sophia!”
“I’d prefer to let you speculate. Much more fun for me, letting you twist in the wind, so to speak.”
“Sophia!”
“You attacked the emperor,” Helius said. “Definitely one of the gravest crimes possible.” He pushed Vitas with his foot.
Vitas toppled. He made sure to fall on the scroll hidden in his clothing. “Sophia . . .” His burst of energy gone, her name came out as a groan.
“Pathetic,” Helius said. “But by tomorrow evening, she won’t be of concern to you. I’m happy—no, correct that—I’m delighted to tell you that you are scheduled to appear in the arena.”
He paused, examining Vitas. “I’d thought perhaps it would be amusing to let you fight some gladiators. After all, a military hero should provide good entertainment. But now that I see your pitiful condition, it may have to be the lions.”
Another pause. “No,” Helius said, “perhaps an elephant. We’ll have you tied to a tusk. Your face is already beaten beyond recognition. The same fate may as well await your body.” He shrugged. “No matter. What’s important are the provisions of your will regarding your entire estate.”
Vitas stared straight ahead. All he saw were the boots of the guards. The dark walls of the subterranean hallway with the torchlight gleaming off the stone.
“Normally,” Helius said, “it would be expected that you bequeath your entire estate to the emperor. That, along with a confession of your guilt. But I have a proposal for you.”
The feet of the guards in Vitas’s vision shifted. Then walked away.
Helius had dismissed them. He knelt beside Vitas, whispering in his ear. “You have certain properties on the coast. I think it would be appropriate if you gave them directly to me. Nero won’t miss them.”
The Last Disciple Page 35