The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  John stopped walking and faced Ruso. He smiled an invitation for Ruso to continue, as if he sensed Ruso was leading to a question.

  They were returning from the hours spent together visiting families of men in prison for refusing to renounce their faith in Jesus. Ruso’s role was one of silence as John spoke quietly to each family. Ruso was simply glad that he had the resources to help them with money and food. But it was John whom the men and women leaned on for much more than material gifts. He answered their questions, absorbed their fears, and spoke of Jesus with such certainty that in each household hope replaced despair.

  Ruso knew that such effort exhausted John, and usually their trips through the streets back to the peace of the hillside were completed in companionable silence.

  It was unusual, then, for Ruso to interrupt John’s thoughts during the walk. “I’ve never asked you,” Ruso continued quickly, “but . . .” He hesitated, conscious of his reluctance to press on their friendship. John, although he shrugged it off, was often elevated by their fellow believers because of the special relationship he’d had with Jesus. Ruso avoided taking advantage of his friendship with John to ask about Jesus in a way that seemed he was only interested in the celebrity aspect of John’s reputation. In general, John seemed relaxed with Ruso, often glad for the reprieve from the demands placed on him by other believers.

  Yet . . .

  Of any time that Ruso wanted John distracted, it was now. And Ruso had genuine questions that he doubted he’d ever get a chance to ask John again.

  “But . . . ?” John echoed to encourage him.

  They had stopped. Passersby flowed around them. They were in the shadows of apartments that lined a crowded street. A marketplace square was behind them and ahead was the Via Sacra, the main thoroughfare they usually took out of the center of Rome toward the household of Ruso.

  “Let me put it this way,” Ruso said. “In Matthew’s account of the time Jesus spent on the Mount of Olives, he tells his readers that Jesus prophesied the abomination that causes desecration in the temple. Yet Luke’s account makes no mention of it. We know that’s because Matthew was writing to a Jewish audience who would immediately understand the importance of Jesus speaking those words. And Luke wrote to the Gentiles, who would find much less meaning in that. So the accounts differ.”

  “Of course,” John said.

  “And will you agree with me that the truth behind any event can be presented in as many ways as there are witnesses to it? For example, a great battle. The generals will report it differently than the soldiers, and the soldiers differently than the cooks at the supply wagons, and the defeated enemies yet again from another perspective.”

  John smiled. “Such is human nature.”

  “Yet none of the accounts would be false. And blended together, they would give a far greater view of the truth of the event than any one account. Just as the different accounts of Jesus give us a more complete perspective. Differences. Not contradictions.”

  John nodded. “I cannot disagree with you. Why do you ask?”

  “Judas,” Ruso said. Inwardly, he winced to say the name. “The betrayer. I’ve always wondered about your account of that night.”

  John’s face clouded briefly. “Yes,” he said slowly. “What about Judas?”

  “On your Passover evening with Jesus,” Ruso said, “Judas was allowed to depart from your last supper with Him. Yet Jesus had told all of you that one would betray Him. Didn’t any of you wonder when Judas slipped out?”

  John sighed. “He was the keeper of the purse. Jesus spoke in a low voice to him. It appeared to us that he was sent out to purchase bread or something else that our Master needed. He was the most zealous of us all. We never dreamed he was the betrayer. Although . . .”

  John had begun to walk again.

  Ruso took his elbow and gently slowed him. Ahead and too soon, the slave Cornelius would be waiting with Damian, the famed slave hunter. Too soon, Ruso would never see John again.

  John was deep in memory and didn’t seem to notice that Ruso had slowed their pace. “I remember,” John said, “that before Judas left, Simon Peter leaned toward Jesus from his cushion beside the Passover table and asked, ‘Lord, who is it?’ And Jesus answered, ‘It is the one to whom I give the bread dipped in the sauce.’ Jesus then dipped the bread and gave it to Judas.”

  “It wasn’t plain then that Judas was the betrayer?”

  “Not plain at all. Peter and I exchanged glances but didn’t see the significance of it. Judas was fiercely proud and had taken the seat of honor. It was expected that Jesus would hand him the bread first.”

  Ruso understood. A trusting man is easily deceived. He did not have to look any further than John’s trust for him to know that.

  “That proves my point about the truth behind an event,” Ruso said. “Matthew was there in the room yet does not record the conversation between Peter and Jesus.”

  “He didn’t hear it. Only Peter and I were close enough to Jesus.” John shook his head. “And Judas of course. That poor, poor man.”

  “You speak of him with such compassion.” Inwardly, Ruso winced again, thinking about betrayal. He hoped in the days ahead that John would speak of him, too, in such a gentle manner.

  “I cannot be sure,” John continued, “but I believe Judas turned Jesus over to the authorities to force Jesus to act against them. Think about it. We had spent three years with Jesus, witnessed His miracles, seen Him calm a storm, watched Him walk on water. Judas, as a Zealot, burned for Jesus to overthrow the temple authorities, for they worked closely with the Romans. And most of all, as a Zealot, Judas wanted the Romans gone. All of us disciples believed that if Jesus so desired, an army of angels would have appeared to do His bidding. Judas, I am almost certain, thought that if Jesus was captured, He would have no choice but to fight.”

  John stared off into the distance. “None of us understood until later our Master’s true purpose. The despair we faced during His trial and crucifixion. We were all cowards.” John straightened. “Then the Resurrection! We all became fearless confessors of that which we had seen with our eyes and that our hands had touched. Our Master! Resurrected! We were no longer afraid to walk in the Truth.”

  “I wish I could have been there in those exciting days,” Ruso said.

  John turned and clasped Ruso. “I know you share my faith, my friend. You know you’ve met Him through that faith. And you and I are nearing our final heartbeat when we will see Him as He is.” John’s certainty and peace glowed across his face.

  Ruso wanted that to be his last memory of John, not what was still ahead.

  When a key rattled in the cell door’s lock, Vitas thought the time had arrived for him to enter the arena. He had a vision of himself, stepping into the sunlight, squinting after all his hours in darkness, feeling the crunch of sand beneath his feet, hearing the great crowds eagerly awaiting his slaughter.

  But more than fear for his death, he was filled with sorrow. He wanted to live to be old with Sophia, to be a good father. Death would take that away from him. Why couldn’t he have the faith that she possessed?

  The door opened and shut quickly, and a person carrying a small torch slipped into the cell.

  “Don’t be long,” the guard’s voice said from outside.

  Even this dim light was far more than Vitas had seen since the departure of Helius. He blinked, trying to focus on his visitor.

  The man was about the size of Vitas, with light-colored hair. He wore a hooded tunic. “Gallus Sergius Vitas,” he said. He was carrying a small bag, closed at the top by the leather strings used as a strap.

  He squatted beside Vitas and set a wineskin in his hands. “Here. This should help. I’ve also got food.” The stranger opened the bag and pulled out bread and cheese, and handed them to Vitas.

  Vitas was suspicious, remembering how he’d been drugged earlier, then beaten. He set the food in his lap and sipped the wine carefully. Nothing tasted unusual. “If this is poi
soned or drugged,” Vitas said dourly, thinking of his strange visitor the day before, “you probably wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

  The wine moistened his taste buds, and Vitas decided he was too hungry to care about the answer one way or another. He ripped into the bread and swallowed almost without chewing.

  The man gestured at another wineskin that he’d just pulled out of the bag. “The potions are in this. For me.” Beside the second wineskin, the man set down a wooden dowel wrapped in leather. He didn’t try to stop Vitas from picking it up.

  Vitas slapped it against his hand, considering it as a weapon.

  “Not yet,” the man said. “There are things I want to tell you first.”

  Not yet?

  “My name is Jonathan,” the man said before Vitas could ask that question aloud. His voice trembled. “What I have to say I have rehearsed many times in the last hours, as I know we have little time.”

  Vitas recognized that tremble. He was well familiar with it himself. It sounded like fear.

  “I am a slave,” Jonathan said. “My master owns a large farm north of Rome with many slaves. I have a wife and three children. If I had all day and all night for ten years, I would not be able to fully tell you how much I love them. I understand this love now. It is the love of our one true God, given to us and given through us.”

  Vitas grew very still. Was this man a believer like Sophia?

  “Remember: I have rehearsed this. Of all that I can say in the time we have, I thought it important to tell you about God. And His Son. For I believe that God walked this earth and allowed Himself to be crucified as an atonement for all I have done wrong in this life. Through the Christos, God welcomes me while I am alive in this body, and He also has a home waiting for me when I leave this failing body in anticipation of resurrection.”

  “Don’t bother me with religious nonsense,” Vitas growled. Not because he didn’t believe. But because the man could well be an informer attempting to get Vitas to admit the very same faith, and in so doing, condemn Sophia. This was a trick that Helius was capable of. “Nero’s killed hundreds upon hundreds for that belief.”

  “Which is why my family and I have been sent here. To the arena. It is a belief we refuse to deny. All of us have been sentenced to death.”

  If this was true, Vitas could only feel horror. If the man was lying, it was an evil thing.

  “I don’t understand,” Vitas said, washing some cheese down with wine. If he was going to die, at least he would die with a full belly. “You walk the underground prisons as if free.”

  “I will explain. I just wanted you to first know the belief that changed my life. No matter how great the tribulation that any of us might ever face, it is faith in the resurrection of Jesus that gives us hope enough to withstand it. Perhaps you, too, will consider that great truth.”

  “You are here to preach to me on my deathbed?” Vitas was beginning to believe the man might actually have the faith. “The guard let you into my cell for that?”

  “The guard was bribed. I tell you about my faith to spare you regrets. Even if you never think of the Christos again, please believe me when I say I am glad for this opportunity.”

  “Opportunity?”

  “I do what I do willingly.”

  “Whatever it is, your voice still trembles.”

  “I am not a brave man,” Jonathan said in a whisper. “But if the Christos could do what He did for me . . .”

  “Who bribed the guard? Why?” Vitas wanted to ask more, but the man beside him abruptly put his head down in prayer. Vitas gave him silence.

  Then Jonathan lifted his head again. He took the second wineskin and drank from it deeply. He sputtered and forced himself to drink more.

  “I am ready.” Fear was still in the man’s voice. He took his final gulps from the wineskin and set it down. “Help me with what I need to do next,” Jonathan said. “My hands may not be steady for much longer.”

  “I am glad there is no need to mutilate her body.” Ben-Aryeh had joined the soldier outside the bath chamber and spoke with his head bowed. “She was well loved. Although she granted all her slaves their freedom, they will stay here and ensure she has a proper and decent funeral.”

  “The same cannot be said for her husband,” the soldier said.

  “No?” Ben-Aryeh pretended a degree of disinterest.

  “Tigellinus told us he will be thrown to the lions.”

  “Did you pass that on to her?”

  The soldier shook his head. “Bad enough the emperor invited her to die. Was there any reason to add to her grief?”

  “Thank you,” Ben-Aryeh said. He was glad the soldier showed compassion; it would probably save the soldier’s life. Still, everything depended on what would happen once they both entered the bath chamber.

  Ben-Aryeh reached inside his tunic for another pouch of coins. His hand brushed against the handle of a knife. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. “Please take this. You have been decent to her.”

  The soldier hesitated.

  “Nero gets what you don’t take,” Ben-Aryeh said.

  The soldier shrugged, then accepted it.

  Good, Ben-Aryeh thought. He is one step closer to keeping his own life. “Let me see if the mistress is dead,” Ben-Aryeh said.

  “Not without my supervision.”

  “Certainly.”

  The soldier followed Ben-Aryeh inside.

  Sophia’s body had slid down so that only her head rested on the edge of the bath, tilted back, her eyes closed. One arm was folded across her chest as if she’d vainly tried to clamp her other wrist to stem the flow of blood. That she’d been unsuccessful was obvious to Ben-Aryeh and the soldier. The bathwater had a red hue so dark that her naked body was completely hidden.

  A strangled cry left Ben-Aryeh’s throat. He rushed forward, leaving the soldier at the entrance. He reached into the bathwater and pulled out Sophia’s limp arm. He held it so that the cuts were visible to the soldier behind him. Blood still seeped from the wound.

  He placed her arm gently in the water again.

  Ben-Aryeh hunched over and began to sob.

  Chayim stared at the soldiers. They blocked the door, each poised with a sword drawn.

  “By the authority of Caesar,” the tallest soldier said, “we place you under arrest for treasonous activities.”

  He was the only soldier among them that Chayim knew. Arminius Gavrus. Gavrus was an imposing figure even without his military equipment, a large man with a square face and dark eyes that showed no expression. With his sword and full armor, he inspired terror.

  When they’d made their arrangement earlier in the day, Gavrus had made it very clear that if Chayim did not pay the amount they’d agreed upon, he would kill Chayim without hesitation. This, Chayim had thought, was simply a good sign of the man’s seriousness about the evening’s task. Chayim felt the money promised was money well spent, for Gavrus had impressed him as an intelligent man, very capable of accomplishing Chayim’s plan.

  Gavrus stepped forward, raising his sword. His bulk seemed to fill the small room. “Any who resist will lose an arm.”

  Corbulo was the first to break the shocked silence. “We are friends gathering for a meal. There is nothing treasonous about this.”

  The others in the room sat motionless. The dim light given by the candles flickered across their faces. Chayim noticed that Leah had moved closer to the older woman beside her and had placed a protective arm around her shoulders.

  In discussing his plan with Gavrus, Chayim had stressed that neither of them could anticipate how the Christians might react. Chayim had simply told Gavrus what he wanted to accomplish, told the soldier to hire the right men to help, and adjust to the situation as it unfolded.

  “I repeat,” Corbulo said, “we have done nothing treasonous.”

  “That is not for me to decide,” Gavrus said. “I am following orders.”

  Perfect answer, Chayim thought. Presented like a soldier truly sen
t by Nero. It would have been strange for Gavrus to enter a debate with the accused on whether the charges were valid.

  Corbulo pointed at Chayim. “It was you, wasn’t it? You led these soldiers to us.”

  “Silence!” Gavrus said. “As I call you one by one, step forward and accept the shackles.”

  Chayim thought of Leah. Of how he could not answer the accusation that Corbulo had just hurled at him. But it was all in motion now. Too late to stop.

  A soldier at the rear of the group moved beside Gavrus, holding a sack that he emptied on the floor. The shackles clanked as they fell in a heap.

  “Wait,” Chayim said.

  Gavrus was swift to react. In one step, he reached Chayim and pushed the tip of his sword into Chayim’s belly, just below his sternum. “You dare tell a soldier under Nero’s orders to wait?”

  Chayim gasped. Although he knew Gavrus was acting, he wished the soldier had not been quite so enthusiastic about the pressure of the sword. “Hear me out,” he said. “You can obey Caesar and still line your pockets with gold.”

  “Insolence!” Gavrus knocked Chayim in the face with his other hand, sending Chayim to the ground. “Shackle him first,” he ordered one of his men.

  As the irons bit into his wrist, Chayim made another plea. “Give those of us who are faithful to Caesar a chance to declare their allegiance now. How can Caesar find injustice in that? And perhaps those who are true to Caesar will show you gratitude for that chance at freedom.”

  This was the brilliance of Chayim’s plan. To force these Christians to choose between Nero and their faith. Those who did not choose Nero would be taken away by half the soldiers. After that, those who did choose Nero would be threatened with further punishment unless they helped Chayim. After all, Chayim had judged, these people would also be likely to further betray their cause and divulge whatever Chayim needed to find out about the treasonous letter circulating among the Christians.

  At the same time, by remaining behind with those who chose Nero, Chayim could also renounce any belief in the Christ of Nazareth and clear himself of any danger with Nero, especially if Chayim delivered those who did not renounce the Christ to the authorities for death in the arenas.