“You will let your men commit murder?” Vitas said. He lowered the knife to his side but did not drop it. “Knowing the Roman court holds a captain responsible for the actions of his crew?”
The captain smiled, his arms crossed, posing for his crewmen. “Tell me, my friend. Who arranged for you to be on this ship?”
Vitas did not answer because he could not answer. He did not know who had arranged for his escape from the amphitheater. Or why. The answer was in the scroll, which perhaps lay somewhere in the captain’s own quarters.
“Who arranged for you to be on this ship?” the captain repeated.
This was a question Vitas wanted answered far more badly than the captain did. He glanced to his left at the crew member with the stick. The large man had dropped the stick to his side, seemingly no longer a threat.
“You should know,” Vitas said. He wished he could think more clearly. He felt dizzy, and his thirst made it difficult to concentrate, but it seemed too dangerous to reveal that he could not answer who had placed him on the ship to escape Rome. He continued his attempt at a bluff. “And you’ll have to answer for the actions of your crew.”
“I’ll have to answer for your safety,” the captain said. “If my crew is happy, you’ll reach Alexandria. That’s far more important than the life of a Christian whose presence aboard my ship puts me at the risk of Nero’s wrath.”
The captain nodded at the man with the stick. “Hit this Roman. Not hard enough to seriously hurt him. But enough to keep him from stopping you.”
The movement from Vitas’s left was a blur. The blow across his left thigh, just above his knee, was a crack of agony that sent him sprawling across the deck.
Vitas rolled twice, losing the knife and tumbling to the side of the ship. He bit back a groan and tried to struggle to his feet. He made it upright, balancing on one leg. The other was numb. The bone felt shattered, but Vitas knew better. He’d broken bones before.
“No,” Vitas said as the men moved the cross closer to the side of the ship.
The captain merely shrugged at Vitas and winked.
Before Vitas could take a step, the captain nodded at the men holding the cross balanced across the railing. They lifted the end up and over.
An instant later, the cross splashed into the water.
Vitas clutched the rail and looked downward.
The cross had landed with John beneath it, and it bobbed in the ship’s wake. It receded from the ship with the man bound, trapped facedown in the water.
“I am Crito,” a disembodied voice said from the steam. “I am here about the Jew from Patmos.”
This was barely moments after the little man from the senator with gambling debts had stepped outside.
“The one named John, son of Zebedee.”
Damian, who had hunched forward for an Ethiopian slave to scrape his back with a bronze strigil, eased upright again. The Ethiopian immediately stepped away and disappeared. Over the previous months, this slave had learned quickly to read Damian’s body language for signals that indicated he wanted privacy. Jerome, of course, stayed.
“Why should I care about your name?” Damian put boredom into his voice. “And why should I care about a Jew from Patmos?”
Jerome stood and loomed over a man who in other circumstances would have appeared large.
Jerome’s bulk, however, did not appear to deter the visitor. Although it was difficult to make out his features in the steam, his appearance suggested a young street thug. Dark, well-groomed hair. Solid muscles. The posed stance of a man who believed himself invincible and wanted the world to know it.
“This Jew,” Crito continued. “You’ll pay to know where he’s gone.”
It was posed as a statement. Damian wasn’t surprised. Senators and lawyers and other notable citizens walked down the streets surrounded by clients and did business in courtyards and near public fountains, relying on receiving and giving favors. Damian did the same, except in this public bathhouse, receiving information as favors and giving money in return. It would be strange if the man in front of him didn’t expect money.
“Perhaps a few days ago,” Damian agreed. He’d put word out many days earlier, and by now it was common knowledge in the circles that he traveled among the lower-class residents of Rome. “But no longer.”
“He was kidnapped. Don’t you find that of interest?”
Damian shifted to speak to Jerome and contemptuously snapped off a common quip, emphasizing it with the use of formal grammar. “Malleum sapientiorem vidi excusso manubrio.” I’ve seen hammers with the handles off more clever than him.
As Damian expected, Crito’s posture immediately changed to a stiffened stance of threat.
“Go away,” Damian said in a tired voice. “Whatever you might tell me is old and secondhand and utterly wrong.”
A rumor had reached this man already. Someone had seen Damian and Jerome force a man into the litter they had used to take him from the market. Others had known Damian was looking for John. Whispers had spread and distorted the matter more, until now the thug didn’t even know that it had been Damian doing the kidnapping.
“Old information?” Crito’s fingers were still clenched because of Damian’s insult. “This happened only two days ago. Just before sunset.”
“Old,” Damian repeated. “Secondhand. Wrong. Go away.”
“Secondhand? Wrong? I was there.”
“Liar,” Damian said. If the man had been there, he would have seen Damian. That fact alone would have kept him from approaching Damian with obviously false information. “Go away.”
“I am not a liar!” Crito took a step toward Damian.
It did not appear that Jerome had moved, but suddenly Crito was off his feet and gurgling for air. Jerome had spun him and wrapped a forearm around his throat. The man kicked but it was futile. Jerome didn’t even grunt with effort as he held the man off the tiles of the steam room.
“Verbera eum,” Damian told Jerome. Thrash him.
Damian was within his rights to order a different fate for the informer: “Neca eum”—kill him. This man had tried to attack a citizen. No jury would find fault if Damian’s bodyguard was overzealous.
Yet a dead man would not be able to return to the streets and let it be known that Damian would not tolerate those who tried to play him for a fool. Damian would take no joy in the beating; neither would Jerome. But this was the Roman way: lavishly reward loyalty, and punish disobedience with extreme severity. Nothing between.
“Verbera eum,” Damian repeated.
Without releasing his forearm from the man’s throat, Jerome used his other fist to smash the sides of the man’s ribs.
Damian winced at the sound of those dull thuds, glad that the steam hid his reaction. Romans were not supposed to be queasy about violence. But Damian’s lifestyle had led him to his share of beatings at the hands of angry gamblers, and he knew too well the pain that Jerome was inflicting on this man.
“He’s on a ship!” Crito managed to gasp.
Damian wasn’t sure if he heard correctly. “Jerome!” he barked.
Jerome stopped the beating.
“Let the man speak.” Damian addressed the street thug. “What did you say?”
“He’s on a ship,” Crito groaned. “I kidnapped him and put him on a ship.”
“You kidnapped him?” This was so unexpected that Damian thought there would be no harm in listening. He could order Jerome to resume the beating at any time.
“Not alone. Four of us kidnapped the Jew.”
“Tell me more,” Damian said. Cautiously. If this was true, then who had Damian captured?
“Four of us,” the man repeated, his words hardly more than painful gasps. “Hired to kidnap a man and take him to a ship. No questions asked.”
The man gestured at the bench beside Damian, a silent request for permission.
Damian nodded absently, trying to make sense of the man’s statement. “You say you kidnapped John.”
Crito sat, slowly and gingerly. “I didn’t know then that he was the Jew you are looking for. But as we threw a hood over his head, he called out to the man beside him.”
“Where were you?”
“In an alley.”
“Where?”
“Via Sacra. Just outside the center of Rome.”
Exactly where Damian had kidnapped the man who refused to speak. Damian began to tingle with anticipation, feeling the sense of the hunt. If the man Damian had captured truly was not John, it might explain his determined silence.
“And what did the Jew say to his companion?” Damian asked, not hinting that he was prepared to believe this man to be telling a true story.
“‘Ruso, are you there? Have they hurt you?’ Those were the Jew’s exact words.”
Damian snorted. “Based on that, you come to me asking for money?”
Some of the young man’s cockiness returned. “Four of us were hired. I had a—”
“Who hired you?”
“A slave.”
“You agreed to kidnap a man at the request of a slave.”
“No, I agreed because of the money.”
“How did you know he was a slave?”
“The brand on his forehead.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“No.”
“Unlikely, then, that you know the name of his owner.”
“I do know it,” Crito said. “I followed him back to his owner because I thought there might be more money in it later. That’s what you will pay me for. And the rest of what I know.”
“Don’t guess at my intentions,” Damian snapped.
“The slave belongs to a senator. The same man with the Jew when he was kidnapped.” Crito paused, as if sensing victory. “In other words, the senator named Ruso paid us to kidnap his companion. How much will you pay me for the rest of my story?”
“Now tell me the news I don’t want to hear.”
Helius fought another stab of internal pain. With that statement, had Nero been referring to the fact that Vitas had escaped? This was the difficulty with a guilty conscience. Every moment with Nero was like walking a knife’s edge.
Fortunately, Nero continued speaking, taking any ambiguity out of his remark. “But don’t bother me with tedious details. Just give me the report about Judea, and then we can attend to Crispinus.”
Crispinus. That’s why the boy in the boat had seemed familiar. Rufrius Crispinus was Poppaea’s stepson, perhaps the closest to an heir that Nero had. He was eight years old, and named after his father, a famous knight who had helped avert an assassination plot against Claudius, the previous emperor.
“Judea,” Helius repeated, gathering his thoughts. Helius stared out at the boy fishing and pretended a degree of composure. The knowledge that Vitas was still alive had made him too jumpy. He’d forgotten a simple thing like Nero’s earlier request for news about the trouble the Jews were causing in the province.
“What I have was sent by courier from Cestius,” Helius said, wondering if he needed to remind Nero that Cestius was procurator of Syria. The emperor rarely showed interest in the matters of the provinces, and when revolts began, he took it as a personal insult that he had to be bothered with the particulars.
“Where the report comes from is a tedious detail.” Nero was focused on Crispinus. “Is there danger of war? That’s all I want to know.”
“For a few weeks, it appeared to have been averted.” While Helius knew he’d have to give Nero the bad news, he dreaded doing so. Nero was in a good mood now, and if he lost his temper, there was no telling what might happen in the next hours.
“Appeared? That’s tedious. I don’t want what it appears to be. Is there danger of war against Rome?”
“In May, as you know, Florus was forced out of Jerusalem after a few days of riots.” Gessius Florus was the Roman procurator in Judea. His cruelty was well-known, and the riots had been justified, Helius knew. Vitas had returned from Jerusalem with strong accusations against Florus, but Helius and Tigellinus had buried the report and arranged for Vitas to be executed before it could reach Nero.
“How can I make this clear?” Nero’s voice became higher pitched with the beginning of irritation. “I don’t want details. Is there danger of war?”
Helius knew he could not procrastinate longer. “It has worsened. There is danger of war. Agrippa and Bernice are appealing to the people to maintain peace.”
Helius paused to gauge Nero’s reaction. To see if he needed to tell Nero more, and to guess at the least offensive way to present the bad news.
The report from Gaius Cestius Gallus, procurator of Syria, had been thorough. In June, Cestius had investigated the riots of May, and the Jews had insisted on the removal of Florus as procurator of Judea. When Cestius delayed and Florus sent reports accusing the Jews of instigating the trouble, riots began again. Agrippa, king of the Jews, and his sister, Bernice, refused to send ambassadors to Nero, and the threat of riots returned.
“The Jews are nothing but trouble,” Nero said with a sigh. “Poppaea was a fool to support their cause. Even so, if she were alive, I suppose I would grant her wishes.”
Helius marveled at this man. Poppaea was dead because Nero had lost his temper and kicked her to death, then spent months in mourning and remorse and was now on the verge of marrying a boy simply because he looked like her. It was this unpredictability, combined with his absolute power and the delusion that he was a god, that made Nero so dangerous.
“And now?” Helius asked, still thinking about Judea.
“Now I hear rumors that her stepson plays war games, pretending to be a general.” Nero spoke to himself, making it obvious his thoughts were still on Poppaea. “And also pretending to be an emperor. Imagine that. Only eight years old and posing as emperor.”
Helius looked again at Rufrius Crispinus. He was only a little boy in a boat, innocently delighting in a sunny day on the water. A boy who could never have understood why he, of all eight-year-olds in the world, should have never played the types of games that any other child that age could play without danger.
“My father died when I was three,” Nero said softly.
Helius knew that. Nero mentioned it often.
“I inherited one-third of his estate,” Nero continued, still staring at the boy in the boat. “I should have had a wonderful childhood, even with the loss of my father. But Caligula took everything and banished my mother. Do you have any idea what my childhood was like? Poverty. No real family.”
Helius did, of course. Because Nero told him often enough. And because Helius had had a similar childhood.
“The world is not fair,” Nero told Helius. “Not fair at all. That is the greatest lesson I learned. Why then should children born after me enjoy what I could not? Why shouldn’t they learn that lesson too?”
“The Jewish war,” Helius prompted. He had more than a suspicion of why Nero had arranged for Crispinus to be invited to fish on the lake. Helius wanted to deliver his report and get as far away from the lake as possible.
“I expect Cestius will handle Judea,” Nero said. “So don’t inconvenience me with anything about the Jews unless matters get out of hand. I don’t want my trip to Greece spoiled.”
“Of course,” Helius said. “Is there anything else?”
“When I give the order, the boy’s slaves will drown him,” Nero said, speaking with dreamy satisfaction. “It should be amusing, as I’ve been told they love him like a son and he in turn loves them.”
Unspoken was the fact that the boy had never shown enough affection for Nero. But then, Helius thought, children have good instincts. Just not the power to do anything about them.
“Do you want to watch him die?” Nero asked. His eyes gleamed with an excitement that Helius recognized all too well.
Helius had to ask himself if it would seem like a betrayal if he declined the offer. Or a moral judgement against Nero, something the emperor detested. The gods, he often said, were above
morals.
“Of course you do,” Nero told Helius, still watching the little boy.
Yes, Helius told himself, this was a test of loyalty. Nero knew that Helius had a softness for children. Nero wanted to show he had as much power over Helius as he did over the boy he was about to have drowned.
“Look at that,” Nero said. “He’s caught something.”
The boy had turned to shout to his slaves with glee, holding a tiny fish aloft as if it were a monster.
“I think now is the perfect time,” Nero said. “Don’t you?”
“Of course,” Helius said. What choice did he have? “The perfect time.”
Nero snapped his fingers.
The boy’s slaves, two of them, began to wade out toward the boat.
The cross receded from the ship.
With John trapped beneath it.
On the deck, Vitas took the step necessary to scoop up the knife he had dropped.
“Now you intend to punish us yourself?” The captain laughed. He spoke to his crew as Vitas remained in a crouch. “Unless he’s stupid enough to try something with that weapon, ignore him, men. He can sulk all the way to Alexandria.”
At Vitas’s feet was the half-finished framework of some spare masting, a triangle of wood barely taller than a man.
He hoped it was enough.
Vitas ignored the stabbing pain in his left leg and grunted as he hoisted the frame upright.
“What now, fool?” the captain asked. “A dancing partner?”
The question, in a way, was appropriate. Vitas was indeed forced to struggle with the framework as if it were a clumsy dancer. He hoped none of the crew could guess his intentions.
He thrust his left arm into the frame and bent the arm to cradle it, leaving his right hand still free with the knife.
Vitas lurched backward, dragging the frame. “Insanity,” he muttered to himself. “Utter insanity.”
He knew better, however. It wasn’t insanity but calculated anger. And a calculated gamble.
One more lurch and he felt the railing in the small of his back. With a quick, hard heave of his left arm and upper body, the wood frame was in the air. He let the momentum of it fall backward and pushed off with his feet.
The Last Sacrifice Page 7