The Last Sacrifice

by Hank Hanegraaff

  There was a startled shout from the captain. But it was too late. Vitas was already in the air, falling toward the water, still clutching the frame with his left arm.

  The impact against the water nearly knocked him loose from the frame. That would have been his death. Vitas, no different from most sailors, could not swim. He needed the frame to keep him afloat. Because his left arm was curled around one side of the frame’s lumber, the momentum of his fall seemed to pull that arm loose from its socket. His arm slipped, and he clawed with his other arm to pull his head up and out of the water.

  For a few seconds that seemed to drag on like minutes of terror, it seemed he would lose the frame. Or the knife in his right hand. But finally, he brought his upper body to the surface. The frame was nearly submerged by his weight, but it was enough to keep him afloat.

  Vitas ignored the shouts of the crew at the ship’s railing. He blinked against the sting of salt water in his eyes and got his bearings.

  The floating cross was maybe a half-length of the ship away from him.

  Too far?

  Vitas kicked, knowing each passing heartbeat took the man trapped beneath the cross that much closer to death by drowning.

  The frame was unwieldy, but Vitas fought it with desperation. The smoothness of the water inside the ship’s wake made his struggle easier. He kicked and splashed, his lungs heaving, fueled by the imagination of the horror that John faced beneath the cross.

  When he finally reached the cross, he knew that only half the battle was finished. Vitas frantically cut at the top of the rope binding one of John’s arms. It seemed to take far too long to slice through each strand. He shouted with savage satisfaction when the last of the rope finally snapped.

  Still, death remained too much of a possibility for both of them.

  Vitas would have to briefly push away from the frame that kept him afloat.

  He snapped his teeth on the blade of the knife, freeing his right hand. He released the frame, pulled himself onto the massive beams of the cross, then reached under.

  There!

  The man’s free arm! The man’s wrist! Vitas grabbed John’s hand.

  Movement!

  Fingers clutched him.

  John was still alive!

  Vitas pulled, uncaring of how much pressure he placed on the arm that was still bound to the other side of the cross.

  He reeled upward on John’s arm until the man’s head emerged from the water. John was bent and crooked, barely able to find the angle that allowed him to keep his nose and mouth above the surface. He gasped and sputtered, his fingers an iron grip on the hand of Vitas.

  It would still be tricky.

  Vitas sprawled belly down on the cross, maintaining precarious balance. If he slid off the slippery wood now, both would drown.

  Vitas used his feet and knees to cling to the cross, as if it were a horse, not a thick beam of wood. As John clutched Vitas’s left arm and fought to keep his face above the water, Vitas reached for the knife in his mouth and grabbed the handle with his right hand.

  The bobbing of the cross made it even more difficult.

  Vitas managed to grab the handle of the knife. He began sawing at the rope that held John’s other arm to the beam.

  Again, that satisfying snap when the final strands released.

  Except suddenly, John no longer had a grip on Vitas’s left hand.

  The man had disappeared.

  Vitas, exhausted, let his own head fall onto the beam.

  Then John resurfaced. His feet were still bound to the bottom of the cross, but he had found a way to twist and jackknife his body so that now his head and shoulders were above the water again.

  John used both arms to clutch the beam. His upper body swelled each time he drew in a great lungful of air.

  Vitas relaxed, knowing he could take his time to work downward to the last of the ropes that held John’s legs in place. Totally exhausted, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wet beam.

  “Insanity,” Vitas muttered again. “Utter insanity.”

  Hora Sexta

  The woman in front of Damian pushed aside the shoulder of her tunic, exposing pale white skin until she stopped tantalizingly short of indecency.

  “The rest is yours to reveal,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “After all, what’s the harm in combining pleasure with business?”

  The time in the steam room had invigorated Damian. Barely a minute earlier, he and his entourage of slaves had stepped outside the building into the cacophony of the marketplace.

  The woman in front of him now had been waiting inside an expensive litter carried on the shoulders of four slaves, with curtains open. He had accepted the invitation to join her inside, on the condition that the litter remain in place. Now, with the extended poles still resting on the shoulders of the slaves, they were both suspended in the particular hush and dimness that came with the thick drapes closed.

  She had an open amphora on the cushion beside her—the pottery vessel was a slim cylinder with handles at the top and a rounded rim—and he could smell the wine inside it. Mixed with her perfume and the sight of her beauty, it was indeed a seductive setting.

  Instead of responding to her invitation, Damian pulled the tunic back over her shoulder to cover her skin. The litter was large by most standards, but the cushions had been arranged in such a manner that their knees touched.

  She pouted. “Damian, your reputation with the women led me to expect something a little bolder.” She exposed her shoulder again. “Certainly you like what you see.”

  What he saw was a woman named Alypia, the recent widow of Lucius Bellator. A wealthy old man who administrated taxes in Jerusalem, Lucius had been her third husband, just as elderly as the two before. He’d been butchered in the riots of that city in May, and she’d immediately returned to Rome.

  Alypia was a young woman. She wore a blonde wig made from the hair of slaves from Gaul, and it was woven elaborately on a wire frame and secured on top of her head with her natural hair, a style matching the latest fashion rage in Rome. Her eyes appeared large and innocently wide, an illusion that Damian was experienced enough with women to know was simply an effect of artfully applied makeup. Yet she did not need the help of her richly colored silk tunic or the expensive perfume or the delicate makeup to seem beautiful. The lines of her face and body were a mold of natural sensuousness that she used like a beacon to draw men.

  Damian carefully kept his eyes on hers. “I will not betray the man who saved my life. The same man for whom you declared your undying love.” Alypia’s affair with the ex-gladiator Maglorius was well-known.

  “Maglorius murdered my husband and forced me to flee Jerusalem.”

  “So you say. I’d prefer to hear it from him. When I do, I will believe it.”

  “Who would have thought that you actually do have principles?” Alypia said, smiling, lowering her tunic farther. “Or do you?”

  “You might be the only person in Rome to accuse me of having principles,” Damian said. It took great effort to focus on her face. Damian knew well his weaknesses and was already tempted to his breaking point. She was a siren, and any glance below her face would be like unplugging his ears. “I appreciate your efforts, however.”

  “Efforts.”

  “I will not be hired to travel to Jerusalem for you.” Damian gestured at her and the rich interior of the litter. “While I appreciate the offer of a different currency, I’m still not interested in leaving Rome.”

  “A different currency?”

  “One much older than money.”

  “Not interested, yet you stepped inside this litter,” she said, pulling up her tunic and covering herself. “I think you were curious to see what I would offer.”

  Damian grunted.

  “Did you get your cheap satisfaction?” she asked.

  “Cheap satisfaction?”

  “I’ve made no secret that I find you attractive. You stepped inside this private litter be
cause you wondered if I would attempt to seduce you and how far I would go to do it. To me, that is a man interested in cheap satisfaction.”

  Damian thought about it, realized she was right. Then grinned. “More like cheap virtue. It’s not often I get to feel as if I actually have any principles.”

  “Then I’ll take satisfaction that you’ve used me for something.”

  “And I’ll take satisfaction in leaving you satisfied.”

  “Like all your other women.”

  “Of course,” he said. He reached for the curtain to leave.

  “I had more in mind than pleasure with you,” Alypia quickly said. “I also came here to tell you that I’ve booked passage for you on a ship leaving for Caesarea tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I admire your persistence. But you can find someone else to search Jerusalem for you.”

  “I’ll double what I’ve offered you.” She smiled. “Money. Not the other currency.”

  “Remarkable that you would love your stepchildren so much.”

  “If that means no, I’ll double it again. And you don’t have to escort them all the way back to Rome. Deliver them to Florus. He’ll look after them for me.”

  “Double? For that price, you could hire ten men to find them for you.”

  “But you’re the best. You would succeed where those ten men might fail.” Her voice became pleading. “Don’t think of me. Think of the children. Jerusalem has been torn apart by riots. If they’re still alive, they need help.”

  “You brought Maglorius into your household as a bodyguard,” Damian said. “He’ll protect them.”

  “The way he protected Lucius? I was there. I saw him kill my husband.”

  “As you said.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  Damian laughed. “Don’t be insulted. I trust no one.”

  “Except Maglorius.”

  Except Maglorius. And my brother, Vitas, Damian thought. Only to feel the next thought hit him like one of Jerome’s fists. My brother is dead.

  The moments in the litter had been enjoyable, but not for any of the reasons Alypia might take pride in. In this small, private world, Damian had temporarily been away from the reality of the death of his brother. Until this reminder.

  He still couldn’t reconcile himself to that fact. In his mind, Vitas was alive and laughing, sitting in the courtyard only a few mornings ago, introducing him to his wife, Sophia, telling him that they were expecting a child. How can Vitas and Sophia now both be dead?

  Alypia must have caught the change in his mood. Her voice lost its teasing quality. “Consider my offer, at least. You have until tomorrow afternoon before the ship leaves.”

  “I have no reason to go to Judea,” Damian said. He flung open the curtains, almost savagely.

  Directly in front of the opening to the litter was one of his slaves named Castinus. The movement of the curtains appeared to startle him.

  “Didn’t I tell you to immediately go back to the estate?” Damian’s voice was sharp. His dark mood had returned.

  “To release the captive.” Castinus nodded and smiled obsequiously. His greasy hair was cropped as if someone had placed a bowl over his head and clipped any hair that stuck out. Castinus had an irritating habit of blinking both eyes when he smiled. “But I wanted to be clear on the rest of your instructions. It was . . . complicated.”

  “Have him released, then follow him yourself. Discreetly. Find out where he goes and immediately return to my estate. How can that be complicated?”

  Castinus bowed his head.

  “Run!” Damian barked.

  Castinus trotted away through the market.

  At least, Damian told himself, he could use the hunt for John, son of Zebedee as a distraction. And so much the better if it led him to anything he could use against Helius.

  “Who are these people?” Sporus whispered to Nero. They walked side by side through an arch into one of the inner courtyards of the palace.

  Helius followed behind them. His mind was still filled with images of young Rufrius Crispinus flailing at his slaves as they forced him beneath the water, the slaves themselves in obvious anguish. The boy had been innocent, no threat to Helius. Sporus, on the other hand, was adored by Nero, and Helius would have no compunction about watching Sporus drown.

  “Are they senators?” Sporus said when Nero didn’t answer.

  Two middle-aged men turned from their conversation with each other and straightened to attention in the presence of Nero.

  Helius seized on the chance to take his mind off the death of Crispinus and smiled at the stupidity of Sporus. Senators!

  This would be too good in the retelling. The poor boy child actually thought he was important enough that Nero was taking him to an audience with senators. So important that he didn’t even notice that neither man wore a senatorial toga, something that every senator would do for a private meeting with Nero.

  Senators indeed! No, they were far lower than senators in social status, and their dress reflected it. Poor Sporus was too unobservant to judge people by appearance.

  “Doctors,” Nero answered Sporus. Nero wobbled slightly. He’d already indulged in wine since watching the drowning of the stepson of the wife he had murdered. Now, for Nero, this was just another event in the day. Nero patted Sporus on the shoulder. “They are the best in all the world. There’s nothing to fear.”

  Helius knew well the tone of Nero’s voice. It was exuberant anticipation, dulled by wine. He was always like this before any event that would indulge an outrageous whim.

  “Doctors?” Sporus said. “You mean there is something to fear? You wouldn’t say that unless—” He gasped. “Are you ill?”

  Helius choked back a laugh. This was wonderful! Almost worth all the worries he faced. The boy child might be pretty, but he wasn’t that intelligent.

  “These doctors are here for you,” Nero said, patting Sporus again.

  “But I’m not ill.”

  Helius coughed to hide a snort. Too good! Simply too good! When would the child finally comprehend what was happening?

  Nero held the elbow of Sporus. Helius could not tell if Nero did it to guide the boy or because Nero needed support as he walked. The result, however, was the same. Nero and Sporus neared the doctors, with Helius a few discreet paces behind.

  Nero curled his arm around Sporus’s waist and stopped in front of them.

  “Isn’t Sporus beautiful?” Nero asked the doctors.

  Each nodded. If they felt distaste at the sight of a man sweating from alcohol pawing at a beautiful boy, they did a good job of hiding it. Of course, their lives depended on keeping Nero happy.

  Nero patted Sporus on the cheek. “Remember,” he said, “you are doing this for me.”

  “You haven’t told me what it is. You told me this was a surprise. What is it?”

  “We’re getting married,” Nero said. “You will be a goddess.”

  “Goddess?” Sporus echoed.

  Helius was in near ecstasy. He’d told Nero he would supervise the doctors, but that was only an excuse. The moment he’d been waiting for was so near, the delicious moment of comprehension and horror as Sporus realized the price he would pay to be Nero’s pet.

  “I am a god,” Nero explained. “When you marry me, you will be a goddess. Worshiped by all of the empire, just as Poppaea was until . . .” Nero frowned, obviously realizing he should not complete the sentence.

  But Helius would remember and whisper it later to Sporus. Just as Poppaea was . . . until Nero kicked her to death. Yes, Sporus, Nero kicked her to death. In the last stages of her pregnancy, kicked her to death in a drunken rage after losing too much money at the races.

  Too delicious!

  “I can’t become a goddess,” Sporus said. “I’m not a woman and—”

  “Shhh,” Nero told him, placing a finger against the boy’s lips. “That’s why we have the best doctors in Rome.”

  Sporus still didn’t understand.

 
Helius took the boy’s elbow and guided him away from Nero. “I’ll see that it is done properly,” he promised Nero.

  Nero waved at them both and then retraced his steps out of the courtyard.

  “Do you have rope?” Helius asked the doctors.

  “Rope?” the first one, a gray-haired man with a stoop in his shoulders, said.

  “He’s young and strong and will undoubtedly resist,” Helius said. “I expect it will be best if we tie his arms and legs to immovable posts.”

  “Helius?” There was obvious fear in the boy’s voice. “What did Nero mean? Why did he leave?”

  Helius stroked the boy’s face and watched his eyes closely, knowing his words would land like a blow. “He left because he loves you too much to watch. And he means that you are about to be castrated.”

  “I’m going to tell you my name,” the ship’s captain told Vitas. “But I don’t want to know yours. You’re enough danger to me as it is.”

  Vitas had no intention of giving his identity anyway. If Nero knew he was alive, Sophia would die.

  “I’m Atronius Pavo,” the ship’s captain continued. “And you should know that on this ship’s previous voyage, I drowned a Jew in pig’s blood.”

  Each of the two sat on a short, three-legged stool in the captain’s quarters. It was a square room centered beneath the deck, a location that gave it the best stability on the ship. There was a straw bed raised above the floor at the back; beneath this bed was a chamber pot. On the side, a table had been built out from the wall, and sea charts were unrolled across it, held down by lead weights on each side.

  Vitas had been scrutinizing the small room carefully, hoping for a glimpse of the scroll that he’d lost during his fever. The only light, however, came from an oil lamp. It threw the captain’s shadow against one wall, casting an odd gleam on the oily skin of the man’s face.

  “I only tell you this story,” Pavo continued, “because I want you to truly understand what kind of man I am.”

  A rat rustled in the straw of the bed. The captain ignored it. He pointed to his once-broken nose and touched it lightly with the tip of his forefinger.