The Last Disciple (38 page)

He squatted, trying to keep both men in his vision. He, too, scooped dirt into his free hand. The tactic could work both ways. He stood.

One moved close. Vitas whirled on him, whipping his sword blade through the air. The man danced back. Vitas was spinning the other way, anticipating an attack from the second.

Instead, the man was several steps away. Laughing at Vitas.

The other moved in again. Vitas was forced to defend as viciously as possible, then again, swing his sword to the other side in anticipation of the second attack. Again, only empty air. The other man still had not moved.

So that was the plan: One would wear him down; the other would wait.

Then came a slight whistling sound. And a thud and a crash. And the second man was down as if thunder had struck him from the sky.

Vitas blinked as he tried to understand the shards of pottery around the man’s head and shoulders.

Then came another crash. This time to his left. At the feet of his other opponent.

Vitas risked a glance upward. Caught a glimpse of long dark hair from a figure on the second story.

Sophia?

A flash of movement from his left. Vitas managed a half step backward and grunted as pain seared his side. The knife had bounced off his ribs.

The half step had been enough to throw the other man off balance, and his attack carried him forward. Vitas smashed the butt of his sword down on the man’s head, then brought his knee upward to pound the man’s chin.

It was enough.

His opponent collapsed. His body trembled, then stilled.

Vitas looked up again, just in time to see another clay pot in midair. He jumped sideways and it broke on the ground at his feet. “Hey!” he shouted.

Now he could see Sophia’s face. She was wincing, obviously alarmed at how close she’d come to hitting him.

He grinned at her. “Don’t think this changes things,” he called to her. “I’m still mad at you.”

Valeria’s knees buckled in relief as she recognized the figure. It was Quintus! Her brother! Alive!

Surely Maglorius was near. Everything would be fine now. Maglorius would take care of them.

She stepped upward from the darkness.

Quintus reacted instantly. “What have you done with my sister!” He brought his short sword high and slashed at her. The weight of it was too much for his arm, however, and he wobbled for balance. The sword fell harmless at her side.

“No!” she cried.

He bowled forward, butting his head into her stomach.

She fell backward on the steps, gasping.

He began to pummel her face with his fists.

She rolled, taking him with her. Finally, when she was on top of him, sitting on his stomach, she grabbed his wrists and pushed them to the steps behind his back.

He began to knock his knees into her back, twisting and flailing, screaming.

“Quintus!”

He stopped.

“Quintus,” she said more quietly, “it’s me. Valeria.”

His eyes were wide. “Valeria?”

Then she remembered. Her hair. Maglorius had cut it short. And her clothes. It was not surprising that he hadn’t recognized her.

“Valeria?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she said, smiling gently. She rose with a graceful movement and helped Quintus to his feet.

He touched her hair. “You don’t look like Valeria . . .” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Maglorius cut my hair. He said it would be safer. He told me to wait here while—”

“Maglorius,” Quintus said, spitting. He pushed her aside and picked up the short sword. “I hate him. I swear it here and now. I will pierce his heart with this sword.”

“Quintus?” She saw that his tiny face was screwed up in pain. Tears began to leak from his eyes. “Quintus?”

He tried to speak, but emotion overcame him and he began to sob.

She pulled him close, held him, and waited until he finished.

“Maglorius . . .” Quintus gulped back a sob. “Yesterday afternoon. He came into the courtyard and found me practicing with the wooden sword. He gave me this.”

Quintus touched his sword. “He told me if the soldiers came that I should hide in the cistern. He said Roman soldiers might attack and if anything happened, I should wait until it was quiet and I was sure they were gone before I came out of the cistern. He told me how to find the house in the lower city and how to get to the tunnel. He told me where I would find you.”

Quintus hugged her. “Last night I was too afraid to move through the city. I waited until this morning. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Maglorius,” she prompted him gently. “And Mother and Father . . .” She was still trying to comprehend. Roman soldiers in their house? What had happened to her father and mother?

She pushed aside her fears. “Tell me about Maglorius,” she said more firmly. “Tell me what happened after the soldiers—”

“Mother said it was because of the riots. That he thought he could safely blame it on the soldiers.”

“Blame what? And Mother! Where is she?”

Quintus began to sob again. Valeria could see he was trying to remain brave, but he was, after all, a little boy.

“I don’t know,” he said. “After all the fighting and screaming and noise, she was gone.”

“Gone?”

“I came out of hiding. The servants were . . .”

More sobs.

“Dead,” Quintus wailed when he found his breath. “Dead! I close my eyes and I see them. On the floor. I see their blood. I hear them scream. All dead.”

Death was not part of their world. Their world was safety, servants, luxury, petty squabbles between brother and sister. Had Valeria not seen the unexpected violence of the Roman soldiers the day before, she would not have believed Quintus.

She squeezed his shoulders and kept trying to comfort him. She needed to calm him, to find out what had happened. “You came out of hiding and the servants were dead. And Mother?”

Guilt overwhelmed her. Mother could not be dead. All they’d done over the last few months was quarrel. She needed to be able to tell Mother that she didn’t mean any of the horrible things she’d said.

“Mother wasn’t there. Or Maglorius. But all the servants—”

“I know, I know,” Valeria soothed. “You’re here. You’re safe. Tell me about Maglorius.”

“Maglorius.” Quintus was suddenly savage. He set his jaw. It would have been a comical sight, with the tears so fresh on his face, except his eyes blazed. “I saw it myself. Mother, she called for me. She called for the servants. From Father’s study. He murdered our father. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”

“Murder.” Valeria sat down. This was too much to comprehend. “Murder,” she repeated, barely able to breathe out the word.

Quintus sat beside her. He placed the sword in his lap. His anger seemed to give him strength, and the tears dried on his face as he spoke with detached resolve. “Father was on the floor,” he said. “His head was toward the door. Maglorius was lying knocked out and crossways to him, across Father’s body. He was holding a knife.”

“Father?”

“Maglorius. He’d stabbed Father. Maglorius still had his hand on the knife. And the knife was in Father’s chest. There were pieces of clay everywhere.”

“Clay?”

“From a wine jug. Mother had walked into the study just as Maglorius stabbed Father. She grabbed the first thing she could and hit Maglorius across the head. When I got to the study she was on her knees. Screaming at Maglorius. Begging Father to live.”

Quintus shuddered. “Father was dead. Mother saw the short sword in my hand, the one that Maglorius had given me in the courtyard. She told me to kill Maglorius.”

Quintus lost his strength as suddenly as he’d found it. “I couldn’t do it. Not then. I would do it now. But then I couldn’t believe it. Maglorius woke up and saw me standing there. I looked into his eyes, and I couldn’t kill him. Mother tried to take the sword. She said she would kill him herself for taking away our father. That’s when the shouting reached us. The soldiers had broken into the courtyard. Mother screamed at me to run.”

He fell silent. Drained.

Valeria ached with love for her little brother. There would be time to grieve. Later.

Now she had to do everything possible to protect him.

The Eleventh Hour

“I feel guilty about this,” Sophia told Vitas.

“You had no choice. I would have forced you here by the point of a sword.”

Sophia liked it, that Vitas had understood what she meant without asking for an explanation. On the journey from Smyrna to Rome, they’d spent countless hours in conversation, leaning on the railing of the ship, staring at the horizon. Then, as now, it seemed each could read the other’s mind.

Now, however, they were not looking at the place where sea met sky. They were on a balcony of the royal palace. The moon had just risen and sat low on the horizon. It seemed within reach if she stretched a hand toward it. A breeze caressed her face, and she wished instead it was the gentle touch of the man with her.

Vitas had taken her to the royal palace this afternoon, insisting it was the only refuge in Jerusalem. His words had been prophetic; when the slaughter began again, the streets had been blocked with soldiers and citizens in panic.

It was this that brought her the tremendous guilt. She had survived. Too many others had not.

“Listen,” he said, “if you could have done anything at all to stop the soldiers but didn’t, you would have the right to condemn yourself. But these events were set in motion by circumstances far beyond any one person’s control. What do you suggest? That you take up a sword and stand in the streets and die?”

Vitas placed a hand on her shoulder. “Despite the logic of my argument, I feel the same way you do.” He smiled. Spoke softly. “Emotions don’t listen to facts.”

They were both staring at the dark outline of the hills against the sky. The glittering of the stars. Because to look in another direction would show the glow of the fires of the temple portico. The Jews had destroyed it to keep the soldiers from entering the temple.

“I should know,” he said a few moments later. “I’m here because I ignored the facts.”

She turned to him. His face was lost in the darkness.

“These are the facts,” Vitas said. “I met a woman, a slave in Smyrna. Stubborn. Intelligent. I guessed that she might even be beautiful, if a person could look past her distinctly un-Roman taste in clothing.”

“Is that how you judge beauty?” Sophia shot back. “If so—”

He laughed. “Quick tempered and quick to take insult too. Those are the facts.” He grew serious. “I decided that first night that I wanted to know you more. You were a slave. It was in my power to arrange your freedom. So I did.”

He shrugged. “If my impulse was wrong and my heart would not be drawn to you, then you had the gift of that freedom. If, however, my heart was right, then when I pursued you, your response to me would be that of a free woman. I would never have to wonder if your interest in me was that of a slave with no choice.”

Sophia was listening carefully.

“Here is another fact. After days and days on the ship back to Rome, I realized that my heart truly had been drawn to you. But you know that. Because I asked if you would stay in Rome with Paulina so I could continue to court you.”

Sophia knew that. It had been an agonizing choice. To say no to this man.

“You left me,” he said. “You returned to Jerusalem. Your family was more important to you than the attention of a Roman citizen. Those are the facts.”

“Vitas, I—”

“If humans operated purely on logic, I would have forgotten about you. I tried to. But could not. You know that Maglorius sent me reports. When I discovered you could not find your family . . .” He sighed. “I could not ignore my heart. Even though it meant that I would once again give you the chance to say no to me.”

“Vitas—”

“Let me finish. Please. It was worth the risk. I’ve finally allowed myself to understand that a man cannot live life unless he is prepared to love. I’ve spent years in a cocoon, trying to pretend all I needed were the trappings of my life as a Roman from a good family with enough wealth to live comfortably. You changed that. So, whatever answer you give, I want to thank you.”

He moved to the edge of the balcony and stared at the moon.

Long moments passed.

“No answer, then,” he said. “I suppose that in itself is an answer.”

“Vitas,” she answered gently, “you didn’t ask a question.”

“Oh. I assumed . . .”

She laughed. “Assumptions can be dangerous. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

He drew a breath, as if seeking courage. He turned, kept his distance from her. “Will you return to Rome with me?”

She still didn’t answer. She knew that Roman men were accustomed to procuring mistresses.

“As my wife?” he asked.

Her heart soared. She had abandoned him when the ship arrived in Rome, torn between her love for him and her duties to family. Now she had a second chance.

At the same time, she could not speak her heart. She could not accept.