The Last Disciple (48 page)

“Barbatus is no fool,” Ruso said. “He would be glad to do a favor for Damian. Moreover, he’d be reluctant to protect you by refusing to help Damian, not with Nero determined to use believers as a scapegoat for the Great Fire.”

“Damian will have your name,” John said. “You were among those who petitioned for my release from Patmos.”

“Yes, but I am not afraid. Officially, I had broken no law by helping you before Nero’s edict against Christians.”

“But if you continue to help now . . .”

“Let me repeat,” Ruso said. “I am not afraid for me and my family. We can easily travel out of reach of Nero until he tires of the persecution. But Damian will eventually find you. Don’t you see? The other two hunters never even discovered that sort of information, never made it past the sewers of Rome in their inquiries. Damian will find you. And then . . .”

Ruso bit back a description of the consequences. John well understood them. Every day John was in the prisons, comforting those captured by Nero for their faith. Every day John literally walked into the lion’s den. Every day Ruso prayed with gratitude when John returned by God’s grace.

“Listen to me,” Ruso said. “Damian will have most certainly offered a reward to the slaves of Barbatus. And he will offer the same reward to my slaves when he comes to interview me, as he most surely will. You know that on my conversion, I offered freedom to my slaves, and that those who stayed did so because their lives here are much better than the lives of most freedmen. Yet if Damian offers a substantial reward, it might be enough to tempt any of them. You are not safe here.”

“I am not afraid of death.”

“John! I’ve memorized the letters of Matthew and Mark and Luke. I’ve listened to your stories. Wasn’t there a time when our Lord and Master Himself avoided the tetrarchy of Herod because it was unsafe for Him to travel in that territory?”

“He understood politics, if that is what you are suggesting,” John said.

“And the politics of Rome dictate that you leave,” Ruso said.

“Your argument is a two-edged sword,” John said with a smile. “For our Lord and Master still returned to Jerusalem for Passover when He also knew that the politics of the situation had forced all the ruling powers to join in an effort to kill Him there.”

“Surely,” Ruso pleaded, “you can leave Rome until the Tribulation passes. Even the mobs are starting to express sympathy for the Christians, and Nero will eventually have to bow to their will. In the end, all emperors must. Couldn’t you leave now? Aren’t you needed to minister to the seven churches in Asia?”

“They have my letters and the vision of the revelation,” John said. “I was among them before the Tribulation began, and if God wills that I survive, I will return.”

“How can you not say that God wills for you to leave now that you’ve received ample warning? How can you not say that God has sent me to you this morning?”

“How can you not say that God has chosen this as my time to die?”

Ruso shook his head.

“I want to remind you of words of hope,” John said. “Remember Paul in his letter to the church at Thessalonica?” John drew a breath and quoted, as if Paul were speaking directly to Ruso. “‘Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.’”

Ruso could not help himself, frustrated as he was with his friend, and he finished Paul’s words for John. “‘I can tell you this directly from the Lord: We who are still living when the Lord returns will not rise to meet Him ahead of those who are in their graves. For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout, with the call of the archangel, and with the trumpet call of God. First, all the believers who have died will rise from their graves. Then, together with them, we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and remain with Him forever. So comfort and encourage each other with these words.’”

“We have discussed this many times,” John said. “Our hope as believers is the final resurrection. Because Jesus came back to life, so will all believers.”

“Will this happen before the Tribulation ends?”

“That I cannot say.” John smiled, and serenity lit his face. “It would be foolish to make that prediction. Yet I want you to know this. Should you or I die before He comes again, when we are with God, time will mean nothing. The Second Coming will be as immediate to us as it might be to someone living in another millennium. And the time of His coming is not nearly as important as the hope of our resurrection through Him. That is why I do not fear Damian.”

John continued to smile. “I’m sure that all believers would wish to be whisked away, taken up into thin air, to avoid the Tribulation. Yet that would be a false hope, especially if it replaces the true hope of the Resurrection, for the resurrection of Jesus and the resurrection promised to us because of it are what give us the hope to endure troubles. In this age. In any age, even should it take thousands of years for the Second Coming.”

“You will not go, no matter what I say?” But Ruso knew the answer. He and John had discussed John’s vision on Patmos countless times. John had been given a vision of the fore future, and of the far future, and of the final future. John had seen heaven and the end of time. Because of it, he feared nothing.

John answered as Ruso expected. “I will not leave Rome, even if Damian was walking up the path at this very moment with soldiers to capture me.”

Ruso gave an involuntary look down the hill and shuddered, as if seeing Damian and the soldiers at that very moment. “I pray to God it won’t happen,” he said. “I pray it is His will that your light shine in this world for many years longer.”

“Your wife,” Nero said, placing a hand on Vitas’s shoulder with half-drunk familiarity, “she brings to mind a shy doe at the stream. The hesitation, the awareness. As if danger might lurk in the shadows of the trees, ready to pounce. It is—” Nero stopped himself and belched— “yes, it is quite alluring, I find.”

Other conversation quieted. It was a couple hours into the dinner. Already, many of the guests had risen from the couches to vomit in a nearby room before returning to gorge, some of them several times already.

Vitas struggled for words to fill that silence. His foreboding deepened even further.

“That one is like a fox in heat.” Nero pointed at a woman who was lifting a plate of hummingbird tongues, her fingers greasy and flecked with food. “She radiates a sense of hunger for a man. It is a different kind of attraction, I must admit.”

The woman—Gloria, if Vitas remembered her name correctly—smiled as if the emperor had bestowed upon her a wonderful compliment.

“This one—” Nero pointed at another woman—“is rather too fat for my taste. Her expensive dress hides defects that only a husband should be aware of.” He giggled. “One might ask how I know.”

The husband, quite drunk, simply shrugged.

“Does your wife please you?” Nero asked Vitas, his eyes returned to Sophia. “Does she please you the way a woman should please a man? Or is her shyness pretended?”

Before Vitas could think of a suitable answer, Nero stood. He tilted forward slightly and recovered his balance. “Actually,” Nero said to Vitas, “I have suddenly decided I am not interested in your opinion. Not when the Caesar can decide for himself in the tradition of Caligula.”

Vitas grew cold with shock. Surely Nero would not . . .

“Come, my dear.” Nero extended a hand to Sophia. “I have a bed in a nearby room. We shall not be long. And when I return, I will give all of our guests a frank appraisal.”

As Vitas shifted to find his feet, Nero placed a hand on his shoulder and forced him to remain on the couch. “Surely,” Nero said, his eyes half closed, “you would not deny the deity?”

When Vitas pushed upward, Nero tightened his grip, digging his nails into Vitas’s shoulder. “Caesar takes what he wants.” Nero spoke sweetly, a tone that belied the viciousness of his clawlike grip. “Because a god will not be denied anything from mortals.”

Again, silence. Some, like Tigellinus and Helius, had amusement on their faces. Others, like Chayim the Jew, carefully studied the contents in the bowls of food in front of them.

“I . . . ,” Vitas began.

Sophia’s pleading eyes transfixed Vitas. Nero’s other hand was still extended to her.

“Might I remind you that Tigellinus,” Nero said, “is cocaptain of the cohorts. He is very familiar with the punishment handed to those who defy a god.”

In response, Tigellinus belched.

Nero released his grip on Vitas and took Sophia by the hand, forcibly lifting her to her feet beside him. “I take it then,” Nero said to Vitas, “that I have your permission?”

Sophia shuddered.

Six guards outside the room. Tigellinus nearby on his couch. And Nero, a man who had people killed for falling asleep at the singing performances he forced upon them.

Vitas could utter the words he wanted to speak. It would result in his death. Merciful and quick if Nero was inclined. Or slowly if Nero was not. Either way, Nero would still take his wife. And perhaps have her killed as well.

“I do have your permission.” Nero smiled. “After all, I would not sample her without it.”

Inside Vitas, helpless rage fought against the impossible choice he faced. To ensure that his wife was not killed and to keep his own life, he would have to allow the unthinkable.

“Please,” Nero said. His bloodshot eyes seemed maniacal. “I must hear it from you. Yes?”

Vitas’s mind told him to agree, but his heart and soul would not let him.

Nero shrugged. “I’ll be happy to take your silence as permission.”

Nero pulled Sophia forward. “Well, then, I shouldn’t be long. I’m sure all our guests are anxious to know how well or badly this young woman is capable of pleasing a god.”

He led Sophia through a curtained doorway at the back of the room.

She did not meet Vitas’s eyes as she followed.

Then rage and love overpowered all of Vitas’s rational thoughts. With a roar, he rose from his couch and charged forward, instinctively reaching beneath his toga for his short sword.

But it was gone, taken from him during the earlier search by the guards.

Still he roared. And still he charged, with a killing hatred filling his every sense.

Nero had begun to turn, a look of sudden fear on his face.

Then Vitas was on Nero, reaching for his neck. His fingers closed on the soft cartilage of Nero’s throat and he began to throttle him.

Then Tigellinus was upon Vitas, battering his head with the hilt of his sword.

Vitas clung to Nero, clung to consciousness. Blood streamed in his eyes, but Vitas fought on, blind.

As the hilt came down again and again with savage force, Vitas was dimly aware of another sound.

Applause. From the dinner guests who were well amused by the scene.

And moments later, the applause dimmed to silence as blackness took away any conscious thoughts Vitas held.

Saturn

Hora Quarta

Loud cries of pain came from the hillside olive grove below the mansion. Chayim lifted the hem of his toga and hurried toward the sound. He’d walked from the palace through the streets of Rome to get to the countryside manor of Aulus Petillius, an acquaintance who owned the mansion, and was sweating heavily in the morning sun.

The cries of pain continued, and as Chayim moved into the shade of the first olive trees, he also heard a pattern of thuds punctuating the screams.

The ancient trees with their twisted trunks and labyrinths of low-hanging branches blocked his vision, but the screams grew louder. It wasn’t until he reached an oil press in the center of the grove that he realized fully what was happening.

Chayim immediately recognized the person swinging a small wooden pole down on the huddled body of a young woman. Aulus Petillius: the older, fat man with the heavy thatch of dark hair on his scalp who had sat near him at the banquet the night before.

The woman was in slave’s clothing. She was not screaming in protest, for it was an owner’s right to administer punishment at whim. Her cries of pain were involuntary exclamations that each new blow from Aulus forced from her body.

“Petillius!” Chayim shouted. “Petillius!”

Chayim’s voice stopped Petillius at the top of his swing.

Petillius turned, startled. His face seemed vacant from thought, and it took him several seconds of blinking before he replied, almost as if Chayim had awakened him from a dream. “Is it that time already?” He sputtered out his words, breathing heavily from exertion. “I’d forgotten you promised to visit this morning.”

The slave on the ground shifted slightly and whimpered. Chayim saw that the young woman had short hair and her face was splotched from tears.

“Normally I would not mind returning at a more convenient time for you,” Chayim said, “but it was a distance to travel.”

“I would hear nothing of it,” Petillius said. “It will be a simple matter to call a slave to prepare us food and drink.” He scowled. “But not this one. She is worthless. Claims that illness has made her weak. But I know it is nothing except sheer laziness.” Petillius poked her with his pole. “Am I right?”