The Last Temple (25 page)

Leaving behind the men who had been guarding the door in the upper room, Ben-Gioras led Vitas and Ben-Aryeh downward in the square tower. The stone steps skirted the inside of the outer walls, descending at forty-five degrees and bending ninety degrees at every turn. The air was cool and quiet, and it seemed unreal to Vitas that on the other side of the city, thousands of men were fighting and hacking and spearing each other in a battle to the death that would not end until one side had defeated the other in a haze of smoke and dust.

He was trying to grapple instead with all the implications of what he had heard in the conversation between Ben-Aryeh and Ben-Gioras. Obviously, the Jewish factions could unite against a common enemy. The proof was across the city: after fighting each other so fiercely that they had burned the city’s grain supply and forced a famine on the people, the men of Ben-Gioras and John of Gischala were defending the Temple together against Titus.

But a deathbed secret from one enemy to the other, each knowing it was important enough that the other could be trusted? And a secret that put Ben-Aryeh at the center of it?

Vitas could guess that his own role involved the soldiers waiting outside the city with camels. This caravan would not move without his permission.

He was still pondering this when he realized they’d reached ground level. But Ben-Aryeh instructed Ben-Gioras to lead them lower, to the dungeon beneath.

“We’ll move slowly,” Ben-Gioras answered. “No torches remain. But your eyes adjust.”

The air that had been cool and pleasant became fetid with the smell of body waste and rotten straw. Much as Vitas wanted to ask Ben-Aryeh what was ahead, he resisted. The man was stubborn, and Vitas knew he would get no answer. What was obvious, however, was that Ben-Aryeh was moving with the confidence that showed he was in control of the situation. All Vitas could do, at this point, was trust the older man.

Vitas heard coughing ahead. Prisoners. Each side of the corridor held men behind bars. It brought Vitas back to his time in the bowels of the arena, where prisoners stood and pleaded for mercy from each passing visitor.

Here, however, there was only the coughing. The prisoners were too weak to move.

“This one,” Ben-Gioras said, stopping at a set of bars. “You’ll have to drag them outside. Last I saw, they were barely alive. If it weren’t for the woman bringing them scraps, they would already be dead.”

Vitas expected Ben-Gioras to take out a key for the locks. But Ben-Gioras said to Ben-Aryeh, “You know what’s next. Or both of you die instead.”

There was rustling behind Vitas, and it took him a moment to realize that Ben-Aryeh was moving forward. Vitas dimly saw Ben-Aryeh reach out, and when he heard the scraping of metal on metal, he understood that it was Ben-Aryeh who had the key. And must have had it with him long before entering the city.

Ben-Aryeh stepped inside. A shadow seemed to move. Two figures became one.

Vitas heard a gagging sound. The shadow that had attacked Ben-Aryeh was choking the man.

“No fast movements,” the prisoner said. “I’ll snap his neck like a chicken bone.”

Vitas had no doubt the man behind Ben-Aryeh was not only capable of it but had the willpower to do so. For despite his stunned disbelief at hearing the man’s threat, he recognized the voice. It belonged to a man who had killed dozens in the arena, probably the only man alive who could be starving to death in a prison and yet retain the strength and quickness to take an unwary visitor hostage.

Vitas also knew how to stop the man. He had to do nothing more than identify himself.

“Maglorius,” he said. “It’s Vitas. No need to kill your friends.”

Yes, Maglorius. A man whose death Vitas had grieved many times. But now alive!

Could Vitas dare hope that . . .

Then he heard another voice, a voice that was barely more than a croak, but that filled him with unexpected joy.

“And you complain,” the voice said, “that I’m the one who is always late?”

Damian. Vitas rushed forward and clung to his brother.

When all of them reached sunlight, Vitas assisting Damian up the stairs from the dungeon prison, Vitas saw that he would not have recognized Damian but for his voice.

His last memory of his brother had been of laughter coming from a vigorous man in his prime. That had been in Caesarea, when Vitas was posing as a slave in Helva’s household. Damian had been on horseback, ready to ride down the road, assuring Vitas that any worry was needless, that nothing would go wrong.

Then, Damian’s hair had been just a little too long to be stylish, but perfectly suited to a man who enjoyed the attention of women for the amused devilish appearance he cultivated with so little effort. Now, it was a greasy mat, down to his shoulders.

Then, his face had been smooth, with a nose bent from a loss in a bar fight. Now, he was bearded well below his collarbone, with pieces of straw hanging from his chin.

Then, Damian had been a dashing figure in the latest fashions. Now, he was in tattered clothing that would not have been suitable to serve as rags.

And thin. Vitas marveled that a man so gaunt could still be alive.

Maglorius, too, was much diminished, and his thinness was even more striking because of how large-boned he was. His hair and beard were equally as long and filthy as Damian’s. Vitas could only conclude they had been in prison as far back as Vitas had been told of their deaths.

Three and a half years. Since Vitas and Sophia had been reunited in Caesarea. In that span, Vitas had been given more than three years of luxurious estate living in Alexandria, content to see his two children born—that span only broken in the middle by a journey to Rome at the end of Nero’s life. And while Vitas had continued this domestic idyll in Alexandria after Nero’s suicide, the distant empire had almost collapsed as a succession of emperors fought for power.

Three and a half years of full living for Vitas.

Three and a half years in a filthy prison for Damian.

Damian shielded his eyes from the indirect sunlight piercing through one of the tower openings.

Vitas could only imagine the death-like pallor of the skin beneath the filth that crusted Damian’s bony wrists. His forearms showed open sores.

“Usually the reasons you gave for not returning on time were easily perceived lies,” Vitas said. “This time, however, I’ll accept the excuse you give for not returning to Caesarea and rescuing me from slavery.”

He meant it as a jest, and Damian took it that way.

“It wasn’t the prison that was a burden,” Damian said. “It was the torture of enduring Maglorius for all that time. Have you ever heard him sing?”

Vitas swallowed against a lump of joy. Broken as Damian’s body was, his spirit was still the same.

Damian scratched himself and absently examined a flea that he found. He popped it with his long fingernails, then dropped it into his mouth. A puzzled look briefly crossed his face as he realized what he’d done; then he grinned, and his teeth were startlingly white against the grime of his beard.

“I guess I won’t have to worry about food now, will I? You are taking us out of this city, right?”

Ben-Aryeh finally spoke. “You have the strength to climb down a rope?”

Damian cocked his head. “What’s that noise I hear?”

Vitas, totally lost in the moment of discovering his brother alive, had not consciously noted the shrieks and screams coming from across the city.

“Titus and his legions,” Vitas answered. “A final push to take Antonia.”

“Let’s go then,” Damian said, grinning again. “I’ve never been much of a fighter.”

Vitas spoke to Ben-Gioras. “You can spare a few men to help them down the rope? Damian’s always been a liar. He doesn’t have the strength to even walk to the upper tower.”

Ben-Gioras nodded.

“Good,” Vitas said. “I’ll give them the password for the soldiers I have waiting down below.”

To Damian, Vitas said, “They’ll have food and water. Tell them I have ordered two of them to take you directly to the medics at the Tenth Legion.”

“You’re not coming?” Damian said. “If the city is about to fall, what other reason could you have to stay?”

“I wish I could answer that,” Vitas said dryly. “You’ll have to ask this stubborn old Jew.”

A shuffling of footsteps on the stones of the stairs drew attention away from Ben-Aryeh, and all of them looked toward the person approaching.

It was an older woman, dark hair streaked with gray. Vitas gaped.

That wasn’t Ben-Aryeh’s reaction, however. He rushed forward and threw his arms around her.

The woman was Amaris, Ben-Aryeh’s wife. With her arms around him too, her face was over his shoulder, her eyes closed.

Vitas rejoiced for his old friend and did nothing to interrupt the moment. Still, he could not help but wonder. If Ben-Aryeh had known Damian and Amaris were alive, and if he had been able to make these arrangements to enter the city, why wait so long?

Vitas heard Ben-Aryeh choke out some words. “God has been faithful.”

She was weeping as she said, “Truly faithful. He has spared us both.”

They pulled away from each other, but Ben-Aryeh kept a protective arm around Amaris as he spoke. “You are safe now. Go with Damian. If the Lord is willing, you will see me at nightfall.”

“You and Vitas are staying in the city?” Damian said, incredulous.

“We have a final task,” Ben-Aryeh answered.

“Not without me,” Damian said.

Vitas would have laughed if Damian hadn’t been so serious. His brother was barely more than a skeleton.

“I need you to protect Amaris,” Ben-Aryeh said. “Otherwise, she risks the dangers any other deserter faces. Without you, she won’t be protected by Titus.”

“No,” Damian said.

“I’ve heard enough,” Ben-Gioras snarled at Damian, then turned to Ben-Aryeh. “I have fulfilled my obligation to you by sparing all of them. But that is as far as I will be pushed.”

Ben-Aryeh nodded. “You have done what was required.”

Ben-Gioras addressed Damian. “Time is short. You escape now, by rope with the help of my men. Or be tossed from the wall. For what lies ahead only one Roman will be permitted to witness.”

The walls surrounding the palace that Herod the Great had built for himself on the western hill of Jerusalem were almost as high and wide and impregnable as the walls surrounding the Temple across the city. While Herod had built it to protect himself from the Jews while he lived among them, it had also served to keep the remnants of the moderates safe from John of Gischala until they had appealed to Ben-Gioras to help them with his own army.

Ben-Gioras led Vitas and Ben-Aryeh through the high marble corridors of the palace with a sense of familiarity and proprietorship as if it belonged to him—which was closer to truth than presumption, for after driving the Zealots to the Temple Mount and containing them there, he’d made the palace his headquarters.

“Where are your men?” Ben-Aryeh asked, his voice echoing in the quiet of the palace.

“Waiting,” Ben-Gioras answered. “I kept them back once I was notified of your signal on the Mount of Olives.”

“Do they know why?”

“Of course not,” Ben-Gioras snapped. “We both know not a whisper of this can escape.”

“And the other requirement?”

“All are sons of Levi.”

No more was said until they reached a room buried in the depths of the vastness of the palace.

It was empty except for old blankets on the floor. And ten young Jewish men, all armed with short swords on their belts. The men straightened from where they had been leaning against the walls, some of them near a luxurious decorative royal banner that hung from ceiling to floor.

Hunger had etched their bodies too, but they still appeared strong. None spoke, but all kept questioning eyes on Ben-Gioras.

“These two will join us,” Ben-Gioras said with no preamble as he motioned toward Vitas and Ben-Aryeh. “If needed, you will die to protect them, because in protecting them, you are protecting all that is holy to our people.”

Ben-Gioras spoke as if he fully expected total obedience, and not one of the young soldiers even flinched.

“Where is it?” Ben-Gioras asked Ben-Aryeh.

Instead of speaking, Ben-Aryeh answered by walking to the royal banner and yanking it loose from where it was attached to small spikes near the ceiling. Behind it was an elaborate mosaic of small, gleaming tiles set in a tall, rectangular pattern with the seven candles of a menorah at the center, as if the entire piece was a giant painting.

Ben-Aryeh looked at Vitas. “Now.”

Vitas didn’t understand at first but saw that Ben-Aryeh was fumbling with the token around his neck. Vitas did the same.

Ben-Aryeh held out his hand, and Vitas gave him the token.

The older man turned to the wall. Vitas could not help but step to the side to see what was happening.

Ben-Aryeh inserted the tokens into nearly invisible slots in the center of the mosaic, where the tiles formed a circle that represented the base of the menorah.

He pushed his palm against the circle of tiles, and with a clicking sound, the circle moved inward a couple of inches.

“I’m told by a tradition handed down only among the leading priests of my circles,” Ben-Aryeh said, “that the workmen who completed this for Herod were slain so this would always remain secret. I find it fortunate that he chose stoneworkers from Egypt for the task.”

Ben-Aryeh didn’t wait for a reply. He moved to his left, and where the mosaic patterns ended, he leaned against the wall. Slowly, it shifted inward as the right side of the mosaic pattern moved outward.

He kept pushing until the entire piece, hinged in the center at the top and bottom, was turned ninety degrees to the main wall.

It exposed the darkness of a tunnel, a couple of paces wide and two or three hands higher than the height of a tall man.

“We have no torches,” Ben-Gioras said.

Ben-Aryeh walked in a few steps, shuffled around, then came out with an armful of torches.

“The flints are on the floor,” Ben-Aryeh told Ben-Gioras, who pointed at one of the young men and waved at him to get them.

Ben-Aryeh passed off his armful to another of the young Levites and kept one torch for himself. After he lit the torch, he said, “Only one torch. We’ll need to keep the others with us as replacements.” He stepped back inside. “I’ll lead the way.”