The Last Temple (5 page)

Vitas woke in a bed, confused by the cool darkness that surrounded him. It was so startling and in such contrast to the blazing heat and the overwhelming pain that had been his existence that it took long moments for his awareness to adjust to other sensations. His body rested on soft linens. His hand, where it had been impaled by a single spike, was bandaged. His feet, too, were gently tended with ointment and strips of cloth, and his skin had been oiled.

And his feet were shackled to a short length of chain. As were his wrists. Enough slack to move about, but still a prisoner.

In comparison to the way he’d been bound to beams of wood, this was glorious freedom. His last moments of consciousness before waking to this had been the inexorable agony of his body hanging on a cross, flies across his face, a tongue swollen with thirst.

And now he was here.

But where was here?

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Vitas realized he was in a small room. He swung his feet to the floor and gasped as he put weight on them, reminded of where the spikes had bit into his arches. He shuffled and tried a door, which gave slightly before stopping with a solidness that told him it was barred on the outside.

He explored the walls with slow sideways steps and almost stumbled over a small table. It held a jug of water, a bowl of oranges, and another bowl that contained, as he discovered with a tentative nibble, delicately spiced cooked strips of chicken. He sat on the edge of the bed and drank. Ripped apart the meat with his hands and devoured it. Pulled apart the oranges and had them as dessert.

So focused was he on satisfying his belly, it took a while to realize the fingers on his injured hand were not crushed or broken. He’d been removed from the cross in such a way that his hand had been protected from further injury.

Only the governor could have ordered this, so the real question was why.

Had Damian returned from Jerusalem in time? No, he decided, otherwise there would be no shackles. And Damian would have been waiting for him to wake, ready for Vitas to show proper gratitude at Damian’s rescue, prepared to ignore any protest that it had been Damian’s idiotic schemes that put Vitas on the cross in the first place.

So what reason or person had persuaded the governor to commute the death sentence?

A disturbing thought: perhaps it had not been commuted but only delayed. After all, Vitas did wear these shackles.

Before he could contemplate this for long, Vitas heard the bar sliding on the other side of the door.

Flickering torchlight outside the room gave him a brief view of the figure who entered, covered with a shroud.

“Who are you?” Vitas asked. “Where am I?”

“Understandable questions, both of them.” A man’s voice. “I am Joseph Ben-Matthias. You are under guard in a rich man’s villa.”

The man spoke Vitas’s native Latin, but with a Jewish accent.

“Why am I here?” Vitas asked. “In this room and not on a cross?”

“We have little time. What should matter to you more is why I am here. If I am caught with you, I will be set up on a cross alongside your brother’s mute slave.”

Vitas had been alert from the moment the door creaked open, but this brought his senses to an intensified level.

His mind registered the fact that Jerome was still on a cross. But Vitas pushed that aside. The mystery man in front of him knew the true identity of Vitas. And this meant . . .

“Does that suggest you need to listen?” the man asked. “Because I’m letting you know that I know who you are?”

Vitas shifted slightly, and the chains of his shackles betrayed him.

“I also know that those chains aren’t enough to keep me safe from you. Trust that if I’ve risked my life to bribe a guard that I might speak to you, you need to hear what I have to say.”

“Then speak,” Vitas said. If this man knew about Vitas and Damian and Jerome, surely he was part of the mystery of those who had rescued Vitas from Nero and sent him away from Rome.

“The city of the Beast. And the city of the second beast. What are those cities?”

“Rome,” Vitas said. “Jerusalem.”

“I’m impressed,” the man said. “I knew you had read the letter of John. This tells me that you have made efforts to understand it. Few in Rome have. I expected no less, however, given the message that brought you to Caesarea.”

Yes, the man was part of it. Vitas’s own stillness gave away the fierceness of his concentration on the man in front of him. Vitas could quote the entire message that had been on the scroll he’d been given at his escape from Rome.

You know the beast you must escape; the one with understanding will solve the number of this beast, for it is the number of a man. His number is 666. . . .

“I’m told,” Ben-Matthias continued, “that John himself was on the ship that carried you away from your death sentence.”

“You’ve succeeded in impressing me that you know enough about my situation. I’d like to know why.”

“Do you believe the prophecies of the letter of Revelation? That Nero will die? That Jerusalem will fall? That the empire will face death throes and then survive?”

“You risk your life—if I am to believe you—to meet with me just to ask me that?”

“Will Jerusalem fall?” Ben-Matthias asked.

Vitas felt a degree of impatience. “Unlikely. No, impossible. To any casual observer of politics, yes, it’s obvious that the Jews are a constant thorn in Rome’s side, and yes, anyone could have easily predicted that eventually there would be rebellion. But one of the reasons the Jews have come to the point of rebellion is their unshakable belief that God will always protect Jerusalem and their sacred Temple.” Vitas snorted. “But anyone in the world can tell you they don’t need God’s protection. Its heights and walls are impregnable; it has a ten-year food supply, unlimited water, and an entire populace willing to die to save the Temple. You said your time is short. Why waste time on the obvious? What do you want from me enough to bribe a guard and risk your life?”

Vitas had decided that might be his only leverage. He badly wanted the knowledge it seemed this man had. The source of the letter that had sent him to Caesarea. Indeed, perhaps even the reasons for the letter and the identities of the men who had rescued him from Nero and put him on the ship. Once he understood what the man in the shroud wanted, Vitas would negotiate.

“Once,” Ben-Matthias said, “I too believed Jerusalem would not fall until the promised Messiah arrived. Now I’m not so sure. Perhaps this Jesus of Nazareth truly was the Messiah. The Christos. If so, the Temple will fall within this generation as he prophesied.”

Normally, Vitas would have pressed forward with this direction of conversation. He’d experienced events that bordered on the supernatural, that had brought him to the point of uttering a belief in the Christos himself, but was still unsure whether it was something to make the foundation of his life. Romans, after all—especially Romans with his family background and former wealth—were more pragmatic than that. It was simple. The Temple would not fall or be destroyed.

But in this moment, with the urgency first expressed by the man who called himself Ben-Matthias, and especially with the sense that finally, here were answers to the mystery, Vitas did not want to be distracted from what was important. So he held back from speaking and waited.

“Here is the irony,” Ben-Matthias said.

Irony?
Vitas wanted to reach forward and grab the man’s throat and shake answers out of him.

“You would think I should have been convinced by the man’s miracles. Instead it’s the prophecy. If Jerusalem falls, then I will be convinced the Nazarene was who he said he was. And . . .” Ben-Matthias paused gravely. “. . . Although all around me disagree, I foresee that Jerusalem will fall.”

“You said time was short,” Vitas again pointed out.

“Do you want to understand why you are in Caesarea?” It was a rebuke.

Vitas accepted the rebuke in silence. He wanted few things more than this knowledge. Only to hold Sophia. But that was impossible. His mind clear of poppy tears and undistracted by the agony of crucifixion, he knew he’d been hallucinating on the cross when he’d dreamed of seeing her face among the passersby.

Ben-Matthias continued. “The Nazarene was the first to foresee that Jerusalem and the Temple would be destroyed, the first to understand how the arrogance and greed of its religious rulers would finally bring them at odds with Rome and, in so doing, bring the full force of the empire against it. While I see it now, few others do.”

He took a breath, for he was speaking with passion. “The worst thing that could have happened to my people was victory. First in Jerusalem during the riots and then against Cestius, chasing the governor all the way to Syria. They believe God has begun to deliver them, preserving the Temple until the promised Messiah arrives. Except it is a messianic fever that history will prove wrong. They have not been to Rome as I have. They do not understand the difference between an incompetent governor like Cestius with his small army and the might of a full legion. And now Rome has sent two legions. Two!”

Another pause, until Ben-Matthias began again, almost at a whisper.

“You, Vitas, do understand what is ahead for my people. If, against all odds, two legions fail, Rome will send two more. And two after that. Because Rome knows if it suffers defeat against the Jews, other peoples in the empire will rebel. Rome must always win.”

“Yes,” Vitas said with equal softness. “I do understand the might of a legion, and yes, Rome will not lose.”

“You owe me your life,” Ben-Matthias said. “Keep that in mind as you consider my request.”

“You had me taken down from the cross?”

“Rescued from Nero. If the day comes that Jerusalem will fall, then honor your debt to me.”

“You rescued me from Nero. In Rome. Why should I believe that?”

“‘You have fled the city of this beast; from the sea it came and on the sea you go. North and west of the city of the second beast, find the first of five kings who have fallen.’” Ben-Matthias stopped briefly. “Heard enough? Or should I quote you the entire letter?”

“You were in Rome, then,” Vitas said.

“No. I have friends in Rome. It was arranged. Ask no more about the arrangements. Men risked their lives to conspire against Nero.”

“How am I to repay the debt?”

“You will know only if the day comes that it is necessary to ask repayment, and that request will be necessary only if the Temple does fall to Rome. If the Temple does not fall, you are not obliged to me for your life. Hold out your hand.”

Vitas had a degree of suspicion but complied nonetheless, telling himself if the man had meant harm, it would have happened already.

He felt something cold and round pressed into his hand.

“Wear this around your neck, and keep it safe. If someone comes to you with its twin, you will know that I have sent him. And when that person sees you with the same token, he will know you are the one to trust with the obligations put upon you. Until then, keep this portion of our conversation secret. From everyone. Not even Bernice or Titus or Ruso should know of it.”

“Ruso?”

“I suspect you’ll meet him sooner or later. That is irrelevant. If someone has the matching token, you repay the debt. That is all that matters.”

“Why not to you?”

“I am not a military man, but I have been chosen to lead the Jews. I doubt I will live to see whether the last Temple falls. So, if necessary, it will be someone in my place who approaches you about repaying the debt you owe.”

“The letter directed me to the synagogue here in Caesarea,” Vitas said. “If you know of the letter, you could have found me there any Sabbath. Why now?”

“That is not it,” Ben-Matthias said. “You are to meet—”

The door opened with a suddenness that brought a draft into the room.

“Soldiers approach!” a warning voice hissed.

“Tell me who I am to meet at the synagogue!” Vitas said to prompt the man.

“This is more important for you now. Remember this name. For the governor, Julianus. Remember this: Glecko Partho. He was the one who threatened Helva.”

“Tell me about the Sabbath and the synagogue!”

“Glecko Partho. With that name, you can spare bloodshed of my people.”

That was all.

The shrouded figure fled the room. And the door shut upon Vitas, leaving him in silence and darkness again.