The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  Because she was simply one among hundreds upon hundreds in the busy Court of the Gentiles, Bernice did not expect that Maglorius would notice her on her approach.

  Now that she knew he was there at the appointed time and had not left because of impatience, she slowed to give herself time to examine him, something she enjoyed doing at every opportunity.

  There was something about the calmness of his square face that immediately intrigued her. As she walked closer, she was again drawn by the fascinating history written across his face, by the cheeks and forehead that bore long-healed scars, forming slashes of paler skin against his tanned face. The power suggested in the stillness of his alertness stirred desire within her, a siren of desire that she immediately put aside.

  As she drew close, he spoke to her. “You make a very poor man,” he said. “Walk with less elegance.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised her that Maglorius would see through the disguise. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”

  “You said you have some information that is of great urgency.”

  Normally, she preferred banter with him, but she had not lied about the urgency, so she became direct. “It is Florus,” she told him. “He approaches Jerusalem with an army.” Maglorius was one of the few aware that Bernice had spies who reported any activities of the procurator, so she didn’t explain how she knew of what Florus intended.

  “The entire city knows this.” He smiled softly so that his next words did not seem like a rebuke. “I see no urgency in that information.”

  “I need you to protect me as we join those who go out to greet Florus and his army.”

  “You have never struck me as one overly concerned about the Jews,” Maglorius said.

  Queen Bernice drew a deep breath. Fought the sympathy and regret and outrage that threatened to overwhelm her as she remembered how and why Matthias died in her chamber.

  “I can promise you,” she told Maglorius, “that has changed.”

  When Sebaste was well behind Vitas and Ben-Aryeh, the Roman broke the silence of their travel with a question. “Could Jerusalem fall?”

  “Certainly not!” Ben-Aryeh said, instantly insulted. “Have you seen its glory? The eighth wonder of the world, some call it. The temple is atop a mountain that is like a fortress unto itself. How dare you ask such a question. If you think that Florus and a couple of cohorts could . . . could . . . could . . .”

  It was rare for Ben-Aryeh to be speechless, but for the upstart Roman to imply that Jerusalem was like any other outpost of the empire was an outrage.

  “It isn’t Florus I’m thinking of,” Vitas replied, as if deep in thought and oblivious to Ben-Aryeh’s reaction. “But whoever will have to clean up the mess that he might start.”

  “Send five legions,” Ben-Aryeh shot back stoutly, believing this was a discussion that concerned national pride. “Or even five more. Ten legions could lay siege, and Jerusalem would be standing twenty years later. The city’s walls are unbreachable. It has a water source that can’t be quenched. And the storehouses of food inside the city would last for years.”

  “What I meant was—”

  Ben-Aryeh was glad to be angry with this Roman again and would not be stopped. “Every Jewish man in the city would give his life in protection of the temple. You Romans think you can conquer all, but there is no city in the empire that would fight so hard and so long to resist.”

  “I see,” Vitas said mildly when Ben-Aryeh stopped to catch his breath. “You’re aware that the empire may lose battles but has yet to lose a war.”

  “Judea could be laid waste entirely,” Ben-Aryeh answered, “but Jerusalem will still be standing. Remember, you are talking about the dwelling place of the one true God. I suggest we end this discussion before—”

  “I now understand why your history is filled with so many rebellions,” Vitas said. He was grinning, which made Ben-Aryeh even angrier. “Here we have two grown men unable to pass a pleasant afternoon’s journey without political speculation.”

  “Enough! What you call politics is a matter of deep faith to us. God will preserve His holy house until He has sent the promised Messiah.” Ben-Aryeh reined in his donkey until it stopped. He allowed Vitas to gain at least twenty yards ahead before he prodded his own donkey forward again.

  There, Ben-Aryeh thought, I will follow at this distance the entire journey. It gave him satisfaction when Vitas half turned and noticed the separation.

  “Nor,” Ben-Aryeh called out, “do I intend to get any closer.”

  “Suit yourself,” Vitas said in good humor.

  More reason to hate the Roman. Nothing seemed to upset him. Then Ben-Aryeh half heard something from the Roman. “What was that?” Ben-Aryeh had to shout.

  “I asked a question about your prophets. And the temple.”

  “I know that,” Ben-Aryeh said. He kicked the donkey in the ribs. “I just want to be sure I heard correctly.”

  He reached Vitas again, aware that he’d just broken his promise to remain at a distance and aware once more that he had been forced to overcome his pride. But if this Roman had actually asked what Ben-Aryeh thought . . .

  “So,” Vitas said, “my question was this. What does it mean ‘the abomination that causes desolation,’ spoken of by the prophet Jesus?”

  “False prophet!” The words shot like venom from between Ben-Aryeh’s clenched teeth. “To respectable Jews, He was a false prophet!”

  The force of Ben-Aryeh’s fury was not lost on Vitas. Yet Vitas persisted. “By referring to the abomination, this Jesus refers to Daniel. Another of your prophets, correct?”

  Who is this Roman? Ben-Aryeh could only stare.

  Vitas shrugged. “I thought you, of anyone, would be an expert on such things.”

  Ben-Aryeh focused on the horizon. His mind, however, flashed to a horrible image, an image all too familiar to his people. Suffering. Bloodshed. Three and a half years of grotesque and horrifying torment inflicted on the Jews by a Syrian despot, Antiochus Epiphanes. Worse yet, the abomination that desolated the Holy of Holies in their precious temple—a pagan statue erected to Zeus on the sacred altar.

  “Is something wrong?” The genuine concern from Vitas broke through Ben-Aryeh’s thoughts.

  “You have no ability to understand. I have no urge to waste my breath explaining.”

  “I see. Pearls before swine.”

  Ben-Aryeh gritted his teeth, knowing by the smirk on Vitas’s face that Vitas was referring directly to a famous story about Jesus. “How do you know so much about the false prophet?”

  “This desolation that Jesus spoke about . . .”

  Suddenly Ben-Aryeh’s anger was overwhelmed by foreboding in the pit of his stomach—like knowledge of the impending death of a loved one. Could history be repeating itself? In referring to the abomination, had Jesus actually had the audacity to suggest that it would happen to the Jews all over again? Could such an apocalypse really happen again? Would someone more vile than Antiochus emerge on the Jewish horizon? Were the Jews on the precipice of another three and a half years of an enemy’s concerted efforts to desecrate the temple?

  “You seem angry that I asked,” Vitas said, interrupting his thoughts again.

  “Everything about you makes me angry.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter if I drown in ten feet of water or ten fathoms, does it?”

  “What?”

  “If there’s no way of asking you questions without making you angry, I might as well ask any I please without worrying about the consequences.”

  “Why ask any at all?” Ben-Aryeh said. “Why not leave this entire subject alone?”

  “I’m on a commission, remember? You may even recall the name of the man who sent me. A certain Nero. I would be remiss if I didn’t learn as much as I could about the Jews. And Bernice told me that you were one of the greatest living scholars.”

  “Humph. Ask then.”

  “I’ve read scrolls about the life of Jesus written by a Jew n
amed Matthew. Is there any truth to Jesus’ prophecies?”

  Ben-Aryeh pulled at his hair and gnashed his teeth.

  “Perhaps I’ll ride ahead of you,” Vitas said. “That question seems beyond your capabilities.”

  In the windless heat of midday, the mushroom of a slowly rising dust plume was visible long before the marching Roman soldiers and the horses and chariots crossed over the final hilltop that divided Jerusalem from the Kidron Valley.

  A crowd of about five hundred waited in the shade of olive trees outside Jerusalem, with the city gates and imposing temple structure behind them.

  Some were drunk; they were there strictly for the entertainment that a confrontation with Florus promised. Others were familiar faces at any such crowd gatherings. They were the ones who had first brought out baskets the day before to beg coppers for Florus. They served the religious establishment, paid to incite the crowd’s mood in whatever direction suited the priests and city leaders. Many, however, were truly angry about the events of the day before.

  Bernice sat at the base of an olive tree, well shaded by the tangle of ancient gray branches above her. Nearby, yet far enough so that it didn’t appear they were companions, Maglorius sat cross-legged on a quilt of grass. They’d chosen a spot away from the rest of the crowd to have relative privacy.

  Bernice asked Maglorius to explain yesterday’s events more fully.

  “But I’m not a Jew,” he said.

  “But you know the affairs of the city as well as anyone.”

  “I find it remarkable,” Maglorius said, “that you didn’t care enough yesterday to gather reports about the soldiers in the temple. Yet now . . .”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Why I’m concerned is a private matter.”

  Maglorius did not seem perturbed at the sharpness in her voice. He explained what he knew. The day before, two dozen soldiers, by order of Florus, had marched in formation from Antonio Fortress, their garrison, around the temple walls, through the main gates, and across the Court of the Gentiles. At the prescribed distance that all heathens must stand from the Holy of Holies, they had supervised the loading of mules and horses with the seventeen talents of gold taken from the temple treasury.

  It was a spectacle that had drawn the total focus of all men and women in the open courtyard; money changing, purchase of animals for sacrifice, and any form of worship had all ended immediately. The brief silence in the huge open temple court— interrupted only by the snorting of horses and mules and the grunting of men loading those beasts—had been uncanny.

  Then, as instructed by the high priest, a dozen men, armed with baskets, had begun rushing among the people, loudly crying for coppers for “poor beggar Florus.” At first, their mocking defiance had been greeted with more silence; all in the crowd wanted to be certain that the soldiers in the courtyard would remain restrained.

  One person, a former high priest named Annas, had dared to fling a copper. When the soldiers remained stoic, he’d thrown two more, shouting defiance, looking like a hero.

  His defiance ignited others. Immediately, the air filled with coppers, and more people began shouting, “Coppers for poor beggar Florus.” The open mockery and the avalanche of coins led to great peals of laughter echoing off the temple walls, with Annas bowing at the applause for his initial bravery.

  “Our priests,” Bernice said bitterly. “Many are as much in collusion with Rome as King Herod and I.”

  “That’s a surprising admission,” Maglorius said.

  “Truth. Painful truth.”

  “Truth that makes you want to be here?” Maglorius asked Bernice. “You are an obvious target for the Sicarii.”

  She didn’t reply.

  He pressed her. “You risk your life among the crowds when all you would have to do is request a report on the events from the safety of your palace, undoubtedly to be reported to you later.”

  “You risked your life, too,” she said in return. “Certainly if Bellator discovers you serve Vitas, you will be punished.”

  Maglorius didn’t reply.

  “Well, then . . .” Bernice caught the teasing tone in her voice, the one she’d used so well for so long when she wanted to flirt with a man. She stopped herself. This was not who she wanted to be any longer. She wanted to be a protector of the children who should not die in the way that Matthias’s son and daughter had died.

  “Well, then,” she began again in a more sober voice, “it looks like we’ll each have our own secrets.”

  “The coin of the realm.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Secrets. The temple is riddled with them. Secret tunnels beneath. Secret passageways with holes to listen in on conversations of others. Secret meetings. Spies throughout the city. Secrets. Secrets. Secrets.”

  “I doubt it is strictly a Jewish trait as you imply,” she said. “The fact that you are here is ample proof of that.”

  More long silence. Uncomfortable for Bernice.

  “I’m here,” Bernice finally said, “because I need to be part of my people again. I’ve spent too many years imprisoned by the luxury of the palaces of Herod. Too many years ignoring the evils of Roman occupation because of the benefits that come with it. Is that enough answer?”

  “If it is true.”

  “It is true,” she said, thinking of waking up to a man holding a knife to her throat.

  Shouting interrupted whatever she might have said next. Some of the men near the road had seen the first of the soldiers crest the hill. People around them stood. Moved closer to the road.

  “Remember,” Maglorius told Bernice. “Whatever happens, I will be nearby. Whatever happens, don’t run. You are safest when you allow me to stay close.”

  She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his instructions, then slowly moved to join the others at the road.

  She wasn’t tall enough to see over the shoulders of the men who lined the road, so she grabbed the branches of an olive tree, and with a discreet glance back at Maglorius for his approval, which he gave with a slight nod, she hoisted herself higher to get a better view.

  The soldiers marched in a formation of two abreast at a steady mile-eating pace. Within minutes they were close enough for Bernice to see their breastplates of armor, the gleam of their short swords.

  She looked for the centurions, the men with the feather-crested helmets, and counted five.

  Five hundred soldiers.

  And horses.

  And chariots.

  With Florus bringing up the rear in a brightly colored chariot and the reins in his hands.

  The movement of the army was a low, ominous rumble.

  At first, the applause was inaudible above the marching of the soldiers. But as the people in the crowd became bolder, the applause grew louder, until it was unmistakable in its clarity.

  And intent.

  Once more, the Jews were mocking Florus.

  The Roman commander waited until the bulk of the army had passed the crowd. Then he barked orders to his centurions, who in turn gave sharp commands to their men.

  As if one body, the entire procession stopped.

  “People of Jerusalem!” Florus shouted. “Hear this!”

  He was a large man, with only his upper body showing above the chariot. His helmet flanked both sides of his face, effectively hiding any expression. His body armor shielded the rest of him. It was an almost disembodied voice that cried across the sudden silence of the valley.

  “Do not mock with pretended courtesy one whom you revile!” The voice had a deep rasp and held all the authority of Rome behind it. “Today I order you home! Tomorrow those of you who have mocked Rome and therefore Caesar himself will be punished. Do you understand?”

  No answer greeted him. No further applause.

  “Centurion!” He pointed to the one nearest him. “Send fifty horsemen to drive these people into the city ahead of the army. Any who protest, take captive for immediate crucifixion at the roadside. This army will not be p
receded by mockery as it enters the city.”

  Low murmurs spread among the people. Some began to move toward the city even before the horsemen began wheeling into another tight, well-trained formation.

  Still perched in the tree, Bernice felt a hand on her ankle.

  Maglorius. Who had moved to stand directly below her. “Get down. Now. I will be immediately behind you,” he said. “Remain in the middle of the crowd.”

  Bernice climbed down. She joined dozens of men who moved together down the road, past the motionless soldiers. A few men spit, but none dared openly speak any insults.

  For a moment, it looked like some of the younger men might break loose, but the sight of all the soldiers and the imposing height of the horsemen on their great warhorses proved too intimidating.

  The moment passed, and people at the edges of the crowd hurried away. Like water pouring from a bowl, others followed, and it became an exodus from the soldiers, with people fighting to get through the city gates and into the safety of Jerusalem before the soldiers could harm them.

  As Vitas rode forward and away from Ben-Aryeh on the road to Jerusalem, Ben-Aryeh shouted with rage.

  “Stop! Right now!” Ben-Aryeh dismounted from his donkey. He grabbed the reins of Vitas’s donkey, held them, and glared at Vitas, his face only inches away. “You ask about the prophecies of Jesus?”

  “I do,” Vitas said.

  “If you are one of the followers of Jesus, tell me immediately. Because I would rather crawl back to Sebaste than journey any farther with you.”

  “I am not a follower,” Vitas said. “Merely curious. Most people are forgotten, even by their closest friends, within a couple of years of their death. This man Jesus, however, of no obvious wealth and political power, seems to become more important with the passage of time.”

  “Where do you get this information?”

  “I am a curious man, Ben-Aryeh.” Vitas stared him directly in the eyes, and for the first time, Ben-Aryeh got a sense of the strength of this quiet Roman. “I’m not afraid of asking questions. Or of the answers I might hear, as long as it is truth.”