The Last Disciple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  These had been the instructions from Maglorius: “Wait with Vitas until my return.”

  Except Vitas had not been anywhere. The opulent Bellator mansion had been abandoned. Sophia had stepped past the bodies in the courtyard already buzzing with flies around the eyes and noses. She’d considered dragging the bodies into the shade and looking for blankets to cover them, but the crying of the baby had drawn her inside.

  She’d found Sabinus alone near the body of a servant woman, tugging on the hem of her dress. Sophia’s first impulse had been anger that the baby had been abandoned to crawl among the bodies. She’d pushed aside the anger and fled from the body with Sabinus, then searched through the household for food to quiet his cries.

  The wealth around her was staggering—more than she could imagine belonging to a single person. It also filled her with sadness; whoever lived here had been able to satisfy every earthly desire yet had lost it all. So how much was it truly worth?

  These thoughts were soon replaced with wonder for the miracle of life as she held Sabinus and fed him. She marveled at his tiny fingers and toes. Marveled at his charming little smile. Crooned to him as he crooned to her. Fought away any hopes at all that someday she might be able to hold a child of her own.

  Time did not seem to pass at all; then she heard voices in the courtyard.

  Holding Sabinus, she rushed out and discovered two large men lifting the body of a fallen slave. Greeks, she knew by their clothing. Bearded, wide-shouldered, obviously laborers. She saw that they had already moved a couple bodies onto a cart, arms and legs hanging haphazardly over the side.

  The taller of the two noticed Sophia in the archway. He dropped the legs of the body he was holding. His partner cursed him for his clumsiness, then turned to see where the first man was pointing.

  Directly at Sophia and Sabinus.

  The second man dropped the upper half of the body with a thump.

  “Who are you?” the tall one asked.

  “I was about to ask you the same,” Sophia replied. Something felt wrong, but she wasn’t going to show fear.

  “We’ve been sent here by the new owner,” the second one answered. Both edged toward her. “To clean things up.”

  “New owner?”

  “Sold by the wife,” the first one said. “No less than an hour ago. From what I hear, it was a steal. Her husband’s dead, and she’s in quite the hurry to get to Caesarea to find a ship back to Rome. Not that I blame her with Florus and his army camped in the city.”

  “Don’t blame her at all,” the shorter one said. “A lot of lootings and killings have taken place. Not all by soldiers either.”

  They were closer now. Almost leering.

  Sophia pressed backward.

  “See,” the first one said, talking more to his companion than to Sophia, “if her body is piled with the others, who’s to say how she died?”

  They were only a few paces away now. Close enough that she could see their eyes, red from drinking early in the day. Close enough to smell clothes that had obviously been slept in, probably night after night for weeks.

  “Just another dead slave,” the second agreed. “But we could have some fun with her first.”

  “We were told the place was empty,” the first one said. “Why not?”

  Sophia realized if she tried to run with Sabinus it would be easy for them to tackle her from behind. There was too much risk that the baby would be hurt badly as she fell.

  How could she save the little boy’s life?

  Events had transformed her world so quickly that Valeria could hardly believe this was reality. The afternoon before, she’d been part of the buzz of the marketplace. Then had come the screams and terror as the soldiers attacked innocent people at random.

  Could she even trust her memory?

  Again and again in her mind she saw the sudden violence of Maglorius defending her against Roman soldiers. Again and again she heard the heartbroken sadness of Sarai as she bid good-bye to her unborn baby, heard the startled joy as she cried out to Christos moments later.

  Had all this really happened? Had the soldiers reached her villa as Maglorius feared? What of Maglorius? What of Quintus?

  In the light that came from beneath the door that guarded the tunnel, Valeria raised her hands, saw the blood that had dried on her fingers. The pouch jangled as she shifted her legs, a reminder of what Maglorius had given her after killing the soldiers. Each breath she took carried the sour decaying smell that clung to the clothes of Sarai’s husband that she’d put on. Each movement brought the roughness of its fabric against skin that had felt only silks and cottons.

  Yes, she told herself, this has happened.

  And Maglorius had not come for her. Nor had Sophia returned as promised.

  Did she dare go look for Maglorius?

  Valeria forced herself to move, to block the fear from her mind. First, she must hide the gold. Deeper into the tunnel she went, grateful that all she needed to do was look up to see the hope that the light from above gave.

  Where to hide the gold?

  By feeling around above her head, she found a crevice large enough to hold the pouch. Before placing the pouch in it, however, she counted the paces from the bottom of the steps.

  Twelve.

  Satisfied she could find it again when necessary, she reached upward and hid the pouch.

  Another thought struck her.

  She took it down and removed several coins.

  Replaced it again.

  Then she returned to the bottom of the steps to wait for Maglorius. She would wait a few more hours, she told herself. She tried to distract herself from her worries, but she could not escape the questions that arose in the dim, cold hiding place.

  Her questions brought guilt.

  Valeria had sneaked out of the villa, forcing Maglorius to follow her. Because of it, they’d arrived at Sarai’s house without Quintus, and probably much earlier than they would have if she had not sneaked out. What if they had arrived later? Would Sarai have been elsewhere in the house with a chance to escape from the Roman soldiers? Had she then caused Sarai’s death?

  And had she risked Quintus’s life now too? After all, if she’d remained at the villa, Maglorius would have been able to remain with both of them instead of leaving Quintus behind.

  More questions troubled her. How did Maglorius know all he did about these events? And if he knew the family was in danger from Gessius Florus, why hadn’t Maglorius warned her mother and father?

  Uncomfortable as it was to be sitting on the cold steps in smelly near-rags of men’s clothing, Valeria began to drift into sleep as she leaned against the wall of the tunnel. Her last waking thought was about the final moments of Sarai’s life, and how Maglorius had tried to comfort the dying woman.

  Who, Valeria wondered, is the Christos?

  When she woke, her mouth dry and her muscles aching, she blinked, trying to remember where she was. A noise grew louder, the noise that had tickled her subconscious and awakened her.

  Maglorius?

  The door above her opened.

  Slowly.

  But the figure was not of the ex-gladiator who had protected her for the last year.

  Ben-Aryeh let the threats of Annas the Younger echo in his head. Cast a stone? That was the punishment for adultery. What did Annas the Younger know?

  Ben-Aryeh was not guilty of violating the woman. He’d done nothing except try to help. Yet the sensation of guilt washed over him, and he fought the urge to flee.

  As he stepped down from the stage, he saw a familiar face. Maglorius. Big, broad-shouldered. Calm.

  What was the man doing here? In such a public place? They’d agreed it would be wise not to be seen together, yet now Maglorius was stepping away from the crowd with purpose. In Ben-Aryeh’s direction.

  Perhaps Ben-Aryeh could make it look like a chance encounter, as if Maglorius were simply one stranger among many in the crowd. With pretended nonchalance, Ben-Aryeh kept walking along
the path that would take him to Maglorius. “My good man,” he said loudly for the benefit of anyone who might be too near, “if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Listen.” Maglorius stepped close and grabbed Ben-Aryeh’s shoulders. “This is so important I had no choice. Bernice received a message from her spy in the camp of Florus.”

  Ben-Aryeh glanced around to see if any of the chief priests had noticed. All seemed preoccupied with getting into position where they could lead the massive crowd out of the temple and the city.

  Ben-Aryeh began to relax. Then froze.

  It was her! The young woman he’d saved from the brigands! Walking directly toward him, searching faces in the crowd.

  Had she seen him yet?

  “Not now! Not now!” Ben-Aryeh was normally a calm man. Yet he’d fled the day before from the woman when perhaps he should have stayed and vigorously denied the charges. Now the chance to declare his innocence was lost, for the Sanhedrin would surely be able to find witnesses at the city who had seen him run, and that action would prove him guilty in all their eyes.

  “Listen!” Maglorius said again, clutching Ben-Aryeh’s shoulders. “There will be more slaughter if—”

  The woman had not seen him yet. But she was looking. Her eyes were about to sweep in his direction!

  Ben-Aryeh felt panic. He threw a fist into the stomach of Maglorius. It wasn’t enough to knock the man over but enough to shock him. Ben-Aryeh took advantage of that and twisted loose from the strong grip of the Roman.

  He stepped into the flow of the crowd, once again grateful that his height made him invisible among those towering above him. He pushed through people, ignoring their protests.

  Ahead was the Court of Women, and ahead of that the Court of Israel. Once he reached it, he could run past the altar and to the Court of Priests.

  He was certain the woman had not seen him.

  Once he reached the Court of Priests, he would be safe. He knew the secret tunnels beneath the temple as well as any man alive. He could hide there for the remainder of the day. At dark, he would escape the Temple Mount unseen and return to his mansion in the upper city.

  Where he would finally be safe with his beloved Amaris.

  Vitas roared.

  He’d entered the courtyard, seen the two men pressing in on Sophia, one of the men lifting a knife in threat.

  She’d cried out his name.

  They turned as he sprinted toward them, still roaring, drawing his short sword from his tunic.

  They separated, showing the wiliness of street fighters. The other one drew a knife too, a short curved blade.

  Vitas slowed, now that they weren’t a direct threat to Sophia. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings, a natural unthinking response of a fighting man hoping to take advantage of the terrain.

  Vitas stopped and evaluated his opponents. They were big, mid-twenties. One’s arms were badly scarred. The other was missing a front tooth. Both were grinning—obviously they’d been in situations like this before and were far from afraid.

  “Run,” Vitas told Sophia. He kept his voice calm, though it felt like the pounding of his heart would distort his words. “Now.”

  Whatever happened, he’d make sure it lasted long enough for her to escape. Then he could give her no more thought.

  The man on his right circled behind him. Vitas was forced to dance delicately, keeping the other in his peripheral vision.

  Without giving his body conscious directions, he made the first move. A faked lunge. Surprise was his only chance. That man jumped back, giving Vitas an opening toward the wall.

  Because Vitas hadn’t committed fully to his lunge, he was able to use his momentum and a sudden direction shift to get to the wall of the courtyard, beneath the shade of an orange tree. He grabbed one of the fruits with his free hand, hurled it clumsily at the second man, who ducked and laughed.

  They pressed in on him. The wall at his back gave him some advantage of defense, for it didn’t allow one or the other to move behind him. But it trapped him as well.

  “No reason to rush,” one man told the other. “Get as close as you can without bringing that sword into range. Soon enough, one of us will have a chance at his unprotected side.”

  As the man spoke, he reached into the dirt beneath the tree and scooped up a handful. His intent was obvious. To throw it at Vitas and distract or blind him.

  The men edged closer.

  Vitas heard his own breathing. Heavy. The adrenaline of battle filled him. Yet he’d learned it could be an enemy as well, causing men to act without caution.

  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.”