The Last Temple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  “How did Titus know I was alive?”

  If Titus had not learned about Vitas from Damian, and if Titus had sent Bernice to Caesarea to look for Vitas, then Titus had long ago known of the letter that had sent Vitas to Caesarea.

  “Tell me first, why were you among Helva’s slaves?” she countered.

  “You know Damian is a slave hunter. He was hired by Helva, who wanted to find out which slave in the household was betraying him. Damian thought if I joined those slaves, I might find information of use to Helva.”

  “No information will be of any use to him now,” she said. “And it nearly killed you. Naturally, when I asked of Helva, I heard of his assassination. That led me to the prison to look for his slaves, and from there to the crosses. If I had found you even an hour later, I believe it would have been too late.”

  “I’d rather know how Titus learned I was alive. From Damian?”

  “You will need to ask Titus yourself. He is barely a day’s march from here.”

  Vitas could be certain, then, of one thing. By sending Bernice to look for him, Titus had given her information that could result in the execution of both Titus and Vitas.

  Vitas spoke his conclusion to her. “Titus must trust you a great deal. One word to Nero from you, and he and I are both dead, and you will have gained great favor with the emperor.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But Titus knows how badly I want to protect my people. I will serve Titus, not only because of love, but because he is a general and the son of a general, the men who control the legions in Judea. I will do everything I can to influence what he does and how he treats my people.”

  “He has no choice but to fight this war,” Vitas said.

  “Don’t treat me like a fool,” she answered. “Of course he will fight ruthlessly to end the revolt. But some generals kill the women and children and the innocents. Others will stay the sword if possible. I want to ensure he stays the sword. He knows that’s one of the reasons I am close to him.”

  Before his marriage to Sophia, Vitas promised her that he would use his influence with Nero to protect the Jews if possible. Neither of them could have guessed, however, how badly it would end.

  “It’s strange, in a way,” Bernice went on, “with all that is happening around us, how tightly interwoven are the individuals who make the choices that affect how the revolt will go. And I am in the middle. Titus representing Rome on one side, and Joseph Ben-Matthias representing Jerusalem on the other.”

  “Joseph,” Vitas repeated. “My visitor last night.”

  She nodded. “He is descended from the priests, a nobleman of great reputation in Jerusalem. After the riots of last fall, he was chosen to lead the revolt in the provinces. He accepted the mantle, despite his constant insistence that Judea cannot defeat Rome. Yesterday, Joseph met with me secretly and suggested this method of appeasing the governor.”

  “You want to give the governor a scapegoat. And you believe it will be credible if it comes from a slave of Helva’s household.”

  “Yes. Truthfully, the governor is fully aware that a slave facing crucifixion is not the most reliable of witnesses. The information only has to appear reliable. The governor is in a difficult position. He cannot let the assassination go unpunished, but by punishing Jews, he risks even greater insurgency from the locals.”

  She leaned forward. “I’m begging you. When the governor asks you for the name of the Greek, spare my people.”

  “This name,” Vitas said. “Glecko Partho. How do you know he is the conspirator?”

  “He was chosen because he is guilty enough of other vile things to the Jews. Better that he die so that others may be spared.”

  An answer both sufficiently ambiguous and sufficiently illuminating. But before he could ask anything else, they were interrupted by a messenger from Governor Julianus.

  “The governor has changed his mind,” said the messenger, a lanky man with hair shaved short. He was panting slightly. “You are to immediately accompany the soldiers out to the crosses. When the slaves of Helva have been taken down, he expects you will honor the agreement. I am to take the name back to him.”

  “Our conversation is not finished,” Bernice told the messenger. “This slave will depart when I say so.”

  The iron of the nails of the special military sandals—caligae—of a half-dozen soldiers in armor made their intimidating clicking sound on cobblestone as they crossed the courtyard toward them.

  “You are welcome to tell the soldiers that you intend to disobey the governor,” the messenger said. “I have my orders and must follow them.”

  “Step back,” Bernice commanded. The messenger’s eyes widened. He, like Vitas, obviously had no idea that such a woman could project such ice-cold authority. “Speak to me with that tone again, and I shall have your tongue removed.”

  He stumbled backward.

  Bernice leaned in toward Vitas and kept her voice low. “It would be useless to protest against these soldiers. We have much to discuss, but it would raise too many questions if I walked with you. For now, all you need do is give the governor the name. I will find you later, for I have an urgent message for you from Titus.”

  Hora Quinta

  The soldiers, carrying shields and swords, were so strong and fit that they marched at a pace few unburdened men could match. Vitas well remembered that pace from his own military days—and well remembered the authority of a sword. The swords were heavy enough and sharp enough to completely sever a man’s arm from his body. The small daggers favored by the Sicarii were useless against such a weapon. And when soldiers crouched in defensive formation with shields raised, makeshift weapons had little effect.

  The soldiers had removed the shackles from Vitas’s feet but left his wrists bound by iron, so with great effort, Vitas barely kept pace. The arches of his feet were swollen. But pride kept him moving forward. Pride and the knowledge that if he lagged, he would be none-too-gently prodded with a sword.

  They would reach the public execution site in five minutes. Traders wisely muted their curses to make way for the soldiers. Women and children ran to the side of the road. All stared at the passing soldiers. This, too, Vitas remembered well from his military days.

  He wasted little thought on memories, however, as he marched step by painful step. Vitas was trying to make his decision. Would he divulge to the governor the name that Joseph and Queen Bernice had supplied?

  Vitas could guess at what Joseph and Bernice had conspired, for giving the governor a name solved a great many political difficulties.

  As Bernice had pointed out, without someone to blame for the assassination, Julianus would have no choice but to engage in horrendous retribution. Rome was not known for mercy. When its armies surrounded a city, the citizens who surrendered were treated with decency. But those who were defiant would be slaughtered, including the women and children. It was an effective carrot-and-stick strategy, made more effective by tales that circulated ahead of the Romans.

  Here, Julianus knew if there was no retribution, it would embolden the revolt. Yet killing innocent Jews would stoke the flames of revolt higher. For him, it was a difficult situation.

  The solution, then, was to have a slave identify a culprit, with few other questions asked. An execution, despite the hapless man’s expected protests of innocence, would relieve Julianus of the need for wide-scale punishment. Peace, at least in Caesarea, would be kept, and a report to Rome would show that he’d taken necessary actions, which would keep his own political career secure.

  What did it matter if one man died for a sin that he did not commit, when he deserved it for so many other crimes? Yet the last half of what Bernice had whispered haunted him. “Better that he die so that others may be spared.”

  Because of his familiarity with the letters of the followers of the Christos, Vitas knew that nearly a generation earlier, sentiment similar to this had sent another man to the cross. This one truly innocent. Condemned by Pontius Pilate.

&nb
sp; If Glecko Partho had not conspired to have Helva assassinated, then no matter what else he had done, in this case he was an innocent man.

  Vitas knew too well what it felt like to be innocent and condemned. Could Vitas inflict that on another man? Even to save his own life?

  But could Vitas allow dozens, maybe hundreds, of women and children to die by the swords of Roman soldiers by denying that the Greek had conspired?

  The choices were clear cut. A man who had vilely abused the Jews would die so that Vitas and women and children could live. Or Vitas would refuse to speak, condemning himself and the innocents.

  It was a mercy of sorts when he arrived at the crosses where a matter of exquisite suspense and torture compelled him to set aside the decision. For he saw a bracelet like one he had once received from Sophia.

  It was hanging around the wrist of Jerome, who was unconscious and near death on the cross.

  Hora Sexta

  Jerome was unresponsive on the cross, but his chest still moved as he drew rasping, irregular gasps of air.

  Vitas was more focused, however, on the bracelet. A bracelet freshly woven from green grass.

  It had no value to anyone else, or it most certainly would have been stolen by a passerby, darting in when the soldiers were distracted.

  To Vitas, however, such a bracelet had once been priceless. Sophia had woven one for him as a simple wedding present, saying her love for him would endure as long as grass grew in the fields.

  He was trying to understand the message. It could not be coincidence that the grass bracelet had been placed upon Jerome. Only Sophia—as far as he knew—shared this small secret.

  Vitas cursed the fact that Jerome could not speak. What secrets did Jerome hold about the grass bracelet? Or had it been placed on him while he was unconscious?

  The governor’s messenger interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts that Vitas could not escape.

  “Proceed as ordered,” the messenger said to the soldiers.

  Three soldiers moved forward, each withdrawing a sword that flashed in the sunlight. Each moved to one of the slaves on the crosses, and each touched the tip of his sword to the sides of the condemned, to the softness of flesh just below the ribs.

  “Now,” the messenger said with the officiousness of a man suddenly granted unexpected power, “give me the name to deliver to the governor.”

  “This was not the agreement,” Vitas said. “The men are to be taken down first.”

  The messenger pointed at the slave on the far left and gave a nod of command. The man appeared dead.

  Without expression, the soldier shoved the tip of his sword into the soft flesh; water poured from the man’s side, confirming he was dead.

  An unexpected memory came to Vitas of the letters written by men who had traveled with the Christos and reported his death on the cross. There, too, soldiers had pierced his side. The Jews would not permit a man to be on the cross on the Sabbath. To hasten death, some would have their legs broken and, with nothing to support their weight, would begin to suffocate, their shattered tibias just adding to the final minutes of suffering.

  But for soldiers, it was still work to lift a hammer and smash the legs. Much easier to confirm a man was dead with the sword. When fluid poured out, it was a sign that yes, the victim had suffocated to death.

  This image struck Vitas; it was the reason followers of the Christos had made a point to report it. For readers of the letters, there could be no doubt. The Christos had truly died on the cross. His resurrection on the third day afterward could not be attributed to a man pulled alive from the cross, only to revive later in the cool depths of the tomb.

  “That’s one,” the messenger replied with prim satisfaction. “Do you have the answer for the governor? Or shall I have the next one impaled.”

  The next slave was not dead. He croaked out an anguished protest.

  “And when all are dead,” the messenger continued to Vitas, “you will be up on a cross again. Unless you give me the name first. Then they will be taken down to honor the governor’s bargain with you.”

  Others might yet be saved, including Jerome. And if Jerome was taken from the cross and revived, he might be able to lead Vitas to the person who had woven a grass bracelet and left it as a message for him.

  “I have the name,” Vitas said.

  He would not be responsible for the death of a man innocent of Helva’s murder. Nor would he take the burden of the families of Jews who would die unless Governor Julianus had someone else to take the blame.

  So Vitas gave the name of the one person he knew would be safe from the governor’s reach. A man whose ship Damian, Jerome, and Vitas had set fire to in Alexandria.

  “Well?” the messenger said.

  “His name is Atronius Pavo,” Vitas said, giving a lie that would buy him time he desperately needed. “A ship’s captain.”

  Hora Septina

  Vitas had been returned to the courtyard of the villa, where the governor now glared at Bernice. “I did not question too closely how you knew a slave had overheard someone threaten Helva the day before he was killed. Nor did I question too closely how you knew the killers were intent on appearing like Sicarii. Only because you had promised you would deliver the name of a man I could arrest immediately.”

  Julianus swept his hand dismissively in Vitas’s direction. “Now this. I’m to look for a ship’s captain?”

  “This is obviously not an intelligent slave,” Bernice said, her own glare at Vitas a reflection of the one the governor had directed at her. “I’m sure if he gives it any thought at all, he will recall exactly which Greek was so clear in his threats against Helva. My own guess is that it was a Greek with considerable debts to Helva and sufficient motivation to plan the elaborate murder.”

  She frowned deeply at Vitas. “Give it more thought.”

  He’d been forced back with the soldiers to repeat the name to the governor, who had immediately registered shock.

  Obviously, he and Bernice had been complicit in the determination to make Glecko Partho a convenient scapegoat. Vitas wondered what Partho had done to earn the governor’s enmity too.

  “Well?” Bernice demanded.

  “One of the crucified slaves was dead by the time we arrived,” Vitas said. “I would like to be assured that one is still alive. The one named Jerome.”

  “You dare bargain again!” the governor thundered.

  “Again?” Vitas said. “No, Excellency. I just can’t imagine that a Roman governor would not honor an agreement. I did my part at the foot of the cross. Jerome was a witness too. Perhaps he could join us. Not only will it be helpful for our conversation, but it will prove the agreement has been fulfilled.”

  In irritation, the governor snapped his fingers, and a messenger scurried away.

  While they waited, Bernice did not stop once in her fierce concentration of anger at Vitas.

  He tried not to smile, thinking of his friend Titus with this woman.

  Titus might rule a legion, but there was much to fear from Bernice.

  “Satisfied?” Bernice asked Vitas some time later. “He is obviously alive.”

  Jerome had been escorted into the courtyard. The lines on his face were deep and drawn.

  “Yes,” Vitas said. “There was a man who swore he would kill Helva. I was there with Jerome. We both heard the conversation, didn’t we.”

  Vitas nodded at Jerome, who made his peculiar sound of agreement.

  “What kind of answer is that?” the governor said.

  “He is a mute,” Vitas said. “That is the best he can do. It means he agrees.”

  “So you bring me a second witness who cannot speak, but you have no hesitation to translate on his behalf?”

  “This man bragged to Helva that the murder would not appear as a murder,” Vitas said. “Is this not correct, Jerome?”

  Another mewling sound, the same as before.

  “Someone who does business among the Jews,” Vitas continued. “A Gr
eek named Atronius Pavo.”

  Mewling again from Jerome.

  Bernice could not help herself. “A Greek named Glecko Partho!”

  “No,” Vitas said. “Atronius Pavo. Isn’t that correct, Jerome?”

  The big man nodded his massive head.

  Vitas was glad that Bernice was not armed with a dagger. Her eyes were already suggesting he was about to die.

  “This gets us nowhere,” the governor said, slamming his hand down. “How can I send soldiers to arrest a man of unknown history and residence?”

  “Send me,” Vitas said. “I would recognize him. Later, in the market, I heard him discussing the hire of a camel driver with an old Jewish woman.”

  This gave the governor pause. It was obvious the man was calculating.

  “Send me with soldiers,” Vitas said, anticipating the governor would believe it was an escape attempt. “Wrists shackled, under guard. I’m sure I can find the old Jewish woman, and she will lead me to the camel driver. In turn that will lead me to the Greek ship’s captain.”

  More silence. Vitas did not break it. He knew full well that the first to speak often lost the negotiation.

  “I don’t trust you,” the governor told Vitas. “Your Latin is too polished. You have all your teeth. It suggests you were not born a slave but became one for a crime that likely involved deceit and treachery.” The governor tapped his teeth. “Still, it would be practical to have the perpetrator of this crime flogged and executed.”

  He snapped his head into position, obviously at a decision. “You will go,” he told Vitas. “The soldiers will take you as directed, in shackles, and they will have instructions to kill you at the slightest sign of treachery.”

  Julianus turned to Bernice. “And you will be his surety.”

  “Governor—”

  “Not a word. You came to me offering a solution, which did not happen. You wanted to prevent bloodshed of your people, and you promised this slave would deliver the murderer. So I have decided. The slave will bring back a man to stand for the crime as you promised, or you will die in his place. There may be riots if families are killed in retribution for Helva’s assassination, but I’m not so sure there will be protests if I choose you instead.”