The Last Temple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  The silk vendor remained behind his table stacked with rolls of the fine cloth.

  “I am here on the governor’s business,” Bucco barked. “Out from behind there.”

  Vitas stood at a respectful distance from Bucco, head bowed and pretending disinterest. Yet he strained to hear the conversation above the noise of the market.

  “You were here when the fiscal procurator was assassinated?” Bucco asked.

  “I know nothing about it,” the vendor said. He was tall and thin but had hunched in an impossible effort to make himself invisible.

  “Of course you do,” Bucco snapped. “Everybody does.”

  “What I meant was that I know nothing about the men involved.”

  “You presume that was to be my question?” Bucco studied the man. “To me, that alone suggests guilt.”

  “No!” A pause, then a rush to speak. “No! The governor’s men have already questioned us. Again and again. To see if we could identify any of the attackers. So I presumed that once more he has sent someone for information.” The vendor straightened slightly. “It was, of course, the Jews. As a Greek, I have no quarrel with Rome. I pay my temple fees and worship at the statue of Nero.”

  Bucco said nothing. Vitas was impressed. It was an intelligent way to get a man to speak, by letting him fill the silence.

  “And aren’t the Jews to pay?” the vendor asked. He reached beside him and nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in a roll of fabric on the table. “Just as well. They are troublemakers. The fewer of them the better. And who knows how many are spies for the rebels in the provinces.”

  “What I want from you,” Bucco said, “is the name of the camel driver.”

  “Camel driver?”

  “Who owned the camels that were sent stampeding through the market?”

  All over again, Vitas saw it vividly in his mind: the great plunging beasts with oil on their hides, flames and black smoke rising to blue sky. He heard the screams of the camels, smelled the burning flesh.

  “Do I have to explain?” Bucco said, then answered his own question. “A train of camels was passing through the market. Where is the owner now?”

  “That is all you want to know? About the Nabataean?”

  “Instead of wasting my time with a question, give me the answer. Who is the Nabataean, and where do I find him?”

  Vitas found himself leaning forward. It was a slim hope, but all he had. He’d had hours to think about the assassination and how it had been planned. In the end, he believed it came down to one crucial starting point: the camels. If he was correct and this starting point could lead to an ending point, the local Jewish families would be spared impending slaughter. Bernice, too, would be spared execution. If his hunch was correct, upon Damian’s return, Vitas would be freed from his role as a slave and reunited with Sophia. As for the mysterious visitor to his jail cell and the amulet that he was given, that would no longer matter. If Vitas survived this, he had no intention of involving himself in anything but a quiet domestic life with wife and child in a place far from Rome and Nero’s spies.

  The vendor’s reply, however, crushed this small hope.

  “I don’t know the Nabataean’s name,” the vendor said. “And it doesn’t matter. He is dead. Killed during the confusion in the market.”

  Hora Undecima

  “Back to the queen of the Jews,” Bucco said with a shrug. He had little stake in the fate of the families who awaited death.

  They were out of the market now. Vitas had not spoken a word in the five minutes since leaving the vendor.

  “Not yet,” Vitas answered.

  “You order me?”

  Eleven months ago—when Vitas had been among those in the emperor’s inner circle, before Nero had taken his property and his wife and ordered his execution in the arena—the answer would have been yes.

  In recent months—when Vitas believed all that was important to him had been taken away—he would have been too lethargic to bother caring.

  Two days earlier, he’d been ready to accept suicide on the cross by drinking a potion.

  But this morning, his life had been given back to him. Sophia was alive. And in danger of execution.

  So Vitas had to stifle a natural impulse to behave as a landed Roman citizen with wealth and political power; he had to pretend he was merely a slave named Novellus, a disgraced Roman sold as punishment for a crime.

  “I merely ask,” Vitas said, “whether you have your eye set upon a greater role in Caesarea and perhaps someday back in Rome.”

  No answer. But Vitas didn’t need it. Everything about this man screamed of the type of political worm Vitas knew too well.

  “What harm is there in spending another half hour for an opportunity to position yourself solidly in the governor’s favor?” Vitas asked. “Keep in mind that if the governor returns to Rome in good standing with Nero, it can only benefit the man who helped the governor quell an uprising in a difficult situation.”

  “Half an hour?” Bucco said. The bait had been taken and the hook set.

  “Half an hour,” Vitas repeated. He decided a little flattery would not hurt as a way to disguise the hook even more. “You can be a terrifying man when you desire, and I wonder if there are yet some people who might have an answer that you need.”

  It was not difficult to find the Nabataeans, the tribal people who were slowly becoming less nomadic because of the protection of Rome. Over a century earlier, when Damascus had been the stage of a long struggle between warring Greek generals and the invading Roman forces, the citizens of that city had invited a Nabataean ruler, Aretas III, to be their protector, in essence making him king and slowly changing the status of Nabataeans from lowly caravan drivers who had roamed the desert to merchants, though still tribal in culture. In Damascus, where the Nabataeans poured their wealth into sumptuous houses, their lifestyles were opulent. But in the desert, they still lived in tents with divided walls as they skillfully navigated the cantankerous beasts of the desert along ancient caravan routes, depending on a water collection system known only to themselves.

  The walk was a short one to the outskirts of Caesarea, where tents of the nomads billowed in the breeze that was growing with the rising heat of the day. Camels were staked to the ground, goats tethered to ropes.

  Three robed men—short and stocky, with faces almost black from exposure to sun—stopped them at the camp’s entrance.

  “I’ve been sent by the governor,” Bucco said with arrogance. “I am here to see the widow of the man who died in the market during the stampede of the camels.”

  “She is grieving, protected by her sons,” the man in the middle answered. The two others shifted to stand closer, presenting a united front.

  “That doesn’t matter to the governor,” Bucco snorted. “Send her to me. Or escort me there.”

  “It matters to us.”

  Vitas leaned down to whisper to Bucco. “Nothing is of more importance to men of a tribe like this than honor. Nothing is worse to them than shame. It is how they’ve survived the desert. They will accept slaughter at Roman swords before the shame they would wear if they did not protect a brother’s widow from the governor.”

  “What leverage do I have if I cannot threaten them with the governor’s might?” Bucco growled, keeping a close eye on the men in front of him.

  “Use their own swords against them,” Vitas said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps I should speak with them.”

  “I thought you said I could be a terrifying man when needed.”

  “That is not what is needed now.”

  “You knew that all along, I suppose,” Bucco said, not amused.

  “We could walk back and report to the governor that you let a few Nabataeans stop you from rescuing him from this dire political situation,” Vitas said quietly, keeping the conversation between himself and Bucco. “Or you could establish that you are still in authority and slap me across the back of the head, ord
er me to my knees, and command me to speak to them.”

  “Happily,” Bucco said.

  Bucco’s blow was as hard as Vitas had expected, and with pretended humiliation, he lowered himself to his knees, knowing how he appeared to the Nabataeans, with the rope around his wrists and ankles. He was a slave, a man of no value. The humiliation, however, was pretended because Vitas felt he had some control, and he was going to use it to full advantage to protect the woman—and the child—he loved.

  From his knees, he spoke to the man in the middle.

  “Your brother’s death in the market was no accident,” Vitas said. Whether or not the camel driver who had died was related by blood or by tribe, to the Nabataeans, the man was a brother. Either was of equal importance to these people. “The man who hired him gave orders to have your brother murdered. He’s the same man who arranged for the camels to be set on fire.”

  In one sense, his accusation against the unknown man was a complete assumption. Vitas had no compunction about this degree of deceit, however. Not with what was at stake. But in another sense, Vitas spoke the truth. There could be no other explanation for the chain of events that had led to the assassination of Helva. It was no accident that the camels had been lit on fire and, undoubtedly, no accident that the one man able to identify who had hired him had died in the panic that followed.

  Vitas also knew his accusation against the unknown man who had hired the camel driver now meant the man would be hunted without remorse and hunted until he was found, even if it took decades. There was a saying about these people. “I against my brother; my brothers and I against my cousins; then my cousins and I against strangers.” Bringing the man to justice meant honor. Letting him escape meant shame.

  “Ask among yourselves,” Vitas said. “Find his identity and give it to us. It will put you in favor with Rome.”

  The man in the middle did not have to glance at his companions before answering with grim determination. “Wait here. It will be done.”

  Hora Duodecima

  An hour before sunset, Vitas and a ten-year-old boy followed Bucco and Bucco’s retinue of twenty soldiers into the outer courtyard of the villa where Helva had lived. Vitas trailed the retinue into the house, watching with amusement as servants vainly tried to protest the intrusion. He noted with satisfaction that half of the soldiers dispersed throughout the massive villa, acting on previous instructions from the governor.

  Vitas lowered his eyes and stayed behind Bucco’s remaining soldiers, confident he was invisible to Dolabella as she marched toward them.

  “This is an invasion!” Dolabella cried. “The governor will hear of this.”

  Bucco addressed Dolabella. “On behalf of the governor, I am investigating the death of your husband.”

  “I trust you have news for me, then. The Jews must pay for their atrocity.”

  “No news. Only questions.”

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  “Is this how you would speak to the governor?” Bucco asked.

  “You are not the governor.”

  “I’ve made it clear that I represent him. And my first question involves a slave who was in your employ—Novellus. I understand that when you and the magistrate began the initial interrogation, Novellus suggested that you go to the governor with instructions to find out who had hired the camel driver.”

  Dolabella tossed her head. “Who told you this? The magistrate? If so, consider the source. He’s been swooning around me, and I’ve spurned him publicly. Besides, why should it matter?”

  “What matters is that neither you nor the magistrate passed along the information.”

  “If indeed that’s what the slave said. He’s been crucified, and you are clutching at hearsay. And you still haven’t answered my question. Why should it matter?”

  “Tell me,” Bucco said, “the morning that Helva was killed, why was he in the marketplace?”

  “He told me he had been called by the governor. There are a dozen servants who could confirm this, if only you asked them instead of bothering me.”

  “What’s strange,” Bucco went on, “is that the governor had not sent for your husband.”

  “Someone did,” she said tartly. “It is not a concern to me.”

  “It’s a concern to me,” Bucco said. He raised his voice. “Novellus!”

  Vitas stepped around the soldiers. He wasn’t alone. He had the boy with him, a Nabataean.

  Dolabella frowned as she recognized Vitas. “The magistrate . . .”

  “Sentenced me to crucifixion,” Vitas said. “Yet here I am. I, too, am curious why you wouldn’t pass along my message to the governor. The diversion of camels was undoubtedly planned for when Helva was to pass through the market.”

  “I can hardly believe this,” Dolabella said, drawing herself up with indignation, speaking to Bucco and pointing at Vitas. “This slave failed in his duty to protect my husband, and now he is part of your investigation for the governor?”

  “No,” Bucco said, “the boy is.” Bucco turned to the boy and spoke softly. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” the boy said, nodding vigorously. “That’s the woman who met with my father’s brother. She said she wanted him to drive some camels for her.”

  “I’ve never seen this boy before.”

  “He was working among the camels,” Bucco said, “when you spoke to his uncle.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Hardly. And Vitas knew it. When the Nabataeans had brought him forward, the boy had described a woman whose hair was almost orange.

  “You couldn’t have done this alone,” Bucco said. “I’ve been authorized by the governor to tell you he is prepared to let you draw a bath as an alternative to crucifixion. On the condition that you testify against the man who helped you murder your husband.”

  Draw a bath. Vitas closed his eyes briefly. It was how Nero had commanded Sophia to die. Suicide—slitting her wrists in a hot bath.

  Vitas opened his eyes again, surprised at the silence. He’d expected a squawk, but instead Dolabella was gaping at Bucco with a mixture of outrage and fear.

  Bucco pressed his advantage and cued the boy. “The trumpet.”

  “She asked him to release the camels at the sound of a trumpet,” the boy answered. He was losing his shyness in the presence of the soldiers, speaking louder.

  That’s what had first struck Vitas as strange about the stampeding camels. The sound of trumpeting as Helva passed through the market.

  Dolabella recovered her composure. “I know what is happening here. The governor wants a scapegoat to rescue his political situation. I’m a widow, far from Rome. So he sends you here to condemn me on the strength of the lies of a boy and a slave.”

  “He sent me here on more than that,” Bucco said. “Soldiers are searching your house for a single earring with a large red ruby.”

  Dolabella brought a hand to her mouth as if to prevent all the air being sucked from her body as she visibly shrank in front of Vitas and the boy.

  Bucco explained to Dolabella what all of them already knew. “You gave the boy’s uncle one of the earrings and promised him the other if he accomplished the task. We found that earring among his possessions in his tent. Now we are looking here for the one that matches.”

  “Alexios,” she said.

  Bucco was puzzled. “Alexios?”

  “That’s the man you want. He was my lover and threatened to inform Helva if I didn’t go to the camel driver. I had no idea what Alexios had planned to do, otherwise I never would have helped. He worked with some Sicarii who agreed to do the job. It served Alexios and the Sicarii. I had no choice in my involvement. You have to believe me. The governor has to believe me.”

  Bucco gave her a strange smile. “My advice is to draw your bath now. Save yourself the humiliation. And if it helps, take a flagon of wine with you. From what I’ve heard, the drunker you are, the less pain you will feel.”

  Vespera

  Vitas faced Julianus again, still bound at th
e wrists and ankles. Behind the governor, other slaves were lighting oil lamps on a balcony where the governor sat in a chair woven from reeds and drank from a gold-rimmed goblet. The balcony afforded a view of the Mediterranean, and the sun was almost gone. Dusk served as a shield, hiding the red of the sunburn on Julianus’s face.

  “As you might know, already Alexios has been arrested and faced the red-hot tongs of torture,” the governor told Vitas. “It didn’t take long for him to break and give up the names of the others involved. We will have them all on crosses tomorrow.” The governor shook his head. “Not only was he making a cuckold of Helva; he’d been embezzling from the man. Consider the irony. The fiscal procurator himself, clutching every denarius for Nero and letting his own cascade away to a thief.”

  Because Julianus had not asked a question, Vitas said nothing.

  “You have saved Bernice’s life,” the governor continued. Odd, the strained voice that carried so much authority. “And you have served me well by eliminating this difficult political position. I’m sure the Jews who have been released would also feel gratitude toward you, but none will know of your role in this. You would do well to keep it that way—I have no intention of appearing like I needed the help of a slave. If the slightest whisper reaches me, I will put you on the cross again.”

  Vitas fought to hide his impatience. He did not want to be here with the governor. Among the Jews who had been released was Sophia. She would not know yet all that had happened, only that Vitas was alive and not on a cross. He wanted to run full speed without stopping until he reached the settlement of the Jews and then shout her name until he found her.

  But to all appearances, he was still a slave bound to the Helva estate.

  “I have no intention of granting you anything in payment for this service,” the governor continued. There was the slightest of slurs in his voice. Drinking wine on a breezy balcony with the orange of the sun on shimmering water was, after all, a relatively harmless pleasure. Or had the governor been drinking to steel himself to execute Bernice if Vitas failed? “Taking you down from the cross was enough already. And I’m not happy at the way you spoke to me in front of Bernice. I should have you whipped for it. So there you have it. By not whipping you, I have repaid you for your assistance. Besides that, other men in my position might have you killed merely to ensure your silence about all of this.”