The Last Temple

by Hank Hanegraaff

  Vitas did not tell Chayim of the long conversations in Alexandria, with Ben-Aryeh describing that same moment, wondering where he had gone wrong as a father, what he could have done differently. Part of Ben-Aryeh’s anguish was in not knowing where Chayim had gone from Patmos, not knowing if Chayim still served Helius and Nero.

  “So,” Vitas said, “you did not return to Helius.”

  “Without the woman they wanted, Leah would be killed. I spent months wandering Greece aimlessly, pretending I was still looking for the woman. I sent reports describing my feigned pursuit, terrified that Helius would somehow discover I had defied him. During those months, I used my letter from the emperor, granting me as much money as I needed for room and board wherever I traveled. I was in need of nothing. But my soul had been hollowed in the moment I faced my father in jail.”

  The rain grew harder, and Vitas leaned in to hear Chayim’s words.

  “I found myself attending meetings of the followers of the Christos,” Chayim said. “I told myself I was doing this to put it in my reports to Helius, to make them seem more legitimate. After all, he knew your wife was a follower too. After a while, I couldn’t fool myself. I knew I was among them because of the peace I felt in their presence. I realized that starving in Rome, near Leah and her father, would fill me much more than eating and drinking well in solitude. So I staged my own death and returned to help Hezron. Without work—for I dared not risk being found here—it’s been difficult.”

  Chayim was jogging now, despite his exhaustion. The palace loomed ahead, occasionally lit by flashes of lightning.

  “When you met with Hezron, we couldn’t know if you were to be trusted,” Chayim said, panting harder. “So I began to follow you, trying to learn who your friends were.”

  Now Vitas understood why the threat of torture had not worked against Chayim in the alley by the tavern. Chayim wasn’t going to risk revealing who he was—and in so doing, risk Leah’s life—without knowing whether Vitas was an agent for Helius.

  They reached the entrance to the grounds of the imperial palace.

  “Stop,” Vitas told Chayim. Vitas had to wipe rain from his face. “Do you know where Leah is?”

  “Yes. Bribes. Never enough to visit her, only enough to learn where she has been moved and to get food to her.”

  “And you are familiar with the palace grounds.”

  “I regret all the hours I spent here, believing the luxury and power had value.”

  “Then,” Vitas said, “lead us there.”

  The walk was eerily familiar, especially as Chayim led them past the artificial lake that Nero had spent a fortune to create in the grounds. They were retracing the steps Vitas had taken on that night when it all began for him, when he’d followed Nero to the imprisoned followers of the Christos.

  The rain came in sideways gusts, then suddenly stopped. By the time they’d moved halfway along the path beside the lake, the waters were still.

  Vitas glanced at the imperial palace and saw no lights anywhere.

  He was torn between the bloodlust of the hunt and the need to protect Leah. Vitas felt deep compassion for Chayim’s frantic worry; he’d felt it too when he believed all was lost with Sophia.

  Yet that same compassion only reminded Vitas of how badly he wanted to stare down the man who’d threatened Sophia in the same way as Leah.

  The cold soldier’s mind of Vitas had only one question: Where was Nero? Certainly by now the deposed emperor had learned that the imperial guard abandoned the palace.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a hoarse, low shout from Chayim. “There!”

  Ahead was the same small building that Vitas had followed Nero into, little more than a hut. The night he’d stopped Nero, there had been four followers inside. Vitas had not known it at the time, but one of them had been John, the last living disciple of the Christos.

  Chayim broke into a jog again, and Vitas stayed with him. As did the soldiers, the leather straps of their breastplates creaking in the silence that had fallen with the passing of the storm.

  Except another sound broke the silence.

  A woman’s voice, crying out in protest.

  Chayim burst into a sprint, leading all of them to the hut.

  The woman’s voice rose in pain.

  Chayim pushed at the door. It didn’t move.

  “Imperial guards,” Vitas shouted. “Open up!”

  “We are imperial guards,” came a voice from inside. “Go away.”

  Vitas threw his shoulder at the door and it popped open.

  A candle set on a small table showed it all. Four soldiers. One woman prisoner. Swords and shields were scattered on the straw.

  The woman was backed against the wall, and the intentions of the soldiers were obvious.

  One of the soldiers dove for his weapon, but Vitas stepped forward and, with one foot, put his entire weight on the man’s arm. He placed the tip of his own sword against the man’s neck.

  The other soldiers inside froze in their positions; unarmed, they were helpless against trained military with drawn swords.

  Chayim made a move to rush forward.

  “No,” Vitas commanded sharply. “Don’t get in the middle.”

  “Take them,” Vitas ordered his own men, without taking his eyes off the three remaining soldiers near the woman. “Take them to Nerva and keep them under guard. Tell Nerva that Vitas sent them. He and I will deal with them tomorrow.”

  In less than thirty seconds, all the soldiers were gone. Then the woman said a single word. “Chayim.” She held out her arms. He sobbed and embraced her.

  Vitas said nothing as he left them together and moved back into the still of the night.

  Somewhere in the empty corridors of the vast palace was the man who had ordered Vitas to be torn apart in the arena, who had commanded Vitas’s wife to commit suicide.

  Vitas had vowed revenge.

  Now was the time.

  Intempesta

  Vitas stood in an empty banquet hall of the imperial palace. There was no escaping the memory—or the emotions—of the evening he’d last been here. With Sophia, among dozens of Rome’s wealthiest elite, reclining at tables piled with opulent food.

  Nero, half-drunk, had swaggeringly stood and stunned the room into silence when he loudly invited Sophia to his bedchamber, fully expecting her to comply, fully expecting Vitas to allow her to accompany him, fully expecting Vitas to remain among the guests until Nero returned to announce whether Sophia had satisfied him.

  It had put Vitas in an impossible situation. Defending his wife’s honor would cost him his life. But letting Nero take her by the hand to his bedchamber would have cost him everything that mattered to him.

  The dilemma had been brilliantly suggested to Nero by Helius, who openly smiled at Vitas while Nero extended the invitation to Sophia.

  Vitas had chosen death, rushing forward to attack Nero, knowing the consequences and the futility of his actions. He’d been knocked unconscious and later woken in the bowels of the arena, condemned to die on the sand in front of the crowds.

  He stood again in the same banquet hall. Sophia awaited him in Alexandria. He had his wife again and their young child; all that remained was the restoration of his property now that Nero had been deposed.

  For some, it would have been enough. But the rage that had sustained Vitas pushed him forward now. He would find Nero; he would explain exactly how he had been so instrumental in tipping the power balance away from Nero and toward Galba. He would watch with satisfaction as Nero understood the extent of Vitas’s revenge. And he would rejoice in throttling the man to near unconsciousness, then taking him as prisoner back to Nerva and all the others who were baying for Nero’s death.

  Vitas stepped through the banquet hall and continued his hunt.

  “Who knows and who cares where the pig has gone.”

  Vitas had confronted two young male slaves in a hallway just beyond the library and had demanded, sword in hand, that they tell him
the whereabouts of Nero.

  The first slave had his arms full of bed linens. The second cradled a small golden box to his belly. Neither seemed concerned that Vitas had threatened to kill them.

  “Gone,” Vitas repeated, feeling stupid for echoing the slave. “That is all you can tell me?”

  One giggled. Vitas realized both were drunk.

  “See this?” The second one lifted the box. “Poison. From his bedchamber.”

  “His bed linens,” the first said. “He’ll return to an empty room.”

  If Vitas had wanted confirmation of the complete end of Nero’s power, this was it. Slaves stripping Nero of his possessions with impunity.

  “Where did you last see him?” Vitas asked.

  “Dinner. Last night,” the other slave answered. “He read a dispatch with news and tore it up, smashing his cups of wine and weeping; then he demanded a box of poison delivered to his bedchamber. He spent all day with it, obviously afraid to use it.”

  Suicide, Vitas thought. But a failed suicide, if these two slaves were to be believed.

  “Today, I heard he ran to the Servilian Gardens to beg his most faithful officers to flee with him. Already, some had gone ahead to equip a fleet at Ostia.”

  The first jumped in, giggling louder. “None would serve him. One even shouted out, ‘Is it so terrible a thing to die?’”

  The second slave was gleeful. “Tonight, only a short while ago, he heard about a Senate decision against him and leaped out of bed and gathered some servants to find his friends here at the palace. But all the doors were locked and none answered.”

  The first one picked up on the other’s glee. “If you only understood how much we all hated him. While he was searching the palace, we decided that when he returned for his poison, he would find nothing.”

  The second slave shook the golden box. “We hid down the hall on his return and heard him in the bedchamber shouting for Spiculus, the gladiator, to put an end to him. But nearly all have abandoned him. He’ll have to use a dagger to kill himself. But such a man wouldn’t have the courage. Let him suffer the way he made us suffer.”

  Vitas heard the last words over his shoulder. He was already running to the last place where Nero had been seen. The bedchamber where Nero had once wanted to take Vitas’s wife.

  The bedchamber was empty except for an elderly woman who sat on the stripped mattress of Nero’s bed. The mahogany bed frame was decorated with shells and ivory and gold. Colorful damask cloths covered the mattress.

  “Such evil has been perpetrated here,” she said, as if speaking to herself, lost in reverie. “Men gathered around him to plot horrible injustices, often unwilling to engage in what pleased him but unable to deny him. It’s a wonderful night for the empire that such a man is gone from the palace. A wonderful night that an old woman like me can sit on this bed and enjoy the thought of how the Senate has declared him a public enemy. He’ll be floating in the Tiber soon enough.”

  “You know where he’s gone?”

  “There’s a letter on his desk,” she said. “He was working on it earlier.”

  Vitas grabbed a candle and hurried to the desk. As he read through what was obviously a speech, he noted with grim satisfaction the ramblings of a desperate and terrified man. Nero had first considered throwing himself at the mercy of Rome’s longtime enemies, the Parthians. Or failing that, begging Galba for mercy. Nero was considering dressing in black and appearing on the Rostra to plead with the people of Rome for forgiveness, asking to be sent to Egypt to serve as a prefect there.

  Another paper showed equally desperate schemes. Execute all army commanders and provincial governors. Poison all of the Senate at a banquet. Set fire to the city again, and let the wild beasts of the arena roam at large to prevent citizens from fighting the fire.

  There was a note detailing Nero’s military preparations, showing his major concerns were finding enough wagons to carry his stage equipment and arranging for his concubines to have male haircuts.

  But nothing showed where he might have fled.

  Vitas turned to the old woman on the bed again. She was reclining on the stripped mattress and smiling at him.

  “History may never record this,” she said. “But let it be said that I was the last to command the bed of Nero! Me, an old woman Nero never once noticed because I had no value.”

  Vitas snorted at the woman’s humor.

  She continued. “He didn’t notice me, but I have eyes and ears and watched him all the time. I saw him in this room only fifteen minutes ago.”

  Vitas realized that she was hinting at something. “Help me search for him. I’ll ensure you are rewarded.”

  “Took you long enough,” she said. She sat up and spoke more seriously. “What’s my reward?”

  “Speak to Nerva tomorrow. I’ll arrange your freedom.”

  “You have the power?” Before Vitas could speak, she waved away his answer. “If you don’t, you won’t be the first man who lied to me. I risk nothing to tell you anyway. I would look for Nero at the villa of the imperial freedman, Phaon. That’s who he left with when he discovered his poison gone, when Spiculus and all the other trained executioners were ignoring his demands for someone to kill him.”

  “Phaon.” Vitas knew exactly where the villa was. About four miles away. Between the Nomentan and Salarian Ways.

  “Phaon,” she repeated. “They spoke as if I didn’t exist, as if I hadn’t been summoned to tell Nero where his poison was. All Nero took was a tunic. He fled without even putting on sandals.”

  “Thank you. Tell Nerva that you were sent by Vitas. He’ll honor my promise.”

  “Vitas!” She put her hand to her mouth. “Yes. You are! Good things are happening to Rome if you are still alive!”

  As Vitas hurried away, she called out two words: “Neca eum.”

  Kill him.

  Vitas knew he was only minutes behind Nero and ran through the imperial garden toward the stable, for he’d made the decision to take a horse. Not only would it help him move quickly, but sitting astride the beast would afford some protection.

  A hundred yards away, however, Vitas saw the shadows of a half-dozen men leading horses from the stable by bridles. He slowed and moved off the path, wanting to observe before choosing a course of action.

  Above the wind, he heard one man plaintively call out. “I’ve never been on a horse before.”

  “Then hang on to his neck,” came the snappish reply. “The horse will follow.”

  Nero!

  Six men. Should Vitas attack? Could Vitas attack?

  Closer now, he saw four were clumsy with the horses. Servants, most likely, the final few still faithful to Nero, and so lowly they had never been taught to ride.

  Who was the fifth?

  A flash of lightning.

  The horses danced on the spot, slightly spooked.

  There’d been enough light to show the fifth man, more comfortable on horseback than the others. It was Sporus, the slave boy whose elegant features had reminded Nero of his dead wife.

  Nero urged his horse forward at a trot. If Vitas were to attack the man he hated, this was the moment.

  Vitas held his sword at the ready and tensed to leap forward.

  Yet even now, he was unable to defeat the soldier’s discipline that had served him so well all these years. Much as he boiled with rage, he could not set aside the fact that given the situation and how it had unfolded, it would be of crucial importance to learn if Nero had any significant allies left in Rome. Vespasian and Titus would want to know of it, and Vitas owed them his life and the lives of his family. Much as Vitas wanted to serve himself in this moment by exacting a blood revenge, he was obligated to put that aside and serve them instead.

  The horses trotted past Vitas where he remained hidden in the bushes.

  In another flash of lightning, Vitas saw that Nero was barefoot, wearing a cloak over his tunic, holding a handkerchief over his face.

  As soon as the final horse
passed, Vitas sprinted to the stables and found a horse for himself.

  With the flickering lightning, it was easy to keep them in sight, about a hundred yards ahead as they moved along the road. Vitas clung to the neck of his horse to keep his profile as low as possible.

  As the six men on horses passed a soldiers’ camp, one man yelled from the darkness, loud enough to reach Vitas. “Look, someone is out to chase the emperor!”

  Another soldier called out, “What’s the latest news? Is he dead yet?”

  A minute later, when Vitas passed as a lone horseman, he heard the same question again from men standing beside a fire. They were passing drinks back and forth, celebrating. Undoubtedly, when Galba finally arrived in Rome, they expected him to follow tradition and give them a fine reward for swearing loyalty to him.

  Vitas wondered if Nero, for the first time in his life, understood the gut-clenching fear he’d so callously inflicted on thousands and thousands, often for no other reason than a whim. Thinking of this gave Vitas a cold satisfaction. It occurred to him that perhaps the real reason he hadn’t stepped out and attacked Nero with the sword was because the longer Nero lived, the longer Nero would endure terror.

  Ahead, one of the servants fell off the back of his horse.

  Nero cursed at the man. “Stay with us!”

  The servant found his feet and hobbled along, pathetically trying to keep pace.

  It forced Vitas to drop back slightly, and he kept the increased distance between them for the next couple of miles, which passed without incident except for the growing pressure as the storm regathered.

  As the procession neared Phaon’s villa, Vitas began to worry that Nero would make it inside the estate too soon. Vitas was almost at the point of urging his horse forward when he heard hooves on the cobblestones, coming toward him.

  Had Nero changed his mind?

  Vitas slipped off his horse and drew it to the side of the road, hoping lightning wouldn’t expose him.

  It was a needless worry.

  The horses were all riderless.

  Nero and his servants and Sporus must have dismounted. The horses would have been nervous because of the storm and simply wanted to return to the stables.