“Of course,” Tigellinus said, seemingly unaware that Helius was playing ironic. “I’ll make the arrangements today for Damian’s capture. It won’t be easy. He doesn’t go anywhere without guards. And there’s that giant of his.”
“Jerome,” Helius said. “He’s not a problem.”
“No? It would take ten men to kill him.”
“Leverage, my friend. You can manipulate anyone as long as you have the right leverage.”
“Leverage.”
“His family. My spy tells me that Jerome’s family lives on Damian’s estate. Why attack Jerome if you can get him to betray Damian by threatening his family?”
Tigellinus slapped Helius on the back with affection. “Sometimes you are a good man to work with.”
In his thoughts, Helius had already moved past the logistics of killing Damian. He was thinking about John’s letter. Once Hezron interpreted the strange Jewish code, he’d get John of Patmos and interrogate him to see if his answers matched Hezron’s. Once satisfied that he understood the letter completely, he’d have Hezron and John tied in sacks and dumped in the Tiber. As for the Jew girl, Helius supposed he could give her to Chayim as reward for arranging the capture of Hezron. It seemed that Chayim had somehow convinced the girl that he, too, was a follower of the Christos. Chayim was turning out to be very capable and would undoubtedly prove to be of good use in the future.
But that didn’t solve the far graver problem of Vitas. Without that solved, everything else was meaningless. Helius was all too aware that Nero’s increasing lust for power was becoming more of a danger. Time and again, as Nero’s secretary and confidant, Helius had rushed from one situation to another, using a mixture of diplomacy and threats to find ways to satisfy Nero while limiting the outrage among highly placed citizens. Until now, he’d been able to juggle the dangers, fearful each time of failure and the possibility that Nero might desire to literally have his head to hold at arm’s length.
Until now . . .
“Back to my question,” Helius said. “How are the mice going to bell the cat?”
“Leverage, my friend.” Tigellinus spoke with irony, mocking the earlier words of Helius. “You can manipulate anyone as long as you have the right leverage.”
“Leverage.”
Tigellinus nodded. “If we can’t find Vitas, we find his wife. Once we have her, we have leverage against Vitas. Leverage to stop him from taking revenge. Leverage to find out from him who is behind this.”
“What good does her corpse do? In hindsight, it’s a pity we invited her to suicide, but we certainly can’t bring her back to life.”
“Are you sure she’s dead?” Tigellinus asked. “After all, you were once certain that Vitas was a prisoner of Nero.”
Helius blinked several times, suddenly understanding his companion’s line of thought.
“Find her body,” Tigellinus said, “and confirm she is dead. Or torture all of her slaves until you get the truth.”
Hora Quinta
When four of the crewmen came for John, Vitas neither stepped aside nor tried to stop them.
John neither protested nor tried to fight. He allowed the men to lead him to the cross. Allowed them to lift him and spread his arms along the crossbeam. Closed his eyes as they lashed his wrists, then his ankles to the wood.
Vitas watched John’s stoic acceptance of his fate with a degree of admiration. And guilt. Yet, Vitas argued with himself, what could he do? Stepping forward to prevent John’s death would be an act of suicide. He was a man weakened by a prison beating, weakened by fever. Alone on a ship, surrounded by hostile men who had all been toughened by a hazardous life on the seas. Not only would he give futile resistance, but if Vitas died, he would be unable to return to find and help Sophia and the child she carried in her womb. His own death, then, would harm the one person he loved most and the child he desperately wanted to raise.
Yet when the crew members moved the cross and the captive bound to it over to the side of the ship, Vitas moved toward them, trying to project a confidence and strength he did not feel. He passed over the tools and triangular wood frame left by the carpenter, who had interrupted his work to assist in binding John to the cross.
A few of the men looked over at Vitas. He stopped just past the carpenter’s tools.
“Take that man off the cross,” Vitas commanded the sailors. “Immediately.”
Damian was aware that he had his share of enemies in Rome and equally aware that he deserved them.
A few years before, he had gambled recklessly and continuously on the races, nearly always with poor judgment. To escape his creditors, he’d become a gladiator; only through the intervention of his brother, Vitas, had he survived and begun life again outside the arena. In the year since, he’d become a slave hunter, substituting for his urge to gamble the excitement of the pursuit of escaped or criminal slaves. His success in this area, like his failure in gambling, had led to the accumulation of more enemies.
Because of those enemies, Damian prudently spent his public life in the company of a retinue of large slaves and was discreet with his private life. To continue his success as a slave hunter, however, he needed to be accessible.
Damian had learned that one of the keys to pursuing other humans was to rely on those who would betray them. He paid well for information and often paid for tidbits that served no good in the short term. Long term, however, that reputation among Rome’s lower strata of citizens meant that he had a surprisingly large web of informants and spies. Slaves themselves proved to be of great value, for they were often ignored by those they served and knew far more about the happenings of the city than their masters generally understood.
Since few informers could or would approach him as he walked down the street with his slaves, Damian needed a place that guaranteed him safety yet allowed adequate privacy for those who did not wish to be seen speaking with him.
For this reason he visited a public steam bath every day at the same hour. Those who had information knew when and where to give him that information.
More importantly, it was impossible for anyone to approach Damian with a hidden weapon; his group of bodyguards waited in an outer chamber, serving as a protective perimeter, and anyone who wanted to speak to Damian undressed in front of those slaves before entering the steam bath.
Inside the steam bath, Damian only needed the help of a single slave: Jerome. In bare-handed combat, Jerome was capable of crushing a man’s skull by squeezing it between his massive hands. Damian literally trusted Jerome with his life every morning, during the regular hour he spent in the steam bath. It was a good system, and it contributed a great deal to Damian’s success in finding slaves for bounty.
On this morning, then, Damian was not surprised when a man emerged from the fog of the steam to ask for a private conversation.
“Certainly,” Damian said.
Jerome loomed over the slight man, who glanced upward nervously.
Damian was accustomed to this fearful reaction, even from men nearly as large as Jerome. “Unless you attack me,” Damian said, “you are safe.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. His hangover was receding, but far too slowly.
“And what you say will go no further than me,” Damian continued, anticipating, from experience, the man’s other objection. “Jerome had his tongue ripped out when he was a boy. And he can’t write. Even if he wanted to tell anyone else about our conversation, it is impossible for him to communicate.”
The slight man relaxed, but he kept his distance from Jerome. Not that distance would have done any good if Damian had unleashed the slave; the giant was far quicker than his bulk suggested.
“What is it you have for me?” Damian never asked for names. People preferred to remain anonymous in the steam room. The fog, too, made them feel safer. If Damian wanted more information about an informer, he would give a secret signal to Jerome that would be passed on to his guards outside, and someone would follow the informer to learn his identity.
<
br /> “Quickly,” Damian said because the man had hesitated. “If you have something worth telling, tell it. Or leave.”
Damian dipped a ladle into a pail of water beside the bath and sipped from it, pretending indifference. But it was only pretense. He never knew when he’d learn something of value. Damian loved this game more than he had loved to gamble, which was the only reason he’d been able to conquer the self-destruction of that habit.
“I understand you pay immediately,” the unknown man said.
“In the outer chamber, from one of my other slaves. But only if what you tell me is worth anything.”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” The man was uncomfortable, with only a towel draped across his midsection, but he seemed to gain confidence as they began the bartering process.
“I can decide that only after you’ve told me.”
“After?”
“After.” Damian’s tone was firm. He sipped more water. Sweating, he had discovered, seemed to take the poisons out of his body, but the thirst of a hangover intensified in the steam bath.
“What’s to prevent you from deciding not to pay?”
Damian was very familiar with this protest. “Nothing. Except then you would leave the steam bath telling everyone you know that I cheated you, and soon enough no one would trust me.” Damian grinned. “And frankly, this is all about trust. Wouldn’t you agree, Jerome?”
The large slave grunted.
“Tell me,” Damian said, “what do you have of value for me?”
“When I tell you the name of my owner, you will recognize it.”
“That’s not of much value.”
The little man gave Damian the name of a prominent senator.
“Wonderful,” Damian said. “I have a name I know already.”
“He’s in massive debt.”
“Always wagers on blue in the races,” Damian said, maintaining a bored air. “Misplaced, expensive loyalty to a worthless color. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He was at a party two nights ago,” the informer said, naming the party’s host—another prominent senator. “A party where some jewelry disappeared. Not only was the jewelry of great value, but the senator’s wife was hysterical because of its sentimental value.”
This was interesting. Damian had heard rumors about the theft. “And?”
“I can tell you where my owner hid it,” the little man said.
“Indeed.” In a flash, Damian saw how he would work it. A reward from one senator for returning the stolen jewelry, without, of course, telling where he had found it or how; this only enhanced Damian’s reputation. And an additional payment from the other senator for not revealing to all of Rome that he had stooped to something as low as common theft. Damian would make a hundred times what he paid this nervous little slave for the information.
“Ten thousand sesterces,” Damian said. “Half when you leave, and half if the jewelry is where you say it is.”
“How will I collect? I can’t let my owner know that—”
“Return here next week.”
“If you decide not to pay then—”
“Listen.” Damian lost his patience. “If I break my word, even once, then no one will ever trust me with information again. Do you think that’s worth five thousand sesterces to me?”
“In a cistern,” the little man said after a pause. “You’ll find the jewels in the cistern near the place where his wife has set up her household gods.”
This, Damian thought, was what made his business so worthwhile. Almost enough to make up for his hangover.
“Did the suicide go as I ordered?”
A spasm twisted Helius’s bowels. Had Nero already heard from another source that Vitas was alive? that perhaps Sophia, the wife of Vitas, had not killed herself according to the letter of invitation sent a few days earlier by Nero? Had Tigellinus been indiscreet in his search for the head of the man who had died in Vitas’s place in the arena? Or had Tigellinus betrayed Helius in the short time since their meeting?
“Which suicide?” Helius asked, stalling.
Nero giggled. “It is difficult to keep them all straight, isn’t it?”
“Our bookkeepers ensure that you get all proceeds, so it doesn’t matter.”
Nero nodded. “Did that suicide go as ordered?”
“I’ll—” Helius hated himself for his fear of Nero— “I’ll go to the estate today to ensure that your will was done.”
The two of them sat at the edge of the lake within the royal garden, shaded by umbrellas held by slaves.
“Why travel so far?” Nero snorted. “Send a slave. I want you here with Sporus this morning.”
Nero stared at the lake, watching a small boy fishing from a small boat. A boy Helius thought looked familiar in some way. Surely this boy was too young for Nero’s tastes.
Helius knew better than to ask.
Nero turned his head and burned Helius with a frown. “Unless you expect trouble securing the estate.” Nero’s frown deepened. “Is that why you are going?”
Another spasm. Nero was so unpredictable that Helius was beginning to loathe audiences with him. How was that for irony? Helius had spent years maneuvering to be in this very position.
“The estate is yours,” Helius said. This, too, was true. “I expect no trouble.”
“Trouble?” Nero was still frowning. “Surely everyone believes the accusation against Antonia. You’re the one who assured me that the charge of attempted rebellion would be sufficient cause.”
Sudden relief made Helius light-headed. It was difficult to keep all the suicides straight. Nero had been speaking not of Sophia but of Claudia Antonia, daughter of the previous emperor, Claudius, who had adopted Nero and made it possible for Nero to inherit the empire.
“Your public adores you,” Helius said. “The mobs were outraged that she would betray you.”
This was a lie. The mob knew the truth and was gossiping already. Because Nero had kicked his previous wife, Poppaea, to death, Antonia had sensibly refused to take her place as Nero’s wife. While Antonia might have expected Nero to want her dead for spurning him, she’d believed her position as daughter of the previous emperor would protect her. She’d been wrong, of course. A slave had sent her an invitation to suicide on the same afternoon that Sophia had received hers.
“Just as well Antonia didn’t want to marry,” Nero said, smiling again and resuming his gaze on the boy fishing from the boat. “I would have had to divorce her for Sporus.”
Were Nero not beside him, Helius would have found the scene idyllic. The gardens were spectacular with beauty; the sun was bright but not too hot; the sky was clear and the lake placid. But beside Nero, Helius could not relax. Ever.
“And the arrangements for Sporus?” Nero asked.
“Exactly as you requested. The doctors will wait for us to arrive.”
“Tell me again,” Nero said. “Tell me that it will not endanger the boy’s life. I do adore him.”
“He’s a strong boy,” Helius said. “The doctors have assured me there will be no complications.”
“Excellent,” Nero said. “Now, tell me the news I don’t want to hear.”
Five of the ship’s crew faced Vitas. Three others held the cross, balancing it on the edge of the ship’s railing. One quick shove, and it would fall into the water.
“Back to your sickbed,” snarled the largest of the crew members. He was built like a bear, with dark, greasy hair and yellowed teeth.
Vitas glanced at the cross, where John was lashed securely. John’s eyes were closed, his face serene. Who was this man?
“What you are doing is murder,” Vitas said. The swaying of the ship made it difficult to keep his balance in his weakened state. “If you drown him, I’ll see you are all sent to the arena.”
The leader of the crew grinned widely when Vitas staggered, suggesting he knew how little strength Vitas had. “So you’ve brought an army aboard and not a miserable old slave?”
“Rome enforces its laws,” Vitas answered. “There is no place in the world for this ship to land that doesn’t have Roman law and the army to back it.”
“Shut your mouth,” another said. “If we don’t make a sacrifice, this ship will never make it to land.”
There were nods and grunts of agreement. Although this was a small group of men, it was rapidly forming the mentality of a mob.
“The captain is aware of this?” Vitas asked.
“We gave the captain a choice,” the first said. He picked up a short piece of lumber and slapped it against his opposite palm. “We told him one of you would pay the price for making us set sail without a sacrifice or omen. He gave us your slave.”
The large man advanced on Vitas. His grin became a snarl as he raised the improvised club. “We can always put you on the cross instead.”
Vitas was a former soldier, a former general, a man who had faced his share of street fights in his younger days. His mouth was dry, his body vibrant with adrenaline. He took a step backward, remembering that there was a knife among the tools on the deck.
He squatted without removing his eyes from the man with the stick. A quick glance down showed him the knife. He grabbed it, stood, and marched forward, knowing that offensive tactics were the most effective move against bullies who expected their opponents to show fear.
The large man stopped, uncertainty flickering across his face.
“Set the cross down,” Vitas commanded. If he could bluff their leader into delaying an attack, perhaps the others would listen. “I’ll talk with the captain myself.”
“Go ahead,” came a voice from behind him.
Vitas half turned. He wanted to keep the crew leader in the corner of his vision.
“I’m the captain,” the voice continued. “Drop the knife. Speak to me now.”
The captain, a large man too, spoke with an accent that clearly placed him from Sicily. Beneath sparse dark hair, he had a narrow face with the surprising juxtaposition of a flattened nose, obviously broken more than once, obviously healed badly.
The Last Sacrifice Page 6
