The black goat snorted and stamped the ground.
Strabo needed to maintain absolute power over the goats in his pen. The moment one of them decided that because of his small stature he was not worthy of respect, he would lose control over the entire herd. New goats like this one had to be taught an early lesson. It might not be pleasant, but it was always effective—if done properly.
“Well, come on!” Strabo said, wobbling as he tried to maintain the extra inch of height. “I’m ready.”
He and the goat stood on the hillside of the small island of Patmos, a couple hundred paces down from Strabo’s small cottage. The near desolation of the rocks and brown grass and red soil of the hillside were a stark contrast to the cloudless azure sky and the calm blue of the Aegean Sea that stretched eastward, broken only by the distant tips of other islands.
Goat and dwarf were trapped in a small compound marked by rough hemp rope strung between crooked posts made from driftwood. A dozen other goats—all female—were tethered to similar posts farther down the hillside, foraging in dry grass and brush at the end of their ropes, indifferent to the showdown above them.
“Come on,” Strabo said. He couldn’t maintain the tiptoe stance and settled back on his heels. “Step through the gates of hades.”
Strabo held a cudgel with both hands, poised with it over his shoulder, as if he were ready to swing at a passing bird. Any other man on the island would have grasped the cudgel easily, but Strabo’s fingers barely managed to encircle the handle.
Dwarf measured goat, blinking against the dust and the heat.
Goat measured dwarf with yellow, unblinking eyes.
Strabo shifted from foot to foot. “What’s the matter? Afraid?”
The goat lowered his curved horns and charged. As the gap closed, Strabo swung straight down, cracking the goat squarely between the eyes.
The goat collapsed to its front knees and slid forward. Its horns butted Strabo in the belly and flung him backward.
Strabo rolled sideways but lost his grip on the cudgel. The goat was dazed, but within seconds, it found its feet, located its target, and made another charge, this time with less vigor.
Strabo barely sidestepped the goat and, as the animal’s momentum carried him past, scrambled to retrieve his cudgel.
The animal spun and charged a third time. Strabo brought the cudgel sideways with a vicious but misjudged swing that glanced off the goat’s horns instead of its nose. It diverted the goat only slightly, and Strabo took the brunt of the charge squarely in his stomach. He fell and rolled as the goat skidded over him, hooves thumping his ribs.
Briefly paralyzed, Strabo moaned in a fetal position, clutching his midsection. The goat recovered and whirled and began battering Strabo repeatedly, bleating its rage.
Strabo roared his own anger and grabbed the horns with both hands, pulling the goat in close. He rose and fell, his feet scraping the ground, as the goat tried to swing him loose.
Strabo pulled against the horns and moved his face directly into the goat’s face, and it paused briefly. They locked eyes in a brief silence as Strabo grinned maniacally.
Then, with another roar, Strabo clamped his teeth into the soft end of the goat’s nose, biting down and clenching as the goat kicked and squirmed. Strabo held on, his roaring reduced to a gurgle. The goat fell to its knees again, still trying to shake Strabo loose.
Finally, with a frantic movement, the goat flung Strabo onto his back and sprang backward, as if it had freed itself from a demon.
Strabo jumped up again, blood from the goat’s nose streaming down his chin. He spit out a piece of flesh. “Here’s more!” he shouted. He grabbed the cudgel and chased the goat, cracking the retreating animal across the broad bone of the back of its skull. “Think you’ll remember this?”
The goat lurched away and ran a frantic circle around the edges of the compound as Strabo ran on stubby legs, jabbing at it with the end of his cudgel and shouting triumphant curses at each successive turn of the beast.
Then movement on the hillside above caught Strabo’s attention, and he saw the outlines of two figures screened by bushes.
“You there!” Strabo shouted.
He cocked his head at the sound of scraping sandals. Small rocks clattered from behind the bush, scattering loose pebbles in a miniature avalanche.
Strabo pointed his cudgel at the bush. “Who is it? Come out now or you’ll taste the same punishment!”
A shout came from one of the crew of Pavo’s ship, and all others aboard, including Vitas, looked in the direction the crew members pointed.
Vitas had just been released from his chains. He’d spent the voyage in the shade of an awning set up on the deck for him, grateful that he at least had a fresh breeze. John, who also had been released minutes earlier, had been forced belowdecks and only permitted a half hour a day above.
Although the morning sun had already climbed high, Vitas saw a flash of sunlight on the horizon to the east, so bright it forced him to shut his eyes briefly.
Pharos.
The small island that guarded Alexandria. It was connected to the city by a man-made dike—the Hepstadion—which gave the city two harbors, Eunostos Harbor on the west, and the Great Harbor on the east, with both harbors protected by the island to the north and Alexandria on the mainland to the south.
Yet it was not the island that drew shouts from the crew. The outline of the low-lying island would not be visible for miles yet. The crewmen were filled with wonder at seeing sunlight reflected nearly thirty-five miles from Pharos’s lighthouse.
The mirror was mounted on the lighthouse, the tallest man-made structure in existence at nearly four hundred feet tall. A fire reflected off the revolving mirror at night, and sunlight reflected during the day. Legend had it that the light from this mirror could burn enemy ships, and because of this reputed power, crew members of most ships were always nervous on the approach to Alexandria.
Vitas stood at the bow of the ship, thinking about what might be ahead for him in Alexandria. Someone had sent him here for a reason he did not know. All he had were simple instructions: This injustice inflicted upon you by Nero is an injustice you must endure for a greater cause. Many of us in Rome need you to survive. . . . The pieces are scattered in such a way that only you will be able to put them together.
What pieces? Why? What battle was he supposed to fight? He wanted to return to Rome, yet if Nero found out he was alive, it would mean the death of his wife. But in staying away from Rome, he could hardly bear the pain of wondering about Sophia’s fate. There was an alternative, however, the only one that had given him any hope.
“It’s been a long voyage,” John said. He stood beside Vitas, still blinking as he tried to adjust his eyes to the sunlight after so much time belowdecks.
“Too long. Too far. It could have been much more enjoyable with your company. I had so many things I wanted to discuss with you.”
“I’ll be in no hurry once we land,” John said. “And I would be happy to spend as much time with you as you want. I had guessed, however, that as soon as we docked, you would want to find a ship to take you back to Rome.”
Vitas shook his head, thinking about the one alternative that offered hope. “I’ve decided to send a letter back to her. Secretly. If Sophia can find a way out of Rome to meet me—” Vitas took a breath—“I’d rather endure exile in poverty with her than live without her.”
“I understand,” John said.
Vitas studied the horizon, wondering if the smudge was the coastline of Egypt, or his imagination. “And you will find a ship to Ephesus?”
“It’s an important place in the empire for a church. I need to continue my work there.”
“Ephesus.” Vitas snorted. “Right beneath the nose of the beast.”
John smiled indulgently. Both knew Vitas was referring to the massive statue of Nero that the emperor had set up for citizens of Ephesus to worship Nero as god. Nero had used the Great Fire of Rome as an excuse
to persecute the Christians in part because he detested the fact that they would not acknowledge him as a god. All others in the world were accustomed to worshiping many gods—adding Nero as one more to the household cluster was not a problem for them. The Christians, however, refused to worship any other than the one God of Israel.
“Tell me something,” Vitas said. “This is a question I’ve wanted to ask since the Straits of Messana. My back, after the whipping. You healed it through prayer.”
“The God of heaven and earth healed you on the account of the testimony of Jesus, the Christos.”
“A miracle. And I should believe, then, all the other miracles that my wife described to me about the Christos?”
“His miracles point to the One who sent him. You have experienced a healing through prayer to the Christos. You know his story already from your wife and the letters of Good News, things written so that you might believe that Jesus is the Christos and so have eternal life. Even while the Christos walked this earth, some rejected Him despite what they saw and heard. Others did not. Now you must make the choice. Who do you say that Jesus is?”
Vitas let out a deep breath. The man’s peace and calm were something to covet. Yet . . .
Before Vitas could respond, movement behind John caught his eye.
It was Pavo, the captain, with three armed crew members.
“Start putting together your belongings,” Pavo told Vitas, in good cheer now that the voyage was nearly over. “When we dock, I need to take you into Alexandria myself. These three are going to make sure you don’t put up a fight.”
Hora Septina
Simeon Ben-Aryeh did not flinch from the cudgel that Strabo pointed at his chin.
In his fifties, Ben-Aryeh was a man with a deceptively strong build. He had short, bowed legs, mismatched to a muscular upper body that belonged on a much taller man. There were peculiar angles to his cheekbones and nose—Ben-Aryeh, like Strabo, would never be seen as handsome. Yet, even tired and filthy from travel, Ben-Aryeh seemed to be cloaked with confidence.
“Put that away,” Ben-Aryeh snapped at Strabo, pushing the cudgel to the side. “I’m not a goat.”
“An old man with a young woman like her?” Strabo gave a nod and a leer at the woman who had climbed down the hill behind Ben-Aryeh. “If she’s not your daughter, I’d say there’s good reason to call you a goat.”
Ben-Aryeh lifted his right arm and clenched his fist. Strabo jutted his blood-covered chin in response, daring Ben-Aryeh to take a swing.
“Please,” Sophia said in a weary voice. “No.”
The defeated slump of her body and the exhaustion in her face matched her voice, as if she had not slept well in weeks. Despite this and despite her plain clothing, the beauty of her youth could not be concealed.
“All this travel,” Ben-Aryeh sighed, speaking to Sophia. “Who in their right mind would send us this far to someone like him?”
Strabo jabbed Ben-Aryeh in the belly. “You have something against dwarfs?”
Ben-Aryeh, a short man himself, grabbed the cudgel and yanked on it.
Strabo, who refused to let go, stumbled forward, then kicked Ben-Aryeh in the knee.
“I’ve nothing against dwarfs,” Ben-Aryeh said, jaw clenched. He pushed the cudgel away and Strabo with it. “It’s rudeness and ignorance I can’t stand.”
“Then go away. I didn’t invite you here.”
“Trust me,” Ben-Aryeh said. “We wouldn’t be here unless we’d been sent.”
“Go away. I’m not interested in business with you.”
“How have you managed to live this long without encouraging someone to lift you by the throat and strangle you to death?”
Strabo opened his mouth to retort but shut it as he looked past Ben-Aryeh at the woman.
Sophia was weeping soundlessly. “Why do you both have to be so ugly to each other?” she asked in a choked voice.
Ben-Aryeh sighed again and retreated slightly. He put one arm around Sophia’s shoulder. With his other hand, he cupped the back of her head and placed her head against his chest, so she was facing away from Strabo.
“Not another word of insult,” he said to Strabo. “She’s been delicate like this for some weeks.”
“I have some water nearby in a jug,” Strabo said, instantly subdued by Sophia’s tears. “Let me get it.”
When he returned, Sophia accepted the jug. She didn’t apologize for her tears but walked a few steps away.
Ben-Aryeh spoke to Strabo quietly. “Have you no curiosity about two visitors?”
“Curiosity I can’t afford. I tend goats. I make wine. I sell milk and cheese and wine to the soldiers and the exiles. If you were a soldier, you’d have weapons, and if you had the wealth of most of the exiles, you’d be dressed far better and offering me gold. Since you are neither, I have no interest in you.”
“‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation,’” Ben-Aryeh said. “‘They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.’”
“What nonsense is this?” Strabo said, beginning to puff with his natural indignation.
“‘These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they—’”
“I’m not deaf,” Strabo said in a low hiss, glancing toward Sophia. “Repeating yourself doesn’t make it any more clear.”
“It has to be clear,” Ben-Aryeh said. “You are the one.”
As the ship entered the Alexandria harbor, John found Vitas belowdecks, gathering his belongings, standing near the base of the mast that rose upward through the deck above.
“Before you ask,” Vitas said to John, “no, I don’t know where Pavo is going to take me in Alexandria.”
“If you sent for me to ask for help,” John said, “I will do what I can.”
“No,” Vitas said. “I doubt I’m in danger. Pavo would have rid himself of me long ago if that were the case. I want to give you something. First, take my cape.”
It was already folded. Vitas handed it across to John.
“I’ve got some money, too,” Vitas said, reaching for his money belt. “Half is yours.”
John’s first impulse was reluctance. He guessed his silence showed that, for Vitas continued.
“It’s obvious to me that the same people who put you on the ship put me on the ship,” Vitas said. “The money came from them. We should share it.”
“You are a gracious man,” John said.
“Don’t overestimate me. I will probably never see you again. I don’t want to feel in debt to you.”
“In debt?”
“You cared for me when I was sick. You—”
Vitas paused and looked away for a moment. John wondered if he was reliving the agony of his wounds and the blessed relief of his healing.
Then Vitas continued, “You translated the scroll for me. I owe you. This is my payment.”
Many were the moments that John marveled in retrospect at the infinite capacity that his friend Jesus had shown for love, mercy, and sorrow.
It was in the retelling of the events of Jesus’ ministry, which John did tirelessly as often as he could find anyone to listen, that John marveled at the emotional capacity of Jesus.
Again and again, John had truly been struck by sorrow for this Roman. Vitas was haunted—that was plain on his face—and by more than the recent events that had forced Vitas from Rome.
While John did not know exactly what burdened the Roman, he knew that Jesus could remove the burden. John’s sorrow was great: understanding another human’s pain, and being unable to help. Yet this was only an echo of what Jesus had faced. How, John wondered again and again, had Jesus been able to bear all of mankind’s sorrow?
There was so much that John wanted to say to Vitas. “You, like all of us, have an awareness of your own sin and a fearful expectation of judgment. The Christos has paid for that sin, Vitas. All you need to do is believe and confess that Jesus is Lord and you will be reconciled to God and forgiven of all of your s
in.”
“Take the cape and the money,” Vitas answered, looking away and making it clear their conversation was over. “You’ll need it as you travel to Ephesus.”
“What one?” Strabo’s flat face was crossed with vexation as he stared at Ben-Aryeh. “You say I’m the one, but I know nothing about this.”
“We’ve been sent from Rome to—”
“From Rome! I thought you meant you’d been sent by someone on the island.”
“From Rome. We—”
“You just stepped off the supply ship, right? An hour ago? I saw it entering the harbor.”
“Yes, we—”
“You asked for directions to find me?”
“Yes, we—”
“I don’t need this,” Strabo said. “I definitely don’t need this. I’m going to have to leave the goat, and who knows how much it’s going to take next time to get him where I have him now?”
“Just tell us what we need, and we’ll be on our way.”
“On your way to trouble,” Strabo said. He shook his head. “Much as I’d rather deal with goats, I will not give Lucullus the satisfaction of finding you.”
“Lucullus?”
Before Strabo could reply, shouting from above them drew their attention.
It was a small boy, darting along a crooked path down the hillside. “Papa! Papa!” he shouted. “Mama says to tell you that soldiers are coming up the road!”
“Of course,” Strabo muttered. “I would have expected nothing less.”
It was Ben-Aryeh’s turn to frown. “You expected soldiers?”
Strabo shouted at the boy, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice. “Hurry back to your mama. Tell her both of you need to hide somewhere in the vineyard until the soldiers tire of looking for you. Understand?”
“Understand,” the boy said, immediately turning back.
“My son,” Strabo said proudly, letting his eyes linger briefly on the retreating boy. “Only five years old and already taller than me. Smart, too.”
The Last Sacrifice Page 26
