The Last Sacrifice (13 page)

“That’s all. Right after that, the messenger pointed at me and told the old man to be discreet.”

That was interesting, Helius thought. The messenger was more than a messenger, for he had known enough about the situation to give a warning.

“But I heard more.” The boy continued to stare at Tigellinus and his father. “Our master, Vitas, had been arrested by Nero,” the boy said. “All of us were afraid of what might happen next.”

That needed no explanation. The fates of slaves were tied to the fates of their owners.

“I climbed on the roof and got as close as I could,” the boy said. “In case there was something I could learn that would help all of us slaves.”

“And?”

“The visitor was telling the old Jew if he hated ships he could go to Corinth by road and then gave him instructions to find the road from here. But that was the end of their conversation.”

“You didn’t hear why the old Jew needed to go to Corinth.”

“Nothing else. It took me too long to get on the roof. The visitor left right after that.”

“Nothing else?” Helius said.

“Nothing else.” The boy seemed to relax now that he’d given up all he knew.

Helius had been looking for that—the relaxing of the boy’s body. He was, after all, an expert on interrogating people.

“You’ve done well.” Helius turned to Tigellinus. “Let’s see if we can find another slave to corroborate this information. We have no more use for the boy’s father.”

Tigellinus raised the whip.

“No!” the boy screamed.

“Go away,” Vitas groaned in his first moments of consciousness. The sun, hidden behind clouds, gave no hint at the time of day. But it was hot. Vitas guessed it to be the early part of the afternoon.

The person applying salve to his back ignored him. “While you were unconscious, I bathed your wounds in salt water.”

It was the Jew, John.

Vitas was flat on his chest and stomach, on a blanket on the deck of the ship. He flinched as a hand again softly touched his lower back.

“The captain has provided some wine mixed with myrrh,” John said. “It’s in the wineskin beside you.”

“Go away,” Vitas repeated. “I don’t want your help.”

“How can I stand by as you suffer?” John asked.

“You can’t understand my pain.” Vitas had woken from a dreamlike vision of Sophia. It had begun pleasantly, a memory of standing beside her on a ship much like this, returning to Rome from Caesarea. Only a few months after that journey, their life together had ended in a nightmare, at a dinner party with the emperor, when Nero reached for her hand with a leer. “I want to be left alone.”

“As you wish. But not until all your wounds are covered.”

Vitas groaned again. He reached for the wineskin, a movement that sent searing pain across his back.

John reached the wineskin for him and tilted it to Vitas’s mouth. Vitas gulped it like water. Anything to dull the intensity of the pain that filled his consciousness.

“Only enough to ease the pain,” John cautioned as he applied more salve.

Vitas did not want to admit that it soothed him.

“What is your name?” John asked.

“Go away.” Vitas wanted to owe this man nothing. Wanted to share nothing of his anguish. All he cared about was returning to Rome to search for his wife.

“It is against the law for a Roman citizen to be scourged,” John said. “And given that the crew believes I’m your slave, all would have understood if you had ordered me to take your place.”

“Go away.”

“What are you afraid of, Roman? What makes you so determined to contain yourself against the world? to be the one so arrogant that you help others and refuse to be helped yourself?”

“Go away.”

“You are your own man,” John said. “You make your own destiny. Is that it? You need nobody?”

“Go away.”

“You think I am helping you because I owe you my life twice?”

“I think you are deaf. How many times need I ask you to leave?”

John’s laugh was gentle and good-natured. “Roman of the unknown name, I can guess you come from wealth and power. Months ago you defied Nero to save my life and the prisoners with me. Now someone has gone to great lengths to put you on this ship. This is not something to expect from a common man. Yet let me ask you something: how much is all your power and wealth worth when your life ends?”

“No philosophy,” Vitas said. He sighed as the warmth of his first gulps began to ease his pain. “I’ll take wine instead.”

“What’s your burden?” John said. “No matter how heavy, I can show you the way to ease it.”

“You’ll take my burden away. And you call me arrogant?”

“I can’t take your burdens. Of course, neither can your wine. But I know someone who can. He came from God and—”

“Go away,” Vitas groaned. “Leave the wine but go away.”

There was a final soothing touch on his upper back.

“Certainly,” John said. “I will pray for your quick healing.” The man stood.

Then Vitas was left alone.

He struggled to drink from the wineskin by himself. Yet more wine could not help him escape the Jew’s questions.

What are you afraid of, Roman? What makes you so determined to contain yourself against the world? to be the one so arrogant that you help others and refuse to be helped yoursel
f
?

The wine and myrrh began to take effect, a mercy that took away more and more of his pain.

“My name is Vitas,” Vitas mumbled just before he fell into an exhausted sleep. He had not shed tears since boyhood and hardly realized he was weeping now. “Gallus Sergius Vitas. And I want forgiveness for killing my son.”

Hora Duodecima

Jerome stepped through the archway into a strangely silent household.

Usually, even when he arrived home after sunset, like he had on this evening, his two little boys and the daughter who was still a toddler were waiting to squeal and giggle as they jumped on his massive body. He would walk around with them clinging to him, his heart filled with gratitude and joy that in his domestic refuge he was not a mute freak to be feared or marveled at, that nothing within these walls would require him to use his strength to hurt other humans.

Not on this night.

The light of a lamp glowed in the room beyond.

Jerome frowned.
Where are they?

The too-short hours spent with his wife and children were all in this life that sustained his soul. Damian permitted Jerome the late afternoon and early evening with his wife and three young children. Damian did expect, however, that Jerome would return from the slaves’ quarters to Damian’s bedroom by the second watch of the night, when Jerome and two dogs would sleep in the doorway as Damian’s protectors.

Jerome called out as best as he could, a low-pitched mewling sound. It was a noise he hated. Too soon his children would grow up and realize what it meant about their father. That he was a man incapable of expressing his thoughts, which for all practical purposes made him less than human.

No children came running from the darkness of the other room.

He thought, however, that he heard the sound of sobbing.

Marcia! His wife.

Marcia had been given to Jerome years before by the Roman who owned him before Damian. She was Parthian, taken in a battle as booty, and at the first sight of Jerome, she’d fainted in fear.

But Jerome had proven unwilling to use her in the way that his previous owner had intended—as a gift for the giant—and for the first month, they had lived in Jerome’s slave’s quarters, shyly aware of the other but sleeping separately. Because Jerome could not speak or read or write, Marcia had been forced to take the first steps, speaking short monologues at first, then longer and longer, trying to judge his reaction by watching the muscles of his face.

Now, all these years later, it gave Marcia great pride that he only smiled for her and for the children; outside of their quarters his expression had a perpetual impassiveness that hid his feelings from the world.

In the kitchen area, he found her on the floor, sitting against the wall.

Yes, sobbing. Her face was buried almost in her chest, the glow of the lamplight bouncing off her dark hair.

Jerome lurched forward and knelt beside her. He put a massive arm around her delicate shoulders.

She refused to look up at him.

Where were the children? He despised himself for being unable to do something as simple as ask.

Again, he forced himself to mewl, hoping she would respond, knowing that he made noise only under great duress.

She continued to sob.

Jerome saw that the fingers of each hand were clenched.

He lifted her hands in the lamplight.

She did not resist.

In her left hand, he recognized a wooden doll that he had carved for their daughter.

On the fingers of her right hand were dark, wet smudges. When he opened those fingers, something fell at his feet. Lightly. It landed with no noise.

He couldn’t make sense of it immediately.

When he picked it up and placed it in his palm to see better in the light, a great fear and horror washed through him.

It was a tiny ear.

“You look ridiculous,” Helius said. “Take that wig off.”

Castinus gave Helius a craven smile, blinking both eyes. “I decided today it would be safer to come in disguise,” Castinus said. “If Damian ever suspected—”

“Of course it’s a disguise.” Helius found both habits irritating. The frequent smile. The blinking that made it appear as if Castinus flinched with each smile. “Are you suggesting I’m not capable of realizing that myself?”

“N-no, no,” Castinus stammered. Another smile. More blinking.

“Well then?” Helius demanded. “Get on with it.”

“Today, there was a woman at the steam bath—”

“I meant, well then, why haven’t you removed that ridiculous wig?”

“Oh.” Castinus did as ordered.

He stood before Helius in a woman’s tunic. Skinny hunched shoulders. Chicken neck with prominent Adam’s apple. Rouged cheeks. Darkened eyebrows. Wig tucked under arm.

Helius snapped, “Now you look even more ridiculous.”

Castinus began to stammer an apology.

“Enough,” Helius said. “I’ll endure what I have to. Tell me why I should care about a woman at the steam bath. From what I hear, women visitors are common for Damian. I’m not interested in sordid details.”

Indeed, he was not. With Nero as emperor, a man or woman’s improprieties had no leverage. Nero, as he often exclaimed, was convinced that nobody could remain chaste or pure in any part of the body; if anybody confessed to obscene practices, Nero would forgive that person of any crime except treason.

Castinus wiped at his greasy hair, and Helius grimaced openly. The slave was a hideous man, but to see him as a parody of a woman made it even worse. Castinus explained the appearance of the private litter outside the steam bath and how he had stood close enough to the curtains to hear all that had been spoken.

“Let me understand this,” Helius said. “The widow of Lucius Bellator is on a determined quest to find her stepson and stepdaughter.”

“She is willing to pay any amount for Damian to find them in Judea and return them to Rome.”

Helius knew Alypia and knew her reputation. It was odd, this sudden maternal devotion. He had a good guess as to her real intentions. It would bear watching; if he was correct, it would prove a good opportunity to bleed her estate. Without Nero’s knowledge.

“Excellent,” Helius said. And regretted it immediately. The hideous man’s face lit as if Helius had patted him on the head.

“What of the slave Jerome? Were Tigellinus’s men able to find his wife?” Helius said.

“Yes. His men found the woman as I directed.”

“Her children?” Helius asked.

“Gone. She was nearly hysterical, waiting for Jerome to return.”

“Excellent,” Helius repeated, not caring this time that the slave beamed again. At least one thing was going well. He knew where Tigellinus had intended to keep the children and would deal with it later. “Most excellent.”

“There’s more,” Castinus said. “It’s about the captive that Damian has held hidden since the evening of Saturn.”

“Then continue,” Helius said. “This is what I pay you for.”

A steady drumming woke Vitas. He was still facedown on blankets on the deck, and afternoon light was fading.

It took him a moment to realize that a portion of the growing darkness resulted from a tentlike shelter that had been built above him. And that the drumming resulted from a steady rain.

His ears told him that the wind, too, had lessened. The sails snapped with less frequency; the mast did not creak as loudly from the strain of ropes holding the sails.

He was shivering. Perhaps his muscles trembled in a delayed reaction to the whipping. Or perhaps because the air temperature had dropped—the pleasant afternoon warmth was giving way to the bite of the evening.

Vitas moved his arms and legs cautiously, intending to stop if the scabs on his back and thighs began to crack. But the salve that the Jew had applied allowed an unexpected suppleness.

The wine he’d taken earlier to ease his pain, however, had left him with a terrible thirst, made more excruciating by the sound of the fresh, clean water falling from the skies onto the sheeting that had been rigged to protect him.

Vitas doubted he had the strength to rise to his feet and look for a wineskin of water. Not yet.

He wanted to call for the Jew but had too much pride. He’d sent the man away in anger. To call out now would be a sign of weakness. That thought brought a snort to Vitas. A sign of weakness.

Had he ever been more broken in his life than this? A month earlier, he’d had all he ever believed a man could want. Enough wealth. Enough power. And a completion of his life through the marriage to a woman he loved and adored and cherished.

Now? She’d been taken from him. He was a fugitive from the emperor. He was powerless to stop the ship that carried him away from Rome, too powerless even to look for water, a substance so inexpensive and plentiful that even the poorest of poor in the slums of Rome never lacked for it.

What in his life could he truly control?

It was a terrifying thought. He tried to push it out of his mind. But could not.

The Jew had called him arrogant. Vitas wanted to believe he’d made a decision to jump off the ship and rescue the man from drowning because he hated injustice. Because the man had needed help. Because in his lifetime, Vitas had seen far too much of the abuse of power.

But had he really done it to prove to the captain that he, Vitas, still controlled the situation? Was John right? Had he done it because he was arrogant enough to believe that he controlled not only his destiny but the destiny of others?

Or worse, had he done it because of the horror he could never escape, memories of his final battle against the Iceni in Britannia? Had he done it to try to repay the gods for the unpunished wrong he had committed there?

Vitas growled.

He was a man. A Roman whose family had been founded almost as far back as Rome itself. A Roman who had fought savage battles and lived to receive the spoils of triumph because of it.

He was a man of action. Why was he wasting his energy on these thoughts?

Despite his pain, Vitas felt his resolve grow. And that gave him strength. A man did what a man must do. It was that simple. His situation looked bleak now, but he was alive.

He would heal. He would find a way back to Rome. He would rescue his wife, find a place in the provinces where Nero would not know of his existence, and use his brains and talent to recover what he had lost.

A man did what a man must do.

With that settled in his mind, his desperate sense of thirst returned.

Water!

He decided it would be strength, not weakness, that allowed him to call out for John. He needed the water to begin his healing process. A man of will knew that, and a man of will would do what a man must do.

Even with this argument in his mind, he could not force himself to call out for the Jew.

Soon enough, he told himself, he would find the strength to leave the shelter and find his own water. But his thirst overwhelmed him. Could he not even control the desires of his body?

As he fought his pride, the Jew appeared unbidden. Silently, John handed him a wineskin, this one filled with cool water.

Vitas drank with savage greed. “Thank you.” It was enough of a concession, was it not?

John nodded. There was still enough light for Vitas to see the man’s features. There was gentleness in his face. And strength.

“This is yours,” John said. “It fell from your tunic earlier. When I brought you up on the deck during your fever. I intended to give it to you much sooner, but circumstances, of course, did not allow it.”

John placed a scroll in the hands of Vitas.

“You’ve read it?” Vitas said.

“It is not mine,” John answered.

The man departed, leaving Vitas with a vague shame for questioning his honor.

Vitas pushed himself up on his elbows to examine the scroll.

That the scroll had not been read was easily confirmed, for the wax seal was unbroken. Vitas hoped the seal would give him a clue to identify the person who had sent it through the stranger in the cell. He examined it closely, but it gave nothing away.

Then, with only minutes of light remaining until it would be too dark to read further, Vitas broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.