The Last Sacrifice (18 page)

In his own lavatory, Helius had contemplated immediate suicide, but with the guard outside and no way of getting to a knife to slit his wrists, he found he didn’t have enough courage to force a sponge down his throat.

This contrast, too, seemed ironic. He was one of the most powerful men in the empire, yet he did not possess the courage and defiance in the face of gruesome death owned by the most penniless of Christians in the arena.

After washing, he’d meekly gone toward his audience with Nero, telling himself he would talk his way out of trouble, rehearsing his plea.

Yes, I deserve execution. But with me dead, Vitas will surely escape. And what will serve you better? Punishment, just as it is, meted out to me? Or the capture of Vitas to end any threats of a plot against you?

Helius knew this was Nero’s biggest terror. A plot to assassinate him. He would carefully capitalize on Nero’s fear and hope for the best.

Helius continued to rehearse his arguments as he passed the expensive tapestries hanging on the walls, the sculptures and busts. To think he would no longer enjoy these beautiful luxuries as if they were his.

It was a consolation of sorts that if he was killed, he’d still have his revenge on Vitas. For if the escape of Vitas had led to this—a death sentence from Nero—then at least Helius had started a chain of events that would kill Vitas. Vitas would pay for what happened today.

When Helius reached Nero, his legs were trembling. He was glad that his toga draped most of his body.

Worse, Sporus sat on a nearby cushion to witness whatever nightmare Nero would decree on him. Helius took no satisfaction in the boy’s pallor and obvious pain. If Nero could castrate someone as an act of love, it was unimaginable what he might unleash in rage; except Helius knew too well by now what to imagine.

“Helius,” Nero said in a hearty voice.

Faked camaraderie?

Helius remembered how he himself had stroked the face of Sporus before pronouncing the boy’s fate, knowing that pretended affection would accentuate the horror about to be inflicted. Was Nero playing the same game?

“I sent the guards because I wanted you here immediately,” Nero said. He frowned as he examined Helius. “Are you feeling well?”

“Indigestion,” Helius lied.

“Find the cook responsible and feed him to the lions.” Nero laughed at his own joke. “Let him spoil their digestion in place of those unpalatable Christians.”

Was Nero setting up a terrible punch line?

“Excellent plan, as always,” Helius managed to say.

“That’s why you’re here,” Nero said.

It was like Nero had reached out to squeeze Helius’s heart.

“Excellent planning?” Helius uttered in a choked voice.

“Indeed. It’s about my trip to Greece.”

Greece.
This was the first ray of hope for Helius. Greece?

“I may be gone for months,” Nero said. “As you know, I am their favorite god.”

What Helius knew was that Nero lavished money on Greek cities willing to put up temples for the purpose of worshiping him.

“You are their only god,” Helius said. “As is just and fair and right.”

Nero nodded. “While I cannot leave Sporus behind,” he said, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you with me. I hope you’ll understand.”

“Of course,” Helius said. His mood had gone from terrified self-preservation to rage at the unfairness of it. He’d been totally replaced by Sporus. A boy with no manhood!

“After all,” Nero continued, “you are the one person I trust to handle all the affairs of Rome in my absence.”

Rage died. Had Helius heard right?

“You will accept this responsibility, won’t you?”

All of the affairs of Rome?
Helius would become de facto emperor!

“Helius?”

He realized he’d been so stunned by this unexpected offer that he had not replied to Nero.

“You are pleased, aren’t you?” Nero sounded anxious.

Helius smiled broadly at his emperor.

“Pleased?” Helius answered. “Beyond anything you could imagine.”

The ship was now five hundred yards away from Charybdis. Between the landmasses, the wind had funneled and blew hard. Three crewmen were holding a rope that had been used to lower Betto at the stern of the boat.

Finally, Vitas heard the words that gave him relief.

“Sails up!” Betto shouted. “Put a man on the steering oar!”

As the three crew members pulled Betto back onto the ship, the other crewmen began hoisting rope to pull up the square rig and topsail.

Four hundred yards to Charybdis. It seemed the ship was still gaining speed in the tidal current.

A gust of wind caught the square rig and tilted the ship dangerously. A cacophony of curses burst from the crew as they tried to trim the sails.

Three hundred yards.

Vitas saw more debris pulled into the vortex and sucked out of sight. The dashing of waves on the rocks of the cliff behind the whirlpool threw spray at least thirty feet into the air. If the ship spun into Charybdis, it would certainly spin out again into the sharp rocks.

Two hundred yards.

Betto was on deck again. He dashed to the steering oar and leaned into it.The ship seemed to groan. The mainmast creaked. Again the ship tilted, throwing Vitas off balance.

Then slowly, surely, the ship began to turn away from the giant whirlpool.

A hundred yards.

Would the steering oar hold under the tremendous pressure against wind and current?

Fifty yards.

Vitas ran across the pitching deck toward John. “Rope,” Vitas said tersely. He was angry at himself for not thinking of it earlier. “We’ve got time to rope ourselves to the railing.”

But Vitas was wrong.

What seemed like seconds later, the hull of the ship touched the edge of the vortex.

Vitas prepared himself for the violence of a plunging, swirling ship.

But the weight of the ship was too great, and the wind in the sail too strong. The ship continued through the edge, untouched by the whirlpool. The cliffs of Scylla began to recede.

Pavo approached. “Ahead is Messana,” he growled at Vitas. “It’s obvious we’re going to have to stop in the harbor to repair the steering oar.”

Messana. With a nearby legion. Surely among the soldiers was someone who knew of Vitas. He could stay here, send for Sophia, find a way to—

“I’m going to have to place you in chains until we leave harbor again,” Pavo said. “So don’t entertain any thoughts of escape.”

Before Vitas could protest, Pavo pointed at John. “You’ll be in chains as well. I don’t like the two of you together. It makes me wonder what you’re plotting, and it makes the crew nervous. So you’ll each stay in those chains, kept well apart until just before we arrive in Alexandria.”

Part III

22 months after the beginning of the Tribulation

AD 66

Jerusalem

Province of Judea

Now learn this lesson from the fig tree: As soon as its twigs get tender and its leaves come out, you know that summer is near. Even so, when you see all these things, you know that it is near, right at the door.

—Matthew 24:32-33

13 Av

The Tenth Hour

Quintus began to stalk the soldiers just after they crossed the moat that protected the vulnerable north and east walls of Antonia Fortress.

He had waited on the flat roof of a nearby wool shop for three hours for this opportunity, rising and dashing down the steps on the outside of the building on sturdy little legs as soon as the massive fortress gates had begun to swing open. His patience in the late-summer heat was all the more remarkable because he was only seven years old. He was small for his age but intelligent and quick—two qualities that, along with his newly learned patience, had served him well during weeks of foraging the crowded market streets of Jerusalem.

Quintus had known there would be time to find a hiding spot in an alley near the moat before the soldiers passed by. The troops would assume a protective formation on the bridge until the gate closed behind them again, a military procedure that Quintus had observed previously and understood and appreciated without needing anyone to explain.

The smell of dye permeated the hot, calm air of the alley, along with faint traces of the stench of curing hides from the tanning factories past the clothes market and blacksmith shops that lined the street farther down. There had been a time when Quintus would have curled his nostrils at the slightest of smells, but he was past that now. The expensive laced boots of leather that he’d been so proud of in the days of servants and hot baths were cut open at the toes to allow room for his growing feet, and by necessity he’d long since discarded the blue tunic that would have marked him as a spoiled Roman boy. Now he wore rags he’d found in a garbage heap.

As the soldiers marched past him, heading west into the afternoon sun, Quintus counted. A dozen soldiers were mounted on horses, wearing the colors of the royal troops sent by King Agrippa. Another dozen were on foot, obviously part of the Roman garrison stationed in Antonia Fortress.

This was good, he thought. Not too many to discourage an attack by the rebels but enough troops to defend themselves well. With luck, there would be serious casualties on both sides and sufficient chaos to take advantage of it.

Yes
, Quintus told himself,
definitely worth the risk.

He waited until their long shadows disappeared from the cobblestones in front of him and then scurried out of the alley to follow.

It didn’t matter to him why they’d left the safety of the fortress. Only that there was a good chance the rebels would learn of it soon enough to attack.

“Why the delay?” Falco asked the centurion. In the shade at the base of a small cliff, he was tired of travel and still far too hot. Ahead would be rest and food and a place to bathe himself of the wretched Judean dust.

The cliff was just off the road that came from Caesarea, near the crest of a broken hill that gave travelers their first view of Jerusalem.

“If you’d been to Jerusalem before, you would understand.” The centurion normally would not bother to explain himself, but if Falco was important enough to command this escort from the procurator, there was no sense in offending the man.

“What’s to understand?” Falco said. “We’ve stopped when I’d rather finish this hellish journey.”

“This.” The centurion, a hulking man who limped heavily, led Falco away from the twenty soldiers under his command, along the last few paces of the road to the crest.

Falco sucked in a breath of surprise at the vista ahead. In contrast to the reds and browns of the other hills, the Temple Mount seemed to blaze as the gold-plated marble bounced sunlight in all directions. Other blocks of marble, brilliant white, formed the mansions of the upper city. Rooftop gardens made jewels of emerald green.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” the centurion said. “Such a quarrelsome people and such a beautiful city.”

“This doesn’t explain our delay.” Although Falco was balding and pudgy and wheezed continuously like a sweating peasant, he was a sophisticated man who lived in Rome. He refused to echo the centurion’s grudging admiration for Jerusalem.

“I’ve been commanded to take you there,” the centurion said, pointing at the western wall of the city. “Herod’s palace. It’s in the upper city and safe from rebels, but if we go through the city itself, we expose ourselves to attack.”

The centurion pointed at hills west of the city. “If we detour to come in from the west, we may not make it before sunset, and besides that, I’m sure you don’t want an extra couple hours of travel.”

Falco grunted. “I trust, then, you are suggesting a safer alternative.” He mopped his forehead with a square piece of silk.

“Along the top of the second wall of the city,” the centurion explained. “It leads to the palace. There may be trouble from catapults, but it’s unlikely. The rebels are poorly armed and poorly trained. To this point, their limited success has been the result of enthusiasm rather than skill.”

“The second wall?”

“The outer wall in front of us,” the centurion explained, “is one of three. It protects the new portion of the city that’s expanded beyond the second wall. The only danger we face is along the market street from the gates of the third wall to the tower at the Damascus Gate at the second wall inside.”

“Danger? I was promised a secure trip.”

“Which is why we’re waiting. With luck, the runner I sent ahead has already delivered my request for reinforcements from Antonia to meet us at a gate of the third wall. If we form a large enough group, the rebels won’t dare to attack as we travel from there through the city to the second wall.”

So this
, Boaz thought with a sense of triumph as he stepped through the doorway into opulence,
is the mansion that I’ve legally stolen for one month of a tradesman’s wages.
Boaz allowed his gaze to move leisurely from one object of luxury to another. Tapestries. Bowls of colored glass. Ornate tile flooring. All of it so very, very beautiful. But not as beautiful as the one object in front of him that had filled him with lust for years.

Amaris. The wife of Simeon Ben-Aryeh. Wearing a simple tunic and a shawl.

“Greetings,” he said to her. They were not alone. A woman servant had escorted him here to the center of her upper-city residence and stepped to the side of the room.

Amaris nodded. Not suspicious. Not friendly. But neutral.

This was a woman worthy of glory, the kind Solomon praised with his songs of love. A woman who carried herself with a grace that promised much to the man who could conquer her. Dark thick hair that would brush a man’s face as he held her close on hot summer nights. Lips with a hint of pout, and eyes that seemed to look into a man’s heart. Sensual, but not brazen.

How Boaz wanted her. His mouth was dry with this desire, but at the same time he resented her. Because he knew how he appeared to her and all other women. Short. Clumsy. A bulbous nose and little hair, except for a straggly beard. He knew it was more than his appearance, however. It was as if women sensed his hungry appraisal of them.

Yet they could never show revulsion, because of his wealth and high standing. Even now, he wore phylacteries fastened by long leather strips to his forehead and around his left arm, near his heart. These were small scrolls of parchment in square capsules, covered with leather, containing sections of the Law of Scripture. They constantly rustled against the expensive fabric of his robe. Wherever he walked in the city, people knew he was a Pharisee of great stature.

“This visit is unexpected,” Amaris said, “but certainly not unwelcome.”

The female servant hovered nearby, but Amaris did not dismiss her. Decorum. Without a husband in the household, it would not be proper to be alone with another man.

Boaz didn’t mind that their conversation would not be private. The servant would stay with the household and would have soon enough learned the reason for his visit anyway. He didn’t waste time with chitchat. No amount of charm would win Amaris, so why embarrass himself with something he did badly anyway?

“It’s unfortunate,” he said. “Not only has your husband deserted you, but he also made no arrangements to honor his debts in his absence from Jerusalem. I’m here as an unsatisfied creditor.”

Aside from a widening of the eyes, Amaris gave him no response. It was far less satisfying than he’d expected.

“Your husband has defaulted on several contracts that I own.” This close to her—this close to possessing her—Boaz ran a dry tongue against the equally dry roof of his mouth. “As a result, I am here to claim this house.”

“My husband never borrowed money from you.” Amaris actually stepped forward.

“I doubt you’re familiar with all his financial affairs.”

“Of course not. Neither are you.”

Despite his discomfort, Boaz found it fascinating that she refused to be intimidated. It added to his desire to possess her. How much sweeter, then, to make her beg to stay with him.

“But I’m sure you know my reputation as a businessman,” Boaz said. “And I know far more about finances than nearly any man in the city. There are complicated matters beyond your understanding.”

“I understand that wealth does not make a man happy.”

If she meant that as a taunt, it was masterful. Boaz was not a happy man. Not yet. But did she know she was the solution?

“In the archives,” Boaz said, “the record keepers have several contracts that your husband set up with various merchants. These merchants, in turn, have secured loans from me by using those contracts as assets. The terms are due.”

“Then I shall reimburse you.”

Boaz smiled. “It is too late. According to the terms of the contracts, the debts were not paid in a timely fashion.”

“How could I pay those debts if I was unaware of them? Surely—”

“A judge has already decided in my favor. This house is the settlement. See how little understanding you have of the matters of men?”

“What I understand,” she snapped, “is that you are a puppet for Annas the Younger.”

Boaz shrugged. Puppet or not, a close business relationship with Annas the Younger had proven lucrative over the years. Like this situation, for example. Because of the turmoil in the city, Annas had suggested it was the opportune time for Boaz to take advantage of a lenient judge. Whatever outrage the friends of Ben-Aryeh might raise about this would be lost in the greater troubles inflicted on the upper city by the rebels.

Amaris continued, her eyes blazing. “We all know how pleased Annas was to threaten my husband with execution. Let me guess: Annas arranged for you to purchase these contracts and then sent you here.”

“Your husband,” Boaz countered, upper lip curled in a sneer, “raped a woman. Then fled before he could be put on trial for the capital punishment he deserved. He chose to abandon you, leaving behind these debts.”

Let her consider that, Boaz thought. Perhaps then a short man with a lot of money might seem very attractive in comparison.

“Leave,” she said. “I will not allow my husband’s character to be slandered in his own house.”

“It is no longer his house,” he said, not moving, “but mine.”

“Leave.” Her arms were crossed. The bare flesh of her forearms against her shawl was very attractive.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” Boaz licked his upper lip. “We could make an arrangement. You are not a young woman by any stretch. And neither are you a virgin. But I am willing to overlook that to allow you to stay in my house.”

“You poor man,” she said. “You poor, poor man.”

“It’s simple,” Boaz said, pretending her opinion did not matter. “You stay in the house. Or you leave. Ask yourself how long it will be until you are selling your body in the streets. And you certainly won’t get what women twenty years younger than you command for a price.”

“I’ve seen you on public corners,” she said. “Your prayers are long and extravagant.” She moved closer and reached for him.

He flinched, but she was only pointing to the phylacteries hanging from his forehead.

“You have adorned yourself with God’s words, but you do not bear the mark of God. Your actions reveal the true condition of your heart. You neither believe God’s Word nor obey it.” She stepped back. “Is this what you really want to do?”