The Last Disciple (32 page)

“I am suggesting that this is an evil world and in the confusion of soldiers sent out to destroy, anything can look like an unfortunate accident. Something a man like Florus would be highly aware of.”

“Not my family. Impossible. My father—”

“Lucius does not have the power to stop these events.” Maglorius released her shoulder. “Listen to me. You will remain here until I return with Quintus and Sabinus. You will—”

Three Roman soldiers burst through the door, swords drawn. Their faces were flecked with gore, and they screamed with bloodlust.

Against the advice of Vitas, Bernice had chosen to gamble.

After dismissing Olithar, she’d argued to Vitas that because it was not a formal battle but a melee of soldiers set loose to pillage and kill, the individual Romans would rather choose targets who were helpless than stand ground and risk their lives unnecessarily by fighting a group of armed royal guards.

Vitas had argued in return that if Florus was determined to have this riot, no amount of supplication would deter him.

She’d said she was going, and he could choose to join her or stay behind. It was a remarkable first meeting.

He’d chosen to go with her. Sophia was in the city somewhere. He would need help to find her, especially under these circumstances.

Cries of horror and screams of pain were constant. Among the confusion of men and women running from soldiers in the crooked narrow streets, it was difficult for Vitas to determine the source of any specific cry of horror. What he could see allowed him to understand that no one was safe, even those who had chosen to hide in a house or a shop.

Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers were behaving no differently than a mob rioting and looting out of control. Their military gear gave them a double advantage over mere rioters, however. Soldiers clearly recognized other soldiers, of course, and did not waste time fighting each other. And they were protected by breastplates and leg and body armor, armed with razor-sharp swords, and were at the height of physical fitness. Few among the Jews had a chance in an individual battle; those who seemed to put up good resistance were immediately swarmed by other soldiers.

Because those who fled into the shops and houses were often forced out within minutes by soldiers who broke down the doors, the streets were constantly refilled with people fleeing soldiers, and soldiers pouring back into the streets to pursue them.

The slaughter had been happening for nearly an hour. The streets in places were red with blood, visible even to Bernice on the balcony of the palace. Frequently, those fleeing the soldiers slipped on the blood and were killed where they fell. Not frequently enough, a soldier would fall, and the pursued would gain a short reprieve until another soldier spotted the quarry.

The only advantage the unarmed populace had against the soldiers was the soldiers’ greed. They’d been given permission by Florus to plunder at will, and whenever a soldier stooped to search a body for jewelry or coins, it gave any civilians nearby a better chance to escape.

Vitas saw all this from his own horse, as he and a contingent of guards surrounded Bernice.

She sat astride a white horse, wearing a sackcloth. Her hair was loose and gray with ashes, her feet bare. The horse was surrounded by a dozen palace guards, all carrying spears and shields.

She guided the horse at the pace of a walking man, and her mount remained within the protective cluster of the guards on foot and other guards on horseback.

Vitas marveled at her composure. Bodies were everywhere. Stabbed. Headless.

The wounded filled the doorways where they had crawled—if they could—for safety. Other wounded, too butchered to do anything but groan from where they fell, littered the streets.

The blood in places actually flowed, as if there had been a heavy rain, and Bernice’s horse snorted nervously, sometimes prancing sideways. It took all her skill as a rider to keep it under control.

These were images Vitas had hoped never to see again, not after his time in Britannia. Yet here he was. And just as helpless to stop the carnage as he’d been there against the Iceni.

As their short journey continued, Roman soldiers occasionally rounded a corner and stopped in surprise at the sight of the phalanx of guards.

Bernice’s argument proved correct. Each time, the soldiers ignored them. Some soldiers turned in pursuit of a man or a woman still trapped in the markets. Others were too heavily burdened with luxury goods from the looted shops to do much except continue in the direction they’d been walking.

Finally, they arrived at the gate of the Antonia Fortress.

Bernice called to the guard at the tower.

The gates did not open.

“I am the queen of the Jews!” she called. “I demand an audience with Florus.”

The Roman above her disappeared.

Screams from the city streets continued to echo. The smell of burning wood drifted in from some of the shops that were now blazing.

Florus appeared. Above her. At the tower rampart.

“What is it?” He was forced to shout above the horrible noises of the markets.

Queen Bernice dismounted. She knelt on the stones of the street, craning her head upward to send her voice to Florus. “I am here in supplication,” she cried. “Barefoot. Bareheaded. I beg of you to call your soldiers away from the killing.”

Florus laughed. “I killed your messenger. Why should I not kill you, too?”

“I am begging you. Please, please listen.”

Two Roman soldiers marched down the street toward them.

She did not notice, but Florus did. “Find a child!” he shouted at them. “Bring the child here and decapitate it in front of the queen of the Jews!”

“No!” Bernice screamed. “No!” She stood, throwing her hands skyward. “I beg of you!”

“Two children!” Florus yelled at the soldiers. “Now!”

“You cannot do this!” Bernice cried. “How can I convince you to stop this?”

“Three children!” Florus shouted at the soldiers, who had begun to trot away at his earlier order. “The younger the better!” He leered down at Bernice. “When will you Jews learn not to infuriate Rome?”

“I beg you!”

Florus laughed. “Perhaps you should offer me more than supplication! It will make up for all the times at banquets you have ignored me as if I were rotting meat. Or perhaps I’ll just take you without any offer on your part!”

He motioned to the royal guard beside him, pointing downward. Seconds later, the gate to the fortress opened, and soldiers swarmed toward Bernice and her guards.

“Leave!” the captain of the royal guard shouted at her. “Now.”

Bernice hesitated.

The Roman soldiers slowed to a walk and threw up their shields. Standing side by side, the shields made an impenetrable barrier.

As they advanced, two royal guards grabbed Bernice and threw her on her horse.

“No!” Bernice cried. “Florus, stop this!”

“Come up and visit!” Florus taunted from his view. “Show me how badly you want your people spared.”

Another palace guard grabbed the reins of her horse and turned it back toward the palace.

Bernice twisted, trying to call out to Florus again.

Yet another guard jabbed his spear into the hindquarters of her horse, and it bolted forward toward Vitas. Her own guards parted to let her through, then fell in rank to face the Roman soldiers.

Vitas looked up at Florus from his horse.

They made eye contact, but Florus did not seem to recognize Vitas dressed in his simple garb. Florus opened his mouth as if to shout something. Then shut it. A royal guard yelled for retreat, and the moment was broken.

Vitas spun his horse around and followed the others as they all fled the advancing Roman soldiers.

Maglorius backed Valeria and Sophia and Sarai into a corner and walked forward to face the soldiers. “Please,” he said. “Go. Leave this household in peace.”

“We leave it in death!” one answered and slashed downward at Maglorius, who leaped backward but grabbed the soldier’s arm as the blow continued to the floor. Maglorius kicked the soldier’s feet, and as the soldier fell, he slammed his right foot into the soldier’s head.

Maglorius had not lost his grip on the soldier’s arm. He twisted it, using the soldier’s sword to block a blow from the second soldier. It was a small room, and that prevented both remaining soldiers from surrounding him.

With a grunt, Maglorius yanked the sword loose from the fallen soldier and spun hard, blocking yet another blow. He parried once more, then jabbed.

The second soldier fell, gurgling from a hole in his neck.

Maglorius roared at the third, and with swiftness nearly impossible for Valeria to follow in the dim light, thrust and parried and overwhelmed the final soldier in a matter of seconds.

The silence—after the ringing of steel against steel—struck Valeria with the same impact as the suddenness of the attack.

“This . . . this . . .” Valeria could not find words to complete her sentence. She faltered as she noticed Maglorius’s head bowed in prayer.

“Forgive me, Father,” he said, “for the deaths of these men.”

Moaning drew her attention.

Maglorius raised his head and stepped past Valeria.

Sarai was on her knees, staring down with disbelief at the blood that gushed from her hands where she held her belly. In the violence and confusion, one of the soldiers had succeeded in breaching Maglorius’s defense.

“My baby,” she said so quietly that Valeria wasn’t sure the woman had spoken. “My baby.”

Maglorius knelt beside Sarai.

“I am not afraid of death, Maglorius. But the baby. I want it to live.” Sarai began to weep. The blood flowed freely down the front of the woman’s dress.

Maglorius closed his eyes briefly. “This is what they are doing across the city. May the Christos have mercy on the women and children.”

Sarai sighed and slumped forward. Her eyes were open and she continued to breathe.

“Hold her hand,” Maglorius said to Valeria.

Blood. The intimacy of another person’s blood. And a stranger at that. Yet it flashed across Valeria’s mind:
None are strangers in the presence of death.

She knelt beside Maglorius, unheeding of the blood that stained her silk dress.

The woman tried to smile at Valeria. “Good-bye, my baby,” she whispered. “May Christos welcome you home with me.”

Maglorius placed an arm around Sarai’s shoulder and cradled her. She fell limply against it.

“‘Don’t be troubled,’” Maglorius whispered. “‘You trust God, now trust in me. There are many rooms in my Father’s home, and I am going to prepare a place for you.’” He paused and stroked Sarai’s face. “Remember, these were His words. Take comfort in them.”

Sarai’s eyes began to close slowly.

Then opened.

“I see light,” she said. She smiled. “My child. A boy! We are walking. He holds my hand with his tiny fingers. . . .”

Sarai’s eyes widened, but she was looking past Valeria. She cried out in joyful greeting, “Christos!”

The woman died with that smile on her face.

Maglorius set her down gently.

Valeria was transfixed by the woman’s smile and did not notice immediately that Maglorius had pulled a dagger from his cloak.

He grabbed Valeria by the hair and pulled her head back so her throat was exposed.

She was too startled to scream.

The dagger came down and slashed through her hair.

“Maglorius!”

He ignored her struggle and hacked until her hair was as short as a boy’s. “No one must guess you are the daughter of Lucius Bellator. All Jews hate the Roman tax collectors, and to them he is the worst of all. After I leave, search for clothes here. Sarai’s husband’s clothes. He works at the sheep dip, and they will serve to completely hide who you are.”

Maglorius reached under his tunic. With rapid movements, he untied a belt hidden beneath. “Here,” he said, holding it out.

She took the heavy pouch.

“Gold,” he said.

“This is a fortune,” she said. “Where did you get it? Why? And why give it to me now?”

“When you get to the tunnels—”

“Tunnels!”

He continued as if she had not interrupted. “Those who live beneath the city will kill for a few shekels. Find a place to hide this pouch. You can return to it as you need to, taking a little each time.”