The Last Disciple (6 page)

“Wait,” Helius said. “Unscroll it so these two can see the back of it again.”

At his instructions, the woman and the teenage boy looked closely at the three-letter word.

“Do either of you read Greek?” Helius asked.

Both shook their heads.

Helius sighed his disgust at their ignorance.

“But I’ve seen it before,” the boy said, eager to please. “Like graffiti . . . on the walls of the emperor’s palace. And once at the games. A Christian was dying. A lion had swiped open his belly, then moved on to another one. The first Christian was near the wall. He rubbed his hand on his bleeding belly and with his blood smeared that same word across the wall for everyone on the other side of the arena to see.”

This was what Helius had not wanted to hear. If this boy had seen it and recognized it, so had far too many of the people who wandered the city.

“You’re sure?” Helius said.

“Most sure. Look at it. It’s easy to remember, especially with the snake in the middle.”

Yes,
Helius thought,
easy to remember. Far too easy.
And Nero, too, had seen it on the palace walls. So far, Helius had managed to laugh it off with Nero, but the word had shown up far too often in the last weeks. If only, Helius wished, every Christian in the city were already dead so none remained to scrawl that mark in public places.

“What does it mean?” the boy asked.

“Nothing of importance,” Helius said. “Make sure you don’t powder my face so thickly that it is obvious.”

In one way, Helius was telling the truth. It was nothing but three Greek letters.

But in another way, the center symbol gave the appearance of the writhing serpent and represented its hissing sound, and that made it truly ominous. The first letter was the initial letter of the name of Christ. The last letter was a double letter, which began the Greek word for “cross,”
stauros
. And the symbol of the snake was trapped in between the two.

It was ominous in appearance.

And because its constant use in defiance of the persecution made so little sense to Helius, its mystery made it all the more ominous.

“Read the letter,” Helius barked at the old slave. He spoke to the woman and the boy. “You two, both of you, keep busy.”

One of Paulina’s sisters tried to push Aristarchus away from his exhausted wife as her birthing moans grew again in intensity.

He stood his ground, yelling at Paulina. “Don’t you understand? I am treasurer! I am a priest in the temple of Nero! You can serve any god but the Christos!”

Her moans continued to grow louder as the next wave of pain crested.

Aristarchus spoke to the eldest sister, his anger slipping into pleading. “The Christos demands service to no other gods. Our city depends on the largess of the divine Nero. Will the people allow me to remain treasurer if word spreads that my own wife refuses to worship Caesar?”

Agony ripped another scream from Paulina.

“Push,” the midwife urged. “Push!”

“Any other religion!” Aristarchus pleaded hoarsely. He struggled to make himself heard above the noise of his wife’s screaming. “Any other religion would make room for emperor worship! There are dozens to choose from. I won’t stand in the way of them! In every other matter of our marriage I give you what you want! But here, I put my foot down. No Christos, or I am ruined!”

“Push! Push!”

“Listen to me!” he shouted. “Even the Jews in this city reject the Christos! You must do the same. Listen!”

No one did.

The midwife lifted the sheet to check Paulina’s progress. “Push! Push! Your child is nearly here.”

Paulina shrieked, a mixture of torment and relief and joy.

“Push! Push!” The midwife caught the baby’s head as it entered the world. Its shoulders twisted sideways and the rest of the tiny body followed.

Paulina wept with relief.

The midwife gently placed the baby in Paulina’s arms, allowing the new mother to cradle it as she cut and tied the umbilical cord.

Aristarchus had stopped his ranting, mesmerized by the miracle that few Roman men witnessed. And briefly, one other item took priority over his fear for his employment and social standing. “Is it a boy?”

He didn’t wait for the answer but peered for himself. A sneer crossed his face. “She serves the Christos and gives me a daughter.”

Paulina ignored him and held her daughter close. “She’s beautiful,” she crooned, her pain and agony obviously forgotten. Serene joy lit her features. “Beautiful. And look at all her hair.”

“What’s her name?” one sister asked, sponging Paulina’s face with a damp cloth.

“Priscilla,” Paulina answered. “In honor of a woman in Ephesus who—”

“The baby will be given no name,” Aristarchus snapped. “It will not live the nine days to the
lustratio
.”

This was the official ceremony to name a Roman child and present it to the community.

“No!” cried the eldest sister. “This is Paulina’s first child. She is young. She has many years to give you a son.”

“Exposure,” Aristarchus said firmly, sensing triumph. “I will not sell the child or kill it. Exposure is my decree and my command. Exposure to the elements until it dies.”

A cacophony of sounds assailed Leah in the darkness beneath the amphitheater, sounds of quiet desperation. Groaning. Fear. Beyond those sounds coming from the prison cells on each side of the tunnel, she heard the occasional distant roar of animals trained to do the executing later.

Since Nathan’s arrest, Leah had slept only a few hours each night, spending the rest of the darkness tossing and turning as she tried to avoid thoughts of how her brother might actually die.

Yes, she’d spent far too much time in the horrors of the future; now it was upon her.

She wanted to be brave. Needed to be brave. For Nathan.

For her teenage brother. Nathan, the one of impetuous good humor who brightened their home and lives every day. Nathan! The baby of the family. Adored by all. About to die!

She lifted the hem of her dress, blocked out her fear, and moved deeper into the darkness. As she left the last shafts of light behind, the air seemed to close in on her, and her throat tightened as smells of suffering added to the sensation of smothering—body wastes accumulated in each cell, vomit, and the cloying, nauseating sweetness of alcohol from those fortunate few with enough money to bribe the guards and acquire the numbing forgetfulness from wine.

In this terrible labyrinth of doom and death, as darkness fell on Rome, Leah began to search for her brother.

In the Smyrna tavern, tension increased as the hulking man approached Vitas.

“Who are you to be asking ‘who is asking’?” Titus called from the corner. He began to move back toward Vitas. It was obvious that Vitas would not be able to easily defeat this new opponent.

The man didn’t dignify Titus or his question with even a glance. He continued to lumber toward Vitas, his eyes focused on the short sword that Vitas held out in a defensive position.

“Who are you to ask about Damian?” he repeated to Vitas.

Someone shouted drunkenly, “Rip him apart, Maglorius! Your hands are enough!”

Maglorius. This name Vitas recognized.

A living legend.

Although Maglorius was in his fifth decade and bore the healed slashes of gladiator blades and lions’ claws, he still radiated strength and power. His hair was not dark like most Romans’, but a sandy gray, reflecting his Iceni heritage. Common lore among the mobs said that the army had captured Maglorius during his tribe’s first revolt against the Romans in Britannia, then shipped him to Rome to be humiliated in the public display of Vespasian’s triumph. Afterward they sent him to the arenas to die as a gladiator. Except, as his presence in the tavern proved, he’d survived for over a decade already, had found a way to live by killing others.

“Who am I to ask?” Vitas said, unafraid. Every nerve tingled as he watched Maglorius the way one lion watches another. “That is my business. Not yours.”

“I have saved Damian’s life during training half a dozen times over the last year in gladiator school,” Maglorius said. “He is one of the most wretched citizens to take the oath. The only way he’ll survive his first fight in the arena tomorrow is if I save his life again. I think I have the right to ask who is looking for him.”

Vitas grinned and could see by Maglorius’s reaction that it was unexpected. “Because anyone who wants Damian is either collecting an unpaid debt or wants to punish him for seducing a wife or daughter.”

Maglorius grunted agreement.

That should have been the first warning for Vitas: that Maglorius, an obvious loner, had protected Damian over the last year. Damian, who’d been forced to make vows as a gladiator because of his gambling habits, was much more likely to inspire enemies than friends.

By then, Titus had reached Vitas’s side. He, too, watched Maglorius with a wary eye.

“I don’t understand you,” Titus said to Vitas. “When we were younger, you would happily have begun a brawl. Now you exhibit nothing but patience and maturity. Let’s have some fun. We’ll fight this man, then talk.”

“Forgive my friend, Maglorius,” Vitas said. “After our time together in the legions he believes he is invincible.”

“You bear a striking resemblance to Damian,” Maglorius said quietly. “Are you the brother he has mentioned? Vitas? All the way from Rome?”

“I am. And this is Titus Flavius Vespasianus.”

“Son of Vespasian? Who commanded a legion in Gaul?”

That should have been the second warning for Vitas. Maglorius asked about Vespasian’s time in Gaul and avoided the much more obvious connection: Britannia, where nearly twenty years earlier, Vespasian had famously fought thirty battles, subjugated two tribes, and captured twenty towns.

“Yes, Vespasian is my father,” Titus said proudly.

Maglorius reexamined Titus. And smiled slightly. Dangerously.

That should have been another warning for Vitas. He was too anxious to find Damian. Too anxious to prevent his younger brother from dying in his first fight as a gladiator. Vitas knew Maglorius was right in his judgment about Damian’s poor fighting skills.

“I will lead you to Damian,” Maglorius said. “You two appear able to take care of yourselves, but the streets of a harbor town like this are no place for strangers at night.” He gave them a slight smile. “Trust me. It’s too dangerous.”