The Last Disciple (8 page)

Leah was about to ask what it meant when a rough hand grabbed her shoulder, and a sudden tug spun her around. She found herself facing a man of almost unnatural thinness, a man dressed in ragged clothing that smelled so strongly like cat urine that even in this dank passageway filled with so many terrible smells, the power of the stench overwhelmed Leah.

“Leave her alone,” Nathan cried from behind the bars, trying to reach for the man.

“You must talk to me,” the man hissed, pulling her back from Nathan’s grasp.

“No,” Leah said. “I’m here with—”

“Listen to me,” the man ordered. He pointed at the prisoners inside the cell. “And I will give them hope.”

The tavern’s beer was almost rancid and dotted with flecks of gristle that Vitas could not and did not want to identify. Vitas had surreptitiously dumped each of several mugs beneath the table, confident that no one would notice the extra liquid on the filthy floor.

It wasn’t a delicate stomach that compelled Vitas to do so. He had lived through months and months of field conditions, where a soldier learned not to inspect any food or drink too closely. He was afraid of alcohol, for he’d learned it no longer brought him pleasure. And he’d learned that too much alcohol no longer brought him temporary pleasure. Instead, losing his inhibitions unshackled pain he worked so hard to keep secure in a prison deep within his stoic facade.

Ever since the second and final revolt of the Iceni a few years earlier when the Roman soldiers had massed on a hillside under the leadership of Suetonius . . . Vitas did not allow his thoughts to stray much further. Because with those thoughts would come the searing images that—even after four years back in Rome from Britannia—sometimes brought him bolt upright in the middle of the night.

Images would bring questions, magnified now by the challenges that a teenage boy named Nathan had thrown at Vitas during what was supposed to be a routine arrest.

Vitas did not want the images or the questions.

Much better to think of duty. Duty to the empire, the only thing in this world that had permanence, a cause much more noble than the feeble graspings of any individual. Better, especially here in Smyrna, to think of duty to his father, of the deathbed promise Vitas had so recently made, unsure even if his father had been able to hear it in the final moments of life.

So Vitas had watched Titus drink with enthusiasm and watched Maglorius watch Titus drink.

Maglorius was one of Rome’s most famous gladiators. Vitas had wondered why someone of his stature would be here. In the midst of the lower class. Yet determinedly alone. Did the man have demons, too? memories he couldn’t escape? even self-loathing? It gave Vitas an immediate sympathy for the gladiator, for there were too many nights when Vitas could not bear his own company but could not find escape from himself in crowds.

Maglorius had waved off all attempts at conversation until he finally announced that they could find Damian in a villa he rented from a local estate owner.

Their exit from the tavern had been far less dramatic than their entrance. Because Maglorius stood at their side, a path was cleared immediately among the tables and they left untouched and unheckled.

The three men now traveled the main road that led past the houses and up toward the hills, where, at the crest—had they gone that far—the road split and they could turn north toward Pergamum or south to Ephesus.

Their journey, Maglorius had promised, would be a short one, for the villa was only halfway up the hills. They walked in the silence that the windless night draped over the city.

The harbor lay behind them, and had Vitas glanced backward, he could have seen the cliff that guarded the harbor from the Aegean Sea, jagged walls of rock outlined against the moonlight and the silver sheen of the waters.

His attention was ahead, however, on a pitiful wailing that sporadically ceased, then renewed itself. It came from near the temple of Nero ahead of them. The moon had risen above and behind it, throwing its light toward the sea to the west, casting the face of the immense statue of Caesar in ominous shadow.

Maglorius continued to lead them in the direction of the temple.

“I thought you said Damian was in a villa,” Titus said, pointing at a cluster of dimly lit houses upward and to their left. “He would never be at a temple, unless he felt the prostitutes there had been neglected.”

“Before we meet Damian,” Maglorius said, “we have business at the temple.”

“I don’t,” Titus answered, impatient. “Not unless it involves those same prost—”

Vitas put a hand on the arm of his friend. “Whatever his business is, I have my own business there.”

The wailing rose and fell, drawing Vitas for reasons he did not want to examine too closely.

“You?” Titus said. “What business? You’ve never been a religious man.”

Perhaps the little beer Vitas had forced down was having an effect already. The terrible thin noise from the darkness reminded Vitas of other wails that echoed through his mind, wails that haunted him in the restless hours before he found sleep each night. Despite the closeness of their friendship, this was not something Vitas was prepared to share with Titus.

Instead, Vitas answered Titus simply. “I am tired of death.”

And,
he thought,
tired of life.
There were times he found the irony amusing. He’d returned to Rome from Britannia as a military hero, returned to family wealth and power that any man would covet, returned to a choice of beautiful women drawn to that wealth and power. But it all seemed empty. Even exhausting.

“Tired of death?” Titus echoed. “By the gods, you are a Roman. One of Nero’s favorite men. You deal in death. What is happening to you?”

“I wish I knew,” Vitas said. He didn’t wait for Titus to respond but marched purposely toward the pitiful wailing sound.

Titus caught him and grabbed his shoulder. “That’s only a baby left out for exposure.”

“If there is something I can do to help, I will.”

“And breach Roman law? You, the self-appointed guardian of all glorious Roman traditions? Are you insane?”

“I hear a baby crying for help.”

“What are you going to do? Rescue every child in the world?”

Had Titus simply let him go instead of challenging him with those final two questions, Vitas might not have taken more than a few steps. Vitas would have asked himself the same questions and turned around as acknowledgment of the uselessness of his self-imposed task.

But Vitas had already moved away and was too stubborn to admit to Titus that he was wrong.

So Vitas left Maglorius and Titus behind and continued to march across the vast empty square, toward the temple and the statue of Nero, unaware, of course, how his next actions would irrevocably and drastically change the direction of his life.

“I trust you’ve already begun torturing the Jew who gave you the scroll,” Helius told Tigellinus.

Helius was almost a head shorter than the broad, bearded man beside him. They stood in the palace hallway.

Torchlight flickered across the face of Tigellinus. His eyes were lost in the shadows beneath his heavy brows. “No,” Tigellinus answered.

Another person might have waited for further explanation. Years of conversation with Tigellinus had taught Helius to expect short answers.

“Why not?” Helius asked. “If the contents truly came from the archives, we’ll have to remove the scroll. Public sentiment is shifting. Nero will have our heads if he discovers we could have stopped this information from reaching the Senate. If the Jew knows where to find it, he must tell us.”

Helius rubbed his temple. He pictured the extensive archives. How difficult it would be to sift through them for the specific records mentioned in the scroll. And he’d have to do it himself, because to ask one of the scribes would be like announcing it to the world. But if word got out that Helius was prowling through the archives, rumors would start.

Helius was getting a headache. “Worse,” he told Tigellinus. “The mobs would pounce on this knowledge. We’ll be lucky if our heads are removed. Nero will throw us into the arena.”

“The Jew has no intention of making that obscure Senate record public. Not after I warned him that his father and sister would die if that happened.”

“Then why go to the effort and danger of presenting the scroll to you?”

“He wants to negotiate,” Tigellinus said.

“Negotiate?”

“Talk to him yourself.”

Helius paced. “We don’t negotiate.”

“No,” Tigellinus said. “I promise he won’t leave the palace alive. But it will be valuable if he believes we negotiate.”

Helius flashed a brief smile. “Of course. Another headless body in the Tiber.” He frowned immediately. “And Vitas?”

Tigellinus understood. “Vitas is in Asia looking for his brother. I’ll ensure he doesn’t hear any of this.”

“Good,” Helius muttered. “Very good. If only the problem with Vitas could be solved as easily as with this Jew.”

“I tell you again and again,” Tigellinus said. “All we need to do is wait. Soon enough Nero will forget his fear and remember the insult.”

Helius and Tigellinus had had this discussion many times in the weeks since the night Vitas had defied Nero in the garden hut and released the captive Christians. Because earthquakes had shaken Rome and surrounding areas with unusual frequency over the last few years, Nero would eventually decide it had been a coincidence that protected Vitas that night, not an action from the gods. And as the humiliation of Nero’s cowardice ate at him, it would eventually overpower his gratitude for Vitas protecting him from the lion. When that happened, Vitas would lose his untouchable position in the inner court, and Helius and Tigellinus would find a way to destroy him. The man’s principles were very inconvenient.

Tigellinus tapped Helius on the shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. He pointed at the entrance to the room nearby. “The Jew’s in there. You’ll find his proposition interesting and perhaps of value.”

Helius nodded.

Tigellinus gripped Helius’s shoulder and growled a final warning. “Don’t let your temper get in the way of what’s good for us.”

“Insane,” Titus mumbled to Maglorius as Vitas disappeared into the darkness. “He’s gone insane. In Britannia, we stood side by side, killing men, women, and children. He was a heartless cold soldier, one of the best. Yet since we’ve returned, he’s a different man. I just don’t understand.”

“You were in Britannia?” Maglorius asked, barely audible. “You and Vitas?”

“Of course, of course. When the Iceni revolted for a final time. Queen Boudicca had the south of Britannia in an uproar. If Suetonius had not been so capable, the empire would have lost the entire province. I’m sure you’ve heard all of this, however.”

“I have.” Maglorius spoke with icy calm. “You were part of the triumph in Rome?”

“At the forefront.”

“Leading the prisoners? The empire’s future slaves and fodder for the arenas?”

“What else is a triumph?” Titus was not listening closely enough to the tone of the gladiator’s voice.

“In Britannia, you fought Iceni warriors and destroyed their families?”

“They revolted.” As if that were enough explanation.