Read Online The Last Temple by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff
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repeated. “My visitor last night.”
She nodded. “He is descended from the priests, a nobleman of great reputation in Jerusalem. After the riots of last fall, he was chosen to lead the revolt in the provinces. He accepted the mantle, despite his constant insistence that Judea cannot defeat Rome. Yesterday, Joseph met with me secretly and suggested this method of appeasing the governor.”
“You want to give the governor a scapegoat. And you believe it will be credible if it comes from a slave of Helva’s household.”
“Yes. Truthfully, the governor is fully aware that a slave facing crucifixion is not the most reliable of witnesses. The information only has to appear reliable. The governor is in a difficult position. He cannot let the assassination go unpunished, but by punishing Jews, he risks even greater insurgency from the locals.”
She leaned forward. “I’m begging you. When the governor asks you for the name of the Greek, spare my people.”
“This name,” Vitas said. “Glecko Partho. How do you know he is the conspirator?”
“He was chosen because he is guilty enough of other vile things to the Jews. Better that he die so that others may be spared.”
An answer both sufficiently ambiguous and sufficiently illuminating. But before he could ask anything else, they were interrupted by a messenger from Governor Julianus.
“The governor has changed his mind,” said the messenger, a lanky man with hair shaved short. He was panting slightly. “You are to immediately accompany the soldiers out to the crosses. When the slaves of Helva have been taken down, he expects you will honor the agreement. I am to take the name back to him.”
“Our conversation is not finished,” Bernice told the messenger. “This slave will depart when I say so.”
The iron of the nails of the special military sandals— caligae —of a half-dozen soldiers in armor made their intimidating clicking sound on cobblestone as they crossed the courtyard toward them.
“You are welcome to tell the soldiers that you intend to disobey the governor,” the messenger said. “I have my orders and must follow them.”
“Step back,” Bernice commanded. The messenger’s eyes widened. He, like Vitas, obviously had no idea that such a woman could project such ice-cold authority. “Speak to me with that tone again, and I shall have your tongue removed.”
He stumbled backward.
Bernice leaned in toward Vitas and kept her voice low. “It would be useless to protest against these soldiers. We have much to discuss, but it would raise too many questions if I walked with you. For now, all you need do is give the governor the name. I will find you later, for I have an urgent message for you from Titus.”
Hora Quinta
The soldiers, carrying shields and swords, were so strong and fit that they marched at a pace few unburdened men could match. Vitas well remembered that pace from his own military days—and well remembered the authority of a sword. The swords were heavy enough and sharp enough to completely sever a man’s arm from his body. The small daggers favored by the Sicarii were useless against such a weapon. And when soldiers crouched in defensive formation with shields raised, makeshift weapons had little effect.
The soldiers had removed the shackles from Vitas’s feet but left his wrists bound by iron, so with great effort, Vitas barely kept pace. The arches of his feet were swollen. But pride kept him moving forward. Pride and the knowledge that if he lagged, he would be none-too-gently prodded with a sword.
They would reach the public execution site in five minutes. Traders wisely muted their curses to make way for the soldiers. Women and children ran to the side of the road. All stared at the passing soldiers. This, too, Vitas remembered well from his military days.
He wasted little thought on memories, however, as he marched step by painful step. Vitas was trying to make his decision. Would he divulge to the governor
She nodded. “He is descended from the priests, a nobleman of great reputation in Jerusalem. After the riots of last fall, he was chosen to lead the revolt in the provinces. He accepted the mantle, despite his constant insistence that Judea cannot defeat Rome. Yesterday, Joseph met with me secretly and suggested this method of appeasing the governor.”
“You want to give the governor a scapegoat. And you believe it will be credible if it comes from a slave of Helva’s household.”
“Yes. Truthfully, the governor is fully aware that a slave facing crucifixion is not the most reliable of witnesses. The information only has to appear reliable. The governor is in a difficult position. He cannot let the assassination go unpunished, but by punishing Jews, he risks even greater insurgency from the locals.”
She leaned forward. “I’m begging you. When the governor asks you for the name of the Greek, spare my people.”
“This name,” Vitas said. “Glecko Partho. How do you know he is the conspirator?”
“He was chosen because he is guilty enough of other vile things to the Jews. Better that he die so that others may be spared.”
An answer both sufficiently ambiguous and sufficiently illuminating. But before he could ask anything else, they were interrupted by a messenger from Governor Julianus.
“The governor has changed his mind,” said the messenger, a lanky man with hair shaved short. He was panting slightly. “You are to immediately accompany the soldiers out to the crosses. When the slaves of Helva have been taken down, he expects you will honor the agreement. I am to take the name back to him.”
“Our conversation is not finished,” Bernice told the messenger. “This slave will depart when I say so.”
The iron of the nails of the special military sandals— caligae —of a half-dozen soldiers in armor made their intimidating clicking sound on cobblestone as they crossed the courtyard toward them.
“You are welcome to tell the soldiers that you intend to disobey the governor,” the messenger said. “I have my orders and must follow them.”
“Step back,” Bernice commanded. The messenger’s eyes widened. He, like Vitas, obviously had no idea that such a woman could project such ice-cold authority. “Speak to me with that tone again, and I shall have your tongue removed.”
He stumbled backward.
Bernice leaned in toward Vitas and kept her voice low. “It would be useless to protest against these soldiers. We have much to discuss, but it would raise too many questions if I walked with you. For now, all you need do is give the governor the name. I will find you later, for I have an urgent message for you from Titus.”
Hora Quinta
The soldiers, carrying shields and swords, were so strong and fit that they marched at a pace few unburdened men could match. Vitas well remembered that pace from his own military days—and well remembered the authority of a sword. The swords were heavy enough and sharp enough to completely sever a man’s arm from his body. The small daggers favored by the Sicarii were useless against such a weapon. And when soldiers crouched in defensive formation with shields raised, makeshift weapons had little effect.
The soldiers had removed the shackles from Vitas’s feet but left his wrists bound by iron, so with great effort, Vitas barely kept pace. The arches of his feet were swollen. But pride kept him moving forward. Pride and the knowledge that if he lagged, he would be none-too-gently prodded with a sword.
They would reach the public execution site in five minutes. Traders wisely muted their curses to make way for the soldiers. Women and children ran to the side of the road. All stared at the passing soldiers. This, too, Vitas remembered well from his military days.
He wasted little thought on memories, however, as he marched step by painful step. Vitas was trying to make his decision. Would he divulge to the governor
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