The Last Temple by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff Page A

commanded Sophia to die. Suicide—slitting her wrists in a hot bath.
    Vitas opened his eyes again, surprised at the silence. He’d expected a squawk, but instead Dolabella was gaping at Bucco with a mixture of outrage and fear.
    Bucco pressed his advantage and cued the boy. “The trumpet.”
    “She asked him to release the camels at the sound of a trumpet,” the boy answered. He was losing his shyness in the presence of the soldiers, speaking louder.
    That’s what had first struck Vitas as strange about the stampeding camels. The sound of trumpeting as Helva passed through the market.
    Dolabella recovered her composure. “I know what is happening here. The governor wants a scapegoat to rescue his political situation. I’m a widow, far from Rome. So he sends you here to condemn me on the strength of the lies of a boy and a slave.”
    “He sent me here on more than that,” Bucco said. “Soldiers are searching your house for a single earring with a large red ruby.”
    Dolabella brought a hand to her mouth as if to prevent all the air being sucked from her body as she visibly shrank in front of Vitas and the boy.
    Bucco explained to Dolabella what all of them already knew. “You gave the boy’s uncle one of the earrings and promised him the other if he accomplished the task. We found that earring among his possessions in his tent. Now we are looking here for the one that matches.”
    “Alexios,” she said.
    Bucco was puzzled. “Alexios?”
    “That’s the man you want. He was my lover and threatened to inform Helva if I didn’t go to the camel driver. I had no idea what Alexios had planned to do, otherwise I never would have helped. He worked with some Sicarii who agreed to do the job. It served Alexios and the Sicarii. I had no choice in my involvement. You have to believe me. The governor has to believe me.”
    Bucco gave her a strange smile. “My advice is to draw your bath now. Save yourself the humiliation. And if it helps, take a flagon of wine with you. From what I’ve heard, the drunker you are, the less pain you will feel.”

Vespera
    Vitas faced Julianus again, still bound at the wrists and ankles. Behind the governor, other slaves were lighting oil lamps on a balcony where the governor sat in a chair woven from reeds and drank from a gold-rimmed goblet. The balcony afforded a view of the Mediterranean, and the sun was almost gone. Dusk served as a shield, hiding the red of the sunburn on Julianus’s face.
    “As you might know, already Alexios has been arrested and faced the red-hot tongs of torture,” the governor told Vitas. “It didn’t take long for him to break and give up the names of the others involved. We will have them all on crosses tomorrow.” The governor shook his head. “Not only was he making a cuckold of Helva; he’d been embezzling from the man. Consider the irony. The fiscal procurator himself, clutching every denarius for Nero and letting his own cascade away to a thief.”
    Because Julianus had not asked a question, Vitas said nothing.
    “You have saved Bernice’s life,” the governor continued. Odd, the strained voice that carried so much authority. “And you have served me well by eliminating this difficult political position. I’m sure the Jews who have been released would also feel gratitude toward you, but none will know of your role in this. You would do well to keep it that way—I have no intention of appearing like I needed the help of a slave. If the slightest whisper reaches me, I will put you on the cross again.”
    Vitas fought to hide his impatience. He did not want to be here with the governor. Among the Jews who had been released was Sophia. She would not know yet all that had happened, only that Vitas was alive and not on a cross. He wanted to run full speed without stopping until he reached the settlement of the Jews and then shout her name until he found her.
    But to all appearances, he was still a slave bound to the Helva estate.
    “I have no