The Last Temple by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff Page B

intention of granting you anything in payment for this service,” the governor continued. There was the slightest of slurs in his voice. Drinking wine on a breezy balcony with the orange of the sun on shimmering water was, after all, a relatively harmless pleasure. Or had the governor been drinking to steel himself to execute Bernice if Vitas failed? “Taking you down from the cross was enough already. And I’m not happy at the way you spoke to me in front of Bernice. I should have you whipped for it. So there you have it. By not whipping you, I have repaid you for your assistance. Besides that, other men in my position might have you killed merely to ensure your silence about all of this.”
    When Julianus stopped, the quiet became dangerous, as if the governor were daring Vitas to protest.
    Instead, Vitas bowed his head.
    “What’s strange,” Julianus said, “is somehow you seem familiar to me. Tell me, have we met?”
    The first direct question of this audience.
    “We have not,” Vitas said truthfully. They had friends in common but had never been at a social occasion together.
    The governor tossed back more wine. “No matter.” A smacking of lips. “Bernice feels she does owe you.”
    Without warning, the governor laughed loudly. “But you may be out of the frying pan and into the fire. Dolabella as your mistress was one thing, for her reputation was rumored in all the streets of the city. Bernice, I daresay, may be another of the same stripe. She-wolves, both of them. And Bernice has purchased you. That’s her thanks for saving your life. Keeping you from the slave auction with the rest of Helva’s property.”
    In the light of the oil lamps, it appeared that Julianus was examining Vitas closely to see his reaction. If so, Vitas disappointed him, especially if the governor again expected Vitas to protest.
    Vitas felt just the opposite—as though his heart were taking wing. Bernice was a secret ally who owed Vitas her life. Twice. He had no doubt that Bernice would grant his request for an armed escort to journey immediately through the darkness to the Jewish settlement.
    “Bah,” Julianus said. “Go. You’ll be escorted to Bernice. And make a sacrifice of thanks at the statue of Nero that I don’t have you whipped for insolence.”

    Vitas felt slow torture as his fettered ankles shuffled through the streets to Queen Bernice’s villa. Soldiers bearing swords and torches, one on each side, were there to ensure he did not attempt to escape.
    The truth, of course, was that Vitas wanted nothing more than an audience with Bernice . . . and the subsequent swift trip to be reunited with Sophia.
    Sophia!
    Vitas was a man who held his emotions carefully, rarely trusting them himself, preferring to respond only after giving any matter a lot of thought. But tonight he wanted to burst into song.
    Sophia was alive!
    He ached to have his arms around her, to have her shuddering with relief in his embrace. He needed to get to Bernice much faster than these slow, awkward steps took him over the cobblestones.
    “Can you feel it?” one soldier was saying to the other. “It’s like the streets can breathe again.”
    “Had we crucified the Jews, it would have meant days of riots,” the second answered. “Not even the legion of Titus would have prevented it.”
    “Titus. Now there’s a commander to follow.”
    “Few better,” the other said. “But give me Caesarea. I’m not anxious to be any deeper in the province. Give me guard duty anytime.”
    “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s with Bernice right now.”
    Vitas finally spoke. “Titus has arrived with his legion?”
    The first soldier slapped Vitas across the buttocks with the flat of his sword blade. “Shut up, slave. You’re not part of this conversation.”
    It didn’t matter that neither soldier gave Vitas an answer to his question.
    Titus indeed awaited them at the villa, alone and pacing back and