The Last Sacrifice Read Free

us.”
    “No,” the prisoner said. He felt his legs grow weak. The sorrow again threatened to overwhelm him as images flashed into his mind. Of his younger boy as a toddler, rushing toward him to be comforted after stumbling on the bricks of the courtyard floor and scraping his knees. Of quiet summer evenings, intertwining his fingers with his wife’s, sharing dreams with her beneath the starlight. Of comforting his daughter one morning as she knelt on grass still wet with dew and wept over the death of a tiny bird found among the flowers.
    The prisoner used all his resolve to force these images from his head. Not yet, he told himself. There would be a time for the memories. Soon enough. But not yet.
    “Take me to the arena,” the prisoner said firmly. “I have my duty and you have yours.”

    “I also need two women,” the bestiarius snapped at Catus and Gordio. “Go back and get them from the cells of Christians. And send someone to help me strap this man to the tusk.”
    Neither soldier moved. The prisoner was behind them, head bowed, wrists shackled.
    “Another thing.” The bestiarius shook his head. “The women? Cut out their tongues. I’m tired of the hymns these cursed Christians sing as they die.”
    Still Catus and Gordio did not respond.
    “Well?” the bestiarius demanded. Here he had near total authority. His skills with animals were seen as magical and very necessary to the success of the entertainment. “I need the women immediately. Nero waits.”
    Catus spoke. “You cannot strap such a man as Vitas to the elephant.”
    “You tell me what I cannot do?” Still angry at how he’d been humbled by Helius, the bestiarius vented his frustration on the soldiers. “Don’t forget. You are expendable. I am not.”
    “This man fought for Rome,” Catus said, pointing at the prisoner. “He helped defeat the Iceni. Led the triumph through the gates of the city. He deserves to die a soldier’s death. Give him combat against gladiators.”
    The bestiarius spat, unswayed by the soldier’s passion. “I follow the orders of Nero. If you choose otherwise, expect to be strapped to the other tusk.”
    “The crowd will know,” Gordio said. “He’s a hero. They will not tolerate it, no matter what Nero wants.”
    The bestiarius stepped between them and clutched the prisoner’s hair, lifting his head and exposing his swollen, bruised face to the sun. “After a beating like this? No one will recognize him.” He dropped the prisoner’s head and yelled at the soldiers with surprising force for such a small man. “Now go! Get the women! And don’t forget to cut out their tongues.”

    With the soldiers gone, the prisoner stood near the elephant, drawing deep, hard breaths.
    So this was how he would die.
    He drew the deep breaths to calm himself. This, too, he had calculated for this moment. He’d anticipated the renewed fear. But after his time in the stench of the cells, he’d guessed the fresh outdoor air would be as joyful to his body as clear, cold water.
    The calm he had hoped for did not arrive. This was beyond his power.
    “Christos,” he whispered. “Dear Christos. Let my death honor you.”
    He lost himself in silent worship. Then suddenly his body seemed to come truly alive with every heave of his lungs, every sense totally engaged. The portion of the sky he could see beneath his swollen eyelids had never seemed so blue; sounds had never seemed so clear. A fly landed on his arm; he thrilled with the sensation of the tiny movements across his skin. The nearby elephant swished its tail, a sound that seemed as loud as a shout.
    “Thank you, Christos,” he breathed. Yes! He was still alive; he wanted to drink in every sensation.
    Doing so stretched each moment for him, and he was unaware of the passing of time. This amazing vibrancy lasted until rough hands grabbed and spun him, rough hands that belonged to men who were only a blur in his diminished vision. Until his body was lifted from the