The Last Sacrifice Read Free Page B

where the unruly mob always gathered.
    “Let Vitas fight! Let Vitas fight!”
    Spectators around Helius and Nero exchanged glances as they tried to decide what this meant. Exchanged glances became exchanged conversation as the news spread quickly around the amphitheater: This was Gallus Sergius Vitas! On the tusk! Where was honor in that? What an outrage!
    The shouting was soon overwhelmed by boos, all of them directed at Nero.
    Helius knew that if there was any one thing Nero could not control in the empire, it was the mob. He could influence it, bribe it, placate it, but never control it. Nero feared the mob; it was a beast as unpredictable and dangerous as himself.
    Nero leaned into Helius. “Do I have a choice?”
    Helius shook his head.
    Nero stood, and all eyes of the thousands of spectators were upon him.
    Bitterness filled Helius’s stomach. How he wanted Vitas destroyed. He should have suggested to Nero that the man be poisoned. Or directed to empty his veins. But Helius had wanted to see Vitas humiliated in death. And this was the result. Yet another chance for Vitas to become a hero.
    Nero raised his arms.
    The crowd instantly quit chanting.
    “Release that man!” Nero’s voice echoed through the silence. “Let him fight!”

    Catus and Gordio found a spot among the mob and looked downward in satisfaction. They’d bribed the bestiarius into sending out one of his least skilled gladiators—a retiarius .
    Considered the lowest of gladiators, the retiarius fought with a net and a trident, a spear tipped with three points. His only piece of armor was the galerus , a piece of metal that protected his left shoulder. The method of fighting employed by a retiarius was simple—dart in and out, looking for a single moment to throw the net and attack.
    Catus and Gordio were confident that Vitas, weakened as he might be from the beating, would still be able to handle an inexperienced retiarius.
    Below them, on the opposite side of the amphitheater, musicians began to play the long, straight trumpets they would use to accompany the rhythm of the battle, their music intended to rise and fall in waves that heightened the drama.
    On cue to the beginning strains of music, the retiarius ran onto the sand and squinted upward, as if judging the interest of the crowd. If he was looking for support he received none, as most were chanting the name of Vitas.
    Then the prisoner stepped into sight. In the animal pens, he’d been removed from the tusk and hurriedly equipped for the battle.
    Both soldiers frowned. They turned to each other and exchanged perplexed glances.
    Something was wrong.

    The will to live is an unreasoning creature.
    The prisoner had spent hours in thought and prayer, finding the strength to face death. Now, with the chance to fight for his life, he could think of nothing except what it might be like to kneel again with his daughter and stroke her hair and hug her close. Or to run across open grass with his sons. Or fall asleep with his wife at his side.
    He did not hear the roars of the crowd, feel the heat of the sun. He’d been given an honorable solution that might lead him back to his family. He would only face one opponent, and all it would take was a single fortunate blow for him to be declared victor. Yes, there were glory and joy in eternity with the Christos, but if it was the Father’s will, perhaps he would be allowed more time on earth with his family.
    So he gripped the handle of the sword and held out his shield as best he could.
    His arms were weak, his legs sluggish. His eyes were swollen, and the weights of the sword and shield were unfamiliar to him. None of this mattered. At worst, he would die, but that was no worse than he’d expected, and his death would be merciful and quick, something he had not expected. At best, no matter how remote his chances of surviving, he would live. And see his family again. He was glad for the chance to fight for love.
    He turned in slow circles, trying