The Last Disciple Read Online Free PDF Page B

Some—both men and women—reached out to grab them indecently.
    “Take care you don’t end up in the arena,” the guard laughed, a sound more like a bark than anything. “At the last games, half a dozen spectators found themselves out on the sand. They died as quick as the condemned. What a spectacle that was!”
    Leah hurried away and tried to shut out the sounds and sights of the guards using spears to prod the condemned forward. She left behind the opening of sunlight and the rumble of cheering, and she followed the tunnels deeper beneath the stands, down into a damp darkness lit by torches.

    The tension facing Vitas in the tavern grew as the four thugs approached.
    “I say pretty boy cries for his mama first,” one man called out, pointing at Titus. “And I’ll put money on it.”
    “A simple yes or no is all I need,” Vitas said, his voice loud but calm. “Have any of you seen Damian tonight? Help me and I’ll gladly buy drinks for all.”
    That drew cheers but didn’t stop the forward movement of the four thugs, though the spacing of the rough wooden tables made their approach difficult. As the first one neared, Titus smiled politely, then stepped forward and kicked him in the groin.
    The large man fell to his knees, his body temporarily blocking the path of the other three. Seconds later, the man on his knees retched.
    “Isn’t it wonderful to go out on the town and get drunk?” Titus said pleasantly to the fallen man.
    Two of the other men roared and leaped over the fallen man in an attempt to tackle Titus. He stepped behind Vitas, then onto one table and onto the next.
    “Excuse me,” Titus said to the patrons at each table, who were too stunned to react. “Excuse me again. And again.”
    Hopping from tabletop to tabletop, Titus was on the opposite side of the tavern in moments, leaving Vitas to deal with the large drunks.
    Despite the beer they had consumed, the men were sober enough to appreciate the short sword that Vitas held in front of him, a sword he had drawn from beneath his tunic with such amazing quickness that it seemed he’d been standing on guard with it the entire time.
    “Gallus Damian,” Vitas said. “Surely you know him. I was told this is where many of the gladiators entertain themselves the night before the games.”
    “And who is asking?” This voice came from a man seated alone. All the other tables were crowded beyond capacity, but this man had his entire table to himself.
    A low murmur went through the crowd in reaction to his question.
    The man rose slowly. Moved toward Vitas.
    The drunks fell backward trying to get away, dragging their stunned companion with them. Other spectators parted with reverent fear and made room for the new man.
    The man repeated his question to Vitas. “Tell me, who is asking about Damian?”

    Standing directly in front of Helius, the sparsely-haired slave scrolled to the top portion. He held it at arm’s length, betraying his farsightedness. The back of it showed the top of the single Greek word that had disturbed Helius.
    “Wait,” Helius said. “Unscroll it so these two can see the back of it again.”
    At his instructions, the woman and the teenage boy looked closely at the three-letter word.
    “Do either of you read Greek?” Helius asked.
    Both shook their heads.
    Helius sighed his disgust at their ignorance.
    “But I’ve seen it before,” the boy said, eager to please. “Like graffiti . . . on the walls of the emperor’s palace. And once at the games. A Christian was dying. A lion had swiped open his belly, then moved on to another one. The first Christian was near the wall. He rubbed his hand on his bleeding belly and with his blood smeared that same word across the wall for everyone on the other side of the arena to see.”
    This was what Helius had not wanted to hear. If this boy had seen it and recognized it, so had far too many of the people who wandered the city.
    “You’re sure?” Helius said.
    “Most sure.