The Last Sacrifice by Sigmund Brouwer Read Free Book Online Page B

navigation.”
    “You know as well as I do when this ship departed,” John said. “At night. Without the customary sacrifices. Nor did the captain wait for the right omens. This crew is as superstitious as any.”
    Vitas needed no explanation. On occasion, captains waited days for the right omens. And they never departed without the appropriate sacrifices.
    John looked away, paused in thought, and looked back. “And there is the matter of a dream the pilot had.”
    “This dream?”
    Dreams were highly significant too—good or bad—enough to speed or delay a ship’s departure.
    “Both the first night at sea and the second night, he dreamed the sirens of the whirlpools at Messana drew the ship onto the rocks. He’s reported this dream widely, and nearly all are afraid of drowning when we reach the straits. The men grumble that it will happen because the gods have not been properly appeased.”
    “The crew, then, blames us for the troubles they fear,” Vitas said.
    “I’ve been told,” John replied, “that several dozen passengers had made a booking on this voyage, but were left behind because the ship left without warning. Without paying passengers, the crew expects to receive reduced wages.”
    “The crew blames us.” Vitas grunted this repetition.
    “They wonder who you are and why you are so valuable that the captain risks the wrath of the gods to speed you from Rome in the dead of night without the proper omens or sacrifices.”
    “They could be asking the same questions about you.”
    “They’ve seen me with you.” John smiled and pointed at the damp cloth beside the netting, the cloth he’d used earlier to gently wipe the face of Vitas. “Most think I’m your slave.”
    “Then let me ask what they won’t. Why are you on this ship?”
    “Perhaps God intended for me to help spare your life.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You understand,” John, son of Zebedee said. “Why else did you ask about the cross?”

    “Your name is John, son of Zebedee,” Damian told his prisoner. “You are a Jew. A fisherman in your youth, raised in Galilee. I know this much about you, but not much more, except that you, like all other followers of the Christos, defy Caesar by refusing to worship him or his image.”
    In the olive grove, Caius Sennius Ruso had not expected it to come to this—the rough edge of stone biting into his skin, a massive weight poised to crush the bones of his arm, the smell of fresh olive oil below his face a strange contrast to the horror of the impending torture.
    “Speak to me,” Damian said. “End your silence.”
    Ruso met Damian’s eyes squarely but kept his silence. If he spoke, his accent would betray him, and this man would know he was not the Jew named John, son of Zebedee.
    Damian gave a barely perceptible nod, and Jerome pushed the wheel forward slightly.
    Ruso could not help the cry of pain that escaped him as the stone dug into his flesh.
    Damian nodded again, and Jerome pulled the wheel back slightly.
    “If I understand correctly,” Damian continued, intently studying Ruso’s face, “you were one of twelve disciples who spent a few years with this Christos before he was crucified by a Roman procurator. John the Beloved, I believe, is how many refer to you.”
    Ruso clamped his jaws. He could not deny to himself how afraid he was. Yes, Ruso had expected to be captured days earlier. Yet Ruso’s careful plan had fallen apart in the moment of capture. Instead of delivering him to Helius, Damian and his monstrous slave, Jerome, had taken Ruso to a shed hidden in the olive grove and begun an interrogation.
    Answering any of Damian’s questions that evening had been unthinkable. Doing so would have ruined what little of his careful planning was still intact. So Ruso had chosen silence and been punished for it by over thirty-six hours of hungry, thirsty solitude. And now this, a massive stone about to pulverize his arm.
    “I’d prefer this to be a two-sided