Read The Last Temple for Free Online Page A

would be crucified.
    The old woman’s question brought to Vitas a knife’s blade moment of clarity.
    “Yes,” he told her, still in agony over the deluded sighting of his wife and the searing memories of their last moments with Nero before Vitas’s actions had condemned him and his wife to execution. He could not endure this much longer, and Damian might be another week. “I want this to end.”

 Mars 

Gallicinium
    Beneath the starlight, there was a change of guards at the beginning of the next watch. The replacement guards kicked at a couple of soldiers who were asleep on the ground.
    There was nothing unusual about these soldiers and their sleep. As dusk fell, with a spectacular sunset over the Mediterranean that none of the dying men gave any notice, the soldiers had thrown dice to see which ones would remain attentive on the remote chance that there would be any rescue attempt.
    Among the crucified there were no high-profile political prisoners likely to be rescued—just common highway brigands and ill-favored slaves. And because of the logistical difficulty of prying spikes away from wood, taking down a man ensured such a drawn-out process that even the most sleep-drugged soldier would be roused, especially with the screams of pain that would come from the rescued.
    So the soldiers who lost the dice throws grumbled, then sat with their backs against the vertical beams of the crosses—soldiers on one side telling stories and eating breads, meats, and cheeses; dying men hanging from spikes on the other.
    During the change of the guards, Vitas gradually became aware of his pain again.
    The old woman was gone, chased away by the soldiers at dusk like all those around the crucified men. Some would return in the morning to take away their loved ones for burial; their vigils had ended in late afternoon, when those they tended to had succumbed to one more day’s heat and finally, mercifully, had taken their last breaths. The effect of the poppy tears had worn off for Vitas, and in his agony, he felt his fingers curl against the spike that impaled his left hand. The ropes had rubbed his wrists and ankles raw; they oozed with pus and blood. His chest muscles felt torn from the weight of his body. Sand fleas tormented his skin. He was thirsty beyond any cruel sensation he had ever experienced. And he couldn’t breathe.
    He moaned as he pressed his weight down on the mangled arches of his feet. It was a sound lost among the moans of the other men on the crosses nearby.
    Even Jerome, large and stoic, added to the chorus with the peculiar sounds forced from his throat.
    Vitas stared ahead in the darkness. Wondering about the vision he’d seen of Sophia walking along the road. Wondering about the vision and waiting to die.
    It was only the sixth watch.

    With the sun, the old woman returned as promised.
    “More poppy tears,” Arella said. She immediately offered up a sponge to Vitas.
    “No,” he said. “Please bring me water.”
    “Water alone?”
    “No poppy tears. No wine. Just water.”
    He imagined the glorious taste of it, slaking his thirst, telling himself that the joy of this sensation would force him to forget his agony. It was a lie, but he did his best to believe it.
    “I have what you asked for,” the woman whispered. “In a powder. All I need to do is dip the sponge and sprinkle the powder. I was guaranteed that after the poppy tears dull your senses, you will die as painlessly and quickly as possible.”
    “Water,” Vitas said. Each word passing through his throat felt like sand. “Just water.”
    “I have only one bucket,” she said. “If I empty it to carry water, all the poppy tears I was able to purchase will be gone.”
    “Give what you can to Jerome,” Vitas said. “Bring me back water.”
    “The poison?”
    “Not yet. I’ve changed my mind.”
    “Please,” the old woman said. “I watched my sons die. What you’ve experienced until now is nothing compared to the final agony.