Free The Last Temple by Sigmund Brouwer, Hank Hanegraaff

granted unexpected power, “give me the name to deliver to the governor.”
    “This was not the agreement,” Vitas said. “The men are to be taken down first.”
    The messenger pointed at the slave on the far left and gave a nod of command. The man appeared dead.
    Without expression, the soldier shoved the tip of his sword into the soft flesh; water poured from the man’s side, confirming he was dead.
    An unexpected memory came to Vitas of the letters written by men who had traveled with the Christos and reported his death on the cross. There, too, soldiers had pierced his side. The Jews would not permit a man to be on the cross on the Sabbath. To hasten death, some would have their legs broken and, with nothing to support their weight, would begin to suffocate, their shattered tibias just adding to the final minutes of suffering.
    But for soldiers, it was still work to lift a hammer and smash the legs. Much easier to confirm a man was dead with the sword. When fluid poured out, it was a sign that yes, the victim had suffocated to death.
    This image struck Vitas; it was the reason followers of the Christos had made a point to report it. For readers of the letters, there could be no doubt. The Christos had truly died on the cross. His resurrection on the third day afterward could not be attributed to a man pulled alive from the cross, only to revive later in the cool depths of the tomb.
    “That’s one,” the messenger replied with prim satisfaction. “Do you have the answer for the governor? Or shall I have the next one impaled.”
    The next slave was not dead. He croaked out an anguished protest.
    “And when all are dead,” the messenger continued to Vitas, “you will be up on a cross again. Unless you give me the name first. Then they will be taken down to honor the governor’s bargain with you.”
    Others might yet be saved, including Jerome. And if Jerome was taken from the cross and revived, he might be able to lead Vitas to the person who had woven a grass bracelet and left it as a message for him.
    “I have the name,” Vitas said.
    He would not be responsible for the death of a man innocent of Helva’s murder. Nor would he take the burden of the families of Jews who would die unless Governor Julianus had someone else to take the blame.
    So Vitas gave the name of the one person he knew would be safe from the governor’s reach. A man whose ship Damian, Jerome, and Vitas had set fire to in Alexandria.
    “Well?” the messenger said.
    “His name is Atronius Pavo,” Vitas said, giving a lie that would buy him time he desperately needed. “A ship’s captain.”

Hora Septina
    Vitas had been returned to the courtyard of the villa, where the governor now glared at Bernice. “I did not question too closely how you knew a slave had overheard someone threaten Helva the day before he was killed. Nor did I question too closely how you knew the killers were intent on appearing like Sicarii. Only because you had promised you would deliver the name of a man I could arrest immediately.”
    Julianus swept his hand dismissively in Vitas’s direction. “Now this. I’m to look for a ship’s captain?”
    “This is obviously not an intelligent slave,” Bernice said, her own glare at Vitas a reflection of the one the governor had directed at her. “I’m sure if he gives it any thought at all, he will recall exactly which Greek was so clear in his threats against Helva. My own guess is that it was a Greek with considerable debts to Helva and sufficient motivation to plan the elaborate murder.”
    She frowned deeply at Vitas. “Give it more thought.”
    He’d been forced back with the soldiers to repeat the name to the governor, who had immediately registered shock.
    Obviously, he and Bernice had been complicit in the determination to make Glecko Partho a convenient scapegoat. Vitas wondered what Partho had done to earn the governor’s enmity too.
    “Well?” Bernice demanded.
    “One of the crucified slaves was