Free The Last Disciple by Sigmund Brouwer

were the judge presiding over the case. Record it as any other case brought before a judge. And when I have proved my point, release the records to the public. Once the claims of the Christians have been shown as ridiculous, they will no longer be a threat to Caesar.”
    Caleb was very earnest and naive, and Helius found that attractive.
    “Then,” Caleb continued with that naiveté, “you will have no reason for my brother to die in the arena.”
    “Your proposal has merit,” Helius allowed. “Let me think it over.”
    “Please,” Caleb said. “My brother faces the lions tomorrow.”
    “It will take some time to find an opponent for you.”
    Caleb shook his head. “There is a respected rabbi already in your prisons; he is a Christian. His name is Zabad. Let him take the opposing side. Tomorrow.”
    “You’ve given this a great deal of thought.”
    “I love my brother.”
    “Enough, I suppose, to arrange with Zabad to lose this so-called trial case.” Helius was a good-enough negotiator to pretend resistance to the idea.
    “I expected you would guess that.”
    “And?”
    “There is a way to ensure that each side debates in fairness,” Caleb said. “Offer freedom to the winning side. And death to the other.”

    The suddenness of the treachery of Maglorius had caught Titus totally unaware. To save his life, Titus tried to stomp the heel of his sandal onto Maglorius’s toes.
    Maglorius kicked Titus’s supporting leg as Titus lifted the other. Titus staggered to keep his balance, unable to deliver the blow he intended. Nor did it succeed in loosening the grip of the massive forearm around Titus’s neck.
    “You don’t think I’ve seen and learned every trick a dying man tries to avoid his death?” Maglorius asked. “Meet your gods with dignity.”
    Titus fell slack against the forearm at his neck. As if he’d been choked unconscious.
    Maglorius removed the knife from Titus’s ribs and jabbed it into his buttocks, drawing a yelp. Titus straightened.
    “Any words you want me to deliver to your father?” Maglorius asked.
    “I can’t believe fate transpired against me like this,” Titus wheezed. “What are the chances of meeting the one man in the entire empire who—?”
    “You Romans have a saying,” Maglorius growled. “De inimico non loquaris sed cogites.”
    Don’t wish ill for your enemy; plan it.
    “It . . . wasn’t . . . chance?” Titus could barely speak, so great was the pressure against his neck.
    “It wasn’t chance. When Damian joined the gladiator school and spoke of his brother and his brother’s friend Titus, son of Vespasian, I knew I would have to keep Damian alive against the hope that someday you would visit him. So tell me, what shall I write to your father in the letter that will be delivered to him after your death?”
    “He will have you crucified for this,” Titus managed to say.
    “Tonight you die, and tomorrow I will welcome death in the arena to free myself of the memories of watching my wife and child die. So speak your last words before I leave your body beneath the statue of Caesar to let the world know that I finally had my revenge against the empire.”
    Titus tried to twist free but knew the man holding a knife against him was utterly serious. And utterly capable of killing him in an instant. So he became serious himself. “Tell my father that I loved him dearly, although I didn’t speak it in his presence.”
    “As you wish.”
    Titus closed his eyes in preparation for the knife to be slipped between his ribs.
    A shout reached them.
    “Help! Titus! I need you!”
    “It’s Vitas!” Titus cried. “My friend is in danger!”
    Maglorius withheld the death stab.
    “I owe him my life,” Titus said. “If you understand honor at all, release me. Please. Kill me later, but let me first repay my debt to him.”
    The sound of running footsteps neared them.
    It was a woman, impeded by a burden in her arms. She stumbled on uneven pavement and fell,