by Randy Singer
Flavia spent the morning at the House of Vestal. She saw no other option. Paul’s witnesses were nowhere to be found, and he was determined to confront Caesar and tell him to repent. That was not going to end well. She loved Paul’s tenacity, but on this point she agreed with her husband.
She had waited this long because she struggled mightily with asking Rubria to inject herself into this fight. Flavia recalled her own struggle twenty-seven years earlier when she had decided to free Apronius. She knew then that she was putting her life on the line. The same would be true of Rubria now.
Flavia explained the situation and told Rubria she would leave the decision entirely up to her. “I believe this man healed you by the power of God’s Spirit,” Flavia said. “And I believe that same Spirit can protect you. But you’re the only one who can make this decision, and I’ll understand either way.”
Rubria was smart enough not to promise anything. They both knew that the Vestal’s shadow had to fall on a condemned prisoner accidentally or he would not be set free. But Rubria did inquire about the timing of the trial and the route Paul might take afterward.
“I’m afraid they’ll take him straight to the Forum for beheading,” Flavia said. “I sense that Caesar wants to make him an example.”
Rubria lifted her eyes to the window, and Flavia knew immediately what she was thinking. It had been drizzling all morning. The sky was full of clouds. If things didn’t clear up, there would be no shadows.
“I know,” Flavia said. “I’ve been praying about that.”
It felt strange to be in the same enormous judgment hall where I had defended Flavia and Mansuetus so many years ago. The place seemed even larger today because there were no crowds pushing for room and chanting my client’s name. Instead, the hall was populated by about fifty Praetorian Guards, a half-dozen prisoners who would have their appeals heard, and another fifty or so members of Caesar’s court.
“Impressive,” Paul said, looking around.
Like everything else in the palace, Nero had overhauled and upgraded this room since the days of Caligula. The judgment seat was now covered in gold, and ivory statues of former Caesars lined the walls. A golden statue of Nero himself, larger than life, towered over the dais where the emperor would sit. The statue was designed to evoke images of Nero as Apollo, the muscle-bound and handsome god who granted health and life and pulled the sun in a chariot.
Nero entered with the usual fanfare and made quick work of the cases that preceded Paul’s. Most of the prisoners either defended themselves or were poorly represented. Nero was more engaged than I thought he would be, asking questions and making snide comments. At the end of each case, after the prisoner or his advocate made the final argument, Nero wasted no time passing judgment.
“Guilty. The prisoner is sentenced to beheading at the Rostra at noon.”
Each verdict made me shudder, but Paul seemed to take it all in stride, his intellectual curiosity in full bloom. He would lean over and whisper questions about the legal procedures or the background of the various defendants. At times, it looked like he was silently praying.
At other times, he kept his eyes glued on Nero as if he could somehow gaze into the dark soul of Rome’s young ruler.
“Next case!” Nero announced.
Sergius leaned over and unlocked the shackle on Paul’s left wrist. Paul rubbed the wrist and smiled.
My stomach was in knots, just as it had been years ago. But Paul seemed to be nothing but excited.
“Rome versus Paul of Tarsus,” the clerk called out. Paul rose from his seat, as did I.
“Praise God,” he said under his breath.
CHAPTER 82
Tigellinus, Nero’s friend who was prosecuting the case, was just a few years younger than me, but his hair was still dark black. From a distance he appeared to be no more than thirty-five or forty. Up close, his true age was betrayed by leathery skin and a large red nose that was the product of too many nights of uncontrolled drinking. He was widely reviled as a man who acted half his age and only held power because of his inherited wealth and carousing friendship with Caesar. He was especially hated by the senatorial class because he was not one of them.
Nobody underestimated the man. Reviled him, yes. And also feared him for his ruthlessness and cunning intellect. But he was not to be taken lightly.
He stood when our case was called and moved next to Paul, putting his arm around the small apostle.
“This man,” he said, turning and looking at Paul as they both stood together in front of Caesar, “appears to be harmless. But he is in fact an insidious threat to the empire.”
He patted Paul on the back a couple of times, patronizing gestures that were already getting under my skin, and sauntered toward Nero’s dais. “I know Your Excellency doesn’t like long speeches, so I will get right to the point. Paul of Tarsus is on trial because he wants to start a new religion and because he refuses to worship Your Excellency or any other Roman gods. He’s also on trial because of his treasonous teachings.”
Tigellinus cast a condescending glance at the apostle. Paul returned the look with a serene stare, more pity than contempt.
“He certainly doesn’t look like much,” Tigellinus said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’ll grant Your Excellency that. But in fact he is one of the most dangerous men in Rome. He has thousands of followers, and he teaches them all that there is a power greater than you, Caesar. He speaks of a Kingdom that will defeat yours.
“I could present a thousand witnesses, but I will need only two. The first is Alexander the metalworker from the city of Ephesus. The second is Demas, a follower of the Way who has spent many hours with Paul in Rome. Together, they will tell Your Excellency everything you need to know about this new movement that seeks to undermine your authority. And because I know that Caesar likes to act swiftly, I will keep my case short. There will be plenty of time for Paul’s beheading before lunch.”
As Tigellinus returned to his seat, he stared at Paul. His statement of the case had surprised me. Several Jewish leaders had made the trip from Jerusalem to testify against my client and this strange new “superstition.” But Tigellinus had apparently decided to ignore them. Instead, he would focus mostly on the treason charge.
“Does the advocate for the defense wish to present a brief opening argument?” Nero asked.
“I do.”
Nero flipped his wrist, a signal to do so quickly.
I stood and took a deep breath. This matter was too important to rush.
“Before you start,” Nero said, “you should know that I have read the testimony submitted in two manuscripts from a witness named Luke. As a student of Greek drama, I must say that I found the good doctor’s story highly entertaining.”
Nero said it with a half smirk, and I already resented his attitude. He was trying to get a reaction out of me and put me on the defensive. I wouldn’t let him knock me off stride.
“As Caesar is well aware, neither Governor Festus nor Governor Felix nor King Agrippa found any fault with my client. It took them years just to settle on the charges. Agrippa said he would have released Paul himself if my client had not appealed to Caesar.”
Nero whispered over his shoulder to one of his assessores, and I wanted to strangle the man. He had paid perfect attention during Tigellinus’s short speech.
I decided to wait until I had his full attention.
He stopped whispering and turned back to me impatiently. “Go on,” he said.
“From reading Luke’s testimony, Your Excellency knows that these charges originated with the Jewish Sanhedrin in Jerusalem. A great dispute broke out when Paul testified in front of that body that he believed in the resurrection of the dead. That’s when they threw him in the barracks. That’s what started this entire case.”
Nero whispered over his shoulder again, and my blood ran hot. A man’s life was at stake! The least he could do was listen.
“Is it a crime in this empire to believe in a resu
rrection?” I asked. “What about Augustus? Did not the Romans see the soul of Augustus rise like a spark to the heavens?”
Caesar wasn’t listening. I was speaking to the back of his head.
“What about Agrippina?” I asked.
Nero’s head jerked around at the mention of his mother. “What about Agrippina?” he responded irritably.
“Is she gone forever?” I asked. “Or does her soul live on?” There were reports, I knew, that Nero had been haunted by his mother’s tortured soul. “How can my client receive the death penalty for preaching a doctrine about life after death that every Roman knows is true?”
I let the question hang there for a moment, and Nero stared angrily. At least now I had his attention.
“As for treason, nothing could be more ridiculous. I have personally heard the defendant teach the followers of Jesus to obey every authority. They are taught to give to all what is owed them. If they owe taxes, pay taxes. If revenue, then revenue. If respect, then respect. If honor, then honor.”
Paul was nodding. It was the one part of his testimony I knew Nero would like.
“Thirty years ago, I served as assessore to Pontius Pilate in Judea. I was there, Most Excellent Caesar, for the trial of the man called Jesus of Nazareth. The Jewish leaders accused him of blasphemy and treason, but Pilate knew he had done nothing wrong.
“I knew that too. I had personally heard him preach in the Temple. The Pharisees asked whether the Jews should pay taxes to Tiberius Caesar, and Jesus asked for a coin and then asked them whose image and inscription was on it. When they said Caesar’s, Jesus told them, ‘So give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.’”
I lowered my voice. “On the day of that trial, Pilate worried more about keeping the peace than he did about whether the Nazarene was innocent. I stood behind Pilate, just as your own assessores are behind you today, and I gave him legal advice on the best way to contain the fury of the Jewish leaders. On that day, we ordered the crucifixion of an innocent man. It was more than thirty years ago, Caesar, but if I close my eyes, I can still see the stoic face of the Nazarene waiting for us to judge him rightly.
“That moment haunts me. If I could live one day over in my life, it would be that day. I allowed fear and ambition and politics to smother justice. And because I believe in the immortality of the soul, I know that I will one day give an accounting for what I did.
“Don’t make the same mistake, Your Excellency. Before you stands Paul of Tarsus, an innocent man. Do not allow his blood to stain your own soul.”
CHAPTER 83
“Well,” Nero said when I had finished, “that was quite the dramatic speech. Perhaps you could join me on the stage sometime, Theophilus.”
To me, this was no laughing matter, and I did not grace the emperor with a smile.
“What did you think of the Greeks?” Nero asked Paul affably. “I read about your little presentation at the Areopagus.”
Paul stepped forward, but a big guard came over and held out his hand.
“The Greeks worship reason,” Paul said. “I preach that we are saved and forgiven by the sacrificial death of Jesus on a Roman cross. To the Greeks, that seemed like foolishness.”
“Not just to the Greeks,” Nero quipped.
Paul smiled. Unlike me, he looked relaxed. “At first it seemed like foolishness to me as well,” he admitted. “That’s the power of the gospel. It seems foolish to the intelligent but profound to the simple. It is said in the Jewish prophecies that God will destroy the wisdom of the wise and frustrate the intelligence of the intelligent.”
“Yes, yes,” Nero said, his voice dismissive. “But I prefer the Greek philosophers to the Jewish prophets.”
“‘Whoever yields willingly to fate is deemed wise among men,’” Paul said.
“The Stoics?”
“Precisely. May I explain how that kind of fate intervened in my life?”
“I’m not interested in the words of the Stoics. I tend to favor the Epicureans—men who appreciate the role of pleasure and sensuality.”
I watched this exchange in amazement—Nero and Paul discussing Greek philosophy as if they were sharing a glass of wine over dinner. I couldn’t tell how this impacted our case, but I had to think that Caesar was at least impressed with the breadth of knowledge possessed by the tattered man in front of him.
“‘When we say, then, that pleasure is the end and aim, we do not mean the pleasures of the prodigal or the pleasures of sensuality, as we are understood by some through ignorance, prejudice, or willful misrepresentation,’” Paul said, keeping his eyes fixed on Nero. “‘By pleasure we mean the absence of trouble in the soul. It is not through an unbroken succession of drinking bouts and revelry, not by sexual lust, nor the enjoyment of a luxurious table that we achieve a pleasant life.’”
Paul stopped for a breath, and I noticed that Nero’s face had darkened, his chin propped on his fist.
“Those are the words of Epicurus himself,” Paul said. “They have been largely forgotten.”
Caesar reached for a sip of wine. Paul took it as a cue to continue.
“There was a time,” Paul said, “when I was convinced I ought to do everything possible to oppose the name of Jesus of Nazareth. I had lived my life as a Jewish Pharisee and thought the followers of Jesus were a threat to the religion of my fathers. On the authority of the chief priest, I put many of the Lord’s people in prison, and when they were sentenced to death, I cast my vote against them. I was so obsessed with persecuting them that I hunted them down in foreign cities.”
Nero leaned back as Paul recited his tale, regarding the prisoner with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
“On one of those journeys I was going to Damascus with the authority and commission of the chief priests. About noon, Your Excellency, I was blinded by a light from heaven brighter than the sun. I heard a voice saying to me, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’
“I asked who was speaking to me, and I heard an audible response, Caesar. The voice said, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. Now get up and stand on your feet. I have appointed you as a witness to open the eyes of your own people and the Gentiles so that they might be delivered from the power of Satan and receive forgiveness for their sins.’”
Paul was animated now, his enthusiasm contagious. This was what he had dreamed of doing for the past two years. I could see the excitement in his eyes.
“From that day forward, I obeyed this vision from heaven. I was told later by a man named Ananias, a man who prayed over me and healed my blindness, that I would be a chosen vessel to bear the name of Jesus to the Jews, the Gentiles, and the Gentile kings. Since that day, I have preached everywhere that men should repent and turn to God. And now . . .”
Paul hesitated, overcome by the moment. He choked back his emotions and continued. “And now God has brought me here to testify to the most powerful king in the Gentile world about the truth, great Caesar. The Messiah suffered and died, but on the third day he rose from the dead. He has brought a message of light to you and all the Gentiles.
“He has set a day when he will judge the world with justice, and he has given proof of this to everyone by his resurrection from the dead. Now is the day of salvation. Now is the day for all men to repent.”
The speech moved me. Paul’s passion. His courage. The blunt truth that echoed in the great judgment hall.
But it was also a strategic blunder—the one thing I had warned Paul against. He had challenged the man who would decide his fate. He might as well have wagged his finger at the great emperor and accused him by name. He had claimed that there was a judge greater than Nero who would punish the emperor and everyone else who didn’t repent.
Nobody spoke to Nero that way. And you could see the derision in the humorless smirk that curled his lips.
After a few seconds of silence, Nero managed a wry smile. “I noticed from the manuscripts that during one of your trials Governor Festus called you insan
e. I’m beginning to think the man had a point.”
A few servants in Nero’s court snickered.
Then Nero leaned forward, and the smile disappeared. His eyes were cold and black. “Do I understand you correctly, Paul of Tarsus? Are you saying that I should repent as if I’ve somehow wronged your God? Is the prisoner accusing his judge?”
Paul didn’t hesitate even for a moment. “Yes, Your Excellency. You, of all men, should indeed repent.”
CHAPTER 84
From that moment, I knew the trial was over. Everything else was just for show.
I saw Nero’s face tighten to constrain his emotions. At the very least, he wanted to give the appearance of impartiality.
“Does the prosecution wish to call any witnesses?” he asked coldly.
“We would, Your Excellency,” Tigellinus said. “Our first witness is Alexander the metalworker.”
Paul watched with empathy as Alexander stepped forward and took the oath. Paul apparently recognized him from Ephesus.
Alexander testified about what happened when Paul preached at Ephesus. Over the course of two years, many had become followers of the Nazarene. Paul had preached that gods made by human hands were no gods at all. The great goddess Artemis was discredited, and worship at her temple largely dried up. People lost their jobs. A riot ensued, and Paul was forced to leave the city.
Tigellinus walked over to a box of scrolls and pulled one out. He handed it to Alexander and asked if the witness recognized the papyrus.
“Yes. Recently, during Paul’s imprisonment in Rome, he wrote a letter to the believers at Ephesus. Copies were made, and I brought one to Rome.”
Paul showed no reaction, but my heart dropped. I knew my client was a prolific writer, and I was certain that this letter wouldn’t help our case.
Tigellinus pointed to a spot on the manuscript. “Please read what the defendant wrote here.”
Alexander took the scroll and began reading, his voice shaky and uncertain. “‘That power is the same as the mighty strength he exerted when he raised Christ from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms, far above all rule and authority, power and dominion, and every name that is invoked, not only in the present age but also in the one to come.’”
