The Advocate

by Randy Singer

  A few hours after dawn, the guards emptied the all crypts and lined up the prisoners. They hung a titulus around each neck, declaring each prisoner to be an arsonist. There were too many prisoners to easily count, four or five hundred at least, and Theophilus searched the ranks for Flavia.

  He spotted her, along with Procula, a hundred feet behind him, and his heart jumped. When her eyes met his, he drew strength from her. Her clothes were tattered, hanging from her emaciated body, but she was walking on her own. She mouthed, “I love you,” and Theophilus mouthed it back.

  The guards herded the prisoners together outside the stadium and put them on display in the unrelenting sun as Roman citizens streamed past. There were thousands of people entering the stadium, carrying bundles of food and jars of wine, their togas clinging to their sweaty bodies. They pushed and shoved as they squeezed through the entrances and crossed the bridges that brought them to the Vatican Gardens. Most ignored the prisoners, but some stared, and others couldn’t resist a few mocking comments.

  Theophilus stared back, realizing that he had once been one of them. He looked for faces of friends, though he wondered if they would even recognize him with his hair disheveled, his beard grown thick, and his skin blackened and scaly.

  He picked up on bits and pieces of their conversations. These were no ordinary games. Nero had apparently promised that he would, in the most spectacular fashion, punish those who had set fire to Rome. There would be no gladiators or chariot races today; the Christians were the only show in town.

  At least, Theophilus thought, there would be no children.

  Before they paraded Theophilus and the others in front of Nero, a phrase was passed down the line from one prisoner to the next. The woman in front of Theophilus turned and whispered it to him.

  “Be strong in the Lord.”

  Theophilus repeated the phrase to the man behind him. He nodded and passed it to the next man back.

  Trumpets blared from inside the stadium, and Theophilus knew that Nero was taking his seat at that moment. The crowd roared, and the guards started whipping the prisoners forward. One by one, the prisoners were unchained from the next person in line and marched into the stadium.

  It was only while he was being unchained that Theophilus saw him—Marcus was the very first prisoner being forced to march around the oval track! Theophilus had a sickening feeling that Marcus had been arrested solely for helping at Theophilus’s arson trial. He had always been there for Theophilus, time after time, since childhood, and now that loyalty had become his undoing. Guilt-ridden and helpless, Theophilus prayed that one of Marcus’s cellmates had led him to faith.

  With the line of prisoners stretching behind him, Marcus stopped in front of Nero’s box. He looked up at the emperor but didn’t say a word. The guards glared at him as if by sheer willpower they could force him to grace Caesar with the traditional greeting of honor.

  But Marcus refused to speak. A guard stepped forward, took the blunt end of his sword in its sheath, and drove it into Marcus’s midsection.

  Marcus doubled over and knelt on the ground.

  “Say it!” the guard demanded.

  Thin and frail, Marcus lifted his head, stared for a moment at the emperor, and spit in the sand.

  Theophilus wanted to break free and somehow help him, the same way Marcus had come to his aid so many times before. But his wrists were shackled together, and he was too far down the track. All Theophilus could do was watch helplessly as the guard lifted his sword, swung it in a gigantic arc, and severed his good friend’s head.

  Theophilus stared in disbelief. Vomit caught in his throat, and he turned away. Marcus, of all people, was the first to die.

  With tears blurring his vision, Theophilus looked back as the next prisoner refused to salute Caesar as well. This time it was a young woman. Nero cursed at her and ordered the guards to take the prisoners back to the crypts without further ceremony. The crowd jeered as the guards marched Theophilus and his fellow prisoners out of the stadium to await their turn for execution.

  CHAPTER 99

  On the way back to the crypts, the prisoners marched past the cages of wild animals. For Theophilus, it was a harrowing experience, walking close enough to touch the cages holding the snarling lions and leopards, brooding bulls, and howling packs of wild dogs. The lions especially seemed so much bigger this close, their eyes bloodshot and yellow, their manes gnarled and matted. Theophilus knew they had been starved the last twenty-four hours, and when they opened their massive jaws and roared, it seemed the ground shook under his feet. The soldiers banged on the cages as the prisoners passed by the animals, riling up the beasts, and laughed as the prisoners shuddered or shrank away from the animals.

  The prisoners were thrown back into their cells, and Theophilus was again separated from Flavia. Left alone, the Christians quickly rallied. They had been inspired by Marcus’s brave stand and the refusal of the next prisoner to bow her knee to Caesar. Andronicus and other leaders who had the gift of encouragement were exhorting their fellow prisoners. “Let us show the Roman people how to die! The Spirit of the Lord casts out fear! Let us meet God with praises on our lips! All of Rome is watching!”

  Others echoed the words of Paul: “Have the same mindset as Christ Jesus, who made himself nothing and became obedient to death—even death on a cross!”

  Though he felt abject fear coursing through every vein in his body, Theophilus joined his voice to those preaching courage. “I was there at the trial of Christ,” he said, pivoting so he could look all the prisoners in the eye. “I heard him tell Pilate that he was born for that moment. This is our moment! May we meet it with the same resolve!”

  A long time passed as they waited for the soldiers to come for the first victims. Perhaps Caesar was giving a speech or playing the lyre or sacrificing to the Roman gods. Whatever the reason, it gave Theophilus and his cellmates sufficient time to regroup.

  When the guards returned, Theophilus stepped to the front of his crypt along with half a dozen other men, shielding the women and older prisoners. The guards pushed Theophilus and the men standing with him aside and dragged out several others.

  A few of the selected prisoners protested, but their words were interrupted by a lone voice from another crypt echoing through the underground tunnels, singing a hymn of praise. Other voices joined, rough and hoarse, but the words lifted the spirits of the prisoners. Soon everyone was singing, their voices rising louder.

  The iron-barred doors to the crypts were slammed shut, and a gang of slaves fastened animal skins to the first set of victims, tying the skins around the shoulders of the manacled Christians so they couldn’t shrug them off. The guards then took out knives and sliced the skin of the Christians so the beasts would smell the fresh blood. Theophilus stood at the front of his crypt, his fists clenched around the bars, searching for Flavia. To his great relief, she was not among the first group selected.

  “Let’s go!” one of the commanders barked. With that, the Christians were pushed and prodded down the long, dark corridor and disappeared out the other end of the tunnel.

  When Theophilus could see them no longer, he joined the others in prayer. They heard the cheering of the crowd as the victims entered the arena. They heard the clang of the cages farther down the tunnel and the great roar of the lions as they were whipped into the arena. In the next few minutes, they heard moments of relative silence, followed by cheers or gasps of excitement and then resounding applause.

  Theophilus could see the scene unfolding in his mind. He knew his own turn would come soon enough.

  For hour after grisly hour, the process was repeated as the guards came for more victims. Sometimes, after the prisoners left, Theophilus would hear the growls of the wild dogs. Other times he heard the roar of the lions. Sometimes he heard nothing but the rattling of cages and the sound of the whips, and he knew they had loosed the leopards.

  The guards took fifteen or twenty prisoners at a time, but as far as Theophilus c
ould tell, Flavia was never among them.

  By noon the crowd was not nearly as enthusiastic as it had been earlier. Maybe they were finally growing weary of the mindless slaughter.

  Theophilus just wanted it to be over. He was sick with fear but also determined to finish well. The examples of those who had gone before him would have inspired even the most insipid of men. Though Theophilus had eaten and slept little, he was no longer tired. Every time the guards returned, adrenaline rushed through his body, preparing him for the agony that lay ahead. He had determined that he would at least go down with a fight. He would attack the beasts—enrage them if he could. That way they would make short work of him and the others.

  He didn’t allow himself to think about what would happen to Flavia.

  By midafternoon, the crypt housing Theophilus had only three prisoners left. The singing and speeches had long since ceased. Defiant resistance had been replaced by a grim acceptance of fate. The soldiers and prisoners had both learned the routine. Guards would enter the crypt and tap the selected prisoners on their shoulders. The Christians would leave the cell willingly and begin their silent death march to the stadium. Those left behind would shake their heads and wait their turns.

  But sometime in the late afternoon, the soldiers stopped coming. An hour passed. Two hours. Theophilus strained to hear, trying to determine if the crowd was still there. He didn’t hear the cheering he would have expected if the emperor had moved on to other events like gladiator fights or chariot races.

  He allowed a brief flicker of hope to reignite. The executions had stopped, at least temporarily. He and the other prisoners wondered aloud at what it could mean.

  Then he heard it, unmistakable, echoing in the twilight air. Something far more sinister, a rhythm that pierced his soul.

  The crowd noise had been replaced by the distant sound of hammering.

  CHAPTER 100

  After darkness fell, the guards emptied the remaining cells and lined the prisoners up again. Theophilus still had his wrists shackled, and they placed him at the very end of the line. Andronicus and Junia were just ahead of him. He heard the voice of Procula a little farther up.

  “Procula, do you know if Flavia is still alive?” Theophilus asked.

  “She’s at the front,” Procula replied.

  He was both relieved and pained at the news. Absent a miracle, they would die together, a thought that created a deep ache in his body, a gashing of his heart.

  He walked with the other prisoners past the cages of animals, but this time the beasts seemed more docile, as if they had had their fill.

  The procession stopped just before the opening of the tunnel. From his vantage point at the end of the line, Theophilus could see little but could hear the bustling and murmur of the crowd. They had apparently regathered in the darkness.

  Trumpets blared and a lictor announced the entrance of the great Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. The spectators quieted, and it sounded like Nero was giving a speech. It was not his voice, of course, because he couldn’t risk damaging his vocal cords by shouting to such a crowd. But Theophilus could pick up bits and pieces from the crier who was relaying the emperor’s words. “Punishment fit for the crime . . . The law prevents death by crucifixion. . . . It does not prevent the use of the cross altogether. . . . The emperor has consulted with the fire god, Vulcan. . . . The gods must be appeased.”

  Theophilus expected the crowd to roar when the speech was over, but the arena was largely silent. He shifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the next, imagining the ghastly new torture that Nero had in mind. He found himself wishing he had simply been fed to the beasts.

  When the prisoners emerged from the tunnel, Theophilus’s heart melted like wax. He had expected this from the hammering, but it was another thing to see the sight with his own eyes. The oval-shaped track had been cleared of all the mutilated bodies, and the sand was freshly raked. Lying on the ground on both sides of the track, all the way around the oval, were dozens and dozens of crosses. Perhaps two hundred in total. One for each prisoner still alive.

  The entire place was lit by torches positioned between the crosses. Theophilus remembered the teachings of Seneca on the Appian Way, the images of Crassus crucifying thousands of slaves. Now Nero was trying to top that—fewer bodies but a more gruesome spectacle, one that included women.

  “Be strong in the Lord.” The mantra came down the line of prisoners again. Theophilus realized that Flavia, as first in line, had probably started it.

  The guards shoved the prisoners forward, leading them to their individual crosses. The cross for Theophilus was located directly in front of the imperial box. When the procession stopped and the front of the line had circled the entire track, he realized that Flavia would be next to him.

  They looked at each other again, their eyes conveying what words could not. She was still regal, even with her hair gnarled, her eyes hollow and gaunt, her skin covered with sores and grime. Be strong, she said with her eyes. Finish well.

  Tigellinus came down from the imperial box and stood in front of Theophilus. A sheen of sweat covered his brow.

  “Confess your crimes and worship Caesar,” he said to Theophilus. “And Flavia walks away.”

  “Don’t do it,” Flavia warned. “Don’t betray our Lord. Don’t betray me.”

  Theophilus looked at his wife, then back at his tormentor. Behind Tigellinus, Caesar sat victoriously in the imperial box surrounded by his court. Theophilus noticed the Vestal Virgins were not in their places. Perhaps they were protesting the execution of Flavia.

  “Jesus is Lord,” Theophilus said.

  Tigellinus slowly nodded. “We’ll see how Jesus helps you now.”

  He turned on his heel and walked across the sand, back to the imperial box. He climbed the steps, thrust out his chin, and took his place next to Caesar.

  The emperor raised his hand. “Let the sacrifices begin!”

  Driven by rage and adrenaline, Theophilus lashed out. He balled his fists together and swung his arms, landing a blow against the jaw of the guard on his right. Another guard jumped him from behind and took him down. Somebody kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. They were all over him, grunting and cursing. He heard Flavia scream in the background. “Theophilus! Stop fighting!”

  There were powerful arms everywhere, and they quickly subdued Theophilus, pinning him on the ground as they removed his shackles. They rolled him on his back on top of the cross and pried his arms apart, positioning them against the wooden crossbeam. A guard on each side placed the tips of the spikes against his wrists. He squirmed but they wrenched him in place. The commander nodded, the guards swung the hammers, and Theophilus cried out as the spikes pierced his wrists.

  Other guards held his feet against the angled footrest attached to the cross. He felt the point of the nail on top of his foot, the skin and tendons tearing as the spike was pounded through his feet. When the hammering stopped, he swallowed his screams and moaned. He had never experienced such pain in all his life.

  Before they lifted his cross, the guards coated it in resin and nitrates, sulfur and pitch. They wrapped soaked linens around Theophilus, and the smell of oil filled his nostrils.

  The pain and odors made him nauseous. He felt like he might pass out at any moment.

  Three burly guards lifted his cross and jammed it into place, causing the nails to tear his wrists and feet, sending bolts of excruciating pain through his body. He looked over at Flavia, who was nailed to her cross as well. She was gritting her teeth, her eyes closed in prayer, her face lifted to heaven.

  Theophilus tightened his muscles and pushed himself up so he could take a deep breath, the pain again ripping through his arms and ankles. “I love you, Flavia,” he said.

  She smiled, a half smile filled with pain. She formed a few words without speaking aloud.

  In agony, Theophilus looked at the emperor’s box. He would draw strength from the face of Nero—perhaps the rage
could block out some of the pain. But the man was gone! He hadn’t even stayed to see the culmination of his own gruesome creation!

  A searing, painful moment passed, and then Nero reemerged in the imperial box. He was wearing the green uniform of a charioteer. He left the box and mingled with the patrons in the stands for a few minutes, then jumped the rail and landed on the track. He walked over and stood in front of Flavia.

  As he looked up at her, he shook his head and made a tsk noise as if he couldn’t understand how she had gotten herself into such a position.

  “In a few minutes, we will extinguish the oil torches and light the human ones,” he said. “A fitting punishment for those who torched our city. I will ride Rome’s finest chariot down the middle of the blazing gauntlet. I’d hate for you to miss a spectacle like that.”

  Flavia said nothing. She stared down at him, her expression seething with contempt.

  “You were a Vestal once,” he said. “Married to Rome. Embrace her again, Flavia. Confess your role in the fires, your love for your emperor, and I will order my men to take you down.”

  “I will make a confession,” Flavia managed, struggling to get her breath.

  Nero looked surprised. “Go on,” the emperor said.

  Jerking violently, Flavia raised herself up. “You raped Rubria.” She drew in a breath. Tears of rage filled her eyes. “You set fire to Rome,” she gasped, “raping your own . . . city.”

  She stopped for breath, and Nero’s face darkened. He sneered in hatred, but Flavia was not yet done. Theophilus watched in stunned admiration as she fought bravely for another breath.

  “I have sinned . . . too.” She let out a moan, and this time she couldn’t seem to find the strength to rise again.

  “It’s all right, Flavia,” Theophilus managed.

  She shook her head, her face a picture of determination. She lifted herself up one more time. “I clapped . . . in the theater. . . . In truth . . .” She grimaced. Gasped. And then there was a smile. “You were horrible on the lyre.”