by Angela Hunt
And their faces! The eyes that rose to meet Luke’s were haunted and wary, as though they could not trust even a man as harmless as he.
Lord, how could you have allowed the sort of evil that has driven your children into hiding like this?
“Luke!”
A woman’s voice, resonant with joy, snapped through the collective anxiety like a whip. Luke spun around and saw Priscilla standing on the torchlit balcony, her lovely face alight with relief and happiness. “Stay there, I’ll come down.”
She moved down the stairs with the grace of a woman half her age and drew him into a tender embrace. “Praise God! We were beginning to worry about you.”
Luke smiled. “I had to wait longer than I anticipated, but here I am. I never would have found you if your friend hadn’t found me.”
Priscilla turned to the Praetorian who had served as Luke’s escort. “Thank you, Eubulus. Once again you have served us well.”
Two red patches appeared on the man’s cheeks. “It was nothing.”
“It was a gift,” Priscilla said, correcting him. “We know what risks you take every time you help us.”
Luke watched in silent appreciation as the imposing soldier walked into the courtyard, stopping to speak to a man and woman near one of the fires.
“Priscilla,” Luke said, turning back to her, “I didn’t expect to find that you had so many guests. If my presence is an imposition—”
“You are always welcome in our home.” She sighed. “We didn’t expect to have so many guests. Many of these families lost their homes in the fire. Others have fled the threat of spying neighbors. Still others are known to be Christians, so they dare not be seen on the streets any longer. Since they have no place else to go, and we have room . . .”
“It’s good you are here.”
She inclined her head toward the villa. “Come, Luke. Aquila is inside—he will be thrilled to see you.”
They went up the stairs and into the house. Priscilla took Luke’s bag and cloak. The man near the fire turned at the sound of footsteps, and his face brightened when he saw Luke. “Brother, you are a delight to these weary eyes.”
Luke stepped forward to meet his friend’s embrace. “I’m glad to see you. Thank you for making the necessary arrangements. I wasn’t sure I would be allowed back into the city.”
“What did you say when they questioned you?”
“I said I was a physician.”
“Did they ask you to offer incense to Vesta?”
Luke grimaced. “They did not.”
“They must have been in a hurry. Or God distracted them.” Aquila gestured to a bench by the fire, inviting Luke to sit. “We do not take many chances these days. These are dangerous times.”
Luke sat, then pulled a bag of coins from his tunic. “Your letters broke the Philippian community’s heart. We took up a collection for you.” He placed the bag in Aquila’s hand. “It’s not as much as we had hoped.”
Aquila smiled. “We are grateful for every coin. Supplies and food are running low, but still, the Lord provides. And now He has provided through the Philippians.” He turned to a young boy who sat near the fire. “Tarquin? Will you take this bag to Herodion and Rufus? Ask them to put it wherever it is most urgently needed.”
The boy, who appeared to be eleven or twelve, grinned before he took the bag and sped into the courtyard.
Luke watched him go. “He seems young to be entrusted with such a responsibility.”
Aquila chuckled. “He is loyal. A Roman boy. The community took him in after his parents died in the great fire. Thousands perished during that time.” He pointed to a young man standing beside the courtyard gate. “His cousin, Cassius. He came to us after he heard what the community had done for Tarquin. He was baptized a few days later.”
Luke rose and moved onto the balcony, where he studied the faces of those milling around in the courtyard garden. “A good thing you have a large house.”
Aquila grinned. “The house is not so large, but the garden has room for many. It is just what the Lord knew we needed.”
“Everyone here can be trusted?”
Aquila’s smile broadened. “We trust God. Come, sit, you must be starving. Tell me how the church at Philippi is doing.”
“They are doing well. And thank you—I am hungry.”
“Then come to the table, brother. Priscilla has done an amazing job of feeding so many. And after you eat, if you don’t mind, we have some who are sick. If you could—”
“I can.” Luke reached for his bag. “My belly can wait.”
“None are so sick that they cannot wait until after you eat something.” Aquila squeezed Luke’s shoulder. “Let us take care of you for once. Later we will have plenty of time for you to do what you do best.”
Reluctantly, Luke let himself be led to the table.
Luke was not surprised by the illnesses he discovered among the refugees. A few women exhibited festering burns—always a problem when people and their cooking fires were crowded together—and a few children were suffering the effects of malnutrition. Several people presented wounds for him to examine—cuts, as well as infected insect and rat bites. Two babies had fevers, so Luke instructed their mothers to give them lots of water and bathe them, if possible.
He treated the afflictions he could, gave advice to those who needed to adjust their daily habits, and comforted those who were sick with worry. “Did Christ not tell us to be anxious for nothing?” he reminded them. “We are to cast our cares on Him.”
When he had finished examining all who were ill, he looked up and saw Priscilla waiting at the edge of the courtyard. “Come,” she said, smiling serenely. “The hour is late and we have more food.”
He followed her into the house, into a lamp-lit room where a table had been laid with bowls of figs, a slab of cheese, and bread. Some sort of stew simmered in an iron pot, and the delicious aroma awakened his appetite.
“I knew that simple meal of bread and cheese wouldn’t be enough,” she said, gesturing for him to sit. “Not for a man who probably hasn’t eaten all day.”
“The food smells wonderful.” He slid onto a bench. “Thank you.”
Priscilla and Aquila sat across from him. After giving thanks to God, the three of them began to eat.
“I know I have only just returned,” Luke said, breaking off a piece of the fresh bread, “but things appear to be worse than they have ever been. Rome has long been a place of debauchery and bloodshed, but darkness hangs over this city now—a darkness that was not present when I was last in Rome.”
Aquila sipped his wine, eyeing Luke over the brim of his cup. “Nero’s cruelty has worsened. He now holds regular games at the Circus Maximus. He still loves chariot races, but on days when the horses are resting, his games feature men, women, and children being torn apart by wild beasts.”
“The crowd screams for more after each exhibition,” Priscilla added, shivering. “It is horrible.”
Luke shook his head. “Evil has overtaken his soul.”
“Perhaps,” Aquila said. “But Nero says those exhibitions are intended to remind the Roman people that followers of Christ burned more than half the city to the ground.”
Luke blinked. “Does he really expect them to believe that?”
“He would like them to believe anything,” Aquila answered, “rather than know the truth.”
“And that truth is—?”
“The fires were his deliberate act,” Priscilla said.
Luke glanced from wife to husband. “Truly?”
Aquila nodded. “One of Nero’s grand plans—one he actually presented to the Senate—involved tearing down a third of the city so that he could build an elaborate series of palaces he called Neropolis. The Senate rejected his proposal, and not long afterward, fire broke out among the shops lining the Circus Maximus.”
“Fires break out in Rome every day,” Luke interjected. “And the wooden buildings are deathtraps.”
“Agreed,”
Aquila said. “And many of the slums did burn. But the stone homes of the senators also burned—homes in the part of the city Nero wanted to destroy.”
“Gangs—organized thugs—prevented people from fighting the fires,” Priscilla added. “They threatened to torture anyone who stopped the flames.”
“The Praetorians are supposed to fight fires when necessary,” Aquila said. “Instead they remained billeted in the Castra Praetoria while the city burned.”
“I have heard,” Luke said, watching Priscilla ladle stew into a bowl, “that Nero played his fiddle while the fire raged.”
“I heard that rumor, too,” Aquila replied. “But it’s not completely true. He was in Antium when the fire began. Convenient for him, really. No one could blame him for the blaze if he was away from the city.”
“But he came back,” Priscilla said. “When the fires neared his home. The fires could not be prevented from consuming his palace, yet Nero was able to open the Campus Martius and Agrippa’s public buildings to house the impoverished people. He distributed useful supplies from Ostia and other cities, and lowered the price of corn to three sesterces per peck. He did these things to gain the public’s favor—and the ploy worked, but only until the rumors spread.”
“What rumors?” Luke asked.
Aquila snorted. “They say that on one of the nights Rome burned, Nero stood on a household stage and sang about the fall of Troy, likening the fire to that catastrophe.”
“Everyone blames him anyway,” Priscilla said, passing the stew to Luke. “Because even before the fire, he behaved as though the run-down condition of old buildings and narrow streets offended him. He lit fire to the city so brazenly that a number of former consuls caught his associates with oakum and pine brands on their properties but did not arrest them. He also desired the property of several grain storehouses, so he demolished the walls with siege machines and set fire to the inside, though the outer walls were made of stone. That fire spread and burned for six days and seven nights, prompting many in the area to take refuge around monuments or in the tombs. Many destroyed homes were owned by well-known generals who had decorated their walls with spoils from their victories. Temples burned, even those that were consecrated during the wars against Carthage and Gaul. Nero observed the fire from the tower of Maecenas and said he was ‘engrossed in the beauty of the flames.’ Then he donned the clothing of an actor and sang ‘The Fall of Illium.’”
Aquila’s mouth pursed and rolled like he wanted to spit. “Nero said he would pay for the removal of corpses and debris, but he forbade anyone from combing through the remains of his own estate, as he wished to gather the spoils for himself. Then he initiated a fund for the relief of damages from the fire and forced the people to contribute, until the private citizens had almost no money left.”
“But he got what he wanted,” Priscilla added, her features hardening in a look of disapproval. “Now no one can stop his grand plan for rebuilding Rome. He has already begun his Domus Aurea, the grand palace. I hear it will have a park, a lake, and several palaces—”
“The lake and park are to appease the people,” Aquila interjected, “while the palaces are to reflect Nero’s glory.”
“When people think of him in years to come”—Priscilla shook her head—“I do not think they will remember his palaces. They will remember his cruelty.”
“I saw an example of that cruelty tonight,” Luke said, setting his jaw. “The Praetorians crucified a prisoner on top of the Servian Wall, then set the man afire. It looked like they were preparing to execute others.”
“It happens every night.” Priscilla’s lower lip quivered. “And those prisoners were not criminals—they were Christians. Nero proclaimed that since Christians started the fires, they will serve as torches on the Wall.”
“Why doesn’t anyone stop him?” Luke asked. “The Praetorians have removed emperors before. They engineered the assassination of Caligula, didn’t they?”
Aquila let out a sigh. “The Praetorians have not removed Nero because many of them trust the emperor and his lies. Rumors have been spread throughout the city, and those who do not understand people of the Way have no trouble believing such stories.”
Curious, Luke asked, “What kind of stories?”
Aquila tugged on his beard. “Some say, brother, that an ancient Egyptian prophecy—supposedly well known to Christians—foretold the fall of ‘the evil city’ on the day Sirius rises. Sirius rose on the nineteenth, the day the great fire began. Those who cling to this falsehood have no trouble believing that Christians fanned the flames of the fire, hoping for the complete destruction of Rome.”
Luke’s thoughts spun in bewilderment. “Since when have Christians or Jews placed any faith in ancient Egyptian prophecies?”
Grinning, Aquila tipped his finger toward Luke. “Exactly. Yet those who do not know us insist that Christians are not to be trusted. They cheer Nero on and applaud his plans for rebuilding Rome. Each time a Christian dies on the Wall or at the Circus, they yell for more.”
Luke pressed his hand over his lips and stared at the stew in his bowl. “I . . . I seem to have lost my appetite.”
“I am sorry,” Aquila said. “I should not have burdened you with so much news all at once. You have been away—”
“No, I needed to know what has happened, because now I understand why Nero ruled against Paul at his trial.” Luke pressed his hand to his chest. “Now I see why so many have crowded your courtyard. How much longer can you hide so many?”
Aquila looked at his wife. “We don’t know. We are at a crossroad and yet we see no sign of this darkness being lifted. We don’t know whether we should continue here or attempt to lead the community out of Rome.”
“Where is Linus?” Luke tilted his head, remembering the gentle Roman who was a leader of the church in Rome. “Surely this is a decision for him to make.”
Aquila lowered his gaze. “We lost contact with him weeks ago. I believe he’s gone into hiding with the rest of the larger community. Their location, or even if they are still in the city . . . we simply don’t know.”
Luke rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hand. He had always considered problems from a logical perspective, and surely this problem could be methodically considered and resolved. “With the threat of such great persecution, why stay in Rome?”
Priscilla gave him a rueful smile. “We are the only light left in the city. If we go, the poor and needy will suffer even worse than they do now.”
Aquila lifted his hand. “But in remaining here, we risk everyone’s lives. We have families with women and children. If we are discovered, the emperor’s Praetorians will take everyone prisoner.”
Luke sighed. “I understand. It is not an easy decision.”
Priscilla leaned toward him. “Luke, when you speak with Paul, perhaps . . .”
“Yes.” Luke nodded slowly. “He will shed light on this. I will ask Paul for his counsel—he will know what to do.”
“We would be grateful for his insight on the matter.” Aquila pushed the bowl of figs toward Luke. “And you, my friend, should eat more. You are too thin.”
Priscilla smiled in agreement. “I know you are used to hardship, but when food is available, you should take advantage. Especially when it is offered with love.”
Luke felt his reserve thaw. He had become so accustomed to being cautious and on guard; perhaps Priscilla was right. He needed to put his wariness aside and rejoice in the blessings around him.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a fig from the bowl. “Thank you for reminding me that for everything, there is a season. A time to fast, and a time to eat.”
Chapter
Two
The Eighth Day of Junius
“Hey! Prisoner!”
Paul opened his eyes, then slowly unfolded his stiff limbs and pushed himself into a standing position. Dread and anticipation mingled as he stepped into the single circle of light that streamed from the stone chamber
above.
He tipped his head back and squinted into the beam. “You want me?”
“Who else? You’re wanted outside!”
Outside? Paul’s thoughts tumbled over each other. Who would want to see him up there? He was a condemned prisoner, and no one, not even his best friends, wanted anything more to do with him . . .
A rope fell through the opening, a knotted cord that served as his only connection to the land of the living.
He put his foot into the large loop at the end and gripped the rope with trembling hands. Strong arms hauled him upward, pulling him from the depths of Nero’s dungeon.
Blinking in the bright light above ground, Paul could not see the one who grabbed his arms and drew him onto the stone floor. When his watering eyes adjusted to the brightness of the space, he saw four men who appeared to be with the Praetorian Guard. One guard held a door open.
Paul shuffled on shaky legs toward the doorway. The upper chamber had been painfully bright, but the unfiltered sunlight was ten times worse. He raised his hands to cover his blinded eyes. The guards had no patience for his weakness. They pushed him forward, prodding with bony fingers and fists until he stumbled and fell onto a paved path.
A strong voice issued a command: “Get him on his feet.”
As brawny arms lifted him upright, Paul struggled to find his balance. When he was able to stand on his own, he opened his eyes and saw two different Praetorians standing before him. Like the men who guarded him, they did not wear armor, yet these two wore finer tunics than those worn by the guards. The man staring at him with a narrowed gaze must be a man of some authority.
“So you are Paul of Tarsus,” the stranger said, disdain dripping from every syllable. “The man responsible for reducing half of Rome to ashes.”
