by Angela Hunt
Paul blinked. Could this fellow actually believe the rumors?
The officer snorted, then looked at his companion. “I expected more from this one. At least a prisoner who could stand erect.”
Paul bit his lip and waited. He had nothing to prove to this man, and nothing to defend. He had already been judged and sentenced to die.
The man thumped his chest. “I am Prefect Mauritius Gallis, new commander of the cohort responsible for the emperor’s prison and his palaces. You are now my responsibility.”
“What—?” Paul blinked rapidly, struggling to look up at the light. “What happened to Prefect Calvinus Silvio? Did he retire?”
“He died.”
Paul remained quiet as the second man handed Mauritius a parchment. The prefect held it, his eyes narrowing in a speculative gaze, then handed the parchment back. “Read it aloud, Severus.”
Severus cleared his throat. “‘His greatness, god-made-manifest Nero Caesar, has hereby proclaimed Paul of Tarsus a corrupter and deceiver, and declares that same man guilty of the crimes of treason, conspiracy, arson, and murder. For this crime he is sentenced to die by beheading at sunrise on the morning of the summer solstice, at the conclusion of the festival of Vestalia.’”
Paul lowered his head. At last, an ending to his story. To his suffering. And the summer solstice, the twenty-first day of Junius, was not many days away. How many? Paul couldn’t remember.
“While you await your execution,” Mauritius went on, “you will remain in prison. In the darkness. In a dungeon once described as ‘able to craze any man’s senses.’”
Paul kept his head down, his mouth twisting, as a sense of anticlimax washed over him. He had burned brightly in his many years, as fiery in his maturity as he had been in his youth, so how could he meet death like this? He had hoped to end his days in front of a listening crowd or at the hands of gladiators in the arena. He wanted to die as he had lived.
But to sit alone in the darkness and wait for days, then meet his executioner at dawn before anyone in the city awoke? That sort of death . . . was not what he had expected. Or wanted.
“Where?” he asked, lifting his head. “Where will I die?”
Mauritius’s brows rose. “Here, of course. On this very spot, if you wish.”
Paul hung his head again. This was not where he wished to die. If he had to face the executioner, let it be in front of those who would bear witness, who would see how a Christian faced death, with courage and hope and confidence—
Or would he die with a whimper? He could not say. He knew how he wanted to die, but the days of sitting in darkness had taken their toll on him.
And for a long time he had known how his story would end. When he was last in Caesarea, the prophet Agabus had taken Paul’s belt, tied his own hands and feet, and proclaimed, “The Ruach ha-Kodesh says this: ‘In this way shall the Jewish people in Jerusalem bind the man who owns this belt and deliver him into the hands of the Gentiles.’”
May the Lord’s will be done.
“Have you anything to say?” Mauritius again, an insistent note in his voice. “Speak now, man, while you can.”
Paul smiled at the thought of death. When his life was over, he would be . . . grateful.
“Insolent even now, eh?” Severus grunted a command to the other Praetorians: “Another twenty lashes for the old man.”
“Wait.” The prefect put out a restraining hand. “Isn’t this man a Roman citizen?”
“He’s a condemned prisoner who will lose his head in thirteen days,” Severus replied. “So what does it matter?”
The prefect lowered his arm and walked away.
Rather than wait to be pushed to his knees, Paul sank to the ground on his own.
Drifting in the hazy world between sleep and wakefulness, Paul stands on a windblown road and watches an approaching crowd. They walk quickly in the bright sunlight—men, women, and children, most of them wearing simple tunics and unadorned robes. They do not watch the uneven road or look to the side in appreciation of the scenery. Instead, their faces follow him as a flower follows the sun. No matter if he moves to the right or left, forward or back, they watch him with unwelcoming, cold, piercing eyes, and Paul cannot understand why they stare at him so intently.
Do they want him to say something? Do something? Has he wronged them somehow?
He looks away, his gaze drifting off to safer territory. Perhaps he is only imagining their interest. The desert light is playing tricks on his eyes, or his ego is only assuming that they seek his face. He takes a few steps, head down, and counts to ten before he looks up again. He is certain they will have lost interest and begun to converse among themselves, but when he looks their way again, they have stopped moving. They stand motionless in the road, blocking his way, the light in their eyes flickering like heat lightning.
Paul swallows, feeling as though some large, cold object has insinuated itself beneath his breastbone. Now he hears sounds from the crowd—voices buzzing like a hive that has been turned upside down. These people are angry and they are waiting for him.
Mercifully, the sound of male voices pulled Paul from sleep. The guards had changed shifts and did not even look his way as they talked and laughed together in the room above his head.
He rolled over and grimaced when the tattered fabric of his tunic pulled at the crusty welts on his back. Twenty lashes had never taken so long to inflict.
“Yeshua,” he whispered, closing his eyes to block the torchlight coming through the opening above, “is there nothing more for me?”
As the shadows of early evening stretched themselves along the streets of Rome, Luke and Aquila stood outside the newly rebuilt Roman Forum, only a short distance away from the prison located at the base of Capitoline Hill. The building, Aquila explained, was used solely as a place of detention and execution, hence its limited size.
“They say,” Aquila said, leaning against a column as he gazed toward the stately steps of the Forum, “a man could find a good deal of silver if he was willing to dig beneath the new building. A great many important men perished in the Forum because the flames spread so quickly. The fire took everything but their bones and the coins in their pockets.”
Shuddering, Luke shifted his attention to the prison across the street. Several Praetorians stood at the entrance, but Eubulus had told them about a side door that opened only from the inside.
“They will change guards any moment now,” Aquila said, straightening. “So here’s this.” He pulled a folded parchment from his robe and gave it to Luke. “These papers say you are visiting the prisoner on behalf of Arctos Peleus, a senator.”
Luke lifted a brow. “Who is Arctos Peleus?”
“A former client. We made a tent for him once.” Aquila gave Luke a wavering smile. “He is a follower of the Way, though for obvious reasons he keeps quiet about his devotion to Christ. We would rather not involve him, but he has given permission for you to use his name if necessary. He knows how important it is that you see Paul.”
“Senator Peleus is a brave man.”
“He is a true servant of Christ.”
Luke slipped the documents into his tunic as a group of camouflaging vines moved and the prison’s side door swung open.
Two Praetorians stepped out and left the door ajar. They talked for a moment, then one walked away. The bigger man spat on the ground, took the torch from the wall, and dropped it in a nearby bucket of water before going back inside.
“That’s the signal,” Aquila said. “Rap twice and Eubulus will open the door for you.”
Luke gripped his bag. “I will see you tomorrow, if the Lord wills.”
“The peace of the Lord be with you, brother.”
“And with you.”
The men clasped shoulders, then Luke slipped out of the alley and hurried across the street to the prison door. He rapped twice. The door opened, allowing Luke to slip inside.
He found himself face-to-face with a brawny Praetorian. The man acknowledged Luke w
ith a brief nod and then led him through a short hallway that opened into a wide, unusual chamber. The room, carved out of stone, was a vaulted trapezoid, its sides varying in length. A desk sat in the center, and benches lined the walls.
The space appeared to be used for interrogations and procedures. So where was the prison?
“Here.” Eubulus’s face flushed as he pointed to a hole carved into the stone floor. “The man you seek is down there.”
Luke stopped dead, staring downward, his heart surely beating loud enough for the guard to hear. “Down there? But how do I . . . ?”
The Praetorian bent and picked up a heavy rope. “Put your foot in the loop and I’ll lower you.” He stared at the floor as if ashamed to meet Luke’s gaze.
The man held out the rope, and Luke studied the loop at the end. This Eubulus was supposed to be a believer in Christ, but how sure was Aquila of the man’s faith? He could drop the rope while Luke dangled in midair, or he could leave Luke in the lower chamber and summon one of his superiors.
But what choice did Luke have? Aquila trusted this Praetorian, and Luke trusted Aquila. And Paul needed them both.
Luke walked to the edge of the opening.
“Wait.” Eubulus gestured to Luke’s cloak. “I’d leave that up here, if I were you. Wouldn’t want you to ruin it.”
Luke frowned, then undid the clasp at his neck and set the cloak on a bench. Dressed only in his tunic and sandals, he picked up his bag and sat on the floor, allowing his legs to dangle in the empty space. Finally, he picked up the rope.
Eubulus glanced uneasily toward the front entrance. “Going to take all night?”
Sighing, Luke placed his foot into the loop and grasped the rope with his free hand while holding his bag with the other. “Are you ready?”
The Praetorian smiled, revealing a gap where his front teeth should have been. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“All right—but don’t drop me. My bones are not as young as they once were.”
Eubulus chuckled. “I’ll pull you up before the night watch ends.”
An instant later, Luke found himself descending into darkness.
Luke released the rope when his foot touched solid rock. Wary of stepping out of the light, he gingerly slid his foot from the loop and watched as the guard pulled it up. What if this were some sort of trap to catch and imprison Christians? What if Paul wasn’t even in this dungeon?
He glanced around the space, but his eyes, unaccustomed to the heavy darkness, revealed nothing. He lowered his bag to the floor and stood motionless, blinking into the blackness, waiting for his vision to improve. His eyes, too, were not as strong as they had once been and seemed to take longer to adjust.
The torch in the upper chamber allowed only a narrow stream of light into the dungeon. The light did little to repel the gloom, but after a moment it was enough for Luke to make out objects on the floor—an overturned bucket, a bowl, a pile of rags.
But the worst thing about the lower chamber was the stench, an overpowering combination of odors: the sweet, wet smell of rats, the reek of vomit, the earthy odors of sweat, urine, and blood.
He pinched his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth. As a physician, he frequently inhaled the smells of illness, cancers, and decay, but this was the scent of hell itself.
He startled when he heard the clank of chains. He had nearly convinced himself that the Lord had removed Paul from this horrible place, but when he turned, the pile of rags moved and a bald head reflected the light from overhead. The head lifted, and beneath a pair of brows Luke spied the shine of two eyes. A voice, rusty with disuse, broke the silence: “Am I dreaming or are you my friend Luke?”
He would know that voice anywhere. “Paul?” He stepped toward his friend and sank to the stone floor, ignoring the filth around him. “You are not dreaming. I am here.”
The man on the floor wrapped thin arms around him, then shuddered in a sigh. “Praise God.”
Luke bit his lip, alarmed by the skeletal feel of the man he embraced. “Can you sit up?”
“I think so.” A grin flashed through a scraggly beard. “I hope so.”
Luke steadied his friend’s shoulders until Paul sat upright. As he pressed his hand to Paul’s back, Luke’s fingers encountered the stickiness of coagulating blood. “You have fresh wounds.”
Paul shrugged.
Moving with extreme care, Luke peeled a filthy robe from his friend’s back, then turned Paul toward the meager light to inspect the new wounds atop a dense web of scars. “Well,” he said, knowing Paul would not accept pity, “I’ve seen you look worse.”
“Only twenty lashes this time,” Paul said, dry humor in his voice. “I suppose I was not worth the full complement.”
Feeling more confident now that he had a job to do, Luke pulled a jar of salve from his bag and applied it to the apostle’s wounds. “This may sting a bit, but the result will be worth the pain.”
“A good thought,” Paul said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “You should write that down.”
“I didn’t come to write—I came to see you. To take care of your body, so it can adequately house your soul.”
Paul grunted. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind if it set my soul free.”
“Not yet, friend. Not yet. Now.” Luke sat back on his haunches. “How are your eyes?”
A wry smile flashed in the thicket of his beard. “You know the good thing about having poor eyesight? Down here, there’s nothing to see.” He laughed. “The messenger of Satan that has troubled me for all these years has little power over me in this pit.” He turned and squinted at Luke, then smiled. “Truthfully, I did not expect to see your face again—at least not in this life.”
Luke set his mouth in a grim smile. “Nor I yours.”
“I don’t know who you had to bribe to get into this place—” Paul groaned when Luke touched an especially nasty welt—“but surely the money could have been put to better use for our brothers and sisters.”
“Perhaps,” Luke said. “But I didn’t hear a single note of disagreement when the idea was proposed. Even the Corinthians donated generously, if you can believe it. And while the money did help with my travel expenses, I am here tonight because of two brothers—Eubulus, your guard, and a senator called Arctos Peleus. If I am stopped and questioned outside the prison, I am to show a signed document from the senator.”
Paul narrowed his eyes. “Does this man realize how dangerous that would be? Even the Senate is anti-Christian these days. They dare not cross Nero—at least not openly.”
“The senator knows.” Luke smiled as he scooped more salve out of the jar. “I would like to meet him and thank him for taking such a risk.”
Paul snorted softly. “I am grateful. But considering who he is, this will certainly not be the last risk he takes.” He released a long sigh. “I have become an old man inside these walls, Luke. Every bone is wracked with pain. My eyesight has grown even weaker.”
Luke wiped his hands and put the salve away. “Come toward the light so I can take a better look at you.”
Luke shifted to make room for his friend. Once Paul stepped into the dim circle of light, Luke studied Paul more carefully. The apostle to the Gentiles had never been a tall man, but he seemed to have grown shorter since Luke had last seen him. His face, now sharply angled and bony, had gone as pale as goat’s milk, stripped of the tan that came from years of walking in the sun. A layer of dark grime mottled his skin, and pain had carved merciless lines into his visage.
Yet Luke noticed more than physical changes. Paul, the determined, defiant apostle, now wore a tired face marked by anxiety and grief.
“I am a worn-out old man,” Paul whispered, slowly lifting his head to meet Luke’s gaze. “My eyes may not bother me overmuch down here, but there are other things. Thoughts. Memories. Dreams.”
Luke clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I am glad I can offer you a few comforts. I have brought you a new tunic and cloak.
A jar of water to wash your face. By the time I leave here, you will be a clean old man.”
He took a cloth from his bag, then uncorked the jar and poured water onto the cloth. Then he lifted Paul’s face to the light with one hand and wiped gently with the other. “I’m glad to see you have kept busy while I was away,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Getting yourself arrested again, challenging Nero, and apparently finding the time to burn down half of Rome. Well done, old man.”
Paul’s eyes glinted with humor.
Luke’s smile faded. “I heard about your trial. I know you stood before Nero alone.”
Paul shook his head. “Demas deserted me and went to Thessalonica, and Crescens back to Galatia. Only Onesiphorus endeavored to visit me during the trial, and his company did bring me a great deal of cheer.”
Luke froze, the wet cloth inches from Paul’s face. “You know I would have been at your side if—”
Paul squeezed Luke’s arm. “You are here now . . . and I am grateful.”
As Paul clung to his arm, Luke helped the bent man step out of his rags and into the new tunic. When Paul had washed as best he could, Luke took a pair of scissors from his bag and attempted to trim the wild beard. When he had finished, he sat back on his haunches, looked over his handiwork, and sighed. “There. You’d turn heads if you walked down the Appian Way.”
Paul wagged a finger at him. “You should not tell such lies to a friend. I do not need a looking brass to know I am not worth a second look.”
He walked back to the wall on shaky legs and sank stiffly to the floor, bracing himself against the stone.
Luke watched, his heart squeezing so tight that he thought he could not draw breath to speak. Once, not so many years before, Paul had been a firebrand, the first one to rise in the morning and the last to seek his bed at night. For the sake of the gospel he had labored tirelessly, talked until his voice gave out, walked until his feet bled, risked his life in perils from both men and nature. Now he was but a shadow of the man Luke had known so well.
Paul must have guessed at Luke’s thoughts. “I have traveled all over the world for our Lord, willing to die for His sake at any moment,” he said. “But I did not expect the end to come like this. I do not remember ever feeling this lonely since . . . since my trials in Tarsus.”
