by Angela Hunt
“But he was one of us. Someone you may have led to Christ.”
Aquila gripped the balcony railing. “Caleb was a true believer. Some of these people seek community. Others come here in search of shelter, food, and medicine, but they don’t stay. I don’t know their hearts, and I don’t need to. God does.”
“And that, my friend, is what troubles me at times. God knows my heart, and He knows I do not feel love for these Romans. Their evil makes no sense to me. The strength of their violence and hatred makes my skin crawl.”
Aquila nodded in silent agreement. “Like sheep,” he murmured, looking at Luke. “What will you tell them to do? Go or stay?”
Luke shook his head. “How can I give them an answer when Paul would not? I am only glad”—he patted Aquila’s shoulder—“I am not their leader.”
Luke opened his saddlebags and pulled out the pages from his last visit to the prison. He spread them out on the table, groaning as he did so.
“What’s wrong?” Priscilla asked, hurrying over.
Luke pointed to the papyrus sheets. “The notes I made last night are a mess. Look.” He pointed to a dark blob on the papyrus. “There I spilled the ink, and there—I’m not sure what happened. I must have lost my place. The conditions in that pit are deplorable. There’s only a little light, so I spend most of my time writing in the dark. The room is horribly dirty, the floor sticky with filth. The place smells worse than anything you can imagine, and I think Paul has befriended the rats.”
Priscilla’s eyes went wide. “Rats?”
“At least he isn’t eating them.” Luke raked his hand through his hair as he studied the barely readable pages. “I intended to come back and put these notes in order, but I can hardly decipher them.”
Aquila rose from his bench by the fire and picked up a few of the papyrus sheets from the table. “You need help,” he said, “and here you have two helpers. Perhaps we can enlist some of the others, as well.”
Luke looked at his host in dazed exasperation. “How can you help? I can’t even read these notes and I am the writer.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.” Aquila sat at the table, took a clean sheet of papyrus, and picked up a pen. “Find the first page, look over your notes, then arrange the words in your head. Speak the words you want to write. Priscilla and I will be your scribes. Others will make copies of our pages.”
Priscilla immediately sat by her husband and pulled another sheet of papyrus from the stack. She dipped a pen into the inkwell and held it above the page. “I’m ready.”
Luke stared at his hosts, baffled. “I’ve never written this way. I’ve always taken a great deal of time to assemble my notes and sort through them—”
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Priscilla interrupted. “Paul has only ten more days to live.”
“You must trust the Spirit to guide you and give you the words,” Aquila added. “Little by little, page by page, you will write this book.”
Luke looked over the table and realized he had all the necessary pieces. He had his notes, jumbled though they were. And hadn’t he been careful to store Paul’s stories in his memory palace? If Jesus could feed five thousand men with five loaves and two fish, why couldn’t the Holy Spirit help him translate his scribbled notes into a coherent book?
“All right.” He took charge with renewed assurance. “This book will be called ‘The Acts of the Emissaries of Yeshua the Messiah.’”
“I thought it was to be Paul’s story,” Priscilla said.
Luke held up a warning finger. “I cannot dictate and answer questions,” he said, gently teasing her. “We have little time to spare, remember?”
“Sorry.” She smiled. “I will not interrupt again.”
“Good.” Luke took a deep breath, then picked up his first page of notes. “I wrote the first volume, Theophilus, about all that Yeshua began to do and teach. . . .”
“Enter.” Mauritius looked up as Severus led Eubulus into his office, then stood to the side, ready to carry out whatever order Mauritius issued.
The prison guard stood with his head lowered, his hands behind his back. Mauritius couldn’t tell if the man’s hands were bound, but he wasn’t worried. These Christians had proven themselves to be a meek lot. Rarely did they object to their sentences, and even rarer was the Christian who responded to a judgment with physical violence.
“Eubulus.” Mauritius held up a parchment and read the indictment: “You have been charged with treason and dereliction of duty. I could add a charge of conspiracy because it is clear you planned your crime with others, but one death sentence should be enough. How do you plead?”
The big guard lifted his head, and the eyes that met Mauritius’s were quiet and still. “I must plead guilty, sir. I did allow the physician Luke to visit Paul of Tarsus.”
“Then despite your honorable record, you are judged guilty and must pay the penalty.” Mauritius picked up a candle, dripped wax onto the papyrus, and pressed his signet ring to the wet wax. He handed the document to Severus.
Eubulus bowed and then started to turn, ready to follow the guard, when Mauritius lifted his hand. “Wait. Before you go, I need an answer to a question that troubles me.”
Eubulus lifted a brow. “Sir?”
“Why?” More perplexed than he cared to admit, Mauritius studied the Praetorian before him. “You are a Roman, you are a warrior. What did these Christians do to you? Are you under a spell? A curse?”
Eubulus pressed his lips together, his thick eyebrows working like a pair of worms. “Nothing like that, sir.”
“Then what happened? How did they bewitch you?”
“I heard their story—”
“What story?”
“About Jesus, the rabbi who was crucified in Jerusalem. And then I met a man, Peter, who saw Jesus alive three days later.”
Mauritius felt his face heat in a surge of contempt. “And you believed this Peter?”
“I did. I was walking him to his own cross when he told me the story. And given that he was about to die for telling that story, I asked myself why he would lie.”
“He lied because—” Mauritius searched for a reason and came up with nothing.
“He was not lying,” Eubulus said. “I was part of the detail that crucified him outside the city. He asked only one thing at the end—that we hang him upside down, because he said he wasn’t worthy to die like Jesus, the Son of God.”
Mauritius looked away, his mood veering sharply to anger. Eubulus may not be aware that he’d been bewitched, but he certainly had. Only a fool would believe a story about a man rising from the dead after a Roman crucifixion, yet Eubulus was no fool.
“Then may your new religion bring you comfort, Eubulus.” Mauritius motioned toward the door. “Enjoy your journey to the Underworld.”
Eubulus walked without speaking as Severus and another Praetorian escorted him to a closed cart used for transporting prisoners. His wrists were bound with strong rope, and leg irons shackled his feet, forcing him to take small, mincing steps.
“The prefect has decided that you should be executed at the Castra Praetoria, in front of your fellow Praetorians,” Severus said. “You will be given the honor of a military execution.” His gaze shifted to Eubulus’s face and thawed slightly. “I don’t know what got into you, lad. You always seemed so sensible.”
Eubulus shrugged. “Believing in a God who can defeat death seems sensible to me.”
Severus shook his head as he opened a door at the back of the cart. “In you go. I’ll see you again at the Fortress.”
With difficulty, Eubulus managed the two steps that led into the wagon. He sat on the bench inside. Severus closed and barred the door, then thumped on the side of the conveyance.
Despite his resolve, Eubulus trembled as the wagon began to move. He had seen military executions, so he knew what to expect. His fellow Praetorians would be called out of the barracks. They would line the square courtyard. Mauritius or Severus
would lead Eubulus into the center of the field. His crime would be announced, and he would be asked to kneel.
His palms went damp at the thought.
He would kneel before his fellow Praetorians, the finest of the emperor’s soldiers, and his executioner would wait until Eubulus tugged at the neckline of his tunic, revealing bare skin just above his clavicle. The executioner would rest the tip of his sword against that bone. Then he would draw a deep breath and thrust the sword downward, severing the jugular and piercing the heart and lungs with one effort.
Eubulus would look out upon his friends and fellow soldiers, and then he would pitch forward, unable to bend around the shaft of steel slanting through his body. He would breathe his last while lying in the dust. But he would not die. Like Peter, his mortal body would grow still, but his eternal soul would awaken in another place, where Jesus, the One who conquered death, would greet him with a smile . . .
A shout distracted his thoughts. He heard the horse whinny and felt the cart stop. What was happening?
A moment later, the cart door opened. A man stood there, a man with powerful eyes and blindingly bright garments. “Come,” he said, gesturing to Eubulus’s hands and feet.
Eubulus took a quick breath of utter astonishment as the ropes fell from his wrists and the fetters from his ankles.
The stranger smiled. “Do not fear. The Lord has a plan for you.”
Nodding, Eubulus jumped from the wagon to the road.
“Go at once to Aquila’s house,” the man said. “Tell them what has happened.”
Eubulus thanked the man. Without looking around, he darted down a nearby alley and hurried away.
Like anyone faced with a dreaded task, Luke put off speaking to the runaway slave couple until right before he had to leave for the prison. They seemed to feel comfortable among the community at Aquila’s home. He had seen the woman, Moria, working with the other women, and Carmine had been quick to help the men fashion shelters and build cots.
He found them sitting together in a tent, sharing a loaf and a chunk of goat cheese. “May I speak with you?” he asked, bending to meet their gaze.
Both Moria and Carmine were quick to invite him to share their tent. “Would you like some cheese?” Moria held up their small portion. “There is enough for three.”
“I have already eaten, but thank you.” Luke crossed his legs and sat facing them. “Have you given any thought to what you will do in the next few weeks?” he asked. “Many in this community are talking about leaving Rome.”
Carmine shot a quick glance at Moria, then shook his head. “In truth, sir, we have simply been grateful for a few hours’ peace. We were hoping—praying—that a way would be made clear to us.”
“That is good.” The man’s answer made Luke smile, dispelling the mingling of dread and anticipation he had felt at the thought of sharing Paul’s advice. “Several of us have been praying about your future, as well.”
“Oh?” Moria’s eyes widened. “Can you tell us what is best to do?”
Luke tugged at his beard. “Following Christ is a decision each person must make on his own after much earnest prayer. Those of us who are leaders in the community will also pray and seek God’s wisdom, which we will share. You should obey the leaders and submit to them, for they keep watch over your souls as ones who must give an account of their leadership.”
A light flared in Carmine’s eyes. “Have we left one master only to find we must obey others?”
Luke lifted his hand. “You have only one master now—Jesus the Christ. And as his servant, I asked Paul about your situation, and he has told us what you should do. If you truly intend to follow Christ, you will heed Paul’s advice.”
While Moria and Carmine listened, Luke gently laid out Paul’s admonition. He did not know how they would receive the apostle’s counsel—they could find it difficult and prefer to go their own way, or they could receive it with humility and obedience.
Often, Luke knew, following Christ meant doing the opposite of what the old nature wanted to do.
“Go back,” Moria whispered, staring at the bulge at her belly. “Go back to our master.”
“It is the right thing to do,” Luke assured her. “Though I know it will be difficult.”
Carmine stared at Moria with a look that said he was working hard to sort through a new set of perplexing choices. What would he do? Only he could decide.
Luke leaned forward, preparing to crawl out of the shelter. “Pray about your decision. Ask Christ to flood your hearts with His peace when you have made the right one. Then move forward with courage, knowing He will go with you.”
As he slipped out of the tent and left the pair alone, he realized again the importance of the book he was writing. New believers like Moria and Carmine would need to read true stories to show them that Christ could be trusted. They would also need to read Paul’s story, Stephen’s, and Peter’s to know that the early leaders had tested their faith and found it strong.
Publius, the prefect in charge of the Exploratore, the emperor’s personal bodyguard, lived in a rented villa with a grand view of the Circus Maximus. Hoping that his friend and equal might be able to shed some light on his problem, Mauritius sought his friend at home.
A slave let him in and led him to the atrium, where Publius was reclining on a couch while a slave girl served his dinner.
“Mauritius!” Publius called, grinning. “Will you join me?”
“I’ll sit, but I’m not hungry.”
“Come now.” Publius raised a glass of wine and sniffed it in appreciation. “Nothing can be so bad that a fine wine can’t improve it.”
Mauritius grudgingly agreed to take a cup as he sank to a couch near Publius.
“What brings you to me on this fine night?” Publius asked. “Wandering the streets is not like you.”
Mauritius ignored the question. “I wanted to ask you what we can do to ferret out any Christians in the ranks. Today I discovered that one of the guards at the jail is a Christian—he was letting a Greek physician visit a prisoner without permission.”
“By Seth’s big toe, that is an abomination.” Publius grinned and popped a grape into his mouth. “So why did you come to me?”
“Because you have no scruples.”
Publius pasted on a look of mock horror. “This Christian movement—it sprang from the Jews, right?”
Mauritius nodded. “It came out of Jerusalem.”
“And the Jews are allowed to have only one god?”
“As I understand it, yes.”
“So these Christians have only one god?”
Mauritius shrugged. “I don’t know. I could always ask Paul of Tarsus.”
“The man responsible for burning Rome?”
“He is nothing but Nero’s scapegoat.”
“How can you be sure?”
Mauritius stared into his cup and saw his own image reflected there. “You and I have arrested hundreds of men and seen every conceivable sort of debauchery. We’ve seen murders and conspiracies. We’ve pretended not to see lewdness and sorcery and wickedness. We Praetorians know a man capable of such things when we see him. This is not that man.”
Publius shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We do know that Christians and Jews refuse to sacrifice to Roman gods, so there’s your answer.”
Mauritius frowned. “I’m not certain I—”
“Call a special assembly tomorrow morning. Set up an altar in the center of the courtyard. Summon each squad forward and tell them to sacrifice to Vesta, goddess of the hearth. The men will believe you are celebrating Vestalia, so they will think nothing of it.” Publius grinned again. “Provide plenty of wine for the sacrifices, and they’ll proclaim you a god afterward.”
“Most of the men already sacrifice to Fortuna Restitutrix,” Mauritius said. “Her altar is often used by the—”
“It does no good to have them sacrifice where you cannot observe them,” Publius said. “This sacrifice must be public. With your o
wn eyes you will be able to see which men refuse to worship the gods of Rome . . . because they have given their allegiance to another.”
After considering the idea, Mauritius decided to make it so.
“By the way,” Luke said, pulling papyrus sheets from the leather saddlebags, “the slave couple left Aquila’s house tonight. They listened to us and decided to return to their master.”
Paul nodded, grateful for the good report. “The Spirit will guide them, if they are willing to listen. They will do a great work in that household.”
“If they survive it.”
“They will.”
Luke picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink, and looked at Paul. “Where should we begin tonight?”
“At the beginning,” Paul murmured, lying on the floor. He crossed his arms on his chest and stared at the hole in the domed roof. The circle had become his sun, waxing and waning with the turning of the earth, bringing him light and warmth and life . . .
Just as Yeshua had.
“Where should we start?” Luke asked again.
“One minute,” Paul said. “I am sorting through my thoughts.” He felt less relaxed tonight, less able to concentrate. The atmosphere in the cell seemed heavier than on previous nights—probably because as soon as Luke descended into the pit, Paul told him that Eubulus had been sentenced to death.
Paul had been grieved by the news, too, though he did not take it as personally as Luke. Death was becoming more real to him with every passing day, and he was determined not to be afraid. “Death is like a figure that seems foreboding in the distance,” he told Luke after sharing the news. “But as death draws closer, I am beginning to think it is nothing to be feared. By the time it arrives, I might even welcome it as one welcomes a friend.”
Luke had shaken his head, not willing to entertain the metaphor, so Paul let the matter drop. Death was a reality Luke would have to face one day, but not yet. For now, they had a book to write.
“My life did not begin with hate,” Paul said. “My parents loved HaShem and they loved me and my sister. They tried to provide everything for me, their only son—a love for the Law, a solid trade, a good family name. I was betrothed to Daphna at twenty, and we married as soon as she was mature enough to bear children. Both of our parents thought the match was a good one.”
