by Angela Hunt
The Pharisee strode forward, pulling his richly ornamented cloak from his shoulders. “Here. Hold this for me while we strike a blow for Adonai!”
Sha’ul took the cloak and draped it over his arm, then kept his arm extended in an open invitation for others. An instant later, others came toward him, burdening him with cloaks and mantles and hats and traveling bags until the items overflowed his arms and lay piled at his feet.
When the crowd around him cleared, Sha’ul realized the stoning had already begun. Stephen did not run, for he was surrounded, but neither did he cower or beg for mercy. Instead, he stood erect, his face lifted toward heaven, his arms outstretched, leaving his body vulnerable. As rocks struck his chest, limbs, knees, and head, he gazed at the sky, staring in what had to be a demonic delusion. After one particularly large stone struck his head, visibly chipping away a piece of skull, Stephen crumpled to his knees. “Lord Yeshua, receive my spirit!” he cried, slumping as another stone crushed his chest. Then, with what had to be his remaining breath, Stephen cried, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
Sha’ul watched in horrified fascination as Stephen exhaled and did not breathe again.
Luke, who had risen to stretch his legs, turned suddenly, his voice booming from the darkness. “Was Stephen the only Christian you knew personally?”
Paul took a moment to think. “He was the only Christian among my peers,” he said, double-checking his memory. “But there was another. Nicodemus.”
“I have talked to John,” Luke said. “He told me about Nicodemus visiting Jesus in Jerusalem.”
“Yes. Some have said that Nicodemus was embarrassed to be seen in the company of the Nazarene, but Nicodemus had never been shy about making inquiries. He went to see Yeshua at night because he could not reach Him during the day. Jerusalem was always crowded at festival time, and Yeshua was always surrounded with people. So Nicodemus made his inquiries, found out where Yeshua and His disciples were staying, and visited Him at that house.”
“So he became a believer?”
“Not immediately,” Paul answered. “Like many of the chief priests and religious rulers, Nicodemus was quite literal and exacting. When Yeshua told him that a man had to be born again, Nicodemus refused to accept the metaphor. He thought Yeshua was being foolish.”
“What changed his mind?”
Paul shrugged. “He didn’t change his mind, but he gave Yeshua the benefit of the doubt. He and several other Temple leaders had seen evidence of Christ’s miracles, so they knew He had come from God. No mere man could have done the things He did. But Yeshua went on to explain the Scriptures, pointing out that the Torah was filled with metaphors—Moses lifting up the serpent in the desert, for instance. When the people looked at the serpent on the cross in faith, they were saved. In the same way, Yeshua told him, ‘So the Son of Man must be lifted up so that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life.’”
“Nicodemus left Yeshua and pondered His words for many days. He began to see other signs and symbols in the Scriptures—how sin entered the world through Adam, and how salvation could redeem the world through a second Adam, Yeshua. When Christ stood trial and was crucified at Passover, Nicodemus realized that God had provided a sinless, perfect Passover lamb for the world—His Son, Yeshua the Messiah.”
“So Nicodemus believed then?”
“Perhaps. By the time Christ died, however, Nicodemus was a true believer. He was with Joseph of Arimathea when he went to Pilate asking for Yeshua’s body. Together they took the body of Yeshua down from the cross, wrapped it in linen with expensive myrrh and aloes, and placed Him in a new tomb.”
“What did he do after Christ’s resurrection?”
Paul closed his eyes, struggling to remember. “I believe he remained in the Sanhedrin, at least for a while. But while he was never the sort to broadcast his views, neither was he the kind of man to deny them. I lost track of him after I met the Lord, and I’m sure he has died by now. But one day soon”—he opened one eye and grinned at Luke—“I plan to ask him exactly what he did after leaving the Sanhedrin. I’m sure he has an interesting story to tell.”
Chapter
Six
The Twelfth Day of Junius
On his way to the prison, Mauritius stopped at the Temple of Jupiter to make a sacrifice. He stopped before the image of Jupiter and faced the lararium, where he placed an offering of wine, fruit, and three gold coins.
He began his prayers by invoking Janus, the god of beginnings, and Vesta, who governed the fire of the hearth through which Jupiter would receive his offerings. He pulled his toga over his head and prayed: “Father Jupiter, in offering this wine, fruit, and gold I pray good prayers, so that you may be propitious to me and my daughter, to my house and my household.”
He picked up the vessel of wine and poured it on the hearth. “Father Jupiter, in offering to you the fruit and gold, virtuous prayers were well prayed, for the sake of this be honored by the wine offered in libation. Hear my prayer, Father, for the healing of my only daughter, Caelia.”
When he had finished, he nodded to the priest, refolded his toga around his shoulders, and set out for the stable and the Castra Praetoria.
The Castra Praetoria, barracks of the emperor’s Praetorian Guard, stood in the northeastern part of the city, just beyond the inhabited district. Home to all ranks except the prefects and tribunes, the impressive square Fortress stood on one of the highest elevations in Rome, commanding both the city and the major roads leading east and northeast.
Tiberius had built the Fortress over forty years before. Since that time, men like Mauritius had gone there to train, rising through the ranks from tiro to sesquiplicarius to centurion, tribune, and finally prefect.
The Praetorians had no higher rank, nor did Mauritius want one, though he shared his authority with another prefect. The responsibility of reporting to a capricious, cruel emperor had already taken its toll on his family and his health. One day, perhaps, he would retire and live out the rest of his days in peace . . . so long as Nero didn’t first burn down the city.
The knowledge that he had unknowingly allowed a Christian to serve at the prison troubled him immensely. Eubulus, the traitor, could have easily helped Paul of Tarsus escape, and what a fiasco that would have been. What if his “god” had told him to spirit the prisoner out of the city? Or murder Mauritius in cold blood? Who knew what a foreign god would do? Suetonius had described Christians as “a group of people of a new and evildoing superstition,” and who understood people better than a Roman historian?
Last night he had sent a message to one of his tribunes, knowing that arranging a barracks-wide sacrifice would not be a hardship. Many of the men would welcome the break in routine, but those who were Christian . . . Mauritius smiled. He would find them easily.
He rode through the Fortress gates and looked around with approval, pleased by his tribune’s good work. The center courtyard had been cleared of all training equipment, the sand raked. Two tables stood in the center of the courtyard—one supported a statue of Vesta, and the other had been converted into a lararium, complete with jug of wine and sacrificial cup. The men would know what to do; all Mauritius had to do was call the men forward, cohort by cohort.
He left the horse with a guard and went to his tribune’s quarters. The man leapt to his feet and saluted.
Mauritius returned his salute and dropped into a chair. “Are we ready?”
“We were waiting on you, sir.”
“Then summon the trumpeters and let us begin.”
The tribune strode out of the room. Smiling, Mauritius slowly stood and sauntered to the edge of the courtyard where he stood next to a pillar and waited, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
At the first shrill blast of the cornu, the Praetorians sprinted out of their chambers and lined up in the courtyard. By the time the blasts stopped, nine cohorts of five hundred men stood in the courtyard, over eleven hundred men in front of each wall. The only men missing were
several Exploratore and those on patrol.
Mauritius stepped forward and lifted his hand. “Men of the Castra Praetoria,” he called, his voice rising to echo between the tall stone walls. “In honor of the approaching festival of Vestalia, today we will sacrifice to Vesta, goddess of the hearth, for Rome is the hearth of the empire. Each man shall take his turn, stepping forward to offer a sacrifice of wine, then returning to his place in line. All men shall remain until every guard has had an opportunity to make his sacrifice.”
He locked his hands behind his back and studied the men in line. A thousand faces looked back at him—tanned faces, pale faces, thin faces, square faces, flushed faces. The faces were like masks. Almost anything could be going on behind those façades of rugged determination.
“Tribunes!” Mauritius commanded. “Lead the cohorts forward and begin!”
Mauritius stood in the morning heat, perspiration dripping from his hairline, as the slanting sun lighted the courtyard as brightly as a stage. One by one, the Praetorians advanced to the altar, murmured their prayers, sloshed wine into the cup and drank it. Then they returned to their lines, where Mauritius saw more than one man lift a brow and whisper something to his fellow Praetorian.
They were probably wondering if the gods had bewitched him. If they only knew the truth, for he feared a strange god had bewitched them.
There! His pulse quickened when he realized that one man—an evocatus he recognized—did not move forward with his cohort but remained in his spot as if rooted to the earth. And there! On the west side, two men did not go forward. And there! On the south side, directly opposite Mauritius, another man did not move.
One moment slid seamlessly into the next, and before he knew it two hours had passed. And in that two hours he had discovered at least a dozen men who had not been willing to sacrifice to a goddess of Rome.
When the last cohort had visited the altar, Mauritius walked forward, then turned, slowly surveying his men. “I never thought it would be necessary to strain flies out of the Praetorian Guard,” he said, narrowing his gaze, “but that time has come. If you came forward to offer your sacrifice, remain standing. If you did not come forward, kneel!”
Over eleven hundred perplexed guards remained standing, but then, one by one, several men knelt, beginning with the evocatus Mauritius had recognized. What was his name? He had served as a centurion, later retiring to raise a family. When his family perished in the great fire, he had rejoined the Praetorian Guard at Mauritius’s invitation.
Jove, that was his name. He shared his name with Jupiter, king of the gods and the chief deity of Roman state religion. If Jove had turned his back on the Roman gods, he should be doubly ashamed.
Mauritius lifted his chin and counted. Thirteen guards had knelt on one knee, and from the looks on their worried faces, he saw that they had realized his intention.
“You!” He pointed to Jove, half hoping the man would cite some unexpected reason for not coming forward. “Will you come forward now and sacrifice to Vesta?”
He waited in a silence that was the holding of a thousand breaths.
“No, sir.” Jove lifted his chin and stared past Mauritius. “I cannot.”
“Why not?”
Jove stared directly at the prefect. Mauritius expected to see a silent plea for mercy, but the eyes that met his were bright with confidence and soft with kindness. “Because, Prefect, I worship Jesus the Christ, the only true, living God.”
Mauritius turned away in a rictus of repulsion. He strode down the line, asking the same question of each man who had knelt at his command. Others repeated Jove’s refrain—they worshiped Christ and would not worship any other, not even under direct orders from their prefect.
“Praetorians!” Mauritius yelled, frustration evident in his voice. “If the man to your right is a Christ-worshiper, do your duty! Kill him!”
The silence that ensued was like the hush after a battle when the enemy lay dead and men paused to catch their breath. For an instant Mauritius wondered if his men would forget their training and question his command, but the instant soon passed. Swords flashed as they rose from scabbards, and men yelled as they gathered their strength and thrust their blades into the bodies of the traitors.
The executions were over in seconds. Thirteen Praetorians lay in the dust of the courtyard, their blood staining the sand as their companions stood nearby with troubled expressions on their faces.
Thirteen men—fourteen, counting Eubulus—not as many as he had feared.
Holding his hands tightly behind his back, Mauritius walked over to the spot where Jove lay, silent and still. He had turned his head as he fell, and his profile was clearly visible. Above the blood-drenched sand, Mauritius beheld the man’s lined face and saw the suggestion of a smile on his lips.
What was it with these Christians? He had heard that Peter, another apostle, had died with a smile on his face.
Mauritius began walking away, unable to bear the sight a moment longer. “Do not question what you have done,” he called. “Nero has decreed death to all Christians, and better that your Praetorian brothers die honorably here than to be burned alive in the Circus. That is all.”
Confident that he had done his part to eradicate a dangerous religion, Mauritius turned to fetch his mount from the stable.
Severus was waiting when Mauritius arrived at the prison. The guard’s brows were knitted with worry.
“Severus?” Mauritius walked to his desk and sat down. “Have you some troubling news for me?”
A muscle twitched at the Praetorian’s jaw. “Unfortunate news, Prefect. Eubulus has escaped.”
Mauritius stared in disbelief. “How . . . how is that possible?”
Severus shook his head. “I put him into the cart myself. I barred the door. The man wore iron fetters.”
“So? Was the wagon ambushed?”
Severus rubbed his chin. “The two drivers tell different stories. One says they were halted and attacked by men on the street. The other . . .” He shook his head.
“What does the other driver say?”
“It’s impossible. I’ve already detained the fellow for further questioning.”
“But what did he say?”
Severus’s gaze dropped like a stone. “He says they were suddenly surrounded by a bright light. The horses stopped and would not move until the light disappeared. When it did, the second man went back to check on the prisoner . . . and he was gone.”
“A man in fetters couldn’t have gone far.”
“Um . . . the irons and chain remained in the cart. So did the ropes that had bound his hands. And the thing is, sir—the ropes were not cut.”
Mauritius lowered his head to massage his temples. He did not need this sort of trouble, especially with his daughter so ill. Why couldn’t these Christians be more like ordinary criminals?
“Continue your interrogation of the second driver,” he said, looking up at Severus. “The man is clearly lying, so he may have been involved in the ambush. Release the first driver. And when Eubulus is found, bring him to me immediately.”
“Of course, Prefect.”
“Now,” Mauritius said, “any other news?”
Severus pulled a papyrus from his tunic. “Last night’s report. Balbus took the night watch.”
Mauritius took the paper and looked it over. “The Greek?”
“Came and went once again.”
Mauritius stood and walked to the window, considering his options. He had given the physician liberty to visit the prisoner at night, but should that freedom be limited? “What do we know about this Paul of Tarsus?” he asked, spinning around to face the guard.
Severus lifted his chin. “Plenty of rumors have circulated about that one. Some say he is a magician, others that he is a god, and still others claim he is a madman.”
Mauritius snorted. “Certainly madness of some sort surrounds the fellow. But why does this Greek continue to visit him in that disgusting pit? The Greek seems to be
well educated, a man of culture. I know few men who would visit such a place, even if Isis herself were waiting for them there.”
“Balbus says they are working together. Paul dictates to the Greek, who makes notes. They talk throughout the night.”
“What does he dictate? Letters?”
“Balbus says they tell stories.”
Mauritius frowned, then turned back to the open window. What kind of stories did the man from Tarsus tell, and why was the Greek so interested in them?
He waved Severus away.
“Luke.” Aquila rapped on his door. “Are you rested? Because if you are, someone in the courtyard has a story you should hear.”
“I’ll be down directly,” Luke called.
“Don’t take too long.”
Luke smoothed his damp hair with his fingers, then hurried out to meet his hosts. The long nights at the prison had wrecked his sleep patterns, so he snatched naps whenever he could. Fortunately, Aquila and Pricilla had reserved an upper room for his use.
He hurried down the balcony steps and found Aquila, Priscilla, and several others gathered around Eubulus.
“Friend,” Luke said, grasping the man’s arm. “It is good to see you. I was concerned when I heard that you were sentenced to die for your actions.”
Eubulus looked away. “Yes, I was condemned to death,” he said, keeping his eyes averted. “I was not surprised. A Praetorian who disobeys a commander—” he stopped and shrugged—“I knew what I was risking when I volunteered to help.”
Luke gaped at the man. He knew Eubulus was taking a huge risk by smuggling him into the prison to see Paul, but the prefect had seemed so mild-mannered when he confronted them.
“Then how did you come to be here?” Luke asked.
In remarkably simple language, Eubulus described what had happened after he was put into the prison cart. “I should be dead now,” he said, “but the man said the Lord had a plan for me. So here I am.”
