Paul, Apostle of Christ

by Angela Hunt

  Again, Mauritius did not speak.

  “I was a noblewoman in those days,” Irenica said. “The wife of an important Praetorian. But now I am married to a man who burns innocents at the emperor’s games.”

  Mauritius drew a strangled breath. “It is Nero’s madness.”

  Irenica sniffed. “I don’t blame Nero.”

  I blame you.

  She did not speak the words, but he heard them nonetheless. She blamed him for every ill wind that had blown upon them, beginning with the fire that had consumed their stately home.

  “It is not helpful that you tiptoe around as if the gods have already taken her,” he snapped. “Have you not considered that you might be angering the gods by behaving as though they have no power to heal? Or perhaps they are angry because you spend more time in front of your looking brass than caring for your own child.”

  Irenica’s spine stiffened. She stared for a long moment at the silent form of their daughter. Then she stood and turned to leave the room. She paused at his shoulder. “I have been faithfully sacrificing to the gods every day. My conscience is clean. I do not think I am the one the gods refuse to hear.”

  Mauritius closed his eyes as she walked away, then opened them again to stare at the motionless form of his beloved daughter.

  With her shopping basket on her arm, Priscilla walked briskly to the market, intent on purchasing vegetables and meat for the evening stew. With Eubulus’s arrival she had another mouth to feed, and the Praetorian looked as if he could eat an entire cow at one sitting.

  At least Moria and Carmine had gone back to their master.

  She shook her head and chided herself for being too concerned with practical matters. She would happily feed a dozen more if they came to her home for safety or to hear about Jesus.

  She purchased olive oil, dried fish, legumes, and figs. She had just leaned over to inspect a jar of saffron when she heard a voice she recognized—could it be Moria?

  Priscilla lifted her head and saw Moria across the merchant’s table. The slave was speaking to the merchant, but she appeared to be unharmed.

  Priscilla waited until Moria had finished her conversation, and then she hurried around the table and took the young woman’s arm. “Dear one, it is good to see you!”

  Moria turned, her jaw dropping when she recognized Priscilla.

  “Are you all right?” Priscilla asked, smiling. “And Carmine, is he well?”

  Moria’s eyes welled with hurt. She threw her arms around Priscilla and went quietly and thoroughly to pieces.

  Priscilla tried to control her emotions on the walk home, but her chin kept wobbling and her eyes filled in spite of her resolve. She kept her head down and her steps quick, and within a quarter hour she had entered the gate of her own courtyard. After nodding to the men who kept watch there, she left her shopping basket with Octavia, gave her brief instructions about dinner, and ran up the stairs.

  She found Aquila in their bedroom, working on Luke’s notes. Thankfully, he was alone.

  “Husband?”

  He looked up, his smile twisting when he saw her face. “What happened?”

  She forced the words out. “I saw Moria.”

  “And?”

  Priscilla curled her hands into fists, fighting back the sobs that swelled in her chest. “We could not have been more wrong.”

  “Come.” Aquila turned away from the table and held out his arms. “Tell me why we were wrong.”

  A whimper escaped Priscilla’s lips as she went to her husband and sat on his lap, allowing herself to be comforted like a child. “I saw Moria,” she began, “and she wept in my arms. She and Carmine did go back to their master, and he was grateful to see them. He said they had saved him a fortune in slave-hunter fees. Then he sent Moria to the slaves’ quarters and he had Carmine taken away.”

  “Taken where?”

  Priscilla gulped as hot tears slipped down her cheeks. “To the slave market. The dominus said he would sell Carmine so Moria would never be tempted to run again.”

  Aquila patted her shoulder, his expression tight with strain.

  “I just—” she brought her hand to her mouth in an effort to stifle a sob—“I can’t help feeling we were wrong to send them back. They could still be here with us, safe and united. They had been together so many years, and now their master has torn them apart!”

  “It could have been worse, Priscilla. At least Carmine wasn’t beaten. And while I regret that Moria’s child will never know its father—”

  “No.” Priscilla put her hands on his shoulders. “We were wrong about that, too. We assumed the child was Carmine’s.”

  Aquila lifted a brow. “The child wasn’t his?”

  “Carmine is Moria’s brother,” Priscilla explained, trembling. “Her unborn child was fathered by their master. He sends for his female slaves whenever he chooses and sells their children as slaves once they are old enough to be weaned. Think of it, husband—he treats them like brood mares.”

  Aquila’s frowned deepened. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  “Moria wants to honor God,” Priscilla went on, floundering in a maelstrom of emotion. “But how can she when her dominus treats her like a prostitute? Her brother used to comfort her, but now he is gone and she may never see him again. How is she supposed to serve her master willingly in that kind of situation?”

  Aquila closed his eyes and pulled at his beard. Priscilla waited, her throat aching with regret, as he sorted through his thoughts.

  “Dear wife,” he said, his eyes gentle and contemplative as he smiled. “You should not listen to your heart.”

  “What?”

  “I know this is not easy for you to hear. Someone with your sensitive and compassionate nature is always driven to react emotionally. But does the Scripture not tell us that the heart is deceitful above all things? We cannot trust the impulses of our hearts, but we must hold every situation up to the light of God’s truth.”

  “But that man—their dominus—what he did to Carmine, what he does to his female slaves and their children. God cannot approve of that.”

  “Listen to yourself, dear one. You are angry with him, yet he is a man for whom Christ died. And yes, the master is a sinner—as we were before we met Christ.”

  She listened, unwillingly at first, but the harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted.

  “So Paul was right,” she finally concluded.

  “Yes, but we will continue to pray for Moria and Carmine. And for their master.”

  Priscilla drew a shaky breath and leaned against Aquila’s chest. “It is not always easy to know what to do.”

  “We have always known that in the world we will have trouble,” Aquila said. “When we decided to follow Christ, we counted the cost and knew we would have no guarantee of earthly comfort. Christ didn’t have it, and neither does Paul. Those who come after us will have trouble, too. If not Nero or a cruel master, then someone else who will try to break them. But still, we follow and do not turn back.”

  Priscilla drew a quivering breath. “I know. But still—my heart breaks for Moria. She is so young in the faith.”

  “We will pray for her to have strength and to find someone else to encourage her. And consider this—wherever Carmine goes, he will shine the light of Christ.”

  “I hope so.” Priscilla tried to swallow the lump that lingered in her throat. “And I pray God will bring good out of Moria’s situation.”

  Aquila’s eyes searched her face. “What did you tell Moria when you saw her?”

  “I told her—” Priscilla sniffed—“I told her about Esther. I explained that Esther wanted to be righteous before God, but she was taken into the pagan king’s harem against her will. She had no control over her life either, yet God honored her desire to please Him. And Esther ended up saving the Jews from annihilation.”

  An approving smile blossomed out of Aquila’s beard. “God has been good to me—He sent me a wise and beautiful woman.”
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br />   “He has been good to me, too.” Priscilla wiped her cheeks and somehow managed to smile. “He gave me a generous and slightly foolish man.”

  The tavern was touted as the best in Rome, but Mauritius saw little to recommend it apart from the large jugs of strong spirits behind the counter. Prostitutes worked the tables, leaving little to the imagination as they advertised their particular endowments, and gamblers tossed down markers and collected coins in the establishment’s darkened corners. A couple of disheveled women with dirty hands served barely palatable food, but who cared about eating when men were as drunk as these?

  Mauritius accepted a cup of ale from one of the serving women and looked across the table at Publius, who was struggling to hold his cup in one hand and a plump woman in the other.

  “Mauritius!” Unable to slap his companion on the shoulder, Publius settled for winking in the general direction of Mauritius’s form. “Your dark mood threatens to make this well-fed lass far more expensive than she needs to be. Here, let me order you a woman just like her. Elysius! Does this girl have a sister?”

  “No, thank you.” Mauritius scowled. “Not in the mood.”

  Publius leaned forward and blinked rapidly. “No, I can see you’re not. Something wrong at the prison?”

  Mauritius shook his head.

  “You should not be troubled by the thirteen men who died this morning. You did the right thing.”

  “I am not upset about the executions.”

  “Something worse than that?” Publius pushed the woman off his lap. “Run along, sweetheart, and we’ll play later. Go along now.”

  When the girl wandered away, Publius propped his arms on the table and leaned forward, offering Mauritius a close view of his discolored teeth. “Tell me—how is prison life? Have you finished rounding up all the Christians?”

  Mauritius sighed and averted his eyes. “You know as well as I—Nero’s command is nothing but a distraction, a black mark on Rome and the Praetorian Guard. Still, I try my best to carry out his orders.”

  “Your lot could be worse.”

  “How so?”

  Publius shrugged. “You could be rotting facedown in a British river, slain by the sword of Boudicca herself. Dead at the hands of a woman, now that would be a real disgrace.”

  Mauritius stared, finding no humor in his friend’s comment. He might as well be dead as far as his wife was concerned. She appeared to believe he was worthless as a husband and father, and impotent as a man of arms. “Twenty years of service to Rome, and what do I have to show for it?” he asked. “I risked my life to earn my citizenship and now I am forced to round up people who have done nothing wrong while Nero makes a mockery of everything Rome used to represent.”

  “The emperor is a lover, not a fighter. They say he is a master of the arts. That his voice raised in song has no equal.”

  “What man would dare say otherwise?” Mauritius shook his head. “I have heard him sing, and I would rather listen to cats screeching in an alley.”

  While Publius tipped his chair back and howled, Mauritius sipped his ale. “I was not trying to be funny.” He lowered his cup. “You laugh, but Rome’s enemies will pounce on Nero’s weakness.”

  Publius lowered his chair, released a few last whoops, and blew out his breath. When he had himself under control, he picked up his mug. “He thinks himself a god, you know. But I see him every day, and I can tell you he is a libertine with a swollen paunch, weak limbs, a bloated face, blotchy skin, dull eyes, and curly yellow hair.” Publius shivered. “My stomach tightens every time I meet the man.”

  “I am not fond of Christians,” Mauritius said, “but why does Nero put them to death with such exquisite cruelty? Not only does he kill them in the most horrible ways imaginable, but he subjects them to mockery and derision.” He lowered his gaze. “I could almost believe the emperor has been inspired by Morta. Only the goddess of death could take such malicious glee in killing those who oppose the gods of Rome.”

  Publius drank deeply from his mug, lowered it, and smacked his lips. “These are indeed troubled times, my friend. ’Tis a good thing the gods keep the day of our death a mystery so we can enjoy this life.” His face went suddenly somber. “I’m sorry, I forgot. How fares your daughter today?”

  Mauritius shook his head. “Worse. I pray to Bona Dea, but she does not reply.”

  “Perhaps that is because she is most concerned with women. Sacrifice instead to Carna or Meditrina.”

  “I have.”

  “Then to Febris or Asclepius, Felicitas or Fortuna. A hundred gods stand ready to do your bidding.”

  Mauritius lifted his hand. “Thank you, but I have called on all of them. I would pray to your big toe if I thought it could help.” He wearily considered his situation. “Things are no better at the prison.”

  Publius’s jaw dropped. “What would possibly give you trouble there?”

  He drank again, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “As I mentioned, one of my guards was allowing an outsider to visit Paul of Tarsus at night. Eubulus was a good soldier, but I had to charge him with conspiracy and treason.”

  Publius shrugged. “As you should have. When does he die?”

  “He should have died yesterday. But somehow—I have not yet found an explanation—he escaped the prison wagon, leaving his bonds and fetters behind. He has not been seen since.”

  Publius winced. “Something is wrong with that story. Sounds as though your drivers were drunk.”

  “Or simply negligent.” Mauritius stared into his cup again and saw himself as tiny, frustrated, confused. “Publius, what do you know about these Christians?”

  Publius leaned back in his chair. “I rarely find them in the establishments I frequent. I do know they have a strange affection for poor widows and ugly orphans.”

  “Do you believe them to be fools?”

  “I think we are all fools, but if you want to see what the gods think of them, walk over to the Circus Maximus tonight. You will see they are barely fit to light the arena.”

  He laughed, and Mauritius glumly acknowledged his attempt at humor. “The man Eubulus allowed into the prison is a Greek physician. He comes every night to transcribe letters of some sort.”

  Publius’s brow wrinkled, and something moved in his eyes. “Letters? Mauritius, your mind has gone to rubbish.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  His friend lowered his voice. “If you were to seize these letters, find something, anything, that might relate to crimes committed by this Paul of Tarsus . . .”

  Mauritius waved the thought away. “Nero doesn’t need evidence. He’s the emperor.”

  “Still.” Publius drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “The threat of assassination hangs heavily in the air. Half the city believes Nero started those fires. What if you brought Nero something he could display as proof that this Christian actually did conspire to destroy Rome? You would be a hero in the emperor’s eyes. You would be the most honored man in Rome.”

  Mauritius’s thoughts spun as he stared at his friend.

  “Think,” Publius pressed, “of your daughter. How much better would the gods listen if the divine Nero made a sacrifice for her?” He slapped his thigh. “By all the gods, that’s a brilliant idea. Girl! Over here! Bring me another drink!”

  Ignoring his boisterous friend, Mauritius leaned back in his chair and sorted through his thoughts.

  Mauritius walked home, his legs unsteady and his thoughts in a jumble. He had too much on his mind, that was the trouble. He had lost a treasonous Praetorian, he was overseeing an eccentric prisoner, his daughter was deathly ill, his wife discontented, and his emperor insane. Any one of those problems was enough to make a man long for retirement, but all of them together were enough to drive a man completely mad.

  When his vision blurred—undoubtedly the effect of the cheap ale—he leaned against a wall to steady himself. He’d drunk too much, and it wouldn’t do for the prefect of the Praetorian Guard to be
seen staggering down a Roman street. Even in this unsavory part of town, Nero had spies who would sell their mothers for a silver coin.

  He pulled himself upright and stepped carefully past a drunken man and woman who were rolling around in the gutter. He staggered past the doorway of a well-known brothel and glanced inside long enough to spot several Praetorians. For an instant he considered going inside—for an hour, at least, he could take his mind off his troubles—but the sound of shouting distracted him. The commotion could be anything from a violent argument to a merchant beating a thief, but as an officer of Rome, one of his duties was to maintain the peace.

  He stumbled around a corner and came upon four Praetorians, all of them kicking at a pile of rags on the ground. He blinked, confused, and finally spotted a patch of dark hair among the rags.

  “What is this?” he asked. When they did not respond, he reached for the dagger in his belt. “I am Mauritius Gallis, your prefect. What is this?”

  The tallest guard peered at Mauritius’s face, then threw his shoulders back. “Nothing to see here, Prefect. We are simply teaching this orphan a lesson.”

  Mauritius squinted in the darkness. “Is that a boy there?”

  The guard shook his head. “He may look like a boy, Prefect, but we know he is a Christian spy.”

  “What?” Mauritius glared at the guard, his heart pounding. “How do you know he’s a spy?”

  “We caught him leaving Palatine Hill. So we asked ourselves—what’s a beggarly orphan boy have to do with the patrician families near the Hill?”

  “So we asked him,” another guard said, avoiding Mauritius’s eyes, “where he was going, and he wouldn’t say.”

  “Wouldn’t say much of anything,” the first guard added. “So we gave him a beating.”

  “He did say his name.” The second guard shrugged. “Not that it would mean anything to you, Prefect. Then he called on Jesus, though that one didn’t offer any help at all.”

  Mauritius lifted a burning torch from the wall and held it over a shape that was clearly the body of a child. The dark fabric of his tunic was stained, the face bruised, and the eyes swollen shut. As Mauritius moved the torch over the area, puddles of blood shone black in the torchlight.