by Angela Hunt
“I boast gladly, for God’s power is sown in weakness.”
Mauritius drew a deep, frustrated breath. This man spoke in riddles that confounded common sense. While he was not about to confess to burning Rome, he freely confessed to killing Christians. Mauritius tried appealing to the man’s pride, but the prisoner seemed to have none. And a man without pride certainly harbored no arrogance.
He tried another tack. “I assume you have earned riches, land, and influence among your people? Perhaps these things have aroused Nero’s jealousy.”
Paul lifted his gaze to the cloud-laden horizon and stared as if he would impress the image onto the back of his eyelids. “I have never taken a single coin for my work in Christ’s name. Yet God rewards me—look at that sky. Have you ever seen anything so majestic?”
Mauritius turned his back to the horizon. “Even the temple priests and priestesses earn their living in service to the gods. Why should you be any different?”
“The good news of salvation,” Paul said, turning to look Mauritius in the eye, “is free. It was freely given to me, and I give it away in return.”
Mauritius folded his arms across his chest and stared at the puzzling prisoner beside him. He had discovered nothing to serve as evidence against this man or his followers, and he could not appeal to human pride when the man was as humble as a servant. “You have certain powers,” he started again, “but claim to have no authority of your own. You have done miraculous things, yet you do not seek to enrich yourself. You sound more like a slave than a leader.”
“I am a slave . . . one who has been set free.”
“We are Roman citizens,” Mauritius pointed out. “We are free men.”
Paul snorted softly. “All men are a slave to something. The question is—what?”
Mauritius did not respond as Paul’s question scratched at his soul. Why did it bother him? He had nothing in common with this Christian, or any other for that matter.
“That Greek,” he said, changing the subject. “He risked his life every time he visited. Why would he do that?”
Paul shrugged. “He is writing a book. He believes it is important that people know the certainties of my life. And not only my life, but all those who serve as emissaries of Yeshua the Messiah.”
Certainties. The word seemed to hang in the thickening air, and Mauritius felt it mock him. His life had become a series of uncertainties, with his daughter dying and his wife furious . . .
“My daughter is sick,” he said abruptly. “If I pray to your Christ, will she be healed? If you touch my cloak and I drape it over her, will she be made well?”
Paul looked at him, compassion stirring in his eyes. “I don’t know. God’s ways are not my ways.”
“So you offer me nothing.”
“I offer the truth of salvation. I have traveled many miles offering that truth to Jews and Gentiles alike.”
“You complicate your life with all of this; the truth is simple. The gods give life and they take it away. In the meantime, we can only hope for their favor by honoring them.” Mauritius pointed again to the papyrus sheets on the bench. “The Greek can take his pages; I see no value in them. He will be released soon.”
Paul’s face creased in a sudden smile. “Thank you. But before I go—the Greek, Luke, is an excellent physician. His talents are unmatched.”
Mauritius shook his head. “I will not anger the gods by bringing a Christian into my home.” He lifted his hand. “Severus! Take this man away. Return him to the pit.”
He turned and studied his garden, where a wet wind moved in the trees beneath a bruised and swollen sky.
Mauritius listened to the doctor’s excuses, then followed the man as he left the room.
“Wait,” he called, stopping the man in the vestibule. “Why isn’t my daughter getting better?”
The doctor’s face went pale when he turned and found himself face-to-face with an angry father. “There . . . there is nothing more I can do,” he stammered. “The balm was . . . ineffective.”
“How is it possible,” Mauritius asked, glaring down at the man, “that you can do nothing more? You are supposed to be a good doctor. You are supposed to be the best. You certainly are the most expensive physician in Rome.”
“I have spoken with others,” the man said, his chin jutting forward. “No one has an answer for this condition, and your daughter is not responding to anything I have tried. I have no other ideas. You are welcome to send for another physician if you do not approve of my efforts.”
“Please.” Mauritius’s anger faded, replaced by desperation. “Surely you can think of something else.”
The doctor shook his head in dismay. “I have nothing to offer. But you can make another sacrifice. Plead to the gods for her life.” He managed a tremulous smile. “Take heart, Prefect, you are a good man. The gods can still hear you and do your bidding.”
The doctor bowed and left the house, leaving Mauritius alone with his thoughts and his dying daughter.
Hoping to clear his mind, Mauritius threw a mantle over his tunic and stepped outside. He walked away from his home, away from the prison, away from the responsibilities that had so often prevented his involvement with his family. He had left the responsibilities of parenthood in Irenica’s hands, and she handled them well until she encountered a foe she could not charm, manipulate, or bully into obedience.
As for him, he had always enjoyed watching his daughter’s life unfold. He adored baby Caelia, even though he was content to watch her from afar. And he was startled by toddling Caelia, who often looked up at him with awe in her eyes. “So big!” she used to say, rising on tiptoes in a futile effort to attain his height. He always picked her up and held her above his head, grinning while she spread her arms as if she could fly.
The girlish Caelia amazed him, especially when she came to him with questions he could not answer. “What lies beyond the Great Sea?” she once asked, studying a map of the Roman Empire. Once when they sat together in the garden, she looked up at the night sky and asked who put the stars there. “The gods,” he answered, feeling foolish for not knowing more than that.
Now Caelia stood on the brink of womanhood, and his heart twisted in anguish when he realized he might never see her married, never hold her children, and never hear her gentle farewell when she stood at his deathbed. Surely the gods never meant for children to die before their parents! So why were they ignoring his impassioned pleas?
Jupiter had not answered his prayers. Bona Dea had not heard his pleas. He had offered wine, incense, and life itself—all without result.
Was no god listening to him? Were they deaf, sleeping, or simply ignoring him? Perhaps he had somehow offended a deity; perhaps he had laughed during a ceremony or accidentally drunk from a sacrificial cup of wine.
He stopped and glanced around, realizing he had walked all the way to the river, which shone like crushed diamonds in the light of the rising moon. A good place to bare one’s soul.
“If I have offended you,” he said, lifting his gaze to the heavens, “forgive me and hear my prayer. My prayer is not selfish—or perhaps it is, for my daughter means everything to me—but I beg you, gods above and below, to hear my prayer and act on my behalf. My wife begs you, I beg you, to hear and act for us. Show us your divine power and prove your worthiness by healing our daughter. Let her rise from her sickbed and be as she was before, beautiful, healthy, and alive!”
No one answered, and nothing moved save the rippling water.
Back in his dungeon, Paul sat in the golden glow of torchlight and finished telling the story of his encounter with the prefect. When he had finished, the physician sat with his arms folded around his bent knees and remained silent . . . and thoughtful.
“I told him you were a fine physician,” Paul added, “and that your talents were unmatched. I thought he would surely ask you to see his daughter, but the man is nothing if not stubborn.”
Luke shook his head. “Is he stubborn . . . or set
against Christ?”
Paul shrugged. “Are they not the same thing?”
“Not always.” Luke hesitated, and then the words seemed to tumble over his lips. “The first thought that entered my mind after hearing your story was that this Roman does not deserve my help. How could I do him a kindness when he and Rome have brought nothing but suffering to my brothers and sisters?” Luke shook his head. “I confess, my heart wrestles with anger, and the Spirit convicts me with each breath I draw. This is not easy for me, Paul. I know I should look at the lost people around us and feel the love and mercy of Christ flowing through me. Instead I feel rage and a desire for vengeance.”
“We are human,” Paul said, speaking softly. “Grace, mercy, unconditional love—these do not come naturally given our sinful state. Only through Christ’s work in us can we exhibit such virtues.” He smiled. “You know this prefect better than I do—”
Luke startled. “How—?”
“And better than you realize,” Paul continued. “You once prayed to the gods of Greece just as he prays to the gods of Rome. Think about it—in your account of the Lord’s life, why did you write so often of the poor, the outcasts, and the foreigners?”
A frown furrowed Luke’s brow. “I . . . I wanted others to understand that God’s kingdom is open to all. His mercy extends to everyone.”
“Exactly. We should never forget what it was like to be lost. Or what joy it was to be found.”
Luke stared at Paul a long moment, and then an inner light reached his eyes. “I will live in that joy for the rest of my life . . . and throughout eternity.”
“Do not worry, brother,” Paul said with a warm smile. “When the time comes, you will be given the strength to do what is right. Because where sin abounds, grace abounds even more.”
“You should get some rest,” Luke said, his eyes shadowed with concern. “You have had a busy day.”
“Rest?” Paul laughed as he stretched out on the gritty stone floor. “In four days I will enter my eternal rest. But until then, because I respect my doctor, I will try to get a little sleep.”
In the privacy of his household shrine, Mauritius knelt before a wall filled with the masks of his glorious ancestors. The lararium stood before him, equipped with all the essential tools: an offering of incense burning in the turibulum, a heaping portion of salt in the salinum, fine wine in the gutus, and a flickering oil lamp. In addition, he had commanded a slave to heap sweet cakes on the patera as a special offering.
Everything was intended as a sacrifice to whatever god would answer his prayers. Whoever did his bidding and healed his daughter would have Mauritius’s devotion for life.
He had been on his knees for a quarter hour, according to the water clock, and he had received no insight, seen no sign, felt no caress of wind on his cheek. “Are you even there?” he asked, even as his blood ran thick with guilt for the audacity of the question. He knew it was foolhardy to question what every Roman understood to be true, but why had none of the gods acted on his behalf? He had done everything a man could do; he had followed every ritual and spent a fortune on sacrifices, salves, physicians, and priests. So why had nothing worked?
He opened his eyes when he inhaled the scent of Irenica’s perfume. A moment later he heard the swish of her gown and saw her shadow on the candlelit wall.
“You missed the doctor,” he said, his voice flat.
“You told me I should get out for fresh air,” she answered. “So I got out.”
“Where could you go at this hour?”
She did not answer him, and Mauritius was glad she remained silent. Many wealthy Roman women, especially if they felt slighted by their husbands, visited captive gladiators at night. If Irenica had been at a ludus, he did not wish to know about it.
She remained behind him, and Mauritius did not turn, having no particular desire to see her. “There is nothing more the doctor can do.” He turned the catch in his voice into a cough and went on. “He will not come here again.”
“I am not surprised. She has been sick and silent for nine days now.”
Mauritius stood, taking a last look at the masks, the candles, the many sacrifices. “We have things to say . . . but we should not speak here.”
“Do you fear the gods will hear your true thoughts?” She threw the words at him. “You have accused me of angering the gods by my vanity. But what of you?”
“Me?”
“I have heard gossip among the wives of the guards. They say you treat this man from Tarsus with gentleness and sympathy. He spits in the face of Rome, and you are kind to him!”
“The man from Tarsus is a Roman citizen,” Mauritius explained, struggling to remain calm. “If I have demonstrated any degree of kindness, it springs from the fact that, as a citizen, he is entitled to respect.”
“From what springs the kindness of harboring a Greek Christian against the direct orders of your emperor? You should be tried and executed for conspiracy, yet you think I have angered the gods?”
Mauritius clenched his fist. “I harbor the Greek doctor because Nero wants Paul of Tarsus healthy enough to be executed in four days!”
“Your daughter is dying and you dare dishonor the gods by your actions. You are the one to blame for their disapproval of our offerings. You are to blame for her illness! She does not get better because you show mercy instead of justice to those who are traitors against Rome!”
Mauritius turned away, finding more comfort in the lifeless masks of his ancestors than the anguished countenance of his wife.
“All these years,” she continued, the sound of tears in her voice, “you have been busy in the service of the emperor. I remained loyal to you while you were occupied elsewhere, but did you never realize how lonely I was? You don’t think I was starving for attention? I had nothing to occupy my time. Nothing.” She sniffed. “Then Caelia was born—my precious baby girl. She was my joy, my life while your attention was elsewhere. With her in my life, I knew I would never feel such utter loneliness again, no matter what happened to you. But now loneliness stands again at my door because you refuse to consider your selfish ways.”
“This,” Mauritius seethed, rancor sharpening his voice, “is not my fault.”
“It is all your fault!” Irenica shouted. “By witness of all the gods I say her death will be on your head!”
“My head? Have I left our sick child to seek pleasure in the arms of a stranger? Have I lowered myself to pay—?”
“At least,” she interrupted, her eyes narrowing, “I spent this night with a Roman and not a Christian or a Greek!”
A surge of rage hit him, a white-hot bolt of lightning that slammed into his chest and blinded him. He lunged toward Irenica, felt his hands encircle her throat, and drove her to the wall where he held her in his grasp like a mortal enemy. With one effort, one sharp twist and jerk, he could snap her neck and end her accusations forever—
“Do it,” she said, struggling to breathe beneath his strangling grip. “Save me the trouble for when she dies.”
Struck by the desperation in her words, Mauritius released her and backed away, shaken by the depth of his own anger. Irenica slid down the wall and crumpled onto the tile floor, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs.
And in that moment Mauritius realized he was about to lose everything—his daughter, his wife, his position. Perhaps even his life, if he somehow botched the Christian’s execution.
He turned on the ball of his foot and left the house.
Chapter
Twelve
The Eighteenth Day of Junius
Cassius stepped into the crowded inn, then caught the innkeeper’s eye. He lifted a brow, and the innkeeper responded by jerking his head toward a small room he reserved for choice customers—or anyone who could pay the required amount.
Cassius lifted the bag he carried and made his way to the room, dodging drunks and the slaves serving drinks. A dingy curtain hung over the doorway, and when he pushed it aside he saw four of his frien
ds, three of them from Aquila’s house. They looked up as he entered, their eyes lighting with anticipation.
“Did you get them?” Alban asked.
Cassius nodded. “The finest blades a fat purse can buy.”
Nuncio shook his head in pleased surprise. “But where did you get the fat purse?”
Cassius grinned. “Not all who wish to be rid of Nero are poor. Some are wealthy . . . and wish to remain anonymous.”
Lichas’s eyes widened. “Are they Christians?”
“No, but they support our cause. They believe that our fighting to release Paul and Luke from prison will give others the courage to rise up against Nero. More than one person has mentioned Spartacus—if he could encourage the slaves to rebel, they believe we can encourage the Christians to take a stand against injustice.”
“Aye, wouldn’t that be something?” Proteus, a grizzled retired veteran, looked up and grinned, his one eye gleaming. “Spartacus defeated the Praetorians and two legions, and all he wanted was for his men to return to their homes.”
“Surely we can do more,” Cassius said. “Our numbers are increasing every day. With God on our side, we can defeat Nero and take back the city. This place has been filled with evil long enough—it is time to hand it over to those who would do good in the name of Christ.”
Nuncio opened his mouth as if to shout, but Cassius held up his hand, reminding his comrades that they must remain quiet. “I know you have risked your lives by venturing out after dark,” he whispered, “and you will risk your lives again in this fight. But if we are successful, all of us will be heroes, and the movement to take Rome will begin.”
“So,” Proteus said, “let us see what you’ve brought.”
Cassius set his bag on the table and opened it. From the bag, he and his men drew weapons—heavy steel swords, iron daggers, and short, blunt sticks of wood. Proteus unsheathed a short blade, unwrapped its leather sheath, and ran his finger along its edge. He lifted his hand, revealing a thin line of blood in his flesh. “Quality craftsmanship.” He smiled soberly. “I’d say we are ready.”
