by Angela Hunt
“There is another way.”
Mauritius turned and glared at the old man with burning, reproachful eyes. “You spin your tales of this Christ, but your religion is nothing but a fool’s crutch—mindless sentimentality for the weak and the poor, tales to make their pathetic lives endurable until they are buried and forgotten.”
He returned to the window where the first pale hints of sunrise had brightened the sill. In two days, at another sunrise, he would lead Paul of Tarsus out to the execution block. The thought of sending the old man to his death brought Mauritius a surge of dark pleasure . . . but then cold, clear reality swept over him in a chilling wave.
Irenica was right. He had been too gentle, too accommodating with these Christians. His attempt to cleanse the Praetorian Guard was only a token effort, especially since he had treated Paul of Tarsus with unmerited tolerance. He had been far too deferential. By allowing the Greek to visit his prisoner, he had demonstrated compassion and pity for foreigners who denied the gods of Rome.
Comprehension seeped through his despair. “Ah,” he said, sensing the truth all at once, “I understand now! My own deceit has angered the gods so much that they refused to heal Caelia.”
Luke frowned. “What?”
Mauritius motioned to Euphorbus. “Put the Greek in the holding cell until the cart arrives. Then take him to the Circus so he can die for the enjoyment of my gods—and they can grant me this favor for my daughter’s sake.”
Euphorbus grabbed Luke’s arm and jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go, Greek.”
Paul looked from Luke to Mauritius. “You promised to release him!”
“That was before two of my guards were found murdered.”
“But we had nothing to do with it. This—this is not the answer, Prefect.”
Mauritius gave him a grim smile. “You should have escaped when you had the chance.”
The aged apostle turned toward his friend. “Luke! Be strong and of good courage! Fear not, my friend . . .”
Luke followed the guard without complaint. Paul watched them approach the door, then turned pleading eyes on Mauritius. “Prefect, don’t do this.”
Luke sent a smile winging over his shoulder. “Do not worry. God will make this good, brother.”
Mauritius waited until Luke disappeared through the door before turning to Paul. “Now you will see how Rome treats its enemies.” He stepped forward, pulled his sword, and slammed the hilt against the side of Paul’s head.
The aged apostle went down without a word, and he did not speak again.
Chapter
Thirteen
The Nineteenth Day of Junius
Slowly, Paul swam up from unconsciousness, clawing his way through a confusing fog until he reached wakefulness. He lay on stone, hard and cold, and struggled to open his eyes.
He discovered that he was on the stone floor of his cell, his body bent, his head throbbing. The knotted rope had been tied around his waist, so the guards must have lowered him like a sack of rocks . . . and dropped him from a convenient height. Why take pains with a prisoner who would die in two days?
He tried to lift his head, then flinched at a sharp pain near the back of his skull. Resigned to lie where he was, he closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar stench, felt his empty stomach recoil, and sighed beneath the weighty oppression of loneliness.
Alone.
Luke had been taken away. He was probably at the Circus Maximus by now, crowded into a holding cell with other Christians who would be killed for Nero’s entertainment. They might be crucified, burned to death with boiling tar, or used as prey for exotic wild animals. But at least they would not die alone. At least they had each other.
“Help me, Yeshua,” he whispered, his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “You called me as your emissary to the Gentiles, and so I have been. I have met them in Galatia, Troas, Ephesus, Lystra, Salamis, Antioch, Athens, and Pontus. I have spoken to them in homes, inns, on mountains and in pastures. I have listened to them in synagogues and temples. I have heard so many words that at times my ears buzzed with exhaustion.
“But now no one is with me, and the only eyes I see belong to a rat.
“Help me finish the race, Yeshua. I cannot do this without you.”
Priscilla lay on her bed, soaking her pillow with tears. She had been weeping since receiving the news, and she could not stop weeping. The news of Luke’s transfer from the dungeon to the Circus had dashed her last hope.
Aquila entered and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands by his sides as he stared at nothing. “Cassius and those with him have disappeared,” he finally said. “The entire city is on alert. The Praetorians are everywhere.”
Priscilla burst into fresh tears, reminded again that men from their community had murdered two guards. “How,” she sobbed, “could they take such a risk when our community’s departure date is so close?”
Aquila shook his head. “They are confused and selfish men with their own ambitions. I do not expect them to return to us. They are probably already outside of Rome . . . unless they are hiding in hopes of attracting others to their cause.”
Sniffing, Priscilla sat up and hugged her bent knees. “I cannot believe Luke is to die tomorrow. I . . . I cannot bear the thought of losing him and Paul.”
Aquila nodded, his expression morose.
“I only wanted to help this city,” Priscilla went on. “But now the stench of death hangs over this place. I used to think Rome glorious, but the glory is gone. Nothing remains here but anger, madness, and evil.”
When she reached for a linen handkerchief, Aquila drew her into his arms. “How many more would have died without you, love? Rome will never be completely dark so long as you are here.”
They held each other for a moment, and then Priscilla lifted her head. “My heart breaks for the people who cannot leave. For the widows and orphans. I know I cannot help everyone, but Christ asked us to try.”
“I know,” Aquila whispered.
“I do want to stay in Rome, husband.” She looked up at him. “But we are stronger together. Where you go, I will go. It is what I promised you when we wed.” She pressed her fingertips to his cheek. “When and where you are Gaius, I then and there am Gaia.”
“I remember,” Aquila said, smiling. “How could I forget? We were married here, in Rome.”
“And in Rome I will stay,” Priscilla answered, “until you lead me elsewhere.”
Luke stepped from the prison cart into an off-loading area at the Circus Maximus, a U-shaped arena that regularly drew thousands of Roman spectators to its contests. Six hundred years earlier, the stone structure had been built for horse racing, but in subsequent centuries the arena was adapted for entertainment featuring gladiators, wild animals, and other athletes. One hundred fifty thousand people could find seats in the stands, and as many as two hundred fifty thousand could watch from the windows of homes and palaces on the Aventine and Palatine Hills.
The sounds of hammers and chisels filled the air as a pair of guards led Luke along a row of shops that encircled the track. Cooks, astrologers, prostitutes, jewelers, and metalworkers all sold their goods or provided services at the Circus. According to reports, the great fire of Rome had begun in these shops.
A wry thought twisted Luke’s mouth as he walked between his guards: Christians had little to do with astrologers, prostitutes, or the metalworkers who created images of the Roman gods, so how could anyone believe it was they, Christians, who had started the fire? But reason and logic did not hold much weight when a populace was emotionally overwrought. Nero’s anger had fanned the flames of illogic, and the people of the Way were paying the price.
Still, God could bring good even out of this.
Most of the Circus shops had since been rebuilt, though some appeared to be undergoing renovation still. Luke did not have time to peruse the many markets in which Romans could spend their sesterces, for within moments his guards pushed him down a flight of stone
steps. Beneath the main concourse, he saw large cages that had obviously been designed to hold beasts of prey but were now filled with men, women, and children, a few of whom he recognized from Aquila’s house.
They were his people, his brothers and sisters.
Luke’s eyes misted as he studied them—nearly thirty, by his count, and all of them looking at him with fear on their faces. Some must have recognized him, for they pointed and whispered to their companions.
“I know you,” one of the men called. “You have traveled with Paul. You are Luke, the physician.”
Luke said nothing as a guard shoved him into a cell, then locked the iron door.
“Is it true?” a woman in another cell asked when the guards had left. She pressed her face to the bars. “Are you Luke?”
He nodded. “I am.”
“Then you have been with Paul,” she answered, hope lighting her eyes. “And we all know how Paul worked miracles.”
“When it was God’s will,” Luke answered. “And at this same hour, Paul sits in the dungeon where God has led him.”
The flicker of hope faded from her expression.
“Do you know what will happen to us?” another man asked. “They tell us nothing in here.”
Luke swallowed hard. “When I climbed out of the wagon, I saw charioteers preparing for races today.”
“We heard them.” A woman nodded. “The sound of horses pouring into the stadium.”
“Tomorrow those horses and drivers will rest.” Luke hesitated. “Tomorrow there will be . . . other entertainments. For Nero.”
The room erupted into terrified cries. Women pulled their children close and began sobbing while men went pale and silent. Fear dominated the room like a thick fog, and Luke knew he had to say something. But what?
The truth. He could only offer the truth . . . in love.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, his gaze settling on the face of a young girl. “There will be pain, but it will last only a moment. And then we will be home in the presence of Christ. I am certain of this truth.”
The little girl looked up into his eyes. “You promise?”
He bent, hands on his knees, to her level. “In the name of Jesus, I promise that you will be all right.” He smiled at her, then straightened to face the others. “I don’t know what you are feeling, brothers and sisters, but I can tell you this—in the past few days I have struggled with my emotions. In my heart I felt there should be revenge for the crimes Rome has committed against those of us who believe in Jesus the Christ. But there is only one way—only one righteous way—we can respond to this. Remember what Christ said while on the cross: ‘Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’”
“You want us to forgive the Romans who will watch us—out there?” a woman cried.
“It will not be easy.” Luke turned until he spotted the woman’s anguished face. “Forgiveness always comes at a price, and it is never easy. But Christ gave His life to pay for our sins, and we were just as lost as the Romans ‘out there’ filling the arena. He paid the price for us . . . and tomorrow we will be able to forgive the Romans because He forgave us.”
A man in a nearby cage stepped forward, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the iron bars. “I don’t fear for myself, but my children are with me, and my wife. How can I watch—?”
“Do what the Spirit of Christ leads you to do,” Luke said. “Be an example of the believer in your speech, conduct, and love. Many Romans have been watching to see how we Christians live. Let us show them how we die.”
He looked at the people who watched and waited, looking to him for comfort. “Do not fear what you are about to suffer,” he said, softening his voice. “Be faithful until death, and Jesus will give you the crown of life.”
One by one, they turned to their loved ones—husbands, wives, children, and friends. Though stained with fatigue and stress, their faces seemed to glow in the shadows of the subterranean chamber as they drew their loved ones close.
Luke sank to his knees in the straw. “Christ taught us to pray, so let us pray together.” He clasped his hands and waited as the others knelt with him. “‘Our Father in heaven,’” he began, “‘sanctified be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’”
In the dark pit of the dungeon, Paul knelt and lifted his voice: “‘Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts as we also have forgiven our debtors.’”
In the courtyard of Aquila and Priscilla’s house, the small band of believers prayed in unison: “‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.’”
“‘For yours,’” Luke prayed, “‘is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever. Amen.’”
When he lifted his head, Luke beheld the same faces, but all traces of fear had vanished. They were sober and flushed with emotion, but instead of uncertainty he beheld assurance—a holy confidence.
“God is good,” Luke said, settling down in the straw. “And He is with us.”
Mauritius stood in the Temple of Jupiter, his hands deep in a bowl of warm blood, his spirit soaring. Surely this sacrifice would result in the desired effect. He had sent the Greek to die and confirmed the Jew’s execution, so no one, not even Irenica, could accuse him of being soft on blasphemous Christians.
The priest stepped forward and inclined his head. “The signs are favorable. The internal organs are clear.”
“Ah. Good.”
Mauritius dipped his hands in a basin of clean water and reached for a towel. “Thank you,” he said, drying his hands. He pressed two gold coins into the priest’s palm. “Here. Thank you again.”
Smiling in the calm strength of knowledge, he strode out of the temple and walked toward his villa. Perhaps Caelia would be sitting up when he returned, the glow of health restored to her cheeks. Tomorrow they would laugh at the memory of her illness, and he could confess that he had been blind not to see the truth at once. Irenica would be happy he had finally righted the situation. Tomorrow afternoon, after the games, Nero would hear of the Greek physician’s death and be pleased. All would be as it should be, and Mauritius’s charmed life would be restored.
He resisted the urge to whistle a jaunty melody. He could not be overconfident, for the gods had a tendency to punish those who took them for granted, but with pulse-pounding certainty he knew he had done the right thing. Soon the entire world would know that Fortuna was again smiling on his household.
He turned the corner, his smile broadening in approval at the sight of his villa. He sighed out of an overflow of good feeling and nodded at a neighbor who stared at him, apparently baffled by Mauritius’s obviously cheerful mood.
He had just entered his gate when the front door opened and Irenica’s handmaid ran toward him. “Dominus! Come quickly!”
Mauritius’s grin froze. The woman was undoubtedly bringing good news, so why wasn’t she smiling? Her countenance was tense with alarm, her steps unnaturally quick . . .
“Dominus,” she called hoarsely, breathing hard, “you must come at once. Your daughter’s life is slipping away!”
He looked at her hands and saw blood.
Surprise siphoned the air from his lungs. He spurred his feet into action and ran to his daughter’s bedchamber.
Mauritius’s wide eyes took in the sickroom with one horrified glance. His daughter lay on the bed, pale and still, while blood drenched the sheets and a profusion of wadded towels. Irenica, her arms and hands stained red, regarded him with panic in her eyes. For an instant he thought she would berate him for some misstep, but he saw nothing in her expression but frantic entreaty.
“She started coughing,” she whispered, her voice in tatters. “Then coughing up blood. Please, husband, save her. I cannot lose her. Whatever you must do, do it.”
Mauritius braced himself in the doorway as his mind raced. Jupiter had failed him, Bona Dea—all the gods had not only failed to answer but had failed to hear. Who did hear? Who had t
he power to save his only child?
He could think of only one who might help.
The physician. The Greek. The one he had sent away to die at the Circus.
Mauritius whirled around and ran out of the house, calling for a litter.
The hired litter dropped him outside the holding area at the Circus Maximus. “Stay here,” Mauritius commanded, holding the litter bearers with a stern glance. “I will return in a moment.”
He strode past the guards at the entrance to the subterranean cells, took the steps two at a time, and found his way to the section holding the Christians. Standing between two separate cages, he scanned the occupants and felt relief flood over him when he spotted Luke sitting with a group of men.
“Physician!” He gestured to a guard with keys. “On your feet. You are to come with me at once.”
“On whose authority,” the guard said, “do you—?”
“On my own authority,” Mauritius snapped. “I am Prefect Mauritius Gallis. Now open this door!”
The keys seemed to jangle for an eternity as the guard fitted the key into the lock. Mauritius kept his eyes on the guard’s hands, afraid he might look up and find the Greek obdurate or rebellious. He had known warriors who refused to cooperate after being sentenced to death. What would he do if the Christian refused to come, or if the others closed ranks around him? He could not punish them with a fate worse than the one they would meet on the morrow.
When he finally did look up, he saw the physician standing quietly on the other side of the iron gate, his expression serene and his hands folded.
“Come.” Mauritius resisted the urge to grab the man’s arm and drag him up the stairs. “Your services are required.”
