John's Story: The Last Eyewitness

by Tim LaHaye

  “I’m no child myself,” the guard said. “I was just becoming an adult when Jerusalem began revolting against Roman rule. You remind me of those rebels.”

  “You flatter me. Within four years they had pushed Rome’s patience to the breaking point.”

  The guard leaned closer. “I’ve always believed that Titus leading the army to the northern wall during Passover when those hundreds of thousands of pilgrims were visiting is what made him emperor eventually.”

  “No question,” John said. “As you can imagine, I am hardly an admirer of his.”

  “I am! Within five months Jerusalem lay in ruins and the great Temple had been destroyed. More than a million Jews were killed and a hundred thousand captured. Titus had so many of your people crucified that he exhausted the area’s supply of wood. I was among the crowds right here when exiled captives were attacked and killed by wild beasts.”

  “You enjoyed that, did you?” John said, bile rising in his throat. He stood. “That was a quarter century ago. Now it is I who have finally pushed the emperor past his tolerance threshold. I have been traveling, preaching, teaching, and discipling young men for the cause of the church of Christ all these years, but it was my writing that landed me here. The proconsul of Asia called my crime ‘adding to the literature of a seditious religion by penning your own account,’ and for that I find myself locked in the bowels of a killing field by an empire bent on destroying me and everything I stand for.”

  WHEN A SOLDIER ARRIVED late in the afternoon with John’s only meal, the guard wobbled to attention, wiping his hands on his grimy toga. But the soldier ignored him and slid a metal platter under the bars. It bore a handful of dried corn kernels, brown from age, a small chunk of bread crawling with tiny insects, and a wooden cup half full of water.

  As the soldier left and the guard watched wide-eyed, John crossed his legs beneath him and placed the platter in his lap. He bowed his head. “Thank You, Father. Bless this gift in the name of Your Son, the Bread of Life.”

  “Wise of you not to have prayed to your own God in the presence of the soldier,” the guard said. “I need say nothing, but he is duty-bound to report blasphemy.”

  “I will proclaim my loyalties tonight for all to hear,” John said.

  The guard shook his head. “Then I will not see you on the morrow.”

  “Probably you will not. But you have already expressed your glee at the executions of Christians. My absence should cause you no concern.”

  John found the bread hard and stale and the water brackish. He crunched the kernels gingerly with fragile teeth, then sopped the bread in the water, ignoring the creatures. This is merely fuel, he told himself, for what I must endure. His enjoyment of a meal as repast was over.

  John slid the platter back out of his cell, and the guard gathered it up and sniffed the cup. “That cannot have been good for you,” he said. “Listen, you can at least delay your fate by denying their charges. Make them bring witnesses. That would take time, unless you have spread this heresy close by here in Rome.”

  “Tonight such will be my privilege.”

  “Then there will be no trial. If you confess your offenses, there is no need.”

  “I plan to proudly confess.”

  “You do not protest your guilt?”

  “I proclaim my freedom.”

  “You will never be free again.”

  “I will never be freer than when I meet again my Lord Christ.”

  The guard shook his head and moved away. “You Jews…”

  Knowing his fate and eager to exploit it for the cause, John stretched prostrate on the dirt floor, fatigue washing over him as he silently prayed for his brothers and sisters in Christ all over the world. His aim had been more than to merely gain converts; it had been also to produce others like himself so the truth might go forth regardless what became of him. If only the younger men—those like Polycarp, who so ably assisted him in Ephesus and on his many journeys, and Ignatius, the bold bishop at Antioch who regularly risked his own life by thumbing his nose at the threats of the emperor—would be even further emboldened by John’s demise, imagine what could come of it. John had long fought pride when others credited him with the wide expansion of the church in Asia. It was the work of Christ, he knew, and yet the Lord worked through His people. If John’s death would cause others to rise up, he would run to his demise.

  LATE IN THE DAY John roused to the sound of thousands of spectators filling the Colosseum. He stood to watch as the vast crowd exulted at several acts commencing simultaneously. The muscled women wrestled each other while the dwarves frolicked just beyond the reach of the tethered animals. Jesters preened and danced and mimed as the crowd laughed. But the greatest outbursts were reserved for the mayhem that ensued whenever something went wrong. Or did it only appear that way? Clearly someone intentionally prodded the ferocious beasts and freed them before the players could escape.

  “The animals were fed less than you were,” the guard said, his face lit with excitement.

  “But the performers,” John said, “why is this their fate?”

  “They have been told that if they amuse the crowd, they will be spared. But it is their lot to entertain this way.”

  “To be ripped apart?”

  “If they escape, they are free and their misdeeds forgiven.”

  “Misdeeds earned them this?”

  “If their offenses were more severe, they would have no chance at escape,” the guard said. “The criminals come next.”

  “There’s more?”

  The guard nodded. “And their only hope is to kill all the animals.”

  “That’s not possible! Lions and elephants?”

  “Watch.”

  “I choose not to.”

  John’s hunger returned and he considered asking the guard to see about even a small piece of fruit. But a roar caught his attention, and before he could turn away he saw a diminutive man torn to pieces, and his appetite was gone. He was left to await his own fate on an empty stomach.

  By the end of the carnage, the infield was pooled with blood, and slaves spread sawdust to sop it. The sun was setting as the spectators noisily exited. John looked expectantly at the guard.

  “They will not all leave the city,” the man said. “The news of your trial has spread. Many will remain to view that as well.”

  “My trial or my sentence?”

  “The latter, of course,” the man said. “If you persist in making the decision for the emperor, the sentence will follow soon enough.”

  When the Colosseum was empty, the dungeon seemed to come alive, soldiers clambering up and down the steps, armor clanging. Several whispered with the guard, who seemed to revel in the attention. When they were gone he approached John’s cell.

  “The emperor has returned,” he said, “in time to enjoy the final act. He now dines in anticipation of meeting you.”

  John prayed for peace, but he was human. His heart galloped and he fought to maintain composure. He told himself that if this was to be his last day on earth, he would look forward to being with his Lord in paradise. And yet he dreaded an excruciating end.

  John hated himself for his fear. Why should he be spared the fate of his compatriots? He had resolved to be a worthy spokesman for the cause. No amount of dread, no intimidation could make him deny his allegiance to the living God. Exhibiting peace at his own end would be a powerful testimony. Most, like this guard, would think him a fool to hasten his own demise, but he could do no other.

  “They will be here for you soon,” the guard said. “Will you fall limp and force them to carry you? Or will you struggle against men much bigger and stronger and younger?”

  “I go willingly.”

  “You are a strange man.”

  “I am a believer.”

  “As am I, sir,” the guard said, smiling broadly. “I believe my master and god will sentence you to a slow, horrible death.”

  The guard’s look appeared anticipatory, as if for m
ere sport the man was hoping for an angry retort, a curse.

  Rather, John raised a palm. “I wish you peace in the name of Jesus Christ,” he said.

  The guard’s eyes grew cold. “Still you deny the deity of the emperor.”

  Two soldiers noisily descended the stairs and ordered the guard to open the cell. “No trouble now, ancient one,” the first said.

  John shook his head and extended his arms, wrists crossed.

  “No,” the soldier said, “behind you.”

  They bound him with manacles, but when the other guard knelt to apply ankle restraints, the first waved him off. “He is no risk.”

  John was strangely grateful for their strength, propelling him up the steps with a hand on each arm. Unable to reach for balance, he knew he would have otherwise tumbled over the side. Outside in the courtyard, a milling crowd awaited, jeering and slapping the sides of the horse-drawn wagon that carried him through narrow streets toward the Latin Gate. The soldiers scared them off, and John was soon delivered to the scene of his final examination.

  It was dark now, and the sky starless. A semicircle of soldiers and their centurions held back the crowd of thousands. Blazing lampstands outlined the boundaries of a makeshift court. Beautiful draperies hung over two-story wood frames, and long benches bore musicians, senators, and other dignitaries John did not recognize. On an elevated platform sat what he assumed constituted the emperor’s inner circle—his wife and perhaps advisers. These looked out over the mass of spectators jostling for better views.

  John saw no gallows, no stake with kindling. Might his execution, should it be prescribed, be delayed? He was prepared either way. Yet there was a huge drapery covering…what? Soldiers and slaves entered and exited, clearly busy at something behind it.

  All rose when the musicians stood. Trumpets blared, and courtiers led in the emperor himself. Domitian was tall and handsome enough, in his mid-forties, with a thick neck, full face, hooked nose, and protruding upper lip. He wore a purple robe and a gold crown, which, though large enough to exhibit images of Jupiter, Minerva, and Juno, could not mask his baldness.

  The crowd erupted in cheers, and all in the assembly—save John—knelt or bowed or saluted. The soldier who had kindly eschewed the massive ankle bracelets for him now barked in his ear, “Bow to your ruler!”

  John raised his chin and gazed heavenward, whereupon the soldier hammered him between the shoulder blades, driving him to his knees. The old man pitched forward, turning his face at the last instant to take the brunt of his weight on his cheekbone.

  The crowd was quieted.

  Domitian spoke. “Present the accused!”

  Soldiers on either side of John yanked him to his feet.

  “Are you John bar-Zebedee, born at Bethsaida, northeast of Syria Palestine, and currently of Ephesus?”

  “I am he, but I reject the renaming of Judea to Syria Palestine.”

  “Regardless, are you aware of the charges against you?”

  “I am not.”

  The emperor reddened and glanced at his advisers. His wife appeared amused. The others nodded, as if to urge him on.

  “It has been brought to my attention that despite your status as a resident of the Roman Empire, you deny the deity of your god and have deigned to do so in writing.”

  “On the contrary,” John said. “My written record proves that I serve the true and living God and His Son, Jesus the Christ, whom I believe is divine.”

  The crowd seemed to gasp as one, and the soldiers who held John glared at him. The emperor appeared speechless, and two advisers rushed to him, conferring quietly. As one returned to his seat, Domitian nodded to the other, who faced John and spoke. “You have the freedom to renounce your loyalty to this false god,” he said, “destroy your written record to the contrary, and pledge your fealty to your master and lord, the emperor, the censor for life, the pontifex maximus, the father of his country, and the erector of fifty new buildings, including the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitol and the palace on the Palatine.”

  “Thank you for that freedom,” John said, “which I choose not to exercise. Whether it is right in the sight of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to listen to you more than to His resurrected Son is for you to judge.”

  At that all on the dais rose, and the throng behind John began to shout.

  “Kill him!”

  “Crucify him!”

  “Feed him to the lions!”

  The advisers and the emperor conferred again, and Domitian raised his arms to quiet the crowd. “My friend and trusted consul, Senator Marcus Nerva, shall pronounce the sentence.”

  Nerva, a full-haired man in his sixties with a long, thin nose and a cleft chin, announced that “for the crime of heresy and for serving false gods, the guilty is to be boiled in oil.”

  With a sweep of his hand, Nerva signaled slaves to sweep back the curtain to reveal a colossal black iron cauldron suspended over a grate covering kindling and logs drenched with pitch. Additional wood stood in neat piles. Slaves filled the pot with oil from tall earthen jars. The crowd roared anew.

  Emperor Domitian thanked Nerva and said, “John bar-Zebedee, do you understand the charges brought against you and their consequences?”

  John did not respond, imitating his Lord when He faced His accusers. Trembling as much with anticipation as fear, John reminded himself of the Scriptures, of the prophecy of Isaiah, who had written:

  He was oppressed and He was afflicted,

  Yet He opened not His mouth;

  He was led as a lamb to the slaughter,

  And as a sheep before its shearers is silent,

  So He opened not his mouth.

  John could see his silence enraged Domitian, though that had not been his aim.

  “Ignite the flames!” the emperor bellowed, and the crowd cheered. Domitian took his seat beside his wife, and slaves tossed torches beneath the gigantic pot. As the flames licked the sides of the vessel, soldiers lowered John to his stomach on the ground, and drew his feet up behind him and manacled them, attaching them with chains to his bound hands. They hoisted him over the pot and slowly lowered him until he was kneeling, the slowly warming liquid reaching just above his shoulders.

  Unable to steady himself, John drifted forward until his chin caught the edge of the pot and he perched there to gaze upon the frenzied, delirious multitude. Were such radiant faces what Jesus saw from the cross? John’s attention had been on the Master and on the Master’s mother that day. How the gleefulness of the mockers must have crushed Him, as it now did John.

  Buoyancy kept John’s knees from pressing too heavily on the bottom, and while that relieved him from pain, he assumed that once the heat of the oil forced his body to respond, he would topple and his head would plunge beneath the surface. The people, and the emperor, would have what they so desired. And so would John. For what appeared to them as his end was merely the beginning of his eternity with God.

  He was struck that while his mind raced, his heart had calmed and he exhibited no panic. Is this grace, he wondered, or the prospect of paradise so soon after torment? If he could somehow endure this without thrashing, without cries of pain, how much better would be his testimony to the goodness of God.

  Long minutes passed as the crowd murmured, then began to move and leap with excitement. Water would have been near boiling by now, but it was too precious a commodity. Oil takes more than twice as long and will smoke well before it reaches a boil, though John could already feel the heat. The first bubbles traversed to the surface from near his feet and splashed near his head. He closed his eyes. Grant me grace until I am with You, my God and my Redeemer.

  The crowd clapped rhythmically and chanted, “Death to the infidel! Death to the heretic!”

  And as the din increased, the flames shot higher and smoke rose from the hot oil. John had not moved, and he kept his eyes closed, feeling the steam on his face and the warmth of the heavy metal under his chin, certain he would soon find the flesh separat
ed from his bones by the heat. The acrid vapor attacked his nostrils, and he imagined the blanket of black fog that enshrouded him, obliterating him from the view of the crowd. He was grateful they would not see when he inevitably slid from view and was boiled to a crisp in the cauldron of death.

  But what? Warmth was all he felt on the sensitive skin under his jaw. And with the crackling of the wood below and the coursing of the steam and smoke, should not that alone have heated him past tolerance, past consciousness? Could it be that God had granted him some immunity to the awful pain that should accompany this death?

  John frantically searched his mind for a favorite passage, a Psalm that had provided so much comfort and courage over the decades. Silently he recited:

  He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High

  Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

  I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress;

  My God, in Him I will trust.”

  Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the perilous pestilence.

  He shall cover you with His feathers,

  And under His wings you shall take refuge;

  His truth shall be your shield and buckler.

  You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,

  Nor of the arrow that flies by day,

  Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,

  Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.

  A thousand may fall at your side,

  And ten thousand at your right hand;

  But it shall not come near you.

  Only with your eyes shall you look,

  And see the reward of the wicked.

  Because you have made the Lord, who is my refuge,

  Even the Most High, your dwelling place,

  No evil shall befall you,

  Nor shall any plague come near your dwelling;

  For He shall give His angels charge over you,

  To keep you in all your ways.

  In their hands they shall bear you up,