by Randy Singer
CHAPTER 74
Paul did not look anything like I expected. We met at a house he was renting in the Jewish section of the city. It was near the grain storehouses, east of the Tiber, close to the curve in the river that formed Tiber Island. The walls of the house were thin, and you could hear the cacophony of pedestrians and merchants on the streets outside. Paul’s left wrist was chained to a Roman soldier. When I entered, the soldier stood to attention and introduced himself as Sergius Fabius Cossus.
The apostle, as Procula had called him, was about my age or maybe slightly older. He was slump-shouldered and short with a wiry black beard, a balding pate, and small eyes that frequently squinted. He seemed to have boundless energy, though he stood with difficulty, straightening slowly, as if he had a bad back. He walked with a noticeable limp and couldn’t seem to raise his right arm much above his shoulder.
Ours was not a private meeting. Mansuetus had tagged along with me. Sergius was, of course, chained to Paul, though the soldier didn’t act like the stiff-lipped jailer I had expected. A young, bright-eyed physician named Luke was also in attendance. Procula was there to make the introductions. Rounding out the group was Onesimus, a runaway slave whom Paul introduced as “my brother in Christ.” It was an eclectic bunch.
I felt uncomfortable discussing Paul’s legal problems in front of Sergius, but Paul didn’t seem to mind. “This man has heard more preaching and praying than anybody in Rome,” he said, jangling the chain on his left arm. Sergius smiled as he did so, showing an obvious affinity for his quirky little prisoner. “I’ve got no secrets from him or my other jailers,” Paul added.
In her introduction, Procula had referred to me as one of Rome’s greatest advocates. I deflected the praise with a self-effacing comment. I had asked Procula not to tell Paul about my role in the trial of Jesus. On the off chance that I did take Paul’s case, I didn’t want him to resent me for not stopping the Nazarene’s execution. More importantly, I also wanted to test Paul’s knowledge of the historical events that I had witnessed firsthand. I knew from talking to Procula that Paul had not been in Jerusalem himself during the critical few days surrounding the death of Jesus. I wanted to know if his sources were accurate.
I began by asking Paul to tell me about the charges against him and the legal proceedings that had taken place in Jerusalem and Caesarea. I reminded him that Sergius was duty bound to report any incriminating conversations to his superiors.
Brevity was not Paul’s gift. He took his time and told his life’s story from the beginning while Mansuetus took notes on his wax tablet.
Paul had originally persecuted the followers of the Way until his own dramatic conversion. He talked about his subsequent attempts to convert more followers to the Way. He described the various places he had visited and the many people he had told about Jesus’ death and supposed resurrection. He spoke fondly of those who had believed. It was quite a tale, filled with healings and jailbreaks and miraculous conversions.
I watched the animated little man and tried to evaluate whether he was telling the truth. In the past I had appraised hundreds of clients this same way. There were mannerisms that betrayed a lie. A furtive glance here or there. Hesitation just before a deception. Details that didn’t match up. I noticed none of that with Paul.
The apostle clearly believed everything he said with every fiber of his body. He exuded passion, sometimes jerking his left hand up and drawing a smile from Sergius, whose right hand would go with it. Procula listened with a half grin. She must have sensed that I was already enthralled by the man.
He was definitely persistent, I would give him that. Everywhere he went, he had preached about the Nazarene. He seemed to have a determined group of enemies that followed him from city to city and stirred up trouble. He had been beaten with rods three times, stoned once, whipped with thirty-nine lashes on five separate occasions, and imprisoned so many times I lost count.
“Show him your back,” Luke suggested.
Paul shrugged it off. “I think Theophilus gets the picture.”
Over the years, I had learned to take my clients’ stories with a grain of salt. Especially ones as dramatic as Paul’s. In my mind, I discounted most of the miraculous. An earthquake in Philippi when Paul and his friend Silas were in prison, resulting in a jailer who was baptized. A proconsul in Cyprus who became a believer because Paul spoke a curse against a sorcerer and the man was immediately struck blind. A man named Eutychus who had fallen asleep when Paul preached in Troas and fell from a third-story window ledge to his apparent death. Paul allegedly threw himself on the young man, and Eutychus came back to life. “Some say my sermons are a bit long,” Paul deadpanned.
The story that intrigued me most was the one Paul told about going to Athens, the very center of Greek culture.
Flavia and I had visited there as well. Paul’s description of the place rang true, especially the story about being called to address the Areopagus, where he had been asked to explain his new religion to the city’s great philosophers. “I quoted a few of their own philosophers,” Paul said. “Men like Epimenides. I told them I would reveal the unknown God they had been worshiping in ignorance.”
“How was that received?” I asked.
Paul made a face. “Sometimes, great learning can be a stumbling block when it comes to what is true.”
I loved the man’s frank style. And I don’t think I had ever met anyone more convinced that he had found the truth.
I could tell by the look on my son’s face that Mansuetus was totally captivated by these stories. What fifteen-year-old wouldn’t be? Time sped by, and I realized that after two hours with the apostle, I still didn’t have a solid understanding of the evidence that might be used against him. But the man’s plight interested me, and I had an idea.
I had watched Luke as Paul talked. The doctor was levelheaded and focused on details. He had been with Paul through some of his journeys and had interjected names and places during Paul’s narration. He seemed to have an indelible memory and a compulsion to get the facts straight. He thought like a Greek, something that would resonate with Nero. Plus, testimony from an independent source would have more credibility.
“To get this appeal heard, you need to grab the emperor’s attention,” I said. “Written submissions have the same force as oral testimony.”
I had to be careful here. I didn’t want Paul to think I was committing myself to his case.
“Here’s what I’m proposing,” I said. “I would like Luke, as an independent witness commissioned by me, to chronicle this entire story. Address it to me, and I’ll submit it to those who are investigating the case for Caesar. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. Luke, you need to emphasize that this faith is an outgrowth of the Jewish faith and not something different and therefore illegal. You also need to demonstrate that nobody is trying to start an insurrection against Rome.”
“Will Nero read the manuscript?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know. And please understand, I’m not committing to your case. Not yet. I’ll decide after I have a chance to digest the manuscript.”
Luke seemed intrigued by the idea, but Paul looked troubled. When he spoke, he was less animated than before, his face somber, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “I appreciate your advice,” he said. “But you must understand, Theophilus, that when I first met with Ananias thirty years ago and the scales fell from my eyes, he left no doubt about my mission. He told me that I would be a chosen instrument to proclaim the name of Jesus to the Gentiles and their kings as well as to the children of Israel. He said I would have to suffer much for the sake of Jesus.”
Paul looked around the room, and his eyes landed on the chains that bound him to Sergius. “If this letter is to be read by Caesar, the most important thing is not that the letter proclaims my innocence but that it proclaims the good news about the Messiah.”
His words, though noble and heartfelt, heightened my concerns. If Paul was intent on dying for the
sake of the Way, he could do that without me. I wanted clients who would listen to my advice and help me set them free.
For the time being, I kept those concerns to myself. We agreed that the manuscript would be a group effort. Mansuetus would work with Paul and Luke in the process. Nothing could better help prepare the young man for a life of advocacy than working on a real case. I promised to read every word of it when they finished.
“Keep in mind this will be read by some very influential people,” I said.
“I’ll remember,” Paul said quickly. He rose and limped to a corner of the room, dragging Sergius with him, and pulled out some fragments of an old papyrus manuscript. “We already have some remnants of an account of the life of Jesus written by a young disciple named John Mark. Perhaps we can start with that.”
Before we left, Paul asked whether I would mind if we all prayed. How could I object? I had prayed thousands of times to dozens of Greek and Roman gods. What was one more?
I told Paul it would be fine with me, and he dropped to his knees. Sergius smiled as he went down with him.
Paul’s prayer that day made a lasting impression. He talked to his God as if speaking to another man in the same room. He called on the power of the Holy Spirit to help Luke write this testimony that I had requested. And he asked that the Spirit of God would open my eyes and enter my life. That part was awkward. The man needed to work on his social graces.
On the way home, Mansuetus couldn’t stop talking about Paul. “You’ve got to help him,” he said.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I told my son. “For now, let’s just focus on the manuscript. We can decide what to do next after it’s completed.”
CHAPTER 75
Mansuetus took to the task with a level of enthusiasm I had not anticipated. His own studies suffered because he spent so much time with Paul and his companions. When he was with them, my son took notes, much as he did when I taught him, on wax tablets. He would bring his notes home, read them to me, smooth over the wax, and get ready for the next day. He somehow talked me into buying stacks of parchment sheets for Luke’s final manuscript even though papyrus would have been much cheaper.
I saw in his eyes the spark of idealism that had fueled my younger years. For me, it had been about restoring the Republic. For Mansuetus, it was this new movement called the Way, with its talk of a different kind of Kingdom. I hurt for my son, knowing that his dreams, like mine, would one day shipwreck on the hard, jagged rocks of Roman reality.
After two months of making notes and rewriting drafts on papyrus, Luke was finally ready to fill the parchment with the stories of Jesus and of Paul. Mansuetus couldn’t wait for me to read it.
They were in the final stages of the project when Mansuetus came home one night clearly distressed. He said hardly a word and kept his eyes on his food. Flavia and I exchanged concerned glances.
“What is bothering you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
It was the response of a son who had been trained in Stoicism but could never hide his true feelings.
“I’m your father. You can talk to me.”
Mansuetus pushed his food around on his plate without speaking. It pained me to see him so reluctant to share something obviously weighing on his heart. It occurred to me that I might be losing his affections to Paul.
“Paul sent Onesimus home today,” Mansuetus eventually said.
“Onesimus the slave?”
“Yes. Paul called him a brother, but he still sent him back.”
“Back where?”
“Back to Philemon of Colossae,” Mansuetus said. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“He had to send him back,” I said. “The man belongs to Philemon. Paul’s in enough trouble as it is.”
“How can one man own another?” Mansuetus asked.
The blunt question caught me a little off guard. What kind of ideas was Paul planting in my son’s head? We treated our slaves with great respect, paid them a fair wage, and eventually set many of them free. But until they earned their freedom, they belonged to us.
“Fate determines who is born free and who is a servant,” I said. “Our job is to play either role well.”
“That’s not what Paul says. He says in his religion everyone is equal. There is no Jew or Greek or male or female. No slave or free, either.”
I noticed Flavia suppressing a smile. She had been trying to tell me that our son was becoming his father, that he had an answer for everything. But on this issue, he shared his mother’s views. Flavia’s first love had died trying to earn his freedom. For that reason, and a thousand others, she hated the whole notion that one man could own another. She was always pushing me to set more of our slaves free.
Mansuetus looked at me with his big brown eyes to see how I would react. Flavia gave me a subtle twist of the head.
“He says all that, yet still he sends Onesimus home?” I asked.
“Hold on,” Mansuetus said. He left the dining room and brought back one of his wax tablets. “Can I read you part of what Paul wrote to Philemon?”
I shrugged. What could it hurt?
“He starts by telling Philemon how much he thanks God for him and for his faith in Jesus. Then he says this: ‘Although in Christ I could be bold and order you to do what you ought to do, yet I prefer to appeal to you on the basis of love. It is as none other than Paul—an old man and now also a prisoner of Christ Jesus—that I appeal to you for my son Onesimus, who became my son while I was in chains. I am sending him—who is my very heart—back to you. Perhaps the reason he was separated from you for a little while was so that you might have him back forever—no longer as a slave, but better than a slave, as a dear brother. So if you consider me a partner, welcome him as you would welcome me.’”
Mansuetus flipped over one piece of wood and continued reading from the next. “‘If he has done you any wrong or owes you anything, charge it to me. Confident of your obedience, I write to you, knowing that you will do even more than I ask.’”
He finished and waited for me to respond. But Flavia jumped in first. “I think I’m beginning to like this man,” she said.
We reclined there for a long while that night, discussing the way we treated our servants even as they cleared our plates and performed the household chores. I agreed that we had an obligation to treat them fairly and help them earn their freedom. If they did, their children would also be born free.
But my radical son was not satisfied. “Paul treated Onesimus as a brother,” Mansuetus argued. “Why should it only be Romans who have rights?”
I reminded myself that I had been the same way at his age. As his instructor, I had spent the last two years teaching him to ask questions and challenge traditional wisdom. I wanted Rome to change, but I wanted it to go back to the days of the Republic. Mansuetus wanted something new and totally different.
I had done my best to teach my son the value of a human soul. Perhaps I had taught him too well.
CHAPTER 76
Nearly three months to the day after my initial meeting with Paul and his companions, the physician Luke came to my house in the early evening and delivered the requested manuscript in two parts. Mansuetus stood by watching, arms behind his back, proud of the role he had played in developing the evidence. As was the custom, Luke had sewn the pieces of parchment together with vegetable fibers, making two long strips that he had rolled into separate scrolls. Each was far longer than I had ever anticipated.
“You did all this in three months?”
“We worked with great urgency, day and night. We had no idea when Paul might go to trial.”
We celebrated the accomplishment with a glass of wine, and Luke detailed all the help he had enlisted in compiling the two books. He lauded the assistance of Mansuetus, who had served as a sort of secretary, taking notes as the others talked so that they would have something to reference as they transcribed the final text.
“The first book describes the life
of Jesus,” Luke explained. “Good portions of it are based on John Mark’s work. It will prove that Jesus is the Jewish Messiah and not the founder of some strange new religion.
“The second book is the story of the followers of Jesus. Naturally, I have emphasized Paul’s ministry, and I’ve provided a detailed account of each of his trials. It ends with his imprisonment here in Rome.”
I played the gracious host and listened patiently to Luke. I didn’t say anything, but I was secretly anxious for him to leave so I could begin reading his masterpiece. When the process had first started, I had expected maybe thirty or forty parchment pages. But as I watched Mansuetus engage with Luke, Paul, and their companions, I knew the manuscript would grow much larger. Still, I had never expected this. I didn’t have the heart to tell Luke, but I doubted whether Nero or his assessores would ever take the time to read something this long.
Nevertheless, it was exactly what I needed. There was more than enough here for me to decide whether Paul would become my first client, other than Seneca, in the last fifteen years.
As soon as Luke left, Mansuetus urged me to start reading. I thought he might stand there and look over my shoulder as I did. To get him out of the way, I gave him some assignments for the next day and sequestered myself alone in my study.
Luke was a good writer. He was straightforward, paid attention to detail, and knew how to tell a story. My instincts had been right.
He started off with a formal and confident introduction. To his credit, in the very first sentence he mentioned the things that had been “fulfilled,” a reference to Jewish prophecies and a tie-in to the Jewish faith.
Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us, just as they were handed down to us by those who from the first were eyewitnesses and servants of the Word. With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you, Most Excellent Theophilus, so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been told.