The Advocate

by Randy Singer

  He began his story with a dramatic account of the birth of Jesus. With the precision of a historian, he pinpointed the exact time of the Nazarene’s birth.

  In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.)

  He claimed that Jesus had been born of a virgin and was some kind of child prodigy. He skipped quickly into the Nazarene’s three years of ministry. Page after page, Luke told of the teachings and miracles of Jesus. He healed people. He challenged the conventional thinking of the Jewish religious leaders. He spoke of the Kingdom of God.

  I was most intrigued by the final pages of the first scroll, where Luke described Jesus’ last days. By the time I read that part, it was late at night, and Mansuetus had long since gone to bed. But I couldn’t stop reading. It was as if Luke had been there himself.

  I read the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey, and I recalled the way Pilate had sneered when he heard the news. I thought about the contrast of my own entrance that week, trailing the great caravan of soldiers. A few pages later, when Luke described Jesus driving out the traders who sold pigeons in the Temple courts, I closed my eyes and could still visualize the scene.

  I was pleased to see that Luke included the incident where the Pharisees’ spies asked Jesus whether they should pay taxes to Caesar. This was, I knew, a critical part of our defense. Luke quoted the rabbi’s question: “Show me a denarius. Whose image and inscription are on it?”

  I remembered what my friend Nicodemus had told me, how the words actually played on two levels. But Nero wouldn’t need to know that. The words of Jesus were plain enough: “Give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”

  I loved what Luke wrote next:

  They were unable to trap him in what he had said there in public. And astonished by his answer, they became silent.

  It was surreal, reading about these events as if Luke had been standing right next to me. Every detail was correct.

  When I got to Luke’s description of the night before Jesus’ death, I could no longer sit still. I picked up the scroll and began pacing back and forth, reading the words intently. So much had been going on behind the scenes that I didn’t know about. Jesus had predicted his betrayal. That same night, he had prayed to the Jewish God that he could somehow escape his destiny but then had ultimately submitted himself to his fate.

  Next came the trial of Jesus.

  Then the whole assembly rose and led him off to Pilate. And they began to accuse him, saying, “We have found this man subverting our nation. He opposes payment of taxes to Caesar and claims to be Messiah, a king.”

  So Pilate asked Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?”

  “You have said so,” Jesus replied.

  Then Pilate announced to the chief priests and the crowd, “I find no basis for a charge against this man.”

  I had to set the scroll down and walk away from it for a few minutes as the events and all the emotions that went with them came flooding back. Pilate’s agonizing attempt to declare Christ innocent. Sending Jesus to Herod. Jesus coming back dressed in that ridiculous purple robe, the victim of Herod’s insults and torment.

  When I picked up the scroll again, I read the words I had been dreading.

  But the whole crowd shouted, “Away with this man! Release Barabbas to us!”

  Wanting to release Jesus, Pilate appealed to them again. But they kept shouting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

  Emotions overtook me as I contemplated the enormity of what I had done—and not done. I had suggested the gambit with Barabbas. I shuddered as I recalled the chants of the crowd to crucify Jesus. Hearing them, I had remained silent instead of urging Pilate to do what we both knew was right.

  “What is truth?”

  At the time, I knew we had executed an innocent man. But if Luke was right, it was much more than that. If Luke was right, we had crucified the Jewish Messiah and the very Son of God.

  I sat down again and read about the crucifixion. The words of Christ echoed back to me, piercing my conscience.

  “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”

  So did the words of those who taunted him.

  “He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the chosen one.”

  I remembered the woman caught in adultery and how she had told me about Jesus defending her. It gave me chills to think about how I had used that same strategy to rescue Flavia.

  Luke described the darkness that came over the land at noon and how the Temple curtain was torn in two. He even mentioned the centurion, though he was careful not to name the soldier who cried out to God at the foot of the cross.

  By all rights, that’s where the first scroll should have ended. From my perspective, that was the end of the story. A righteous man unjustly killed. The gods were angry. Even nature protested.

  But Luke was not finished. He went on to describe the events I had heard rumors about for the past thirty years. Three days after the Nazarene’s crucifixion, his tomb was empty. He came back and walked among his disciples, ate with them, and appeared to numerous witnesses.

  Jesus reminded them that he had predicted both his death and his resurrection. “The Messiah will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day.” He had done exactly what he said he would do.

  His followers remembered those words and found a cause worth dying for.

  After teaching them, he “left them and was taken up into heaven.”

  It was all scintillating stuff. But was it true?

  Paul and Luke sure seemed to think so.

  CHAPTER 77

  After a few hours of sleep, I woke up and started on the second scroll. Luke had done a masterful job on the first one, and the story of Jesus was compelling. But I was not being asked to defend Jesus. Paul was the one under house arrest. Book two contained his story.

  The second book began right where the first one ended, with Jesus leaving his disciples and the beginning of the movement I knew as the Way. Rather than fading away after Jesus disappeared, his followers began preaching with renewed fervor. I found it astonishing that more and more people in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas continued to believe in this Messiah even after he was gone.

  Paul made his first appearance as a man named Saul, a persecutor of the church. Luke then described Paul’s vision of Jesus on the road to Damascus. After becoming a follower, Paul changed his name and went from persecutor to preacher. From enemy of the Way to its foremost advocate. By doing so, he became a target. In the following years, he suffered many things at the hands of those who wanted to silence him.

  I was troubled by the last several pages of this second manuscript. Paul was a brilliant man, but he had no sense of how to defend himself. He seemed intent on converting anyone who sat in judgment of his case. King Agrippa, for example, who was now serving as the prefect over the entire area of Syria (including Pilate’s former territory), seemed insulted by Paul’s approach. “Do you think that in such a short time you can persuade me to become a Christian?” he had asked.

  Paul’s reply was not exactly astute: “Short time or long—I pray to God that not only you but all who are listening to me today may become what I am, except for these chains.”

  The trial ended when Agrippa declared that Paul had not done anything deserving of death but sent him to Rome anyway. “This man could have been set free if he had not appealed to Caesar.”

  I could see it coming. I would be standing with Paul in front of Nero, and Paul would tell the arrogant young emperor that he must repent and worship the Jewish Messiah. It seemed that Paul’s sole objective was to stir up trouble everywhere he went. He certainly wasn’t afraid to suffer for his beliefs. Perhaps he was so enchanted with the Nazarene that he felt called to die a violent and noteworthy death too. But I was not willing to go down with him.

  In my
younger years, I had been driven by the same kind of fierce idealism. I was willing to die for my principles when Flavia and I took on Caligula. Yet all that had been for naught. We risked our lives, the emperors changed, and now Rome was worse off than before.

  Paul could sacrifice his life for the Way if he wanted. But unlike Paul, I had a family now. Flavia and Mansuetus needed me alive.

  Still, I couldn’t stop my mind from working through the possibilities. Perhaps there was a clever way to establish Paul’s innocence. Perhaps Nero had an Achilles’ heel the same way that Caligula did years before.

  If he did, there was one man who would know. I packed up the parchments and went to visit Seneca.

  “You don’t know what Nero’s doing right now, do you?” Seneca asked.

  I shrugged. I had quit trying to keep track of the emperor and the backstabbing politics of the capital.

  “He’s extending his palace,” Seneca said. “He’s bringing in gold from the four corners of the empire so that the edifice will be blinding. He’s draining a lake at the foot of the Palatine Hill to build a racetrack for the chariots that will be ten times larger than the Circus Maximus. He’s planting a forest on his property, fencing it in, and stocking it with wild game so he and his friends can hunt.”

  Seneca got up from his seat and stoked the fire in the hearth. He moved slowly, his body stiff, his spine curved.

  “For Saturnalia, he’s preparing the most lavish and spectacular party the Roman Empire has ever seen.”

  I shuddered at the thought of it. Saturnalia was the annual celebration that took place in December, starting on the shortest day of the year. For six days, society threw off its constraints, roles were reversed, and anything went. Masters were expected to serve dinner to their slaves. Gangs of boys looted homes and assaulted pedestrians. Sexual depravity found new depths.

  It all started with a sacrifice at the temple of Saturn followed by a great banquet open to the people of Rome. Schools, courts, and businesses closed. Togas were stuffed away and replaced with a loose Greek garment called a synthesis. People started drinking in the morning and partied until late at night. For days, banquets were held all over the city, with a “king” of Saturnalia chosen by lot for each banquet.

  Seneca returned slowly to his seat and caught his breath before continuing. “Nero has appointed his friend Tigellinus to be the chief entrepreneur for Saturnalia this year.”

  There could not have been a more troubling choice. During Caligula’s reign, Tigellinus was suspected of having an affair with Agrippina the Younger and was banished to Greece. At the request of Agrippina, he was allowed to return to Rome when Claudius became emperor.

  Tigellinus eventually inherited a vast sum of money and invested it in breeding horses for the chariot races. When Nero became emperor, he installed Tigellinus as prefect of the Praetorian Guard, making him the second-most-powerful man in all of Rome. Though he was old enough to be the emperor’s father, he was also the emperor’s main instigator, partying with Nero indiscriminately.

  He was known to be both brilliant and ruthless.

  “And that’s not all. The case of your friend Paul has finally garnered the emperor’s attention,” Seneca informed me. “It seems the followers of the Way are refusing to show the emperor proper respect. Tigellinus has been appointed to prosecute Paul’s case and make an example of him.”

  Tigellinus had little experience in court and had never studied under the great rhetoricians. But he had something that all the eloquence in the world could not overcome. He was a fellow rabble-rouser with Caesar. He could whisper in the emperor’s ear at night as they frequented the brothels together and thought up new ways to shock Rome’s aristocracy.

  Paul would become their plaything.

  “Are you saying the case has already been decided?”

  “I’m saying Paul is fortunate to be a Roman citizen. Beheading is much quicker than crucifixion.”

  Paul took the news that I could not represent him with great equanimity. He thanked me for reading every word of the manuscripts Luke had authored. He also thanked me for allowing Mansuetus to spend so much time with him. I told him I would make sure the scrolls made it into Nero’s hands.

  Before I left, Paul and his friends laid hands on me and closed their eyes while Paul prayed for me. I was more than a little uncomfortable, finding myself in the center of this prayer circle, and I inquisitively opened my eyes to catch a glimpse of the others. They all seemed to be taking this exercise very seriously, their eyes closed tight in concentration, murmuring their agreement with Paul.

  Paul thanked his God for sending me and Mansuetus into his life to help him prepare for his trial. He prayed for God’s blessing on me and my household. He asked that I might see the message of the cross of Jesus not as foolishness but as the power and wisdom of God.

  On the way home, I had to remind myself that there was nothing I could do. Augustus Caesar himself could come back from the dead to represent Paul, and the apostle would still be sentenced to death.

  It was one thing to be noble; it was another to be foolhardy. Nero had killed his own mother. He would not hesitate to destroy me if I stood up for a cause that was undermining his authority.

  When I told Mansuetus, he took it hard. I tried to explain, but he retreated to his room. For two days, he only spoke to me when I spoke to him first. He never smiled, and he refused to look me in the eye.

  I remained troubled but undeterred. I knew I had made the right decision. I would not risk my own neck for a man with a death wish. Still, in quiet moments, doubts nagged. What was it that Seneca had said? “The real danger is not to die while you are young. The shame is dying young yet living to be old.”

  On the third day, I read through Luke’s first manuscript a second time. I was drawn to the Nazarene again just as I had been thirty years ago in Jerusalem. I loved his stoicism, his teachings, the way he silenced his critics. Even his shameful death on the cross seemed to have a deeper meaning—a way to somehow appease the wrath of God. When I finished, I knew what I had to do.

  On the day before Saturnalia, against my own instincts and Flavia’s strong advice, I told Paul I was taking his case.

  CHAPTER 78

  Flavia stayed away from Rome during the week of Saturnalia, but the reports she heard were horrifying. The center of festivities was the great artificial lake known as the Stagnum Agrippae, which was fed by an aqueduct and flowed into the Tiber through an eight-hundred-foot canal.

  The lake was surrounded by woodlands that Nero had stocked for the occasion with exotic birds and animals. Taverns and brothels had been built on the shores, and large torches ringed the lake, giving the water an eerie glow.

  For two days, thousands of Romans gorged themselves on food and wine, supplied free of charge by the emperor. Nero, of course, took center stage, floating on a huge luxury raft covered with purple carpet and plush beds. Male and female prostitutes rowed out to the raft day and night so the emperor and his inner circle could entertain all of Rome on their floating stage.

  On the third day of Saturnalia, the news was no better. Nero had moved the drunken festivities to the palace, where an elaborate wedding ceremony took place. It would be Nero’s third and most controversial marriage.

  As a young man, Nero had consented to marry Claudia Octavia, the great-niece of Tiberius and Nero’s own stepsister. She was elegant, aristocratic, and loved by the populace. Nero found her boring. While married to Octavia, he fell in love with the beautiful Poppaea Sabina, the wife of one of his friends. At Nero’s suggestion, Poppaea obtained a divorce. When she subsequently became pregnant with Nero’s child, Nero divorced Octavia and married Poppaea two weeks later. Octavia was banished from Rome, accused of adultery, and forced to commit suicide. The child born to Poppaea died four months after birth.

  Nero was still married to Poppaea when he decided to get married again during the Saturnalia festivities. According to eyewitness reports, Tigellinus gave the bride awa
y. Pythagorus, a former slave and a member of Nero’s inner circle, was the groom. And the drunken emperor, dressed in a bridal gown and veil, was the glowing bride.

  The palace court celebrated the marriage with great enthusiasm, not sure whether the emperor was serious or acting as Rex Saturnalia, the king of irony, confounding all of Rome with his practical joke.

  For Flavia, word of Nero’s latest stunt merely increased her gratitude that she was no longer a part of Rome’s inner court. The emperor had systematically attacked every traditional pillar of Roman society. She was relieved when the orgy of Saturnalia finally ended. Perhaps now Nero would get back to governing the empire.

  The day after Saturnalia, Flavia journeyed into the city and heard the news that pierced her heart. Rubria was dying. The night before, while tending the eternal flame alone in the temple, she had been assaulted. Her clothes were torn, her face bruised and bloodied. She had apparently hit her head on the marble floor.

  The guard outside the temple had been ambushed from behind and rendered unconscious. A trail of blood could be traced from the inner court of the temple out the front door. There were pieces of flesh under Rubria’s fingernails. She had fought back.

  Flavia was allowed into the House of Vestal, where she stood vigil with the others. Rubria was lying in her bed, attended by the best physicians in the empire, but she wasn’t moving. She had marks on her neck where the assailant had tried to choke her. Her left eye was dark and swollen nearly shut. Her lip was swollen; there was dried blood in her hair. She was breathing and her heart was beating, but there were no other signs of life.

  Sacrifices were made. Prayers were offered. Omens were consulted.