by Randy Singer
The soldiers looked around the cell, and Andronicus stood slowly. “Take me next,” he said.
Junia stood with him, and then a young, muscular man named Urbanus joined them. “No, take me first.” Next came Apelles and Priscilla, joined by Theophilus. They each told the guards that they wanted to be the next one to go.
The guards looked past the standing prisoners and grabbed a man named Phlegan from the floor. Again Andronicus prayed loudly while some of the women sat down with Julia to give her comfort.
Phlegan never returned.
For two long days, the guards repeated the routine, taking prisoners out of the cell one at a time. Some, like Julia, refused to tell the guards what they wanted to hear. Those prisoners were tortured mercilessly and thrown back into the cell with their faith intact. Others didn’t come back. Theophilus knew those prisoners had confessed to arson and agreed to testify against the rest of the believers.
The prisoners quit singing when Phlegan didn’t come back. The optimistic belief in a miracle that had pervaded the cell earlier was replaced by a grim desire to survive.
They were given no food or water, and Theophilus felt his strength ebbing away. His tongue swelled, his thirst so bad that he had difficulty swallowing. One of the believers found a small puddle in the corner of the cell, and Theophilus and the others took turns lapping at the wet stones.
For Theophilus, the worst part was the waiting. Waiting for someone to return from the torture. Waiting to see whom the guards would choose next. His anxiety was compounded as he wondered what had happened to Flavia.
His emotions swung from vicious thoughts of revenge to resignation that the end was near. He might have gone insane had it not been for Andronicus and Junia. They were old and frail, but they were stronger in spirit than the others. They had seen the risen Christ. They reminded the others that God could deliver any of them with just a word. And if he didn’t, their task was to persevere and bring honor to his name.
Even when the guards brought Andronicus back from his time on the rack, his spirit was unbowed. “I told them it wasn’t too late to repent,” he gasped. He moaned for a while and eventually passed out from the pain.
Theophilus was the last to be taken. He knew when the doors opened that it was his time, so he stood and walked toward the guards. They chained his manacled wrists to a burly guard and escorted him out of the cell.
“Be strong in the Lord!” Andronicus shouted out.
Theophilus stumbled along, his eyes stinging from the light. He was weak and tired and fearful that he wouldn’t be able to stand the test. Every time he had closed his eyes in the past two days, he had seen visions of the hated torture device. He could almost feel his bones being dislocated and his muscles popping. He had seen the defeated looks on the faces of those who had returned. Some could no longer walk or even stand.
The soldiers dragged him along, and he prayed for strength.
A half-dozen soldiers joined the others and took him outside. He squinted in the bright sunlight. They escorted him down the Palatine Hill and along the Via Sacra toward the Forum. People stepped out of the way and stared at the pitiful sight. Theophilus couldn’t even imagine how pathetic and unkempt he must have looked.
He tried to keep his eyes up, but it was a chore to do even that. He was still amazed at the nightmare that Rome had become. So many of its beautiful public temples had burned to ashes. Some of those temples had now been demolished, and enormous new stones lay in great piles next to the foundations, ready for the rebuilding process.
Without talking, the soldiers led him through the Forum to the Gemonian Stairs at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. It was here that foreign emperors were strangled before their bodies were thrown down the stairs and left for the dogs. Sejanus had been executed here after his trial in the Senate. Death on these stairs was considered the greatest of all Roman insults.
Theophilus knew this might be the end. He didn’t think they would torture a Roman citizen in the open, but it seemed that with Nero, the traditional norms no longer applied. Were they going to execute him without even a trial?
He waited for several minutes, the sun baking down on him, before he heard a voice from behind.
“My old friend Theophilus,” the man said, his tone mocking. Even before Theophilus turned, he knew it was Tigellinus.
The prefect of the Praetorian Guard stood on a perch a few steps above Theophilus, a cold smile playing on his lips. He reeked of stale perfume, and his eyes looked bloodshot. Theophilus could tell he enjoyed seeing the prisoner in such a desperate state.
“Have a seat,” Tigellinus said.
“I’ll stand.”
“So be it,” Tigellinus sneered. He came down and stood next to Theophilus. He put his arm around the prisoner’s shoulder.
“Can you see it, Theophilus?” he asked, motioning to the Forum. “Rome rebuilt like never before. Nero’s Domus Aurea connecting the Palatine and Esquiline Hills. A golden statue of our emperor 120 feet high. A magnificent lake for staging mock naval battles and for hosting more Saturnalia parties.”
He squeezed Theophilus’s shoulder. Theophilus wanted to spit in the man’s face.
“You could have been Rome’s wealthiest advocate,” Tigellinus continued. “You could have helped rule all this. But you had to throw it away on this Christus fellow. A rather foolhardy gamble for a man of your intelligence.”
Tigellinus removed his hand from Theophilus’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Your wife sends her regards.”
Theophilus turned and stared at his tormentor but said nothing.
“If you confess, I’ll spare her the rack. In fact, if you confess that you and the other leaders of this new superstition started the fires, I’ll let Flavia go. She can walk out of prison today, and she’ll never hear another word about it. You saved her once, Theophilus. Save her again.”
In his weakened state, Theophilus was drawn to the possibility. He loved Flavia more than life itself. But he also knew that this man could not be trusted. Theophilus would have told Tigellinus anything if he really believed it would help set Flavia free. Yet he knew that the whole thing was just a mirage. He reminded himself of that as Tigellinus talked.
“I’ll make it quick and painless for you as well,” Tigellinus promised. “A beheading fit for a Roman. Far less pain than a crucifixion.”
“You can’t crucify Roman citizens.”
“Interestingly, that’s not entirely true,” Tigellinus said as if he were discussing an academic question in a courtroom. “The law says we cannot execute Romans by crucifixion. His Excellency has interpreted that to mean that Romans can still be hung on a cross so long as they die by other means.”
He looked at Theophilus as he said this, apparently searching for weakness or fear.
Theophilus stared straight ahead, anger heating his body. “Does almighty Caesar believe he can dispense with trials as well?”
“On the contrary, almighty Caesar thinks the trials should start right away.”
It was the first slim ray of good news Theophilus had received in days. Perhaps he would have a chance to defend himself and others in open court.
“Twenty-four hours,” Tigellinus said. “If you don’t confess within twenty-four hours, you won’t recognize your wife when you see her again.”
He let that threat sink in for a moment, then walked down the stairs. The guards parted to let him by.
“Tigellinus!”
The prefect paused before reaching the bottom.
“I want to represent my wife,” Theophilus said. “Don’t put her on trial without me there.”
The comment produced a mirthless chuckle. “You must think me a fool,” Tigellinus said. Then he walked away.
When Theophilus returned to the cell, he felt ashamed that he had not been tortured like the others.
“We should praise God for your protection,” Priscilla said.
“Perhaps they know that all of Rome will come to see your trial
and Flavia’s,” Andronicus suggested. “They know better than to torture either one of you before you have your day in court.”
Theophilus clung to that hope because it meant that Flavia would be spared, at least for the moment.
But that night, he felt his strength fading fast. He wasn’t sure that he would even be coherent by the time his case was heard. He prayed that regardless of what happened to his body, his faith would remain strong.
There was moaning and labored breathing in the cell that night by those in so much pain. But there was also an inexplicable feeling of triumph. Everyone still there had been steadfast. Everyone but Theophilus had withstood agonizing torture.
The next morning, as the prisoners woke from their fitful sleep, they prayed for strength and courage to face another day.
CHAPTER 96
The trials began on the third day of his imprisonment, and Theophilus begged the guards to let him represent his fellow prisoners.
His pleas fell on deaf ears. The guards were under strict orders. A man accused of arson could only represent himself.
The trials were run with typical Roman efficiency. From the reports of those who left the cell and returned as condemned arsonists, the prospects of acquittal were nonexistent. Dozens of trials were held simultaneously in the Basilica Julia, and each one featured numerous witnesses who claimed to have firsthand knowledge of a plot by followers of the Way, including Theophilus and his fellow prisoners, to burn down the city. Those who had been formerly imprisoned with Theophilus but had confessed under torture were among the informants.
As each prisoner returned from his or her trial, Theophilus asked about Flavia. Nobody had seen her. He prayed she was still safe. He couldn’t get her out of his mind, and he didn’t want to. He thought about the early months of their marriage. The joy at learning that Flavia was pregnant. A young Mansuetus, innocent and playful. Mansuetus as a teenager, becoming serious about his studies. Theophilus longed for those days again. Why did following Jesus have to be so hard?
Julia’s report was the most disheartening of all. Just before her case started, the prosecutor approached her and offered a deal. If she would testify against her fellow prisoners, the authorities would release her children. If not, she would watch her six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter be fed to the beasts during the private games in Nero’s gardens. She rejected the proposed deal, clinging to her faith that Jesus would somehow spare her children.
When she returned to the cell, she was inconsolable. “What have I done?” she sobbed. “What if I’ve condemned them to death?”
As time marched on, a sense of despair invaded the cell. The trials were a farce. Nobody would be spared.
Theophilus was not called for his trial that day, and he wasn’t surprised. They would want him to go last so they could accumulate as many witnesses as possible before they allowed him into the courtroom.
As evening approached, the prisoners were given something to eat for the first time in three days. The guards shoved bread and water inside the door, and the believers split it up evenly. There was barely enough for each of them to have a small morsel of bread and a few swallows of water. Theophilus wondered how long some of the prisoners could last under these conditions.
That night, he slept fitfully. He was hungry. Some of the prisoners were crying. Others prayed quietly. Urbanus, who had been found guilty that day, was snoring.
The dream came just before morning. The figures were ghostlike, shrouded in fog. Theophilus couldn’t see their faces. They were young, some holding their parents’ hands as they walked toward the giant ship waiting in port.
Mansuetus was there, waving at Theophilus while boarding the ship with the others.
Theophilus reached out, but he couldn’t touch his son. Parents cried, but the children didn’t seem to notice, smiling as they climbed on board one by one.
Theophilus heard the thunderous pounding of horses’ hooves behind him. He turned to see the dust kicked up by a thousand Roman soldiers. His fellow prisoners turned with him to bravely face their executioners. With quiet dignity, they stood shoulder to shoulder as the soldiers drew nearer, swords drawn, hatred flashing in their eyes.
Before the slaughter began, Theophilus glanced back at the boat. Its sail was full, catching the wind, leaving port. The children, Mansuetus among them, leaned over the boat’s railing, staring at their parents.
“They’re safe,” the woman next to Theophilus said. Theophilus turned and looked into the eyes of Julia. “Now I can die in peace.”
When he woke, Theophilus knew immediately what the dream meant. God had given him a purpose for his trial and with it he felt a renewed surge of strength. Somebody had to speak for the children. He had been taught advocacy by the best tutors in the world. Now he would face his final test.
Plautius Lateranus was a large man with a bull neck, puffy cheeks, and small slits for eyes. His infamous past included an alleged affair with Messalina, the third wife of Claudius Caesar. He had been exiled and spared the death penalty because he had a famous uncle who had been granted an ovation after his conquest of Britannica. When Claudius died, Lateranus was fully pardoned by Nero and restored to his former rank and position.
Despite the man’s history, Theophilus was not at all distressed when he was dragged into the Basilica Julia and realized that Lateranus was the praetor who would decide his case. Lateranus was reputed to be a stubborn judge, an independent thinker, and no great fan of Nero despite the pardon Nero had granted him.
The prosecutor, of course, was Tigellinus himself, splendid in his broad-striped toga, his hair perfectly coiffed. Theophilus, on the other hand, had grown a short and unkempt beard peppered with gray and wore the same tunic he had been wearing since the day of his arrest. His wrists were manacled together. He had no notes, no exhibits, no witnesses. He felt like he could barely stand, and he knew his voice would be raspy.
Before the trial started, Tigellinus came up to Theophilus and renewed his offer to release Flavia if Theophilus would only confess.
“Has she already been found guilty?” Theophilus asked.
“Of course. She confessed after a few hours of stretching the truth out of her.”
Theophilus wouldn’t allow the image to take root in his mind. He knew he couldn’t trust a word this man said. He chose not to believe him.
“I’m innocent,” Theophilus said, though the words lacked force. “I intend to prove it if given the chance.”
Tigellinus pointed behind him to a row of a dozen men and women. “I have some witnesses who might say otherwise.”
A few seconds after Tigellinus stepped away, Theophilus felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and found Marcus standing there, holding a flask of water.
“What are you doing here?” Theophilus asked. He took a quick drink and coughed from gulping it down too fast.
“I’m a doctor,” Marcus said as if Theophilus might have forgotten. “The guards let me through.”
Theophilus took another swig but saw Tigellinus approaching from the side. “Get away from the prisoner,” the prosecutor sputtered, his eyes burning through Marcus.
“I’m a doctor,” Marcus said. “This man is sick.”
“Guards!” Tigellinus called.
The guards stepped forward and Marcus held up his hands. “I’m leaving,” he said.
He looked at Theophilus before stepping away. “May the gods be with you,” Marcus said.
A guard grabbed his arm but he shook it off.
“I was here for Flavia’s trial,” Marcus said quickly to Theophilus. “She looked fine, though she was found guilty. Rubria tried to help but is being held under house arrest.”
“Thank you,” Theophilus said to Marcus as the guards shoved his friend away. Marcus stiffened, but they pushed him harder and made him stand back with the rest of the crowd.
“Loyal to a fault,” Tigellinus said, staring after him. “He’ll pay, Theophilus. Just like all the others.”
Lateranus called the proceedings to order and recognized Tigellinus first. The man spoke at length against the Christians and painted Theophilus as one of the chief conspirators in the great fire of Rome.
“Did not the fire destroy many temples in Rome, temples that honored the same gods the Christians refuse to worship? These are the people whose leaders compare Rome to the immoral ancient cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, claiming that their God will judge such cities with fire from heaven. Well, it appears the followers of Christus decided their God needed a little help.”
As he had during the trial of Paul, Tigellinus strutted around while he talked. “I heard it myself during the trial of Paul of Tarsus. He claimed that every man and woman in the Roman Empire, including even the great Caesar himself, would one day fall on their faces and worship Christus. Exercising great grace and restraint, Nero freed Paul even though he found Paul guilty. But that didn’t stop this new superstition from spreading. Nor did it stop its adherents from deepening their hatred of the emperor and this city.
“Witnesses will describe secret meetings of this sect where the followers of Christus are instructed to eat his body and drink his blood. They foment rebellion among our slaves and claim that the lowest slave is equal to the highest Roman citizen. More than that, you will hear witnesses testify that Theophilus and other leaders plotted the fiery destruction of his own city. The prisoner has long been an enemy of Roman emperors, and today the blood of ten thousand Romans is on his hands.”
Theophilus took it all in, his eyes fixed on Lateranus. The praetor seemed unmoved by the rhetoric. Perhaps it was only Theophilus’s tired and disoriented mind engaging in wishful thinking. Or perhaps the praetor would actually consider the evidence impartially.
When Tigellinus concluded, the praetor asked if Theophilus wished to speak in response. Theophilus declined, stating that he would wait until Tigellinus had presented his evidence.