by Angela Hunt
© 2018 by Sony Pictures Worldwide Acquisitions, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Control Number: 2017964333
ISBN 978-1-4934-1620-2
Scripture quotations are from the Tree of Life Version. © 2015 by the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society. Used by permission of the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society. “TLV” and “Tree of Life Version” and “Tree of Life Holy Scriptures” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by the Messianic Jewish Family Bible Society.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover image and title treatment copyright © 2018 Artwork, Layout and Design by Sony Pictures Worldwide Acquisitions, Inc. All rights reserved.
Interior photography copyright © 2018 Motion Picture Artwork by Columbia TriStar Marketing Group, Inc. All rights reserved.
Author is represented by Browne & Miller Literary Associates.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Interview With the Author
References
About the Author
Photo Insert
Back Cover
Introduction to Luke’s first book:
Now many have undertaken to organize an account of the events fulfilled among us, just as they were handed down to us from the start by the eyewitnesses and reporters of the word. Therefore it seemed best to me also, because I have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, to write for you an orderly record, most excellent Theophilus, so you may know for sure the truth of the words you have been taught.
Luke 1:1–4
Introduction to Luke’s second book:
I wrote the first volume, Theophilus, about all that Yeshua began to do and teach—up to the day He was taken up, after He had given orders by the Ruach ha-Kodesh to the emissaries He had chosen. To them He showed Himself to be alive after His suffering through many convincing proofs, appearing to them for forty days and speaking about the kingdom of God.
Acts 1:1–3
Chapter
One
The Seventh Day of Junius
The hooded man darted into a niche in the dark alley, his heart pounding against his sternum. His ears, tuned to catch the slightest sound, warned him of approaching footsteps—heavy footsteps, accented by the metallic scrape of sword hilts against iron buckles.
The Greek pressed his spine into the recess in the aged wall, willing its shadows to cloak him. He could not be caught in this part of the city without a valid reason for venturing near Nero’s prison. Not even his medical bag would suffice as an explanation, since the only residences in this part of Rome were the former palaces of Augustus, Tiberius, and Caligula.
He drew back, the wall biting into his shoulder blades, as two members of the Praetorian Guard moved through a nearby puddle of torchlight and continued on their way. “I still say it’s a nasty business,” one Praetorian remarked. “I have seen men die in all sorts of ways, but that has to be one of the worst.”
The other man replied, but the crunch of gravel beneath their sandals obscured the rest of their conversation.
When they had turned the corner, the Greek physician held his small bag next to his chest and changed his destination to a place that would be infinitely safer.
In the heart of Rome, directly across from a monument to Julius Caesar and the famous Roman Forum, another man sat in a cavern hewn out of stone. A single candle pushed at the darkness, scattering its light over a tattered blanket, an empty bowl, an overturned stone cup. The man’s toes, riding above misshapen and callused feet, shone weakly in the gloom.
Paul, called Sha’ul by his people the Jews, closed his eyes at the all-too-familiar sight. Day after day, hour after hour, he leaned against the wall of his windowless prison and stared at his toes, which had long since ceased to fascinate him. Sometimes, especially if the guards did not remember to lower the daily allowance of water and food, those wizened appendages took on the appearance of men he had known: Demas, who loved the world more than Christ; Crescens, Titus, Alexander the coppersmith, Governor Felix.
He closed his eyes, slamming the door on the images of those who had deserted him. He would rather envision beloved friends: Timothy, so young and full of righteous zeal. Priscilla and Aquila, fellow tentmakers with whom he had shared laughter and many a meal. Barnabas, his constant encourager. Aya, his sister; Avniel, his nephew. And Luke. Beloved Luke.
Keeping his eyes closed, Paul crossed his arms and smiled as the iron bracelets clanked. As far as he knew, his friends were alive . . . and still free.
Thank you, Yeshua. May God be praised.
Making his way past the Temple of Jupiter, Luke felt the tension in his shoulders ease. The Tiber River lay just ahead, and beyond it stood the Roman market where people did business at all hours. During the day, merchants of trade goods occupied the dilapidated booths, while vendors of another sort plied their wares after sunset. A hooded figure would not appear out of place in the crowded market, though a well-known Christian would be at risk anywhere in the city—
He flinched when a bony hand grabbed his shoulder and forcibly swung him around. “Hello, there.” A thin-faced man gave him a wide, disturbing smile. “What’s your pleasure?” He stepped closer, his breath stinking of infection and rotting teeth. “Boys or girls?”
Luke shrugged off the man’s hand and staggered away, his heart twisting at the reminder that evil lurked around every corner in this city. Rome was reported to be the greatest city in the world, but Nero’s Rome had begun to smell of decay, a rot that came from within.
That realization never failed to trouble his spirit. Influenced by the world’s greatest thinkers, artists, scholars, rulers, and military men, Rome had been home to some of civilization’s most noble men, and home as well to the most dishonorable of people. In Nero’s Rome, on any street corner a man could find beauty and perversity, generosity and stinginess, abundance and scarcity.
In the area where he walked, the walls of the buildings functioned as signboards on which public opinion was clearly—and often rudely—expressed. He read as he walked:
Alcmaeon, Orestes, and Nero are brothers.
Why? Because all of them murdered their mothers.
Count the numerical values of the letters in Nero’s name,
And in “murdered his own mother”
You will find their sum is the same.
The Palace is spreading and swallowing Rome!
Let us all flee to Veii and make it our home.
Yet the Palace is growing so wickedly fast
That it threatens to gobble up Veii at last.
His friends would undoubtedly share the news about what was currently happening in Rome, but these buildings frequently offered better reporting because they did not attempt to soften the truth.
Still, he had not come back to report on Rome. He had come to see his friends . . . if he could find them.
He walked on, heading to the appointed spot—a statue of Nero near the Tiber—and kept his back to the river so that no one could creep up on him unobserved. The moon had barely risen, but the sliver of silver cast a white beam over the trash heaped along the river’s edge. Though he would wait for as long as necessary, he hoped his escort would soon appear.
A flash of light caught his eye. To his left, on the walkway atop the Servian Wall, a Praetorian passed by with a torch in his hand. Two other guards and a prisoner followed him, and the moonlight revealed bloody stripes on the prisoner’s back. What was this?
The Praetorians stopped, and one of the guards shoved the prisoner down. Faint cries reached Luke’s ear, and he turned away, not needing to look in order to know what was taking place. Crucifixion had been a common form of execution even before Yeshua’s death, and the sight was not unusual in the city of seven hills.
Luke’s stomach roiled as the man released an agonized cry. Who was this condemned prisoner, and what had he done? A thief would have his hand chopped off; for treason or murder a Roman citizen might lose his head. But crucifixion was reserved for non-Romans who had committed truly heinous crimes.
Almost against his will, his gaze drifted back to the wall. The prisoner had been nailed to a post, his arms bent and fastened above his head, his feet nailed to the base. The two Praetorians who had positioned him moved back while the third lifted a bucket and sloshed some sort of dark liquid over the man’s body. The man began to shriek, and the frantic note in the sound evoked an unnatural silence. Even the insects by the river stopped churring as the torchbearer stepped forward and touched the flame to the base of the support. The hungry flames rose up quickly to lick the wood and race over the prisoner as his frenzied cry became a plea for release at any cost. . . .
Then the man fell silent. The flames settled back to consume what remained, and the insects resumed their night music.
Horror snaked down Luke’s spine and coiled in his gut. What sort of new torture was this? Luke looked to the right and saw more prisoners approaching under guard. Was Nero so demented that he considered human torches an economical way to light the city? The serpentine Servian Wall was long, encircling the old city and enclosing many important palaces and temples.
“Grace be unto you.”
Startled, Luke turned and stared into the eyes of another hooded man, one whose cloak had opened enough to reveal a sword of the Praetorian Guard. But this man, he knew, was a brother in Christ.
“And also to you,” Luke replied, his voice trembling.
A smile flashed within the hood. “Come. I will take you to your friends. But walk several steps behind me. For both our sakes, we should not be seen together.”
Luke swallowed hard when the hooded man turned and entered a patch of darkness. Not daring to take his eyes from the broad-shouldered figure, Luke followed.
“Prisoner!”
Paul clung to the soft darkness as closely as he could, burying his head in his folded arms. He did not want to wake, did not want to lie in the dark breathing fetid air when he could experience a small measure of freedom in his dreams.
A revolting liquid assaulted his face, cruelly waking him. He sat up, sputtering and wheezing, as laughter floated down from above.
“There.” A burly guard grinned down at Paul. “Rouse yourself when we call your name.”
“My name—” Paul spat, desperately ridding his mouth of the taste of foul water—“is not prisoner.”
“It is now.” Grinning like a well-fed house cat, the guard walked away, leaving Paul wide awake and choking on his own stench.
He wrapped his arms around his bent knees and lowered his head. He was no stranger to prisons, but this one was the vilest, probably in the entire civilized world. Located in the heart of Rome, the centuries-old prison was comprised of two chambers of hewn stone. The ground floor consisted of one large space, occupied by the Praetorians who guarded this place and the prefect, whenever he chanced to visit. Beneath the ground floor lay the second chamber, a dungeon accessible only by way of a round opening in the stone floor of the first space.
At the moment, Paul was the only prisoner in the pit, although thousands of others had left behind tattered clothing, worn-out sandals, gnawed rodent bones, and layers of sweat, blood, and human waste.
Paul had lost count of the days he’d spent underground. His time here began following the trial, held two years after the great fire destroyed more than half the city. From his exalted golden throne, Nero listened to testimony and wept elephant tears as false witnesses spoke of seeing Paul and his followers dance before the leaping flames.
The verdict, which came from the emperor’s own lips, was swift and nonnegotiable: “Paul of Tarsus, I find you guilty of arson, conspiracy, treason, and murder. You will be sentenced to die upon a date I shall set at my leisure. Until then, you shall contemplate your crimes in my prison. That is all.”
A squadron from the Praetorian Guard led Paul in chains from the Forum to the prison, which was but a stone’s throw away. They marched him across the ground floor and led him to the opening in the stone. “You’ll like it down there,” one of the guards said, his mouth curving in a predatory smile as he picked up a thick, knotted rope. “Your comrade Peter was held here before we crucified him.”
When another Praetorian nudged his back with his foot, Paul sat and held the rope. He managed the descent with some difficulty, then dropped onto the filthy floor below. With a sinking heart, he had watched the rope ascend until it disappeared from sight.
How long ago had he made that descent? At least seven hundred thirty days. And although the guards occasionally pulled him up to meet with the prefect, those occasions were rare.
Dreams were Paul’s only escape. Even his memories could not compare, for many of them were as horrific as his reality. But in dreams he could walk beneath a wide sky, inhale the fragrance of sea air and fine leather, and hear the haunting cry of a hawk in flight. Sometimes he dreamed of leaning against the rough bark of a tree and closing his eyes, relishing the music of a shepherd or the snoring of friends around a makeshift campfire.
The worst thing about his prison, he often thought, was the desperate, deprived condition of his senses. In the depths of the prison, his eyes saw little but shadows, his nose inhaled nothing but stench, and his tongue tasted only thin gruel and his own rotting teeth. His hands, which had grown soft without the joy of honest labor, often swelled in the humid space, and his skin was so covered in grime that he could barely feel the texture of the stone that surrounded him.
In his dreams, Paul found release—so long as the Praetorians allowed him to sleep. Unfortunately, some of them thought it great sport to wake him in cruel and unusual ways.
Yet the guards’ cruelty and the horrendous conditions in which Paul found himself were not the worst aspects of Nero’s prison. More torturous by far was the knowledge that he, an apostle who had traveled hundreds of miles and spoken to thousands of people, had apparently been set on a shelf. Cast aside like an old man—which he was—and forgotten.
His own words came back on a tide of memory. “Every competitor exercises self-control in all respects. They do it to receive a perishable crown, but we do it to receive an imperishable one.
“So I run in this way—not aimlessly. So I box in this way—not beating the air. Rather, I punish my body and bring it into submission, so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified.”
Despair pooled in his heart. He had become what he feared—an old, weak, broken ma
n without an audience or a purpose. He had run the race to win, but . . .
“Please,” he whispered, shutting his eyes against the sight of his awful surroundings, “one thing I ask, Yeshua—help me finish well.”
The hooded Praetorian led Luke through winding streets bordered by tall wooden buildings that appeared to be in danger of toppling with the slightest breeze. The structures in this part of the crowded city bore little resemblance to the marble-columned palaces and public buildings where he had walked earlier. The ground-floor apartments in this area were dedicated to trade and occupied by butchers, ironsmiths, woodworkers, dentists, and sculptors of household gods, while the workers and their families inhabited the upper floors.
Through open shutters Luke glimpsed life in all its many forms—people sleeping, arguing, feeding their children, plucking chickens, kneeling before their idols. Sputtering oil lamps and torches lit these buildings, reminding Luke once again that a single wayward spark could threaten the two million people who lived in the crowded city.
His escort paused at a busy intersection, and Luke made his way to the guard’s side. “Do we part here?”
Without looking at Luke, the Praetorian shook his head, then turned and walked down the Way of Triumph, the paved street over which Julius Caesar, Augusta, and Cleopatra had once ridden. Finally the guard headed toward a group of pleasant-looking villas on a hillside. Luke followed the man up a set of stairs, then through a narrow space lit by a single torch. Luke could see nothing but cascading vines and a trickling fountain, but then his escort lifted a tapestry and exposed a rough wooden door. Taking an iron key from his pocket, he fitted it into the lock and pushed on the door. He gestured for Luke to enter.
Was this the place? Or was he stepping into a trap?
He studied the Praetorian’s eyes—they were wide and as guileless as a child’s. Trusting the man was not a spy, Luke drew a deep breath and ducked beneath the small doorway.
He found himself inside a courtyard garden. An air of faded gentility marked the large fountain, the remnants of a formal garden, and an intricately worked iron gate, but the space was cluttered with hammocks, small tents, and iron pots set over smoldering fires. Around those fires, on cots and sleeping mats, he saw dozens of men, women, and children, all of them eyeing him with suspicion, speaking in whispers, and instinctively huddling together.