by Angela Hunt
Luke remained silent. Was he about to be arrested or congratulated?
The prefect crossed his arms. “The emperor has declared Christianity a forbidden cult, and Paul of Tarsus the chief offender. Yet you, a Greek Christian, boldly sneak into a Roman prison. My prison. Risking your life with the help of one of my guards.”
Luke forced a smile. “As you’ve said, I have friends with useful connections.”
Mauritius scowled. “I know this one beside you. Eubulus is a good man who has fought and bled for Rome. His judgment—admittedly more compassionate than most—is the only reason I have not arrested you.”
Luke bowed. “I am most grateful—to Eubulus and to you. And I assure you, sir, my visit here has been innocent. I came only to comfort my friend and see to his health.”
A muscle clenched at the prefect’s jaw. “Good news indeed. For you.”
Luke bowed again. “If I may ask, sir . . . may I come again? Without having to trespass?”
The prefect studied Luke a moment. “You realize this prisoner is to die in eleven days.”
“I do, yes.”
“And if I discover that you are plotting an escape attempt, your life, as well as the life of the prisoner, will be forfeited.”
“We are not plotting an escape.”
Mauritius glanced left and right, then met Luke’s gaze. “You may visit this sick prisoner, but only under cover of darkness. You may be recognized, and I will not have a known Christian boldly entering my prison in daylight.”
“Understood,” Luke answered with a bow.
The prefect turned to his second-in-command. “Escort the Greek to the street.”
The Praetorian took Luke’s arm in a rough grip, then pushed him out the prison door and into the dawning of a new day.
Chapter
Five
The Eleventh Day of Junius
Dawn seemed to come reluctantly, glowing halfheartedly through a cloudy sky.
Luke threaded his way through the shadowy streets of Rome, avoiding the crowded areas. His meeting with the prefect had reminded him that he did have many acquaintances in the city, and those friends had friends who might be happy to turn a Christian over to the emperor’s guards.
He walked past the newly rebuilt Roman Forum, the House of Vestals, and the marble palace of Caligula, where slaves were busy sweeping the wide steps. He examined the area carefully before turning onto the well-traveled Way of Triumph, but he did not spot anyone he recognized. Even if he had, he could not avoid the road if he wanted to reach Aquila’s villa.
Several donkey-drawn carts crowded the thoroughfare even at this early hour, their unshod hooves clomping over the stones in the street. The odors of manure and urine assaulted his nostrils, although the combination was a sweet perfume compared to the stench of Paul’s dungeon.
Luke breathed deeply and walked on, moving quickly past the Temple of Apollo and the Palace of Augustus. No trace of blackened stones remained in this section of Rome, and he could almost pretend the great fire had never occurred. To escape prying eyes, he slipped between two donkey carts, both loaded with garbage from the street. The men who guided the donkeys walked with their heads down, looking for trash, so he did not think they would mind if he pretended to be involved in their business.
The rubbish collectors went several more yards before stopping. Luke looked up and felt his stomach clench when he saw a group of Praetorians striding toward the intersection ahead. A number of bound prisoners trudged behind them, followed by more Praetorians.
A cold panic gripped Luke and he froze.
“Make way there!” One of the Praetorians marched apart from the others, shoving aside anyone who encroached on the guard’s path. “Out of the way. We are about the business of Rome!”
“Nasty business.” The trash collector spoke in a low voice, but Luke could not help but overhear him.
He moved closer to the man. “What business are these men about?” he asked.
The rubbish collector spat on the road before answering. “They are taking these prisoners to the Circus.”
Luke frowned. “They will die in the arena?”
The man shook his head. “Aye, but not before lighting the arena. These people say their God is the light of the world, so Nero has taken a fancy to the idea of human candles for his night games.”
The second rubbish collector released a bitter laugh. “I wouldn’t mind these Roman candles, but a body doesn’t burn as long as a well-soaked torch.”
Luke brought his hand to his mouth in an attempt to disguise the horror that had to be revealed on his face. His eyes were irresistibly drawn to the prisoners who shuffled behind the Praetorian Guard. Many of them walked with the stiff, painful gait of men who had been recently beaten, and some could walk only because another prisoner supported them. They were bloodied, caked with mud, and—
Terror lodged in his throat when he recognized a man he’d seen in Aquila’s courtyard. What was his name? Caleb. He had been one of the first to help Octavia, and he had brought water and a clean towel to wash the blood from her face.
As the Praetorians turned into the entrance for the Circus Maximus, Caleb gave Luke a piercing look. Luke drew a breath and parted his lips to speak, but the man shook his head ever so slightly, sending a wordless message: No. Do not risk your life by acknowledging me. And then, despite the pain and fear he had to be experiencing, Caleb lifted his chin and smiled. “This is nothing,” he cried, his voice shattering the quiet of the early morning, “when compared to the glory I will taste when I meet Jesus the Christ, who died to set men free!”
Luke stood amazed, his eyes filling with tears as he watched other men shout in victory while they marched toward the Circus where they would meet their deaths . . . and their Savior.
“Can’t deny their courage,” one of the trash collectors remarked. “Braver than many a gladiator, I’d warrant.”
“You can’t know that,” his fellow collector argued, “until they’re facing the blade or the fire.”
“You can know,” Luke said, daring to disagree. “When you have confidence in the One in whom you have believed.”
Paul pressed his face against the softness of his new blanket. “Thank you, Yeshua,” he whispered. “For earthly comforts and small blessings.”
Shivering with chill and fatigue, he released his grip on his thoughts and let himself drift away. Amazing, how fitfully he slept when the days had lost their rhythm. With only a single opening for light, he often lost track of the hours and days. On cloudy days he existed in a seemingly endless dawn; when his guard forgot to light the torch, he lived in a nearly eternal night.
But Luke had brought sanity and order back to his world. Luke, who arrived just after sundown and remained until dawn. God bless Luke. He had proven to be a rope that tethered Paul to reality.
Paul felt himself drifting into a doze in which memories of his day blended with fragments of past memories. He saw himself talking to Luke and smiled as Luke again spilled ink on the papyrus sheets. Though writing inside a dark prison was not easy, Luke had proven himself capable. He would find a way to accomplish their task.
Luke was always methodical, precise, and thorough. The man enjoyed talking with people, gathering up the details of their stories as easily as a farmer’s wife gathered eggs.
“Uncle Sha’ul?”
He blinked at the sound of a familiar voice and discovered that his surroundings had changed. He was in a different prison cell, one filled with light from a high window. The walls were made of stone blocks neatly fitted together. A door with iron bars stood between him and a corridor, where a boy stood. A beloved boy he recognized—Avniel, his nephew.
“Avniel?”
“Uncle Sha’ul, I have something important to tell you.”
Paul blinked. Avniel was now a man fully grown, so this was surely a dream. Yet HaShem often revealed His will through dreams and visions . . .
Paul rose and went to the door. “Does
your mother know you are here?”
“Never mind about that, Uncle—you are in danger!”
“I am where Christ wants me to be, Avniel. Now go home to your mother and—”
“They have taken an oath, Uncle. They are determined to kill you tomorrow.”
Paul gripped the iron bars and lowered himself to the floor, then gestured for his nephew to do the same. When the boy sat across from him, Paul leaned closer. “Tell me everything.”
Avniel nodded. “I was with friends from my study group. We were in one of the Temple chambers when a group of forty or so of the leaders came down the hallway. We knew we weren’t supposed to be in that room, so we hid ourselves in the back. They never saw us.”
Paul stared at his hands. “They held some sort of meeting?”
“Nothing official—the leaders were hiding, too. They whispered, but we heard enough to understand that they had all taken an oath not to eat or drink until they killed you. They said they were going to the ruling chief priests to announce their oath. They would urge the chief priests to go to the Roman commander tomorrow morning and say they wanted to interview you more thoroughly. But when the Roman brought you out of the Fortress, they would kill you before you could reach the Temple.”
Paul smiled. Now everything made sense. “Avniel, can you tarry here a little longer?”
“Of course, Uncle.”
“Good.” Paul stood and called to the centurion outside. “Centurion! I have an urgent message for you!”
The centurion did not appear immediately, and when he did come around the corner, he gave Paul a look of pure skepticism. “What sort of urgent message could you possibly have?”
Paul reached through the bars and turned Avniel to face the soldier. “Take this young man to the commander, for he has the message. Trust me, the commander will want to hear it.”
The centurion sighed, then looked over Avniel as if doubting that a boy so young could possibly have news of any importance. Finally, he pulled Avniel away from Paul and prodded him toward the exit. “That way. I’ll take you to the commander.”
After watching him go, Paul slid down the wall with a smile on his face. He knew how the situation would end. Avniel would relay his story to the commander, who could devise a plan for Paul’s escape. The Temple leaders would not have access to him.
But their hatred for him was so great, they would break their rash blood vows and present their charges in a Roman court . . . and Paul would find himself in Rome, telling Nero and his officials of his transformation from persecutor to preacher.
He knew this because, the night before, Yeshua himself had stood beside Paul in his prison cell. “Take courage,” Yeshua said in a low rumble that was both powerful and gentle. “For just as you have testified about me in Jerusalem, so you must also testify in Rome.”
Paul dropped to his knees and gazed up at a figure that spoke of power, holiness, and ageless truth. “So be it,” he had whispered, closing his eyes. “I am willing to go.”
When he opened his eyes again, he was awake in his dungeon, accompanied only by the rustlings of rats.
“I remember everything, Yeshua,” Paul said. He folded his hands across his chest. “And tomorrow I will share the story with Luke.”
Aquila sat at his window, watching as the morning sun emblazoned the sky with streaks and slashes. The night had been a long one, and earlier, from the same window, he had studied the orange glow over the Circus Maximus. For several weeks, burning Christians had provided light for the emperor’s night games, where gladiators fought to the death, wild animals devoured criminals, and drunken onlookers cheered.
He swallowed hard and wrapped his arms around himself. The horror of his brothers’ and sisters’ deaths still had the power to pebble his skin, but he had prayed that their sacrifice would bring a different kind of light to those who observed them. If they had gone to their deaths bravely, who could say how God might use them?
He heard a footfall on the threshold and turned to see Priscilla in the doorway. “I woke,” she said, stepping into the room, “and you weren’t beside me.”
Aquila cleared the lump from his throat and gave her a smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Priscilla settled onto the bench at his side and squeezed his arm. “Luke made it back safely. He sleeps now.”
Aquila nodded, relieved. Luke was able to take care of himself, but Aquila couldn’t help but feel responsible for anyone staying beneath his roof.
“He was shaken when he came through the gate,” Priscilla went on. “He saw Caleb among the prisoners on their way to the Circus.”
Aquila lowered his head as fresh anguish seared his soul. Would he be praying for Caleb to die bravely tonight?
Priscilla rested her head on his shoulder. “My heart breaks for Rome and its people. We’ve loved this city for so long.”
Aquila cleared his throat again. “Yet . . . yet lately I cannot think of it as anything other than what it has become. A reflection of Nero’s madness.”
“This time will pass. He cannot be emperor forever.”
“But how many more will die before he does?”
Priscilla bit her lip but did not respond.
“This place,” Aquila continued, “this decision weighs heavily on me. I have prayed, yet the Lord tells me nothing.”
“He will give you an answer.”
“But when, Priscilla? Every moment we wait is another opportunity for our group to be discovered. If we stay here, we put the lives of so many brothers and sisters in danger. All those living under our roof.”
“Still, if we leave, how many others will suffer? The poor, the orphans—all those who rely upon our charity. Our love.” She drew a breath. “Christ said He was sending us to dwell among the wolves.”
“He also told us to be as wise as serpents.”
“And as harmless as doves. And doves tend to stay in one place.” She squeezed his arm again, then stood. “As Paul has said, we must each make our own decision.”
Aquila blinked at her choice of words. Each? As individuals? They had been married for so many years that he no longer thought of himself as a separate person. He was Priscilla’s husband and partner, one half of a team united in purpose, ministry, and love.
He turned, wanting to ask what she meant, but she had already left the room.
Standing on the balcony of Aquila’s villa, Luke watched the refugees in the courtyard below. They had been up since sunrise, cooking, constructing shelters, doing whatever they could to support each other. Would they stay here until the danger had passed? If so, they might be living in this crowded home for a long time.
He turned and saw Aquila approaching. “A blessed Lord’s day to you,” Aquila said. He pressed a cup of lemon water into Luke’s hand. “You must be thirsty.”
“Thank you.” Luke drank, stood with Aquila, and watched the people below.
“How is Octavia?” Aquila asked.
“Holding up as best she can.” Luke had checked on the woman as soon as he woke. He was worried that her mental state might have continued to deteriorate, but she was better this morning—grieving her losses but comforted by those around her.
He looked for the runaway slave couple, finally spotting them near the terebinth tree. Carmine was cooking something over the fire while Moria rested, one hand protectively sheltering her belly. Luke jerked his head toward the sprawling tree. “How are the newcomers?”
“They seem to be fine,” Aquila said. He fixed his penetrating gaze on Luke. “Did you ask Paul about them?”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
Luke took another sip of water, then sighed heavily. “He said they should return to their master and confess that they were wrong to run. They should submit to whatever punishment he wishes to mete out. Then they should work for him as they would work for Christ.”
Aquila released a long, slow whistle. He leaned on the balcony railing and studied the couple below. “Chri
st never said following Him would be easy, did He?”
Luke managed a choking laugh. “Though His burden is light, it is all-encompassing. It demands everything of a man or woman.”
“Just like a slave.” Aquila smiled. “No wonder Paul keeps saying he is a slave of Christ. It is a fitting metaphor.”
“It is reality.” Luke set his cup on a nearby table. “I will speak to the couple, if you wish.”
The words erased the worried line beneath Aquila’s brow. “You will give them a choice, yes?”
“Of course.” Luke looked out over the crowd, concern flickering in his eyes. “Do you think all of them counted the cost before coming here?”
Aquila crossed his arms. “Time will tell. Time reveals all.” He gestured to the diverse group. “Do you think Paul and Barnabas imagined Christians in Rome when they set off to Antioch?”
Luke chuckled. “I’m not sure anyone did.”
When Aquila turned, Luke followed his look and saw that Priscilla had just come through the courtyard gate. Smiling and serene, she was greeting her guests, distributing food from a basket, and instructing her servants to be sure everyone had warm clothing. Her voice carried over the noise of the refugees: “The nights can be chilly this time of year.”
“She loves these people,” Luke said.
Aquila tipped his face toward the sun. “They are like her children. Yet she also finds room in her heart for all those who are lost in Rome. That kind of love does not come so easily to me.”
“I understand. It is difficult to love Romans when they trample on innocents and those we care about. It is even more difficult when we realize we are supposed to care about Romans.” Luke peered toward the Circus Maximus, barely visible over the garden wall. “As I walked home, I saw prisoners destined to be burned on the Circus walls. One of them was a man from this group—yet I did nothing to help him.”
Aquila shook his head. “There was nothing you could have done. His death will not be your fault.”