by Angela Hunt
She knew it would take hours for the slaves to prepare for the games. The merchants would arrive at midmorning to set up their shops. By midday the aromas of roasting meat and baking pastries would envelop the arena, making the prisoners’ mouths water in anticipation of a meal that would never come.
By midafternoon, the spectators would begin to arrive. Thousands of people would set aside their daily work and set out for the Circus—plebeians and patricians, senators and prostitutes, rich and poor, young and old. Those who came early would amuse themselves in the shops while others scrambled for the best seats. They would bring food in baskets, intending to make a day of the entertainment.
As the sun began to dip toward the west, the procession of athletes and other dignitaries would begin. Many people paid dearly for the honor of walking in a procession at the games, but Miriam could not see the point of it. Most people were still eating or shopping at that time, and many of the figures could not be recognized from the distance of the stands.
After the procession, the trumpeters would lift their instruments and play flourishes to herald the start of the races. Miriam’s mouth quirked. Nero himself had actually raced at the Circus. Despite being thrown and having to be reseated in his ten-horse chariot, he was declared the winner. The judges were awarded one million sesterces for their pronouncement.
But today would feature only one race, and it would be run only to satisfy those who craved the sound of thundering hooves. The other drivers and their teams would rest today, and the eager crowd would find entertainment in another sort of spectacle.
Miriam lowered her head and breathed in the lovely scent of her son. Not even the odor of this animal cage could overpower the perfume of her boy’s skin, and not even the knowledge that Nero would be in the stands could dim her anticipation of what lay ahead.
Luke had prepared them well—she was braced for the pain, perhaps even a fleeting panic, but after that she would know Paradise. No matter what awaited them on the arena’s sand—gladiators, jungle animals, wild dogs, or fiery crosses—nothing could compare to the joy of being united with the One who had already defeated death.
Hugging her son, she prayed the hours would pass quickly.
Paul did not know what to expect on his last day in the prison, but he was surprised when a shadow blocked the light from above. He looked up and saw Severus standing next to the opening, the knotted rope in his hand. “Paul of Tarsus, stand.”
Paul remained on the floor, amazed to hear his name. Had they decided to execute him a day early?
“Now, prisoner. Stand and make yourself ready to see the prefect.”
Slowly, Paul pushed himself off the floor and stepped toward the opening.
An hour later he found himself washed, fed, and wearing a new garment. The iron bracelets had been removed from his wrists, though fetters still weighed heavily on his ankles. Severus said nothing to explain these unexpected actions, and though Paul thought they might be related to Luke’s death, he could not determine how exactly.
He alighted from the prison wagon and saw that they had stopped at a beautiful villa.
Severus jerked his head toward the garden gate. “Mauritius Gallis waits to see you inside.”
Paul opened the gate and stepped into the garden, then closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of living things—trees, flowers, and moist earth. He had not dared hope he would ever again stand in a garden or walk beneath a blue sky, but here he was . . .
Yahweh-Rohi, my Shepherd, you knew this weary lamb needed to rest in green pastures.
As his heart sang with gratitude, he walked along the path in the walled garden. The path led to a bench, where Mauritius Gallis waited.
Paul studied the prefect as he walked forward. The man sat hunched on the marble seat, his head propped on his fist, his elbow resting on his knee, his eyes focused on something beyond Paul’s field of vision.
Was he thinking of Luke and regretting his harsh action? Were these acts of kindness the result of a guilty conscience?
Severus followed and dropped the chain that ran through Paul’s fetters.
Paul waited silently for the news that would break his heart.
Mauritius finally looked up. He locked eyes with Paul. “The Greek is alive.”
Paul blinked, feeling his knees turn to water. He would have fallen if Severus had not caught him. He sought the prefect’s eyes. “Praise God.”
“Because of him, my daughter lives. He did not have to save her, but he did.”
Paul bowed his head. “Luke knows he did not deserve mercy when he received it, so he extends mercy where others would not.”
The prefect shifted his attention to the trees along the garden wall. “He sent me to a villa for supplies, which was filled with your people—people of the Way. He knew I could arrest them, have them all taken to the Circus. Nero would like nothing better than more fodder for his wild beasts.”
Paul nodded but said nothing.
Mauritius looked at him and blinked hard. “I sent word to Nero, asking if there had been any change in the status of your execution order. But there has been none—you will die at sunrise tomorrow. I am sorry for it, yet I give you my word that the Greek will be able to accompany you without fear of persecution or reprisal.”
Paul clasped his hands. “Thank you, Prefect. That means a great deal to me.”
Mauritius leaned forward, his eyes intently focused on Paul’s face. “I should be thanking you. My wife, my daughter, and I are grateful you told us about Luke. I should have listened to you earlier.”
“But you did listen, and God was gracious to you. I hope the experience has shown you something . . . true.”
The prefect did not speak for a moment. He seemed to be listening to the wind in the trees, the cooing pigeons. Finally he closed his eyes. “I am sorry for Nero’s Circus. I am sorry many of your people will die today.”
Paul tilted his head. Was the Spirit working on this man? Perhaps. Yeshua said that no man could come to Him unless His Father drew him. Taking a chance, Paul stepped forward and sat next to the prefect. Mauritius did not react but stared straight ahead.
“Have you ever been sailing?” Paul asked.
Mauritius’s nod was barely perceptible. “I have.”
“Good.” Paul folded his hands. “Imagine yourself looking out at the vast sea. You reach down and put a hand into the water and scoop it up. But almost immediately the water begins to leak through your fingers, and within a few moments your hand is empty.”
“Of course,” Mauritius answered. “The water is like life.”
“Indeed it is. From birth to death, it is continually slipping through our hands. Before we know it, our lives will be gone, along with all we hold dear in this world. Yet the kingdom I seek, the one I live for, is like the sea. Men strive for the cup of water that slips through their fingers, but those who follow Yeshua the Christ live for the endless expanse of sea.”
Mauritius remained silent for a moment, then turned his head. “And what—after all this—if I still do not believe in your Christ?”
Paul smiled. “I wasn’t trying to convince you. I was simply sharing . . . Truth.” He turned to face the Praetorian. “Listen to me, Prefect. Considering the expanse of eternity, I have only moments left, so it is not me who looks at you now, but Christ himself. When He looks at you, He shatters your defenses. And in that moment you understand that you are completely known and completely loved by God.” He gentled his tone. “I will pray that moment comes for you soon.”
Mauritius drew a deep breath and let it out. He motioned to Severus, who stood waiting at the garden gate.
“I must leave you now,” the prefect said, standing. “I have promised to eat with my wife and daughter today, or at least to sit with them for a while. I wish you well, Paul of Tarsus. And I will see you again tomorrow.”
Paul watched Mauritius walk away, then turned to look for Severus, but the guard had disappeared. Puzzled and a bit anxi
ous, he stood and waited for someone to claim him. What was this? Had the Lord arranged an escape?
A few minutes passed, and then Luke stepped into the garden. He appeared well rested and, most surprising, was wearing a new tunic and mantle.
“Luke! What? How did—?” Realizing that he was babbling in confusion, Paul hurried forward to embrace his friend. “I have never been so glad to see anyone.”
“It is good to see you, too.”
Paul squeezed Luke’s arms. “It really is you and not an apparition.”
“It is. I am alive.”
“Thank the Lord.” Grinning, Paul pulled away and gestured to the garden around them. “I think we should walk and enjoy this lovely spot while we can.”
A flash of humor crossed Luke’s face. “Of course. I must say, you look much better in the sunlight.”
“I feel better, as well. I feel . . . hopeful.”
After walking together in silence for a while, Paul turned toward Luke and smiled. “You saved his daughter.”
“Yes. You helped me remember that I did not deserve to have Christ save me.”
Laughter floated up from Paul’s throat. “They will know us by our love, brother. And not only by our love for each other, but our love for them. This is the Way.”
Luke nodded, then looked toward the garden wall. “I could hear the cheers of the crowd as I visited the bathhouse. Many of our friends will die today . . . and I will never forget their faces.”
“You will see them again soon enough.” Paul clasped his hands behind his back. “The trumpets will blow a great welcome when they arrive home. And when they look back, they will remember your courage and the way you comforted them.”
He chuckled. “How did you know I talked to them?”
Paul lifted his face to the sky, his senses hungry for more light. “I know you, Luke, so of course you talked to them. And you gave them what they needed.”
Luke shook his head. “‘In the midst of the flame and the rack,’” he said, using the voice he always employed for quoting others, “‘I have seen men not only not groan, that is little; not only not complain, that is little; not only not answer back, that too is little. But I have seen them smile, and smile with a good heart.’” He looked at Paul. “That’s what Seneca, Nero’s poet, wrote about our brothers and sisters.”
Paul hauled his gaze from the sky and returned it to his physician. “God has a plan, even for Rome. And our people bear witness to Christ’s power even as they die.”
“On the night I first visited,” Luke said after a moment’s hesitation, “I did not understand why you would not tell our brothers and sisters what to do—whether to stay in Rome or leave. In light of all the trials you have faced, it seemed a simple answer. But now I have learned, perhaps even gained a bit of wisdom. There is only one guiding principle: seek Christ in all things.”
“It is all we can do,” Paul answered. “If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. Whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord. We are His slaves, set free to serve Him.”
“Is there . . . is there anything I can do for you?” Luke asked.
“Yes.” Paul smiled without humor. “If you find yourself in Jerusalem, please find my sister and nephew. Give them my love and tell them I prayed for them right up until the end.”
Luke nodded. “I will make a point of it.”
“I will have a note for Timothy tomorrow. Will you deliver it to him in Ephesus?”
“Yes.”
“And—” Paul bit his lip, trying to think of anything else he might have forgotten. “I have no possessions to give away, unless you count the clothes on my back.”
“I think,” Luke said, his nose crinkling, “you should keep those.”
They walked for several more moments without speaking, and then Luke stopped. “I have an ending for the book,” he said.
Paul blinked. “You are going to finish it?”
“Of course. The prefect has returned my notes and granted my freedom. As soon as I am settled in a quiet place, I will finish the writing.”
“All right.” Paul folded his arms. “What is the ending?”
Luke pressed a hand to his chest. “Paul remained two whole years in his own rented quarters and continued to welcome all who came to him—proclaiming the kingdom of God and teaching about the Lord Yeshua the Messiah with all boldness and without hindrance.” He grinned. “You should be very pleased with that.”
“I am,” Paul said. “But isn’t it incomplete? What of my second imprisonment? Of the trial at the Forum, of Nero’s verdict, the great fire of Rome, and the darkness of that horrid cell?”
Luke’s dark eyes flashed a gentle warning. “I began my telling of these events with Jesus’ proclamation to bear witness in Jerusalem and to the ends of the earth. And now the story that began thirty years ago in Jerusalem has come to Rome. If that is not the farthest place we could have imagined . . .”
“You are correct. It is the right ending—it feels complete.” Paul studied his friend. “So this is the end.” Tears filled Luke’s eyes as Paul stepped forward to embrace him. “And yet death is only the beginning,” Paul added in a choked voice. “We will soon meet on a new road, of that I am certain. To live is Messiah, and to die is gain.”
Luke drew a quavering breath. “I like that.”
“So do I.”
Paul patted Luke’s back, then released him. “Here comes Severus,” he said, a catch still in his voice. “I will say farewell now and see you in the morning.”
“Bright and early.” Luke gave him a warm smile. “I’ll be there.”
Aquila and Priscilla lingered in the courtyard, embracing those who stood with their earthly belongings in their arms. Herodion, Rufus, and a handful of other Christians in the community were staying behind, while Aquila and Priscilla, along with some others, would leave as soon as they said their farewells.
Priscilla had said her private farewells last night, after the house had stilled and the courtyard had quieted, save for the churr of insects. She had moved through her bedroom, running her hand along the plastered walls, saying good-bye to the space she had decorated and loved. She walked through the kitchen area, quietly stacking her clay pots and putting her wooden spoons into a jar. Herodion’s and Rufus’s wives would be cooking here, and Priscilla prayed the Lord would bless them.
She tiptoed into the garden and stroked the young fig tree that had not yet borne fruit. Let others eat from it when it had grown, but she would always treasure the joy of nurturing it from seedling to tree. She stood beneath the sprawling canopy of a terebinth and looked up at the stars—those she would take with her on every step of the journey ahead. Let those who remained enjoy the tree and rest in its shade. She and Aquila would find another terebinth, one with shade for tired travelers who needed to hear that a Savior promised to give them rest.
She made her way back to the big bed where she and Aquila had slept night after night. The place where they had loved, prayed, and sometimes disagreed. Let another couple sleep in this bed, let them be dominus and domina of this house, and let them glorify Christ together.
With a heart too full for words, she had lain down to sleep, knowing she would have to wake in the morning and not look back.
Now Priscilla held her friends tightly, knowing she might not see them again until heaven. She took extra time saying good-bye to Fania, Herodion’s wife. “Don’t forget your promise,” she whispered in Fania’s ear. “Visit Moria as often as you can. Make sure she and her baby are doing well—and pray for the salvation of their master.”
“We will,” Fania promised. “Some of the other women are going to help me. We will make sure Moria does not feel alone. Some of the men have said they will look for Carmine, too. Once we learn where he lives with his new master, we will keep an eye on him.”
Finally, Priscilla picked up the bag she had packed and followed Aquila to the gate. They would leave their house for the community. They
would pledge their prayers for those who believed Christ wanted them to stay and be salt in a decaying culture and light in a dark empire. Staying meant risking their lives every day, but, like Paul, they had decided they were slaves to Christ and meant to be about His work in Rome.
At home with Irenica and Caelia, Mauritius sat in his chair and watched his little family as they laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. Caelia seemed to grow stronger with every passing hour, and even in the dancing firelight he could see that color had returned to her cheeks. Irenica looked lovely, too, now that the lines of stress and despair had vanished from her countenance. She had been grateful to him for bringing the Greek to their home and following his unexpected instructions.
The wonder of it all, Mauritius reflected, was that the Greek had healed his daughter not with mischief or “Christian magic,” but with something far more unexpected—mercy and compassion, even for an enemy.
And that, Mauritius realized, was rarely witnessed in Rome.
The sun was lowering toward the western horizon as Aquila opened the courtyard gate. With Priscilla by his side, he stood and watched as those who were leaving departed in groups of three and four. “Go with God,” he murmured as each group moved down the stairs.
He studied their faces as they set out. Most of them were wide-eyed and tense, worried about walking the city streets unobserved. This first part of the journey would be the most dangerous, so Aquila tried to put them at ease so they wouldn’t draw unwanted attention.
Priscilla must have understood his unspoken intention, because she gave each group a bright smile, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. The evidence of heartsickness and exhaustion had disappeared from her face, and he prayed the others would take courage and comfort from her brave example.
“Mingle with the crowds,” he said as the others went out. “Do not draw any attention to yourselves. Do not walk too quickly or too slowly.”
When the last group had gone, he closed the courtyard gate and waved a final good-bye to Herodion, Rufus, and their wives. Then he drew Priscilla into his arms, a move that caught her by surprise.