The spread of Christianity throughout the Roman Empire was the work of the apostles, and none is more famous than Paul, originally Saul of Tarsus. At one time he was a persecutor of Christians, but on the way to Damascus had a vision of Christ that revealed that he was the man to take the Word to the Gentiles. Paul travelled throughout the Mediterranean world and is believed to have ended up in Rome, but just what did become of him has never been satisfactorily resolved. In the following story, Derek Wilson, a historian and author of the Tim Lacy art-world mysteries, sets another of the apostles on the trail of Paul.
Dear Theophilus,
Five years have passed since I attempted, at your request, to provide an orderly account of the spread of the message about the Kingdom of God from its beginnings in Jerusalem to its open proclamation in the capital of the Empire. I was an eye witness of many of the events I recorded then and, for the rest, I had information directly from those possessing first-hand knowledge. Nothing was hearsay; nothing gossip. My concern, as with my earlier report on the life and teaching of Jesus, was to present you with a true and trustworthy narrative.
I have not been impervious to your entreaties that I should continue the chronicle as far as our own troubled times, and, particularly, that I should record accurately what befell Paul after the lifting of his detention in Rome. Family business in Philippi and my own indifferent health prevented me for some time from complying with your request. It was only fifteen months ago that I realized that I must delay no longer. After the great fire in Rome responsibility for which was unjustly fastened on the Christians, the vilest calumnies were spread from the centre to the very rim; of the Empire. In the chaos of denunciations and persecutions many believers fled, carrying with them confused and confusing stories about Paul, Peter, Apollos and others. Thus it became imperative for me once more to set out upon my travels in search of the truth.
Even when I had ascertained all that I could I hesitated to write to you. The posts are frequently tampered with and my letter might have attracted to you the unwelcome attentions of over-zealous officials. Now that the arch-enemy of the Christians is dead by his own hand* and discredited it is safe to convey to you those facts which I have been able to gather. My own involvement in the work of God through his servants has always been insignificant but on ‘this occasion I shall have to place myself at the centre of the action so that you will understand the remarkable happenings as I was able to unravel them.
I set out with extreme anxiety about Paul. Apart from one brief letter passed on to me by the church elders at Philippi my only sources of information were rumours. Some claimed that he had died in Rome on Nero’s orders; others that he was still in distant Spain; and I frequently came across reports that he had been seen in various locations - Ephesus, Crete (where he supposedly was being hidden by Titus, the leader of the churches on the island) and even — most unlikely of all considering his reputation there — Corinth. On one occasion when I visited Thessalonica, the elders there showed me with great pride a letter that one of their number had recently brought back from Asia. It was a copy of a message addressed to Timothy, whom you met as a young man when we stayed in your house all those years ago, and it purported to be from Paul. I scanned it eagerly for clues about our friend’s health and whereabouts. Alas, it was a disappointment. I, who have taken down many letters at Paul’s dictation, could recognize little of his style, and you may imagine my surprise when I read that I was among the writer’s present companions. Parts of this missive may, indeed, have come from Paul or his immediate circle but they had certainly been mixed up with passages from other hands. In these times of discord, when few of the Lord’s first followers remain to provide guidance, there are leaders who resort to all manner of stratagems to bolster their own authority. As you assuredly know, some have even claimed that Peter and others went from Jerusalem to Rome to organize the church there. I concluded that, rather than follow up any of these dubious leads, I should start my investigations in the place where I had last seen my dear friend.
I remembered very clearly the comfortable little house on the Caelian Hill with its garden running right up to the city wall. Here, for two years, Paul had held court in a manner scarcely less busy than that of the emperor. Day after day, Roman Christians, visitors from all over the world and even men and women from Caesar’s own household visited us to receive instruction, convey gifts and messages and to pray with the prisoner. We waited for his accusers to come from Jerusalem with their false accusations of sedition but they never appeared. It was one thing to stir up mobs in Judaea and exert political pressure on weak procurators. It was quite another to confront a Roman citizen with cogent evidence before the judgement seat of Caesar himself. During the two years of Paul’s incarceration I presented several petitions to the office of the Praetorian Prefect Burrus requesting that Paul’s case be heard without further delay. However, it was only when the Prefect of the City and an official of the Praetorian guard made representations that the lawyers took action. The military and police chiefs complained about the waste of resources involved in keeping prisoners like Paul under house arrest.
By then Gaius Ofonius Tigellinus, the emperor’s friend and no one else’s, had taken over from Burrus. He heard the case personally in the justice hall of the Palatine palace. We could expect little from a man who had already begun a purge of Caesar’s suspected enemies. Paul had prepared a detailed defence but instead had to listen to a long harangue from the Prefect. When the charge had been read Tigellinus called for the evidence to be presented. There was silence. The hall was packed, mostly with Paul’s friends, but not a single person beneath the wide, star-decorated dome spoke up.
Tigellinus banged with his staff on the marble floor. ‘I see this is another of these disputes between rival Jewish factions. You people seem to think you can waste the court’s time with impunity. You have your own laws and legal processes. Use them! You, prisoner, stand forth!’ '
Paul stood before the Prefect, manacled to a centurion.
‘All this is your doing. When this case was presented in Judaea you claimed the privileges of a Roman citizen. For some unaccountable reason the Procurator, the late Porcius Festus, supported your appeal to Rome; Why were you not content to stand trial in your own country?
Paul spoke up in that high-pitched, cracked voice of his which held so many audiences spellbound. ‘Your Excellency, I appealed to the impartial justice of Rome from the bias and violence of the Jewish Sanhedrin. They hate the followers of Jesus the Christ. Only recently news has come from Jerusalem of the murder of the leader of the Christian church there.’**
‘You see, it is as I thought,’ Tigellinus shouted. ‘Petty disputes among pestilential, uncouth subjects. If I had been the Procurator of Judaea I’d have had the lot of you flogged and sent about your business.’
‘It is not permissible to flog Roman citizens who stand condemned of no crime, your Excellency.’
Paul s boldness in thus addressing the chief justice shocked the entire court into silence. We all looked to see how Tigellinus would react.
For several seconds he stared, wide-eyed at the prisoner, his colour rising, his free hand tightly gripping the braided edge of his toga. You insolent little Jew! You dare to lecture me on the law? I’ll tell you about Roman citizenship: it is squandered on vermin like you. There are far too many members of subject races granted precious privileges. People like you should be kept firmly in your place, alongside slaves and barbarians.’
I saw the familiar smile on Paul’s face that meant only one thing, that he saw an opportunity to speak boldly about the Lord Jesus. ‘You are right, most wise Tigellinus, he began. ‘It is proper that all men should know their place. Jew and Roman, citizen and slave, civilized and barbarian — we must all stand in the judgement hall of God. And he has appointed an advocate for us — Jesus Christ. He alone can plead our cause. He alone . . .’
‘Silence!’ Tigellinus was not to be lulled by that voice that had persuaded many to faith. ‘There’ll be no preaching of foreign blasphemies in my court room. Hold your tongue and listen to the sentence pronounced in my judgement hall. Paul, you have twenty-four hours to leave Rome. You are never to return — on pain of death. Guard, take him away!’
The rest of that day was a time of mingled joy and sorrow. A crowd of Paul’s friends led him to the house of old Urbanus. They celebrated his release but grieved that he was to leave them.
Paul himself was jubilant. ‘You see, brothers, how God answers our prayers. For months I have asked to be allowed to travel to the very edge of the world, to Spain, with the Gospel. Now, God not only releases me from bondage, but he pushes me forth on my journey without another day’s delay.’
I was unable to share his enthusiasm. Paul was a man already past his sixtieth year. His physical strength was remarkable for a man of his age but his body bore the scars of many beatings and mishaps. The enforced rest of his imprisonment had brought the four humours back into balance, so that, in most respects, he was healthier than he had been when he came to Rome. But he was almost blind. I had couched the cataracts in both his eyes in the early days of his captivity but this had provided only a temporary respite. What he laughingly referred to as his ‘thorn in the flesh’ had not proved a serious disability as long as he was under house arrest. Even when he was not chained to a guard he could feel his way around his familiar confines. If, now, he was to set out on his travels again he would be totally dependent on his companions and he would be without the advice of his physician. I had ignored several urgent entreaties from Macedonia but I could not indefinitely set aside my family responsibilities and certainly I could not journey farther westwards. Paul understood my situation. Indeed, he urged me, on more than one occasion to return home. Yet, I still felt that I was deserting him.
The following day was the saddest of my life. Several of us brought Paul, riding in a cart, down to the port of Ostia, where he found passage on a ship carrying grain to Corsica. It was the only west-bound vessel leaving on the next tide. Paul would have preferred a more substantial ship, rigged and provisioned for a longer journey but since we were accompanied by a troop of the Praetorian Guard intent on seeing him clearly underway from Latium he had no choice. He had selected as his travelling companion Eubulus, a young Roman Christian who had been converted through Paul’s preaching. I knew him to be an educated but robust fellow well able to withstand the rigours of the journey as well as the abuse and hardship that Paul’s fearless preaching frequently attracted. More importantly I judged that he would cope with our friend’s frequent changes of mood. Paul was a visionary leader, an inspiring teacher and a bold proclaimer of the Gospel but he was certainly not the easiest of men to live with.
An hour before the ship was due to sail Paul gathered us all on the quayside. He warned that persecutions would grow worse — and exhorted us to stand firm until the coming of the Lord Jesus. Then he prayed and bade us all farewell. Many wept, knowing that they would see him no more. Such were my memories as, five years later, I began my journey back to Rome.
I took ship to Cenchriae on the Isthmus of Corinth, planning, like most travellers, to cross to the port of Lechaion on the opposite shore. Unlike Paul, I was never a good sailor. Impatient voyager that he was, he habitually chose the quickest route to his desired destination careless of the consequences. He sometimes boasted about having been in four shipwrecks — or, rather, he boasted of the God who had preserved him in these calamities. I am of less value to the Almighty and prefer not to put him to the test. My dreams are still haunted by the terrifying, tempest-tossed days and nights we spent being driven across the central Mediterranean from Crete, before being cast up on the island of Malta. So you will understand, Theophilus, why I had no stomach for braving the stormy southern tip of the Peloponnesos.
My cautious itinerary involved a stay of several days in what our ancient poets aptly call ‘wealth-corrupted Corinth’. It is not a city that I like. It seems to attract the worst elements of every one of the cosmopolitan communities drawn there by its agricultural and commercial affluences. There are temples to every conceivable deity, both Greek and foreign. Jewish shops with their overpriced goods dominate the agora. Bath houses and their attendant vices are everywhere and, to pander to the depraved tastes of Roman settlers, they have recently built an amphitheatre for gladiatorial fights and contests between wild animals.
It was not easy to seek out fellow Christians. Those that I knew or to whom I had introductions had either fled in the recent troubles or were cautious of any stranger who came asking questions about their meeting places or customs. It was in Corinth that I first learned of the revolt in Judaea. On my second day in the city I made my way to the synagogue, meaning to institute cautious enquiries about followers of the true Messiah. I found the small building boarded up and a notice nailed to it forbidding the assembly of Jewish people for any purpose. It was in a tavern out on the Lechaion road that I fell in with a group of centurions who reported the dismal events in Rome’s least favourite and least successful province. They explained that a decree had been issued restricting the activities of Jewish communities to prevent them sending financial aid to the rebels. They were on their way from Italy to Syria with reinforcements for Gallus, the legate, and they told of troops being hastily conveyed from Parthia (with whom peace had recently been concluded), the eastern border, Spain and other parts of the empire to the latest trouble spot.
‘We’ll crush them this time, for sure,’ one of them, a bulky Illyrian, insisted.
His colleague, a red-haired giant from one of the Gallic tribes, agreed. ‘I did a tour there a dozen years back — my worst posting ever. Show me a Jew and I’ll show you a crafty, stubborn fanatic. Have you ever been to Palestine, friend?’
I told him, cautiously, that I had visited the land.
‘Then you’ll know what a barren, dusty country it is. No city or town worthy of the name. The earth is so poor that it can’t support its own people. That’s why you find them all over the empire. They worship a primitive god who obviously hasn’t done much for them. Yet they refuse the benefits of civilization and actually claim to be a chosen, favoured race, destined to rule the world. I don’t know why we’ve put up with them so long.’
‘Well, they’re for it, now. The emperor has sent Titus Flavius Vespasian to suppress this revolt. He’s a soldier’s soldier. I served under him in Britain. He won’t stand any nonsense. Mark my words, within ten years there’ll be no Jewish land or people.’
As we talked I noticed that one of the centurions said little. Prompted by the Holy Spirit I surreptitiously made the sign of the fish in a puddle of spilled wine. Our eyes met briefly before I brushed the liquid from the table with the back of my hand.
He stayed behind when his companions left and we embraced eagerly. He was a young man, recently promoted, from the colony of Arles in Narbonese Gaul. I was excited to learn of his origins in the western empire and asked if he had heard anything of Paul. Yes, he said, fellow believers from his home town had written to him about eighteen months before to say that the great apostle had passed through Arles and preached in the agora. My new friend, whose name was Licinius Rufus, knew nothing of Paul’s movements after that. It mattered not. The important fact was that I had a place to start looking, a place where Paul had been seen, alive and well, as recently as eighteen months ago. Licinius gave me the name of a contact in Arles who would be able to tell me more. The soldier, for his part, was eager to learn from me all that I could tell him about Jesus and, unlike his colleagues, was delighted to be going to the land where the Lord had taught, healed, suffered, died and risen to new life. I soon discovered that the young man had received little tuition since his baptism. We talked long into the night. I told him how Jesus, over thirty years ago, had prophesied those very evils which were now befalling his people; how he had spoken of false messiahs who would only lead their followers to destruction; how he had forewarned that Jerusalem would be surrounded by armies and overrun; how the great temple would be invaded by heathen soldiers and then totally destroyed. These, along with the persecution of Christians throughout the empire, were signs of the end of all things and the return of Jesus in the clouds. When would this happen, Licinius urged me to say, but I could only pass on to him the Lord’s own instructions, ‘Watch and pray for you do not know when the time will come.’
It was Licinius who provided my contact with Corinthian Christians. Before leaving Rome he had been given the address of a meeting place. It was in the cellar of a merchant’s house near the newly built courtyard of Apollo, a place for public gatherings. On the last day of the week Licinius and I went to locate it, so that we would be in good time for worship the following day. As we watched we observed several people, singly or in pairs, enter the shop and make their way through to the premises at the rear. Eventually we presented ourselves at the door. We were greeted civilly if warily by the Jewish tradesman and his wife who introduced themselves as Herodion and Rachel. They indicated the rows of copper and bronze vessels on shelves within but regretted that, this being their holy day, they could not serve us. We revealed ourselves as Christians but this brought forth no warm welcome.
‘You are Gentiles,’ the swarthy Herodion observed. ‘Have you, then, been circumcised into the faith?’
‘We have been baptized,’ I told him. ‘That is all the Lord requires.’
‘The Lord requires what is written in his holy law. What you speak sounds like the heresy of Paul, that Gentiles and Jews are equally acceptable to God. We want none of that nonsense here. We will be obliged if you will leave us.’
We left the shop and began to walk disconsolately along the street. After a few paces Rachel hurried after us. ‘Bibulus, the potter,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘His house is alongside the east wall.’ Then she retreated to her own home.
The following day, Sunday, we presented ourselves at the place the woman had mentioned and were joyfully received by Bibulus and over fifty believers who had gathered for the breaking of bread. It soon became clear what had happened in Corinth. The Christian community, always prone to factions and divisions, had recently been swamped by exiles from Palestine. Such Judaizers had always been Paul’s most tenacious enemies, confronting him in public, working behind his back to subvert his teaching. Now they had taken over in Corinth, forcing out those who refused their ‘purer’, law-based religion.
We spent several happy hours in fellowship with those of the true faith. There was no one there who could give me any reliable information about Paul but I did meet a man who shared my concern for him. Manaus was an Asian Jew from the province of Lycia-Pamphylia. Like Paul he had studied in the university at Tarsus. Like me he was a doctor. I found him a charming and cultured companion with whom I had much in common. He was on his way to Rome to talk with the remarkable army surgeon, Dioscorides, and had stopped in Argolis to visit the famous Asclepieion at Epidaurus. What did I think, as a Greek and a Christian, about this ancient centre of healing associated with the pagan hero-god Asclepios, he asked.
It was a subject I had often considered and often discussed with Paul. My own studies, long before my conversion, had, of course been based on the philosopherphysicians such as Hippocrates, Aristotle and Theophrastus as well as the cult practices associated with the god of healing. My interest in Jesus had been first aroused by the stories believers told about the cures he achieved of several bodily and spiritual disorders. They certainly resembled the miracles claimed by those who prayed and made offerings at the temples of Asclepios and especially at the great sanctuary at Epidaurus. Manaus and I obviously had much to discuss. I suggested that he accompany me as far as Rome and he accepted.
My new companion was sympathetic to my feelings about the sea and readily agreed on the short Adriatic crossing to Brindisi rather than the long voyage around Italy to the port of Ostia on the far coast. Our journey from there along the Appian Way was, inevitably, hindered by the demands of patients. A physician cannot appear in a town or village without the maimed, the sick and those who fancy themselves sick requiring (sometimes demanding) attention. And here were we, two doctors, travelling together. News of our approach went ahead of us and it became the settled pattern that where we had resolved to spend a single night we ended up passing two or three days, setting broken bones, issuing drugs, blood-letting, prescribing diets and even performing minor operations such as tonsillectomy and treatment of goitre. Frequently our time was wasted by customers who, dissatisfied with the diagnosis one of us had given, paid a second fee to be examined by the other. Romans may sneer about medicine being a calling only fit for slaves and foreigners but they are eager enough for our services when their own health is impaired.
Long discussion on medical theory and observation of each other’s working practices made plain fundamental professional differences between Manaus and myself. He was a Dogmatist, one who, having learned the principles enunciated by Hippocrates and certain Jewish masters, believed in their universal application. Disease, he asserted, was physiological and, since all bodies were, medically speaking, identical, so treatment could not vary from patient to patient. When I asked how he explained the connection Jesus made between disease and sin, he insisted that the Lord had been misunderstood on the subject. Jesus, he insisted, being a man of God had an intuitive understanding of all human disorders and on this rested the healing successes which some regarded as miraculous. This was a view I had encountered among several non-Christian Jews who were happy to recognize Jesus as holy man and prophet but not Messiah. It was not surprising that Manaus should be affected by this scepticism.
I have observed in the Christian churches which have grown up in all parts of the world how believers interpret the facts about Jesus in terms of their own cultures and habits of rational thought. This is as true of me as any others. As a Greek, I tend to look for those points of convergence between the teachings of the ancients and those of the Lord Jesus. The priests of Asclepios long ago recognized that physical disfunction is not simply a bodily failing but a matter of psychic disharmony.
Pure must be he who enters the fragrant temple;
Purity means to think nothing but holy thoughts.
So runs the inscription over the magnificent entrance to the sanctuary at Epidaurus. It was an insight Paul readily recognized. ‘Whatever is pure, what is holy and of good report — set your mind on these things’, he often taught; and in his letters he was always exhorting believers to find wholeness through being ‘spiritually minded’ and letting the Holy Spirit direct their thoughts. His own remarkable mind was able to embrace every new proposition presented to it. Yet, at the same time, he could with needle-sharp accuracy transfix the error in an argument or locate its essential truth.
But where was he now? In a world that was falling apart and hastening to its end was he safe? Every fresh demand upon my time increased my impatience to reach Rome where, I felt sure, someone would have reliable news of his whereabouts.
When we finally reached the city after more than a month on the road I was shocked by the changes that had taken place since I had left it five years before. The centre as I had known it was quite vanished. Where streets of houses and shops, ancient temples and public buildings had once stood there were now piles of blackened rubble or large areas cleared and swarming with hundreds of slaves, like so many ants. The house where Paul had been held was no more. The whole area from the Caelian Hill to the Palatine had been razed in order to create space for Nero’s new palace. The Golden House was already complete and gangs of slaves we’re laying out over two-hundred acres of gardens, lakes, pavilions, colonnades and fountains for the emperor’s exclusive pleasure. People told me about — but I deliberately did not go to see — the immense gilded statue of himself that Nero had set up to overlook the forum.
Yet it was not so much the material changes to Rome that impressed most visitors. There was, everywhere, an air of gloom, anger and fear. Thousands of citizens had had their property confiscated to make way for the imperial vulgarities. Businesses had disappeared, leaving their owners destitute. Hundreds of people had perished in the fire. Though no one dared say so openly because of the secret police, the general opinion was that the emperor was responsible for the conflagration. I heard men who despised ‘Christian atheists’ express sympathy for those who had been made scapegoats and punished for the blaze. But it was not religious minorities and mere slaves who suffered. The emperor’s agents were assiduous in seeking out all who appeared to constitute a threat to the First Citizen. Tigellinus, now Nero’s closest confidant, had revised the treason laws and used them to put to death several nobles.
Wherever I went I could feel oppressive evil and decay. There could be no doubt that all this was the work of Satan. Just as diseases of the body had their origin in spiritual conflict, so in the state crimes and outrages committed by men were the outward manifestations of warfare in the heavens between the divine cohorts and what Paul called ‘the rulers of the present world darkness’.
After a couple of days in the city I located old Persis, a dear friend and leader of the church, until partial paralysis confined him to his villa at Trastevere, across the river. I introduced Manaus to him and we sat in his lemon grove, drinking honeyed Falernum from his vineyards in the Campagna and talking over old times. Persis sat in his chair in the shade, a battered straw hat tied with string on top of his thick, white hair to stop it blowing off in the breeze.He provided a sad catalogue of men and women who had died on the emperor’s orders or fled.
‘We expected the Lord’s return long since,’ he said. ‘When his people were slaughtered so cruelly and the numbers sleeping in the Lord grew we said to ourselves, “Surely he can delay no longer.” I certainly did not expect to taste death before his coming, but now,’ he gestured with his good arm, ‘it seems I must rest in the catacombs with so many of my friends.’
‘The catacombs?’
‘When the persecution became really severe we had an enormous burial problem — scores, hundreds of interments to make. We received permission to extend the chambers alongside the Appian Way. Now there are several long tunnels — or so they tell me; I cannot get there to see for myself. Even in this, the Lord blessed us: these underground chambers make good meeting places. When it became too dangerous to gather inside the city some of the brothers took to meeting in the catacombs. They said they were carrying out funerary rites. The authorities were too superstitious to interfere with them.’
‘Do they still meet there?’ I asked.
‘Some, yes. But there are several secret places for worship. There have to be. Despite the emperor’s attempts to destroy us —or perhaps because of this — our numbers grow.’
‘Is there any news of Paul?’ Manaus asked the question which I had been leading up to.
The old man stared at us. ‘You haven’t heard? I felt sure that you, of all people . . .’
‘I have heard many things but none that I could prove true.’
Persis shook his head sadly. ‘Our dear Paul was executed just over two years ago.’
‘Two years ago? Persis, are you sure about that?’
‘Yes. He was somewhere in Gaul, I believe, when he heard about the terrible things happening here. He decided to return to strengthen the church in the capital. Of course, he took no thought for his own safety; you know what he was like. Our friends did their best to keep him hidden but he insisted on visiting the bereaved and gathering groups together for teaching. He was arrested after he had been here about two weeks.’
‘How was he? His eyes — was there any sight left?’
‘Oh, I didn’t see him.’
‘What? You mean Paul came to Rome and didn’t visit one of his oldest friends?’
‘l’m sure he intended to but there were other more urgent matters . . .’
Although Persis brushed the matter aside it was obvious that he was saddened and surprised that Paul had not called upon him. To me it was incomprehensible.
The old man quickly concluded his story. There was not much more to tell. Refusing to skulk in back streets and catacombs, Paul had been soon arrested. By returning to Rome he had broken the law and there could be only one penalty. On a fine spring dawn a troop of soldiers had marched him out through the Ostian Gate and as far as the third milestone on the harbour road. There, in a small grove a few paces from the highway, he was bound to a slab of stone which was chest high to a kneeling man. Paul began to sing a hymn. I could imagine that unmusical, powerful voice penetrating the morning air. He was, Persis reported, singing up to the moment the sword struck.
I asked what had happened to the body. Had it been taken to the catacombs?
‘The guards were under orders not to release it,’ Persis said. ‘They didn’t want Paul’s remains to be buried where they could become a focus of pilgrimage. Tigellinus was furious that the little Christian preacher had disobeyed him and he had no intention of turning Paul into a martyr. The body was disposed of secretly.’
My old friend was tired and obviously distressed at recalling these events. Manaus and I left shortly afterwards. Before departing I asked Persis about the Sunday worship and whether we should present ourselves at the catacombs. We could do so, he said, and he would give us a letter of introduction in case no one recognized me. Alternatively, we were welcome to return to the villa. A small group gathered there every week and, so far, had not attracted the attention of the authorities.
As we made our way back with sad, slow steps towards the Sublicio Bridge, Manaus said, ‘It seems that your quest is at an end.’
‘It seems so.’
However, I was not wholly convinced. If what Persis said was true, then Licinius’ information was inaccurate. Of course, the centurion had only passed on hearsay. But, then, I reasoned, so had Persis. Neither had direct proof of Paul’s whereabouts.
‘You still think there’s any doubt?’ Manaus asked.
‘I suppose I’m trying to persuade myself — clinging to a hope that isn’t really a hope.’
As I met other members of the brotherhood I asked them what they knew of Paul. All, without exception, told the same story. On Sunday Manaus and I made our way to Trastevere at daybreak for the customary celebration of the Lord’s rising. Persis had said that there would only be a small gathering. In fact, over a hundred men and women crowded into the paved atrium of the villa. Many of them had come to meet me, knowing of my connection with Paul. I was asked to speak and, although I am no orator, I tried to share with these brave disciples some of my memories of Paul and of others who had actually seen and spoken with the Lord. My audience had many eager questions with which they plied me all through the fellowship meal which followed our worship. Although several slaves left to return to their duties, the sun was high overhead before the gathering finally dispersed.
The man who presided over the meeting was called Linus. He was unknown to me but his authority seemed to be accepted without question and he appeared to be both forceful and clear-headed. He walked back with Manaus and me to the city centre. He told us that he came from southern Italy, had been a Christian for about ten years and had been the leader of the church in his home town. Shortly before Paul’s death, he said, the apostle had entrusted the Roman church into his hands. The man had obvious leadership qualities, yet, for a reason I could not identify, I did not feel at ease with him.
I asked Linus if he could tell me any more about Paul’s last days. He could not.
‘What happened to Eubulus?’ I enquired.
‘Eubulus?’
‘Paul’s companion. I assume he returned with Paul?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Linus was obviously uncomfortable. ‘He managed to escape.’
He was not inclined to elaborate and I did not press him. Manaus and l returned to our lodging and I spent several hours in prayer and thought trying to decide what to do next.
That evening, shortly before nightfall, our host came to the room to say that someone was outside asking for me. I donned my sandals, collected my staff and went down with him. When Manaus tried to come as well the lodging-house keeper said that the caller was insistent that Dr Luke should go alone. Outside, I discovered Linus. With very few words he led the way to a poor quarter of the city where mean houses backed onto the river. We entered one and ascended to an upper room. In answer to Linus’ knock it was opened — by Eubulus.
I was shocked as much by the young man’s appearance as by his being there at all. He was thin and hollow-cheeked. His eyes lacked lustre and his skin was pale. We embraced and I could feel the lack of strength in his arms.
When we were all seated on the room’s sparse furniture it was Linus who began the explanation. ‘I’m sorry we tried to deceive even you but I’m sure you’ll understand that it was necessary. When the trouble broke out here three years ago you can guess who was behind it.’
‘The Jews?’
‘As ever. Things were coming to a head in Judaea. Tigellinus was about to organize a purge in the city. The synagogue leaders responded by stirring up a riot and denouncing the Christians as responsible. This suited the emperor’s purpose ideally. He needed someone to blame for the fire and . . . well, the rest you know. Over the following months the Jews were feverishly active, spying on us, laying information against us — anything to deflect attention from themselves.
‘The church was decimated and demoralized. Most of our elders had been sacrificed in the circus and the arena. Those who were left spent much time in prayer and the Holy Spirit appointed me to take over the leadership. Slowly things quietened down but we were not safe and we still aren’t. There was one man above all others that our enemies wanted to lay their hands on.’
‘Paul?’
‘Of course. He was the Jews’ arch—enemy. As for Tigellinus he bore a personal grudge and regretted having let Paul get away. Our greatest comfort during the worst days was knowing that our beloved Paul was miles away and beyond the clutches of his foes in Rome. Imagine then how appalled we were when, suddenly, Eubulus arrived to tell us that Paul was on his way back to the city.’
The young man took up the story. ‘We had a wonderful time in Tarraconensis [the province of North and Central Spain] particularly in the coastal towns. The people were anxious to hear the Gospel and we stayed a year baptizing and instructing and appointing elders. Then Paul felt the Holy Spirit calling us to the nearby province of Narbonensian Gaul. We made our way over the mountains. It was terrible. The weather turned bad and Paul grew weak. I had to carry him on the steeper sections. Then I fell ill with a fever. I don’t remember clearly how we survived. All I do recall is Paul’s amazing strength of spirit. Not once did he despair. Always he was thinking of the next town where he could preach the Gospel. But he was exhausted and when we reached a place called Toulouse he had to rest completely. After a couple of months we were on the road again. In the proconsular capital of Narbonne Paul’s challenge to the priests at the temple of the divine emperor resulted in a beating, a night in the jail and an armed escort out of town. It was when we reached the port of Marseilles that we heard of the troubles in Rome. Paul was broken-hearted at the stories the fugitives were bringing and he was also concerned that the church in the capital should be strong. He was convinced that Rome would in future be the centre for Christian mission rather than Jerusalem. We must return immediately, he said, and I could not dissuade him.’ He looked at me appealingly. ‘You know how useless it was to argue with him. Fortunately, he was too weak to make the sea voyage and he knew it. He insisted that I go on ahead and tell the brothers in Rome that he was on his way. I didn’t want to leave him, truly I didn’t, but he told me it was the Lord’s will, so having engaged a local family to look after him I came here by the fastest ship in the harbour.’
‘Of course, we were horrified,’ Linus explained. ‘For Paul to enter the city was certain death. We sent Eubulus back straight away and two of our people went with him with instructions to prevent Paul from reaching Rome. They would have used force if necessary.’
Linus paused and exchanged doleful glances with Eubulus. I sensed they were coming to the unhappy climax of their story.
‘We couldn’t find him,’ Eubulus muttered. ‘We reached Marseilles to discover that Paul had left over a week previously. He had simply settled up with his hosts and gone, without saying where he was going.’
‘Did he have no one with him?’ I asked.
‘As far as we could discover, no. We looked feverishly in all the neighbouring towns and villages. We tried the harbours, large and small. It seemed most likely that he was already headed for Rome. But no one had seen him, or, if they had, they had not noticed him. Who would pay any attention to an old, near-sightless man stumbling through the streets with the aid of a stick? He would have been dismissed as just another beggar.’
Linus added, ‘Naturally, we kept a careful watch for him here. Some of the brothers work on the docks at Ostia and would have reported if Paul had arrived. But he didn’t.’
‘Then, why this elaborate story of him being arrested and beheaded?’ I asked.
‘For his own safety. His enemies were everywhere. Still they arrive from time to time, looking for him. We deliberately spread the story of Paul’s death and, because so many Christians were killed and others disappeared and there was general confusion, it was believed. Wherever Paul is now he should be safe from Satan’s hounds.’
‘Did you seek him in Arles?’ I asked Eubulus.
‘Arles? No, that is many miles from Marseilles, much of it over marshy, inhospitable country. Why would Paul want to go there?’
‘It’s an important administrative centre and there is already a church there. I have a reliable report that Paul was there a few months ago. We must start a new search in Arles.’
Suddenly Linus put a finger to his lips. He hurried across to the door, threw it open and looked out. He came back, shaking his head. ‘I thought I heard a creak on the stair. There are spies everywhere. We have to be so careful.’
We made our plans swiftly and put them into execution the next day. Eubulus and I went to Ostia and obtained passage three days later on a coastal trader calling at Marseilles. From there we journeyed by road to Arles. It took several days of cautious enquiry to locate the small Christian community but when we did we had immediate success. Paul had, indeed, visited the city, had preached in the streets and the market place and had made an immediate impact, particularly among some of the military families. Thanks to influential friends and converts he had been protected from those who wanted to commend themselves to the authorities in Rome by deliberately seeking out exponents of the new religion.
Of course, the question we wanted an answer to was ‘Where is Paul now?’ The answer was Nimes, some twenty miles away. He had, some four months earlier, become very weak, having narrowly survived a bout of fever. At the same time, orders had arrived from Rome, that all preachers of unauthorised cults were to be arrested and, if found guilty, executed. As soon as Paul was well enough to be moved, his friends had taken him to Nimes. The city, established by Augustus as a veteran college, enjoyed several privileges, including independence from the proconsul at Narbonne and exemption from some of the more tiresome imperial government directives. There, Paul would be safe.
We thanked our informant, a veteran of the Tenth Legion, and asked for letters of introduction so that we might be reunited with our old friend and I could tend his sick body._
The reply was a shock. ‘There’s no need. His personal physician is with him. He arrived two days ago and went straight on to Nimes.’
‘Who was this physician?’ I asked.
The old man struggled to remember. ‘He was a Jew, like Paul; a very pleasant, courteous man; rather dark complexion. What was his name? Ah, yes; Manaus, that was it.’
I turned to Eubulus. ‘We must go, now! We have to stop Manaus.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But I thought . . .’
‘That he was one of us? Yes, so did I. He fooled me thoroughly — not just once; every day for months.’
As we hurried along the dusty road I asked myself over and again how I could have been so easily duped. I now saw Manaus for what he was — an agent sent from Jerusalem to be revenged on Paul and through Paul, on Jesus. He had feigned membership of the church in order to find information and attached himself to me knowing that I of all people would discover the truth. I had no doubt what he would do if he found Paul. There would be no reliance on Roman justice this time.
We reached Nimes as darkness was falling. The guards at the Augustus Gate refused to let us in. We argued for over half an hour. It was no use. We were obliged to lodge at a tavern outside the walls and spend a sleepless night waiting, probably within a few hundred paces of our friend yet unable to warn him of his danger.
In the morning as soon as the gate was opened we went straight to the house close by the temple of Diana to which we had been directed. The door was opened by a slave girl who was plainly terrified at being confronted at such an hour by two strangers demanding to see her master. I could not understand her anxiety until I recalled that the day was a Sunday. All the family would be attending secret worship and she was under strict orders to tell no one of their whereabouts.
Did she, I asked, know anything about a man called Manaus? She nodded, obviously relieved at being asked a question she could answer. ‘He was staying here, Sir, but he left about half an hour ago. I heard him say he would be going out by the South Gate.’
Leaving Eubulus to locate the church meeting, I hastened through the quiet streets and squares and out through the gateway overlooking a wide plain. There was, as yet, little traffic passing in and out of the town and travellers could be seen some way ahead along the road.
I found Manaus, at last, about a mile from Nimes, sitting on a rock. It was as though he was waiting for me.
‘Good morning,’ he said as I approached. ‘I’m glad to be able to see you again before my return to Judaea. I have enjoyed our companionship enormously and I was genuinely sorry to have to deceive you.’
‘Where is Paul? What have you done with him?’ I demanded.
‘He is where he can do no more harm with his blasphemous teaching.’
‘You have killed him?’
Manaus shook his head. ‘I would like to be able to claim that privilege. Perhaps I will when I report to the Sanhedrin. But because of our long weeks of friendship you deserve the truth.’ He stood up and walked a few paces from the highway, beckoning me to follow.
He pointed down at a rectangle of newly turned earth. ‘He died five days ago - very peacefully, they tell me. His friends actually boasted of how, at the end he quoted one of my people’s prophets—
“Death where is your sting;
death where is your victory?”
It is a pity he did not die in pain, fully aware of his failure. But, really, it matters little. All that does matter is that the world has heard the last of Paul of Tarsus.’
I know not how long I stayed at the spot, vision blurred with grief, memories cascading through my mind.
Even now, more than a year later, the letters grow indistinct as I write them and tears splash onto the page. Manaus was right: the world will soon forget Paul but for those of us who knew him he will always have a place in our hearts.
Farewell,
Luke
* Nero committed suicide in June 68.
** The Apostle James, the brother of the Lord, was stoned to death by a mob incited by the Sanhedrin.