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THE DAY OF THE MOON

THE NIGHT SKY BLENDED INTO THE SEA, with no horizon and no light to be seen anywhere. The water was as dark as the bottomless pit of Tartarus, swirling and coughing, spitting and slamming itself against the hull, threatening to swallow the ship whole. Rain poured down in relentless sheets, cold and piercing through cloaks and tunics, right to the skin and bone. The ship lurched under the punishment of the waves, sweeping the feet out from under sailors and passengers alike, sending flailing arms groping toward the nearest rail. One passenger, who was leaning over the side only a moment ago, was suddenly no longer there. His screams were quickly stifled by the sound of the storm and the waves, and his fellow passengers could only look on, horrified and helpless, grasping and gripping whatever they could to hold on for their lives. Peter said a short prayer for the poor man’s soul, and then closed his eyes as he tried to keep his last meal down. A flash of lightning lit up the whole ship like a curtain torn open to the daylight, and then there was the roar and echoing boom of the thunder, and it was dark again.

Stachys woke up with a start and quickly looked around to see whether anyone was there to witness the embarrassing fact that he had nodded off in his patron’s atrium. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that he was alone. A summer breeze blew through the atrium, warm and humid, and the linen awning over the skylight rippled gently. Stachys was grateful that the awning kept the sun out of his eyes. He looked down at his tanned hands, resting on the folds of the formal toga his patron had given him. Soon, Stachys’s lanky Greek limbs became uncomfortable swimming in the sea of white wool, and his hands became nervous, so he occupied them by running his fingers through his blond, curly hair and scratching his head.

“Stachys, my friend!” Urbanus entered the atrium and walked quickly over to Stachys, gripping his arm warmly. Urbanus was a large man for a Roman and could almost look Stachys in the eye. He had a mop of dark hair on his head that was once cut to match the emperor’s hairstyle but had gone way past the time for another haircut. Urbanus smiled, genuinely glad to see Stachys, as his face lit up under his bushy, black eyebrows.

Stachys stood up tall, proud to be greeted so warmly by his patron. Muscular and athletic, he would have looked like a Greek statue, if not for the sun, now in his eyes, coming through the atrium skylight. He blinked with humility. “Domin—um, Salve. I trust you are well. And your noble wife, Sabina, and your daughters.”

“Yes, yes, same as yesterday. Stachys, what are you doing here all by yourself?” Urbanus made a mocking frown. “I thought you had neglected to come pay your respects today. Why didn’t you visit me in your turn? It’s not like you to be late.”

“Well, the truth is, I wasn’t late. I’ve been here all morning, but I let the others go ahead of me.”

Urbanus made another face, an exaggerated look of confusion. “What? Why would you humiliate yourself like that, letting my other clients of lower status go ahead of you? And after they probably fought and jockeyed for position among themselves, arguing over petty differences in their net worth just to see who would be first to grovel at my feet?”

The Patron-Client System

Roman society functioned as a network of relationships, and some of the most important relationships were those between people who were not equals. Virtually everyone in Roman culture had a patron, a person or organization who was more wealthy and powerful, who could help out in times of need. Since life in Rome was precarious at best, and the economy of the empire was in a constant downward spiral, people needed a safety net, and that came in the form of a patron. For many people in the middle and upper classes, a man, or the head of a household, would be a client to a wealthier patron. The patron provided some measure of security and would help if the client ran into legal trouble. He would also provide gifts and occasional invitations to dinner, and sometimes even daily baskets of food or coins. In return, clients would pay their respects to the patron each morning and also provide political and moral support in the courts and when it came to voting.

Freedmen were automatically considered the clients of their former masters, and many of them even continued to live within the household. Most freed slaves in Rome continued at least some kind of relationship with their former owners.

Working-class people, who may not have had a personal patron, had their guilds. The guild functioned as a kind of fraternity, and many of these clubs did have wealthy patrons who took some responsibility for the membership. Funeral clubs made sure that a person without means would receive a decent burial when the time came. The very poor and immigrants might not have had a patron, which meant that they were always on the verge of destitution.

The emperor was considered the patron of the whole empire.

“I wanted to ask a favor, but one that I didn’t want the others to hear.” Stachys grew nervous, not really knowing how to say what he had come to say.

“Go on.” Urbanus’s tone was amiable.

“It’s too much to ask, really. It’s just that . . .”

“Spit it out, Stachys. I have to go to court today, and you and the others have to be there to cheer for my lawyer.”

“Yes, well, the thing is . . . and I know this is not my place, but I came to ask if I might be allowed to call you by your name. I mean, instead of calling you Dominus.”

Urbanus hesitated at first. “Have we come so far? You do remember that you were once my slave?”

“Yes, Dom—”

“Tell me why.”

Stachys took a deep breath and scratched his head. “You know that I’ve joined the school of the Way-followers?”

“Yes, though you still haven’t told me what a Way-follower is.” Urbanus’s tone was shifting from warm to annoyed.

“A Way-follower is no different from any other Roman in many ways. They are not from a particular country, and they don’t even all speak the same language or have all the same customs in common. They believe much of the religion of the Judeans, but the table is open to anyone who is willing to take up their lifestyle and be initiated by baptism. They are, however, especially devoted to one particular Judean. His name was Iesua. He said that he is the way, and the truth, and the life.”

“Wait, is this that Chrestus who was the cause of all the trouble across the river that led to the emperor banishing all the Judeans?”

“Well, they call him the Christos, but yes. But it wasn’t his fault, or the fault of the Way-followers. But you see, for the Way- followers, Iesua the Christos is Dominus, he is their Lord, and they are not allowed to have any other Lord; and if I am initiated and join their table, then I am not supposed to call anyone else Dominus.”

Now Urbanus was a little angry. “What? But I am your patron! I am your lord! And after my father died, I gave you your freedom so you could live with your son’s mother—may the spirits bless her in Elysium. I took you from managing my olive groves to having your own olive oil business, and you owe me a lot of money.”

“Yes, and I will always be grateful, and you will always be my patron. I would never betray you. Iesua does not ask us to abandon our patrons or dishonor them in any way. But my new wife, Maria, is very . . . insistent that I learn the rules of their cult and join their table.”

Urbanus looked Stachys up and down. “You were always a good and loyal slave—and for the last fifteen years you’ve been a good and loyal client. I know you mean no dishonor. Hades! You were willing to completely humiliate yourself in front of all my other clients just to save me the embarrassment of having to publicly consider this question of how to address me. Tell me, Stachys, why is it that your honor has increased in my eyes simply because you are willing to be shamed in order to practice your new religion?” Before Stachys could think of an answer, Urbanus concluded, “All right. From now on, you may call me by my name, and in the mornings you will visit me first, before all my other clients.”

Then Stachys found himself being pushed toward the door by Urbanus, whose arm was now around his shoulders. Urbanus went right on talking. “Now, we have to get moving because I am due in court. You and the others will meet me on the steps of the new court building, the Basilica Julia. We’re due there at the third hour, so whatever you have to do now, be sure you’re not late. I need all the support I can get. Oh, almost forgot.” Urbanus pulled a small leather bag from the fold in his toga and took out a silver denarius. “Here you go. So much easier than when we used to have to give out food baskets to all the clients.”

Times and Seasons

For many Romans the workday was only about six hours long. The exception would have been those businesses that stayed open during the “siesta” time, and although there seems to have been a universal assumption that everyone should have the time to go to the baths in the afternoon (including slaves), clearly the workers in the baths would have been one group of people who had a longer workday. Another group would have been shopkeepers and tavern workers, who hoped to profit from the leisure time of others. On the other hand, some sources indicate that even the shops closed up by about 1 p.m. so the shopkeepers could go to the baths. In any case, it is clear that most men in the upper classes tried to get their business done before lunch, leaving the afternoon for leisure. Most Romans, however, whether working-class men or women who maintained a home, would probably not have had the flexibility to end their workday at a scheduled time.

It’s important to remember that the Romans did not have minute divisions of the hours. They marked their time by sundials and water clocks (the wealthy actually had pocket sundials). This means that keeping an appointment to the minute was not a possibility. A person might try to arrive at the beginning of the third hour, for example, but there was no way to say for sure whether it was the top of the hour, unless perhaps the meeting place was the water clock. For the most part, people who agreed to meet at a certain hour were probably used to waiting around a lot. Also, since the length of the day changed with the seasons, the length of each hour within the day would not have been consistent and could never have been more than approximate.

Therefore the typical Roman workday might have looked something like this:

Predawn: Wake, dress, and eat a minimal breakfast of bread and water

First hour (6–7 a.m.): Workday begins, school begins for children

Second hour (7–8 a.m.): Clients visit patrons

Third hour (8–9 a.m.): Business in the forum begins, the courts are open

Fourth hour (9–10 a.m.): Work/business day continues

Fifth hour (10–11 a.m.): Business day ends for upper-class Romans

Sixth hour (11 a.m.–noon): Shopping and/or lunch

Seventh hour (Noon–1 p.m.): Lunch and/or going to the baths

Eighth hour (1–2 p.m.): Going to the baths, leisure time for the wealthy

Ninth hour (2–3 p.m.): People going out to dinner are getting ready

Tenth hour (3–4 p.m.): The wealthy gather for dinner

Eleventh hour (4–5 p.m.): Dinner

Twelfth hour: (5–6 p.m.): Dinner (normal dinner lasted two hours, more for a banquet)

The day ended at sundown, and most people stayed indoors after that.

 

The Roman calendar was based on the zodiac and marked with lucky and unlucky days. Important days of the month included the first of the month, called the Calends, as well as the Nones (the seventh of the month in March, May, July, and October; the fifth in the rest of the months) and the Ides (the fifteenth of the month in March, May, July, and October; the thirteenth in the rest of the months). The Senate met on the Calends and the Ides every month except September and October, when it was on hiatus.

“Yes, but I can tell you the clients do miss the days when the daily gift might be an invitation to dinner.”

“Ha! Parasites, the lot of them.” Urbanus put his arm around Stachys again. “But now that we are truly friends, you can look forward to an invitation to dinner in the near future, I promise.”

Stachys left the atrium and exited Urbanus’s house through a door that led out toward the Tiburtinian Road. He loved walking through the wealthy neighborhood that was outside the wall to the east of the city. He loved it because wealthy meant quiet. And since he knew that he had already missed most of the Way-followers’ morning prayer gathering going on at his house, there was no need to hurry.

The Roman sun was getting hot as Stachys walked into town. There was no shade, so as much as he enjoyed the walk and the quiet, he was looking forward to the shade of the apartment buildings and the awnings in the city. He walked over the Esquiline Hill, past the potsherd dump, around the slave cemetery, and through the neighborhood of the paint sellers, entered the city proper at the Esquiline Gate, and then down into the city and toward the Three Fora.

Once inside the city gate, the streets became narrow, winding, and muddy. He laughed at himself for wishing for the shade of the narrow streets and forgetting about how they were so filled with mud and dung that it was impossible to tell the difference between the two. He pulled up on the bottom of his toga and did his best to keep it out of the mud and merda.

The closer he got to the center of the city, the more the streets became clogged with merchants yelling out their wares, prostitutes standing in the doorways and arches, taverns overflowing their thresholds, teachers trying to keep the attention of their students by shouting their lectures, fortunetellers and potion sellers calling out their promises, and barbers shaving and cutting hair. It was as if for a few hours each day Rome became one big shop. Stachys pushed through the crowd until finally he was able step into a more open space at the Forum of Augustus. He took a right turn at the Temple of Mars. As he looked into the sky he could see gray clouds on the horizon, and he wondered whether rain was coming.

Stachys lived near the foot of the Capitoline Hill, just outside the wall at the Fontinalis Gate, at the beginning of the Flaminian Road that led to the north. When he arrived at his house, the morning prayer meeting was just breaking up. He walked through the group of people still milling around and went to his wife, who was alternating between singing a psalm and blowing out candles.

Create in me a clean heart, O Lord, renew a right spirit in me.

 

Do not cast me away from your presence, do not take your Holy Spirit from me.

Stachys snuck up behind her, put his hands on her hips, and kissed her neck.

Maria startled a bit and hunched her shoulders. “Beloved.” Her long, dark hair flipped to the side as she turned around and held out her hand for the denarius.

Stachys put the denarius in her hand. “Apple of my eye.”

Maria’s full lips curved up, and an asymmetrical smile emerged under her prominent nose. “Oh, you’ve been reading the Scriptures. That makes me so happy.”

“Your neck is like an ivory tower. Your nose is like the tower of Lebanon.”

“Don’t overdo it,” she said through a smirk. She handed him two bronze sesterces for his lunch and shave.

Roman Coins and Money

Roman coins came in gold, silver, bronze, and copper. The gold coin, the aureus, was the most valuable. It was about the size of a dime and was worth twenty-five denarii, or one hundred sesterces.

The denarius, the silver coin, was also about the size of a dime. One denarius was worth four sesterces and was considered a standard day’s wage for a working man, although the underemployed of Rome were living on half a denarius per day.

The bronze coin was the sestertius (plural sestertii, often translated sesterces), about the size of a silver dollar and worth one-fourth of a denarius. A Roman might expect to pay one sestertius for lunch, and for three sesterces he could get a room at an inn, including dinner.

The copper coin was called an as. Ten asses make a denarius, which is why the name of the denarius is related to the root for the word ten. However, there were apparently times when the value of the as fluctuated, and it could take as many as sixteen or eighteen asses to make a denarius.

The front of a Roman coin had the emperor’s portrait, along with abbreviations for his official titles, such as IMP (short for imperator, meaning “emperor”); COS (for consul, along with the number of times he had held that position—this was the equivalent of putting a date on the coin); PONT MAX (for pontifex maximus, the official high priest of Rome); PP (for pater patriae, “father of the fatherland”); and other possible titles such as those derived from places the emperor had conquered. On coins issued in the year AD 95, if one were to add up the numerical value of the letters in the abbreviations of the titles of the emperor Domitian (assuming something like a = 1, b = 2, etc.), the sum would be 666 (see Rev 13:18). For more on the Roman emperors and the book of Revelation, see my book The Wedding of the Lamb.

On the back of the coin were personifications of the emperor’s policies or images that evoked the ways in which an emperor wanted the people to think about his reign. For example, Claudius’s coins proclaimed his reign as a new Augustan age with the word libertas.

Rome’s economy was based more on taxation than production. The city of Rome especially had to import almost everything, and most of it came from the provinces. The Romans claimed that their main export was peace, which they would say was a fair trade for their colonization; however, the declining production eventually put the economy into a recession that forced future emperors to devalue the coinage by reducing the amount of precious metal in the coins. This caused people to lose faith in the currency and turn more and more to bartering, which in turn made it difficult for the Roman emperors to pay the legions. In addition, inflation was surpassing any increase in wages that a working man might hope for, to the point where it was difficult to make a living without participating in the networks of corruption that existed in the city. If a worker were honest, he or she was aware of making less money every year. Rent was also increasing, with investors renting apartments just to sublet them, so it was becoming harder and harder to find an apartment to rent where one was dealing directly with the owner of the building.

For those Romans who were wealthy enough to have a savings of cash, their money was kept in the temples. Many Roman temples had storerooms underneath them that functioned as banks. They were guarded, of course, but it seems that attempts at robbing the temple were rare, since it would have been considered sacrilegious. The temple of Saturn in the Old Forum was the imperial treasury. It held the emperor’s personal money as well, since there was little, if any, distinction between the empire’s money and the emperor’s money. Although business was frowned on in the senate class, some equestrians made their money by making loans for interest. They were the venture capitalists of the Roman Empire.

In order to be a member of the senate class, one had to be a millionaire—literally. It took an income of at least one million sesterces per year. Four hundred thousand sesterces per year were required to join the equestrian class.

Figure 1.1. Roman gold aureus showing the portrait of Claudius (National Roman Museum, Palazzo Massimo, Rome)

Figure 1.2. Roman gold aureus showing the portrait of Agrippina. Note her title, “Augusta.” (National Roman Museum, Palazzo Massimo, Rome)

Figure 1.3. The Temple of Saturn. Note the space below the façade, which was used as the storehouse for the treasury of the Roman state. (Republican Forum, Rome)

“Stachys, old man!”

Stachys turned to greet his stepson, Marcus, who was extending his meaty hand and stubby fingers for a handshake. Even though Marcus was a relatively young man, his hairline was already visibly receding. But his eyes were sharp and clear as they stared out from under his unibrow and locked onto Stachys’s eyes. Stachys gripped Marcus’s hand. “Salve, Marcus. How was the prayer gathering?”

“It was a blessing; thanks for asking.” Marcus gestured toward a young woman standing nearby. “Stachys, you know Prisca, don’t you? Her parents are Aquila and Priscilla, the awning makers. They left the city with the banishment of the Judeans, but since her mother is Roman, she was able to stay behind to manage their shop.”

Stachys bowed his head in respect toward the young noblewoman as Maria put her hands on the shoulders of Marcus and Prisca. “Wouldn’t she make a perfect wife for my Johnny?”

“Mother,” Marcus interrupted, then sighed. “I’m twenty-eight years old. Please don’t call me Johnny. And anyway, it’s hard enough for us to keep our heads down here in Babylon without people using our Judean names. You have to call me by my baptism name, Marcus, like everyone else. And you’re not Miriam, you’re Maria.” He turned to Prisca. “I’m sorry about that.” Prisca just smiled and looked down at the floor, blushing.

Marcus raised his voice to get everyone’s attention. “Now that Stachys is here, I have an announcement.” Everyone became silent. “I’ve received a letter from Peter.” The Way-followers held their breath. “By now he’ll be on his way back to us.” Every held breath was released with a sigh of relief and exclamations of joy. “He’s coming by ship, and should be here within a few days. But because of the banishment of the Judeans, he’s going to have to avoid the main port of Puteoli and come in through Ostia. We have some friends there who will meet him and get him safely off the ship under cover of night. Then we’ll get him into Rome.”

The group vocalized their concern. “I know it’s dangerous to travel at night,” Marcus said, “but we don’t really have a choice. We have to smuggle him in. But there’s more news. The council in Jerusalem has made a decision about non-Judean believers.”

Again the assembled group held its collective breath. Marcus went on. “Non-Judean believers who want to be baptized—” He paused for effect, but his smile spoiled the surprise. “Do not have to follow all the laws of our ancestors. They do not have to restrict their diet, and the men do not have to be circumcised.” An audible but restrained cheer rose up from the group. “They do, however, have to refrain from eating meat sacrificed to idols.”

“Va cacá!” Philologus’s face turned red when the whole group looked at him with dismay over his outburst. His wife, Julia, put her hand on his arm as if to quiet him, but her long, red hair, parted in the middle and tied like a horse’s tail with colorful ribbons, only served to help draw everyone’s attention to them.

Marcus frowned. “Problem, Philologus?”

Philologus avoided making eye contact with Marcus. “It’s just that sometimes that’s the only meat I get all year. And I really like meat.” A few people laughed.

Marcus tried to suppress a smile, and it turned into a smirk. “Yeah, I get it. We all like meat. But I think the council’s decision is the right one. We have to separate ourselves from idolatry, and that’s one way we keep ourselves holy.”

When the others finally filed out of their house, Marcus kissed his mother on the cheek and nodded toward Stachys. “I’m going to walk Prisca home.”

“Wait,” Maria stopped him and grabbed his arm. She could tell there was more on Marcus’s mind. “What else did the letter say?”

“Well, you know, the regular stuff.” Maria stared at him, and he could tell he was not getting out the door without telling her the whole story. Marcus sighed. “Reading between the lines, I got the impression that there’s still some disagreement among the apostles. Between Peter and Paul mostly. Do you know they’re starting to call Paul the apostle to the nations? Can you believe that? The nerve of that guy. I mean, Peter converted the first Romans, and to this day he’s converted more non-Judeans than Paul by a long shot. And I know Paul, and I’m just a little concerned that he’s getting too big for himself.”

“And who appointed you judge over the apostles?” It was Rhoda. She had known Marcus since he was a boy, and although she was once a servant in his mother’s household, she had no hesitation about putting him in his place. She raised her eyebrows under her raven-black bangs and waited for his response.

“Anyway,” Marcus tried to get back to the point, “we’ll know more when Peter gets here.”

As soon as they were alone, Maria took Stachys’s hands in hers and looked into his eyes. “Well? Did you ask him?”

Stachys smiled. “Yes, I did. And he said yes.”

Maria smiled even wider. “I’m so anxious for you to join our table. Then, when you’re baptized, we can have our union blessed. I would feel so much better if we could, since we couldn’t have a registered marriage.”

“Who cares about that?” Stachys protested. Then he lowered his voice and gestured toward Prisca as she was going out the door with Marcus. He was immediately self-conscious about his own status, since he was a freedman, just like Aquila. “Aquila and Priscilla don’t have a registered marriage. Same with Philologus and Julia. But it doesn’t seem to matter to them. Where are they from again?”

“But it does matter,” Maria squeezed his hands. “Not what the Romans think. But it matters to the Lord. Aquila and Priscilla had their union blessed by an apostle of the Lord Iesua. When Peter returns, he can do that for us. But first you have to be baptized.”

Marriage and the Family in the Roman World

A legal marriage, or what I am calling a “registered” marriage, was basically a contract. Think of it as a prenuptial agreement that also served to function as a marriage license (some of these contracts required the bride to promise she would not use magic on her new husband!). However, most people who did not have Roman citizenship could not have a registered marriage because they could not legally make a contract. Even people who could have a registered marriage often did not bother with it for a variety of reasons. The contract required a dowry paid by the bride’s family to the groom. However, if the bride had no family, or the family had no money, the bride often would have no dowry, and in that case there would be no marriage contract. Sometimes the dowry could be paid in property, and in some cases even as little as the bride’s wardrobe or jewelry could be considered a dowry for the purposes of the contract. But in the city of Rome the main reason anyone made a marriage contract was to make sure that the children who came from the registered marriage would be considered legitimate and would be able to inherit the parents’ estate.

If there was no contract, couples who decided to create a family together would have the equivalent of a common-law marriage. Probably most marriages in the Roman Empire were not registered. Only a registered marriage produced legitimate children, so children from a common-law marriage were considered illegitimate. However, that didn’t carry the stigma that we might think. It limited their legal options, and technically the children took their name and status from the mother’s side of the family, but for most of the people in that situation, it didn’t matter much. Such common-law marriages are simply called marriages in the literature, and the couples are referred to as husbands and wives. Even marriages between slaves were recognized, though in that case husbands and wives could still be sold separately, and a slave still would have been sexually available to his or her owner. (The first Christian emperor, Constantine, decreed that slave families should not be broken up by sale or transfer of property.)

There were some laws limiting who could legally marry. No one from the senate class could marry a freedperson (former slave), and a woman of the equestrian class could not marry a freedman. No freeborn person could marry a former prostitute. However, couples could and did cohabitate across social class lines, apparently without doing too much harm to their social standing. And in any case, men were always free to cohabit with a courtesan or slave, especially if they were widowed. All this is to say that the laws that restricted registered marriage did not stop people from creating unions and making families. While we read that marriages in the upper classes were often marriages of convenience that focused more on how the contract benefited the extended family than on the desires of the bride and groom, it must have been the case that many couples got together for the same reasons that people do today.

Of those who had registered marriages, many were arranged. Children as young as ten years old could be engaged, and marriage could happen as early as age twelve for girls and fourteen for boys. However, there was a two-year limit on the length of the betrothal period, so most of the time, girls were engaged around age fifteen and married in their late teens, and boys were engaged in their late teens and married around twenty, unless they went into the military. In that case they married when they got out, at around age twenty-seven, or at least by about thirty. The end result of all this was that Roman husbands and wives tended to have a greater difference in age than we’re used to—often as much as ten years’ difference or more for a first marriage and an even greater gap for second and third marriages.

Divorce was extremely easy and common, as much for registered as nonregistered marriages. It could be initiated by either spouse. This means that there must have been a lot of fear of abandonment on the part of women, since a woman on her own was a woman in danger. For this reason, in the event of a divorce the dowry would have to be returned so that the woman would not be destitute. This may have served as a deterrent to divorce, if the dowry was substantial. On the other hand, even husbands could be at the mercy of a networking father-in-law, who would demand the return of the dowry in order to enter into a new marriage contract. Married women were still tied to their father’s family, and a woman’s father could initiate a divorce in order to make a better match for his daughter. As time went by, wealthy husbands and wives increasingly kept their family’s money and property separate so that parting ways would be easier.

The prevalence of second marriages and blended families was probably greater than it is today. A lower average life expectancy combined with a high rate of death during childbirth meant that many people were widowed, and women under fifty years old who found themselves widowed were expected to remarry within a time between ten months and two years. Virtually everyone in the upper classes had stepchildren. Wealthy Romans especially do not seem to have thought of marriage as a lifelong bond the way we know that Jews and Christians did. For them, marriage was a political and financial arrangement meant to benefit their extended families. Divorce and remarriage was part of the usual social climbing that Romans with money engaged in. For this reason, many Romans (especially men) had no hesitation in looking for love outside the home. Roman marriage was sexually open (at least for men), and sex with slaves and prostitutes was expected and considered normal. Divorce was rarely over infidelity, since the Roman definition of infidelity did not include sex with slaves or prostitutes. The problem with infidelity in Roman eyes was not so much the sex but rather the potential for bringing shame on one’s family (and possible exile) if one were caught with the wife of a powerful man. Adultery in Roman law was limited to those situations where a woman in a registered marriage might bear illegitimate children, who would unknowingly inherit money and property from a man who was not their father. Therefore it should be no surprise that in the event of divorce, the legitimate children of a registered marriage stayed with their father.

Figure 1.4. Portrait of a Roman couple. In this fresco, found in a Roman house in Pompeii, the woman holds a wax tablet and stylus, indicating that she was educated, and the man holds a scroll, which may symbolize an administrative position in Pompeii. (National Archaeological Museum, Naples)

“Yes, but . . .”

“Look, if you didn’t want to be with me, you could have done what any other man would have done—you could have taken a much younger wife, a proper Roman girl who wouldn’t have had so many of her own ideas, and her own religion, and who would have had a dowry to give you so you could just have a regular registered marriage.”

Stachys shrugged sheepishly. “The gods gave you to me. Who am I to argue with them?”

“The gods!” Maria scoffed. “I was not theirs to give! Did a stone give you life? Did a painted statue give you air to breathe?”

“Well, I never said I was against it. Like I’ve told you before, the dowry thing means nothing to me. I respect that you spent all of your money to get you and your entourage to Rome. That brings honor to your name, Judean or not. We can have this blessing, when the time is right. But now I have to go to court.”

As he walked out the door, Maria was still talking to him. “It wasn’t an entourage. They’re not my followers. Anyway, someone had to get Peter out of Jerusalem.”

Stachys made his way through the gate and around the Capitoline Hill toward the Old Forum. The awnings of the forum shaded him as he made his way around the senate house and past the rostrum. There he heard Polybius, one of the emperor’s most powerful freedmen, making an announcement.

“Our illustrious father, the emperor, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus, has decreed and provided for three days of games, to celebrate the occasion of the adoption of his stepson, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, who from this day forward will be known as Nero Claudius Caesar. The three days of games will commence on the third day after today. Regular work will be suspended. Men are required to wear the toga. Furthermore, the emperor, in his generosity, has decreed that there will be a distribution of bread on the second day after today, the day preceding the first day of the games. The distribution will begin at the fourth hour in the Field of Mars. Those who wish to benefit from the distribution must appear in person. No one may receive for another.”

As Stachys passed, Polybius repeated the announcement several times, to the cheers of the people who heard it. Coming to the steps of the Basilica Julia, Stachys maneuvered his way around the men playing dice and heads or tails on the court steps. Some of them were playing a board game on the marble steps, where grooves were scratched into the stone to create the game board. As Stachys came into the cooler air of the court building, he saw Urbanus standing in the middle of a growing group of clients, gesturing wildly while talking. He was wearing his best white toga, with the thin purple stripe of the equestrian class, and in between spurts of talking with his hands, he nervously played with his gold equestrian ring.

Figure 1.5. Game board carved into the marble steps of the Basilica Julia courthouse. The rules of the game are unknown, but it may have been something like mancala.

On the other side of the aisle, in full uniform and wearing a large ivory phallus on a necklace, was Lucius Geta, the prefect of the Praetorian Guard, standing with his own supporters. Urbanus was suing Geta for payment of a contract on olives. Geta claimed he had canceled the order; Urbanus said that the olives went uncollected and grew mold in the warehouse. At first the case seemed hopeless. A civil suit against a soldier was almost always a losing proposition. And the courts generally favored the testimony of witnesses who were soldiers. But Urbanus’s lawyer spoke more eloquently, and Stachys and the other clients cheered more loudly (even though most of them didn’t understand a word of Latin). In the end, Urbanus won the day. Now Urbanus handed each of his clients a small bonus and sent them on their way, but held Stachys back. “Join me for lunch,” he said, pulling Stachys by the arm.

They walked from the Old Forum and headed to a nearby tavern on the edge of the Suburra, the neighborhood behind the Forum of Augustus. Stachys bumped into the jugs of wine hanging from chains around the doorpost. He stumbled on the threshold, then caught up to Urbanus, who had walked up to the counter.

“Drinks are on me,” Urbanus said, winking at the barmaid. She handed Urbanus two mugs and a jug of wine, mixed with water—two-thirds wine, one-third water. Urbanus paid for the drinks and then ordered some food for himself: a sausage on a stick, and a piece of flatbread with olive paste. Stachys took out his bronze sestertius, set it on the counter, and asked for bread and cheese.

As the two men finished their first bite of lunch, Stachys raised his mug. “Congratulations on your victory in court today.”

Urbanus halfheartedly raised his mug. “Thank you. But it’s an uneasy victory.” He took a long drink, then put down the mug thoughtfully as he spun his gold equestrian ring around his finger. “Yes, Geta will have to pay me what he owes me, but he’s been humiliated, and that means this is not over. In fact, just taking him to court was a risky insult on my part, but the fact that I won—now I wish I could forget the whole thing. I’m worried that taking him to court may cost me more than I’m going to get from him. I paid for that victory, and now I have to watch my back. Never go to court, Stachys.”

Figure 1.6. Remains of a Roman tavern, Ostia Antica

“But what can he do to you?” Stachys was concerned for his patron, partly because any misfortune a patron might suffer was bound to trickle down to the clients.

Urbanus thought for a moment. “You know that I have been maneuvering to be appointed as prefect of the grain supply?”

“Yes, and may the gods—” Stachys caught himself.

“Well, Geta has his own man he’s put up for the position. Now he’s going to be even more determined to see me defeated. And he has a lot of powerful friends in the imperial house.”

“But you have friends too, no?”

“Yes, some. But are they the right ones? Everyone seems to be afraid of Narcissus. It’s a shame how things have become so upside down, senators having to grovel at the feet of former slaves. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“And do I think that Geta will play by the rules? No, I do not.”

Urbanus expressing his fears was making Stachys feel all the more vulnerable. This made Stachys react with just enough boldness to bring up a subject he had wanted to bring up for a long time. “I was hoping to speak to you about something, since we’re on the subject.”

“What is it?”

“Just as you wish to advance yourself and enhance your position, to be the prefect of the grain supply, I wish to advance myself as well. Not a political office, of course, but I was thinking, I would like to expand my business into imports. And if you become prefect of the grain supply, maybe I could have a piece of the corn-import business. That would bring more security to me and my family.”

“Ah,” Urbanus nodded. “That makes sense. But corn, that’s a tough one. Corn is almost completely controlled by the imperial house, just like papyrus. Now, with my connections, I could probably get you into importing lumber, or maybe even wine. But, Stachys, do you really want to advance yourself? It’s not as though you can become an equestrian. And anyway, the senators look down on anyone engaged in business. To them, buying commodities at one price and selling them for a profit, without doing anything to increase their value, is considered dishonest. Of course, they’re hypocrites, because they just have their slaves do it for them. Really, I hate to discourage you, but advancement doesn’t mean more security—it means more visibility, and more visibility means more exposure to danger. Like climbing a scaffold, the higher you go, the more dangerous the fall. Wouldn’t you rather just enjoy life today and not work so hard for something that may or may not come to you another day? You should be happy with the olive oil business I set up for you. My groves produce more than enough olives, and you know you have unlimited use of my olive presses as long as you buy the olives from me. What more could you want? When you move up in Rome, you become the object of envy. And a purple stripe on your toga—” He picked up the hem of his toga and waved the thin purple stripe in the air. “That’s just the same as a target on your back.” He opened his small leather bag and looked inside, poking around with his finger, until he found the coin he was looking for. “My good-luck charm.”

Stachys nodded. He had seen it before, but he always liked it when Urbanus brought it out. It was Urbanus’s most prized possession: a gold aureus with the image of Julius Caesar on it. It shone like brand new from all the rubbing it received from Urbanus’s fingers. Urbanus didn’t say anything else; he just rubbed the gold coin and then put it back into the leather pouch. Stachys waited in silence out of respect, and they quietly went back to eating their lunch. When they were finished, Urbanus slapped the crumbs off his hands and said, “And now it’s time for a shave and a bath.” The two men said their goodbyes, and Stachys headed for the barber as Urbanus took the barmaid by the arm and led her up the tavern’s back stairs.

Stachys didn’t need to wear the toga for the rest of the day, so he stopped at home to take it off. Happy to be free of the eight-foot circle of wool (and to have the use of both of his hands now that he didn’t constantly need one to keep from tripping over it), he went back out in his tunic and cloak. As he was leaving his house, he met his twelve-year-old son, Tertius, coming toward it. He smiled and waited for Tertius to greet him.

“Papa!” Tertius ran to his father and was about to throw his arms around Stachys, but then composed himself and tried to act like a man.

“Tertius, my boy. How was school?”

“More Virgil.”

“Good. Always remember that before there was Rome, there was Greece. We Greeks started it all.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Going to help the women now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Do what Rhoda says. And be good to your stepmother!”

“I am. I mean, I will.” Tertius ran into the open arms of Maria, who was waiting for him in the doorway. Although Maria was not his mother, Stachys knew she loved Tertius as though he was her own son. And since Tertius’s mother died when he was so young, Maria was the only mother he ever knew. As far as he was concerned, she was the only mother he would ever need.

Stachys thought about his family. How different it had turned out from what he thought he could expect. His first wife had died giving birth, as many women did. It was not unusual, nor something to dwell on. Still, he had prayed to his gods. He had said all the right words and made the right offerings. And yet she died. And Tertius . . . his name meant “third,” because he had two older brothers, neither of whom lived even to Tertius’s age. A wife and two sons lost, not to mention the stillborn daughter who accompanied her mother into the underworld. Now, a new wife and stepson. And Tertius. The son of a freedman would be a citizen when he became a man, and that was something to be proud of.

Stachys got a shave and a trim, and the fact that Urbanus had paid for his drink at lunch meant that he had enough money for a manicure too. Most men liked going to the barber, sitting around on the benches, talking and playing chess. But Stachys was always conflicted as the barber cut his hair short to match the style of the emperor. It made him look like a good Roman, but he knew that his fellow Greeks called him a pretender behind his back because he had abandoned the longer hairstyle of his home country. But after all, he was a businessman, and he couldn’t afford to look like a barbarian.

After his haircut, Stachys ran his fingers through his newly cut hair and made his way north on the Flaminian Road to the Baths of Agrippa, where admission was free. He knew the risk of theft was greater there, but free was free, after all, and he reasoned that there was nothing special about his clothes and shoes that anyone should want to steal them.

By the tenth hour, the Way-followers were gathering again at the home of Stachys and Maria. Marcus welcomed them and began the meeting with a prayer. After the prayer, Marcus asked whether anyone had any specific prayer requests. Julia was elbowing Philologus. Marcus teased him, “Philologus, do you want to pray for more meat?”

The group laughed, as Philologus looked down at his feet. Julia elbowed him again. Eventually, when the laughter died down, Philologus looked up. “I’ve been put out of my guild.”

The group fell silent, and Marcus’s expression changed to one of concern. “I’m sorry, Philologus. What happened?”

“I’ve always been able to show up late to the banquets. Get there after the sacrifice, so I don’t have to take part in the idolatry. But today when I told my master-teacher that I would be late, they all ganged up on me and pressed me to make an offering to the twin gods, which I refused to do. And when I wouldn’t, the stonemasons guild of the Suburra took an official vote and voted me out.”

Rhoda spoke up. “Can you go to the stonemasons across the river?”

“No,” Philologus answered with a sigh. “I was only a plasterer, second class. The Trans-Tiber stonemasons have their own plasterers, and anyway, I’m sure they’ve already sent word for them to shun me.”

Everyone felt terrible, and a little uncomfortable as they could see a tear run down Julia’s cheek. Thoughts of starvation, homelessness, and death—with no hope of a decent burial—ran through everyone’s mind.

After a long silence, Marcus led the group in a prayer for a new job for Philologus and for the Lord to sustain Philologus, Julia, and their five children. Marcus concluded, “Lord, have mercy.”

The people echoed, “Lord, have mercy.”

“Christos, have mercy.”

“Christos, have mercy,” came the response.

“Lord, have mercy.”

They all said, “Lord, have mercy.”

Then Marcus took a scroll down from a shelf. “Now let’s turn back to the reading of our copy of the apostle Paul’s letter to the Way-followers of Thessalonica.”

Meanwhile, on the Viminal Hill on the eastern side of the city, another group of Way-followers was gathering at the home of the senator Acilius Pudens. There his young daughters, Pudenziana and Prassede, were closing the shutters and lighting candles. Senator Pudens spoke up and got everyone’s attention. “Now we should begin, so that we can be finished before dark. We don’t want anyone having to walk through the Suburra after dark.” He turned and nodded to a man named Cletus.

Cletus began with a prayer, which ended with the words “Lord, have mercy.” Then Cletus read from a scroll a story about three men who refused to worship their emperor and the gods of the land where they were living. Instead they worshiped only the one true Deity, and for this the emperor had them thrown into a furnace to be burned alive. But their Deity saved them from the fire.

After the reading, Cletus talked about how the situation of Daniel’s three friends was a lot like the situation of the Way-followers in Rome, living under an unbelieving emperor who expected them to worship his gods and betray their own. Cletus encouraged the group to do everything in their power to resist the temptation to follow the customs of the Greek and Roman religions, even if it would mean hardship or inconvenience. He ended by asking the group, “Do you confess with your mouth that Iesua is Dominus?”

Everyone answered, “Yes.”

Cletus continued, “Do you believe in your heart that the Father raised him from the dead?”

“Yes,” the group answered.

“Then you will be saved.”

Then Cletus led the group in prayers for each other, for the Way-followers in other cities, and even for the emperor and the Senate.

After a blessing, the group shared a modest meal of fish and polenta, with bread, olives, and several kinds of cheese. As everyone ate, the room became silent, but soon the silence was interrupted by the arrival of an out-of-breath Philologus. He had a basket in his hand, and in the basket, wrapped in a towel, was a large piece of bread, broken from an even larger loaf. He brought the basket to Cletus, who took the bread. Then, without speaking, Philologus was out the door and gone.

Cletus held the bread in his hands and addressed the group. “Although we meet in different homes, in different parts of the city, we are one—and we are one with all Way-followers who meet in every city, in every part of the world—and so we share the one bread to remind us of our unity. Iesua said, I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, yet they died. This is the bread that comes down out of heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down out of heaven. If anyone eats this bread, he will live forever, and this bread that I give for the life of the world is my flesh. Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him. This is the mystery of our faith. The Christos has died; the Christos is risen; the Christos will come again.”

Cletus set the bread down on the table and lifted his eyes and hands toward the heavens. “Now let’s pray the prayer that our Lord Iesua taught his disciples.” Everyone joined in the Our Father, and then Cletus continued. “Brothers and sisters, John the Baptizer pointed to Iesua and said, ‘Look—here is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.’ Now let’s take some time to examine our spirits and ask ourselves whether we have failed to obey the commandments of the Lord.” He paused for a while and then went on. “With that in mind, we confess our sins to the Lord. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.” Then Cletus held the bread up for everyone to see. “Look—here is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” He broke the bread and passed it around the room.

The gathering closed with the singing of a song—not one of the old songs of the Judeans but a new song:

Awake, O sleeper, rise up from death

And the Christos will shine on you

He is the risen sun, older than the morning star

His light gives life to you