“The houses of the rich contained great masonry hearths on which was laid a bed of coals. Here, pots, pans and grills could be in use all at the same time to cook the countless courses of a dinner.”
Queen Ergain and I settled with our needlework on benches in the atrium.
“I want to know how your cooks makes that pear dessert,” she said. “It was delicious.”
“That’s an old family recipe. My mother-in-law made that for special occasions when Quintus was a boy. You peel and core about a dozen nice ripe pears and boil them. Mash them and mix in pepper, cumin, honey, passum and a bit of oil. You add six eggs and put it in a casserole. Bake it and serve it with pepper sprinkled on top.”
“How do you make passum?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Take wine or grape juice and boil off half the liquid. We use it in so many of our recipes. Mostly, we use it as a base for sauces.”
“You have foods that we have never seen in Siluria. It’s quite an adventure. I didn’t think I could be content here, but I find myself enjoying your country.”
I rummaged through my sewing basket to find the blue wool. “Well, you know, Rome has not always been home to me, although it has been home to Rufus all his life. I was born in Tarsus.”
“So, how is it that you came to Rome?” Ergain pulled a scarlet thread through her tapestry.
“That’s quite a story.” I thought a moment about the events which brought me here with Quintus. “It still seems strange to me that I am the lady of Domus Pudens. I am living my second life, you know. I sometimes can’t believe I am in Rome. How it came to be is wonder.”
“It sounds intriguing.” Ergain looked at me over her tapestry, her hands still at work with the silken threads.
“Well, in my first life I married Aaron when I was a girl of fifteen. We lived the life of pious Jews in Tarsus. My husband was a scholar, and was held in high esteem by everyone who knew him. He was also a Roman citizen, as was my father. Both Aaron’s father and mine were men of means and highly respected. I was proud to be my father’s daughter, and proud to be married to Aaron.”
“It sounds like a life of privilege.”
“Yes, in a way, it was, though my life with Aaron was simple. I bore him two children: Saul, who was fiercely independent, even as a child, and was, I say quite without modesty, a brilliant intellectual. His mind absorbed knowledge as a sea sponge absorbs water. And two years after Saul’s birth, a daughter was born—Rebbekah, the light of my life. When the children were still quite young, their father died—my Aaron. I was left to rear two children alone.”
“That must have been difficult for you.” We chatted comfortably. I felt a kinship with Ergain. She was a queen. She could have been imperious, but she made no demands on me or my servants.
“It was a dreadful time. We went back to my father’s house, the children and I. They missed their father. I longed for my husband.” For a brief moment, I felt the old grief clutch at my throat. “The years passed. The children were growing up. The family decided that Saul needed more intellectual stimulation than Tarsus could afford. When my Rebbekah married and settled into a good life, I took Saul to Jerusalem so that he could take up his rabbinical studies with a famous teacher. I made a life for myself and would have stayed in Jerusalem indefinitely. By the time Rebbekah married, both my parents had died. Since I had no brothers, I inherited my father’s wealth. Money was no problem. Most widows in my country remarry as soon as possible in order to have a means of support and a protector. I felt quite safe, though, with Saul in the house. I found myself enjoying my independence. With my son studying under a prestigious rabbi, I had the time and opportunity to cultivate some of the more prominent people in the city. I was content with my life. I sometimes missed Aaron with an overwhelming grief. I suppose I shall never recover completely from that loss, but I learned to be content with my life as I established it.”
“I can’t imagine what life would be without my husband. I am devoted to him. I’m sure it was a painful time for you.” Ergain nodded sympathetically.
“Yes. It was very difficult.” Priscilla paused a moment, remembering. “But, I decided I would make a life for myself. When Pilate was made procurator, his family moved to Jerusalem with him, of course. Pilate’s wife, Procula, became a friend to me, or rather, I was a friend to her. By that time, I knew Jerusalem well–it’s streets, it’s markets, it’s social life. I was happy to act as her guide. Procula seemed lonely and somewhat overwhelmed by the move. We talked together of husbands and children. Ironically, it was Procula who, quite inadvertently, introduced me to my second life.”
A servant brought us a ewer of water and sweet cakes. What a lovely way to pass an afternoon.
“Quintus went from Rome to Jerusalem on some business with Pilate. The two men were deep in conversation as they walked down a corridor in the procurator’s residence, when, I quite literally, ran into them. Perhaps, I should say that I ran them down. I was laden with a huge stack of fabric samples I had brought for Procula’s consideration. I couldn’t see over or around the stuff I was carrying. I was in a hurry and my arms were breaking with the weight of my burden. I suppose I wasn’t really watching where I was going when the encounter—the clash—the wreck—whatever you want to call it—occurred. I caught both men from behind. My fabric samples slipped and slid out of my grasp into a slithering pile of silk and linen. Pilate stumbled and Quintus went sprawling. I was totally humiliated. Just picture it. My veil slid down my back. My hair was disheveled. I stammered out an apology. ‘Oh, please forgive me.’ I stooped to retrieve the fabric, which now seemed to cover a large portion of the floor through which I would liked to have sunk. I blushed to the roots of my hair, I am quite sure. My face felt hot. It must have been crimson. I don’t know what I expected from them–fifty lashes or banishment from court life at the very least, I’m sure. To my great relief, they roared with laughter and helped me pick up the drapery material.”
“Well, Priscilla, if you wanted to meet this handsome fellow, I could have introduced you in a more dignified manner.” Pilate looked at me with great merriment as he helped his guest to his feet. Procula appeared on the scene at that moment and joined the teasing.
“Mercy, Priscilla. You certainly know how to make a lasting impression on a man. I have heard of women flaunting themselves, but this is a remarkable ploy.”
“Oh, please,” I begged. “Do let me pick up this mess and just go hide my shame. I promise never to darken your door again if you’ll just forget about this.”
“Forget?” Pilate laughed. “This is the most entertaining thing that has happened in some time.” He turned to his guest. “Senator Pudens, may I present to you, my wife’s friend, Priscilla, late from Tarsus, who has been most gracious to us since we have moved to Jerusalem. Priscilla, this is Senator Quintus Cornelius Pudens, of Rome.”
He looked at me with dancing eyes. As he rearranged his toga, he laughed. Then, he put his hand over his heart, bowed low, and said, “It is a great pleasure to meet you. Never have I been attacked from the rear by such a charming lady.”
“Of course, we all laughed. It was an inauspicious beginning, I must say. And that was how my second life began. A year later I was married for the second time. I had always thought I would never remarry. I was content with my life. I was a thirty-two-year-old widow, getting on in years, well fixed, but certainly not on the marriage market. I told my prospective husband as much. Quintus had not married. He could have had any young woman he wanted, but he wanted me. He chose me.”
“What a lovely story.” Ergain smiled. “And so you married again and came to Rome.”
“Yes. Quintus brought me to this villa—to Domus Pudens. And a year after that, our Rufus was born. Having a child at mid-life is very different from bearing children when one is in the bloom of youth. Rufus was a dear little boy–so curious. And he grew up to be a soldier and an engineer. I am so proud of him. It was when Rufus was away in Britain that Peter came to our home from Jerusalem. That was when Quintus and I first heard the gospel story and we became followers of The Way. Rufus became a believer after his service in the military. He has been the joy of my old age. He is the same age as my daughter’s children. It seems strange to have a child the age of my grandchildren, but it fills me with such joy. And they are all grown, now.”
“And do you see your other children?”
“Not often enough. Rebbekah is busy with her life in Tarsus. Saul writes me. He is a world traveler. He has changed his name to Paul.”
“Really? Why did he do that?”
“Oh, that’s a story for another day. I must get to the kitchen to see that the cooks have begun their work.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing, Priscilla. You certainly have had an interesting life.”
“Now that I think about it, I believe you’re right.”
I am almost sure I am with child. I feel different—sleepy much of the time and nauseated. The thought of food, or the smell of cooking, makes me sick. My breasts are tender and heavier. I am beginning to feel that I inhabit a stranger’s body. This morning at my morning meal I gagged over the porridge. My mother and Priscilla exchanged knowing looks and decided that it was time to call in Marcella.
The women—my mother, Priscilla, Gwynedd, and as many of the other servant women as could—gathered in the atrium to hear Marcella. The first thing she did was to question me: “Do you shiver after you and your husband have come together?”
“Sometimes, I do.”
“Are your breasts swollen?”
“Yes, they are heavy and tender to the touch.”
“And has the flow of blood stopped?”
“Yes, for two months now.”
“Do your limbs feel heavy?”
“Yes. And I’m tired much of the time.”
“I am certain that you are with child.” At her words, I felt a thrill of hope and joy. Marcella continued. “You are in the first phase of the process. You must concentrate on keeping the seed within your womb. You must not allow strong emotion to affect you—no anger, no sorrow, no fear, no surprise, no extreme joy.”
I tried not to be too joyful. I took a deep breath and held it.
“You must be serene at all times. We do not want the seed to escape your womb. No, do not hold your breath. You must make no sudden movements. Try not to cough or sneeze. Do not lift anything heavier than a feather. Do not leap into the air. Do not sit in the bath. Do not sit on hard chairs or sedan seats. Do not get drunk. See that you do not have a nosebleed, as that is a sign that the child will not survive.”
I tried very hard to remember everything she was saying. What if I sneezed? Or coughed. I don’t have to worry about leaping into the air. It is not something I customarily do, but sneezing and coughing might come upon me when I least expect it. It’s not easy to remember everything I am not to do.
I looked around and noticed that every woman in the group was listening intently to Marcella’s words. These are highly instructive lectures.
“During this seed preservation phase, we will anoint you with freshly pressed oil from unripe olives. You must go to bed for two days—alone. Your husband must leave the marriage bed for a time to give the uterus time to rest.”
All the women nodded agreement. Everyone knows the marital activity must be suspended to avoid weakening the seed. Husbands are at liberty to seek consolation elsewhere for these months of waiting. Some women are relieved that, during pregnancy, they are not expected, indeed they are forbidden, to fulfill their marital duty.
Marcella felt my breasts and my belly. She nodded sagely. “I believe you are already entering into the second stage. It will last about four months. I am going to instruct you to eat lightly. You will be nauseated. Your stomach will be upset. You may have a fever from time to time. You may be dizzy. And, you may have the need to eat strange things like earth, charcoal, and unripe fruit. You must not give in to these cravings.”
The whole thing seems very unpleasant to me, but the women who had children were in universal agreement with Marcella’s warnings.
This is my fifth month. Marcella taught us about the pica stage:
A one-day fast will ease the stomach and prevent sickness.
Oil rubdowns must be given daily.
The diet will include small portions of easily digestible food—porridge, soft boiled eggs, cold water.
If the stomach should become upset, astringents should be applied. These include rose oil, myrtle, or unripe olive oil.
I am to wear a tightly wrapped woolen girdle for support.
About the sixth month, my food intake will be increased, I will sleep, and I will begin a regimen of exercise to augment my strength for labor and delivery.
During the seventh month, physical exertion will slow because of the greater weight of the baby. Then, I shall wear linen support bandages.
I shall have wine and sweet-water baths to calm my mind.
My belly will be rubbed with oil to prevent marks that remain after birthing.
The birth canal will be injected with softening oils and goose fat.
Marcella brought her birthing stool to show us. She gave her lecture in the atrium: “This birthing stool has seen many a child well born. It has a crescent shape. The bars across the front are for the mother to hold on to while she strains to push the baby out. The arms of the chair are strong because they must withstand heavy pressure during the birthing. The back of the chair is likewise strong. The mother pushes her hips and buttocks against it at the time of maximum effort. The stool has an opening cut in the middle for the baby to drop through. To the lower parts of the stool we affix an axle which has a windlass on each side. In difficult labor, we often extract the child by wrapping ropes around the arms or other parts of the baby’s body. We can attach the ends of the ropes to the knob and extract the child by rotation. The front of the stool is left open. I sit in front of the mother in order to give her encouragement. The child is delivered while the mother is in the upright position.”
I tried to concentrate. I trust Marcella. She is experienced in these matters. Her experience gives me great comfort.
The months drag by. I feel I have been expecting this child all my life. It will soon be over. I’m ready. Hurry, little baby. Your mother wants to look upon your face.
Claudia caeruleis cum sit Rugina Britannus edita, quam Latiae pectora gentis habet! Qual decus formae! Romanam credere matres. Italides possunt, Atthides esse suam. Dibene quod sancto peperit fecund marito, quod sperat generos quodque puella nurus. Sic placeat superis ut conige guadeat uno et semper natis gaudeat illa tribus.
Though Claudia Rufina has sprung from the woodstained Britons, how she possesses the feelings of the Latin race! What grace of form has she! Mothers of Italy may deem her Roman, those of Attica their own. May the gods bless her, in that she, a fertile wife, has borne children to her constant spouse, in that she hopes, though youthful still, for sons-and daughters-in-law. So may it please the gods above she should joy in one mate alone and joy ever in her sons and daughters.
I felt the first birth pangs before sunrise. I thought of calling Gwynedd, but as the pain subsided I decided to lie still and wait for the next one. Before the day is over, I shall know what it means to give birth. I am curious about the process. This birthing I want to experience silently and alone before the alarm is sounded throughout the villa. I lie still, my belly grossly distended. Putting my hands on my belly, I speak to my child who will be born, “We have work to do, little one. I’ll try to be gentle with you.”
I feel a need to control my breathing. I close my eyes and see, behind my eyelids, a waterfall of vivid colors–red, orange, gold, yellow. I envision myself on a great, long swing anchored to the crescent moon. Back and forth I go, my legs pumping, my hands holding on to the ropes of the swing, higher and higher until I stop pumping and I float above the world. I look down from a great height and see in my mind’s eye, my homeland, my house, my room, my childhood bed. I see the crones gathered about me anointing my breasts, my belly. How dear they are, how wise. The pain intensifies.
“Gwynedd, it is time to call the midwives. I am in pain.”
She was immediately wide awake. Out of the bedchamber and into the courtyard she ran.
“Call the midwives. Her time has come.”
One of the kitchen servants ran quickly toward the bedchamber where the midwives were sleeping, and pounded on the door. They had been summoned the week before to make everything ready for the birth. Mostly they sat and waited.
Now, I hear feet drumming and a servant pounding on a door. I hear the shout, “The mistress is experiencing birth pains.” The household was immediately awake. I hear Marcella’s voice from down the hallway.
“Very well. Don’t cause a panic. First babies have a way of taking their time.” I hear her talking to the other midwives.
“Come. The lady is about to deliver the first child ever born in the whole world.” Laughing, the other three rouse themselves from slumber, gather up their oils, wines, unguents, herbs, bandages, towels, basins, the birthing rope, a pillow to put the baby on, the knife, and the birthing stool, and process solemnly toward my bedchamber–Marcella, Antonia, Julia, and Talia. “Hurry. She’s in pain.” Gwynedd, white faced and urgent, greet the women.
“And now fares my wife?” I hear Rufus’ voice outside the doorway.
“Good morning, Senator Pudens.” I hear Marcella, instruct my husband. “You must find something to keep you occupied throughout this day. You must not come near this bedchamber. We shall surely keep you notified of all that is happening. Go find food and some men to keep you company. The gods will smile on this birthing and you will have a fine son before the day is through.”
“May I see my wife?
“You may come in to comfort her and then you must leave.”
Rufus entered my bedchamber. I am sweating and writhing in pain. I try to be brave, but I am in distress.
“I pray all will be well with you and the child.”
I try to smile. My face contorts with pain. “Go away, husband. I shall be busy this day.” He backed out of our room and the midwives took over. I heard, as from a distance, Marcella giving orders.
“Antonia, wrap her hands in bands of linen. She will be pulling hard against the ropes. Talia, wash her down with sweet oil. It will refresh her spirits. Julia, secure the ends of the rope. She has to help this child into the world or it won’t get born.” Marcella directed the activities. Expertly she laid out her instruments on a clean linen towel. She washed her hands in wine and in water and dipped them in clean olive oil. She placed goose fat into the birth canal to help the baby’s passage. I was determined not to scream. As the hours passed, the pains grew more frequent. They also grew in intensity. Finally, I scream whether I want to or not. Patiently, the midwives rub my feet and legs, and belly. They encourage me to push. They speak words of comfort.
“Come, little mother. Pull on the ropes. Harder, harder still. Good. Good. The baby will soon be here.” For hours I labored.
At long last, they helped me onto the birthing stool. Antonia knelt behind to catch the baby. Marcella readied the knife. If the doorway would not open, she was ready to cut. “Push, little mother. We can see the top of his head. Push. Let us see if this child has marbles or not. Push.”
“I’m so tired. I can’t push anymore.” I was limp with exhaustion.
“Yes, you can. Push.” Marcella instructed Talia to put a freshly cut lemon under my nose to revive me.
With one mighty wrenching effort, I push the baby into the world. He is a fat, squalling boy. I must have fainted momentarily from the pain. Talia pressed wine to my lips. Julia handed the knife to Marcella who cut the cord. Antonia took the baby and wrapped him in a warm towel. She carried him to a basin where she washed him, patted him dry, and slathered him with oil. Talia and Julia attended to me, massaging my belly to encourage contractions, and Marcella opened the bedroom door and called for the Senator.
“You have a son–a big, healthy boy.” To a servant girl she said, “Call the wet nurse. The baby is born.”
Rufus rushed into the room. “Where is my son?” Marcella carried the baby to me. “You did well, little mother,” she said. “Here is your boy.” Rufus and I looked at our newborn child. Our son. We murmur words I’m sure every parent has spoken. “He’s perfect. He’s beautiful. Look at his hair. Look at his hands. Count his fingers and his toes. He looks just like his father.” The wet nurse came into the room. She was a slave who had given birth two weeks before. Her breasts were engorged with milk.
“And what shall you call him?” Marcella asked.
We answered in unison, “ Timotheus.”
They put the baby to the breast. Marcella explained, “He will not suckle until tomorrow or the next day as is the custom with newborns. The child became soon weary, and slept. I, too, rested from my labors. I am weary from my hours of striving. The wine works its narcotic effect. It eases my discomfort and makes me sleepy. Before I sleep I hear the gallicinium—the “rooster’s crow”—that blast of the bugle that signals the changing of the guard at the fourth watch—three in the morning. I had labored all day. My husband keeps watch. In my dreams, I swing on the crescent moon and float high, high above the world.
Upon the occasion of the birth of our first child, Martial, ever faithful friend, sat down and penned an ode. He made a remark to Rufus that I did not quite understand. He said, “Your timing is just as I had predicted.” The two men laughed. The poem was a hymn to the fertility of this blue-eyed Briton, and the glory of Roman motherhood.
I was eighteen when our first child was born. In the next three years, I gave birth to three more children, another boy and two girls. I kept Marcella and her band of midwives well occupied in those years. At twenty-one, I was the mother of four—Timotheus, Novatus, Praxedes, and Pudentiana. I bear the marks in my body. These children are dearer than life to me.
From Macedonia, I, Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ write unto you, Rufus, my brother in the flesh and in the Spirit. Grace be to you and peace which is in our Lord Jesus Christ. I thank my God whenever I think of you and hear of your faith and your good works toward all those in the household of faith. I have great joy when I remember you and I am encouraged and strengthened by your love. I have heard of your suffering. We strive against principalities and powers of darkness. Be strong. Keep the faith. Pray always and the Lord will give you strength to face peril, even unto death, whether by fire, wild beasts, tearing of limbs, or a cross. God is for us, my dear brother. I have suffered deprivation, beatings, shipwreck, and dangers of every sort. I count it all joy to be able to suffer for his name, inasmuch as he suffered death for us, even death on a cross. I write to you to beseech you to care for our mother as you have in the past. Let every good work adorn you in the Lord. Greet Caludia, my sister, and the dear child, Timotheus. May your unfeigned faith dwell in him also. I send this letter by the hand of our brother Eubulus. I adjure you by the grace of our Lord to offer him hospitality that he may strengthen the church that is in your house. Grace, mercy and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus, our Lord.
I, Paul, an Apostle of Christ Jesus, write unto you, my dear brother. I send greetings to all who are in your household. I pray that you will receive Phebe, my sister and helper in the Lord, into your house. She is a deacon of the church at Cenchrea. I have put into her hands my letter to the church in Rome. She will be faithful to deliver it into the hands of Hermas. It is profitable for your instruction. Stand firm in the faith. I shall do my best to come to you in the Spring. Greet my sister, Claudia, and the dear children. Walk in love, for in so doing you will be able to dispel the powers of darkness. Grace and peace be to you in our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
“Saint Paul was sent to Rome in the second year of Nero (56AD) and remained a prisoner at large for two years.”
Paul is here with us. He is under arrest, but not in chains. He is allowed the freedom to walk the streets of the city. He has arranged for a house of his own, but for the present he is at the villa. We are known by many names: Domus Pudens, Paladium Britanicum, The Apostolorum, The Titulus, Pastor. It is good to have Paul with us. He will preach on the next Lord’s Day to the church in our house. The soldiers are here guarding him. Our villa seems to expand as the need arises. There is always room for relatives, friends, and strangers. People are drawn to this place. Claudia’s family is still with us, though it will not be many months before Caradoc will have served his sentence.
I had a conversation with my father-in-law a month before Paul’s arrival in Rome. I hope that Paul might be able to persuade Caractacus to become a follower.
“Paul will be coming to Rome soon, “ I said to him. “My half-brother is a world traveler. I have read you parts of his letters to me. I should like for you to know him. If the authorities will allow it, he will be staying here at Domus Pudens.”
“Tell me again. How is he your half-brother?”
“He and I have the same mother, but different fathers. He is eighteen years older than I. I’m sure you have heard my mother’s story. She married when she was fifteen to a man of high rank. She had a son, Saul. Then, she had a daughter, Rebbekah. When the children were still young, she was widowed. She went to live in Jerusalem where she met my father who was on a state visit to Pontius Pilate. She married my father when he was already established as a Senator. She must have been about thirty years old at the time of their marriage. I was born the next year. Saul was already a rabbinical student when I was born. He has changed his name along the way. The family history is pretty complicated. Anyway, most people know him as Paul.”
“Why did he change his name?” Caractacus listened intently.
“It had to do with his religious conversion.”
“Ah, yes. It’s true, isn’t it, that believers often take new names? So, what kind of fellow is he?”
“He is brilliant—highly educated. He speaks several languages fluently—Hebrew, Latin, Greek, Aramaic. He is an avid writer. He preaches, and establishes communities of believers all over the world. Mostly, he gets himself into trouble with the authorities. He has more energy than any other ten men I know. He has not married. He says that a family would hinder him in his work. To tell you the truth, I don’t think a wife would tolerate his ways. Anyway, I’m not much of a judge on the matter, but I don’t think Paul is very attractive to women. He is small of stature and he has weak eyes. I guess he got all the brains and I got all the good looks.” I said it as a joke.
“It takes intelligence to be a Roman senator and a civil engineer.” Caractacus sought to console me.
“Oh, I know, but my brother is extraordinary. You would have to know him to understand fully what I am saying. He was a Pharisee, highly educated in the Jewish law. He did his rabbinical studies with the best scholars. His personality is– how shall I describe him to you? Intense. Yes, that’s the word. I think you would find him intense and interesting.”
“I’m sure I would. Are you anything like him, Rufus?” “Not at all. I would describe myself as solid, steady, adequate, content to stay in Rome. Well, you will have ample opportunity to talk with him.”
“I look forward to it.”
The day Paul’s ship arrived, a group of us were there to meet him. Hermas, Andronicus, and Persis from our household and Aquila and Herodion from the church of the circumcision. It is a three day journey from Rome to Puteoli where Paul’s ship docked. We met Paul at Forum Appii at the post station. It is the usual halt at the end of a day’s journey from Rome. We traveled the old Appian Way built three hundred years ago. I wonder how many feet have trod this road? The old Romans did good work.
“There he is.” Persis saw him first. We cheered as he approached, accompanied by two guards. We ran to meet him. I was the first to embrace him.
“Brother Paul. Thank God you have arrived safely. It is good to see you.” Paul was greeted and embraced by all our company. The soldiers stood aside, alert and watchful. “How was your journey?”
“We should never have sailed. I told them it was too dangerous and I was right. We came fourteen days through the worst storm you can imagine. God sent his angel to me to tell me we would all be saved. I never doubted it. Our ship broke up, finally, on the Isle of Melita. I am grateful to be on land again. We are all very tired. I’ll tell you the whole story as we walk toward Rome. I have longed to see my family. How is our mother? And how are Claudia and the children?”
“They are eagerly awaiting your arrival as are the others in the villa. The children are eager to see you. The women have been in the kitchen for a week getting ready for your arrival. They will attend to your needs–a clean bed and all the food you can eat.”
“I’m sure the authorities will keep me under guard. Being at your home is a very pleasant prospect. I have learned to be content with little and I shall be happy and grateful for much. God has supplied all my needs to this day. I am confident that He will continue to care for me.”
“Paul, we are hoping those in power will allow you to be with us at domus Pudens. If you must have guards with you, we can certainly provide for them as well.”
“That’s a generous offer. We shall see what Caesar will allow. Perhaps because you are a senator, the emperor will listen to a request from you, however, I do not want to put you in danger.”
“No matter. We are grateful to God for sparing your life.” Paul nodded at me.
“Yes,” he responded thoughtfully. “Let us hope Caesar will be as generous.”
We set off for Rome, talking, laughing and singing. At times our little party filled the breadth of the road. At times we stopped to sleep awhile under the trees. Then, refreshed, we continued our trek toward the capital. Paul told us the details of his journey from Caesarea. It is a wonder anyone survived. I am amazed at my brother’s stamina. He is smaller in stature than I am, and despite the fact of his more advanced age, he is muscular and taut and physically, very strong.
We walked through plains dotted with houses and gardens and great villas. We passed the Aquaduct Claudia completed a few years ago. It is built on high columns and brings water to the city from fresh springs far away. That project was completed while I was serving in Britain. It is just one of the many wonders of the city. We caught sight of the hills of Rome. We were almost home.
“Pomponia Graecina, a distinguished lady, wife of Plautius who returned from Britain with an ovation, was accused of some foreign superstition and handed over to her husband’s judicial decision. Following ancient precedent, he heard his wife’s cause in the presence of kinsfolk, involving as it did, her legal status and character, and he reported that she was innocent. This Pomponia lived a long life. She escaped unpunished, and it was afterwards counted a glory to her.”
We are sick to death of Nero and we are terrified. Britannicus is dead. Rumor has it that he was poisoned by our exalted emperor and his dear mother, Agripinna. With Britannicus goes the last hope of the return of the Republic. His father, Claudius, with his dying breath, wanted his son to flee to Britain, hide there, and eventually raise an army. It was the desire of Claudius that Britannicus would come back to Rome, overthrow Nero, and re-establish the Republic. I suppose that Claudius was the last to wish the Republic reinstated. When Britannicus refused his father’s plan, he sealed his own fate. Britannicus lived on borrowed time from the death of the old emperor. Well, Nero and Agrippina have finally eliminated that threat to their power.
It seems Rome will forever pay homage to an emperor. We in the senate do not have the power we once possessed. All power in Rome resides in one man who believes himself to be a god. Nero is a madman and a fool. He continues to be self-absorbed, over-indulged, and feared. He flaunts his mistress. From what I know of Poppea, she and Nero deserve each other. In this one aspect of her son’s life, Agrippina disapproves. Agrippina, herself, is evil walking. Rome’s palaces harbor nests of vipers.
Nero is determined to stamp out any religion that does not recognize him as divine. The Way is in danger of annihilation. We at the villa are horrified and grief-stricken at the arrest and death of so many of our number. Our Aunt Gladys—Pomponia Graecina was arrested and charged with adherence to a pernicious foreign superstition. She was imprisoned for ten days and then, following ancient tradition, she was handed over for trial to her own husband. In times past, these kinds of proceedings proved a perfect way for a disgruntled husband to rid himself of a harridan. Not in this case, of course. Never have I known a husband and wife more devoted to each other than Aunt Gladys and Uncle Plautius. At her trial, Plautius, played his part to the maximum effect. Solemnly, he called her from her prison cell and examined her before us all. He then pronounced her innocent of all charges. He stated firmly, for added emphasis, that she is a lady of the highest character. All of us attended her mock trial and then came home afterward for a celebration. We give thanks to God that what would have been a great grief has turned into great joy. Pomponia should never have been subjected to arrest and imprisonment. She and Plautius are growing old. We hope they will close their villa and come to live with us. Times are so turbulent. But they are stubborn in their independence.
So many of our number are called upon to face death with courage. They sing hymns of praise to the Christ. It drives the oppressors to a fury. And it breaks our hearts. We do not know when we shall be called upon to follow the example of those who have been martyred before us. When my time comes, I pray to God that I shall be as brave as my brothers and sisters in Christ. We live in the hope of eternal glory.
We in our household of faith have reason to rejoice. Through Paul’s preaching, Caractacus has come to know the Lord. Last week he entered into the baptismal bath. I was present at the ritual. As he came up out of the water, Linus pronounced the blessing. He said that we are buried with Christ in baptism and we are raised to a new life. He held the new white robe, and as he placed it around his father and said, “Now put on Christ. Old things are passed away. Behold, all things are become new.” In spite of persecution, we persevere. Claudia was overcome with joy at her father’s profession of his faith. While we mourn our losses, we rejoice at our gains.
“Nothing served so much to recommend Christianity and extend it in Britain as its persecution by Rome. Common oppression drove the two religions into each other’s arms, and finally united them in so indissoluble a union, that we cannot now separate in British Christianity the Druidic from the Christian element.”
We sat in the caldarium. The servants attended to the heating of the water. Steam rose as we eased ourselves into the bath with a sigh.
“I can hardly believe it, but I will have served my sentence come this summer.” Caractacus settled lower into the hot water and looked across at me. “I can’t believe I have been in Rome for seven years.”
“Impossible! It seems like yesterday that you and Gladys stood before Claudius and she became his adopted daughter. Seven years. I don’t know where the time goes. The world moves so fast.” I smiled at my father-in-law. “I’m talking like an old man. Seven years is time enough, though, for Claudia and me to marry and have four children. They have been good years.”
“They have been good years for me too. My time in Rome has not been onerous, thanks to you. I have enjoyed your hospitality. I have been with my family. My days of battle are over. I can look back and say that I served my country well. The worst of my suffering has come of not being able to leave this city. I was never in chains after Claudius pronounced my sentence, but I was never free either. Well,” the old warrior shifted his weight so that water splashed out onto the tiled floor, “I have kept my word and served my time.” He paused. “I want to go home to Siluria.”
I looked at him. The two of us had always been respectful of each other. “Won’t you stay? After all, your grandchildren are here. They are Roman.”
“It will be not be easy to leave them, but I leave them in good hands. You are a good man, Rufus. My daughter and the children are well provided for. No, I shall go back to my home, finally. I have a deep desire to see my country again. It is there that I want to draw my last breath. It is there that I want to be buried beside my ancestors.”
“Don’t say that. You have good years ahead of you.”
“Come, Rufus. Don’t try to pretend I won’t die someday.”
“But no time soon, I’m sure.” I reached for a towel and wiped the sweat from my face. “Tell me, Caractacus, do you have some plan to wreak vengeance on your betrayer?”
“Vengeance is for younger men. No, I’m tired, and I just want to go home. I leave Aregwedd to her own conscience, if she has one. I doubt very much that she does. I have heard that she has cast her husband aside for his armor bearer and that her people are supporting him against her. The British do not approve of adultery in their royals, but honor was never a part of Arregwedd’s character. No, I shall not seek vengeance. Evil has a way of destroying itself—at least, I hope so. That would apply to Roman emperors as well as British traitors.” Servants poured boiling water into the pool. The steam rose around us. Caractacus accepted a drink of cold water from the hand of a servant. He looked thoughtful. “I feel a deep need to leave Rome. Rome is home to you. It will never be home to me. Our peoples are very different, you know.”
“Yes, we are different, but we all do what must be done. We are given our life circumstances, and we deal with them. Is that not true?”
He smiled and shrugged. “Too true. For instance, I never aspired to be a warrior.”
“You were a superb warrior. You must admit that without false modesty. What a tactician you were—and are, I suppose.” I have always admired my father-in-law for his military service.
“Yes, but that is not what I wanted in life. I was to be king, certainly, but being king of Siluria is a gentle occupation for the most part. We Britons may fight among ourselves, but it is usually over some minor land dispute. We do not invade beyond our island. Rome, wants to conquer the whole world and will practice all manner of evil in order to do it. All we wanted was to live in peace, raise our crops and our children, learn about the earth and the stars, and worship the Supreme God. We had no desire for world conquest. We do not love war. We certainly have proved we know how to defend ourselves, but conquest–we leave that to you. You Romans! You want it all–the whole world.”
“You must admit, Caractacus, that during the days of Augustus, Rome was the whole world. Urbs Roma orbs humana– Mauretania, Numidia, Gaul, Hispania, Germania, Italy, and Asia to the Euphrates. You also must admit that there was peace and prosperity. The pax Romana extended to the four corners of the earth. If my knowledge of history serves me, the army fought no wars during that time and was put to work building roads. It was magnificent. The empire extended far enough to support a hundred and twenty million people. There had to be peace in order to concentrate on such matters.”
“Yes, but what you call ‘peace,’ I call subjection. Where Caesar rules, there is no freedom. I am not antagonistic to Roman culture. My grandfather, Lear, was educated in Rome. He lived in the palace with the nephews of Augustus. The emperor, himself, was their teacher and mentor. Britain has a history of diplomatic negotiations with Rome. Our nobles lived in Rome and often worshiped at her shrines. We have always carried on a lively trade with Rome. But with all that, you must remember that Britain remains stubbornly unconquered–the only free land of this civilization. When Claudius invaded us, I’m sure he was well aware that when Julius Caesar tried it a hundred years before, even he did not fare well across the channel.”
During the seven years of his captivity, Caractacus and I enjoyed intellectual sparring. We are divided in culture. We were opponents in battle. We are, nonetheless, joined by family and love of freedom. My father-in-law continued. “Our God smiles on our way of life.”
“Rome has her gods too.” I sipped cold water.
“Yes, and what an aggressive lot they are: Mars, Jupiter, Neptune, Pluto—warriors all. In their name, look at what has happened. Every sort of bestiality, every indignity, every murderous intrigue is practiced as a matter of course. The populace is drugged on blood and bread. Imperial Rome is greedy and rotten. In Druidism, we are concerned with truth, beauty, goodness, fecundity, love.”
“Not all of Rome’s gods are what you describe. Rome has her gentle gods and goddesses, too. Do you know Picumnus and Pilumnus—the brother gods who protect infants and pregnant women?”
“Of course I don’t know them. That’s precisely my point. Your truly important gods are the gods of power, not the ones concerned with birth. I want to go home where life is more important than death. I want to live out my life in that green and gentle land. You are a Christian. You speak of love and of a gentle spirit. Your faith informs your behavior. You are very much like us, Pudens. Druidism and Christianity are the two religions Rome seeks to destroy. Whereas Britain extends religious toleration, Rome permits no religion but its own. Look at what happened to Pomponia. What possible harm could that dear lady have done to Rome? Following her belief, she did no evil. She extended herself to the poor. She taught children. She was guided by nothing but love and goodness. Her arrest was a barbaric act and a disgrace to an empire that calls itself civilized. Rome would have executed her but for an error. And look how many innocents have been slaughtered. No, Pudens, Rome will kill us all because she can.”
“Dear God, Caractacus. I fear you may be right.” I grunted as I shifted my weight. “And yet, not all is done in the name of power. There is the Roman sense of honor to be considered.”
“Ah, yes. Honor. A most exalted concept.” Caractacus signaled for a servant to bring towels. We emerged from our bath, clean, relaxed, and dripping. We wrapped ourselves in warm towels of coarse linen. Clean clothes were laid out for us. We dried ourselves and dressed. Together we walked to the triclinium.
“Eubulus was one of the 70 disciples, and a follower of St. Paul the Apostle, along with whom he preached the gospel to the whole world, and ministered to him. He was chosen by St. Paul to be the missionary bishop to the land of Britain, inhabited by a very warlike and fiery race. By them he was often scourged, and repeatedly dragged as a criminal through their towns, yet he converted many of them to Christianity. He was there martyred, after he had built churches, and ordained deacons and priests for the island.”
“Ergain is commemorated as the first female saint of the Isle of Britain.”
My dear husband and I are going on a missionary journey. My grandfather, King Bran, will go, as well as dear old Eubulus and several other younger believers. We are going back home to Siluria. Our plan is to establish a college. From the beginning of our marriage I have talked with my husband of going home. Salog has caught the vision of a work in my homeland. I did not dream that any man, much less a man of great means, would forsake a life in Rome for the rural quiet of my country. I believe with all my being that God has worked in my husband’s heart and has whispered in his ear the vision of what Christ’s gospel can accomplish there. Soon, my father will have served his sentence imposed by the Emperor Claudius. My parents will go back to spend their last years at home. My father says that he wants to die looking on the green hills of Siluria. My sister is content to live in Rome. Not I. Not ever. From the day we were marched into this city in shame and disgrace, I have vowed I would not stay.
It is not only that I want to live my life in Siluria. I want to have a part in making Britain Christian. I have long dreamed of establishing a center of learning where young evangelists can be trained, where priests, deacons and bishops can be ordained and educated in the faith. I envision a college from which missionaries can go out, not only to all of Britain, but to other countries as well. Is it not a worthy vision?
Claudia sat, combing the tangles from Pudentiana’s hair. “When shall you go?” She stopped to wipe tears from her eyes.
“As soon as we can make provision for our travels. Don’t cry, sister. God is in our plans.”
“I know. I simply can’t imagine life in Rome without you. We have never been separated in all our lives. And after you leave, mama and papa will be going back to Siluria as well. It will be very lonely without my family around me.”
“Gladys-Claudia, you are surrounded by family here—Rufus, four children, Linus, Paul, all your brothers and sisters in the Lord. Be happy for me. God has work for me to do. I cannot stay in this city and accomplish God’s task for me.”
“I know. I do understand, but I am already feeling lonely without you. What shall you do?”
“As British princesses, we own lands, you know. I am thinking of going to Llandaff where grandfather established a little group of followers when he became a believer. I think that core of folk could be the beginning of my college. I’ll give the land and the resources to build a school. Oh, Gladys, it will be a place of prayer and serious study. Think what God can do with such a place! Eubulus can be our bishop. He will be our spiritual leader and the example for all to emulate. I will teach the women. Salog and Eubulus can teach the men. We will set about the establishment of churches. It will be such an adventure.”
Gladys looked at me with love in her eyes.
“Oh, Ergain. How can I be selfish and try to keep you here, when God has touched your heart with such a vision? God go with you, my sister. May God keep you close to his heart.”
I smiled at her.
“You wouldn’t like to join us, would you–you and Rufus?”
“There is no way I will leave Rome. Rufus’ life revolves around this city and the Senate. Besides, God has work for us to do here.”
“I worry that your lives are in danger in Rome.”
“I know.” Gladys looked thoughtful. “I feel safe here at the villa. I feel safe with Rufus.”
A few days after the conversation with my sister, our little band of missionaries set sail for Siluria. I am going home at last.
The Ides of July, my parents were to leave Rome for Siluria. The day before their sailing, I walked in the garden with my father one last time. It was typical of him to instruct me.
“I don’t think you are in danger at the villa. Your husband is a good man and competent. He will take care of you as he always has.” My father put his arm around my shoulders. “It is hard for you to say good-bye to your mother. It is hard for her. She will miss you and the children. You must come back to Siluria to see us. Pudens can easily pay the price of your passage.”
The thought of saying good-bye to my parents brought tears to my eyes.
“Papa, I know you feel you are doing the right thing. I, too, know the longing to return home. From the time I married Rufus, my home has been in Rome, but I never had to give you up. I have had my parents, my husband and my children under this roof. With all of that, I have never stopped longing for Siluria’s gentle hills. I envy you the sight of our homeland.”
“For these seven years, I have wanted nothing so much as to get back to it.”
“It is in our blood, Papa. I have married Rome and my children are Roman, but I shall die a Briton. When you get back to Siluria, kiss its soil once for me.”
“I shall do it. My dear daughter, you were Gladys before you were Claudia. And I was your father long before Claudius adopted you. You never were truly his daughter. You were always mine. His adoption of you was not in my hands. I hated being a prisoner. I shall never be at home here. I have no regrets about leaving Rome. I only regret leaving you and the children.”
I tried to smile. “I shall be brave, Papa. I am your daughter, after all. The royal family of Siluria possesses both courage and pride. I am proud to be your daughter.” I ducked my head. “I hope you are proud of me.”
“Dear daughter, from the time you were a baby and I carried you on my shoulders, you have given me reason to be proud. I shall always remember your bravery when I stood before Claudius and the Roman Senate pleading for my life. You were just a girl then. You have grown into womanhood. The day you stood beside me in the Senate, I thought, ‘These Romans will get a good look at what we Britons are made of.’ They did that day.”
“I shall miss you, Papa.”
“And I you, dear one. But if we should not meet again on this earth, we shall meet again in that land more beautiful even than Siluria.”
I leaned on my father’s shoulder and wept. “God go with you, Papa.” He held me close. I have always felt safe, held by my father’s strength.
“Be careful, Gladys. Teach the children to be careful. Rome is full of treachery. Be safe. May God protect you.” With that, he kissed me and I thought my heart would break.
Before dawn the next day, we went down to the docks amid all the ongoing construction, to wish the travelers godspeed. Our little sons were delighted to see the ships and to watch the workmen at their tasks. Timotheus and Novatus are old enough that they will miss their grandparents. The girls are so little, they won’t remember. My children didn’t understand my tears, but they all cried when I did. We waved until they were out of sight.
“The royal family of Britain was ardently attached to both Greek and Latin literature.”
“Had the large collection of British Archives and MSS. Deposited at Verulam as late as 860 AD descended to our times, invaluable light would have been thrown on many subjects of interest. Amongst these works were the Poems and Hymns of Claudia.”
I couldn’t believe it when I received word that the emperor’s mother wants to see me. I can’t imagine what she wants. I don’t know her well, although I am often invited to social events because my husband is a senator. At those events Agrippina is present, of course. What does she want of me?
I must say that court life in Rome terrifies me. We are aware, here in our villa, of the things that take place in Nero’s palace. Senators must be well-informed for their own safety. Some of them participate in the parties, the banquets, the orgies. My husband begs off from most social contact. He claims business concerns preclude his participation. We live cautiously. Our way of life is vastly different from life at court. We are careful to be cordial to and supportive of the imperial family. We must be circumspect in all things. Rufus has made himself indispensable to the emperor. It is not often one finds an engineer of my husband’s skill and experience. But, one falls from favor so easily in Rome. Even skillful men are executed on Nero’s whim. His caprice has cost the life of many of our friends. It is true that Nero is a despot and completely mad. It is bad enough that he scandalizes Rome’s elite by horse racing and driving his chariot in the circus. He is like an insane child at play, but his play is deadly. We know that he castrated a male slave and then married him. He goes out at night and stabs citizens who are unfortunate or foolish enough to be in the streets. Nero murders for entertainment and throws the bodies of his victims into the sewers of Rome. We pray to God for protection from evil, of which, in this city, there is an abundance. Rome feeds and thrives on violence. Followers of The Way are the most vulnerable of all.
“What shall you wear?” It was Priscilla’s question to me.
“I’m less concerned about my clothes than I am with the invitation itself.” I frowned as I tried to imagine what Agrippina would say to me.
“When it comes from the imperial family, it is not an invitation. It’s a command.” Priscilla is right. Agrippina never makes a request. She only makes demands.
Priscilla lowered her voice. She looked around as if she thought someone might be listening. “Britannicus should have succeeded his father. How could Claudius have named Nero his successor? How could Claudius have allowed his own daughter to marry that slug? Well I know how. Mama Agrippina gets her way. And Octavia’s marriage to Nero sealed that bargain.” Priscilla spat out the words as an epithet. “Nero is a fat, indulged, overgrown, self-serving child who is guided by his mama. He is no husband to Octavia. He flaunts his mistress before the citizenry. Poppaea is as evil as his mother. She traded her husband for Nero’s power. Nero is mad. How many people have been put to death? How many more will die before he is gone?”
“Priscilla, hush. You must not say these things. I’m frightened to even discuss it. I believe we can trust everyone in our household, but if Nero should hear of that kind of talk, Rufus would be in danger and all of our family including the children.” I took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should speak of other things.”
“Perhaps,” Priscilla agreed. “Do you ever think of Siluria?”
“Of course I do. There will always be a longing in my heart for my childhood home. If Rome were not so violent I could be content here. My loyalty is to Rufus. Our children are, after all, Roman. The day Claudius granted our father clemency and adopted me as his daughter, I decided to be true to Rome. I suppose it is the same with you. Do you ever miss Tarsus?”
“Oh, my dear. I have been in Rome so long now that Tarsus seems like a dream. It was another life. I can barely remember life before Rome. I have to believe that it was God’s hand that led me to Quintus and life in this house. I wish you could know Simon Peter. He came here to this house, you know. It was he who baptized both Quintus and me. What a dear man. He preached love and forgiveness–a message contrary to anything Rome knew–or knows.” Priscilla picked up my comb. “Let me comb your hair.” She worked the tangles out and made two simple braids which she wound around my head. “There. It’s not elaborate, but it is elegant.” She adjusted the cloak around my shoulders and inspected me from every angle. “There now. You are ready to meet the emperor’s mother. Be brave. I shall pray for you.” We embraced and I went out to my sedan.
All the way into the city I wondered about the purpose behind this meeting. It is wise to be inconspicuous in Rome. What have I done to catch Agrippina’s attention? I would know soon enough. Just after midday I arrived at the royal residence and was conducted by a servant into the atrium to await the arrival of Agrippina. I was offered fruit and water, but declined both and wondered if I offended in doing so. In an effort to calm myself, I breathed deeply. With every breath I prayed, “Lord, be with me this day. Strengthen me and help me. When one is summoned to the palace it often means a one-way trip.”
“Well, so you are here.” Agrippina swept into the room with her entourage of servants. With a dismissing wave of her hand, they backed out of the room and left us alone.
“I am here, Augusta.” I gave a slight bow. “I hope you are well. So many in the city have been ill.”
“I don’t believe in getting sick. I simply won’t do it.” She looked a tower of strength. Her hair is curled and braided in a complicated fashion and is piled high on her head. She dresses in military garb. Her use of artifice is excessive. Her face is white with lead paste. Her cheeks have too much ochre and her eyes and brows are evil looking with kohl. Beside her I am excessively pale. Agrippina is never without large showy pieces of jewelry. She raised her head, squared her shoulders, and declared in her most commanding tones, “I choose not to be ill.”
I nodded without knowing exactly how to respond. This woman is extremely aggressive. It is rumored that she was the de facto emperor during the last days of Claudius when he was falling into senility. Rome whispered that it was she who poisoned our late emperor. Her ambition for her son is without limit.
“And how is the Emperor Nero?”
“My son is well. He will do greater things than Claudius ever did. He has plans for more gardens and monuments. Rome will love Nero’s buildings more than they love Claudius’ aquaducts.”
“Claudius did wonders for Rome. I’m sure Nero will surpass him in glory.”
“Yes, he will. I shall see to that.” She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “ I remember your wedding day. But more importantly, I remember the day you stood before the senate—the day Claudius adopted you to seal the alliance between Rome and Britain. You were a strong, young woman then. Are you still?”
“Let me say that I take after my father–a very strong man.” I had no idea where this conversation would end.
“Good. I have no use for weaklings. Women who pretend they are too fragile to think for themselves deserve what they get. We strong women don’t mind pushing to get what we want, don’t you agree?”
I murmured something inconsequential which she must have interpreted as agreement. I have long noticed that aggressive people assume others will agree with their viewpoint even when it may not be so.
“So, you were a daughter to Claudius. That makes you a sister to Britannicus. So sad about his untimely death, was it not? He was so young and virile. I was delighted when Claudius adopted my son to be his own, but I always thought it somewhat strange that Claudius favored Nero over Britannicus. I do believe Claudius always considered Nero more of a son than his own blood. How strange that is. It may have to do with the fact that Britannicus was Messalina’s child. Well, that’s history. And now Nero is emperor. It is interesting how these things happen.” She smiled, but her eyes glittered like a serpent’s. I tried not to shudder. Agrippina looked at me.
“So, you are a foreigner, yet you have risen high.”
“I was born high. I am the daughter of a British king, though I have sworn allegiance to Rome.”
“Yes.” She seemed to take my measure. “What is the trinket you wear around your neck? Is it a talisman? Does it ward off evil?”
“No. It was a gift from my mother on the occasion of my fifteenth birthday.”
“Curious. It looks old.”
“It has been in my family for many generations.”
“I hear you hold court among the literati.” Agrippina was blunt. If something caught her attention, she spent as much time as it took to satisfy her curiosity and then she quickly moved on to another subject. Briefly I pondered my response.
“I would not call what I do ‘holding court.’ That is for the emperor and his advisors. I do preside over a literary salon.”
“When do you meet?”
“The second day after the kalend of the month.”
“So you meet ten times a year?”
“Yes.”
“Who attends?”
“We are a group of writers who meet to share the fruits of our labors.”
“Does the poet Martial attend?”
“As often as he is able.”
“Are you a writer?”
“Yes.”
“What do you write?”
“The Emperor Nero is both literary and musical. He plays the lyre you know. He writes superlative poetry. Perhaps he might come to your villa to perform.”
My heart contracted sharply.
“As he desires, my lady. The audience would not be large.” Agrippina looked thoughtful.
“No, I suppose not, but it would be made up of the finest literary figures. Perhaps I shall encourage him to join your little group. It might inspire him to even greater heights. Of course, he might summon you all to the palace. Your husband is an engineer, is he not?” The mention of my husband startled me. I am always careful not to mention his name or call attention to my children.
“Yes. That is correct.” I kept my face impassive. I will give no more information than is necessary.
“Nero is thinking of having a large monument erected in my honor. I know just what I want–an equestrian statue with me in full military regalia, surrounded by great fountains. I shall require your husband’s services. I’ll inform him soon. You are dismissed.” She clapped her hands and servants entered. Agrippina spoke in her most acerbic voice. “Show the Lady Claudia out.”
I was conducted from the august presence. My thoughts were tumbling.
“What if Nero did decide to come to the salon? He would expect to be the center of all attention. He would go into one of his interminable concerts and expect everyone to pay homage. I don’t want him there, but I can’t refuse. Maybe Agrippina will change her mind about suggesting that he attend. What if Nero calls us all to his palace? We would all be in mortal danger. What have any of us written that would displease him? If we write verses superior to Nero’s, what might he do? What will Agrippina require of my husband? She holds as much power over us as does her son. Oh, dear God, help.”
I stumbled into the front door of our domus greatly relieved to be home. My husband would soon return from the Senate. Priscilla met me in the atrium.
“Well? What did she want?” Her voice was anxious.
I burst into tears.
For ten days I worried about my visit to Agrippina. I cried and prayed and prayed and cried. I couldn’t eat. Food stuck in my throat. My husband was driven to distraction.
“Claudia, you must stop this. You will be ill.”
“I can’t help it. I am afraid of those people. What if Nero comes to my salon? What if he summons all my writers to his palace? What if Agrippina calls on you to help design that detestable monument?”
“And what if she does not? We have not heard one word about it since the day of your visit. Agrippina may have forgotten about the whole thing. She may have decided not to invite Nero to your salon. Or, she may have invited him and he refused. She may not have mentioned it to him, or if she did, he may have dismissed it.”
“What if he doesn’t refuse an invitation to come here? What if the emperor of Rome comes to our house and some horrible thing happens?”
“He won’t come.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know.” My husband put his head in his hands. “I’m just trying to comfort you. You know that whatever happens God is with us.”
“I know that in my heart. Of course, you are right. I’m just so scared. I’m frightened for all of us, but most of all for the children.” My husband did what he always does. He stood before me and pulled me to my feet. He wrapped his arms around me and whispered love. He never fails to give me courage. Sometimes I get tired of being strong, the daughter of a British king. Sometimes, I am just a woman. Sometimes I am a little girl lost in the tall grasses, running from some evil thing. It is Rufus, dear Rufus, who leads me safe home again. My husband is a man of courage and faith. He loves me, and I love him. Courage and love and faith are strange and wonderful things. I was comforted.
The next day the messenger came. In Rome, we never know what the news will be. Sometimes there is a crisis in the Senate. Sometimes there is a problem that requires the engineering skills of my husband. Sometimes there is an invitation to celebrate the dedication of some monument or arch or garden. Today the messenger brought news of Agrippina. Rufus unrolled the notice and read silently.
“Oh great God, what does this mean?” He looked suddenly pale.
“What is it?”
“Agrippina is dead. She has been executed.”
“Executed? By order of her son?”
“It would seem so.”
“But why?”
“Everyone knows Agrippina bullied Nero. I suppose he got tired of it. Claudia, I’m going to the Senate to find out more about this. I’ll be home tonight with more information.” I hugged him close. “Be careful.”
“I will. Keep the children in today.”
“Yes.”
I spent the afternoon with Gwynedd, the children, and their grandmothers. Timotheus at five is very bright. It is getting more and more difficult to keep him entertained. Whatever Timotheus does, Novatus is close behind. The girls are easily distracted. Gwynedd brought clay. The children molded little pots and lamps and small animals. They arranged them in the atrium in the sun to dry. They were so proud of their handiwork. Even little Pudentiana showed me something that looked like a lump, but she said it was a sheep. They made such a mess. Clay was everywhere–on the floor, all over the children, in their hair. Ordinarily I would not have tolerated the activity inside, but today I found myself unable to be away from them. And they seemed content not to be out of doors. Afterward we all went down to the baths and had a wonderful time splashing in the warm water. We dried ourselves and readied the children for sleep.
I left the children in the care of their nurses while I stopped by the kitchen to see about our evening meal. I did not know when Rufus would be home, but I could think of little else. Agrippina is dead. Nero ordered her death. What does it mean for Rome? For all of us?
The sun was setting when Rufus arrived.
“What news?” I asked him.
“She is dead. He ordered her execution. Where are the children?”
“Eating their supper. They are ready for bed.”
“I’ll go see them. After they are asleep, I’ll tell you the details.” I nodded agreement. I heard the children’s squeals of delight as their papa peeked into their room.
“What did you do today?”
He was met by a chorus of voices. “We made animals and pots with clay. We made a mess.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Pudentiana made a sheep, but it doesn’t look like a sheep.” I heard Rufus laugh.
I instructed the nurse to put the children to bed. They will never go to sleep as long as their father gives them his attention. I was eager to hear the news. When the household had settled into silence, Rufus came to me. I dismissed the servants. He spoke in a whisper.
“Do you remember when Agrippina almost drowned? That was the first attempt on her life instigated by Nero. Today he sent his men for her. They said that he was literally frothing at the mouth with rage when he ordered his guards to kill her. She was hacked to death and her body cut into small pieces.”
“How horrible.” I shivered as I imagined the scene. “But why?”
“Nero was enraged with her. She constantly harped on her disapproval of his mistress. He obviously had had enough of it. He made no secret of his desire to see his mother dead. Often he said that his greatest fantasy was to watch in glee as his guards hacked her to bits. He said he dreamed of urging the guards to cut her up in smaller pieces. He said that he wanted to take off his sandals and dance in her blood until he was red to the knees. He is completely mad. Everyone is terrified and no one can predict what he will do next. I don’t know how much longer Rome can endure his reign.”
“He is so young. He may reign for years.”
“We must not speak of this again, my dear. We must not speak treason.”
“Well, one thing is certain.” I felt a sudden sense of relief.
“And what is that?” My husband pulled me onto his lap.
“It is unlikely that you will be asked by Nero to build a monument to his mother.” My husband looked at me blankly. Then he roared with laughter.
From Ergain to Claudia Rufina, greetings. I long to see you, my dear sister, and all that dwell in your house. We are in Glanmorganshire. I have given land for our school. It is my desire to establish a center of learning where followers of The Way may prepare themselves to preach more effectively the gospel of the Lord Jesus. We have lost our dear brother, Eubulus. He was often persecuted by wild tribes while preaching the word of the Lord. Yesterday he was dragged through the streets and killed. He lived a life dedicated to the spread of Christ’s gospel to the ends of the earth, beginning when the Lord sent him out as one of the seventy. It is my desire that those who took his life might find eternal life through the shed blood of our Savior. Eubulus is the first of Christ’s martyrs in Britain. He has received the crown of life laid up for him. Hug the dear children. Greetings to Pudens. May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be poured out on you in abundance.
“And what are the deacons but imitators of the angelic powers, fulfilling a pure and blameless ministry unto him as the holy Stephen did to the blessed James, Timothy and Linus to Paul.”
“The report is true which I heard of thee whilst thou wast at Rome with the blessed father Linus.”
“Sanctissimus Linus, frater Claudiae.”
“Holiest Linus, brother of Claudia.”
“Concerning those Bishops who have been ordained in our lifetime, we make known to you that they are these: Of Antioch, Eudius, ordained by me, Peter; Of the church of Rome; Linus, brother of Claudia, first ordained by Paul; and after Linus’ death, Clemens, the second ordained by me, Peter.”
“The Apostles having founded and built up the church at Rome, committed the ministry of its supervision to Linus. This is the Linus mentioned by Paul in his Epistle to Timothy.”
My Uncle Linus is a bishop. He wasn’t a bishop yesterday, but he is today. My Uncle Paul said some words and did some things with oil and water and bread and wine, and now Uncle Linus is a bishop. We are not supposed to tell. I’m not sure what a bishop is, but my Uncle Linus is one. It has something to do with the people who meet at our house to sing and pray. Brother Hermas is our pastor. He is a good man. When all the people meet to pray, it is not anything bad, but we are not supposed to tell, anyway. I think we would be in trouble if we tell.
I have a big family. My Uncle Paul and my Uncle Linus are not brothers. Can you guess how they are both my uncles when they are not brothers? It is a riddle. How can that be? Well, I’ll tell you the right answer. My Uncle Linus is my mother’s brother. My Uncle Paul is my father’s brother, except you would never know it. My father is really old, but my Uncle Paul is really, really old–maybe even half a hundred. My mother is old, too. So I guess all grown up people are old. You have to be old before you can be a bishop.
Some of the people in our family are young. My brother is Novatus. I’m older than he is. I’m the oldest in my family, except for the grown-ups. I have two sisters named Praxedes and Pudentiana. Pudentiana is still little. She can walk and talk some, so we don’t have to be careful around her if we have a secret we don’t want anyone to know about because, even if she wanted to tell, she couldn’t because she doesn’t talk much yet. Praxedes will tell secrets, so we have to be more careful because she knows how to talk and she doesn’t know how to keep a secret. If we want to surprise our mother or our father, we don’t tell Praxedes because she can’t keep a secret and she knows how to talk.
Our Uncle Paul has been everywhere there is to go in the whole world. He tells us children stories. He told us once about when he was on a ship and there were more than a hundred other men on the ship and there was a big storm that came up and the ship crashed and everyone had to jump off and the waves were really big and they had to grab onto pieces of wood and other things that float and they were all saved, but they thought that they would all drown and be dead. Uncle Paul said that God took care of all of the people on the ship. It was a good thing, too.
On certain days everyone meets at our house to sing and pray and hear Pastor Hermas preach. Sometimes, when Uncle Paul is here, he preaches. Sometimes, my Uncle Linus preaches. They all say the same thing. They all preach about Jesus. Jesus is the Son of God. My Uncle Paul told me. Today, they all decided that Uncle Linus should be a bishop and our mother and father decided that all of us four children should be there when Uncle Linus got to be one. They said it was really important and would be the first time that Rome would have a bishop.
I don’t know what Rome will do with a bishop. I think being a bishop is important and that a bishop is a really important person because everyone seems to think it is important for a bishop to be in charge of things and be the one to tell other people what to do. My father said that I have it all backwards and that a bishop is not the most important person but that a bishop is really the one who is like a servant to everybody and that if someone is in trouble or needs food to eat or clothes to wear or something like that it will be the bishop who helps out. My Uncle Linus would be good at that because he is a man who is kind and will help anyone who comes to our house looking for something to eat or a place to sleep. One time, Uncle Linus came into the house without his sandals and we thought he had just left them at the door like always so the floor of our house wouldn’t get dirty, but he gave his sandals to a man in the city who didn’t have sandals to wear, so I think he will be a good bishop.
“St. Paul lived, according to all evidence, when he was in Rome, whether in custody at large (libera custodia) or free, in the bosom of the Claudian family. There is no dispute that Claudia herself was purely British, and the British character of the family, as well as the close domestic ties of affection, between this family and St. Paul, are manifest.”
“When Saint Paul claimed Roman citizenship he was claiming the full protection of Roman law over the local law of the province of Judaea; and his cry ‘I appeal to Caesar’ was the cry of a provicial who knew himself to be especially favored and protected by the emperor. He claimed the right to be tried by the emperor or by a judge responsible to the emperor, and his person was inviolate until the trial had taken place.”
“The children of Claudia and Pudens were brought up at the knees of St. Paul.”
I happened upon a sweet scene today. Paul was seated on the floor of the atrium and all four of my children were draped over and around him. Pudentiana was in his lap, sound asleep. Praxedes was under his left arm, cuddled as close as she could get. Novatus was on his uncle’s right side, also snuggled in. Timotheus was sitting directly in front of Paul, his eyes as big as the full moon. His uncle was telling him an adventure story. I motioned to Paul that I would take the baby, but he shook his head and continued his narrative. He doesn’t seem to mind being besieged by my little ones. I brought my needle work and settled down close by. I must confess, I like to hear Paul’s stories too. He makes them sound like the most exciting thing you can imagine.
He continued, “So, one day, I was telling some people about Jesus. Sometimes when I tell the story, people listen and they believe what I say. That day, I was talking to people who didn’t know Jesus and didn’t believe what I said. They were so angry that they called the soldiers to come to get me. The soldiers came in and grabbed me. They tied me up with leather straps. They were just about ready to take me in and whip me. I stood up and said, ‘You better watch out. What you are doing is against the law. I am a Roman and the Roman law says that you can’t whip me.’ Well, I tell you, they were afraid to whip me after that. The people were still angry with me and they meant to do me harm, but, that night, something wonderful happened. Can you guess what it was?”
Timotheus said, “You ran away.”
“No, that’s not it. Can you guess again?”
“You whipped the guard.”
“No. I’ll tell you what happened. Jesus came and stood by me. He said to me, ‘Don’t worry, Paul. You told people in Jerusalem about me. Now, go tell people in Rome.’ I knew, from then on, that Jesus is always with me, no matter what bad things might happen. Well, those angry people, decided they would kill me. There were forty men who decided they wouldn’t eat anything or drink anything until I was killed. But someone heard them make their plans.”
“Who?” Timotheus asked breathlessly.
“It was your cousin, Aaron. He is the grown up son of your Aunt Rebbekah. Aaron ran to the chief captain and he said, ‘Chief Captain, you need to know that there are forty men who have decided they won’t eat or drink anything until they have killed Paul.’ The chief captain believed him, and do you know what he did?”
“What? What?”
“The chief captain called two centurions. Centurions are captains in charge of a hundred soldiers. So they called two hundred soldiers and seventy horsemen, and two hundred spearmen. ‘At the third hour of the night,’ he said, ‘Go get Paul and put him on a horse and ride to the governor’s house. And that’s what happened. So I didn’t get killed. Do you know who took care of me that night?”
“The chief captain?”
“Yes, and do you know who else?”
“The soldiers.”
“Yes, and do you know who else?”
“Jesus.”
“That’s right. And Jesus will take care of you too. The next time, I’ll tell you about the night of the storm when the ship I was on broke all to pieces.”
“Tell me now, Uncle Paul.” Timotheus was enthralled with the stories. I smiled at Paul. “You have won the hearts of my children, Brother Paul, but I think, now, you and they need some rest.”
“Ah, Claudia, they lift my heart and refresh my spirit. They are not only beautiful, but see how bright they are. These boys will be great soldiers of the cross. These girls will bring joy to the heart of God.” I lifted Pudentiana from Paul’s lap and handed her, still heavy with sleep, to her nurse. I gathered up the other three and took them away to feed and bathe them. Timotheus and Novatus ran across the lawn to gather small branches.
“Look, mama, we are soldiers. These are our swords. We are soldiers of the cross.”
“Be careful with those. Don’t hit anyone and be careful not to poke an eye.” They swished their ‘swords.’ They twirled and whirled, around and around, laughing, falling down, and rolling on the ground.
“Look at me, mama, look.”
I look at my children with such hope and such love. My thoughts are invariably ambivalent. My precious little ones. I want them to grow up strong and good. But, oh, sometimes when I see them frolic like new lambs, I do wish they could stay young and safe and innocent forever.
“Claudia was the authoress of a volume of epigrams, a volume of elegies, and a volume of sacred poems or hymns. Copies of these were preserved in the library at Verulam at late as the thirteenth century.”
“I saw what you did.” He grabbed me by the shoulder. “I saw you steal that bread.”
“Don’t report me. Please, I’ll make it up, somehow.” I cowered expecting to be struck. “I’m strong. I can work.” I’m sure I didn’t look strong. I must have looked half-starved. I was filthy—dirty from travel and sleeping out of doors. He grabbed my hand, turned it over, and saw the brand on the palm. He saw that I am a slave. He probably guessed I am a runaway.
“Come with me.” He marched me back through the streets of the marketplace past the stalls of fishmongers, shoemakers, dealers in grain, potters, and weavers. Straight to the baker’s stall we went. He spoke to the baker in a low voice.
“My name is Cassius, servant to Senator Pudens. This man stole bread from you. I am here to make restitution. I shall pay you four times what he owes you. Do not speak to the authorities about this matter.” The baker nodded, eager to be paid more than his bread was worth. My benefactor produced several coins from his leather pouch. The bargain was sealed.
“What are you going to do with me?” I was stunned that the debt had been paid by this stranger. I am cynical enough to know that no one does that without exacting a price.
“What do you want from me?” Leery of his intentions, I expected to be used in some despicable way. If this is freedom, it is, so far, no better than slavery.
“I am taking you home to my lady. She will decided what shall be done with you.” Cassius led me through the streets of the market place and on to the main road. As we walked, he asked me, “Where do you come from? How did you get to Rome?”
“My home is far away. I came here by ship. I got to Rome because that’s where the ship was going.”
“Don’t be insolent with me. I’m taking you home with me. I shall clean you up before I take you to meet the lady.” On we walked, eastward, the sun hot on our backs. At last we approached the entrance to a huge villa. There were servants everywhere. Within the hour, Cassius had arranged for me to have a bath, clean clothes and a substantial meal.
“Well, you look better. You smell better, too. Come with me.” Cassius walked toward the salon off the open courtyard. Warily, I walked behind him. As we approached, I saw a beautiful lady, evidently laboring over a bit of writing.
“I hesitate to interrupt you, my lady. I have a matter to discuss with you.”
She looked up from her work. “Yes, Cassius. Come in. I don’t mind an interruption. Who is your young friend?” She nodded and smiled. We entered.
“I brought him home from the market. I caught him stealing bread. He looked hungry, so I brought him here.”
“And have you had something to eat?” She looked at me. I was dazzled and embarrassed by her beauty. Her hair was the color of the sun, her eyes, the color of the sea. Around her neck she wore a small gold disc. Instinctively, I thought about stealing it.
“Food. Did you have food?”
“Yes, thank you.” I felt my face go hot. I did not expect to be greeted by such a lady. She has kind eyes. I looked down at the sandals I was given. Suddenly, I was ashamed, and I didn’t know why.
She smiled. When she spoke her voice was soft and warm. “My name is Claudia Rufina. I am the mistress of this house. Do you have a name?”
I continued to study my own toes. “Onesimus, my lady. My name is Onesimus.”
It sounded strange to my own ears. For months, I had not spoken my name aloud, nor had I heard it spoken by anyone else.
“And from where do you come, Onesimus?” The question was asked politely, gently. It sounded to me as if she might be truly interested.
“I’m from Colossae, my lady.”
“You will stay here tonight. Cassius will see to it that you have food to eat and a place to sleep. In the morning, we shall visit my husband’s brother. He has friends in your city. Cassius, please see to the comfort of our young friend.” Cassius nodded.
I looked into her face. I saw kindness there. I was emboldened to speak. “Thank you, my lady. I have never met anyone like you. I am in your debt.” My heart sang. I would gladly be her slave. She nodded. We were dismissed.
Cassius led me to a bedchamber. He gave me bedclothes and a basin of water for washing.
We talked long into the night.
“So, Onisemus, tell me about your life in Colossae.”
“There’s not much to tell. My master is a good man, but I didn’t like being a slave. I have tried to run away before, but I was always caught.”
“Sometimes I think of traveling around the world. I have never been on a ship. You have stowed away on several, I suppose. How did you do that without getting caught. And what is it like to be out on the open sea?”
“I have been on some ships. Once I sneaked on ship before dawn and I was able to hide under some sacks of corn. Once I walked right on board and told the captain that I was there to make sure the ropes were secure. As for being out on the open sea there is nothing in this world like it. To look over the bow of a ship and see nothing but water as far as you can look is a little frightening. When the wind is up and the sails are full and the ship is moving, it is a thrill. I can see why some men make a life of sailing. I don’t know about life in Rome.”
“Life in this house is good. The master of the house is a Senator. The lady Claudia is accustomed to feeding the strays that members of her household bring in. No one knows how many folks have found refuge here already. This house is a place where sick folk are brought to receive the care they need. There are a number of rescued children who live on the property. In Rome, if women have babies they don’t want or can’t take care of they leave them on the hillsides to die. The lady Claudia will never turn one of those babies away. People bring them to her. Hungry folk find food here. Poor people find sandals and clothes and a meal. The villa is beginning to be known as a haven for those in need.”
“It is that for me. I thank you, Cassius, for bringing me here.”
“You are fortunate. It is not safe on the streets of Rome for a runaway.”
“It has been a long time since I have slept under the roof of a fine house. Tonight I sleep under a senator’s roof. Imagine that! It’s a great improvement over sleeping in the street.” Cassius responded, but as he spoke, exhaustion overtook me. Cassius was still talking when I drifted into a deep and restful sleep.
The morning dawned bright and clear. We quickly washed and dressed. The lady Claudia called for Cassius.
“Meet me in the kitchen with your runaway within the hour. I must prepare food for Paul.”
She hurried to the kitchen. We waited outside. Soon she emerged carrying a large basket lined with a clean towel and filled with food from the night before–bread, meat, fruit.
Cassius took the heavy basket and helped her into the conveyance. We settled in. With Cassius in the driver’s seat, the horses trotted toward the city. Through the countryside and into the outlying district we rode, straight into the center of Rome. Down long, narrow streets we clattered, until we came to the prison. I became uneasy. Where are they taking me? They said they were taking me to visit her husband’s brother. That sounds a little strange. Perhaps, they are going to report me after all. Perhaps the kindness they showed me was just a ruse to get me to remain calm, but then, why would they go to all the trouble to take me to their home and feed me and give me clean clothes? If they were going to throw me into prison, this Cassius fellow, could have done that when he caught me stealing bread. My thoughts raced. Why were we stopping here? Where is her husband’s brother anyway?
We stopped before the gates of the prison. There is the customary contingent of guards on duty. Cassius alighted and walked boldly to the closest guard.
“This is the lady Claudia bringing a basket of food to the prisoner, Paul. She is the wife of Senator Pudens.”
“I must inspect the basket.” The guard took the heavy container and quickly rifled through it.
He smiled at Claudia. “Caesar’s tax on this basket is two figs.” He took the ripe fruit, tossed one fig to his colleague, and popped the other into his own mouth.
Claudia smiled back. “I don’t mind paying that kind of tax to Caesar. Next time, I’ll bring you a meat pie.”
“We look forward to your visits, my lady.” He ordered the gate to be opened.
Down steep steps and through dark, narrow, corridors we went until we came to the grate that covered the pit where Paul and his friend, Timothy, were imprisoned. Claudia knelt and called through the grate.
“Brother Paul,” she called. “I brought you something from our kitchen.”
“Dear sister.” Paul stepped to the center of his prison and looked up to the light coming from the grate above.
Claudia ordered the guards, “Remove the grate.” With great clanking the two men on duty strained to lift the heavy grate and set it aside. Claudia tried to lower the basket of food down to the prisoners.
Paul observed from below. “The basket will not fit. You’ll have to pass the food down a bit at a time. How good of you to come. I prayed for you this morning. Praise and glory to our Lord. You are his emissary. What riches you bring to me, not only this food, but your own sweet presence.”
Claudia passed the food through the opening which was just large enough for a man’s body to be lowered from above. That done, she lay down on the cold stones and put her hand through the opening, reaching down toward her brother-in-law. Paul reached up and took her hand. She heard him murmur a prayer. Then, Timothy took her hand.
“Sister Claudia. Thank you for coming. You are a blessing.”
“I have brought a young man to see Paul. Please, to him. He is from Colosae. He is a stranger here.”
Paul stood looking up from the pit. “Pray, Claudia, as I talk to him.”
“Yes, I shall pray for him.”
“What is your name, son?”
“Onesimus.”
“Onesimus. It means ‘Useful.’ Give me your hand.” I lay down on my belly and thrust my hand into the opening. The preacher took it between his own two hands. He saw the brand on my right palm.
“You are a slave?”
“Yes.”
“I, too, am a slave. Who is your master in Colosae?”
“A man named Philemon.”
“I know him. A good man. Your master is honorable.”
“Did you say you are a slave?” I asked.
“Yes. I am a bondslave to the Lord Christ. My desire is that all men should know Him as I do. My Master is the Son of the living God. He died on a Roman cross. He rose again the third day as He said He would. If you believe in Him, you will be forgiven of your sins and you will have abundant life and life eternal. Have you sinned, my son?”
“I have run away from my master. I have stolen things. I have robbed people. I have been dishonest. I have hurt people. Yes, preacher, I have sinned and I carry it like a burden on my back. Sometimes I think I’ll die beneath the weight of it.”
“You will die beneath it. It is too heavy for you. I am, of all men, chief of sinners. I consented to the death of a good man named Steven. I gathered up the followers of Jesus and threw them into prison. Many of them died. I met Jesus one day when I was on my way to Damascus. I was struck blind by a light far brighter than the sun. I was struck to the heart because I had been the enemy of his followers. When I believed, He healed me of all my transgressions and he forgave me and made me new. I no longer had to bear the weight of all the sins I committed. Christ carried my burden as He carried his cross. He’ll carry your sins. Do you believe this?”
“I believe. Help me. What shall I do?”
“Confess Christ. I wish you could stay with me. I could more fully teach you about spiritual matters. And you could be of great help to me. You could be useful and live up to your name. But you must go back to Colosae. Go back to Philemon. Tell him you have found new life. Ask his forgiveness. God forgives you. Philemon will forgive you too.”
“What if he doesn’t? My penalty would be death.”
“Yes. I know. Don’t be afraid. I’ll write a letter to him. You can take it with you. He will forgive you for my sake.” Let me talk to the lady Claudia once more.”
Claudia knelt at the opening above.
“Sister, when you come back, bring me writing materials. Mine are almost depleted. This time tomorrow I’ll have a letter ready for our young friend–my new son in my bonds. Will you do that for me?”
“Of course I will. What else can I bring you?”
“More figs, please. And your own sweet spirit. You refresh my heart.” Claudia passed Paul a hymn she had written. She whispered, “He is risen.”
Paul responded in a firm voice. “He is risen, indeed.”
As we left, we heard Paul singing the hymn she had written:
Glory and praise to God,
The creator of heaven and earth.
Glory to Jesus, the crucified One,
Who gave us new birth, Who gave us new birth.
Praise and glory to Him
Who gave us new birth.
“It is delivered to us by the firm tradition of our forefathers that the house of Pudens was the first that entertained Saints Peter and Paul, and that there the Christians assembling formed the Church, and that of all our Churches at Rome the oldest in that which is called after the name of Pudens.”
“Claudia was the first hostess or harbourer of St. Peter and St. Paul at the time of their coming to Rome.”
I stood before the community of believers at the villa. It was the morning of the first day of the week.
“Let us praise God,” I said to some fifty people crowded into the courtyard for the time of worship and prayer. We love the community of believers who meet in the atrium. The fellowship is sweet. Claudia says it is reminiscent of her days as a child in Siuluria where all worship was conducted open to the sky above. We are safe so far. Because he is a senator, Rufus enjoys influence among the powers in Rome. We do not believe that he is yet suspected of being a follower of The Way. No accusations have been lodged against him. We are thankful that Domus Pudens is far enough from the center of the city that we can gather here. Many of our brothers and sisters worship in the catacombs. We conduct worship clandestinely. Nero is slaughtering our people. Hundreds have been killed for no reason except that they profess Christ. Claudius decreed Christianity a capital offence. Nero carries out the decree on a massive scale. Every person who worships at Domus Pudens has suffered the loss of a family member or a friend. Some have suffered multiple losses. Some have barely escaped with their lives. Their homes and goods have been confiscated. Many have sought asylum here with us.
“Let us sing a psalm.” I begin: “O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good.” The response was sure, voices rising like a strong wind and carried to the heart of the God who hears:
“For his mercy endures forever.”
“O give thanks unto the God of gods.”
“For his mercy endures forever.”
“To him who alone does great wonders.”
“For his mercy endures forever.”
“Who remembered us in our low estate.”
“For his mercy endures forever.”
“And has redeemed us from our enemies.” Heads held high, the believers responded: “For his mercy endures forever.”
I lifted my eyes to heaven.
“Oh Lord of all lords, we praise your name for, indeed, your great mercy endures forever. Heaven and earth may pass away, but your love will sustain us through peril. Help us in our time of distress. Comfort those who have lost family members. Strengthen those who are in prison because they speak your name. We remember our brothers, Paul and Timothy. Keep them safe from harm. Help us to rejoice when our enemies persecute us. In the name of Jesus our Lord. Amen.”
I shall read portions of the letter our brother Paul wrote to us when he was in Corinth. We have read it many times since it was delivered to us by our sister Phebe. It is rich in comfort and Paul has much to teach us through it. He writes, “The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory to come. If God be for us, who can be against us? Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, ‘For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors, through him who loved us.”
Paul writes to us that we should not be afraid. He writes of his firm belief that God will prevail, that nothing can take away our faith. Nothing! No power on this earth! Listen to Paul’s words: “For I am confident that neither death, nor life, nor angels nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor, depth, nor any other created thing shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen. So be it.”
“Now it is time for you to speak.” I sat down and waited for the Spirit of God to move. The gathering grew silent. One by one, people rose to tell what great things God has done. “My daughter was sick with a fever. We prayed, anointed her head with oil and laid hands on her. She was restored to health.”
“My father has come to know the Lord. He will be baptized, soon.”
“Jesus came to me in a vision. He told me not to be afraid. Every member of my family–my mother, my father, my wife, my three children, were taken to the arena. They were mercilessly put to the sword. In my vision I saw my children in the arms of Jesus. One day I shall be with them.”
From the worshipers there were murmured words of encouragement:
“Praise God.”
“Yes, brother.”
“We shall pray for you.”
“God be with you.”
In the very back of the crowd, a young man stood. No one knew him. We were all curious. We looked at him. Many had to turn their bodies to better see and hear him. He spoke with an accent we could not place.
“My name is Onesimus. I am a slave of Philemon of the city of Colosse. I ran away from my master and made my way here. For six months I ran. I hid in barns. I stole food or I went hungry. I slept in the woods. I stowed away on two different ships. My life was often threatened. Finally, by the time I came to Rome, I was in rags. I stole clothes from some women who were washing the family laundry in the river. I stole food from the open market. My hands are swift. I did not get caught–until day before yesterday. Someone saw me. It was Cassius from this household. He brought me to your lady, Claudia. She gave me food. She let me sleep here in this house. Yesterday, she, herself, took me to the prison to visit the preacher. His young friend was with him. They told me about Jesus. My master at home is a follower of The Way. I had often seen him pray, but I never understood what it meant until the preacher in prison explained it all to me. I am on my way back to Colosse. I have in my hand a letter the preacher wrote for me to deliver into the hands of my master. The preacher told me the letter is for my good. The preacher knows my master. I do not know how to read. I pray that someone here would read it for me.”
I rose to my feet. Cassius led Onesimus to the front of the gathering and stood beside him, his hand upon his shoulder. The runaway slave handed the letter to me.
I read these words, “Paul, a prisoner of Jesus Christ and Timothy, our brother unto Philemon. I beseech you for my son, Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my bonds, which was formerly useless to you, but now is useful. Receive him as you would receive me. I would have kept him with me, but could not without your permission. Receive him now, not as a slave, but as a loved brother. If he has wronged you, or if he owes you anything, I will pay.” There was more. By the time I had read it all, everyone was moved to tears by the sweetness of God’s forgiveness and His power to transform and liberate lives.
All the believers surrounded Onesimus and we laid our hands on him in blessing. We prayed for him. We embraced him. We took up an offering. It was enough to pay his passage back to Colosse. We show our love in practical ways.
“We shall pray for you every day.”
“You are our brother in the Lord.”
“May God bless you and keep you safe.”
“Go, tell what great and wonderful things the Lord has done for you.”
We broke bread together, rejoiced together, sang a hymn together, and we went out with a benediction ringing in our hearts. The words were Paul’s: “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit. Amen.”
“The blessed Simon Peter, on seeing his wife led to her death, rejoiced at her call and of her conveyance home, and called very encouragingly and comfortingly, addressing her by name, ‘Remember thou the Lord.’ Such was the marriage of the blessed and their perfect disposition toward those dearest to them.”
“Have we not power to lead about a sister, a wife, as well as other apostles, and as the brethren of the Lord, and Cephas?”
I visited the carcer. Because I am a member of the Senate, the guards allow me to speak to Paul face to face. I walk the streets of Rome a free man. My brother is the one in chains. It seems strange that I draw strength from him. It should be the other way around. Paul does not falter or faint. He serves as a great inspiration to all the believers in Rome. Our people are under the heaviest persecution. Many of them have already been slaughtered. They go singing to their death. Urbane was thrown to the wild beasts. Stachys was crucified. Apelles also died on a cross. Others are marked for death. Tryphena has been charged with sedition. She awaits trial. Patrobas also has been convicted and awaits his death. Perpetua, who was Simon Peter’s wife and Eubulus’ daughter, was led away to be slain along with a dozen others. Persis was burned alive at one of Nero’s garden parties. Who among us will come through this great tribulation?
“I do not fear for my own life. It may be that I shall be spared because of my service to Rome. Engineers are ever in demand. Perhaps my skill will protect me from Nero’s capriciousness. No, I do not fear for my own life. I fear for my wife and for my children.” I kept my voice low as I talked to Paul. “For so long we felt we were protected at the villa. We are on the edge of the city, far enough away that we were not in any danger. But they are coming now for our number. I cannot bear to think of losing my own children.”
“My little brother, do not fear. What glory awaits us. They can only kill this body. They cannot kill us. I have faced death so many times. I have come to believe with all my being that I shall live this life for Christ as long as it is granted to me, and when I die I shall come into my reward. What can they do to me that is worse than what they have already done? They can kill me. What is that to me? I shall look upon the face of my Lord. Whatever I suffered here in this life will be as nothing compared with the glory that is to come.” Paul’s eyes burned with the conviction of his words.
“I also believe. I just know how cruel Rome is. Nero is mad. Until we are rid of him, this madness will not stop.” Paul put his hand on my arm.
“No, Rufus. When Nero is dead, there will be another madman and another and another. There is no end to evil in this world. It is only in God’s kingdom that we find peace. I know what persecution is. This isn’t the first time that I have experienced it.” He pulled his robe off his shoulder. I gasped when I saw the scars on his back. “How many stripes have been laid on my back? I have lost count. I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Christ. I count it joy to suffer for his name. No one knows what a debt I owe Him. I am now persecuted. You must remember, Rufus, that I was a persecutor. I did to followers of the Way what is now being done to me. I am forgiven by His grace. Is that not wonderful to think that I am forgiven of my great sin?”
“Yes, wonderful.” I took Paul’s hands in mine. I felt him flinch with pain. His hands are gnarled and stiff, the joints swollen and red. My eyes filled with tears. “I hate to see you here. I wish I could take you out of this place. I live in plenty while you suffer here.”
“Do not trouble yourself about me. God is good. I am content. You come to see me. Claudia brings me food. I pray here. I sing. I write. I preach. Sometimes far into the night I preach loud enough for prisoners and guards to hear me. Some have come to know the Lord even in this place. Listen well, Rufus. If I die, I die to His glory. If I live, I live for His glory. All is in God’s hands. I do not fear. You must not fear either. God will give you the grace to bear whatever comes. Be strong.”
“I have no trouble with fidelity. I will be faithful unto death. I hope I find the courage and strength of our martyred brothers and sisters.”
“God will give you the strength you need. I have said it before and I will say it to you, here in this fetid prison. God’s grace is sufficient for me and sufficient for you.”
“I believe that, Paul, but I am not like you are. I do not have the kind of mind you have. I am quiet and private by nature. I have an engineer’s mind. I struggle to understand what you seem to know without effort.”
“It is not without effort, Rufus. I, too, have struggled, but I am fueled by my memory of who I was before I traveled the Road to Damascus and what happened to me that day. I was blind and now I see. I lived in darkness and I saw a great light. I was wrong and I am made right. I heard his voice. He called my name and He gave me work to do. Do not fear, Rufus. The Lord himself is with you wherever you go. And the kingdom of God dwells within you.”
We embraced. I came away comforted.
“Blessed are you when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.”
From the hill we could look out over the city. We first saw smoke rise as a small cloud. And then we saw flames. Someone yelled, “Fire!” and the whole villa came alive with urgently running men. My heart was pounding. I heard Rufus frantically shouting orders.
“Marcellus, take ten men and find as many vessels as you can. Take them to the baths. We’ll form a brigade. We’ll need every able bodied man. Divide them into teams. Keep one team working and one resting. Soak everything in sight–the lawns, the gardens. Soak the outbuildings and the main house. Keep the water flowing. We don’t know what these winds will do.” He ran to find us. The children were clustered around me.
“Claudia, you have the most important task of all. You must keep the children safe. Tell the women to form a kitchen brigade. Keep the ovens going. These men will need to keep up their strength.”
“Will it reach us?” I instinctively turned to Rufus. Sweat was pouring down his face. Urgency was written in his every expression and gesture, but his hands were steady.
“I have no way of knowing, We’ll do everything we can to prevent it. Keep the children inside. I don’t know how bad the smoke will be.” Rufus was obviously thinking fast. “Take what you will need and go to the bath house with the children. Take their teacher with you. The bath house is the safest place on our property that I can think of. We may need to evacuate, but let’s see if we can wait it out.”
The men began to fill receptacles with water and passed them along the line to be thrown on the main house and outbuildings. They soaked blankets in water and laid them over walls and on roofs. The operation took on a rhythm, dipping buckets or basins into the pools, passing them up the line–hands and arms swinging, releasing, receiving, throwing the water in cascades, and returning the empty vessels to be filled again and again.
I held our girls close. Timotheus and Novatus now nine and ten years old beseeched their father.
“Let us help, father. We can help in the brigade.”
“No. I want you to stay out of the way of the men.” When he saw their faces fall, Rufus took them by the shoulder.
“I give you the most important job of all. You two are my special deputies. You must guard your mother and your sisters. Do not fail me.”
“Yes, father.” They squared their shoulders, proud of the adult responsibility. In a lower voice, Rufus spoke to me privately. “Take the children, their teacher and their nurses and keep them safe. Marcellus and Antonius will direct the operations here at the villa.” He shouted orders, “Cassius, pack up my books and papers and get them away from here.”
“Where shall I take them, Senator?”
“I don’t care—just away from here. I don’t want them soaked–or burned. I hold you responsible for them.” Cassius nodded and left to find servants who could help him load the carts
“How bad is it?” I have always trusted my husband’s judgement.
“We can’t tell yet, but it seems to be coming from the center of the city. It’s dry as tinder in there and it could burn for days. I’m going into the city to see what I can find out.”
Cassius stepped forward. “I’m going with you, Senator. The men will take care of your papers. Lady Claudia, I pray that you and the children will be safe. Rufus hastily embraced me and the children.
“God go before you. Be careful.” My hand automatically rose to my throat and to the talisman I had so long worn. I found comfort in this small gesture as I fought back a feeling of dread.
As we spoke, the chariot driver led two horses across the lawn. He handed the reins to Rufus and Cassius. The two men leaped upon their rearing mounts and rode at a gallop down the villa road and on to the Vicus Patricius that led straight to the center of Rome. Their horses, eyes rolling, mouths foaming, snorted in fear as they caught scent of the smoke.
I watched as my husband rode toward danger. Suddenly, I had a memory of my father as he rode away to war when I was a little girl. I looked at Praxedes and Pudentiana and realized that my two daughters were just about the age now that I was then. I instinctively knew how my children were feeling. I remembered how frightened everyone was at my father’s going. As long as my father was at home, I felt secure. As the sound of the horses’ hooves faded from my hearing, I gave way to tears. When the children began to cry in response, I quickly regained my composure. For a few moments, I held my children close.
“Don’t worry, mother.” Timotheus planted his square little body before me. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you and my sisters. Novatus and I will take care of you.”
“Thank you, my son. You are so brave.” I smiled into four pairs of brown eyes so like their father’s. “You are right. All will be well. Let’s pray for your father and Cassius so that they will come home safe and soon.” They bowed their heads and prayed. How beautiful they are! And how dear!
I am well aware that my husband is in many ways like my father. Neither is content to stand by and observe. They are in the thick of the battle–no matter what the cause. As frightened as I was, I had to smile a little. How like my husband to go charging off into the night straight into the jaws of death. If there is something that needed to be solved, he can solve it. It there is something that needs to be built, he can build it. If there is a battle to be fought, he will fight to the death. I consider myself fortunate to be married to a man who is steady in a crisis. I thought about courage in a precarious world. Men were not the only heroes. Women, too, faced peril, but of a different sort. Oh, some of them had shown themselves to be as intrepid as men on the battlefields. Look at Boadacea. Every Briton had thrilled to hear of her exploits at the head of a British army of a hundred and twenty thousand men. Nowhere in the history of Greece or Rome was her equal. It would never enter my mind to lead an army into battle. Yet, I remember what Rufus told me after the birth of our babies. He said he had never seen such bravery even on the battlefield. We are so different, Rufus and I. I come from a people who love peace, but who faced adversity with unflinching courage. These Romans are a different breed–full of intrigue. Not Rufus, of course, but so many of the noblemen. Until my family was brought captive to Rome, I believed in the essential goodness of people. Now, I am convinced otherwise.
The new emperor is quite mad. The old emperor, though personally kind to me, was, nonetheless, a cruel and ruthless man. It was he who had declared it a capital offense to profess Christ. No wonder Rufus had laid his fingertips on my lips in his garden that day when I wanted to speak of my faith. Even back then it was too dangerous to speak it. Well, Claudius died by treachery. Rumor had it that Agrippina, had killed him with a poisoned mushroom. She obviously had not used enough poison, because Claudius lingered and had to be poisoned a second time. He finally died in October. Will ever there be an emperor of Rome who will die of old age in his bed? The Emperor Nero is worse than Claudius ever thought of being. When he ascended the throne at age seventeen, all Rome trembled. Nero, is a viper. The stories about him are true. Everyone in Rome knows how he illuminates his garden parties. Christians are forced to wear tunics soaked in wax. They are tied to poles and ignited as his guests arrive. Everyone knows that Christians are hung high along the roadways, covered with pitch, and set on fire to provide light for the nocturnal processions. Everyone knows that Christians are sewn inside the skins of wild animals and are thrown to vicious dogs to be mauled to death. Everyone knows, and everyone is terrified. Nero may look like a young fool with his emerald monocle in his eye, the better to see the gore of the arena, but he is no fool. He is a monster who slaughters the innocent without compunction. He massacred the Druids on the Isle of Mon at Anglesey, he butchered twenty men at one time, he poisoned his own brother, and, finally, more shocking than anything else he had ever done, he ordered his soldiers to hack his mother into small pieces before his eyes. In killing Agrippina, Nero killed the one person who was, possibly, more evil than he.
I looked at my children with love and concern. I drew them close to me. Suddenly, I thought, “What am I doing. There’s work to be done.” I was spurred into action. Gwynedd stood by.
“What shall I do, my lady?”
“Pack up the children’s clothes. We are going to spend the night in the bath house.”
I left Gwynedd and the nurses to tend to the children and get them settled for the night. That would not be easy. Everyone was wide awake with excitement. I ran to the kitchen to make sure the women were baking bread. I found the place a ant hill of activity, bread already in the oven and stew boiling over the fire. “Good.” I nodded to the cooks. “No one is going to get much sleep this night—not the firefighters and none of the kitchen workers.”
I slipped out to watch the fire. The flames rose high now, casting eerie orange light over the city. Our villa, lies outside the city, east of Rome, far enough away from the conflagration that we were not in immediate danger. But the blaze made the night into brightest day, and we could smell the smoke and feel the heat. The bucket brigade never stopped. All through the night, the men worked to keep the buildings soaked with water. All through the night and the next day–and the next—and the next.
Cassius and Rufus came home black with soot and utterly exhausted. Their mounts were trembling with fatigue.
“Are you well?” I felt I was looking into the mouth of hell.
“We are. And you and the children?”
“Safe.”
“Thank God.”
Servants ran to help the two men dismount. The horses were taken to the stables.
“What news of the fire?”
“No one knows how it started. Someone said that it was set in one of the shops near the Great Circus beneath the Palatine. The rickety buildings between the Viminal and Esquiline went up like tinder. Right now, it is an inferno. They say that it will have to burn itself out. There is no way of controlling it. No one knows how many hundreds or thousands of people were caught in it. It looks like Nero will get his wish to rebuild Rome.” Sweat poured down Rufus’ face. He and Cassius were weary to the bone. They stumbled toward the bath house. I ordered food to be laid out for them in the triclinium. After they bathed, they embraced the children.
“Timotheous, Novatus.” Rufus knelt beside his sons. “We are safe. And so is everyone here.
The boys stood at attention before their father. “We took care of our mother and the girls. We did all you told us to do.” Timotheous spoke, his head held high.
“We were not afraid, father.” Novatus spoke in a light, piping little voice, but he stood straight and tall beside his older brother.
“Good. You are brave. You did well. You can be trusted. I am very proud of you. You are good sons. You bring honor to our house.” Rufus smiled at his sons. The warmth of accomplishment filled their hearts.
The two men ate ravenously, and then, at last, they lay down to sleep for the first time in three days.
For nine days and nights Rome burned. It was as if hell itself had engulfed the city and incinerated everything in its path. Almost the entire city was destroyed. Then the rains came. Torrential storms swept over the city. High winds flung the heavy rains into the cauldron that was Rome. For days, steam rose like mist from a lake. The fires were finally extinguished. Nothing was left but smoking ruins. Everything in the path of the fire was demolished beyond recognition. The acrid stench was choking. Everything was blanketed with ash. The rains turned what was left into a viscous black slop. Thousands of people died, their bodies cremated in the ovens of their own homes. Animals lay dead, their carcasses half burned. What was left was covered with flies. Ten of Rome’s fourteen districts were utterly destroyed.
Nero played the part of a hero. He opened public buildings to the homeless. He made an ostentatious display of the sacrifices he offered to the god, Vulcan. Unfortunately, he neglected to do it before the fire. We are cynical. We knew that Nero would not assume the responsibility for so grievous an event. And, it did not take long for the news to reach us. The official word was out. It was the Christians who set the fire. We are arsonists. According to Nero, we also cause earthquakes, floods, and plagues. The Roman gods are obviously furious and seeking revenge. The official word is that the Christians are to blame for all of Rome’s misery. Believers are to be immediately rounded up and killed. It will not be an easy task. There are multitudes in Rome, now, who are followers of Christ. When Claudius expelled the Jewish converts to Christianity, there were some forty thousand of them. I wonder how many of us there are now. Nero must be crazy with rage. He will not rest until all the followers of The Way are eliminated. He wants to restore Rome to her pantheon of gods as a part of his own legacy. Paul is particularly vulnerable because he is seen by the authorities as an agitator.
I am frightened. I looked at Rufus. “What shall we do?”
Rufus embraced me. He spoke words of comfort. “We shall live our lives as we always have. This villa is known far and wide as the Paladium Britanicum. We shall continue to worship here. We shall receive our Christian brothers and sisters here. We shall receive the apostles and the preachers. Hermas will continue to teach and preach to our household and to be our pastor. This place shall continue to be a haven for all who need shelter, and that certainly includes my brother. Even before I knew the Lord, my father received Simon Peter into this house. This is not new. We live in dangerous times, but we have always lived in dangerous times. Twenty years ago, the Emperor Claudius persecuted believers. Now it is Nero who seeks to kill us.”
“Is there no end to it? Can they not leave us in peace?”
He held me closer. “You know what Paul says, ‘Be strong in the Lord and in the power of his might.’”
I pressed my face into my husband’s chest. He is so solid. He is so strong. I bit my lip. “I shall be brave. God is for us.”
“Then who or what shall be against us?” Rufus took out his kerchief and wiped the tears from my face. “That’s my brave girl.” He held me closer.
Days later the rumor reached us that the Emperor Nero entertained himself by playing his lyre while watching the flames consume the city. The official word was, of course, a denial. Nero, they said, was not even in Rome at the time. How could anyone think that he would burn his own city? After all, the emperor would have to be insane to do something like that.
“In his farewell charge to Timothy he sends him the greetings of ‘Pudens and Linus and Claudia.’ These, with that of Eubulus, are the only names of the Christian band mentioned by him; these ministered to him on the eve of his martyrdom, and these attended him when he was on the block of the state lictor, a little distance out of Rome, and these consigned his remains with their own hands to the Pudentinian family tomb on the Ostian Road. St. Gregory I, Bishop of Rome, specified the ‘Aquas Salvias,’ now called ‘le tre Fontane,’ on the Via Ostiensis, as the site of his martyrdom. The Chiesa di S. Paola alle tre Fontane, preserves the memory of the site.”
“To leave the examples of antiquity, and to come to the most recent, let us take the noble examples of our own times. Let us place before our eyes the good apostles. Peter, through unjust odium, underwent not one or two, but many sufferings, and having undergone his martyrdom, he went to the place of glory to which he was entitled. Paul, also, having seven times worn chains, and been hunted and stoned, received the prize of such endurance. For he was the herald of the Gospel in the West as well as in the East, and enjoyed the illustrious reputation of the faith in teaching the whole world to be righteous. And after he had been to the extremity of the West, he suffered martyrdom before the sovereigns of mankind; and thus delivered from this world, he went to his holy place, the most brilliant example of stedfastness that we possess.”
Paul is dead. The detail of soldiers, under orders, took him yesterday, bound, to the block on the Ostian Way and beheaded him. There was no great light. There was no voice from heaven—just the quick flash of a razor sharp sword and the grisly aftermath. Thank God it was a quick and merciful death. Because he was a Roman citizen, he was spared crucifixion. Paul showed no fear. He would give no quarter to the enemies of Christ. It drives the Romans to fury that believers die with a smile. How many of us now have gone singing to our death?
I remember old Simon Peter calling to his wife as they carried her away to die—that old man and that old woman– together for so many years. When the Lord chose Simon, he called him from his boat and his fishing. His wife went with him from Galilee, and she stayed, too, even when her husband denied the Lord. Well, Peter was forgiven, and he became the rock. When the soldiers took his wife to her death, Simon called after her, “Perpetua, remember thou the Lord.” His voice was tender with pain and love. One day, they will come for Peter. Death is no stranger to any of us. And yesterday, it was Paul’s turn. Death has been Paul’s companion for years. There were more brushes with death for him than any of us can count. Paul meant it when he said that for him to die was gain. ‘To live is Christ,’ he said. He knew no other after the vision.
His family was around him. Rufus and Claudia, their children, Cassius and I followed the detail on the half day’s journey in the heat and dust to the place of execution. The soldiers allowed him to kneel in prayer before the moment of his death.
I heard his last words, “Even so, come Lord Jesus.”
I saw the flash of metal. I heard the swish as it whirred in the air. I saw the severed head roll on the ground. I saw the blood pour out. My first thought was of Paul’s great mind– all that learning—all that insight—all that logic—all that intensity—now reduced to blood, and bone, the eyes dulled in death.
As male next of kin, Rufus asked the captain of the guard for permission to carry Paul’s remains back to our villa. Permission was granted, very likely because Rufus is a member of the Senate. Claudia and the girls washed his body and wrapped him in a linen shroud. The church gathered. With tears, we sang Paul to his glorious home. He always said that his body was mortal and that the day would come when he would put on immortality. This is his day to receive the crown that awaited him. At last, Paul looks upon the face of Jesus who poured out his life in obedience to death on a cross. Paul was faithful to the end. He ran a good race. We laid him to rest in the family tombs.
We are left with questions. Why does evil rule? Why should Paul’s great intellect be obliterated with one stroke of the sword? How long must we suffer? How long can we endure this crushing weight? Who will be the great evangelist now? Who will see after Paul’s churches? Who will pick up the fallen banner? We must have faith that God will raise up leaders. All of us will be faithful to do the work God has given us. And our children after us. The seed is planted. It is watered with the blood and tears of the martyrs. God will give the increase.
We are left to weep, but not as those who have no hope. So many of our number have died for the faith–beginning with those Paul, himself, persecuted before he was a believer. I’m not sure he ever got beyond that shame. Paul proclaimed that he lived a debtor to grace.
So. We go on. We run with patience the race that is set before us. Sometimes, though, I think I do not have the patience or the strength to put one foot in front of the other. We have all depended on Paul for guidance, for assurance, for comfort. Today I returned alone to pray at the tomb where we interred his body. My prayers were for eternal light to shine upon him—just as it did on the Damascus Road so long ago.
To my beloved sister, greetings. You have heard of our great fire. Much of the city was destroyed and many people perished. Domus Pudens was spared. Our men worked unceasingly to protect us all. We did not imagine or think that the persecution we suffer here could be increased, but followers of The Way stand accused of starting the conflagration. Many of our number have gone to their death in retribution. Four days ago we followed the soldiers as they took Paul to the block. We weep at his death, but we rejoice in the Lord always. Paul has received the crown of life laid up for him and he sits with Christ in heavenly places. How many times did we hear him say that to live is Christ and to die is gain. Rejoice, dear sister, and again I say rejoice. You are in my prayers. I pray that he who has begun a good work in you will complete it to the day of Christ Jesus. Grace be to you and to the household of faith.
“Known as the Domus Aurea because of its rich decorations, it was an immense complex centering about a vestibule lofty enough to house a gilded bronze statue of Nero himself, one hundred twenty feet high, and surrounded by parks, artificial lakes, and colonnades, one of which was reportedly a full mile in length. One of its banqueting halls was circular and equipped with a revolving ceiling; its rooms were richly painted and set with jewels and mother-of-pearl; the ceilings of ivory were pierced with pipes that sprayed perfume upon the banqueter.”
“Alas, what an artist is dying in me.”
After the great fire which had cleared huge spaces where the insulae had stood, Nero ordered construction of the domus aurea—his new palace surrounded by elaborate gardens. Most offensive to the populace was the massive statue—the colossus—depicting him in godlike pose that rose above us all. There was more than one plot to rid Rome of this despot. In retribution, Nero ordered many of his former supporters put to death, among them Seneca, his tutor, and Poppaea–his former mistress and now his wife, pregnant with their unborn child. A network of spies grew up in our city to discover those who were “not with Nero.” No one was safe.
Nero was mistrustful of everyone. He saw plotters behind every garden wall in Rome. At last, he left Rome in disguise in fear for his life. The armies defected. The Senate declared him an enemy of the state and stipulated that when he was arrested he would be punished in ancient style–stripped naked, his head thrust into a wooden fork, and flogged to death with sticks. When Nero learned of this, he ordered his men to dig a grave and to fetch wood and water for the disposal of his corpse. We heard that Nero was a coward to the end. He asked that those around him commit suicide first to give him courage. He required his scribe to help him to die. Finally, when he heard soldiers approaching, he drove a blade into his throat. They put him on the funeral pyre dressed in the gold-embroidered robes he wore in January. The funeral cost two thousand gold pieces. His death marked the end of the Julio-Claudian dynasty.
A week after his suicide, Nero’s reign was officially stricken from the record and he was declared damnatio memoriae by order of the Senate. I was gratified to cast my vote. The senators were, for once, unanimous in their decision. Whatever one may think of Claudius, when he was murdered, we pronounced him divus. Not so with Nero. Nero died an ignominious death. Everyone wonders what Rome will be under the new emperor–and who that might be. Nero has no blood relatives to succeed him. In his megalomania, he killed every member of his own family who might have any claim to power. Already there is uprising among the armies in Germany. Civil war surely will follow.
Greetings, dear sister, in the name of our Lord. I pray God’s blessings on you as you labor in Siluria to the Glory of His name. We continue here at the apostolorum in spite of our losses to give praise daily to Him who loved us and redeemed us from our sins. Rufus is well, but under considerable strain. He is called on by our new emperor to aid in designing a huge amphitheater which will be built over the excesses of Nero’s palace on the Palatine. He is one of many engineers called into the emperor’s service. He continues his duties with the Senate. I have married a man in demand by those in governmental authority. God gives him strength and wisdom. My children are well. I give thanks that they are followers of The Way. We are distressed to hear of the sacking of Jerusalem. We have news that the city has fallen to Rome. I should rejoice since I have pledged loyalty to Rome, but our brothers and sisters who have come to Christ out of Judaism are grief stricken. All of the power and excesses of Rome do not touch us here. The Kingdom of God is within us and we carry in our hearts the love and peace of God. May you be blessed with God’s peace that is beyond our human understanding.
“Located at the highest point of the Via Sacra which leads to the Roman Forum, this triumphal arch commemorates Titus’conquest of Judea which ended the Jewish Wars (66-70)…. The arch was erected posthumously, after Titus had already become a ‘god.’”
Jerusalem has fallen. The legions marched triumphantly through the streets of Rome. Titus is hailed as the hero of the hour. The populace was out in great numbers to shout approval. Women threw flowers and men got drunk in celebration. They say that Titus leveled everything in the old city. The soldiers entered the holy temple and stripped it of every valuable thing including the ark and the golden menorah from off the altar. Before the temple walls fell, they say that bodies slid down the steps in a river of blood. The temple was then reduced to dust and ashes. It was only four years ago that Rome perpetrated a wholesale massacre there. We heard that there was an orgy of fire and bloodshed and that forty thousand Jews had been killed. They said there were crosses without number lining the street with dying men impaled helplessly in the pitiless sun. It appears that Titus finished what Nero started. Hail, Caesar.
It has been years since I walked Jerusalem’s streets. I can’t imagine what the city must be now. It breaks my heart to think of it. I remember my life there fondly. After Aaron’s death, I took Saul there for his rabbinical studies. He was only sixteen at the time. As a young widow, I needed to reestablish my life. I remember the city as welcoming to me. I had many friends there. I remember Procula with great affection.
The Jerusalem I knew was alive with commerce, the market places full of noisy, haggling customers and shop keepers. I remember the temple crowded with worshipers. There, in the temple complex, the air was alive with the sound of rabbis reading scripture, the sound of debate of interpretation against dissenting interpretation. My Aaron used to say that if you put three Jews in a room, you would get four opinions. I remember the temple with the sounds of bleating sheep in the holding pens and the sound of squawking birds. I think of the money changers and the great trumpet-shaped receptacles where people cast in their offerings. Often, I sat with other women in the court set aside for us. How many prayers ascended to God from that place? It is unthinkable that the huge pillars are fallen, the veil of the temple burned to ashes, the holy of holies violated. I wonder how many people our soldiers killed this time. How many widows and orphans are left to weep?
It was in Pilate’s palace that I met Quintus. I shall never forget that day. The holy city was a part of my life. It’s all gone now. Jerusalem, oh Jerusalem. The Master wept for you. I also weep.
I called Rufus and the children into the atrium yesterday. The sun warmed our courtyard, its light playing in our fountains. It was a day of celebration.
“I have gathered you children around me because Pudentiana is fifteen today. If you had been born in Britain, this would have been the day that our last child would have been initiated into the clan. On your fifteenth birthday, all of you would have had a celebration. You are Roman. I know you are proud of that, but I want you to remember that you are also of royal British blood. I remember well the day I was ushered into the clan. I wore a white robe with golden trim. I stood with other young people under the open sky in our place of worship while the bards recited our family histories back through nine generations. That was the day that your grandmother Ergain gave me the gift of the talisman which has been passed down through the family from mother to last daughter for generations. So now, Pudentiana, I give it to you with every hope for God’s blessing on you. Wear it and remember all the strong women who have worn it before you.”
I took the talisman from around my neck and put it around the neck of my youngest daughter. “Oh, mother, I do thank you. I shall take such good care of it. I have loved it all my life.” She kissed my hands.
“The talisman has many meanings, my dear. I do not know its beginning, but I know that it has taken on new meaning for all the women who have worn it–the stages of life, the balance and flow, the life force. Now, I pray that you see new meaning as you wear it.”
“I see ichthus. I see three. I see continuity, and therefore, hope.”
“Yes. It has a way of speaking to each woman in her language and in her day.”
I turned to my sons and to Praxedes. “I have gifts for you, dear ones, as well. Novatus, I want you to have my father’s shield. He carried it into battle against the Romans. He was a brave warrior, always proud of never having been defeated. General Ostorius Scapula took this shield from my father at his capture. He gave it to his predecessor, General Aulus Plautius. When Uncle Plautius married my Aunt Gladys, he gave it to me. Keep it and honor the memory of your grandfather. Let it remind you, as your Uncle Paul wrote, to put on the armor of God.”
Novatus took the shield. “Thank you, mother. This is my shield of faith.” We embraced.
I smiled at Timotheus. “My dear son, I give to you this collection of pens. They are the ones your Uncle Paul used to write letters in prison. They are worn. They are not valuable, but I wanted you to have them in remembrance of one who loved you and whom you loved as a little boy. I remember your sitting cross-legged on the floor while Paul told you great adventure stories. I wanted you to have something of his. You loved him so.”
Timotheus received the gift with tears. “How well I remember that dear man. I loved to hear his stories. I am so grateful. This is better than gold.” He kissed me on the cheek. My sweet son—my first born.
I turned to Praxedes. “My dear daughter.” She stood before me. “I give you this ring. It is made of iron. The metal is not precious, but the ring itself is worth more than gems. It is the ring your father placed on my finger the day of our betrothal. I have treasured it for all these years. I have always known that one day I wanted my eldest daughter to have it. Keep it safe, my dear. It is a circle of love.”
“I can’t think of a gift I would rather have. Thank you, mother.” She kissed me and embraced me.
I turned to the four most treasured people in my life after Rufus.
“Your gift to me is your love and respect for me and your father and for each other. Let nothing break that bond as long as life shall last.” We stood and held hands forming a circle. “We promise,” they responded. Rufus came and stood behind me, his arms encircling me. I leaned on him. Together, we have produced these children, stalwart in the faith.
“May the wife love her husband when anon, he is grey, and she herself, even when she is old, seem not so to her spouse!”
“Walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”
“Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you. Be followers of God, as dear children, and walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us and hath given himself for us.”
“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”
Within these walls our world is safe. We close out the violence and the bloodshed. We reject the greed and the power of Rome. We, ourselves, are Romans, but our first allegiance is to Christ. This is treason according to the secular authorities. Paul taught us that we walk a narrow path between our dedication to God and our responsibility toward our government. After all, my husband is a part of the Roman Senate, so we live dangerously. We are always at risk. But inside this house—inside this house—we are safe. Here, we live what Jesus taught. Here, we are governed by love.
My husband and I often sit in the evening in our garden. I am restored, always, by the sight of our garden and the trees and hills that surround this city. Last evening we talked at length about the things that concern us. Rufus ordered a tray of sweet wine and cakes.
“Here, dear one.” He handed me a cup of wine. “Let’s sit and sip and talk awhile.”
“You are most kind, sir.” I took the goblet and made room for him on the bench beside me. “Rufus, this year I am an old woman.”
“Never. You’ll always be the girl who walked with me in the garden.”
“I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. Ah, dear. As I look back on it all I am amazed at what has happened in our lives. Our children are grown. Think of that! It seems only days ago that they were tumbling around my feet. They are good children. They follow our Lord. I hope I have not failed them.”
“There is no better wife and mother in all of Rome. Our children are a credit to your dedication to them.” He smiled at me. “I have something for you.”
“A gift? For me?” Rufus reached into the folds of his toga and brought out a small blue glass vase.
“Oh, it is exquisite.”
“I hope you like it. A shipment of glass came in today from Tyre. The color made me think of your eyes.”
“You lavish me with gifts. Yes, I love it. Thank you. How dear you are. I shall put it in our bedchamber.”
“You deserve every good thing.” Rufus held out his wine cup for me to refill. I poured his cup half full. “The grapes are good this year. I hope the wine we make in the autumn will be as good as this we drink tonight.”
“Yes. It will be a good harvest.” He paused and thought a moment. “Claudia, do you ever regret this life I have given you? You might have lived out your life in Britain as a royal princess.”
“No regrets, Rufus.” I took his big square hand between my hands. “In the garden, that day by the fish pool, we pledged ourselves to each other and to the Savior. How can I regret that promise? I am sometimes sad, but I do not regret.”
“What makes you sad, my dear?”
“I have often longed for the company of my parents and Ergain. They were such a light in my life. I still weep when I remember Paul. What a tower of strength he was to us all. When I allow myself to think of all those we have lost because of our faith, I cannot help but grieve. Does that mean that I am a weak person?”
“It means that you have a tender heart. It is one of the things I have always loved about you. I used to watch you with the children years ago. You were like them in some ways–innocent, loving, playful. You were so tender with our children. For that, I owe you my gratitude.”
“You gave them to me, Rufus–our children. They have always been dearer than life to me. And you, Rufus. God brought you to me. You are so strong. You have always been so brave. You are the paterfamilias of this house, but you have never misused your authority. I married a wise and good man.”
“I want to honor my Master. You know, I have found that following Him is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t mean to say it isn’t dangerous as Rome considers danger. I mean, rather, I have found that He transforms us into people who think of others before thinking of ourselves. We are often rewarded by Rome because even they find us honest, trustworthy, and lovers of peace. We live in a world where most people are concerned with reprisal, vengeance and vendetta. None of that appeals to me. So, we followers of Christ are a strange lot in their eyes.”
“Sometimes, I want to climb to the top of the highest hill in Rome and shout, ‘I am a follower of The Way. You poor, hungry, burdened people, come to Him and He will give you rest.’ That sounds so foolish, and I won’t do it because I don’t want to endanger this house, but my heart breaks for Rome.”
“It seems to me, Claudia, in your own quiet way, you have reached a goodly portion of the populace. It is hard to know how many people you have taken in, fed, clothed, taught. How many babies have been brought to you from off the mountain? How many poor people have you helped? How many children have you taught? How many hymns have you written? Perhaps that is more effective than shouting.” My husband smiled at me in the twilight. I put my head on his shoulder. He stroked my hair. I am so proud to be his wife. He is known across the city as an excellent engineer, an effective senator, and a faithful husband. He is known inside the walls of this house as a man who has the strength of a lion and the gentleness of a lamb. Inside this house we are safe.
“The first to suffer for the Church was Jesus Himself–not a martyr, of course, but the inspiration and source of all martyrdom.”
“Must I be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease, While others fought to win the prize and sailed through bloody seas?”
It was dark night. The city was asleep. At the third watch, Praxedes and I slipped out of a doorway and moved silently in the shelter of the shadows toward the arena, our black cloaks covering us from head to foot.
“Do you have the talisman?” Praxedes never failed to ask me.
“Yes. It is concealed in the folds of my robe. Do you have the ring?”
“I never go out at night without it. I feel the power of our parents’ love with it on my finger.” She showed me the iron betrothal ring my father had placed on our mother’s hand so long ago.
We carried a large basket lined with linen. The basket was empty except for the two metal scoops wrapped in cloth against any alerting noise. We did not talk, but went about our task as if nothing in the world was more important than this. The truth is, we were doing God’s work.
We arrived at the guard post and waited. Aulus Silvanus was on duty. We knew him from previous encounters. Silvanus walked his post, alert for our arrival. When he caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows, he unobtrusively dropped a large brass key onto the pavement stones and walked on. I broke away from the concealing wall into the moonlight, quickly retrieved the key, and beckoned to my sister. Together we picked up the large basket and walked silently down the dark maze of corridors to the door that led to the arena. Our footsteps were muted by the rags we had tied around our feet to muffle any sound. We stopped to listen. There. There it was again. I felt a prickle at the nape of my neck. We held our breath as we strained to hear. Then we saw the cat looking at us from atop the wall. Relieved, we moved on down the corridor toward our task. We arrived at the gate to the large open space of the arena. With the brass key, we gained entrance. In the moonlight, we could see what had to be done.
Earlier in the day, in this place, the populace had thrilled to a bloody circus of death. In a mockery of Christ’s passion, fourteen Christians were crucified. The drama was played out complete with a mock trial, flogging, reviling, spitting, mocking, and a placing of a crown of thorns on each victim’s head. Each Christian, to great applause, was nailed to a cross. Finally, in a show of well-choreographed synchronization, fourteen spears were thrust simultaneously into fourteen writhing bodies. The crowd went wild. Then, because crucifixion is such a leisurely spectacle, the victims were doused with pitch and set aflame. The audience watched until nothing was left but ashes, amusing themselves all the while eating and drinking and conversing.
“That one died first. I guess he’s gone to meet the Nazarene. We do these people a favor, you know. They all want to die so they can be with their god.”
“It looks to me like their god is weak. Why doesn’t he come down to save them?”
“Their god is not weak. He’s strong. He’s just no match for the Emperor Trajan.”
The raucous laughter, the jeers, and the catcalls now had ceased, but they lingered in the air like a malevolent cloud.
We went to work. If we were discovered, we would be the next main feature at the games. We pulled out the tools and unwrapped them. We worked quickly and quietly, scooping up ashes and dumping them into the basket. We prayed silently as we labored. Sometimes, as we would this night, we took our basket home filled with ashes. Sometimes it was filled with crushed or bloody bones. Human remains take as many forms as the diversity of tortures the Romans can devise.
This night we left the arena, closed and locked the door behind us, and went back to the guard tower bearing the heavy load between us. We put the key on the pavement where we had picked it up and left as quickly and as quietly as we had come. We slipped back into our own gate just before dawn. Hermas met us as we came through the door. We nodded silently to him.
“Interment at the usual time.”
It had become a ritual.
I cannot remember a time when we did not go out to gather the dear remains of martyred believers. We were still children when we first began. At ten and eleven, we helped inter the remains of our uncle Paul, beheaded on the Aquae Salviae in the Ostian Road. We have vivid memories of him. When we were children, Uncle Paul would come to our home. Sometimes he lived with us when he was not imprisoned for the faith. He brought us little surprises, so we were always happy to see him. He was indulgent with us and funny. I don’t think we really understood his death. Certainly, we were too young to understand the political implications of it. Uncle Paul left a magnificent legacy. We have heard that someone is collecting Uncle his writings. Paul spent his whole life traveling around the world, preaching and teaching. I have no idea how many people came to believe in Christ because of his work. He was such a scholar and linguist. All that brilliance snuffed out with one flash of a Roman sword. Dear God, it is impossible to understand.
Our Uncle Linus was executed only a few months ago. We knew and loved him all our lives. We feel such loss without him. It is impossible to know how many hundreds, perhaps thousands, have been executed. Martyrs all. Uncle Linus was killed because he was the Bishop of Rome, ordained at the blessed hands of our Uncle Paul. Uncle Linus became a Christian in Siluria when he was just a boy. He came as a young man captive from Britain when our grandfather, King Caradoc, was brought to trial. Our Uncle Linus lived with our family at the villa and studied at the university before any of us children were born. After he completed his studies, he stayed. He was always a part of our household. We delighted to hear our mother tell the story of their capture and the trip to Rome. Before they were marched into the city, Uncle Linus vowed to protect the women of the family. Later he laughed at the absurdity of a solitary youth pitting himself against the might of Rome. The cruelty of his death is not what he deserved. He should have died in his own bed of old age. Christ’s followers in Rome are not often allowed that luxury.
I read an inscription on a grave marker not long ago. It was the tomb of a young woman. The inscription read: “She had married at eleven, bore six children and died at twenty-seven.” If one is a follower of The Way, one can expect to die young for the faith. If one is a married woman, one can expect to die young in childbirth. In Rome, life is most often brief. We spring up like grass and we are soon cut down.
To my sister in the flesh and in the spirit, greetings. We hear of the great persecutions in Rome. May God keep you and your household safe from evil. We continue the work here in Glanmorganshire. We build churches to the glory of our Savior. Cor Ergain has become a known center of learning. We send missionaries out to other lands from this college. Our church here at Llan-ilid grows in grace and in numbers. From this consecrated place, we lift daily prayers for all those who suffer for our Lord’s sake. Our dear father has received the rewards promised to him through the shed blood of Christ. He died in the faith three days ago. His last words were the words of our dear Paul: “Even so, come Lord Jesus.” I watched at his bedside for many days and nights. He recalled the early days of his captivity and repeated over and over again how proud he was of you, dear sister, the day you stood beside him in the Roman Senate. At times, in his mind, he was a boy again, roaming the hills of Siluria. At times, he was a young father carrying one of us children on his back through the woods. He had an easy death and a gentle crossing. Do not weep as those who have no hope. We shall behold him standing beside our Savior when we cross over to be with them and with all who have named the name of Jesus and have suffered martyrdom.
“No Christian brought before the Tribunal shall be exempted from death and torture without renouncing his religion.”
“I exhort you all therefore, to yield obedience to the word of righteousness and to exercise all patience such as ye have seen before your eyes–not only in the case of the blessed Ignatius and Zosimus and Rufus, but also in other among yourselves and in Paul himself and the rest of the apostles. This do in assurance that all these have not run in vain, but in faith and righteousness, and they are now in their due place in the presence of the Lord with whom they also suffered. For they loved not this present world, but Him who died for us and for our sakes was raised again by God from the dead.”
“Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days. Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
I was standing in the courtyard of the Senate when Cassius ran to me. He was clearly overwrought. “They have just arrested your father.”
I felt immediate terror. “Where is he?”
“They are taking him to the Curia to bring formal charges against him.”
“What are the charges? He has done nothing against the law.”
“They are charging him with foreign superstition under Domitian’s order. They will give him an opportunity to renounce his religion.”
“He will not renounce his faith.”
“Perhaps he will renounce it in order to live.”
“Not even if it means death. You know my father. He is old and stubborn.”
“I have served your father all my adult life. No one has done more for Rome. How can they do this?”
“My grandfather said once, ‘Rome will kill us all because she can.’ They can arrest my father because they can. Cassius, go to the villa. Tell my brother what has happened. Don’t tell my mother or my sisters. Tell Timotheus to meet me at the Curia.” He nodded. I ran through the back streets of Rome, dodging carts and throngs of people. I arrived at the Senate in time to see my father, bound, taken inside. I pushed my way through the crowd. A Praetorian barred my way.
“Please. They have my father. My father is Senator Pudens. Let me pass.”
“I have orders. No one goes beyond these doors.” He was adamant. I sat on the steps, put my head in my hands and prayed. “Who would want to harm my father? He has served Rome all of his life. Who stands to gain from his death? I know of no enemies that would seek to do him harm. Oh, God, spare his life.” As I sat, praying, I felt an arm around my shoulder. I looked into my brother’s face. I always take courage when Timotheus is near.
“I’m going to see what they are doing.” I saw him walk up the steps and speak to the guard on duty. The guard opened the door and Timotheus disappeared inside. I am amazed at my brother’s ability to talk his way into or out of any situation. I waited. When the sun was high, the doors opened and my father, still bound, was conducted, under heavy guard, in the direction of the carcer. Timotheus ran to me.
“They charged him with foreign superstition. They told him to renounce his faith. Of course, he would not. They have sentenced him to death. I don’t know when the sentence will be carried out. You should have seen him, Novatus. That old man stood with his back straight and his head held high. He said to the assembly, ‘You can kill this body, but you will never kill my spirit. I have given my life to Rome, but my first allegiance is to the Christ who gave his life for me. I shall never die.’ He has such courage. He saw me and smiled. I have never been so proud of anyone in my life.”
“Come, Timotheus. We must go to the villa and tell our mother and our sisters.”
“She is resting quietly. We need to sleep while we can, Sister.” Praxedes stood beside our mother’s bed.
“I’ll sit with her awhile. You get some rest. You haven’t slept in days. I don’t think I can sleep just yet.” I pulled the blanket up under mother’s chin. “If we are tired, she is more so. Thank God the fever has subsided.”
Our mother’s thinning skin in the flickering lamplight is the color of old parchment. Her eyelids are translucent, closed over eyes too tired to see or know. She is wrinkled and frail. Blue veins are visible on her hands and at her temples. Her body is thin beneath the covers. I cannot think of her as old. My memories of her are the memories of my childhood. To her children, she was the most beautiful woman who ever walked the earth. I have always known that she could not forever look as she did when I was a little girl, but I think of her as my mother–never young, but ageless and always there—like air and food. Her presence was not something we questioned. She was simply a gentle presence, a quiet voice, a reassuring touch. I picture her now as she was–at her writing table with stylus in hand, or frolicking with us on the sun drenched hillside, or bathed and freshly dressed to greet our father when he came home from the Senate–her hair golden in sunlight or lamplight–her laughter lilting, her eyes sparkling. What a blessing to have her for our mother.
Timotheus stepped inside the bedchamber. His face was lined and drawn. He stood in the shadows and looked at this dying woman who had given us life.
“How is she?”
“About the same. She’s sleeping. The fever seems to have abated. She has difficulty breathing. Let her rest while she can. We labor to come into this world, and we labor going out.” I took my brother’s hand in mine and rested my cheek in his palm “We have seen so much death. I don’t know why this one is breaking my heart.”
“It’s different when it’s mother. Has Novatus returned from Ostia?
“He is on his way home. Praxedes and I have not left her since she fell ill.”
Timotheus sat beside her bed. “She has not been herself since father’s death. I can’t believe he’s been gone a year. I think mother decided when he died that she did not want to live in this world without him. What a grand reunion they will have. They will see the Lord.”
“Yes, and Uncle Paul and mother’s Aunt Gladys and all those who have gone before.”
Praxedes, who looks like a ministering angel, stepped back into the room with a bowl, a pitcher of water, and a damp cloth. She smiled at us and went to work. She poured warm water into the bowl and dipped the cloth to wet it. Gently, she wiped mother’s face and neck. She washed mother’s thin little body. Tenderly, my sister anointed mother’s face, hands, and feet with warm, perfumed oil. Having completed the ritual, she slipped clean linen beneath her. As I watched, I could not help but think of my mother’s willing hands which had ministered to so many needy people–to the old and the dying, to the poor, to all the neglected infants, to us—her children. My sister is so like mother. There are no kinder words I can speak.
It was past the third watch when Novatus arrived. We embraced him and comforted each other.
If I have one thing to say it is that I was a slave and now I am free. I was a thief and now I am forgiven. When I came back to Colosse from Rome so many years ago, I went to the home of my master with fear and trembling. The scene is burned into my brain.
“So, you have returned.” Philemon stood over me as I knelt at his feet.
“Yes, Master.” My voice shook. My hands were unsteady as I reached for Paul’s letter.
“Why are you here? You ran away. You stole money from me. I expected never to see you again.” His voice was stern. “What’s this?” He reached for the letter, the single sheet of papyrus which I carried next to my skin all the long journey from Rome. My very life depended on it. Philemon opened it and read. To my astonishment and vast relief, he took my hand and pulled me to my feet. He then embraced me. I shall never forget his words.
“My brother.” I wept in his arms.
The next Lord’s day, to the church that is in his house, Philemon read the letter, whereupon all of the believers embraced me. Philemon returned Paul’s letter to me to keep as a reminder of God’s great transforming power. That was many years ago. Paul wrote in that letter, “I have confidence in your obedience. I write this letter to you knowing that you will do even more than I say.” Indeed he did. Philemon more than lived up to Paul’s expectation of him. I served Philemon from that day with a heart grateful for his forgiveness. In Christ, we are brothers. In Christ, I am free. Philemon taught me to read. He instructed me in the ways of the Lord. I was with him when he died.
“Useful” is my name. I was useful—profitable—to Philemon as he was to me. My prayer is that I shall be useful to the Lord. Most people would agree that I am. I was ordained many years ago to serve as Bishop in Ephesus. Not so long ago, when our brother Ignatius was on his way to Rome to face the wild beasts in the arena, he wrote from Smyrna to the church here. He called me “Useful” in that letter, just as Paul had done when I was young.
We are now engaged in a great endeavor to collect all of Paul’s letters. Useful work, I would say. Even now, the letters are being circulated and read in the churches. There is one that is especially tattered and worn. I have treasured it all these years. It is the little letter that the great apostle to the gentiles wrote in his own hand that day so long ago amid the filth and stench of a Roman prison. It is the letter he wrote to Philemon, pleading for my life. Some of the brothers believe it is too short and too personal to be included with Paul’s great long doctrinal letters, but I insist on its inclusion. As brief as it is, it means everything to me. It tells my story of God’s redeeming grace.
“Pope Pius I, by the request of the blessed Praxedes dedicated a church in the baths of Novatus in the Vicus Patricius to the honor of her sister, the holy Pudentiana, where also he offered many gifts and frequently he ministered, offering sacrifice to the Lord. Moreover, he erected a font of baptism and with his own hand he blessed and dedicated it and many who gathered to the faith he baptized in the name of the Trinity.”
“Your Grace, I have here the plans for the church. We shall leave the original house walls in place wherever they can support the weight of the new structure. Part of the wall must be fortified. We’ll extend the new building to cover the baths and incorporate the baptismal font into the main part of the hall.”
The blessed father nodded. “This holy place shall be sanctified to the memory of the family of martyrs who lived in this house. The blessed Praxedes, before her martyrdom, requested that the church be dedicated to the memory of her sister. Now that Praxedes and her brothers have joined Saint Pudentiana in their heavenly place, we shall dedicate this house of prayer to all of them who have gone before us. Let us honor their lives and their martyrdom with a structure worthy of their memory.”
“I shall need funds and men to accomplish the task.”
“Whatever you need, you shall have.”
“Bless me, Father, as I begin this work. I am not worthy.”
The Holy Father stood and put both hands on my head. “The Lord bless you as you enter into this most holy work. May God give you and all who labor here strength for the days ahead. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Thank you, Father. We dedicate our labor to the glory of God and to the memory of those who shed their sacred blood for the cause of Christ.”
The crew is hired and the work has begun. In shoring up the walls of the old house, we have found it necessary to dig into the original foundation. My workmen have been instructed to salvage whatever objects the digging uncovers. So far, they have found pottery and cooking pots from the original kitchen area, and combs and a bronze enameled mirror which must have been used by the women of the house. I must tell them to tread carefully and to be alert to small, valuable objects. This was the house of a wealthy family. We cannot know what might come to light. My men are honest. I intend to keep them that way. I keep my eyes open.
Today we found a part of an ivory screen. It must have been a magnificent piece of art when it was new. The masons have come to begin the heavy foundation work. We begin each day’s work with prayer. We are aware of the sanctity of this place.
Our cache of objects grows daily. The Holy Father says they will be displayed in the new church, along with relics of the saints. Today we found a small bronze box with jewelry inside: an enameled ring, a buckle of silver, a gold talisman of some sort. The walls of the church are rising.
“Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace.”
“The four children of Pudens and Claudia, Timotheus, Novatus, Praxedes and Pudentiana, with their father Pudens, sealed at different times their faith with their blood in Rome, and were, with Linus, the first Britons who were added to the glorious army of martyrs. And, Pudens excepted, they were not only martyrs, but royal martyrs; and martyrs of the most patriotic and heroic blood in Britain.”
My friend, Evelyn, and I approached the Chiesa de Stanta Prassede through the side door. “It’s ‘The Church of Saint Praxedes’ in English,” I said. “I really want to see this basilica. It’s not on the regular tourist list of ‘things to see,’ but it was the inspiration for Robert Browning’s poem ‘The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxedes Church.’ It’s the price you pay for doing Rome with a literature professor.” We stepped over the threshold of the basilica and stopped a moment while our eyes adjusted from the glare of the sun to the dimness within.
“I don’t mind at all. I might learn something. Doesn’t that poem say something about lapis lazuli?” Evelyn looked toward the great curve of the apse.
“Go to the head of the class. It does, indeed.”
“Well, look at the mosaic in the apse. That’s about the bluest blue I’ve ever seen.”
We sat in the second pew looking at the ornate mosaic, two old women, grateful for a place to sit down and for the cool silence against the heat and noise of the streets.
“Who was Praxedes, anyway?”
“I don’t know. I’m going over to see if I can buy some post cards. Maybe they have a pamphlet about her.” I walked to the alcove near the side entrance, chose a half dozen postcards from the rack, smiled at the volunteer behind the counter, and pointed to the booklet in English entitled The Bascilica of Saint Praxedes. I paid my Euros and returned to find Evelyn trying to translate the Latin inscription beneath the apse mosaic.
“Okay. This ought to tell us something. Oh, look. The guidebook says she was the daughter of Senator Rufus Pudens and she had a sister, Pudentiana. ‘The sisters are often depicted soaking up the blood of martyred saints.’ Good heavens. Let’s take a walk around and see what we can see.”
“What does the book say about the large painting in the apse under the mosaic?”
“Let’s see. Here it is—page nine. It says it is one of five by Domenico Maria Muratori (1662-1749); it represents St. Praxedes intent on collecting and preserving the blood of the martyrs in a well.”
“I wonder if one of the other women in the painting is supposed to be her sister. What a gory task they set for themselves. And, I imagine it was dangerous. You know those Roman emperors were hell-bent on wiping out every vestige of Christianity.”
“Um. Hell-bent. It’s a good way to say it. They took a dim view of those who wouldn’t recognize the emperors as gods.” We walked around the church looking at the chapels, the paintings, the frescoes. “Look. There is a fresco of Pudens, the senator, dressed in military garb. He must have served in the Roman army at some time during his life.” Evelyn took the guide book and read, “Here on page fifty it says that this chapel was dedicated to St. Praxedes in 1721. ‘The altar piece is by an unknown painter of the eighteenth century and represents St. Peter’s visit to Senator Puden’s house in the presence of his daughters, Praxedes and Pudentiana.’ St. Peter’s visit? My goodness. That would be twenty or thirty years after the crucifixion. Senator Pudens may very well have had one of the early churches in his house. I wonder what happened to him.”
“He is called ‘Saint Pudens.’ That means he was martyred. Both Praxedes and her sister are called “Saint,” so I assume they also died for the faith.”
“Let’s go ask the man in the book shop what happened to St. Pudentiana.” We walked back to the shop near the side door where we had entered. “How is your Italian?”
“Not great. My Latin is not bad and my Spanish is fluent.” We approached the gentleman behind the counter. “Pardon me. Do you speak English? Habla Espanol?”
“Italiano.”
“Saint Pudentiana…”
“Ah, Santa Pudenziana–La Chiesa de Santa Pudenziana—not far. Via Urbana 601.” He wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it to me.
“Thank you. Grazie.”
I turned to Evelyn. “Well, it looks like there’s another church. Get out your map. Where is Via Urbana? He says it’s not far.”
“‘Not far’ in Rome can mean anything from a block to ten miles. Everything here is uphill or upstairs. Here it is on the map. Let’s go. I’m game.” We walked uphill the twelve or so city bocks to the address we had. From the street it was not possible to see the church. We entered the gate and went down two flights of stairs to a courtyard leading to the main entrance. The place looked somewhat bedraggled. The sanctuary was smaller and much less imposing than Saint Praxedes. To the left of the entrance was a man conversing in French with a young woman who had just purchased post cards. We waited. She left.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Do you have a guidebook we might see?”
“Yes. One Euro.”
I dug out my European coins and paid him. We took the booklet into the sanctuary and sat on the back row.
I read aloud, “The church of Santa Pudenziana was rebuilt by Pope Siricius who reigned from 384 to 399. He changed the church from a hall into a three-aisled basilica. The date of its original founding is not known. Tradition ascribes it to Pius I who was Pope between around 142 to 154. He ordered the first church built on this present site—oh, gosh—over the ruins of the house church of Senator Rufus Pudens.” I looked up. “We might be on to something really exciting here.” Evelyn took the guidebook from my hands.
She picked up the reading, “Pudentiana and Praxedes were the daughters of Rufus Pudens and his wife, Claudia Rufina. The plaque on the floor at the main entrance was placed there in the fifteenth century. It is a copy of the original which dates from the second century. It is, of course, inscribed in Latin. The translation is this: ‘In this sacred and most ancient of churches, known as that of Pastor, dedicated by Sanctus Pius Papa, formerly the house of Sanctus Pudens, the senator, and the home of the holy apostles, repose the remains of three thousand blessed martyrs, which Pudentiana and Praxedes, virgins of Christ, with their own hands interred.’”
We stood up and turned around to see the plaque in the entryway. We walked to it, stunned.
“Can you imagine what they must have experienced. We owe such a debt to all of them–three thousand Christian martyrs. Just think of it.”
“And think of going out to collect their bodies and bringing them home to bury. That’s where the idea comes from of the sponge and soaking up the blood of the martyrs. What else does the book say?”
Evelyn read, “Eleven of the members of Senator Pudens’ family were martyred, he, in 96 AD under Nerva. His wife, Claudia, died of natural causes a year later, the only one of the family not martyred. All of his children died for the faith, Pudentiana in 107 under Trajan in the third persecution. The two brothers, Timotheus and Novatus, and their remaining sister, Praxedes, in 139. This church has been known by many names through the centuries: Domus Pudens, the Paladium Britanicum, Apostolorum, Titulus, Pastor, and most recently The Church of Saint Pudentiana.”
We sat back down. We needed time to absorb all this information. The only other person in the church with us was a young nun who was kneeling in prayer in front of the apse. She raised her head, crossed herself, and walked toward the rear of the sanctuary. Evelyn quickly stood and walked back to intercept her.
“Pardon me, Sister. Do you speak English?”
“Can you tell us about this church?” She smiled and nodded.
“Forgive me. I’m Evelyn St. Claire, and this is my friend, Marianne Booker. And you are?”
“Sister Pearl. I have been here a year and a half. I have been assigned for three years. This is the official church in Rome for all Filipino catholics. We do not offer mass in Italian, but only in our language of the Philipines. We serve one hundred thousand Filipinos who live in Rome.”
“What do you know of the history of this church?”
Pointing to the front of the church, she said, “We are most famous for the mosaic in the apse. It dates to the time of Pope Siricius. Pope Hadrian I between 772 and 795 had the mosaic restored. In 1588 it was trimmed around the curved margin when the apse was narrowed. A portion of the lower part was removed later by the erection of the baldacchino and in 1831—I believe that was the date—the right side was done over. It is the earliest and most beautiful apse mosaic in existence. As you can see, in the center, Christ is dressed in a tunic of gold and is seated on a throne. The open book he holds is inscribed: ‘The Lord, Guardian of the Church of Pudentiana.’ Originally the twelve apostles were on either side of the Christ, but the outermost figure on each side was lost when the apse was narrowed. Peter stands at the right and Paul at the left. Behind each of the two apostles stands a woman clothed in gold, holding over his head a crown of laurel. These women are believed to represent the Jewish Church (Ecclesia ex Circumsisione) and the Gentile Church (Ecclesia ex Gentibus). The Church of the Circumcision was, of course, the church of Jewish converts to Christianity. You probably know the names of Aquilla and Priscilla, who were the leaders of that church. The Church of the Gentiles, which the Apostle Paul mentions in the last chapter of his letter to the Romans, was the house church here on this property. The basilica is built over the ruins of a first century house believed to be the house of Senator Rufus Pudens. The original walls of the house were used as foundation, so we know that the first century house was as big as the church is.”
“Can you show us the first century house–Senator Pudens’ house?”
“It is underneath this floor. It is not open to the public. It has been only partly excavated. The Italian government owns the rights to it. We are not permitted to take visitors there because there might be some danger—snakes, perhaps. I can take you up to Mary’s chapel, though. It is not generally shown to visitors, but I’ll take you there, if you like.”
“Oh, yes. We’d be delighted. Thank you.”
“Wait here. I’ll be back for you.” She stepped out of the sanctuary and soon returned with keys. “Follow me. Watch your step.” She led us up a curved stairway into a small alcove. On the wall behind a simple altar, there is a fresco of Mary and the infant Jesus. Flanking them are two women—Praxedes and Pudentiana. “The fresco is eleventh century,” Sister Pearl explained. We were overwhelmed by the simplicity and the beauty of this small chapel. “Would you like a closer look at the mosaic in the apse? I can take you to the choir loft.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. You are so kind.” She led us to a small loft stage right from the apse. We were almost within reach of the beautiful mosaic. She said, “It is the most ancient mosaic in existence.”
“Why is this church not on the list of places tourists should visit?” Evelyn turned to our guide.
“A good question. Pudens and his family are mentioned by Paul in his second letter to Timothy. He wrote that letter from what we know as the Mamertine prison. It was not called the Mamertine until much later. His greeting to Timothy from Pudens and his family is almost the last thing the Apostle Paul wrote. I do not know all the details, but in the seventeenth century, Pudens and his children were taken off of the list of saints. I understand there was some discrepency in the dates of Pudentiana’s death. They say there is not enough proof of their existence, but this is his house and the first, or among the first, of the gentile churches. It seems to me that every Bible scholar would want to visit here.”
“Absolutely. This is just incredible.”
“Look. Behind the depiction of Christ is the rock of Calvary. The cross is jeweled. Above in the clouds are the symbols of the four evangelists. This is the first time they appear in art: the man, lion, ox, and eagle representing the four gospel writers: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. The man is the symbol for Matthew who wrote of the incarnation. Mark is the lion because his gospel begins with John the Baptist in the desert. Luke is the ox. His gospel begins with the story of Zacharias and the priestly sacrifice. John is the eagle. He writes of Christ, the light of the world. The eagle is the only bird that can fly straight into the light of the sun.”
We followed her back down the stone stairs to the basilica.
“If you are really interested in seeing the first century house church, come back to Rome. Call me for a reservation. Bring a big emergency light with you–not just a flashlight. I’ll take you down–just one or two at a time. Come look at our little museum. We have some artifacts taken from the lower level.”
We entered the small museum with its glass cases filled with ancient artifacts–oil lamps, a cooking pot, a fragment of a marble frieze, writing implements, a comb, a metal mirror, a few pieces of jewelry.
“Look at this, Evelyn. It’s some kind of amulet. It must be Christian. Look at the fish shapes.”
“No, it couldn’t be. The card says it’s pre-Christian. It says it is druidic in origin.”
“It’s a celtic knot.”
“I wonder how it got to Rome? I wonder who wore it– maybe a warrior.”
“The card says it was a necklace. I suppose it was worn by some lady. Maybe it belonged to Praxedes or Pudentiana.”
“If these objects could speak, think what a story they could tell.”