CHAPTER 100

After darkness fell, the guards emptied the remaining cells and lined the prisoners up again. Theophilus still had his wrists shackled, and they placed him at the very end of the line. Andronicus and Junia were just ahead of him. He heard the voice of Procula a little farther up.

“Procula, do you know if Flavia is still alive?” Theophilus asked.

“She’s at the front,” Procula replied.

He was both relieved and pained at the news. Absent a miracle, they would die together, a thought that created a deep ache in his body, a gashing of his heart.

He walked with the other prisoners past the cages of animals, but this time the beasts seemed more docile, as if they had had their fill.

The procession stopped just before the opening of the tunnel. From his vantage point at the end of the line, Theophilus could see little but could hear the bustling and murmur of the crowd. They had apparently regathered in the darkness.

Trumpets blared and a lictor announced the entrance of the great Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. The spectators quieted, and it sounded like Nero was giving a speech. It was not his voice, of course, because he couldn’t risk damaging his vocal cords by shouting to such a crowd. But Theophilus could pick up bits and pieces from the crier who was relaying the emperor’s words. “Punishment fit for the crime . . . The law prevents death by crucifixion. . . . It does not prevent the use of the cross altogether. . . . The emperor has consulted with the fire god, Vulcan. . . . The gods must be appeased.”

Theophilus expected the crowd to roar when the speech was over, but the arena was largely silent. He shifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the next, imagining the ghastly new torture that Nero had in mind. He found himself wishing he had simply been fed to the beasts.

When the prisoners emerged from the tunnel, Theophilus’s heart melted like wax. He had expected this from the hammering, but it was another thing to see the sight with his own eyes. The oval-shaped track had been cleared of all the mutilated bodies, and the sand was freshly raked. Lying on the ground on both sides of the track, all the way around the oval, were dozens and dozens of crosses. Perhaps two hundred in total. One for each prisoner still alive.

The entire place was lit by torches positioned between the crosses. Theophilus remembered the teachings of Seneca on the Appian Way, the images of Crassus crucifying thousands of slaves. Now Nero was trying to top that —fewer bodies but a more gruesome spectacle, one that included women.

“Be strong in the Lord.” The mantra came down the line of prisoners again. Theophilus realized that Flavia, as first in line, had probably started it.

The guards shoved the prisoners forward, leading them to their individual crosses. The cross for Theophilus was located directly in front of the imperial box. When the procession stopped and the front of the line had circled the entire track, he realized that Flavia would be next to him.

They looked at each other again, their eyes conveying what words could not. She was still regal, even with her hair gnarled, her eyes hollow and gaunt, her skin covered with sores and grime. Be strong, she said with her eyes. Finish well.

Tigellinus came down from the imperial box and stood in front of Theophilus. A sheen of sweat covered his brow.

“Confess your crimes and worship Caesar,” he said to Theophilus. “And Flavia walks away.”

“Don’t do it,” Flavia warned. “Don’t betray our Lord. Don’t betray me.”

Theophilus looked at his wife, then back at his tormentor. Behind Tigellinus, Caesar sat victoriously in the imperial box surrounded by his court. Theophilus noticed the Vestal Virgins were not in their places. Perhaps they were protesting the execution of Flavia.

“Jesus is Lord,” Theophilus said.

Tigellinus slowly nodded. “We’ll see how Jesus helps you now.”

He turned on his heel and walked across the sand, back to the imperial box. He climbed the steps, thrust out his chin, and took his place next to Caesar.

The emperor raised his hand. “Let the sacrifices begin!”

Driven by rage and adrenaline, Theophilus lashed out. He balled his fists together and swung his arms, landing a blow against the jaw of the guard on his right. Another guard jumped him from behind and took him down. Somebody kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. They were all over him, grunting and cursing. He heard Flavia scream in the background. “Theophilus! Stop fighting!”

There were powerful arms everywhere, and they quickly subdued Theophilus, pinning him on the ground as they removed his shackles. They rolled him on his back on top of the cross and pried his arms apart, positioning them against the wooden crossbeam. A guard on each side placed the tips of the spikes against his wrists. He squirmed but they wrenched him in place. The commander nodded, the guards swung the hammers, and Theophilus cried out as the spikes pierced his wrists.

Other guards held his feet against the angled footrest attached to the cross. He felt the point of the nail on top of his foot, the skin and tendons tearing as the spike was pounded through his feet. When the hammering stopped, he swallowed his screams and moaned. He had never experienced such pain in all his life.

Before they lifted his cross, the guards coated it in resin and nitrates, sulfur and pitch. They wrapped soaked linens around Theophilus, and the smell of oil filled his nostrils.

The pain and odors made him nauseous. He felt like he might pass out at any moment.

Three burly guards lifted his cross and jammed it into place, causing the nails to tear his wrists and feet, sending bolts of excruciating pain through his body. He looked over at Flavia, who was nailed to her cross as well. She was gritting her teeth, her eyes closed in prayer, her face lifted to heaven.

Theophilus tightened his muscles and pushed himself up so he could take a deep breath, the pain again ripping through his arms and ankles. “I love you, Flavia,” he said.

She smiled, a half smile filled with pain. She formed a few words without speaking aloud.

In agony, Theophilus looked at the emperor’s box. He would draw strength from the face of Nero —perhaps the rage could block out some of the pain. But the man was gone! He hadn’t even stayed to see the culmination of his own gruesome creation!

A searing, painful moment passed, and then Nero reemerged in the imperial box. He was wearing the green uniform of a charioteer. He left the box and mingled with the patrons in the stands for a few minutes, then jumped the rail and landed on the track. He walked over and stood in front of Flavia.

As he looked up at her, he shook his head and made a tsk noise as if he couldn’t understand how she had gotten herself into such a position.

“In a few minutes, we will extinguish the oil torches and light the human ones,” he said. “A fitting punishment for those who torched our city. I will ride Rome’s finest chariot down the middle of the blazing gauntlet. I’d hate for you to miss a spectacle like that.”

Flavia said nothing. She stared down at him, her expression seething with contempt.

“You were a Vestal once,” he said. “Married to Rome. Embrace her again, Flavia. Confess your role in the fires, your love for your emperor, and I will order my men to take you down.”

“I will make a confession,” Flavia managed, struggling to get her breath.

Nero looked surprised. “Go on,” the emperor said.

Jerking violently, Flavia raised herself up. “You raped Rubria.” She drew in a breath. Tears of rage filled her eyes. “You set fire to Rome,” she gasped, “raping your own . . . city.”

She stopped for breath, and Nero’s face darkened. He sneered in hatred, but Flavia was not yet done. Theophilus watched in stunned admiration as she fought bravely for another breath.

“I have sinned . . . too.” She let out a moan, and this time she couldn’t seem to find the strength to rise again.

“It’s all right, Flavia,” Theophilus managed.

She shook her head, her face a picture of determination. She lifted herself up one more time. “I clapped . . . in the theater. . . . In truth . . .” She grimaced. Gasped. And then there was a smile. “You were horrible on the lyre.”

She sagged back down, her energy spent. Nero’s soldiers stood there speechless. Perhaps they wanted to laugh. Theophilus knew this much —Flavia’s dying insult fueled his own resolve. It was her way of saying that they had nothing to fear from this man. The emperor could destroy the body, but he couldn’t lay a finger on Flavia’s indomitable spirit or incorruptible soul.

Without warning, Nero grabbed the torch from the man next to him and lit the flame himself.

“Nooo!” Theophilus cried out. He twisted violently and strained against the nails holding him to the cross as if he could somehow break free. Pain pierced him.

In horror, he saw the wood of Flavia’s cross light instantly and act like a candlewick, setting on fire the linens wrapped around her body. Theophilus turned his head, unable to watch as Flavia suffered. He would not look at her again in this world. The next time he saw her, she would be as she once was —radiant, flawless, totally at peace.

He shut his eyes but could not block out the sounds. She screamed in agony. He felt the heat and smelled the burning flesh. Her cries became muted as she choked on the smoke. But then he heard a gasp and words forming again.

“Look. . . . He is risen!”

She must have regained her strength even as the flames consumed her. “It’s real, Theophilus!” she cried. And then she shrieked in pain.

There was another anguished yell, nothing Theophilus could decipher, and then her voice softened almost to a whisper. It seemed that perhaps the pain was gone.

“It’s real,” Theophilus heard her say again.