CHAPTER 101

Flavia’s death fueled Theophilus’s own commitment to die well and at the same time extinguished his will to live. For him and the others, it wouldn’t be long now.

He struggled for breath as he had on another cross so many years ago. He watched Nero walk down the length of the track and disappear out the doors that led to the stables. The stadium stilled as the crowd waited with anticipation for the moment to arrive. The only sound came from Theophilus and the other Christians straining to breathe. Some moaned in pain; others sobbed quietly.

One by one, the soldiers covered the oil torches. The entire stadium complex turned black, the light from Flavia’s cross the sole exception. Theophilus knew that in a moment his cross would also be lit, and his life would soon be over.

He hung there, his thoughts muddled by the horrific pain radiating from the nerves in his wrists and ankles. He tried to remember the example of Jesus. Hanging on the cross at the place of the skull, the Nazarene had prayed that God would forgive those who killed him.

Theophilus couldn’t bring himself to do the same. Instead, he hung his head and prayed for Nero’s punishment. But as he prayed, his heart was convicted of his own role in the death of Jesus. He remembered the Nazarene’s eyes of compassion even in the midst of his trial, the look that told Theophilus he was loved.

Tears streamed down his face as he somehow found the will to pray for Nero. Convict him, Lord. Convert him to your cause or raise up another who will take his place and lead all of Rome to you.

His thoughts and prayers were disrupted by the sound of a disjointed chant. Whose voice started it, Theophilus couldn’t say. But the familiar words were picked up by the others. First one prisoner, then another, hoisting themselves up and carrying on the jagged refrain.

“Now to him . . . who is able . . .

To do more . . . than we ask . . . or imagine . . .

According to his power . . . at work in us . . .”

The words, breathless and forced as they were, reverberated in the darkness of the stadium. A few patrons booed, but the prisoners could still be heard.

Theophilus lifted himself up and added to the refrain. “To him be glory in the church!”

“And in Christ Jesus!” somebody else added.

They never finished. A light erupted at the far end of the stadium as the stable doors opened. On cue, the soldiers simultaneously lit two hundred crosses, and each burst into flames.

Nero came thundering out of the stables, riding down the gauntlet of human torches, his chariot drawn by four white stallions.

The tongues of fire climbed up Theophilus’s cross and lapped at his legs. Within seconds, the linens they had wrapped around him ignited. He gasped for breath and inhaled black smoke. The blaze seared him and consumed him, every inch of his skin on fire.

There were a few seconds of suffocating pain as Nero flashed by. A bright-white light exploded and Theophilus cried out, a prolonged scream of unbearable agony, and then . . .

It was over.

Instantly, there was peace.

Calm.

Silence.

A radiant white light.

The tender face of the Nazarene.

Flavia was there as well, smiling. So was Marcus.

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

The Nazarene held out his hand and welcomed Theophilus. And in that moment, the advocate knew that all of his Savior’s promises were true. Every word he ever spoke.

As were the words of Seneca that had followed Theophilus throughout his life.

What we have to seek for, then, is that which is untouched by time and chance. And what is this? It is the soul that is upright, good, and great. . . .

A soul like this may descend into a Roman equestrian or a freedman’s son or a slave. . . . They are mere titles, born of ambition or of wrong. One may leap to the heavens from the very slums. Only rise and mold thyself into kinship with thy God.