CHAPTER 79

The servants from the House of Vestal carried Rubria to the temple of Aesculapius and placed her gently on a pile of blankets near the altar, her arms at her sides. She was wearing her Vestal garments. The matron of the house gave her a kiss on the forehead, and everyone except Flavia left the temple.

Flavia knelt next to her friend, said a prayer, and poured the wine on the altar. She placed the bread cakes on the marble floor and looked up at the statue. “Heal her, O god of eternal life.”

Flavia released the snake from the burlap bag and watched as it slithered across Rubria’s body, up one arm and shoulder, across her neck, and down the other side. Flavia knew better than to touch the snake. Like the temple, the snake was now sacred. It could go wherever it wished.

She sat down next to Rubria on the cold stone floor and waited. Perhaps she would have a vision of what needed to be done. Perhaps she would fall asleep and learn in a dream.

She placed a hand on Rubria’s forehead and felt the heat radiating. It was not a good sign. Rubria’s lips were cracked and dehydrated. Her closed eyes sunken. Her body unmoving.

“Heal her, O god of eternal life.”

Just a few short weeks ago, Flavia had met with Rubria and talked about life after the House of Vestal. Four more years and Rubria would have her freedom. She had thanked Flavia for being a model, for demonstrating that you could still have a family after serving the state. Rubria already had a few ideas about who the lucky man might be. As Flavia listened, she flashed back to her early years with Theophilus. The romance before their marriage. The first few months of married life. The joy of learning she was pregnant. The miracle of Mansuetus.

Now Rubria might miss all those things and more.

Flavia yawned, her eyes heavy. She fought to stay awake. She needed to pray. She needed to beseech Aesculapius on behalf of her friend. She needed to be watchful so that when the miracle occurred, she would see it. . . .

Flavia jumped, startled by the hand on her shoulder. She scooted quickly back and looked up at the three men standing in the shadows. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was.

Next to her, Rubria was still lying there with her eyes closed, her chest moving up and down.

“I’m sorry to startle you,” one of the men said, his voice soft.

In the shadows Flavia recognized her son. “What are you doing here?”

Mansuetus was standing next to an older man who was mostly bald, his face weathered and angled. He was chained to a Roman soldier. Flavia assumed it was Paul of Tarsus.

“I brought Paul to pray for Rubria,” Mansuetus said. “He has the power to heal her, Mother.”

“Does anybody know you’re here?” Flavia asked sharply, glancing at the door.

“I don’t think so,” Paul said. “If they did, both Sergius and I would pay with our lives.”

He was right, of course. Sergius was risking punishment just as much as Paul.

“I’ll explain it all later,” Mansuetus said, his voice a mixture of nervousness and excitement. “But we don’t have much time. Paul needs to pray and get back to his house.”

In Flavia’s mind, it wasn’t that easy. She stood and thought about the best way to phrase this. They were in the temple of a Roman god. A jealous Roman god with power to heal and power to grant eternal life. They couldn’t insult Aesculapius by praying to the Jewish God, or worse yet, a dead Jewish rabbi.

But Paul was already kneeling, taking Sergius with him. He placed his right hand on Rubria’s forehead.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Flavia said.

Paul looked up at her with understanding eyes. “Your friend is very ill,” he said. “Aesculapius has had his chance. What’s your friend’s name?”

Flavia was still waking up and struggling to think clearly. She couldn’t just kick these men out. If she called for help, Mansuetus would be in trouble along with Paul and his guard. But she had never heard of praying to the Jewish God inside a Roman temple.

“Her name?” Paul asked again.

“Rubria.”

That was apparently all he needed. He closed his eyes and began to pray. To Flavia’s surprise, Mansuetus knelt down next to him and placed his own hand on Rubria’s shoulder.

Paul’s voice was sure, his words eloquent. “Heavenly Father, just as you raised Jesus up on the third day, so raise up Rubria, full of life and hope and understanding that she has been raised by your grace. Open the eyes of her heart that she might learn the depth and breadth and height of your love. Strengthen this woman with the power of your Spirit and fill her with all the fullness of God.”

Mansuetus followed with a halting prayer of his own. He asked God to demonstrate his power by healing Rubria. Like Paul, he mentioned the name of Jesus and the resurrection that Luke had written about.

Flavia decided she would have a serious talk with her son later.

When they were done, all three visitors said, “Amen.” Paul thanked God for the miracle he was about to perform. He traced the figure of a cross on Rubria’s forehead and then he stood.

Rubria lay still.

“She will live,” Paul said as if he somehow knew this for a fact. “God will raise her up.”

He thanked Flavia and prepared to leave.

“Be careful,” Flavia said. This was serious; they were violating the laws of Paul’s arrest. “And, Mansuetus, we are going to talk.”

Rubria didn’t move the entire night. She never sat up. She never moaned or twitched or mumbled even a single word.

But the next day, just before noon, as Flavia was sitting in Rubria’s room again, keeping her vigil next to Rubria’s bed, the most amazing thing happened.

Rubria opened her eyes.