CHAPTER 81

Nobody came back.

Even though Paul prayed for a safe and speedy return for his friends, those prayers apparently went unheeded. We received word from John Mark that he was having difficulty persuading witnesses to make the journey with him. He asked if we could delay the trial. We never heard from Crescens, Tychicus, Aristarchus, or Titus.

The day before trial, even Paul conceded that the witnesses were not going to show. “My friends deserted me,” he said. It was the only time I saw the dark clouds of doubt color Paul’s countenance.

By the next day, any hint of self-pity was gone. Always a bundle of energy, Paul was more upbeat than ever.

He prayed before we left his house. “Lord, give me strength to share the gospel boldly, as I ought to share. Let Nero hear and repent. Today, let your glory shine in the judgment hall of Caesar!”

He finished his prayer and stood. Sergius, still chained to his wrist, rose with him.

“You don’t think you should pray that we win?”

I was half-joking, but Paul took the comment seriously. He looked at me with those intense brown eyes, sheltered by his bushy eyebrows. “When I was arrested in Jerusalem, the Lord appeared to me to encourage me. He told me that just as I had been a witness in Jerusalem, I would also preach the Good News in Rome. That was my mission from the very start. To preach the Good News to the Jews and the Gentiles and their kings. What greater earthly king is there than Caesar?”

This was the running debate Paul and I had been having for the last few months, and I knew there would be no point in rehashing it now. Paul saw his trial as an opportunity to preach the gospel in the highest court in the world. But I wanted to win. I tried to convince Paul that he could preach until he died of old age once we gained his freedom. But his reply was always the same. “God is in control. If God gives me a chance to preach to Nero, how can I not take it?”

We had a two-mile walk from Paul’s rented house to Caesar’s palace, and the apostle spent most of the time leading our small troop in songs of praise. Luke sang along, obliterating the tune. Mansuetus chimed in as well. He only knew about half the songs and even fewer of the notes, but that didn’t stop him. Even Sergius sang a little under his breath, and I found it impossible not to be buoyed by the spirit of this small gang, though I was too sophisticated to join in the singing.

We drew a few strange looks along the way, but Paul ignored them. I grinned at the irony of it all. Paul, an incessant singer of praise songs, a man who never met a tune he couldn’t butcher, was about to be tried by a man who cared more than anything else about how well he sounded on the lyre.

Flavia spent the morning at the House of Vestal. She saw no other option. Paul’s witnesses were nowhere to be found, and he was determined to confront Caesar and tell him to repent. That was not going to end well. She loved Paul’s tenacity, but on this point she agreed with her husband.

She had waited this long because she struggled mightily with asking Rubria to inject herself into this fight. Flavia recalled her own struggle twenty-seven years earlier when she had decided to free Apronius. She knew then that she was putting her life on the line. The same would be true of Rubria now.

Flavia explained the situation and told Rubria she would leave the decision entirely up to her. “I believe this man healed you by the power of God’s Spirit,” Flavia said. “And I believe that same Spirit can protect you. But you’re the only one who can make this decision, and I’ll understand either way.”

Rubria was smart enough not to promise anything. They both knew that the Vestal’s shadow had to fall on a condemned prisoner accidentally or he would not be set free. But Rubria did inquire about the timing of the trial and the route Paul might take afterward.

“I’m afraid they’ll take him straight to the Forum for beheading,” Flavia said. “I sense that Caesar wants to make him an example.”

Rubria lifted her eyes to the window, and Flavia knew immediately what she was thinking. It had been drizzling all morning. The sky was full of clouds. If things didn’t clear up, there would be no shadows.

“I know,” Flavia said. “I’ve been praying about that.”

It felt strange to be in the same enormous judgment hall where I had defended Flavia and Mansuetus so many years ago. The place seemed even larger today because there were no crowds pushing for room and chanting my client’s name. Instead, the hall was populated by about fifty Praetorian Guards, a half-dozen prisoners who would have their appeals heard, and another fifty or so members of Caesar’s court.

“Impressive,” Paul said, looking around.

Like everything else in the palace, Nero had overhauled and upgraded this room since the days of Caligula. The judgment seat was now covered in gold, and ivory statues of former Caesars lined the walls. A golden statue of Nero himself, larger than life, towered over the dais where the emperor would sit. The statue was designed to evoke images of Nero as Apollo, the muscle-bound and handsome god who granted health and life and pulled the sun in a chariot.

Nero entered with the usual fanfare and made quick work of the cases that preceded Paul’s. Most of the prisoners either defended themselves or were poorly represented. Nero was more engaged than I thought he would be, asking questions and making snide comments. At the end of each case, after the prisoner or his advocate made the final argument, Nero wasted no time passing judgment.

“Guilty. The prisoner is sentenced to beheading at the Rostra at noon.”

Each verdict made me shudder, but Paul seemed to take it all in stride, his intellectual curiosity in full bloom. He would lean over and whisper questions about the legal procedures or the background of the various defendants. At times, it looked like he was silently praying.

At other times, he kept his eyes glued on Nero as if he could somehow gaze into the dark soul of Rome’s young ruler.

“Next case!” Nero announced.

Sergius leaned over and unlocked the shackle on Paul’s left wrist. Paul rubbed the wrist and smiled.

My stomach was in knots, just as it had been years ago. But Paul seemed to be nothing but excited.

“Rome versus Paul of Tarsus,” the clerk called out. Paul rose from his seat, as did I.

“Praise God,” he said under his breath.