CHAPTER 87

It was one hour before dawn, nearly two months after Paul had departed, when Theophilus put down the reed pen, his eyes bleary and moist, his memoirs finished. The others in the house were fast asleep, and he contemplated his achievement in weary silence. He had ended the memoirs just the way he wanted them to end —with a fitting doxology to the power of God and the glory of Christ.

The idea for the memoirs had come from Paul. An accomplished writer himself, the apostle believed in the power of ink on parchment to inspire people and capture ideas with a permanency that the fleeting rhetoric of speech could never match.

It had taken Theophilus nearly one month less than it had taken Luke for his writings, but then again, writing one’s own memoirs required less research. During the day, Theophilus had continued to teach Mansuetus and the other students in his school of rhetoric. But he toiled on his manuscript deep into the night, hunching over the parchment by candlelight as he summoned the memories and emotions of every life-changing event. For eight weeks he ate little and barely slept. On several occasions he was still hard at work when the cock’s crow signaled the start of a new day.

There were times when he had called on Flavia, asking her to recount some of the events she had experienced. She had wept when she described the day Mansuetus the gladiator died. She alternated between smoldering rage and lingering shame when she recalled her interactions with Caligula.

But it was more than the urging of Paul that had kept Theophilus awake at night, painstakingly transcribing his life’s story. Cicero had done this, and to a certain extent so had Seneca. It was a way of impacting future generations, of passing values from father to son. The soul was immortal, outliving the body. In some ways, a story might live forever as well.

On top of this, Theophilus had a sense of foreboding after Paul’s trial, the same dark emotions he had experienced after the assassination of Caligula. He had a premonition that he and the other followers of the Nazarene would soon experience the full brunt of Nero’s wrath. For whatever reason, Nero was toying with them. Eventually, like the exotic animals at the games, he would hunt them down.

The day after he finished his writings, Theophilus carefully placed the parchment scrolls in a box. He sealed it with wax and, accompanied by Flavia, carried the box to the temple of Vesta. The Virgins were the custodians of Rome’s most important documents, including the wills and memoirs of its most prominent citizens.

They entrusted the memoirs to Rubria and gave her strict instructions. If both Theophilus and Flavia died, the memoirs should be given to Mansuetus and no one else. Mansuetus could decide whether to release part of them, all of them, or none. He could decide, for example, if he wanted it known that his parents had been coconspirators in the assassination of Caligula. As it stood now, those who had opposed Caligula were considered heroes. But Rome was a fickle mistress, and today’s heroes were tomorrow’s villains.

If Mansuetus did not survive them, Rubria was to release the memoirs to the public. But neither she nor Mansuetus should release them at all until after the death of Seneca, in order to protect the man from any retribution.

Theophilus had prayed that the memoirs might somehow, someday, shine a light on the corruption of the imperial system and foster a movement to restore the Republic. But even if that never occurred, even if the memoirs were read only by Mansuetus, they had been worth every minute he had slaved over them.

In truth, they were written for an audience of one. Perhaps it was just the dark mood that seemed to follow Theophilus after every major victory, but he worried that he might never see Mansuetus grow fully into manhood. It was why he and Flavia had put a letter to their son in the same sealed box, explaining that there were things about their past they had never told him but now wanted him to know. The memoirs contained that story. They had told Mansuetus about his namesake but wanted their son to someday read a firsthand account of the courage and dignity with which Mansuetus the gladiator had faced death.

Theophilus had included the raw details of his own greatest failings as well —his cowardice at the trial of Jesus, his drunken ranting after the trial of Apronius, his plotting to assassinate Caligula.

“Your son needs to see your failures as well as your triumphs,” Paul had counseled. “Our weaknesses make room for God’s power.”

And there were plenty of weaknesses. Theophilus decided to write with brutal honesty, reflecting the one question that Seneca had long ago taught him to ask, the same question that Pilate had so flippantly posed at the trial of Jesus: What is truth? The words would lose their power, Theophilus believed, if he strayed from the truth to protect his own reputation.

Flavia had insisted on baring her own soul as well, sometimes over the protests of Theophilus. She had violated her vows as a Vestal yet had ultimately found forgiveness. That had to be part of the story. “The whole truth,” she said, “is more powerful than a partial lie.”

When they delivered the scrolls, they made Rubria promise to safeguard them with her life. Afterward, they left the temple without speaking. There was something about leaving the completed memoirs with the Vestal that seemed to heighten the danger around them. While writing his story, Theophilus had a sense of invincibility —that God wouldn’t let him die without completing this important work. But now that the memoirs were done, he felt a certain vulnerability, the shadow of a seething emperor looming large over every step.

“I feel like I left a piece of my heart in that box,” Flavia said.

Theophilus felt the same way. “It’s been quite a journey.”

“And it’s not over yet,” Flavia quickly responded. “Not even close.”

Theophilus couldn’t be so sure. He said nothing.

But as usual, Flavia could read it in his eyes. “You worry too much,” she said, moving next to him. He put his arm around her as they walked.

“Maybe,” he said unconvincingly.

“‘Life, if well lived, is long enough.’”

The quote surprised him. “I thought you didn’t like Seneca.”

“Despise the man; embrace the teachings.”

They had been married more than sixteen years, and she still had a knack for throwing him off-balance.

The words she had quoted were true enough. Seneca knew how to turn a phrase, how to inspire people toward an exemplary life. But it was Flavia, at least in the eyes of her husband, who best knew how to live one.