CHAPTER 94

Theophilus took his time on the way home. He stopped at an inn for breakfast and watered the horses. He wasn’t anxious to get back to the suffocating chaos that had overtaken his house.

By the time he hit the rolling hills near his estate, it was early afternoon, and the sun was bearing down. The horses’ hooves kicked up dust, and Theophilus was parched. The grain fields of the neighboring estates were brown from the late summer heat. He crested a hill and looked out to the horizon, where he could see his estate about a half mile away.

His heart caught in his throat. There was smoke drifting into the sky.

He kicked his horse into a trot and squinted into the distance. Had the place caught fire while he was gone? He rode quickly around a curve and crested another long hill, aghast at the horror that lay before him. White and black smoke billowed from the next hill over —his house and fields seemingly on fire. He unhooked Mansuetus’s horse and spurred his own into a gallop —past the statues at the entrance gate and down the long path lined with grapevines, through the orchard and onto his property.

Fire had destroyed everything.

He dismounted a few hundred feet from his home and stepped through fields that were still smoldering, small pockets of flame and smoke scattered everywhere. His sandals burned from the heat.

He ran up to the portico and gaped at the rubble before him. All of the wood from the house had been reduced to ashes and soot. Concrete statues had been tipped over and smashed. Portions of the house were still standing, sturdy stones that had only blackened in the blaze. But the entire roof had caved in, and large sections of his house were nothing more than a smoldering heap of charred remains.

“Flavia!”

No answer.

“Flavia!”

He walked around the exterior, trying not to burn his feet. He screamed his wife’s name and the names of the others who had been staying at his house. He found a long pole and tried to move some of the materials in search of charred bodies.

“Flavia!”

He searched frantically, pushing debris aside with the pole. He found no one.

Everything Theophilus owned had gone up in flames. His books. His clothes. The furniture and utensils in the house. Everything a total loss.

He returned to the front of the property and retrieved his horse. Panicked, he rode to a neighbor’s house where he learned the awful truth. The Praetorian Guard had arrived right after dawn. They had arrested everyone and torched the house before they left. They had told the neighbors to stay away.

His neighbor, a friend for the last several years, had at one time risen to the rank of tribunus in the Roman legions, fighting distinguished campaigns in Germania and Britannia. He gave Theophilus a sword, along with his own breastplate, belt, and a new pair of sandals to replace the damaged ones Theophilus was wearing. He insisted that Theophilus take his horse and eat something before he left.

Theophilus refused the food, drank a glass of wine, mounted the horse, and headed for Rome. He had no idea what he would do when he got there.

They were waiting for him.

As Theophilus neared the city, spurring his horse as fast as she would go, he ran into four members of the Praetorian Guard. Theophilus reined his horse to a stop.

“It took you long enough,” the commander said.

“Where’s my wife?”

“She’s been charged with arson.”

Theophilus hadn’t slept the entire night. He was exhausted, not processing things very quickly. He sized up his options. They were trained soldiers. Four against one. But he was furious and willing to die if he could only rescue Flavia.

“What are you doing with that sword, graybeard?” one of the soldiers sneered.

“Somebody burned down my house and kidnapped my wife. I’ve come to set her free.”

Too late, Theophilus heard hoofbeats behind him. He turned and saw another half-dozen guards coming down the road. They brought their horses to a halt and blocked his path of retreat.

“Toss your sword on the ground,” the commander in front of him said. “I understand you’ve got a reputation as one of Rome’s best advocates. You won’t be able to help your wife if you’re dead.”

“Will you take me to see her?”

“Throw down your sword!”

The soldiers all drew their own swords. Behind Theophilus, an archer strung his bow. The commander was right —Theophilus couldn’t help Flavia if he was dead.

Furious, he pulled out his own sword and speared it, tip first, into the ground.

“Dismount the horse,” the commander ordered.

Theophilus obeyed, dismounting slowly, staring at the soldiers the entire time. When his feet hit the ground, the soldiers quickly dismounted and swarmed over him, shackling his wrists together so they could lead him off to prison. “What am I being charged with?” Theophilus asked.

“Arson. Setting fire to the city of Rome.”

Anger clouded his thoughts as the soldiers pushed him along the road. They seemed to find great enjoyment in parading him through the city.

Theophilus kept his head up, determined to act like the innocent man he was. Parts of the city were still ash heaps, while other areas had been cleared so new construction could start. Thousands of slaves stirred up dust and ashes. It seemed everyone was covered in a thin layer of black soot.

The guards walked Theophilus through the ruins of the Forum and past the burned skeleton of the temple of Vesta. At the foot of the Palatine Hill, they threw him into a dungeon with about thirty other prisoners.

Andronicus and Junia were there, calm and reassuring. This wasn’t the first time they had been imprisoned. Epenetus and Priscilla were in the cell as well.

Theophilus asked if anyone knew what had happened to Flavia. The others explained that about five hundred soldiers had shown up at Theophilus’s house right after dawn and arrested everyone. Two men had resisted and were killed on the spot. Their bodies were dragged inside the house before the soldiers started the fire.

Flavia had fought back and had been overpowered, though nobody knew where she was being held. The soldiers had given the prisoners in this cell no information about the evidence against them or when they might stand trial.

The cell had no windows and no light except a single torch that flickered on one of the walls. The floor and walls were made of stone. The place was damp, and it stank.

“What do you think will happen?” Priscilla asked Theophilus.

“They’ll put us on trial. They’ve probably got witnesses who will say they saw us start the fires.”

The others had lots of questions about how the trials might work, and Theophilus did his best to explain the process. But after a while it became obvious that the more they talked about the possible arson trials, the more everyone began to worry. It was Junia who changed the whole tone of the conversation.

“I think we ought to pray,” she said. “God can take care of the trials.”

For the next two hours, the believers prayed as they had never prayed before.