CHAPTER 95

The torch flickered and went out during the night, leaving Theophilus and the other prisoners in total darkness. Early the next morning, two soldiers walked into the cell, and light came streaming through the door. Theophilus squinted while his eyes tried to adjust. The soldiers pointed to a young woman named Julia, who had been separated from her two children when she was arrested.

“Come with us.”

They jerked her to her feet, and Andronicus rose as well. He began praying loudly for Julia’s safety.

“Shut up, old man,” one of the soldiers said. He pushed Andronicus in the chest, forcing him back against a wall. Angered, Theophilus stood, as did a few other men. But a hard look from the guards kept them at bay. Julia sobbed as they led her away.

The prisoners sang hymns and prayed while she was gone. A few hours later they brought Julia back and threw her on the floor. Her limbs were dislocated and she could no longer stand. Her face showed the shock and horror she had been through, her eyes vacant and distant.

The soldiers looked around the cell, and Andronicus stood slowly. “Take me next,” he said.

Junia stood with him, and then a young, muscular man named Urbanus joined them. “No, take me first.” Next came Apelles and Priscilla, joined by Theophilus. They each told the guards that they wanted to be the next one to go.

The guards looked past the standing prisoners and grabbed a man named Phlegan from the floor. Again Andronicus prayed loudly while some of the women sat down with Julia to give her comfort.

Phlegan never returned.

For two long days, the guards repeated the routine, taking prisoners out of the cell one at a time. Some, like Julia, refused to tell the guards what they wanted to hear. Those prisoners were tortured mercilessly and thrown back into the cell with their faith intact. Others didn’t come back. Theophilus knew those prisoners had confessed to arson and agreed to testify against the rest of the believers.

The prisoners quit singing when Phlegan didn’t come back. The optimistic belief in a miracle that had pervaded the cell earlier was replaced by a grim desire to survive.

They were given no food or water, and Theophilus felt his strength ebbing away. His tongue swelled, his thirst so bad that he had difficulty swallowing. One of the believers found a small puddle in the corner of the cell, and Theophilus and the others took turns lapping at the wet stones.

For Theophilus, the worst part was the waiting. Waiting for someone to return from the torture. Waiting to see whom the guards would choose next. His anxiety was compounded as he wondered what had happened to Flavia.

His emotions swung from vicious thoughts of revenge to resignation that the end was near. He might have gone insane had it not been for Andronicus and Junia. They were old and frail, but they were stronger in spirit than the others. They had seen the risen Christ. They reminded the others that God could deliver any of them with just a word. And if he didn’t, their task was to persevere and bring honor to his name.

Even when the guards brought Andronicus back from his time on the rack, his spirit was unbowed. “I told them it wasn’t too late to repent,” he gasped. He moaned for a while and eventually passed out from the pain.

Theophilus was the last to be taken. He knew when the doors opened that it was his time, so he stood and walked toward the guards. They chained his manacled wrists to a burly guard and escorted him out of the cell.

“Be strong in the Lord!” Andronicus shouted out.

Theophilus stumbled along, his eyes stinging from the light. He was weak and tired and fearful that he wouldn’t be able to stand the test. Every time he had closed his eyes in the past two days, he had seen visions of the hated torture device. He could almost feel his bones being dislocated and his muscles popping. He had seen the defeated looks on the faces of those who had returned. Some could no longer walk or even stand.

The soldiers dragged him along, and he prayed for strength.

A half-dozen soldiers joined the others and took him outside. He squinted in the bright sunlight. They escorted him down the Palatine Hill and along the Via Sacra toward the Forum. People stepped out of the way and stared at the pitiful sight. Theophilus couldn’t even imagine how pathetic and unkempt he must have looked.

He tried to keep his eyes up, but it was a chore to do even that. He was still amazed at the nightmare that Rome had become. So many of its beautiful public temples had burned to ashes. Some of those temples had now been demolished, and enormous new stones lay in great piles next to the foundations, ready for the rebuilding process.

Without talking, the soldiers led him through the Forum to the Gemonian Stairs at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. It was here that foreign emperors were strangled before their bodies were thrown down the stairs and left for the dogs. Sejanus had been executed here after his trial in the Senate. Death on these stairs was considered the greatest of all Roman insults.

Theophilus knew this might be the end. He didn’t think they would torture a Roman citizen in the open, but it seemed that with Nero, the traditional norms no longer applied. Were they going to execute him without even a trial?

He waited for several minutes, the sun baking down on him, before he heard a voice from behind.

“My old friend Theophilus,” the man said, his tone mocking. Even before Theophilus turned, he knew it was Tigellinus.

The prefect of the Praetorian Guard stood on a perch a few steps above Theophilus, a cold smile playing on his lips. He reeked of stale perfume, and his eyes looked bloodshot. Theophilus could tell he enjoyed seeing the prisoner in such a desperate state.

“Have a seat,” Tigellinus said.

“I’ll stand.”

“So be it,” Tigellinus sneered. He came down and stood next to Theophilus. He put his arm around the prisoner’s shoulder.

“Can you see it, Theophilus?” he asked, motioning to the Forum. “Rome rebuilt like never before. Nero’s Domus Aurea connecting the Palatine and Esquiline Hills. A golden statue of our emperor 120 feet high. A magnificent lake for staging mock naval battles and for hosting more Saturnalia parties.”

He squeezed Theophilus’s shoulder. Theophilus wanted to spit in the man’s face.

“You could have been Rome’s wealthiest advocate,” Tigellinus continued. “You could have helped rule all this. But you had to throw it away on this Christus fellow. A rather foolhardy gamble for a man of your intelligence.”

Tigellinus removed his hand from Theophilus’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Your wife sends her regards.”

Theophilus turned and stared at his tormentor but said nothing.

“If you confess, I’ll spare her the rack. In fact, if you confess that you and the other leaders of this new superstition started the fires, I’ll let Flavia go. She can walk out of prison today, and she’ll never hear another word about it. You saved her once, Theophilus. Save her again.”

In his weakened state, Theophilus was drawn to the possibility. He loved Flavia more than life itself. But he also knew that this man could not be trusted. Theophilus would have told Tigellinus anything if he really believed it would help set Flavia free. Yet he knew that the whole thing was just a mirage. He reminded himself of that as Tigellinus talked.

“I’ll make it quick and painless for you as well,” Tigellinus promised. “A beheading fit for a Roman. Far less pain than a crucifixion.”

“You can’t crucify Roman citizens.”

“Interestingly, that’s not entirely true,” Tigellinus said as if he were discussing an academic question in a courtroom. “The law says we cannot execute Romans by crucifixion. His Excellency has interpreted that to mean that Romans can still be hung on a cross so long as they die by other means.”

He looked at Theophilus as he said this, apparently searching for weakness or fear.

Theophilus stared straight ahead, anger heating his body. “Does almighty Caesar believe he can dispense with trials as well?”

“On the contrary, almighty Caesar thinks the trials should start right away.”

It was the first slim ray of good news Theophilus had received in days. Perhaps he would have a chance to defend himself and others in open court.

“Twenty-four hours,” Tigellinus said. “If you don’t confess within twenty-four hours, you won’t recognize your wife when you see her again.”

He let that threat sink in for a moment, then walked down the stairs. The guards parted to let him by.

“Tigellinus!”

The prefect paused before reaching the bottom.

“I want to represent my wife,” Theophilus said. “Don’t put her on trial without me there.”

The comment produced a mirthless chuckle. “You must think me a fool,” Tigellinus said. Then he walked away.

When Theophilus returned to the cell, he felt ashamed that he had not been tortured like the others.

“We should praise God for your protection,” Priscilla said.

“Perhaps they know that all of Rome will come to see your trial and Flavia’s,” Andronicus suggested. “They know better than to torture either one of you before you have your day in court.”

Theophilus clung to that hope because it meant that Flavia would be spared, at least for the moment.

But that night, he felt his strength fading fast. He wasn’t sure that he would even be coherent by the time his case was heard. He prayed that regardless of what happened to his body, his faith would remain strong.

There was moaning and labored breathing in the cell that night by those in so much pain. But there was also an inexplicable feeling of triumph. Everyone still there had been steadfast. Everyone but Theophilus had withstood agonizing torture.

The next morning, as the prisoners woke from their fitful sleep, they prayed for strength and courage to face another day.