CHAPTER 96

The trials began on the third day of his imprisonment, and Theophilus begged the guards to let him represent his fellow prisoners.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. The guards were under strict orders. A man accused of arson could only represent himself.

The trials were run with typical Roman efficiency. From the reports of those who left the cell and returned as condemned arsonists, the prospects of acquittal were nonexistent. Dozens of trials were held simultaneously in the Basilica Julia, and each one featured numerous witnesses who claimed to have firsthand knowledge of a plot by followers of the Way, including Theophilus and his fellow prisoners, to burn down the city. Those who had been formerly imprisoned with Theophilus but had confessed under torture were among the informants.

As each prisoner returned from his or her trial, Theophilus asked about Flavia. Nobody had seen her. He prayed she was still safe. He couldn’t get her out of his mind, and he didn’t want to. He thought about the early months of their marriage. The joy at learning that Flavia was pregnant. A young Mansuetus, innocent and playful. Mansuetus as a teenager, becoming serious about his studies. Theophilus longed for those days again. Why did following Jesus have to be so hard?

Julia’s report was the most disheartening of all. Just before her case started, the prosecutor approached her and offered a deal. If she would testify against her fellow prisoners, the authorities would release her children. If not, she would watch her six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter be fed to the beasts during the private games in Nero’s gardens. She rejected the proposed deal, clinging to her faith that Jesus would somehow spare her children.

When she returned to the cell, she was inconsolable. “What have I done?” she sobbed. “What if I’ve condemned them to death?”

As time marched on, a sense of despair invaded the cell. The trials were a farce. Nobody would be spared.

Theophilus was not called for his trial that day, and he wasn’t surprised. They would want him to go last so they could accumulate as many witnesses as possible before they allowed him into the courtroom.

As evening approached, the prisoners were given something to eat for the first time in three days. The guards shoved bread and water inside the door, and the believers split it up evenly. There was barely enough for each of them to have a small morsel of bread and a few swallows of water. Theophilus wondered how long some of the prisoners could last under these conditions.

That night, he slept fitfully. He was hungry. Some of the prisoners were crying. Others prayed quietly. Urbanus, who had been found guilty that day, was snoring.

The dream came just before morning. The figures were ghostlike, shrouded in fog. Theophilus couldn’t see their faces. They were young, some holding their parents’ hands as they walked toward the giant ship waiting in port.

Mansuetus was there, waving at Theophilus while boarding the ship with the others.

Theophilus reached out, but he couldn’t touch his son. Parents cried, but the children didn’t seem to notice, smiling as they climbed on board one by one.

Theophilus heard the thunderous pounding of horses’ hooves behind him. He turned to see the dust kicked up by a thousand Roman soldiers. His fellow prisoners turned with him to bravely face their executioners. With quiet dignity, they stood shoulder to shoulder as the soldiers drew nearer, swords drawn, hatred flashing in their eyes.

Before the slaughter began, Theophilus glanced back at the boat. Its sail was full, catching the wind, leaving port. The children, Mansuetus among them, leaned over the boat’s railing, staring at their parents.

“They’re safe,” the woman next to Theophilus said. Theophilus turned and looked into the eyes of Julia. “Now I can die in peace.”

When he woke, Theophilus knew immediately what the dream meant. God had given him a purpose for his trial and with it he felt a renewed surge of strength. Somebody had to speak for the children. He had been taught advocacy by the best tutors in the world. Now he would face his final test.

Plautius Lateranus was a large man with a bull neck, puffy cheeks, and small slits for eyes. His infamous past included an alleged affair with Messalina, the third wife of Claudius Caesar. He had been exiled and spared the death penalty because he had a famous uncle who had been granted an ovation after his conquest of Britannica. When Claudius died, Lateranus was fully pardoned by Nero and restored to his former rank and position.

Despite the man’s history, Theophilus was not at all distressed when he was dragged into the Basilica Julia and realized that Lateranus was the praetor who would decide his case. Lateranus was reputed to be a stubborn judge, an independent thinker, and no great fan of Nero despite the pardon Nero had granted him.

The prosecutor, of course, was Tigellinus himself, splendid in his broad-striped toga, his hair perfectly coiffed. Theophilus, on the other hand, had grown a short and unkempt beard peppered with gray and wore the same tunic he had been wearing since the day of his arrest. His wrists were manacled together. He had no notes, no exhibits, no witnesses. He felt like he could barely stand, and he knew his voice would be raspy.

Before the trial started, Tigellinus came up to Theophilus and renewed his offer to release Flavia if Theophilus would only confess.

“Has she already been found guilty?” Theophilus asked.

“Of course. She confessed after a few hours of stretching the truth out of her.”

Theophilus wouldn’t allow the image to take root in his mind. He knew he couldn’t trust a word this man said. He chose not to believe him.

“I’m innocent,” Theophilus said, though the words lacked force. “I intend to prove it if given the chance.”

Tigellinus pointed behind him to a row of a dozen men and women. “I have some witnesses who might say otherwise.”

A few seconds after Tigellinus stepped away, Theophilus felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and found Marcus standing there, holding a flask of water.

“What are you doing here?” Theophilus asked. He took a quick drink and coughed from gulping it down too fast.

“I’m a doctor,” Marcus said as if Theophilus might have forgotten. “The guards let me through.”

Theophilus took another swig but saw Tigellinus approaching from the side. “Get away from the prisoner,” the prosecutor sputtered, his eyes burning through Marcus.

“I’m a doctor,” Marcus said. “This man is sick.”

“Guards!” Tigellinus called.

The guards stepped forward and Marcus held up his hands. “I’m leaving,” he said.

He looked at Theophilus before stepping away. “May the gods be with you,” Marcus said.

A guard grabbed his arm but he shook it off.

“I was here for Flavia’s trial,” Marcus said quickly to Theophilus. “She looked fine, though she was found guilty. Rubria tried to help but is being held under house arrest.”

“Thank you,” Theophilus said to Marcus as the guards shoved his friend away. Marcus stiffened, but they pushed him harder and made him stand back with the rest of the crowd.

“Loyal to a fault,” Tigellinus said, staring after him. “He’ll pay, Theophilus. Just like all the others.”

Lateranus called the proceedings to order and recognized Tigellinus first. The man spoke at length against the Christians and painted Theophilus as one of the chief conspirators in the great fire of Rome.

“Did not the fire destroy many temples in Rome, temples that honored the same gods the Christians refuse to worship? These are the people whose leaders compare Rome to the immoral ancient cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, claiming that their God will judge such cities with fire from heaven. Well, it appears the followers of Christus decided their God needed a little help.”

As he had during the trial of Paul, Tigellinus strutted around while he talked. “I heard it myself during the trial of Paul of Tarsus. He claimed that every man and woman in the Roman Empire, including even the great Caesar himself, would one day fall on their faces and worship Christus. Exercising great grace and restraint, Nero freed Paul even though he found Paul guilty. But that didn’t stop this new superstition from spreading. Nor did it stop its adherents from deepening their hatred of the emperor and this city.

“Witnesses will describe secret meetings of this sect where the followers of Christus are instructed to eat his body and drink his blood. They foment rebellion among our slaves and claim that the lowest slave is equal to the highest Roman citizen. More than that, you will hear witnesses testify that Theophilus and other leaders plotted the fiery destruction of his own city. The prisoner has long been an enemy of Roman emperors, and today the blood of ten thousand Romans is on his hands.”

Theophilus took it all in, his eyes fixed on Lateranus. The praetor seemed unmoved by the rhetoric. Perhaps it was only Theophilus’s tired and disoriented mind engaging in wishful thinking. Or perhaps the praetor would actually consider the evidence impartially.

When Tigellinus concluded, the praetor asked if Theophilus wished to speak in response. Theophilus declined, stating that he would wait until Tigellinus had presented his evidence.

For the next three hours, Theophilus listened wearily as Tigellinus called his witnesses. They testified exactly as Tigellinus had predicted they would. Former slaves of Christian households testified that Theophilus had counseled them to rise up against their masters. Believers who had been imprisoned with Theophilus claimed that they had heard him and Andronicus discussing the rumors the two men had started and spread —rumors against Nero for allegedly causing the fire.

Other witnesses, men and women whom Theophilus had never seen before, claimed they had been in the room with Theophilus when he helped plan the great fire. With a touch of flair, one witness said that Theophilus planned on mounting the Rostra after the fires to give a speech against Nero and advocate a return to the Republic. “He gave the same type of speech after the assassination of Caligula,” the witness said.

One brave man refused to indict Theophilus. The man had apparently confessed when the guards tortured him, yet when Tigellinus called him forward, he had a change of heart.

“That man is innocent,” he said, pointing to Theophilus. “And putting me back on the rack will not make me support your lies.”

It was the sole bright spot in three hours of testimony. The crowd grew restless, murmuring their disapproval every time Theophilus declined to cross-examine a witness. They had apparently expected a spirited defense. Instead, Theophilus stood there stoically, never asking a single question.

Lateranus periodically looked at him, his eyes filled with curiosity. Theophilus suspected that his judge was wondering the same things Theophilus himself had wondered so many years ago about the Nazarene.

Why don’t you defend yourself? Don’t you hear all these things being said against you?

But Theophilus continued to bide his time.

Finally, at the end of Tigellinus’s case, an exasperated Lateranus turned to Theophilus. “Does the defendant have any evidence?” Lateranus asked.

“I do.”

“You may proceed,” Lateranus said, relief evident in his voice.

The spectators seemed to shuffle a little closer, leaning forward to hear what Theophilus had to say.

“I am innocent,” he began. “You have the wrong man on trial today.”