CHAPTER 99

On the way back to the crypts, the prisoners marched past the cages of wild animals. For Theophilus, it was a harrowing experience, walking close enough to touch the cages holding the snarling lions and leopards, brooding bulls, and howling packs of wild dogs. The lions especially seemed so much bigger this close, their eyes bloodshot and yellow, their manes gnarled and matted. Theophilus knew they had been starved the last twenty-four hours, and when they opened their massive jaws and roared, it seemed the ground shook under his feet. The soldiers banged on the cages as the prisoners passed by the animals, riling up the beasts, and laughed as the prisoners shuddered or shrank away from the animals.

The prisoners were thrown back into their cells, and Theophilus was again separated from Flavia. Left alone, the Christians quickly rallied. They had been inspired by Marcus’s brave stand and the refusal of the next prisoner to bow her knee to Caesar. Andronicus and other leaders who had the gift of encouragement were exhorting their fellow prisoners. “Let us show the Roman people how to die! The Spirit of the Lord casts out fear! Let us meet God with praises on our lips! All of Rome is watching!”

Others echoed the words of Paul: “Have the same mindset as Christ Jesus, who made himself nothing and became obedient to death —even death on a cross!”

Though he felt abject fear coursing through every vein in his body, Theophilus joined his voice to those preaching courage. “I was there at the trial of Christ,” he said, pivoting so he could look all the prisoners in the eye. “I heard him tell Pilate that he was born for that moment. This is our moment! May we meet it with the same resolve!”

A long time passed as they waited for the soldiers to come for the first victims. Perhaps Caesar was giving a speech or playing the lyre or sacrificing to the Roman gods. Whatever the reason, it gave Theophilus and his cellmates sufficient time to regroup.

When the guards returned, Theophilus stepped to the front of his crypt along with half a dozen other men, shielding the women and older prisoners. The guards pushed Theophilus and the men standing with him aside and dragged out several others.

A few of the selected prisoners protested, but their words were interrupted by a lone voice from another crypt echoing through the underground tunnels, singing a hymn of praise. Other voices joined, rough and hoarse, but the words lifted the spirits of the prisoners. Soon everyone was singing, their voices rising louder.

The iron-barred doors to the crypts were slammed shut, and a gang of slaves fastened animal skins to the first set of victims, tying the skins around the shoulders of the manacled Christians so they couldn’t shrug them off. The guards then took out knives and sliced the skin of the Christians so the beasts would smell the fresh blood. Theophilus stood at the front of his crypt, his fists clenched around the bars, searching for Flavia. To his great relief, she was not among the first group selected.

“Let’s go!” one of the commanders barked. With that, the Christians were pushed and prodded down the long, dark corridor and disappeared out the other end of the tunnel.

When Theophilus could see them no longer, he joined the others in prayer. They heard the cheering of the crowd as the victims entered the arena. They heard the clang of the cages farther down the tunnel and the great roar of the lions as they were whipped into the arena. In the next few minutes, they heard moments of relative silence, followed by cheers or gasps of excitement and then resounding applause.

Theophilus could see the scene unfolding in his mind. He knew his own turn would come soon enough.

For hour after grisly hour, the process was repeated as the guards came for more victims. Sometimes, after the prisoners left, Theophilus would hear the growls of the wild dogs. Other times he heard the roar of the lions. Sometimes he heard nothing but the rattling of cages and the sound of the whips, and he knew they had loosed the leopards.

The guards took fifteen or twenty prisoners at a time, but as far as Theophilus could tell, Flavia was never among them.

By noon the crowd was not nearly as enthusiastic as it had been earlier. Maybe they were finally growing weary of the mindless slaughter.

Theophilus just wanted it to be over. He was sick with fear but also determined to finish well. The examples of those who had gone before him would have inspired even the most insipid of men. Though Theophilus had eaten and slept little, he was no longer tired. Every time the guards returned, adrenaline rushed through his body, preparing him for the agony that lay ahead. He had determined that he would at least go down with a fight. He would attack the beasts —enrage them if he could. That way they would make short work of him and the others.

He didn’t allow himself to think about what would happen to Flavia.

By midafternoon, the crypt housing Theophilus had only three prisoners left. The singing and speeches had long since ceased. Defiant resistance had been replaced by a grim acceptance of fate. The soldiers and prisoners had both learned the routine. Guards would enter the crypt and tap the selected prisoners on their shoulders. The Christians would leave the cell willingly and begin their silent death march to the stadium. Those left behind would shake their heads and wait their turns.

But sometime in the late afternoon, the soldiers stopped coming. An hour passed. Two hours. Theophilus strained to hear, trying to determine if the crowd was still there. He didn’t hear the cheering he would have expected if the emperor had moved on to other events like gladiator fights or chariot races.

He allowed a brief flicker of hope to reignite. The executions had stopped, at least temporarily. He and the other prisoners wondered aloud at what it could mean.

Then he heard it, unmistakable, echoing in the twilight air. Something far more sinister, a rhythm that pierced his soul.

The crowd noise had been replaced by the distant sound of hammering.