Empire's End (2 page)

Balbus directed his driver through an alleyway that led to a rear entrance, but as they rattled near he was alarmed to see Lucius Vitellius in the back of a plain wood wagon—a conveyance far beneath the dignity of his station—shoulders slumped, his head in his hands.

“Governor Vitellius!” he called out. “I've arrived! Where do you want me?”

Vitellius turned slowly with a forlorn look. “I'm no longer your governor. Publius Petronius is your man now.”

“I barely know him! What—?”

But Vitellius waved him off as his wagon pulled away, and the general climbed down, not knowing what to do. Petronius appeared with a younger man hurrying along beside him. “General Balbus, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir, I—”

“Why are you not in uniform?”

“Well, I was given to understand—”

“And who is this?”

“Sir, this is my wife, she—”

“No women are allowed at this entrance,” Petronius said, grabbing the general by the arm and turning his back on the rest of Balbus' party. “This is Marullus. You know each other?”

“We've met.”

“He's the new prefect and he has an assignment for you. Now I must get back to the emperor. I wish you'd have come in uniform. You could have appeared with us. No matter. Marullus, you may meet with him in the library, but find me in ten minutes. Balbus, as you're out of uniform you'll have to join your party around front.”

The general set his jaw. He would do no such thing. As soon as he was finished with this young man who had the job he believed should have been his, he would find his wife and his men and head back to his home—he didn't care how it looked. New emperor, new governor, new prefect, same old general to do their dirty work.

When he and Marullus were alone in the cavernous library, he told his new superior he preferred to stand.

“It wasn't a suggestion, General,” Marullus said. “It was an order.”

“Very well, sir,” Balbus said with an edge, sitting.

“Have no fear. Your role is secure.”

Actually, that
is
what I was afraid of
.

The new prefect sat with his back straight and his hands clasped before him. “Everyone from me on up knows that all you did was what you were ordered to do.”

“That's all I've ever done, sir.”

“And you've done it with excellence and honor.”

“Thank you.”

“And General, there is more for you to do. The emperor believes the time has come for Rome to support the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem. What better way than to have our best military leader aid them in their quest to maintain order among their own?”

“I don't understand.”

“They have an insurrectionist. One who for years had led the opposition to The Way, those the Jews believed were threats not only to them but also to Rome, has become a traitor.”

Marullus sat back as if to let that sink in.

“What? Who?”

“The name is Saul bar Y'honatan of Tarsus. He was assistant to the vice chief justice of the Sanhedrin.”

“Nathanael?”

“That's the one.”

“His assistant has what, become a follower of The Way?”

“So it appears. And this was the man instrumental in the stoning of the man these people now call their ‘first martyr.'”

“How did this happen?” the general said.

“No one knows. But he is abetting these people who are a threat to Jerusalem, to all of Judea.”

“To us.”

“To Rome, General. We could show no greater support to the people
under our jurisdiction—and the emperor wishes to make up for many recent missteps—than for us, for you, to find this man.”

“I can find anyone.”

“We believe you can.”

“May I stand?”

“You may.”

“Tell me the result you desire.”

“My desire is the desire of the governor, which is the desire of the emperor, which in this case is the desire of the Sanhedrin: the end of The Way.”

“Which means the death of this Saul.”

“Prefect!”

Marullus looked up with a start at the voice of Governor Petronius. “Coming, sir.”

General Balbus leaned close as he walked Marullus out. “I will deliver the heads of Saul and as many members of The Way as I can find, but I want the truth. What's in this for the emperor? He's no more interested in pleasing the Sanhedrin than you are or I am.”

“The Temple.”

“The Temple?”

“He sees himself as Saturn. A statue of him as Saturn is being built, and he wants it moved to the Temple in Jerusalem as soon as it's finished.”

“The Sanhedrin will never—”

“He believes they will, if you deliver Saul.”

THREE WEEKS EARLIER
OUTSIDE DAMASCUS

FROM THE MEMOIR
OF SAINT PAUL THE APOSTLE

I
NEVER REFERRED TO
the stoning of Stephen as murder, because even standing close enough to hear the blows that tore his flesh did not weaken my belief that we had carried out the judgment of God Himself.

A student of the Scriptures, I knew the sin of putting another god before the one true God. The Jesus-followers had the audacity to elevate that common carpenter to the position of a Christ, the Messiah. And even though this Stephen had been able to conjure some of the same miracles, he had also proved merely mortal in the end.

Now would they worship their new leader, the uneducated fisherman Peter, who may not have had the silver tongue of Stephen but was convincing enough to persuade thousands to become followers of The Way?
Or would they revere Peter's brother James, or the other James among them—one of the brothers of Jesus? Perhaps the new favorite would be young John, who apparently everyone agreed had been Jesus' favorite.

It didn't matter to me. I had undertaken a new assignment with complete confidence that I served as an agent of God. It also raised my stature with the chief priests and most of the rest of the Sanhedrin. Most, because some agreed with my old mentor, Rabbi Gamaliel, who felt the council had overreacted in the matter of Stephen. Gamaliel tried to reason with me, but his advice fell on deaf ears. He had lost my respect. I felt no need of his approval, as I had for so many years.

I admit, however, that the death of Stephen did not have the effect on the people of The Way that I expected. Continuing to insist that Jesus had resurrected from the dead, they referred to Stephen as their first martyr. Rather than cowering in fear of the same fate for themselves, some expressed envy that Stephen had been privileged to be persecuted for Jesus' sake!

His violent death seemed to have discouraged no one from stepping up to replace him—neither the young men of the sect nor even their mothers. Within days of his burial, dozens of devout believers seemed determined to take his place. Their new leaders were bolder, their proclamations louder, their resolve more intense. Even worse, they now began traveling to distant lands to expand the influence of their lies and subversion.

The daily tasks I had handled for Nathanael for years, challenging as they had been, held little interest for me anymore. I took personally the failure of the Sanhedrin to hinder the burgeoning growth of The Way. I had gotten a taste of blood, and I liked it. But this was not violence for violence's sake; rather it was the purest form of justice. Arresting, imprisoning, and killing these people were the only ways to stop the spread of apostasy.

Caiaphas, the high priest, made me his special assistant, with all the power and authority of his office, telling me, “I want The Way driven from Jerusalem. You have proven yourself able and committed.”

I was eager to get started. “I will proudly bear your authority, but I need men, weapons, horses.”

Caiaphas said, “Consider it done.”

Imagine how pleased I was the next morning when a complement of brawny horsemen arrived, every one about twice my size, yet fully understanding who was in charge. For several weeks, I led my men on daily raids before sunrise, surrounding houses owned by Jesus' wealthy followers. We stormed every entrance, denouncing them in the name of God, whipping any who tried to flee, binding them and tethering them to our horses to be dragged off to prison.

I was infused with righteous anger, a godly hatred of these opponents of the Scriptures. My team and I were merciless, swift, and brutal. Fear in the eyes of my prisoners or pleading on the parts of mothers not to separate them from their children had no effect on me. I had been born for this, schooled and trained for this, uniquely equipped for the task.

The fact was I enjoyed it. I was not a tyrant to gain power for its own sake. I was enforcing the will of God. What could be a higher calling? I even told Gamaliel, “I feel alive, fulfilled, as if I am living life to the fullest, defending and glorifying the name of the Lord.” My goal was to do anything contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. I cast my votes for many death sentences in Israel and other cities.

Learning that many of The Way had scattered into Judea and Samaria and as far as Damascus, I went again to Caiaphas, breathing threats and murder against them. I asked for a letter of introduction to the synagogues of Damascus. “Any disciples of Jesus I find there, men or women, I will bring to Jerusalem in chains.”

This seemed to please the high priest. “Damascus is outside Roman law,” he said, “so you will encounter no restrictions.”

He supplied me with the letters, and my band of enforcers and I lit out for the great walled city about 135 miles north of Jerusalem. On horseback for the better part of four days, we traveled the way of the Sea of Galilee, crossing the Jordan River by bridge a few miles north of the Dead Sea. My excitement built as we neared Kaukab, about twelve miles south of Damascus.

I pointed into the distance where the road rose to a slight ridge. “The wall will appear on the horizon as we clear that incline, but don't be misled. The city is still almost half a day's journey from there.”

I had slowed my great black mount as the sun reached its apex and we neared the crest, when suddenly we were struck by a light so bright it made my horse rear and emit a piercing whinny. I held fast to the reins as I slid from his back, my full weight hanging from the leather straps several feet off the ground. I had just enough presence of mind to let go so I wouldn't pull him over backward and kill him.

The other horses and men cried out as they, too, crashed to the ground. I hit hard and the breath rushed from my lungs. I lay there, eyes shut tight, face pressed into the dirt, but even that did no good against the sudden brilliance that radiated not just from above but also from all around me.

I heard men struggling to their feet and trying to calm their steeds. I fought to move but lay rigid with fear. Suddenly a loud voice implored in Hebrew, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me?”

Astounded I could find utterance, I moaned, “Who are you, Lord?”

“I am Jesus of Nazareth, whom you are persecuting.”

In that instant my world changed. I had believed with my entire being that Jesus had been an impostor and now was dead. There was no time to wonder, to question, to make sense of what was happening. Jesus Himself
had clearly spoken to me. The light was the light of God, and it permeated my soul.

I said, “What shall I do, Lord?”

“Rise and stand, for I have appeared to you to make you a minister and a witness both of the things you have seen and of the things I will yet reveal to you. I will deliver you from the Jewish people, as well as from the Gentiles, to whom I now send you, to open their eyes, in order to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins. Now go into Damascus, and there you will be told all things that are appointed for you to do.”

I struggled to my feet as the men came to my aid. “Did you see that?” I said, unable to control my shuddering.

“Yes! We were scared to death. The horses are still spooked.”

“Did you hear the voice?”

“Yes, but we saw no one!”

“It spoke to me, the voice of God. I must get to Damascus with all haste, but I cannot see!”

Two led me by the hand and helped me remount my horse, but the big animal skittered and stutter-stepped and I could feel in the reins his shaking his head. “Hold on tight,” one said. “We will lead him slowly.”

Several hours later the sounds of the city told me we had arrived.

“Where should we take you, Saul?”

“To the home of Judas on the street called Straight.”

DAMASCUS

I
HAD NEVER BEFORE
prayed as I did at Judas' house on the street called Straight. I sat blindly on the floor of the bedchamber, murmuring deep penance and rocking in the heat of the sunlight streaming through the window.

Earlier that day on the road into the great walled city I had come face-to-face with Christ Jesus, whom I had persecuted with all that was in me. I moaned, my spirit wracked with sobs, tears forcing their way past the oozing sores. My quivering fingers traced great crusty coverings over both eyes. “Oh, God, forgive me! Cleanse me! Create in me a clean heart like David of old. Make me a man after Your own heart.”

Judas laid a hand gently on my shoulder and whispered urgently that I should eat, balancing in my lap a plate of steaming meat and vegetables.

I continued, “Be merciful to me, a sinner . . .”

“At least sip some wine, Saul. You must. I'll leave it here.”

I left the pungent food and drink untouched.

Late that day, my supplications turned to every praise I could remember from the Psalms.

Outside the wide wooden door, I heard Judas plead with someone to leave me alone. One of the men from my detail, obviously speaking to his superior, said, “You will not have to answer for returning without him, sir. As it is, we'll likely have to put down his steed.”