The Invictus

Prologue: The Latin Gate-1

AD 92

RomeA single ray of light shone through a crack in the blocks of a dark, dank hold where John was held. It touched upon his forehead, and the old man, nearing his eightieth year, felt bathed in warmth. As he meditated in the dark and squalid stone room, his mind and spirit anchored to the frail beam of light.

The source of light was the sun that was now beginning to set, coloring the entire city in a bright orange glow. The hold was in a Tullianum prison near a southern portion of Rome’s Servian wall. Within the room, all that remained of the light as it washed across the city was the thin beam that split the darkness. Still, it was enough to sustain John against exhaustion and the strain under which he found himself.

John’s arms were bound together above his head and held taut by a chain that extended from the ceiling where it was affixed. His legs were shackled together and rooted to an iron loop on the stone floor. A thin, earth-colored tunic clung to his frail body, one that wouldn’t have kept an ordinary man from shivering in the cold of the room. But despite the damp chill and discomfort, John focused intently on the beam of light that reached his head and felt pain free and warm inside.

He had led the spread of the gospel across Ephesus and helped to govern an array of churches throughout Asia. The growing fervor of Christianity had drawn the attention of the Roman Emperor Domitian. Following his victory in the wars of Britannia and the Dacian conflicts, the emperor felt emboldened to turn his attention to what he saw as the growing threat of the Christian beliefs, and he launched a widespread campaign of persecution against them. Upon learning of John’s influence in the region, Domitian commanded Roman forces to seek him out and bring him to Rome. He would make an example of John.

Now, strung up in chains, John awaited the return of the Roman guards to learn his fate. He was alone in this cell, which offered no hope or comfort other than the thin ray of light on which he focused to sustain himself. Or at least he had thought he was alone.

“Annuit coeptis,” Archangel Michael whispered from the ether within the cell. “The Father assures that you will endure the pain and trial that await.”

Remaining connected to the light and to comfort, John opened his eyes to mere slits and said, “So, the last remaining follower has now lived to be the oldest, only to be brought here and destined to meet the same fate as his brethren?”

“No,” whispered the angel. “He requires your help in documenting and revealing to all followers their final journey—how they will ultimately return home.”

“Am I to suffer the same fate as Paul and Peter before me at the hands of this great persecutor?” John asked. “I’ve traveled far and endured much. Do not placate me and minimize what lies ahead.”

“Your resilience will be as He has commanded it, and you will be the portal through which the final revelation will be shared with others,” Michael answered.

John challenged him. “What profit is there in my blood if I am to submit to this again? Will my dust praise Him and declare my faithfulness?” John tilted his head up to the ceiling. “Hear me, oh Lord, and have mercy upon me.”

Michael ignored his pleas. “It is impossible to retire from your service to Him. Is this not what you agreed to in the garden all those years ago?”

“Aye,” John responded, his eyes moistened with the memory of the promise he had made in a garden of olive trees. “And I would agree to it again now, if He were present to ask it of me.” He lowered his head. “Will Azrael be with me if this is to be the end?”

Michael’s voice became purposeful. “Your time here is not yet done, John. These men cannot end your life—you know this. The Father has unfinished work for you.”

John, exhausted by the years that weighed heavily on his thin frame, grew irritated.

Michael encouraged him to persevere. “This is part of His plan. The vision of all things and how they are to conclude will be revealed to you in Patmos.”

“What is this Patmos?” John asked. “Is it a place?”

John had not noticed the two guards who had reentered the chamber to retrieve him. They removed their helmets and, in the absence of any perceived threat from the old man, they lacked the customary daggers slung around their waists, just below the armor of their chest plates.

“Quit muttering to yourself, old man,” one of them said. “Your time has come.” They quickly and roughly released the chain from the ceiling and unshackled his legs from the floor mount. John crumpled to the stone floor, his limbs distended. He groaned in pain.

“Shut up, old fool!” one guard bellowed as he slammed a thick fist into John’s face. The blow sent John sprawling to the ground, and a gash opened across his cheek.

“Let’s get him out there,” the other guard urged. “The emperor is ready now. Come on, get to your feet.” They dragged him up and each placed one of his arms across their shoulders. Then they ushered him through the door of the stone chamber and down a long a hallway toward the entrance to the prison.

The sun was quickly sinking into dusk, and the elderly man struggled to keep pace with the soldiers who guided him to a gate in the city’s large stone wall.

They turned the corner just outside the gate to find a large assembly of noblemen and senators waiting for them, arranged in a half circle. A large wooden platform atop a stone parapet near the wall supported a huge steaming pot with a cantilever apparatus above it. It was a large metal vat—large enough to hold a full-grown man—with a wooden arm that extended from a tripod beam. A rope and leather harness dangled near the wooden arm and hung down near the base of the pot.

Beyond the encircled group was another stone parapet, this one serving as a platform for the Roman Emperor Domitian, who sat ready to take in the festivities he had arranged. Domitian was flanked on one side by a large praetorian guard whose armor and clothing bore more colorful ornamentation than that of a typical Roman soldier.

In a shrill, whiny voice, Domitian made an announcement to herald the arrival of the prisoner as he was brought before the group. “And here comes our guest of honor!”

As John approached, half-carried by the guards, still wrapped in his tattered tunic, he looked disheveled and exhausted. While he had been freed from his leg irons, his hands remained fastened together by a leather strap. It was quite a sight for a gathering of senators and noblemen to take in: an old man, worn and weathered but with a venerable and virginally pure face, contemplative eyes, and stark white hair and beard. He appeared simultaneously human and angelic, bent by the weight of his years.

As John was brought before the emperor, Domitian looked down upon him and spoke, his voice directed to the crowd. “This prophet speaks of a long-deceased deity who will come back to judge us all and grant everlasting life to those who believe in him. Let us demonstrate tonight what great folly this is and give him the chance to renounce the troubles he has caused this republic.”

John stood up to face the emperor as the crowd of Rome’s elite gathered behind him. As the soldiers stepped back from the prisoner so he could face his audience with Domitian alone, the guard who had punched John’s face was puzzled. Where was the gash he had inflicted on the old man’s face just moments ago?

A hush fell over the crowd as Domitian said, “Old man, you’ve been brought here to be granted a privilege that is so unique, others may only dream of it: the opportunity to renounce the discord you’ve sown in exchange for your life to be spared.”

John straightened up even more and stared unflinchingly at the Emperor of Rome. “The venators you sent to Ephesus did not intimidate me there, just as they do not here,” he responded, looking back at the two guards who had dragged him out to the gathering.

“The impudence and gall with which you speak!” Domitian seemed to have anticipated John’s challenge to him. “Do you not understand? I am truly Dominus et Deus—master of all.” John countered, “I’ve seen many mere men like you, determined to deliver pain and keep God’s children in bondage.”

Visibly agitated, Domitian leaned forward on his makeshift throne. “You will understand: look at all who kneel before me . . . and those who do not.” He waved his hand. The buzz of conversation that had circulated through the crowd quieted, and slowly they all kneeled, including the large soldier next to Domitian. Yet there was a group John had not noticed when he was first brought outside. Domitian nodded as John realized who they were. “Indeed. They are followers of your word, but not of mine. You might have the chance to save their lives tonight, to keep them from suffering death for the treason they have committed against the republic. You need only to admit to them and these noblemen of Rome that what you preach and believe is nothing more than the prattling of a huckster.”

Shaking his head wearily, as if he had had this discussion with other oppressors throughout his long life, John said, “I believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth—”

“Heaven and earth?” Domitian interrupted. “You speak of my domain, old man.”

“I believe in Jesus Christ, God’s only Son and our Lord—”

Domitian’s rage flashed. “Christ? Do not say his name! Damnatio memoriae—that is what will become of that name and its history this evening!” With these words, Domitian declared his intent to purge the Christians and their beliefs from all memory and mention.

The group of noblemen had arisen, and anticipation stirred among them, as if they knew what would soon befall John. They seemed enthralled by the staging of what would be a grotesque spectacle on such a pleasant, cool October evening.

John, too, sensed that the exchange was approaching a climax. He turned his gaze toward the group of a dozen or more Christians the emperor had brought to meet their death. Some looked to be at peace, while others were nervous and afraid. Others looked down to avoid the confrontation between the supreme leader of Rome and the frail, aged prophet who served as the standard-bearer of the beliefs they held so fervently.

As if speaking to himself more than to the emperor, John closed his eyes and said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for others.” He turned his gaze back to Domitian. “Great Caesar, allow me to offer my own sacrifice so that those poor souls, regardless of how they came to their beliefs, will be spared death.”

Domitian seemed genuinely surprised that John would offer such a bargain. “You willingly embrace the punishment I’ve constructed for you? The price for your loose tongue in my empire?”

John nodded. “My life can be the price so that they may live, albeit in the choice and manner of their banishment that you see fit.”

Domitian’s lips curled into a smile. “I will allow it to be so. Then it is time to proceed, old man.”

John became terrified as he suddenly understood the earthly consequence of what he had just agreed to. “No, wait! It doesn’t need to be this way. There is a manner in which we can all coexist.”

Domitian quickly responded, “Your tongue has once again spoken of bargains and agreements that you know are folly. It’s time to end the charade that you’ve fomented, which has only served to misguide your followers and insult these great nobles of Rome.”

Then the emperor sneered, “Throw him in!”

The guards were quickly on him. They began to drag him up the ramp of wooden steps toward the vat. John protested and struggled frantically, trying to break free, but he was no match for the younger and stronger soldiers. In his blind fear, he could not make out the diatribe Domitian started delivering to the others who gathered, hearing only that it was about the false beliefs that would end with John’s life.