The movement is growing rapidly in Rome, overtaking even the sects of Mithras and Magna Mater, in pace of conversions, if not yet in size. Paul didn’t found the Roman groups: they were established before he arrived. But his presence in the city is largely, if not universally, welcomed by the followers already there. And he talks with such eloquence and passion that many of the leisured potential converts who visit him are swayed in just an afternoon to stand among the company of the sanctified. Even some of Caesar’s household call on Paul and are counted among his supporters.
People will probably come to Paul’s apartments today to listen to him, as they do most days, to hear Paul preach of his resurrected saviour-God; a figure like, but quite unlike, Dionysius, Trophonius or Orpheus, for they are misty deities of an uncertain past. The redeemer Paul talks about is a real man, was a real man, a real God, who walked the earth as a peer of this generation and who will return within it too. Who will descend to judge the quick and the dead inside these warped and crooked days. What listener could fail to be amazed by such apocalyptic urgency, especially when spoken of by a preacher so visibly certain of the truth in his every word? An apostle who can even reveal concealed proofs that all this was foretold in the ancient scriptures of the Israelites — a people renowned as mystical and God-devoted — yet Paul speaks of no age-old creed, already well-travelled with caravan traders and sailors, like the mystery cults of Isis, Cybele, Atargattis and Serapis were when they first arrived. His is a dewy neoteric sect of now, something too compelling to ignore: to think that this present moment exists in the imminence of the coming Kingdom of God, the arrival of which — expectantly pressing upon every fresh dawn — was signified by the risen Christ Jesus, the Messiah for whose sake Paul is currently imprisoned.
Were it not for the soldier who sleeps by the door, it would be hard to tell this is a prison. The building is a prison that some Roman nobles would be glad of. Not a senator, but a country landowner might not mind it for a town house and most merchants certainly wouldn’t scorn to live there. Paul is obliged to pay the wages and upkeep of the soldier — a one-eyed Praetorian guard named Manius — as well as for the apartments, but he has sufficient funds for these expenses.
The whole household breakfasts together, eating fruit and bread spread with fish sauce and honey — Epaphras, Timothy, Silas, Aristarchus, Demas and Luke, as well as Manius and the three servant women. Paul believes strongly that there should be no division between Jew and Greek, slave and free, male and female. Except, of course, where such divisions are necessary. Whether or not there should be separation between Roman citizens and the rest of the world, this is unarguably the situation that exists, and it is entirely thanks to his citizenship that Paul now ‘suffers’ in this imprisonment rather than being dead, so it is a separation for which he is in some sense grateful.
But though Rome is the greatest city on earth it is still a city. A lamp of burning camphor gum struggles to keep the stink of the streets at bay while they eat; and still that stench of overpopulation almost visibly oozes from beneath the outer door.
There is a knock at that door before they have finished, still too early for Paul’s usual acolytes and admirers. The soldier Manius gets up to see who is there, it being his duty to vet visitors as much as to prevent escape, though he has thus far never barred anyone from entering and Paul has absolutely no intention of escaping.
Without even asking their business, Manius waves the caller in, then lies back down on the cushioned floor to take another quince.
The entrant is well past his twentieth year, but still has the look of a giant boy rather than a man; a big moon-headed lad, somewhat uncomely. He wears a travelling cloak wrapped right up to his chin. His bland face poking out from it is like unadorned pottery, blank and functional. He walks in an oafish way as he crosses the room, almost insolent it looks, his swaying swagger, but Paul is sufficiently astute to realize that it is not. And in any case the caller almost immediately throws himself at Paul’s feet. Prostrates himself like a stretching hound, face to the floor. Trying to kiss Paul’s bare, road- and age-gnarled toes.
‘My lord Paul, master of my master,’ he begs, ‘I plead with you to intercede. I will be killed unless you can help me.’
He must have seen Paul before to go straight to him or at least have had a good description because there are six other men in the room, not including Manius, and no reason to suppose that Paul is their leader, other than his greater age and perhaps his finer robe. But, then, Paul does rather exude being chosen of God; perhaps it is merely that.
‘Look at me, boy,’ Paul says. ‘Do I know you?’
The supplicant raises his head. Tears, droplets that would evaporate in moments in the afternoon’s heat, remain upon the morning-cool tile floor beneath him. ‘I have seen you, sir, at my master Philemon’s villa at Colossae.’
The boy’s cloak has slipped down from his chin with his writhing on the floor and Paul notices for the first time the metal collar riveted about his neck. ‘You’re a slave. And from Colossae! That’s a month’s travel away. What are you doing here?’
‘Seeking you, sir. Begging for intercession. I have committed a wicked crime against my master, and further wronged him by fleeing his judgement and stealing the coins needed to make my way to you. Philemon is a great patron, he owes no one debts. You are the only man I knew who he might listen to. Please help me, Lord Paul.’
The slave glances at the soldier Manius as he speaks, as if fearful of being arrested on the spot. Manius has a scar, deep as the Kidron valley, which runs across his empty left eye socket. But his one good eye shows no interest in the importuning boy: it follows instead the ample rump of the serving girl, who removes the empty bowls, as if nothing unusual is happening.
‘What’s your name?’ Paul asks.
The boy says, ‘Useful,’ choking out the word with hesitance, as though this final divulgence is what will see him condemned.
His fear is understandable, though, whatever his first crime, for running away alone he should face grave punishment. At the least, fugitive slaves are usually whipped near to death and hot-iron branded on the forehead, lest they try to flee again; but they might just as likely be crucified, or burned alive in cloths soaked in pitch, or whatever other exemplary death sentence their master dreams up — being eaten by lampreys was one, sucked and rasped to death by jawless eel-fish. The Roman world does not value the life of a slave. But Paul believes that even a slave can be a brother in the Christ.
‘Come.’ He places his hands on Useful’s chubby shoulders and raises him up, so they stand level, though Paul’s head is more properly level with the metal collar around Useful’s neck. The shackle is inscribed and, almost without thought, Paul murmurs aloud what it says: ‘If I have run away, then catch me. If you take me back to my master Philemon, you’ll be rewarded.’
‘Would that I didn’t wear this collar of shame. Then I too might read it.’ Useful says.
‘But you can read?’
‘Yes, my lord, the master had me taught from a boy, by the same tutor who taught his own children. He thought it might prove me of help in keeping his records and accounts.’
‘So you can write as well? Interesting. You look tired and hungry, Useful.’
Useful nods affirmation.
‘Which ails you more?’
‘Fatigue, sir. I have barely slept since I arrived in Rome a week ago. Terrified by night, searching for you by day.’