John's Story Read Free Page A

noisily exited. John looked expectantly at the guard.
    “They will not all leave the city,” the man said. “The news of your trial has spread. Many will remain to view that as well.”
    “My trial or my sentence?”
    “The latter, of course,” the man said. “If you persist in making the decision for the emperor, the sentence will follow soon enough.”
    When the Colosseum was empty, the dungeon seemed to come alive, soldiers clambering up and down the steps, armor clanging. Several whispered with the guard, who seemed to revel in the attention. When they were gone he approached John’s cell.
    “The emperor has returned,” he said, “in time to enjoy the final act. He now dines in anticipation of meeting you.”
    John prayed for peace, but he was human. His heart galloped and he fought to maintain composure. He told himself that if this was to be his last day on earth, he would look forward to being with his Lord in paradise. And yet he dreaded an excruciating end.
    John hated himself for his fear. Why should he be spared the fate of his compatriots? He had resolved to be a worthy spokesman for the cause. No amount of dread, no intimidation could make him deny his allegiance to the living God. Exhibiting peace at his own end would be a powerful testimony. Most, like this guard, would think him a fool to hasten his own demise, but he could do no other.
    “They will be here for you soon,” the guard said. “Will you fall limp and force them to carry you? Or will you struggle against men much bigger and stronger and younger?”
    “I go willingly.”
    “You are a strange man.”
    “I am a believer.”
    “As am I, sir,” the guard said, smiling broadly. “I believe my master and god will sentence you to a slow, horrible death.”
    The guard’s look appeared anticipatory, as if for mere sport the man was hoping for an angry retort, a curse.
    Rather, John raised a palm. “I wish you peace in the name of Jesus Christ,” he said.
    The guard’s eyes grew cold. “Still you deny the deity of the emperor.”
    Two soldiers noisily descended the stairs and ordered the guard to open the cell. “No trouble now, ancient one,” the first said.
    John shook his head and extended his arms, wrists crossed.
    “No,” the soldier said, “behind you.”
    They bound him with manacles, but when the other guard knelt to apply ankle restraints, the first waved him off. “He is no risk.”
    John was strangely grateful for their strength, propelling him up the steps with a hand on each arm. Unable to reach for balance, he knew he would have otherwise tumbled over the side. Outside in the courtyard, a milling crowd awaited, jeering and slapping the sides of the horse-drawn wagon that carried him through narrow streets toward the Latin Gate. The soldiers scared them off, and John was soon delivered to the scene of his final examination.
    It was dark now, and the sky starless. A semicircle of soldiers and their centurions held back the crowd of thousands. Blazing lampstands outlined the boundaries of a makeshift court. Beautiful draperies hung over two-story wood frames, and long benches bore musicians, senators, and other dignitaries John did not recognize. On an elevated platform sat what he assumed constituted the emperor’s inner circle—his wife and perhaps advisers. These looked out over the mass of spectators jostling for better views.
    John saw no gallows, no stake with kindling. Might his execution, should it be prescribed, be delayed? He was prepared either way. Yet there was a huge drapery covering…what? Soldiers and slaves entered and exited, clearly busy at something behind it.
    All rose when the musicians stood. Trumpets blared, and courtiers led in the emperor himself. Domitian was tall and handsome enough, in his mid-forties, with a thick neck, full face, hooked nose, and protruding upper lip. He wore a purple robe and a gold crown, which, though large enough to exhibit images of Jupiter, Minerva, and Juno,