The Persecution in Rome

The flickering lamplight cast long shadows across the damp walls of the Mamertine Prison. The apostle Paul sat hunched on the cold stone floor, his weathered hands clasped in prayer. The chains binding his wrists clinked softly as Luke approached, his footsteps echoing in the underground chamber. The physician’s face was drawn with concern as he knelt beside his old friend and mentor.

“Paul, my beloved brother,” Luke whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve brought you some bread and water.”

Paul lifted his head, and despite the dire circumstances, a gentle smile crossed his face. “Ah, Luke, faithful as always. But I see in your eyes that you bring more than just sustenance. What news from the streets of Rome?”

Luke settled beside Paul, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he had witnessed. “It grows worse by the day. Nero’s madness knows no bounds. The people still blame us for the great fire, and the emperor…” He paused, struggling to continue.

“Speak freely, dear friend,” Paul encouraged. “These prison walls have heard far worse than the truth of our suffering.”

“Last night, they took the believers from the Subura district. Whole families, Paul. Men, women, children…” Luke’s voice cracked. “They’re binding them to posts in the imperial gardens, coating them with pitch and oil. Nero means to use them as living torches for his evening festivities.”

Paul closed his eyes, his lined face etched with grief. Yet his voice remained steady. “Tell me their names, Luke. We must remember them all.”

“There was Claudia, the potter’s widow, and her three children. Young Marcus, who only last month helped establish the new house church near the Palatine. The elderly couple, Rufus and Julia, who opened their home to so many…”

“I remember Claudia,” Paul interrupted softly. “She brought me figs when I first arrived in Rome, before my arrest. Her youngest daughter would sing hymns in that clear, sweet voice.”

Luke wiped his eyes. “The girl was singing when they took them. Even as they were led away, she was singing about the glory of Christ.”

A moment of silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness.

“And what of the others?” Paul asked. “The believers in Trastevere?”

Luke’s face darkened. “The amphitheater, Paul. Tomorrow at midday. Nero has ordered a spectacle. Lions, bears… The crowds will come to watch our brothers and sisters…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Paul shifted, his chains rattling against the stone floor. “Do you remember, Luke, what I wrote to the Philippians? ‘For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.’ I’ve never felt the truth of those words more deeply than now.”

“But Paul, these are not quick deaths they face. The cruelty, the mockery… Some are being sewn into animal skins before being torn apart by dogs. Others are crucified and set ablaze. The suffering…”

“And yet,” Paul interjected, his voice growing stronger, “not one has renounced the faith. Not one has chosen to save their earthly life by denying our Lord. Tell me, Luke, you who have witnessed these things – do they go to their deaths in despair?”

Luke shook his head slowly. “No… No, they go with prayers on their lips. Many quote your letters, Paul. They encourage one another with the words you’ve written. Yesterday, I saw a young man comfort his terrified wife by reciting what you wrote to the Romans: ‘For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers…’”

“‘Neither height nor depth,’” Paul continued, “’nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ Yes, Luke. This is why we endure. This is why we triumph even in death.”

Luke leaned back against the cold wall. “I’ve been documenting everything, Paul. Every name, every testimony. The world must know what is happening here in Rome.”

“Good,” Paul nodded. “Future generations of believers must know the cost of faith, and the power of Christ that sustains us through such trials. But tell me more of specific cases. We must pray for each by name.”

Luke pulled out a small scroll from his cloak. “Prisca and Aquila are in hiding, helping to smuggle children out of the city. They’ve already been marked for arrest. Then there’s Demetrius the silversmith – not the one from Ephesus, but the convert from Syracuse. He was captured three days ago when he tried to recover the bodies of the martyrs from the imperial gardens.”

“Demetrius,” Paul repeated thoughtfully. “He once asked me if it was wrong to feel fear in the face of persecution. Do you know how he met his end?”

“With remarkable courage,” Luke replied. “They gave him the chance to burn incense to Caesar. He looked at the altar, looked at the crowd, and began to preach Christ crucified and risen. They… they silenced him quickly after that.”

Paul’s chains clinked as he reached out to grasp Luke’s arm. “And what of you, my friend? You take great risks coming here to visit me. The guards must surely suspect you’re a believer.”

Luke managed a weak smile. “I’m still protected somewhat by my profession. They need physicians, even for prisoners. But yes, it’s becoming more dangerous. Several of my patients have reported me to the authorities for refusing to invoke the Roman gods for healing.”

“You must be wise, Luke. The church needs your testimony, your careful recording of events. Your survival may be more valuable than your martyrdom.”

“I won’t abandon you, Paul. Or the others.”

“No one speaks of abandonment,” Paul said firmly. “But strategic withdrawal, temporary hiding – these are sometimes necessary. Even our Lord told his disciples that when persecuted in one city, they should flee to another.”

Luke stood and paced the small cell. “It’s not just the deaths, Paul. It’s the aftermath. The bodies left to rot as warnings. The properties seized. Children left orphaned. Some believers have opened their homes to these little ones, but they’re taking enormous risks. Discovery means certain death.”

“Tell me of these brave souls who take in the orphans,” Paul requested.

“There’s a wealthy widow named Antonia. She’s sheltering seven children in her villa outside the city, disguising them as household slaves. And Marcus Flavius, the merchant – you may remember him from the house church that meets near the forum. He’s using his trade routes to help families escape to Ostia, and from there to other parts of the empire.”

Paul nodded slowly. “The church adapts, finds new ways to show Christ’s love even in the darkness. This is what our Lord promised – that the gates of Hades would not prevail against His church.”

“But at such cost, Paul. Such terrible cost.” Luke’s voice was heavy with exhaustion and grief.

“Sit with me again,” Paul instructed. “You’re carrying too much alone. We must pray together, and then you must tell me more. Every detail matters – not just the suffering, but the triumph of faith. Tell me of the moments of grace you’ve witnessed.”

Luke settled back down. “There was a young girl, no more than twelve. She was arrested with her parents last week. As they were being led to the arena, she saw another child in the crowd crying. She called out to comfort her, telling her not to weep, that Jesus loves her. Even in her final hour, she thought of others.”

“These are the stories that must be preserved,” Paul said. “The small acts of love that reveal Christ’s presence in our darkest moments. What else have you seen?”

“The night watches in the catacombs have become beautiful in their way,” Luke continued. “The believers gather in the darkness, sharing what little food they have, singing hymns softly so as not to be discovered. Children are taught scripture in whispers. New converts are baptized in the underground streams. The church grows stronger even as it’s driven deeper into hiding.”

Paul’s face lit up with interest. “New converts, you say? Even now?”

“Yes, and this is perhaps what infuriates Nero most. The more he persecutes us, the more the faith spreads. The courage of the martyrs moves people deeply. Last week, one of the guards who led believers to the stake came to faith himself after witnessing their peace in the face of death. He declared Christ openly and was immediately arrested. He’s scheduled for execution tomorrow.”

“His name?” Paul asked.

“Quintus. He has a wife and three sons. The church is already making arrangements to care for them secretly.”

Paul began to pray softly. “Lord Jesus, be with our brother Quintus. Let him feel your presence as he follows in your footsteps tomorrow. Comfort his family, protect those who will care for them…”

Luke joined in the prayer, and for a few moments, the dank prison cell seemed filled with a peaceful light.

“Tell me, Luke,” Paul said when they had finished praying, “what word of counsel would you have me send to the churches? I feel my own end approaching, and I may not have many more opportunities to write.”

Luke considered carefully. “They need hope, Paul. Not false hope that the persecution will end soon – we both know it may continue for years. But hope in Christ’s ultimate victory. Hope that their suffering is not meaningless.”

“Yes,” Paul agreed. “And they need practical wisdom for these dark times. How to organize, how to protect the vulnerable, how to maintain faith in the midst of fear.” He paused, thinking. “Do you have parchment with you?”

Luke produced writing materials from his bag. “Always. But the guards only allow me short visits. We don’t have much time.”

“Then write quickly. ‘Paul, a prisoner of Christ Jesus, to all the saints in Rome who are beloved of God…’”

For the next hour, Paul dictated while Luke wrote, his physician’s hands steady despite his exhaustion. The letter spoke of suffering and triumph, of practical measures for protecting the vulnerable, and of the eternal hope that sustained them all.

A guard’s footsteps echoed in the corridor, signaling that Luke’s time was nearly up.

“One more thing,” Paul said urgently. “Tell me of the children again – the ones being hidden. How do they fare?”

Luke’s face softened. “They show remarkable resilience. In Antonia’s villa, they gather every evening to pray for their parents who have been taken. They comfort each other with the stories and scriptures they remember. The older ones teach the younger ones the hymns of faith.”

“And they understand the danger they’re in?”

“Yes, but they trust in Christ with a simplicity that puts many adults to shame. Yesterday, I treated one for a fever. As I was leaving, she asked me to tell her parent’s killers that she forgives them. She’s only eight years old, Paul.”

Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “Out of the mouths of babes… Luke, we must record these testimonies too. The faith of children in times of persecution may strengthen believers for generations to come.”

The guard’s footsteps grew closer.

“I must go,” Luke said, gathering his materials. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Just your continued prayers, dear friend. And Luke…” Paul caught his arm. “Be careful. Your work is vital. The church needs your eyes to see, your hands to heal, and your pen to record. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

Luke embraced his old mentor carefully, mindful of the chains. “I’ll return when I can. And I’ll continue documenting everything.”

“Good. And Luke – tell the believers what you’ve seen here. Tell them that even in chains, my heart rejoices in Christ. Tell them that these present sufferings are not worthy to be compared with the glory that will be revealed in us.”

As Luke turned to leave, Paul called out one more question. “The young mother from Syria – the one you mentioned last week who was nursing her baby when they arrested her. Did she…”

Luke’s face fell. “Yesterday, in the arena. She handed her baby to another believer in the crowd just before…” He couldn’t continue.

Paul closed his eyes in grief. “Her name, Luke. We must remember her name.”

“Maria. Her name was Maria.”

“Maria,” Paul repeated softly. “Lord Jesus, receive your daughter Maria…” He began to pray again as Luke was led away by the guard.

The physician walked through the torch-lit corridors of the prison, his heart heavy but his purpose strengthened. Outside, the night sky over Rome glowed orange – more believers being used as human torches in Nero’s gardens. Yet even as he witnessed these horrors, Luke remembered Paul’s words about recording everything. Future generations would need to know not just of the suffering, but of the triumph of faith in the midst of darkness.

He pulled out his writing materials again as soon as he reached his modest quarters. There was so much to document – the conversations with Paul, the testimonies of the martyrs, the quiet acts of courage by those helping others escape. His physician’s fingers, accustomed to taking careful notes about symptoms and treatments, now recorded a different kind of chronicle:

“I, Luke, a servant of Christ Jesus, bear witness to these events in the city of Rome, in the year of our Lord…”

The scratching of his pen continued late into the night, preserving for future generations the stories of faith, courage, and unwavering hope in the face of unimaginable persecution. Outside his window, the distant sounds of the city provided a somber backdrop to his writing – the crowds in the streets, the occasional scream, the whispered prayers of believers being led to their death.

Yet even in recording these darkest moments, Luke found himself returning to Paul’s words about triumph in Christ. The church was suffering, yes, but it was also growing stronger, deeper, more resilient. New believers were still coming to faith, witnessing the peace and courage of the martyrs. Children were learning to trust God in hiding places, while their parents faced death with prayers of forgiveness on their lips.

As dawn approached, Luke finally set down his pen. In a few hours, he would need to make his rounds, tending to the sick and wounded, carefully feeling out which patients might be sympathetic to the faith, which ones might need to be warned of impending arrest. The work of bearing witness, of preserving these testimonies, would continue.

He thought again of Paul in his cell, praying for each believer by name, carrying the burden of the whole church even in chains. The apostle’s example strengthened him. If Paul could maintain such faith and concern for others while awaiting his own execution, surely Luke could continue his vital work of documentation and healing.

He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. There were more names to record, more stories to preserve, more testimonies to protect from being lost to time. The persecution under Nero would one day end, but the witness of these faithful believers – their courage, their love, their unshakeable hope in Christ – needed to be preserved for future generations.

Luke began to write again, his words carrying the weight of history and the light of faith:

“These are the testimonies of those who loved not their lives unto death, who counted all things loss for the excellence of knowing Christ Jesus our Lord…”

The new day was dawning over Rome, bringing with it fresh horrors and fresh opportunities to witness God’s faithfulness. But in his humble quarters, Luke continued his crucial task, ensuring that the stories of faith would outlive the flames of persecution.

As the sun rose fully over the city, Luke prepared for another visit to Paul. He gathered his medical supplies, fresh parchment, and what little food he could safely carry. The streets were already filling with people, many heading toward the amphitheater where more executions would take place at midday.

He passed groups of citizens discussing the latest arrests, some with bloodthirsty anticipation, others with barely concealed sympathy. A few gave him knowing looks – his reputation as a physician who treated condemned Christians was becoming dangerous.

But Luke pressed on, remembering Paul’s words about recording everything. Today there would be more names to document, more testimonies to preserve, more stories of faith triumphing over fear. The church might be driven underground, but its light would not be extinguished.

As he approached the Mamertine Prison, Luke whispered a prayer that had become his daily refrain: “Lord Jesus, give me eyes to see, ears to hear, and wisdom to record these witnesses to your faithfulness. Let not their testimonies be lost to time…”