I had wished that after decades of rough travel, abuse, triumphs as well as failures, Paul could settle for a time. Nero, our grotesque emperor, had for years ignored the Jesus movement, and this had given us a feeling of security. But now he chose to blame us for this all-consuming fire. And why not? We were perfect scapegoats, an eccentric fringe, and few Romans had even heard of us. They would never object to our vilification, nor would they doubt our culpability. Our rude demise would perhaps satisfy their need for revenge.

Carts and barrows passed me, one after another, each loaded with household goods as families retreated into the Italian countryside, hoping to slip beyond the circle of their ravaged city. I was headed in the opposite direction, toward the house near the river that Paul shared with our friends Junia and Josephus. Normally this was an hour’s easy walk. Today I would be lucky to make it at all.