Finally, My Brethren

The morning air in Caesarea carried salt tang and frankincense as King Agrippa adjusted his purple-striped toga, settling into his chair whilst Bernice picked at honeyed dates, their amber sweetness perfuming the air.

"So," Agrippa said, accepting wine that caught the light like liquid garnets, "Festus tells me our prisoner has finally agreed to speak for himself."

Festus nodded, his broad face flushed from the heat. "Two years he's been rotting in that cell, and now he wants his moment before royalty. Typical prisoner's arrogance."

"What do we know about him?" Bernice's voice carried lazy curiosity. She bit into a date, sticky juice running down her finger.

"Paul of Tarsus," Festus replied, consulting a wax tablet. "Roman citizen, former Pharisee. The Jews want him dead—something about turning their scriptures against them. Claims he had a vision on the Damascus road." He laughed harshly. "Divine madness, obviously. The desert sun does that to men."

Agrippa swirled his wine, inhaling its aroma. "I've read some of his letters—the ones confiscated when he was arrested. Interesting stuff. Not typical religious ravings."

"Oh?" Bernice leaned forwards, gold bracelets chiming. "What makes them different?"

"For one thing, he doesn't soft-pedal his own history. Calls himself the worst of sinners, admits to persecuting these followers of the crucified one. If you were inventing convenient theology to absolve your guilt, would you keep reminding everyone you were a murderer?"

Festus snorted, reaching for an olive. "Reverse psychology. Make yourself look worse to seem more honest."

"Perhaps," Agrippa mused, watching a servant arrange lilies near the judgement seat. "Or perhaps he's genuine. You know what puzzles me? He's had every opportunity to escape this mess. Roman citizenship gives him a dozen legal outs—religious persecution, ancestral customs, temporary insanity. Any competent advocate could have him free within a month."

"So why doesn't he take them?" Bernice asked.

"That's what makes this interesting," Festus said. "It's like he's got something he thinks is more important than his own neck."

Young Dimitrius approached with fresh water in a silver basin, condensation beading on the metal. As he set it down, Agrippa noticed how carefully the boy moved, eyes darting towards the entrance.

"Dimitrius," Agrippa said, "you've served this prisoner. What's your take on him?"

The boy straightened. "He's... different, Your Majesty. Most prisoners beg or threaten or try to bribe us. This one thanks us for stale bread like it's a feast. And he's always writing—wearing his fingers raw scratching words onto whatever papyrus he can find."

"Writing what?"

"Letters, my lady. To people across the empire. Communities in places I've never heard of—Corinth, Galatia, Ephesus. He writes like he knows them personally, but I don't think he's ever met most of them."

Festus laughed. "Probably building his own little network of fanatics. These cult leaders always do that."

"Maybe," Dimitrius said quietly. "I think he believes he's part of something bigger than himself. Something that makes his own suffering seem... unimportant."

"You know," Bernice said slowly, "every person in Rome thinks they're writing history with their choices. Every senator believes his speeches will be remembered, every citizen imagines his opinions matter enough to preserve." She paused. "Maybe we're all just scribes in some vast scroll we can't see."

The comment hung in the perfumed air. Agrippa found himself thinking of his own carefully crafted speeches, his diplomatic letters. Were they any more lasting than this prisoner's ravings?

Marching feet echoed from the corridors—rhythmic slap of sandals against stone, metallic clink of chains. Festus straightened. "He's coming."

"What do you think he'll say?" Bernice asked.

"The usual," Festus replied confidently. "Religious persecution, temporary madness, misunderstood prophet—something that lets him walk away with dignity intact."

"I'm not so sure," Agrippa murmured. "Men who pass up easy escapes usually have something unexpected to say."

The guards appeared—bronze breastplates gleaming, red cloaks stirring. Between them walked a small, balding man with calloused hands and intelligent eyes. His prison robes were clean but worn, his posture erect despite iron shackles.

As they approached the judgement seat, Paul seemed to stumble slightly, his hand reaching out to steady himself against a large potted palm. Dimitrius moved to help, but Paul waved him off with a grateful smile, regaining his balance.

"So," Agrippa said, "Paul of Tarsus. You've asked to speak in your own defence. The floor is yours."

Paul looked around the assembled group—gold-adorned royalty, perfumed nobility, armed guards. When he spoke, his voice carried none of the wheedling desperation they'd expected.

"King Agrippa, I consider myself fortunate to stand before you today as I make my defence against all the accusations of the Jews, and especially so because you are well acquainted with all the Jewish customs and controversies. Therefore, I beg you to listen to me patiently."

Bernice exchanged glances with Festus. This wasn't the opening they'd anticipated—no claims of innocence, no appeals to Roman law, just a simple request for a hearing.

Paul continued: "The Jewish people all know the way I have lived ever since I was a child, from the beginning of my life in my own country, and also in Jerusalem. They have known me for a long time and can testify, if they are willing, that I conformed to the strictest sect of our religion, living as a Pharisee."

"Here it comes," Festus whispered. "The setup for his defence."

But Paul's next words shattered their expectations: "And now it is because of my hope in what God has promised our ancestors that I am on trial today. This is the promise our twelve tribes are hoping to see fulfilled as they earnestly serve God day and night. King Agrippa, it is because of this hope that these Jews are accusing me. Why should any of you consider it incredible that God raises the dead?"

The courtyard fell silent except for distant seabirds. Agrippa felt something shift—a tension he hadn't anticipated. This wasn't a legal defence.

Paul pressed on, his voice growing quieter: "I too was convinced that I ought to do all that was possible to oppose the name of Jesus of Nazareth. And that is just what I did in Jerusalem. On the authority of the chief priests I put many of the Lord's people in prison..."

His voice caught slightly on "people," and Bernice noticed what the men missed—the way his hands trembled against his chains, the brief pause as if seeing faces from his past.

"...and when they were put to death, I cast my vote against them."

The clinical phrase hung in the air, but Bernice saw what lay beneath it. Paul's eyes had filled with unshed tears, and his composed facade cracked. She found herself thinking of the widows his votes had created, the children who went to bed without fathers.

The men saw a legal confession. She saw a man drowning in memories.

Paul paused, gathering himself: "Many a time I went from one synagogue to another to have them punished, and I tried to force them to blaspheme."

As he spoke of forcing people to blaspheme, Bernice caught the tremor in his voice—not calculated emotion, but involuntary response to reliving his worst moments. He spoke of persecution like a man naming his own children.

"I was so obsessed with persecuting them that I even hunted them down in foreign cities."

"Is he confessing or defending?" Bernice whispered.

"On one of these journeys I was going to Damascus with the authority and commission of the chief priests. About noon, King Agrippa, as I was on the road, I saw a light from heaven, brighter than the sun, blazing around me and my companions."

The frankincense seemed to intensify as if the air itself held its breath. Agrippa leaned forwards despite his intention to remain detached.

"We all fell to the ground, and I heard a voice saying to me in Aramaic, 'Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me? It is hard for you to kick against the goads.'"

Paul's voice took on an otherworldly quality, his eyes focused beyond the marble columns.

"Then I asked, 'Who are you, Lord?' 'I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,' the Lord replied. 'Now get up and stand on your feet. I have appeared to you to appoint you as a servant and as a witness of what you have seen and will see of me.'"

Festus's face grew red, his breathing shallow. This wasn't the careful legal defence he'd prepared for.

Paul continued: "'I will rescue you from your own people and from the Gentiles. I am sending you to them to open their eyes and turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, so that they may receive forgiveness of sins and a place among those who are sanctified by faith in me.'"

"So then, King Agrippa, I was not disobedient to the vision from heaven. First to those in Damascus, then to those in Jerusalem and in all Judea, and then to the Gentiles, I preached that they should repent and turn to God and demonstrate their repentance by their deeds."

The morning breeze stilled, leaving only oppressive frankincense and distant waves. Bernice watched Paul's face intently, seeing beneath his words to the pain that drove them. This wasn't performance—it was penance.

"That is why some Jews seized me in the temple courts and tried to kill me. But God has helped me to this very day; so I stand here and testify to small and great alike. I am saying nothing beyond what the prophets and Moses said would happen—that the Messiah would suffer and, as the first to rise from the dead, would bring the message of light to his own people and to the Gentiles."

The words hung like a challenge flung at empire itself. Then Festus exploded from his chair:

"You are out of your mind, Paul! Your great learning is driving you insane!"

The shout echoed off marble walls, startling birds from the gardens. But Paul's response was calm:

"I am not insane, most excellent Festus. What I am saying is true and reasonable. The king is familiar with these things, and I can speak freely to him. I am convinced that none of this has escaped his notice, because it was not done in a corner."

Then Paul turned his full attention to Agrippa: "King Agrippa, do you believe the prophets? I know you do."

As he spoke these words, something shifted in Paul's demeanour. He was no longer the prisoner trying to convince his captors, no longer the outsider seeking acceptance from earthly powers. His gaze seemed to look beyond the marble columns towards something only he could see. For the first time since entering the judgement hall, he was speaking not to Roman authority or Jewish accusers, but to his true audience: the scattered believers who would read his words, copy his letters, carry his message across an empire and through centuries.

The question hung between them like a blade. Agrippa felt the weight of every eye, the expectation of an answer that would either validate or demolish everything they'd heard. When he spoke, his voice trembled:

"Do you think that in such a short time you can persuade me to be a Christian?"

Paul's response came without hesitation, his voice filled with longing that seemed to encompass not just Agrippa but everyone within hearing—and everyone who would ever hear these words: "Short time or long—I pray to God that not only you but all who are listening to me today may become what I am, except for these chains."

The words settled over the courtyard like a benediction, leaving everyone strangely unsettled. This prisoner, who should have been begging for his life, had instead offered them something they weren't sure they wanted—and somehow made them wonder if they could afford to refuse it.

The guards moved to escort Paul away, chains clinking against marble. As they passed the potted palm where he'd stumbled earlier, Dimitrius caught sight of something—a small scroll tucked behind the bronze urn, barely visible unless you knew where to look.

As footsteps faded into the palace corridors, Agrippa, Bernice, and Festus sat in stunned silence. The morning sun had climbed higher, burning off sea mist and intensifying the heat.

"Well," Bernice said finally, "that wasn't what I expected."

Festus wiped sweat from his forehead. "Two years I've been dealing with this case, and he's never said anything like that before."

"Maybe," Agrippa said slowly, "it was always there. Maybe we just never gave him the right audience."

After the royalty departed, after the courtyard emptied, Dimitrius found himself thinking about Paul's stumble. Something about it seemed too deliberate for a man who'd walked steadily in chains for two years. The way Paul's hand had lingered against the bronze pot, the quick glance he'd given Dimitrius afterwards.

Curious, Dimitrius approached the large potted palm. Kneeling beside the ornate bronze planter, he ran his fingers along its base where it met the marble step. There—wedged between the pot's rim and stone, almost invisible unless you knew to look—was a tightly rolled scroll, still warm from Paul's touch.

His heart racing, Dimitrius carefully extracted the hidden letter, marvelling at the prisoner's audacity. Even here, in the very seat of Roman power, facing judgement that could mean death, Paul had found a way to continue his true work.

Unrolling it carefully, he read the opening line in Paul's familiar hand: "Finally, my brethren, rejoice in the Lord. To write the same things to you is no trouble to me, and for you it is a safeguard..."

Dimitrius smiled, understanding at last. Paul hadn't just been defending himself in that courtyard. Even chained and facing death, he'd been writing to his true brethren—not the powers that held him captive, but the scattered believers who would carry his words like torches through the darkness. Finally, after years of rejection by both his former colleagues and the Jerusalem establishment, he had found his real family: those who lived as letters written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God.

The young servant tucked the scroll into his robes and walked away, carrying words that would outlive marble palaces and golden crowns, part of a mysterious network of readers and writers whose letters were being written not just on papyrus, but on human hearts across the known world.

In choosing to speak truth rather than seek escape, Paul had joined the most powerful group of authors in history—those whose lives themselves became letters, whose words divided waters and whose witness would never be silenced.

The great cloud of witnesses gathered around him invisible, and somewhere in the growing heat of the Caesarean morning, another living epistle began to carry Paul's dangerous, beautiful words towards their eternal destination.