“And So We Came to Rome.”

I walked the last 35 miles into Rome along the modern road built on the route of the Appian Way, the most famous of Roman roads, stretching from Brundisium (Brindisi) to Rome, paved 100 years before Paul was born.

I thought of Paul walking this stretch of road in public as a prisoner. He was out of shape after sitting in Caesarea for two years on then on ships and in Malta. He had not walked long distances for some time. Although he has walked many Roman roads in previous years, he was now he is walking the most famous of them all. He was on Roman turf, and the dominance of Rome, visible throughout the Empire, was almost overwhelming along the Appian Way.

At least it was for me. I was the only person walking along a road with sleek Italian and German cars whooshing by, the occasional snarl of motorcycle cutting by so close that the draft made me wonder whether the actual motorcycle was brushing my clothes. The drivers paid no attention but occasionally young males yelled something in Italian as they went by. I was soaked with sweat. My feet ached.

And so we came to Rome.

On the second day of hiking, at 10:30 in the morning, I finally arrived at Via Appia Antika, a stretch of the ancient road that has been preserved complete with ruins, pavement, curbstones, and statues. This was an incredibly satisfying way of approaching Rome for the final six miles. There were no cars, just the occasional bicyclist and I could almost imagine myself walking with Paul over the ancient pavement as Rome appeared ahead.
I kept walking. Traffic on the Via Appia Antika increased as I drew within several miles of the city, Italians walking and cycling, and as I drew within a mile of the San Sebastian Gate where the Appian Way ends, non-Italian tourists were also on the Appian Way.

And so we came to Rome.

I trudged past the church and catacombs of San Sebastian, through San Sebastian Gate, past the Circus Maximus, then turned right on the Via di San Gregorio, past Constantine’s Arch and the Coliseum swarming with tourists taking pictures of each other under the July sun. Into the Forum, past crowds of tourists huddled under shade trees, drinking their bottled water. Down the Sacred Way, past columns of once glorious temples, and governmental buildings where the most powerful politicians on earth once assembled. Sweating, limping, thirsty and exhausted, Paul and I came to Rome.

In the blinding sunlight reflecting off of the ancient stones on the July afternoon, I thought of Paul the prisoner marching past the Coliseum, the arena of death for the gladiators, a prisoner surrounded by the power, the glory, and death of Rome.

Where did the procession end for Paul that day, coming into Rome? While there is no solid evidence that Paul was incarcerated in the state Mamertine Prison while he awaited his first trial in Rome, he was very likely held in this, or some prison like it, until his case had been resolved. The Mamertine prison is tucked into the north-eastern corner of the Forum. Tradition has it that both Paul and Peter were incarcerated in the cell below the church of San Pietro in Carcere just before their martyrdom some years later.

It was in the Mamartine Prison where I chose to end the voyage to Rome. I descended the steps inside the church of San Pietro in Carcere leading down into a simple cave cell. There were no tourists in Mamartine Prison, just a family of Christian pilgrims from Serbia and an Italian couple, holding hands. The Serbians reverently touched the altar with the carving depicting Peter and Paul baptizing the prisoners, and discussed in hushed voices the miraculous fountain in the floor that had provided the water for the event. The Italians passionately touched each other and pledged, I think, their love to each other, while I waited patiently for them to leave. That cell, it seemed, was only large enough for Paul and me.

Eventually they were all gone, and I sat alone in the cool, dark cell of the Roman prison with vivid images of sailing Acts.

I thought of dusty Tarsus and distant Damascus, of Jewish Jerusalem and pagan Caesarea.

I saw the glittering attractive power and the glory of Rome, and the fearsome power and astounding beauty of the sea.

I smelled the dust and the sweat hiking along Roman roads.

I heard the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, and roar of the waves smashing against the cliffs of Aegean islands. I heard voices speaking Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic, Turkish, Italian, and Maltese. Most were friendly, a few hostile.

I felt the thorn in my foot, the gashes and bruises from the rolling boat, the cold salt spray on my face.

I tasted the oil and wine of the rim of the Mediterranean and the salt of the sea.

I recalled the loneliness of voyaging, the fellowship of voyagers, the helpfulness of strangers, the friendship of Jews and Greeks, pagans and Christians, Muslims and atheists. I remembered the moments of desperation and fear, and days of living more intensely and joyfully than any time in my life.

Janet and I had followed Paul from Damascus to Rome. Like Paul we had fought the good fight, we had finished our course. Maybe it was gratitude, perhaps admiration for Paul, maybe sadness that the voyage was ending, I do not know why, but I was blinking back tears as I left Paul’s prison cell at dusk.

See photos from Aug. 2

Posted on August 2, 2005 01:03 PM