In A.D. 64, Rome was ravaged by a devastating fire, and Emperor Nero, suspected by many of orchestrating the blaze, deflected blame onto the Christians—marking the first imperial persecution of the Church. What followed was a brutal spectacle of cruelty in Nero’s gardens, where believers were tortured, burned alive, and executed en masse. This chapter explores the historical, political, and prophetic implications of this horror, its connection to the martyrdom of Peter and Paul, and its possible reflection in the imagery of the Apocalypse.
“And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus. And when I saw her, I wondered with a great wonder.” (Revelation 17:6)
Flames in the Eternal City
The Neronian persecution, etched forever into Christian memory, began not as an overt act of religious repression but as a political ploy. Rome, the vast cosmopolitan capital of the ancient world, had just suffered one of its most catastrophic disasters: a fire of staggering scale and devastation that raged through much of the city in July of A.D. 64. Public suspicion soon turned toward Emperor Nero himself. His ambitions to rebuild Rome with grander architecture and rename it “Neropolis” were too well known. In a desperate attempt to deflect blame and quiet the rumors, Nero cast a scapegoat—one despised by both pagan aristocrats and the plebeian masses: the Christians.
Nero and the Seeds of Tyranny
The tenth year of Nero’s reign marked a horrific turning point. Once advised by Seneca and Burrhus, he descended into monstrous depravity. Nero’s character fused an artist’s vanity with a despot’s cruelty. A self-styled performer and poet, he also became a murderer—of his mother Agrippina, his wives Octavia and Poppaea, and his teacher Seneca. The fire of Rome, whether he directly ordered it or not, was used as the backdrop for his greatest cruelty: the initiation of state-sponsored Christian persecution.
The Blood of Martyrs
Tacitus, a pagan historian unsympathetic to Christians, recorded that Nero subjected believers to “exquisite tortures.” Christians were crucified, torn apart by dogs in arenas, or used as human torches to light Nero’s gardens during nighttime spectacles. Covered in pitch and set ablaze, their burning bodies illuminated the imperial grounds while the emperor, dressed as a charioteer, paraded before the flames. It was in this ghastly theater that the apostles Peter and Paul are traditionally believed to have met their deaths—Peter crucified upside down and Paul beheaded.
Rome as Babylon
John the Seer, exiled on the island of Patmos, later cast imperial Rome as “Babylon” in his apocalyptic vision—a city drunk with the blood of saints and martyrs. The Book of Revelation speaks of a scarlet beast, a woman arrayed in luxury and corruption, seated atop seven hills. The imagery—resonant with contemporary readers—mirrored Rome’s topography and Nero’s infamous reign. The “beast” whose deadly wound was healed (Revelation 13:3) likely alluded to the empire’s survival after Nero’s fall, and possibly the rumors of Nero’s return.
The Extent and Legacy
Though concentrated in Rome, the persecution likely rippled into the provinces, fueled by imperial precedent and public hatred. Christian communities, already slandered as “haters of mankind,” endured increased suspicion and arrest. Letters from Peter and the Epistle to the Hebrews reflect knowledge of imminent or present danger. Clement of Rome, writing decades later, remembered a “vast multitude” of martyrs. Yet even in devastation, the seeds of triumph were sown. The Vatican Hill—scene of unspeakable cruelty—would in time become the spiritual capital of Western Christendom.
The Emperor as Antichrist?
Ancient rumors claimed Nero had not died but fled east, and that he would return—possibly as Antichrist. The Apocalypse hints at a beast that “was, is not, and shall come again” (Revelation 17:8). While speculative, some Christians interpreted this as Nero’s spectral legacy of persecution, anticipating future tribulations. Though not a literal resurrection, the idea captured the dread of Nero’s cruelty and symbolized Rome’s recurring role in the drama of persecution.
Witnesses Across Time
Pagans and Christians alike preserved the memory. Tacitus recorded the savagery with grudging empathy. Suetonius, briefer but corroborative, called Christianity a “maleficent superstition.” Tertullian later wrote that Nero’s condemnation of Christianity testified to its moral worth. And Sulpicius Severus, centuries later, echoed Tacitus in his history of sacred events. The horror of A.D. 64 baptized the church in Rome with fire, yet the blood of martyrs—Peter, Paul, and “a vast multitude”—became the seed of the Roman church’s endurance.
Twilight and Dawn
What seemed like annihilation—the loss of apostolic leadership, the fury of a mad emperor, the roar of fire—was, in divine paradox, the beginning of something imperishable. Christianity outlived its tyrants. It turned Rome’s crosses into altars, its ashes into churches. Nero’s name became a symbol of evil, Peter’s tomb a site of pilgrimage. In the shadow of imperial cruelty, the light of Christian witness shone all the more brightly, preparing the way for the faith to flourish even in the heart of the beast.
