Max strode into the peristyle, followed by Gallus’s lictors. “Paulos and Silas!”
Paulos set aside his work and stood. “You needn’t shout. We are all here. We’re not attempting to flee.”
How could he be so calm at a moment like this?
A tall, solidly-built man stepped forward, a bundle of birch rods resting on his left shoulder. “You are being summoned by the duovir. Follow us.”
Tia stifled a gasp with one hand over her mouth as Max yanked Paulos by one arm and dragged him down the hall. The shorter of the two lictors grasped Silas and followed. They quickly disappeared from sight.
Lydia and Timos followed.
Tia rested her forehead against the wall. What now? What would happen to them? If she went along, was there anything she could do to stop whatever was about to happen? Anything that would make it worth the risk of Max seeing her, taking her back? Perhaps it would be better if she waited, let the others bring back news.
She crouched in the upper hallway in the silence, going back and forth in her mind. Stay. Go. Stay. Go.
After long moments she turned her back against the wall and slid to the floor, bringing her hand to her ribs, to the still-tender spot where Max had kicked her on the stone floor that night.
She closed her eyes. She just couldn’t face another beating. And the next would be worse. Would she even survive it? And what would he do to Lydia for hiding her?
How did everything go so wrong so quickly?
Was she that much of a coward? Some warrior.
Tatos would have been so disappointed.
She pushed herself up, hugging her middle, grimacing against the pain. Running up the stairs had aggravated her broken ribs again. She hobbled down the hall, one hand on the wall.
At least she could pray. Lydia said all she had to do was talk. No special formula. No rituals.
Lydia’s blue hooded cloak caught her eye as she passed the woman’s cubiculum.
But what if . . .
No. It was a terrible idea.
Disastrous. Risky. To Lydia, not just herself. But she saw no other choice.
“And then I need for you to—” A commotion in the forum interrupted Gallus’s thoughts and he stepped to the window. A crowd of people gathered at the southwest corner, shouting over each other. What could be going on at this hour? He shouldn’t even be here this time of day. He should be home eating his cena, relaxing after an afternoon at the baths. He released a low groan. “Helios, go see what’s going on.”
“Yes, Domine.”
Gallus scanned the marketplace a moment more, but unable to discern anything, returned to the table against the wall. He dipped his reed in ink and pulled a parchment closer. The number of documents this post required was staggering. He quickly read through it and affixed his name at the bottom.
Helios burst through the door. “Max has charged the visitors with disturbing the peace and is bringing them to you for sentencing.”
A sigh escaped. Had Max not listened to him at all? He tossed the reed aside, splotching a parchment with ink, and stepped outside, halting in the doorway of the basilica.
Gallus’s heart skipped a beat when he scanned the forum. Nearly a quarter of the town’s men followed Max. “How did he get so many people?” Gallus spoke more to himself than the scriba. Perhaps Max was more influential in this colony than he realized.
The crowd parted. Max dragged the old Jew by one arm into the marketplace. The other one—Silas? Was that his name?—followed behind, a lictor’s hand around his arm.
Paulos wasn’t putting up much of a fight. Maybe he thought he could talk his way out of the charges. Or maybe Max hadn’t told him exactly what he was planning to do. That would be just like him. Leave all the hard work for Gallus.
Decimus joined him outside the basilica. “What’s happening? Why are the visitors being dragged halfway across the forum by your friend?”
“You’ll keep quiet if you know what’s best for you. And for your nephews. In Rome, correct?”
Decimus blanched and stepped back.
The magistrate headed for the edge of the stoa, waiting for Max to present the Jews. He kept his gaze straight ahead, trying to gauge the opinion of the people. Were they backing Max, or just curious? He had to follow the law, but he also needed to satisfy their demand for justice. For his own sake. He still had most of his year yet to serve, and he needed the people on his side.
Max made his way to the front, Paulos’s arm in one fist, Silas in the other. “These men are Jews and are causing a great deal of confusion in our city.” He spoke loud enough for all of Philippi to hear. “They are inciting Romans to follow practices which our beloved Emperor, Claudius, has declared unlawful. These two are preaching we should worship only one god, when we all know we must worship the supreme emperor as god.”
The crowd roared. Fists pumped the air. The town called for immediate and severe punishment. Max shoved Paulos forward, and the old Jew fell onto his hands and knees.
Gallus almost felt sorry for him.
This was not what they had agreed on. Why had Max taken things to this entirely new level? With the crowd demanding far more serious action, Gallus could no longer simply expel them from town.
“These men are not Romans!”
“They do not value our ways!”
“They must be punished!”
One upon another, the cries filled the air. It was clear what he needed to do.
It wouldn’t get Max his money. But it would make the town happy, which made Gallus happy.
He nodded to the brawny men behind Max. Servius grabbed the visitors and the other shoved everyone else aside, including Max.
“Have them stripped, and flog them.” If only Max had listened, Gallus wouldn’t have been pushed to do this.
The lictors set their rods aside. Each snatched one of the foreigners, grabbed his tunic, and yanked the fabric, ripping it from neck to hem. The rent tunics were pulled off and tossed aside, followed by their loincloths, leaving the men naked and exposed.
Still without protest.
They dragged Paulos and his friend to the columns holding up the roof of the western stoa as the crowd backed away, leaving copious room for the coming beating. Bare arms were stretched around the columns as far as they could go, then their hands were tied with rope, pulling their bodies tight against the marble.
Servius loosened the red leather strap on his bundle of elm rods. He selected one rod and then tossed the bundle to the ground. His cloak landed on top of it.
Gallus glanced at the crowd, at the lictors, at Paulos. He’d seen too many of these displays.
The accused man’s head was against the column, his arms shoulder-high, only reaching halfway around the column.
Just before Gallus turned away, the man opened his eyes. Gallus froze. He couldn’t look elsewhere, no matter how hard he tried.
But there was no condemnation in Paulos’s eyes. No guilt. No shame.
Only sadness.
For whom? Not self-pity. Sorrow . . . For Gallus? Why should Paulos feel sorry for Gallus?
The audacity! Gallus walked away.
The lictors took their time, flexed their muscles. How they loved making a show of this. And the crowd loved watching it.
Servius drew his long right arm back and brought it down on bare skin.
The other lictor followed suit, his rod attacking Silas’s back.
The thwack was sickening. Gallus had never liked it.
He closed his eyes and pretended to be somewhere else.
Anywhere but here.
“Can we talk more tomorrow?” Quin threw his woolen cloak over his shoulder as he and Loukas approached the Krenides Gate on the west end of the Via. The afternoon sun threw long, misshapen shadows ahead of them, and settled an orange glow on the limestone buildings. “I have to report to the jail as soon as we arrive, but I have many more questions.”
Loukas chuckled. “If you have many more like our last few
, we may need to consult Paulos.”
“Can’t you answer them?” Quin would be just as happy to avoid Paulos after their last conversation.
“I’ll try. You ask the hard ones. Why?” The medicus cast a sideways glance at him. “You don’t want to talk to him?”
Did he want to go into this with him? How much did Paulos’s companion know already? Actually, he probably knew all of it. Paulos must have spoken to him before he sent Quin off to be schooled in the mysteries of the Way.
They ambled along the Via Egnatia in silence. Loukas seemed not to be bothered, but Quin felt as if he were under scrutiny.
As they neared the forum, sounds drifted toward them. Not the usual marketplace sounds, which on a good day could be best described as organized chaos. Vendors often shouted over one another to attract attention to their wares. Besides, it was much too late in the day for such noise.
This was altogether different. This was . . . ominous.
“What’s that?” Loukas frowned.
“I don't know, but it doesn’t sound good.” Quin broke into a sprint. As he reached the northwest corner of the forum, he bounded down the steps and forced his way through the crowd.
The scene before him made his blood run cold. In front of the basilica, Paulos and Silas stood with their arms wrapped around pillars. Stripped bare, Gallus’s officers struck them over and over again with the rods of their office.
The taller of the two lictors slammed a stick of elm against Paulos’s bare skin, and the crowd cheered its approval.
His partner did the same, applying his rod to Silas’s back.
The first man—Quin searched his memory for a name, Servius?—struck Paulos again. Silent, Paulos struggled to arch his back against the pillar, trying in vain to evade the blows that came with sickening regularity.
Gallus stood in the doorway, arms crossed, overseeing the whole out-of-control situation. What he hoped to accomplish with this was anyone’s guess. The support of Max? Other loyal Romans? It appeared to have worked. As far as Quin could tell, Gallus had found favor in the eyes of nearly every Roman with any status in Philippi.
How had this escalated to such a state? What charge could possibly warrant such punishment? Quin skirted the crowd, angling for a view of the faces of Paulos and Silas. He stepped onto the stoa and turned to look on the disgusting scene.
The rod snapped, and Servius tossed it aside. He bent to pick up another from his red leather-strapped bundle, and continued the beating.
Pain wracked Paulos’s face. He bared his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and alternately arched his back or hunched his shoulders.
When the third rod broke, pieces flying the air, Gallus spoke to the scriba beside him etching marks on a tablet.
Helios answered quickly.
“Enough!” called Helios.
The lictors stepped back, brows raised. Servius scoffed, tossing his fourth rod to his feet. He evidently didn’t appreciate having his work interrupted.
Paulos crumbled to the ground, at least as far as his bound arms allowed. Silas merely rested his head against the pillar, chest heaving.
Timos appeared at Quin’s side.
Eyes still on Paulos, Quin held his hands up in surrender. “I promise you I had no idea Gallus had anything like this in mind.”
“I know. Trust me. As long as Paulos is still on his feet, he’s been through worse.”
Quin turned to the young man to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.
“How? When?”
“In Lystra. That’s where I met him. Where I learned of Yeshua. The Jews from Iconium followed him to Lystra and stoned him. They thought he was dead. He nearly was.”
How could a man his age survive this? Twice?
“What happened?”
“I took him to my home and my mater tended to his bruises.”
Quin looked from Paulos to Timos and back. “You carried him? Forgive me, but he’s much bigger than you are.”
“Oh, he walked to my home, under his own power.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Timos shrugged. “I am. I don’t know how he did it, except for Yahweh’s healing power.”
This was unbelievable. Along with everything he’d learned yesterday—
“Quintus Valerius!”
Servius’s voice broke into his reverie.
He glanced to where the senior lictor beckoned him. “The magistrate wants you.”
“I better go.” He rolled his eyes at Timos.
Quin approached Gallus.
“I want you to put these two in the jail overnight. Make sure they are kept safe. I don’t want them escaping, and I don’t want them hurt.”
Quin’s gaze swept their bloody backs.
As if Gallus read his thoughts, he added, “By the crowds. Or by Max, for that matter. He may have gotten some revenge, but he’s still out a great deal of coin.”
“I understand.” He turned to go.
“And Tribune?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“You know the penalty if he escapes.”
“I do.”
A thousand iron Britanni chariots couldn’t have crushed Quin’s soul any more than Gallus’s order. His message was clear. He was to take Paulos down to the inner prison. Quin may have doubts about the old man’s god, but Paulos had become a friend, a mentor.
And Quin wasn’t at all sure Paulos would survive.
23
“When he received these orders, he put them in the inner cell and fastened their feet in the stocks.”
Acts 16:24
Peeking out from behind Lydia, Tia pulled the hood of the indigo cloak around her face with one hand as she gripped Lydia’s arm with the other. Perhaps she had made a grave error after all, leaving the safety of the domus.
The implacable faces of the lictors were burned into her memory. The rippling muscles of their arms and backs each time they drew back to apply the rod. The slight sneer of their lips. They almost seemed to enjoy their perverse chore.
Poor Paulos—how could they do this to him and Silas? This was unspeakable.
And Quin . . . She’d seen his face when the duovir ordered him to take them away. He may have been a soldier, but this was different. Paulos was his friend, not an enemy in battle. What would this do to him?
The crowd began to disperse, and sweaty bodies jolted hers. She dared not be discovered.
Max’s laughter boomed from the western stoa.
She slipped her hand from Lydia’s and raced back to the domus. The hood of her cloak slipped off as she turned south on Via Appia and her heart nearly stopped. Her loose, blond hair would give her away in a heartbeat. She reached for the hood with both hands and held it in place until she reached the front gate, her feet never slowing until she had regained the safety of her room.
She unfastened the fibula at the neck of the cloak, letting it fall to the floor in a puddle at her feet. Why would Paulos’s God—her God now—let this happen? Things seemed to be going from bad to worse. Paulos and Silas were in jail, and Quin had to keep them there. She’d escaped Max’s brutality, but would she spend the rest of her life running from him? If Lydia were to be found out, she could be charged with theft, and pay dearly.
Quin’s fallen face drifted through her mind as she climbed the steps to her room and dropped onto the bed. He had offered to be her protector, but now she couldn’t have him in her life. Not unless he too decided to accept Yeshua as his savior.
Paulos said Quin didn’t really believe in any gods. After this, would he ever accept Yeshua? If not, he would be lost to Yeshua, and to her, forever.
She reached under her bed and retrieved his red cloak. She shouldn’t have kept it, but now she was glad she had. The sobs burst from deep within her, and she held the garment to her chest.
When they subsided, a gentle tap sounded on the door. “May I come in?”
Swiping the tears from her cheeks, she opened the door. Lydia waited in the hall. “Of co
urse. I could use some company.”
Lydia joined her on the lectus. “That was quite a scene in the forum.”
“Have you heard anything from Paulos? Or Silas?”
“Loukas went to the prison, but all they would say is that the prisoners were taken to the inner cell.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“The inner cell is deeper inside the jail. That usually means they consider them dangerous.”
How could Paulos and Silas be dangerous? They were quiet, old men.
“Aren’t you going to ask about Quin?”
She drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid to, I think.”
“What are you afraid of?”
How could she admit it? Would Lydia be disappointed in her?
“I know you love him, Tia.” She fingered the cloak in her lap.
Tia dropped her head. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to.”
Lydia laughed. “Who told you that?”
“Paulos did.”
“You can’t control your heart. We love who we love. What he meant was, it is unwise to build a life with someone who does not follow Yeshua. You cannot be at peace with someone who is at war with God.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Pray for him. Pray for him to accept God’s love, as you have. The warrior in him is having a difficult time with this. You must know how that feels.” She dried Tia’s face with her hands.
Why was she crying again? Warriors didn’t cry. She’d cried more in the last week than she had in her entire life. “Lydia?”
“Yes?” She moved Tia’s hair back from her face.
“Aren’t you worried? You look so . . . peaceful.”
“I’m not worried.”
Tia gasped, pulling away. “How can you not be? Aren’t you upset? Don’t you care about them at all?” She shouldn’t have said that. Obviously Lydia cared, but why wouldn’t she show it?
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