“Tia, I am upset. I’m very concerned for them. I know they are cold, and hungry, and in pain. But I am not worried.”
“I don’t understand. Is it my Latin? I don’t see a difference.”
“No. I’m upset that they are hurting and there is not much I can do about it. But I’m not worried, because I know our Heavenly Father is with them. And worrying will accomplish nothing but keep us from thinking clearly.”
Lydia may be able to trust it all to Him, but Tia couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.
Lydia slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We were just about to pray for them all. Would you like to join us?”
She shrugged. “I don’t even know what to pray for.”
“Just tell God what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not sure He wants to hear what I have to say.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Tia remained seated.
“Come on. You can just listen.” Lydia took her hand and gently pulled her into the peristyle, where Syn, Zenobia, and Demas waited with Loukas and Timos.
Loukas rose and embraced her. “How are you, Tia?”
She shrugged again. What could she say?
Loukas prayed first. “Father, we ask for Your wisdom. Our friends are in trouble. We ask that You grant them peace, Your peace, that is beyond the understanding of the world. Fill their hearts and minds with Your joy even in the midst of this trial. Let everything about this situation bring glory to You. We pray that we may be delivered from wicked and evil men, and that You will return our brothers to us soon.”
“And Father, I pray for Quin.” Lydia drew Tia close to her as she prayed. “I ask that he will be able to understand all that he and Loukas discussed yesterday, that You will open his mind to the mysteries of Yeshua. I ask that he will be able to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is Your love for him, that he will know Your peace that surpasses our comprehending. Amen.”
There were far too many words in her heart for Tia to say them aloud, or even make sense of. Instead, she kept them bottled up inside, like one of Lydia’s expensive perfumes in exquisite alabaster jars. If God was as powerful and all-knowing as Paulos said, He’d be able to untangle her words and string them together for her, and then, hopefully, do something wonderful.
Quin led them silently north, Paulos and Silas behind him, Servius bringing up the rear. At the end, he turned east, and after several paces, he halted at the prison.
He blocked Servius’ entrance. “We’ll take it from here.”
The lictor raised a brow. “I’m sure the duovir would like to know I have guaranteed the prisoners were seen secured in the inner prisons as he desired.”
One of the few who could match the lictors in size, Quin stepped closer to the man. “That’s my job. Are you questioning my integrity?”
Servius stared him down a moment longer, then left without a word.
Quin snapped his fingers, and a guard tossed him a heavy ring of keys. He trudged through the main vestibule, its wide stone floor echoing every step, four cells on either side.
Guards stood to the right and left. It appeared every guard in the city had shown up in the forum, and then raced to the prison to be on hand for this spectacle.
They didn’t all need to be here. They’d seen the sensational part, the show Gallus felt he had to put on. There was nothing left to do but lock Paulos and Silas away. But for how long?
“Stolos, did you put the others downstairs for the night?”
“Yes, there are four down there now.”
“Four? When I left there was only one.”
“The lictors brought three young men in for theft.”
The inner cell would be full tonight.
Quin stopped at the far end of the room, then turned on his heel. “You are all dismissed except Numerius. You will stand first and second watch with me. Stolos and Pandaros, third watch. Fourth with Stolos and Alexios. One man inside, one on the door.”
They descended to the lower floor. A broad, wooden door waited, with one small barred window. A heavy iron lock reflected the dim light from the torches hung on the walls.
He unlocked the door and leaned his shoulders against it, shoving it into the dank inner chamber. He stumbled briefly, but righted himself and spread an arm, allowing the others to enter.
In the center of the roughhewn floor lay eight sets of stocks, wooden frames bolted to the floor. The air was thick and foul, and the floor was covered in dried filth. Philon huddled against the side wall. The three thieves stayed against the back.
Quin swallowed. “I am so sorry. You know I don’t want to do this, but I have no choice.” He could barely breathe. His chest felt as if an iron band kept it from expanding.
Paulos placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have been under authority. There is no need to place yourself in danger. Do what you must.”
Quin kicked away some of the dried excrement, then grabbed two handfuls of straw from along the edges of the cell and scattered it in a small pile.
Paulos and Silas sat and stretched out their legs.
Quin reached for more straw and turned to see their bare backs, thick blood caking along the mangled stripes. Thankful they couldn’t see his face. He knelt before them. “Gallus said I had to secure you in this cell, but he didn’t say how secure.” He lifted the top wooden bar of the leg piece. “Your feet, please.”
Paulos gestured to the ten half-holes cut into the bar. “Which ones?”
“The middle ones.”
“Are you sure?”
He placed one foot into a hole. “There’s no need to torture you further by spreading your legs so far your body will split in two.” He set the other ankle down and brought the top of the board down, then closed the lock.
“What if the duovir finds out?” Paulos said.
“Do you really think he would come in here? He wouldn’t dare come close enough to breathe the air.” He fastened Silas into the stocks in the same way as Paulos, then stood.
“Not our hands, our heads?” asked Paulos.
“Your feet are bolted to the floor, you’ve lost a good deal of blood, and you are behind a locked door with no light once the sun goes down. Even if you could somehow get to the other side of that door, you would have to climb the stairs, get past another locked door, and get beyond more cells and armed guards. Do you think it necessary I secure your hands and head?”
“I’m only trying to keep you from getting into trouble.”
Quin threw his hands in the air. “Why? Why do you care?” He hadn’t meant to yell. “I apologize.”
“Why don’t you care, I think is the question.”
He leaned against the wall. “No, why should I? That is a better question. I’ve spent my life following orders. To the letter. Except one time, when following it would have cost countless lives. And that one time, that one and only time, is why I end up here. And now I have nothing. I have disappointed my pater. I can’t return to Rome. I have no land, no coin, no career, and I’ve probably ruined this one as well. And the only bright spot in my life has been snuffed out, as I now cannot have any kind of life with Elantia. So what have I got left?”
“You have a great deal left. You are alive. And you are free and a Roman citizen. Those two things alone make your life better than over three-quarters of the world.”
That was true. So why did he feel so hopeless? He slid down the wall, sitting on the cold, stone floor. “And why are you not in despair? You have been slandered, beaten for no reason, thrown into prison, and who knows when he will release you?”
“This is a bit of a setback, I must admit.”
“A bit of a setback?” He huffed. “You are truly insane. You could still be executed in the morning.”
“No, we couldn’t.”
Quin rubbed his hand down his face. “Only if you know something I don’t.” Which was entirely possible. Paulos always seemed to know something no one else did. “Even if you manage to escape death, who woul
d listen to you now? Max has made a fool of you.”
“Ah, but God has chosen things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chooses things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful.”
Was he smiling? It was too dark to tell.
“Am I supposed to be one of those powerful things that will be shamed? Because I have no power left. And I’ve already been shamed. I’m sitting here with you in human waste.”
“No, Quin, that was not meant for you.” Silas’s voice was soft.
“What is meant for you, my friend, is the love of Christ.” Paulos always sounded so sure. Even here, in a Roman prison. “A love so ferocious and pure it will pick you up, set you on your feet, and never let you go.”
He leaned his head against the wall. If only that could be true.
But not for him. It was too late for him. No one could want him. No one could love him. Not even the god of Paulos.
Gallus dipped his fingers into the bowl of water presented to him by one of Max’s slaves, then dried them on his napkin. Max and Cassia had insisted on preparing a celebratory cena. He’d rather have put the whole thing out of his mind, but it had proven to be a wise decision to join them. Cassia was an excellent hostess.
The first course was unimpressive—eggs, mushrooms, clams in a sweet wine sauce. But the next one—she must have some connections in Neapolis. And Max must have spent most of whatever silver he had left. Roast pheasant with onion sauce. Ham rubbed with honey and baked in a pastry.
If only he were a bigger man, he could eat more. But the Romans had a way around that. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a moment.” Both Cassia and Max had already left the table once to empty their stomachs. Max twice, in fact.
After he did what was necessary, he swished his mouth with diluted wine and spit into the bucket Cassia had thoughtfully provided.
“Better?” She giggled.
“Much.” He reached for a chunk of the ham. “You must give me the name of your cook. Or did your slaves do all this?” He waved his hand over the generous amount of meat spread on the table in the center of the couches.
“Of course not!” She cackled heartily. “I knew you would rule properly, so I hired a cook from Amphipolis. I went there this morning, found the cook—we’ve used him before for our bigger dinners—and told him what we had in mind. He bought the supplies. He knows all the right people, where to get the best food at the best prices.”
“Of course sometimes”—Max leaned in and lowered his voice, though no one else was anywhere near—“you have to pay a premium for some of this.”
Some of this was against the law. How did they know he wouldn’t fine them? Or worse? Did they think he was that much under their control?
But the food was extraordinary.
Worth turning a blind eye to.
Gallus took the last piece of peacock, cooked in a spiced wine. By Jupiter, it was delicious. It was too bad it was gone. He would have loved to take some home.
“Are you ready for some more wine? We can clear this away for a bit and enjoy a special treat before the sweets are brought out.”
“Whatever you want. It’s your home. I am only a guest.” He wasn’t usually so agreeable. How much wine had he consumed so far? Since they drank it quite watered, it took a lot to get him drunk. And when he was drunk, he made questionable decisions, so he rarely drank too much.
“Euodia! Bring the wine!”
A half-full amphora sat on the floor beside Max. Why was he calling for more wine?
A slender girl with dark hair, Greek by the look of her, brought a small amphora to the triclinium.
Max took it and dismissed the slave. “This”—he held the clay container high—“is Falernian wine.”
“Where did you get that? It’s so difficult to find out here in—” He stopped himself before disparaging the man’s precious city.
Max snapped the neck of the amphora and poured Gallus a goblet.
“You know the story of this wine, don’t you?”
“No. I just know it’s the best. It cost me six times as much as the next best wine. But you, my friend, my magistrate, are worth it.” He lifted his glass. “To the health of Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.”
Gallus barely lifted his goblet in response. It may be a law, but he didn’t have to mean it. “Now the tale of the wine.”
Of course someone like Max wouldn’t be familiar with it. It was all about appearances with him. He was a phony. He knew nothing about this wine or any other. He drank it only because he knew it was the best. Had no idea why, and overpaid dearly because of it. It shouldn’t have cost more than four times more. Although Gallus was impressed Max saved it for this point in the meal instead at the beginning, as most hosts did, then followed with the lesser vintages as the guests became more intoxicated.
“The story, the myth, is that a simple farmer, Falernus, was in his field scratching out a living when Bacchus came to him in disguise. The man made for him a simple meal, so in return the god of wine filled the cups at the table. While the hungover Falernus slept, in gratitude Bacchus cultivated the whole mountainside with vines, and ordained that the region forever after be known for his wine. It truly is the drink of the gods.”
Max roared. “What a wonderful story! No wonder we can’t get it here! They keep it all to themselves in Rome!” He took a long draw from the cup. “It is exceptional, though. Excellent. Would you like more?”
“Not yet.” He cradled his still half-full silver goblet. He wasn’t going to gulp his down like this barbarian. He intended to savor it.
The slaves paraded out again, with trays full of sliced fruit and honey cakes. Max turned his attention from the wine to a honey cake.
With all that sat before him there might be some left over. Perhaps he was too critical of his friends, such as they were. Perhaps he worried too much.
Paulos and Silas were safely tucked away in his prison. Tomorrow he would banish them, and soon he would have his silver from Patroclus. He drained his wine and shoved it at the nearest slave. “One more.”
Max’s laughter nearly shook the domus. “There is the guest I have all night waited for! Now we celebrate. Bring out the dancers! Bring out the girls!”
Why not? He was the magistrate.
He was invincible.
24
“About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening to them.”
Acts 16:25
Quin took another long drink of wine from his goblet as he paced the prison floor. Romans said only barbarians drank wine straight, without water, spice, or honey, but who cared? He felt like a barbarian. He had nothing left. No family, no career, no land. No Elantia. And after this, even if they weren’t executed, Paulos and his friends would surely be banished from Philippi.
Yes, he was feeling sorry for himself. What would Attalos say? What was it he had said, just before Quin left Rome? “Great things are waiting for you there. They will not be easy, but they will shape you into the man you were meant to be, that all other things in your life have been leading up to.”
Quin chuckled. “Not easy” was an understatement. The last two months of his life had been harder than any six months of campaigning in Britannia.
Britannia. Tia. She was his carissima. But he was no longer hers. Maybe never had been.
He poured the last of the wine into his goblet and hurled the amphora against the wall. The jar shattered, littering the floor with shards of clay.
Alexios peered out from the cell he was sweeping. “Domine? Something wrong?” He studied the broken pottery, then returned his gaze to Quin.
“Nothing’s wrong. Thank you for being so alert.”
Alexios frowned but returned to his duty.
Quin regarded the pieces of the amphora against the wall. Too bad he didn’t have another. Then again, if he did, he’d probably fall asleep, and sleeping on duty was an offense p
unishable by death. At least in the army. If he were discovered, and that wasn’t likely to happen here. By the time anyone unlocked the doors, he’d be awake. Still, he couldn’t.
He ambled to the corner he used as his working space and dropped onto the stool. How did he end up this way? Two days ago, his life was perfect. Well, not perfect, but . . .
Then Tia decided to follow the Way, and he’d lost her. Because of the man called Christ.
He rested his head in his hands. Paulos said he, too, could follow the Way.
That was illegal for a Roman citizen. Not so much the following the Way part, but refusing to worship the emperor.
But what more could he lose?
Moaning drifted up from the inner cell. Was Paulos or Silas hurt? More than before? Dying? It was not unheard of for men to die after a Roman beating.
He bolted from his seat. Almost to the stairs, he skidded to a halt. This wasn’t moaning.
He slowed his breathing, tried to still the thumping of his heart. Concentrated on the noises, now settling into a comforting rhythm. Took each step on his toes, irresistibly drawn to the sounds woven into a beautiful dance.
This was . . . singing? How could they possibly be singing? They had been slandered. Tortured. Humiliated. Paulos could barely breathe. How could his chest expand enough to sing without excruciating agony tearing through his body?
And yet, the song continued.
He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.
For in Him all things in heaven and on earth were created,
things visible and invisible,
whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers.
All things have been created through Him and for Him.
A more glorious sound had never existed. Paulos’s deeper melody was accented by Silas’s higher harmony, and the song filled the prison. It surrounded and engulfed Quin more palpably than the air he breathed.
When the last note faded, he moved to the door. “Paulos?” He spoke through the bars on the tiny window.
Sold Into Freedom Page 23