“Yes, Quin.” Paulos’s familiar voice was like a balm to his wounded soul.
“Are you sure your god could love someone like me?”
“Of course. If He can love me, the chief of sinners, He can certainly love you.”
He laid his head against the rough wood. “I have lost everything and everyone I love.”
“You will never lose His love.”
How he needed to believe that. “How can you be sure?”
“I know, as sure as I am sitting here, that nothing can separate us from His love.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Not life, not death, not angels or spirits or magistrates. Nothing in the present or the future. Nothing. You can never lose His love.”
“I wish I could let you out of here.”
“May I pray for you?”
What an odd question. Paulos was the one who should need comfort. “Pray for me? I suppose so.”
“Our Father in heaven, I ask that you give our dear friend Quin a hunger to know You better. I pray also that the eyes of his heart may be enlightened so that he may know the hope to which You have called him.”
“And we ask that you fill him with all joy and peace as he trusts in You,” added Silas.
“Thank you,” Quin whispered.
Hope. Joy. Peace. Those concepts were foreign to him. He plodded back up the stairs and to his corner.
“Sing some more!” Philon’s voice drifted up from the cell.
God also highly exalted Him and gave Him the name
that is above every name
so that at the name of Yeshua every knee should bend
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue should confess that
Yeshua Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.
Quin lay his head back against the wall. “Every knee should bend.” What was stopping him? Fear? Of what, exactly?
Maybe he could talk to Paulos more tomorrow, when his head was clearer and not so full of wine. He’d come down just before dawn. The magistrate would never rise before the sun, so even if Gallus was planning something wicked, Quin should have time to talk to Paulos.
He couldn’t be more miserable. So why not give Yeshua a chance?
The wool-stuffed mattress was softer than the mat she slept on in Max’s house, even softer than the straw-filled mattress back at home. The deep blue cover was luxurious and kept her warm, warmer than the animal skins she’d grown up sleeping under. The pillow was perfect and still Tia was as restless as a rabbit caught in one of her bratir’s cages.
She curled up into a ball, facing the wall, as if making herself as small as possible could somehow hide her from the onslaught of emotions that attacked her.
This was not the enemy she had been trained to fight.
Quin’s agonized face refused to leave her memory. She longed to comfort, to hold him. But what could she say? Or do? He was under orders. He had no choice.
His last words echoed. Because you’re my carissima.
Except now she wasn’t. And she understood Paulos’s explanation. All his reasons made perfect sense. If they were together—she following the Way, he still worshipping his Roumani gods, even if half-heartedly—it would end in disaster. There would be an irrevocable clash. She would be forced, at some point, to choose between her husband and Yeshua. And what about children? She’d spoken with Timos about growing up with a Greek pater and a Jewish mater. It wasn’t good for any of them.
But none of those reasons soothed the ache in her heart.
Father, I know Quin is in pain. Not like Paulos and Silas are, but I know what he is doing now must be one of the most difficult things he has ever done. I know he’ll think this makes him a terrible person. Please, somehow, can You help him see that’s not true? He’s all alone in that horrible place. Can you help him remember everything Loukas told him? If I can understand it, and You can forgive me, surely You can forgive him too.
She pulled his crimson cloak close to her face. The smell of leather and oil had faded, but it still brought her some comfort. His feelings couldn’t fade as fast as his scent, could they? She had to believe he would still protect her, still fight for her, if Max came for her.
If he were able.
If not, she could defend herself. She was still a Britanni warrior. She could wield a sword, though she had none. She’d find something. Max would not defeat her.
It felt like she had barely fallen asleep when she was awakened. With one hand Tia held tight to the side of the iron bed. The other hand clutched a handful of mattress. Why was the room shaking? The glass cup on the bedside table rattled and bobbled until it fell onto the tile floor, shattering. The legs of the table bounced, sounding very much like one of the spotted woodpeckers back home.
The shaking slowed, stopped. Tia did not release her grip. Would it start again? She wasn’t risking it. She held fast, staring at a spot on the wall. The shaking slowed, then stopped.
“Tia?”
A voice hovered on the edges of her mind.
“Tia?” Lydia spoke louder, then peeked in her room. “Are you all right?”
No. The world is breaking apart.
Lydia opened the door wide and stepped inside. How did this woman always look so elegant? In the middle of the night, fresh from sleep, when the world was shaking? “It was just an earthquake.”
Tia searched her memory. Even translated into her native tongue, she couldn’t think of anything like it. “I don’t know that word.”
“Earthquake? It’s when the ground moves. Does that not ever happen in Britannia?” Avoiding the shattered cup, Lydia tip-toed near. Sitting on the bed, she brushed the hair from Tia’s face.
“Not that I remember. Or that anyone else remembers and speaks of.”
“They happen in Macedonia and Achaia all the time. Usually you can barely feel them. That was a moderately strong one.”
If that was a moderately strong one, she’d hate to see a really strong one.
Lydia gently pried Tia’s hands from the mattress as she spoke. “Oh, yes. Earthquakes can go from where they barely tickle your feet, to rumbling the floor, to knocking the dishes off the shelves, to destroying whole cities.”
“Destroying cities?” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t want to feel one like that.”
“I know. It’s a horrible thing.”
Tia gasped. “You’ve been in one?”
Lydia picked at her fingernails, exhibiting discomfort for the first time. “When I was a little girl. In Lydia. They say it was the worst earthquake in history. It destroyed twelve cities. It was so bad, Tiberius—the emperor at the time—not only sent ten million sesterces to help in rebuilding, he declared we wouldn’t have to pay taxes for five years.” She smiled weakly. “It takes a lot for Rome to give up taxes.”
“How bad was it?” She sat up, tucking her legs under her.
“It was bad enough that houses fell down, temples collapsed. But the shaking wasn’t the worst part.”
“What could be worse than buildings falling?”
“In such a violent quake as that one, the earth not only goes up and down, it breaks apart. Roads, even buildings, end up with huge gaps in them. There were landslides, floods. Fire broke out everywhere because it happened at night, and the small fires people had to keep warm were thrown around, tossed onto broken parts of houses and stray bits of wood. Long after the shaking stopped the whole city was ablaze. It seemed like the flames went on forever.”
“Is that when you left?”
“No, not then. Not till later.” She glanced at the door and stood. “I think everyone is awake. Syn was gathering something for us to eat. As always.”
How that girl wasn’t tremendously fat was a mystery.
Pushing her covers off, Tia got out of bed and followed Lydia down the hall. “Do you think they felt the quake at the jail too?”
“They must have.” Lydia descended the stairs to the peristyle, Elantia
behind.
“Do you think they’re all right?”
“I don’t see why not. There shouldn’t be any more damage there than here.”
Syn entered the peristyle with a tray of sliced fruit. “A few of the bowls broke when they fell, but it’s not too bad.” Smiling, she offered Tia a Persian apple.
Tia shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” Her stomach was queasy enough as it was, just waiting for morning to come so she could find out what would happen to Paulos and Silas.
Not to mention Quintus.
“Do you think—”
Her words were interrupted by a loud banging at the front door.
Lydia rose. “Who could be coming in the middle of the night?”
A shiver ran down Tia’s spine. The moment always in the back of her mind had finally come. Someone had recognized her last night.
The pounding intensified.
She wrapped her hands around her middle, backing toward the walls. Fear huddled in her chest, refusing to leave.
There was only one person who would come at this hour, be this insistent.
Max.
The sound of shattered pottery awakened Gallus from a deep sleep. He bolted upright in his bed, eyes wide. With no windows, it was impossible to discern what had made such a noise. He certainly was not climbing out of his bed until he knew. What if he stepped on broken terra cotta?
He felt for the handbell hanging from his headboard. He yanked it free and rang it.
Nicanor appeared almost instantly.
“Light the lamp. Something broke.” His voice was rough. Too much wine last night. He rarely drank that much.
“Yes, Domine.”
Nicanor left, stopping only to roll up the sleeping mat outside Gallus’s room and tuck it under his arm. He returned with a broom and a lit oil lamp. Holding the lamp low, he gingerly stepped into the room, scanning the floor around his feet.
“Ah, the amphora you brought from your friends’ house has fallen.”
“Good thing it was empty then.” Gallus cackled and fell back on his pillow. The sound of the pottery scratching against the tile floor drilled into his head. “Are you done yet?”
“Yes, Domine. The floor is safe.”
“I need to relieve myself.” He sat up, his feet on the steps beside the bed, but the room spun. He stretched his hands out to steady himself.
“Do you need help, Domine?”
“Perhaps.” He hated admitting that to a slave.
Nicanor put out his arm for Gallus to hold onto as he descended the three steps and stumbled to the door. He kept one hand on the wall as he made his way down the hall to the toilet.
On the way back, he brought his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes. The moonlight shining through the open ceiling of the atrium bounced off the water in the impluvium. Far too bright. But what was that just at the end of the hall? A toppled sculpture? That couldn’t have been there last night. He surely would have tripped over it. What else was amiss? He would have to wait until morning to check.
“Nicanor, is that a sculpture on the floor?”
“Yes, Domine. I noticed it, too, but it’s too heavy for me to pick up alone. I’ll have to wait until morning when one of the other slaves can help me.”
“Why is it on the floor?”
Nicanor frowned. “For the same reason the amphora is?”
Was Nicanor being impertinent? This was not like him.
The Greek tilted his head. “Did you not feel the trembling?”
“Trembling?”
“There was an earthquake.”
“I must have slept through it. Was it a bad one?”
“A small one. No damage to the house that I know of. A few objects toppled.”
“Good, then.” He padded to the bed.
Nicanor offered his arm, but Gallus smacked it away. “I don’t need your help.”
He turned and plopped on the mattress, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger.
“Does your head ache, Domine?”
“It does. I just need to sleep.”
“Yes, Domine. But if it still aches in the morning, I have two owl’s eggs.”
“When did you get those?”
“I bought them as soon as I heard Max and Cassia were preparing such an extravagant dinner, and that you were attending.”
Gallus waved his hand at the slave beside his bed. “That will be all.”
Nicanor left, taking the lamp with him and closing the door. The room was shrouded in darkness once again.
Gallus lay back, pulling his linen covers to his chin.
So, this lowly slave already had the cure for his alcohol-induced headache prepared. Should he be insulted Nicanor assumed he would get this drunk, or pleased he had thought ahead?
His eyes felt like they had sand in them. He tried keep them open, but it felt so much better when they were closed.
He’d just have to figure this out later. Max’s situation was taken care of. The culprits were in prison. Everything should be calmer tomorrow.
25
“The jailer woke up, and when he saw the prison doors open, he drew his sword . . .”
Acts 16:27
A knock sounded on the prison door. Quin approached. “Who’s there?”
“Pandaros. It’s almost the third watch.”
He slid the heavy bolt to one side and opened the door, allowing his subordinate to enter. “It’s past time. You’re late. Stolos is already here, on the door.”
“Any instructions before you go?” Pandaros obviously noticed the pottery shards in the corner, but wisely refrained from comment.
“Switch places with Stolos at the midpoint. Everything’s been pretty quiet. Except the prisoners in the inner cell have been singing off and on.”
“Singing?”
“When they haven’t been praying.”
“You mean like wailing and calling on their god to rescue them?”
“No, I mean like offering praises.”
Pandaros shuddered. “That’s just odd.”
“I know. But it sounds nice. A lot better than wailing, so I wouldn’t complain if I were you.”
“Men do strange things when faced with death.”
Quin winced. “You don’t know they’ll be executed.”
“They should be.”
“Why?” His question came out harsher than he intended.
Pandaros stepped back, his hands up in surrender. “I apologize. I know they’re friends of yours. Didn’t mean anything.”
Quin drained the last drops of wine from his goblet and slammed it on the small table by the door. “I’m going to sleep. Lock the door behind me.” He stomped out and up the stairs to his domus.
His servant met him in the atrium with a glass of honeyed wine and a loaf of bread.
Charis peeked out of her room for a brief moment, then shut the door quickly.
“Epaphras. What are you doing up at this hour?”
“I thought you might need one or the other.” He grinned.
“Since I’ve already had too much wine, I’ll take the bread.” He reached for the food. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have waited.”
“I know you’ve had a hard day. Let me help you out of your boots.”
Quin allowed the young Greek to remove his shoes. His servant was right, but Quin didn’t want to talk about it.
“How are the prisoners, if I may ask?”
“The Jews?”
“Yes, Domine, the teacher and his friend. May I ask how they are doing after what happened in the forum?”
Why would Epaphras ask about Paulos and Silas? “Do you know them?”
His face flushed. “Some.”
Quin stared at the young man a moment. “Are you a follower of the Way?”
Epaphras cringed.
“You’re not in trouble.”
“I do believe in the living God.”
“So every time you say you’ll pray for me, you pray to Paulos’s
God?”
He nodded.
“I talked all day to Loukas about Yeshua. And all night to Paulos.” He yawned. “Now I’m going to sleep.”
“Good night, Domine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Quin waved acknowledgement as he fell onto his bed without changing out of his tunic. Sleep had barely overtaken him when he was jerked awake. What was that noise? His gaze shot to the door of his room. It rattled. Was someone entering?
His bed moved, bumping against the wall. He got out of bed and took a step. He fell, banging his knees on the cold tile floor.
He’d had quite a bit of wine earlier, but he couldn’t be that drunk. Rising to his full height, he stretched his hands out to his sides. He was not unsteady. He didn’t feel drunk. He mumbled the names of his brothers, his uncles, all four emperors. He was thinking clearly, not slurring his words.
He definitely wasn’t drunk.
Taking a step, he remained upright. Again. Again. He quickened his pace and opened the door.
Rumbling filled the atrium. The floor trembled. Walls cracked. A small piece of the ceiling fell. He backed out of the way just in time, slamming his shoulder into the wall.
Epaphras and Charis ran from the back of the domus. Tears streamed down her pale face. “What’s happening?”
She had never before spoken to him. Barely looked at him.
“I don’t know. But get out of the house. It’s not safe. The whole house could collapse.”
Maybe he was drunk. Or out of his mind, and this was all his imagination. A nightmare. But his knees and his shoulder still stung, and nightmares weren’t usually painful.
Gods of Rome. God of Paulos. Does anyone hear me?
A horrifying thought struck. His prisoners! He reached around the doorway behind him and grabbed the belt holding his short sword from the peg on the wall. Wrapping it around his waist, he bolted out of the door and down the steps, glancing east. He could see the front door to the jail standing wide open. Not a good sign. Panic gripped his heart.
He raced inside the prison, skidding to a stop in the center of the outer room. The torches burned bright on the walls, shining a bright light on this unending nightmare.
Sold Into Freedom Page 24