Page 47 of Of Love and Treason
God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.
The words came quietly through his mind, immediately silencing the fear that might have taken hold. Valens lifted his head. The man behind the desk occupied the only chair. His gray-streaked head bent over a ledger as he ignored the commotion of three men entering the prison. The jailor finally looked up at the guard on Valens’s left.
“Markos. This is the one?” He shifted an unimpressed look in Valens’s direction. If the jailor recognized Valens as the man who’d helped Iris bring him home, he did not show it.
The guard gave a single nod. “Yes, sir.”
Quintus stood and moved in front of the desk with a dignifiedgait, despite a heavy limp. He wore a faded-blue tunic and belted baton and held a scroll in one hand. Keys clinked at his waist with every step. He lifted his unshaven chin high with unquestioned authority as he stopped in front of Valens and met his eyes.
“What is your name?”
“Valentine Favius Diastema.” He swallowed. “But most people call me Valens. Or Val.”
Quintus’s eyes narrowed for a moment as if he was trying to decide if Valens was being impertinent. “You’re accused of inciting illegal gatherings and leading unsanctioned religious activities.”
Valens could have laughed with relief. The married couples were safe then.
“Does that make you happy?” Quintus crossed his arms. “To be labeled aChristian?” He spat out the word like a bad fig.
“Iama Christian.” Valens met Quintus’s sharp gaze. “And yes, it does make me very happy.”
His head snapped to the left as one of the guards sent a blow to his cheek.
“No bruises, Helix!” Quintus barked as Valens winced and touched his mouth. His fingers came away with blood. “Hit the back of his head next time.”
Had Iris told her father about him? Was she his means of hunting Christians?
Quintus’s attention shifted to the guards. “Who else knows he’s been taken?”
The guard to Valens’s left shrugged. “No one. We were discreet.”
Quintus nodded. “Good.”
Valens’s eyebrows pinched. “What is this about?”
Quintus’s face hardened. “Do not speak unless questioned.”
Valens fought to push aside the fear that snaked around the base of his spine.Help me be strong. Protect Aunt Bea and the others.
“Markos.” Quintus’s dark eyes did not leave Valens’s. “Put him in the Tullianum.”
Quintus’s lips lifted slightly, as if he was satisfied by the look of horror that surely showed on Valens’s face. Twelve feet below streetlevel, the domed chamber of the Tullianum had one way in—through a hole in the ceiling—and one way out. As a corpse.
Quintus unlocked the ironclad door. Markos lit a lantern from the table lamp and pushed Valens toward the set of narrow steps descending sharply into slick darkness.
“Will I have a trial?” Valens asked as Markos propelled him forward. He craned his neck and looked back at the jailor, whose face, he thought, held a hint of uncertainty. Quintus didn’t speak.
“You’ll be given a chance to recant.” Markos’s voice echoed as he clumped behind Valens. Another shove sent Valens tumbling forward, his feet rushing to keep him from landing on his head at the bottom of the stairs. The odor of unwashed bodies and rot, death and human waste hung in the darkness and set him gagging.
Markos’s lantern illuminated a cell of unequal walls meeting at odd angles. Chains dangled from the walls, clasping the wrists and ankles of several prisoners who looked at Valentine with mingled curiosity and pity. Panic scraped in his chest and he fought against it, repeating the Scripture that had come to mind. The words lost their power as fear took hold. They were putting him in a tomb. They would beat him until he died or agreed to give up his God.
Markos hung the lantern on a hook in the block ceiling and shoved a key through a lock on the cell floor. As he slid back the round iron hatch, Valens bent and vomited from the stench. Clearly not all the corpses made it out of the Tullianum. Markos pressed his own lips together and yanked Valens in front of him, facing the hole. He drew a dagger, sliced the ropes binding Valens’s hands, and gave him a final shove.
Valens landed in a tomb of darkness, the floor littered with small bones and human filth. His hands and knees stung from the impact and he shot to his feet, shaking his hands free of the revolting litter. The round door above his head slammed shut with the finality of a grave marker.
Blackness. He stumbled backward until the domed walls caught him on the back of his head. He stood shaking, trying to recallpassages of Scripture or how to pray. The irony of what he’d just spoken to the group of believers struck him with guilt.
Something moved in the darkness across the room, scraping across the floor in steps that both rattled and squished. An icy hand gripped his arm and Valens jerked away, tripping sideways into the filth of the floor. His hands slipped in something cold and rancid and slick. He vomited again and felt bony hands on his shoulders, tugging him upright.
