The lock gave and Valentine’s arm dropped free to his side. Relief and dread rolled over him. Titus reached for the other shackle and Valentine pushed him away, pulling a wooden tablet from his ragged tunic and slapping it against Titus’s chest. “Give this to her.”
Titus shrugged away from him. “Give it to her yourself.”
“I’m not accepting your offer. I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Must I list the reasons?” Valentine looked incredulous. “For one thing, you’ll be executed. Two, you don’t believe in God—”
“How could I?”Titus threw his hands up. “You speak of a loving god, yet he sends his faithful ones to go and die! Heafflictsthose he claims to love.”
Valentine spoke quickly. “A loyal soldier goes where he’s ordered, does he not? Regardless of the risk, of the cost to him?”
Titus looked away. “It’s too much to believe in. And not enough.”
“Seek Him, Titus, and you’ll see He’s more than you could hope for. His peace surpasses all unrest around you. His joy overshadows all hurt. His life drowns out all fear of death.” Valentine’s eyes glowed with earnest passion.
Titus’s eyes narrowed. “How can you not fear it?”
“Death is not the end. God promises eternal life through—”
Titus gave a roar of frustration. “You. Are. Going. To.Die.” He beat his fist against his chest. “I’mthe only one who can save you now,notyour god!” He smacked the heel of his hand against the wall behind Valentine’s head.
“No,” Valentine spoke quietly. “You’re not. My God is powerful enough to save me without condemning you to death in the arena. But even if He doesn’t save me from this, He is worthy of my worship, of my devotion, of my very life.”
Titus stared at him. “Iris loves you. I’m the one handing you life, and you’d rather die than be with her? Is that what you want me to tell her? ‘I offered him a way out and he said he’d rather die’?”
Valentine’s chin jerked and his eyes softened and turned down at the edges. “No. Of course not. But what you’re proposing I cannot agree to. She will understand that.”
Titus’s jaw hardened. “Fine.” He locked Valentine’s wrist back into the shackle and shoved the barred gate open with an ear-piercing squeal.
Valentine sighed. “Titus, wait.”
City of Rome
Ides of Februarius, AD 270
He is tied to a post, dying. A Praetorian enters the arena in polished armor and spotless blue tunic and marches toward him. Flowers rain from the stands, not for the fighters, not for the soldier, but for him. Not even the Praetorians can harness the roar of protest as the soldier pulls out a gladius, the short blade gleaming in the bright noon sun. There is no ceremony this time, no showmanship. The soldier grasps a handful of his hair and with a practiced swing and little resistance, his head dangles in the soldier’s grip. The stands go deathly still.
A trumpet blares and from beneath the purple awning, the Praetorian prefect shouts for all to hear: “So dies a traitor who dared to defy the empire. Remember this day.”
They do.
LIX
CITY OF ROME
IDES OF FEBRUARIUS, AD 270
Spectators poured from the colossus of the Flavian Amphitheatre as Iris reached it. The sun had just passed its zenith in a blue and cold sky and her breath hung in frosty puffs above her head. She’d left the others gathered in the dimness of her pater’s room, praying for Valentine. Iris had grown restless and left as the morning grew late. She couldn’t sit anymore. Her heart was breaking in pieces. Surely the God who had healed her and rescued her pater could not mean to let Valentine die. He was a good man. He treated everyone with kindness and compassion. His gap-toothed smile was contagious. She wanted to be here when the earthquake struck, when the angel appeared and broke his chains and led him out. She would be first in line with anI told you sogrin.
Iris stepped into the wide court around the amphitheatre, pressing against the flood of bodies smelling of sweat and perfume and too much wine. The food stands set up around the four exits were swamped within minutes. Dizzy with the roar of slurred voices and the screech and snap of sandals on flagstones, Iris looked up at the monstrosity of stacked arches and, catching the waning arc of the sun, realized she was too late.
She knew it, and yet she would not allow the flickering spark of hope to extinguish. It was faith, she told herself. Or perhaps denial.Her ears perked toward the conversations, hoping for snatches of a miracle. Perhaps God had shut the mouths of the lions, like he had for Daniel, or opened the doors of the prison as he had for Paul and Silas.
The spectators had a dazed look about them that was not wine induced. Some wailed outright.
Her throat began to burn.
