Page 17 of Of Love and Treason
Iris picked up her walking stick. “Don’t worry. They’re not fond of you either.”
Epimandos made a sound that might have been a chuckle had he been in the habit of laughing. “Thank you. Enjoy your evening, butI think it is going to rain. I will remember to keep quiet tomorrow. Perhaps I will nap.”
“I think a nap would do you good.” Iris left. A crisp breeze offset the warmth of the afternoon sun and carried with it all the smells from the various cafés and taverns along the Via Biberatica. Oysters, wine, quadratii, fish stew, meat pies. Her stomach rumbled. Maybe things would be calm enough in the Forum to bring the evening meal to the prison and eat with Pater tonight. Iris fingered the meager coins in her purse and almost reconsidered. She could afford only one place. At the end of the street, where the Via Biberatica left the Markets of Trajan and joined the main road, Iris took a risk and stepped into Minotaur’s Table. What were the chances hair ended up ineverypie?
With food in hand, Iris set out across the streets of the Forum, crossing between the cool shadows of the Basilica Aemilia and the Curia Julia. She wasn’t sure what to tell Pater about the flash of sight she’d had or about meeting Valentine in the market and his offer of prayer. Surely if she told him about one, she’d have to tell him about the other. Unease cramped her stomach. Proselytizing was illegal for Christians, as was converting to Christianity. But she’d not converted, nor had Valentine tried to convert her. Not exactly. She tripped over an uneven paving stone and trotted a few steps to regain her balance.
It had only been a flash. A mere blink of sight. Nothing said Valentine or his god was the cause of it.
Senators argued on the steps of the Curia Julia as she passed. Valentine had said he would be back tomorrow. She’d ask for answers then. She wouldn’t raise her or her pater’s hopes until she knew more. Until then, she decided, she would keep Valentine to herself.
V
THE CHAIR SCREECHEDacross the tiles behind him as Quintus stood and pounded a fist to his heart in salute. Tribune Lucius Braccus strode into the carcer unannounced.
“At ease, Jailor.” The tribune turned and motioned for Markos, the day guard, to close the door behind him.
Quintus slid a “wanted” notice over the set of dice and the scrawled record of the game he and Helix had not finished the night before and waited for the tribune to tell him the reason for his visit. The rioters arrested today? Surely he would have sent a message instead of bothering to come himself.
“Will you not ask me to sit?”
Quintus limped away from his chair—the only chair in the office, unless one counted the extra stool propping up one corner of his desk—and offered it to the tribune with a bow. The tribune gathered his midnight-blue cloak in one hand and sat. The fading afternoon light trickled through the small, barred window and caught in his pale-blue eyes. Tribune Braccus, although a few years older, lacked Quintus’s wine-inflated girth and the gray streaking his temples.
“I presume you know why I am here.”
Quintus would not presume anything, although he had his suspicions. He tipped his head in cringing deference. “No, sir.” His eyes fixed on his chipped and filthy nails.
“I am here to help you.”
Quintus felt his muscles coil. “Sir?”
Braccus leaned the wrong way in the chair and Quintus tried not to let the amusement show when the tribune gave a hiss of pain as the broken slat in the seat pinched him. “I’ve been thinking about your situation.”
“If I could just have more time—” Quintus began, but Tribune Braccus cut him off.
“You must know, with the state of the empire and the wars, that more time will not be possible.”
“No, sir. Of course not.” Quintus forced his shoulders to remain rigid and his face expressionless, even though he felt himself falling into a deep pit.
“As I said before, I’ve come to help.” Braccus laced his fingers together and settled his hands on the desk. “You are a good man and a loyal soldier, so I will offer to pay your debts, free and clear.”
Quintus wasn’t sure why the announcement felt like a punch to the stomach. “Thank you for your generosity, sir. I—I will repay you.”
The tribune waved his hand. “I’m afraid I did not make myself clear.” He shook his head. “I will cover your debts in exchange for your daughter.”
“My daughter?” Quintus’s gut rolled. It was no secret around the Praetorian Fortress that the tribune had strange appetites when it came to women. The prostitutes fetched to and from the man’s chambers were maimed or disfigured—some of them emerged from his quarters that way. He couldn’t allow Iris to join the flock.
Quintus attempted ignorance. “My daughter is blind, sir. She will not be a good servant.”
Tribune Braccus blinked, and his lips twisted into a slow smile. “Forgive my frankness, but it is not the use of her eyes that interests me.”
Bile rose in the back of his throat. They were talking about his daughter—his little girl.
How could he consider such a thing? He shook his head, barely aware of doing so.
“I know.” Tribune Braccus leaned forward. “It’s quite sudden, but you must consider the other option. If you do not accept my offer,both you and your daughter will be sold to a debtors’ work camp until you pay off your debts. You and I know very well a woman with her condition will not be sentenced to a limestone quarry or an olive grove.” His eyes took on a hungry light. “She would be sentenced to physical labor of a different sort.”
Quintus felt the blood drop from his face. “Is your proposal so different, sir?”
