Page 63 of Of Love and Treason
AFTERTITUS LEFT,Valens let out a long breath and slid down the wall on shaking legs. His thoughts spun. He knew he should feel at least a little concerned about Titus’s threats, but he couldn’t. Not yet. The fear that had plagued him since his imprisonment had long vanished and in its stead, awe swelled inside of him. God had worked a miracle through his prayer.Hisprayer. And now, not only were Iris’s eyes opened, but both she and her father believed. Even if he never saw daylight again, that alone had been worth it.
Unable to sit still any longer, he stood and paced the few steps his ankle chain would allow, praising God for the wonder of it all. Yet the investigator’s warning rang in his ears. He would have to leave the city, quite possibly the peninsula. If he didn’t, he would find himself back here facing the real charges.
Back.That assumed they would release him.
The door groaned with the effort of admitting a visitor. No hobnails screeched on the stones, and Valens’s chin lifted with the hope that perhaps his aunt or Cato had come. He was not disappointed when the lantern light illuminated Iris instead.
He smiled. “You’re back.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.” She set down a basket and a bucket of water, which she slid toward him.
He shrugged. “I suppose I can put my very important pacing on hold for a few minutes.”
She glanced toward the door. “Pater’s trying to get you out.”
“Did he lose his keys?” His lips lifted in a half-hearted smile.
“It’s not that simple, apparently.” She avoided his gaze and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. A tiny gold loop strung with small green beads dangled from the lobe.
“You probably shouldn’t be in here.”
Iris quirked a brow. “Neither should you. Here.” She produced a cake of gray soap and a sponge from the basket. “Now you can wash.”
Valens vowed never to take soap for granted again. “Thank you.” He stooped and dipped the sponge into the bucket, scrubbing his hands and arms, face and neck. Water soaked the neckline of the old tunic Quintus had given him, but he didn’t care; washing at least some of the filth away felt too good.
“Have you seen my aunt Bea?”
“She came into the bakery yesterday afternoon.” Iris kept her eyes on the basket she was sorting through. “She’d gone to the Urbans and the Vigiles looking for you, but you hadn’t been gone long enough for them to bother searching.” She paused. “I brought her here, hoping Pater could help, but he couldn’t say anything.” Her eyes met his then, deep and brown and apologetic. “Would you like me to tell her?”
An ache settled in Valens’s chest as he recalled Titus’s warning. Would he not be able to say goodbye to Aunt Bea? Perhaps he could send her a note—but no, she’d be off finding lawyers in a minute, consumed with proving his innocence, which was impossible.
“No.” Not now at least. “But perhaps when I—if I’m released, you will deliver a message for me?”
She nodded but didn’t ask the questions written on her face. “I’ll bring you a tablet next time.”
“Thank you.” Valens ducked his head and focused on washing. “So you know the investigator?” He slanted a glance in her direction as he scrubbed the back of his neck. She was cutting bread and cheese. His mouth watered.
“Titus? Yes.” She answered without looking up. “Both his father and mine were in the Ninth. During the civilian siege of the CastraPraetoria, Pater was wounded and Titus’s pater was killed. Pater took Titus and his mother in after that. His mother is remarried and gone to Ostia now, but Titus is like a brother to me.”
Valens didn’t argue, but they didn’t call him The Cupid for nothing. He’d noticed the way Titus had watched her, and it was with something deeper than brotherly affection. Iris seemed unaware of her own loveliness. Her orange palla, no longer hiding her face, was draped around her shoulders instead, revealing deep-brown hair twisted into a simple braid pinned to the back of her head. The dusky hues in her skin and the shape of her cheekbones hinted at Eastern blood. But it was her eyes that captured him: brown and bottomless. Even the scar mottling her temple and cheekbone did not diminish her beauty.
She lifted a small jar of olives from the basket, a smile softening her face when her eyes met his. His face went hot. She’d caught him staring at her with the sponge frozen against his neck.
“You must be starving.” She held out the bread.
He let out an invisible sigh of relief.Thank the Lord.She thought he’d been staring at the food. He dropped the sponge and took the bread, grateful for the distraction as much as the bread. He groaned as he ate. It was simple fare but surely the softest bread, most flavorful cheese, and best olives he’d ever tasted.
“I should have brought more.” Iris’s forehead wrinkled as she passed him a red clay cup of well-watered wine.
He was too aware of his fingers clumsily sliding over hers as he accepted the cup. “This is perfect. You are very sweet.” He tilted the cup back to cover the flush of embarrassment.
Kind.He should have saidkind. What waswrongwith him?
“I wanted to do something to thank you.” Iris tugged her palla closer around her shoulders. “You saw me when no one else did. You didn’t have to talk to me, to pray for me, but you did.” Her voice went soft. “You could have kept your hope to yourself, but you shared it instead. And at great risk.” She pulled a rolled blanket from the basket and held it out.
“Well.” He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders with a sighof relief. “When you put it that way, it’s a shame I didn’t get thrown in here long ago.” They shared a chuckle.
“Why does God do this?” Iris shook her head as though realizing she’d asked the wrong question but didn’t know what the right one was. “I mean, He’spowerful, I know that now, and yet hereyouare—in prison. I’m...” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m trying to make sense of Him.”
