Page 90 of Of Love and Treason
“I know.” Iris smiled, hoping to ease his embarrassment. “She came into the bakery every morning. You were all she ever talked about.” She lifted a conceding shoulder. “Well, you and perfume.” She located a jar of dried chamomile flowers and set it on the tray. “She loves you very much.”
“Too much, sometimes.” He chuckled, leaning to peer into the pot as a whirl of pale steam rose. He turned his head and met her gaze for the briefest of moments before dropping his to the floor. He swallowed. “I’m a fugitive.” He spoke so quietly she had to lean forward to hear him. “Bea doesn’t understand that no good would come of any attachments, especially now.”
His words cut the breath from her lungs, and yet, why should they? He’d never given her any indication he felt anything deeper than friendship toward her. Everything he said she’d already known. But the finality of his words hurt. Or perhaps it was the regret in his voice when he’d spoken them. She took a breath and let it out slowly, silently, taking a moment to smooth her features into an unaffected smile. He stared at his empty hands.
They stood in an awkward silence, Iris, for once, unable to think of a way to defuse it. Water drops spit against the long brazier as the pot began to boil. Grateful for the distraction, Iris ladled it into a red-glazed carafe.
“Come on. You take the tray and I’ll carry the water and get the doors.” She nudged Valentine with an elbow as if he’d been Titus and breezed ahead as if she was as unaffected by him as he seemed to be by her.
Iris took her time going home. She’d spent the rest of the morning and afternoon helping with the children. Six of them, under the age of eight. They’d clung to each other, fear and defiance in their eyes as if daring anyone to try to separate them—and no wonder. Finally, after baths and food and chamomile tea, they’d fallen asleep in atangled heap, even in slumber refusing to lose the touch of another. Iris’s heart broke for them. Beatrix and Martha told her that the Scriptures commanded believers to care for orphans and it would not be long before these had loving homes. But first they must heal.
Several of the smallest children seemed particularly taken with Iris, and while not relinquishing their grip on each other, they’d clung to her until they’d fallen asleep. Iris hated for them to wake and find her gone, but Martha assured her all would be well. Iris had to return to the apartment and pack the few things they would take with them before she returned to Marius and Martha’s with her father. She might have done it earlier had her hands not been full.
As the temples and public buildings along the Via Sacra came into view, she fought the strange sense of emptiness that had come over her when Valentine spoke. He’d acted as if Beatrix were the one who needed to understand his decision to remain unattached, but the way he’d spoken... the words were meant for her. Did he truly feel nothing at all for her? Tears stung her throat.
She tried instead to focus on the weaving project that awaited her at home. She’d finished the winter palla in a shade of soft peach flesh and had begun weaving a new piece of cloth with the vibrant colors of a sunset. She’d mingled the orange and yellow strands for a few rows before switching to all yellow thread. She’d try to bring it with. Beatrix would love it.
Cedar Street hung in hazy shadow when Iris turned onto it. Mind filled with weaving and packing, Iris had no warning when a hand clamped around her arm and jerked her into an alley.
XXXIX
THOUGH TEMPTED TO ACCEPT,Quintus declined the extended wine goblet with a slight shake of his head. Tribune Lucius Braccus shrugged and returned it to the table before settling back in the chair behind his desk. The tribune’s sparse office made Quintus feel as though they were on campaign again. It commanded an urgency of obedience—much like the command that had forced him here. The troop of Praetorian Guards that had dragged him to the Castra Praetoria had been none too gentle. His left eye was swelling shut, and blood trickled into his boot from a cut on his knee.
“I’m certain this is a misunderstanding that can be explained.” Braccus gestured toward the scroll lying on the desktop between them.
Quintus shifted his weight. If this was about his debts, what could possibly be misunderstood? His leg ached, unaccustomed to the fast march of nearly two uphill miles, all without a rest. Sweat stuck his tunic to the middle of his back.God, give me wisdom.The words seemed stuck. His mouth went dry. Perhaps he should not have declined the wine after all.
Braccus tipped his cup to his lips, eyes never once leaving Quintus. They were small and close-set, giving him the appearance of a weasel—shrewd, ready to go for the throat. Light from the sconces on the walls caused the gold signet ring on his first finger to glint. He set the goblet down.
“Well.” Braccus laced his fingers together. “Do you have the money?”
“Payment is not due until tomorrow.”
Braccus raised a brow. “Do you have it?”
Quintus swallowed. “No.”
“I thought as much.” Braccus sighed. “I’m disappointed in you, Quintus. Not about the money. I knew you wouldn’t get that in time.” He waved his hand. “It’s the scroll that I find most disappointing.”
“What scroll?” Even as he said the words, he knew. Valentine had given him a copy of John’s Gospel to read. But it hadn’t left his home. Dread curdled his gut.
The tribune slid the scroll toward him and gestured at the chair next to Quintus. “Sit. Have a look. Perhaps it will jog your memory.”
Quintus’s knees buckled and he sat but made no move to reach for the scroll.
“Please explain how this banned book ended upbeneath your pillow.” Braccus crossed his arms.
Quintus shook his head. “You searched my home?”
“And questioned your neighbors—your landlady was appalled when we showed her the scroll. She had her man change your locks right then and there. Such loyalty to the empire. Pity women aren’t allowed into the guard, eh?”
Fear sliced through the center of his chest and left his lungs tight. “Where is my daughter?”
The tribune waved aside the question with a shrug and leaned toward Quintus, clasping his hands between his knees. “I don’t care about any of this.” Quintus recognized the change in tactics. “You’re a good jailor. We have never had an issue with your integrity before. Tell me this is a misunderstanding and we’ll pretend it never happened.” Braccus picked up the scroll and waved it toward the brazier in the corner, glowing orange through the air holes, the fire inside crackling and giving off too much heat.
A trickle of sweat edged down his hairline. “Where is my daughter?” he asked again.
Braccus pounded a fist into his desk. “Whereisyour daughter?” He repeated the question with a growl. “We had a deal.”
