Page 122 of Of Love and Treason
“As long as it doesn’t contain information on who or where you are.”
Beatrix dropped her chin. “Understood.”
Titus turned to Iris, shoulders heavy. “Come to the gates of the Ludus Magnus early tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting for you. The crowds will be thick so you won’t have to worry about drawing suspicion.” He hesitated. “Dress well. Only the ones with money get in.”
She nodded.
Titus’s hands twitched, then balled tightly at his sides. “Tomorrow then.” He looked at Quintus and gave a nod.
Iris’s lips tightened. “I’ll be there.”
LVI
WITH HIS TONGUE,Valens tested the tender spot where his bottom front teeth had been. The tribune hadn’t been impressed by his strength of will. Or his singing voice. Valens wished he could have fainted—blacked out—sooner. The sight of blood had done the trick flawlessly in times past, but apparently the blood had to belong to someone else. How irritating.
He’d awakened propped against the rough stone wall, heavy iron shackles biting into his raw wrists. He made the mistake of shifting his body to relieve the needles in his legs. Pain exploded through his chest and shoulders, sending a jolt of light through his vision. He sagged, panting against welling nausea.
Three sets of footsteps clacked in the corridor. All night the lanistae had been emptying the cells of the noxii, leading them out of the Ludus Magnus and into the bowels of the Flavian Amphitheatre next door. The gladiator training school had fallen eerily silent. The condemned who remained seemed afraid to draw attention to themselves, as if they might be overlooked if they were quiet. The place stank of fear and sweat. The footsteps came closer. He’d been warned the questioners would return one last time and had heard the tribune mutter that they’d better leave enough of him intact for a good show tomorrow. Valens let his head fall forward and prayed for strength enough to protect his friends and stay true to his faith.
Once more, God. Grant me strength.
Keys jingled in the lock on his cell. His heart began to pound. His prayers were cut short as the door swung open on protesting hinges. He bit his lip as his arms quivered in the shackles.
What would they use against him this time? Rods? Fillet knives?
“Valentine?”
His heart stopped.
Dear God. No.
His eyes flew open. Iris ran toward him, a blur of pink and white. The door shut with a solid clunk as she dropped to her knees before him. He moaned, mind whirling. “What are you doing here?” Would they hurt her to break him? “Oh, Lord, no.”
Tears coursed over her cheeks. Hands touched his shoulders, his face. “What have they done to you?”
“You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here—? Ow!”
“Sorry.” She shrank back on her heels. “Titus helped me get in. We’ve all been praying for your release.” As she spoke, her eyes traveled over his bruises and the crusted black slices lacerating his chest and arms. Horror mingled with the pallor of her face.
He attempted distraction. “How is your pater?”
She dragged her gaze to his, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Growing stronger every day.” Her lips trembled, eyes slammed shut. She pressed a fist against her mouth, shoulders rigid as she fought for control.
“Don’t cry.” He longed to draw her into his arms and hold her tight against him. The best he could do was grit his teeth and shift his weight, raising one numb hand to brush against her head, draped in a deep rose-colored palla. He’d never seen her in that color before. It didn’t suit her as well as the orange.
“You cannot die, Valentine.” Tears rolled over the swells of her cheekbones. “God would not ask it of you.”
He dropped his hand. “But He asks it of us all. Death to selfish desires, to pride, to power, to having our own way, to anything that would keep us from following Him with our whole hearts.”
“Would He have me give up you?” Her eyes met his, dark, agonized.
His heart ached. “You cannot venerate me over Him. You must not.” He shook his head. “I am bound for the arena. There’s no escape for me now.” He studied her face, drinking in every curve and edge of her features, committing them to memory. She tilted her head and used the edge of the embroidered palla to gently wipe his temple, his jaw, his chin. He leaned toward her touch.
“We must have hope,” she whispered.
Hope. Yes. But not for his release.
He closed his eyes as she rested her forehead painfully against his. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to hear her laugh again. “I know you like a man in chains, but we’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”
