Page 24 of Of Love and Treason
The man across the hall slammed his door and thumped down the stairs, yelling curses up at his wife, who shouted some choice ones back at him. He’d be back in a few hours, teary and penitent.
The racket nearly muffled the knock at her own door. Iris set the cup on the table and moved toward the door as the knock came again. More insistent.
“Who is it?” Her fingers paused on the lock.
“Tribune Lucius Braccus.”
Her heart began a wild rhythm. Her father had spoken of Tribune Braccus before. He was one of nine Praetorian tribunes and second in command under the Praetorian prefect who ruled Rome in the absence of the emperor. Was her father all right? Surely if he werenot, they would have simply sent a messenger with news or, if they were desperate, a centurion—but certainly not a man as important as the tribune.
“My pater is not home, I’m afraid.” She spoke against the door. “He’s been called away. I will let him know you were looking for him.”
“I’m not here to see your father,” came the voice. “I’m here to speak with you.”
“Is Pater all right?”
“Won’t you let me in?” he asked. “There is a matter of a delicate nature I must discuss with you.”
Dread pooled in her stomach. Something terrible must have happened. She hesitated a moment more, then flipped back the lock and opened the door.
“Tribune.” Iris bowed, clasping her hands together so they wouldn’t shake. “Is my pater well?”
He brushed past her. “I’m thirsty.”
“Oh. Um, of—of course.” She faltered, taken aback by his terse greeting. “I think we may have wine.” She left the door wide-open to preserve propriety and moved to set an amphora of watered wine and another clay cup on the table.
“Won’t you ask me to sit?”
Iris’s smile wobbled. “Forgive me. Will you sit, Tribune?”
“In a moment.”
Irritation flared but she squashed it. She would not make a scene before her father’s superior. Tribune Braccus’s hobnailed boots clacked across the floor, the sound familiar, his gait less so. The door shut with a thump as loud as her heart sounded in her ears.
“Tribune, surely there is no need for—”
The latch clicked into place. She swallowed and hoped her face did not betray her fear.
“No need to fear. Your father is fine.” The tribune’s voice was smooth and dark as a cobra and just as dangerous. He filled the cup, took a deep draft, and replaced the cup on the table with a tink. “He has spoken with you, no doubt?”
She forced a pleasant tone. “He is my father, Tribune. We speak every day.”
He gave an acquiescing chuckle. “About my proposition,” he clarified in a flatter voice.
Her throat went tight, yet she forced her voice to stay light and pleasant. “I—I’m afraid that has not come up.”
“Indeed? That interests me because your father seems to feel you adamantly oppose the idea.”
“I—I, that is—my pater...,” Iris stumbled and stopped.
“Then allow me to inform you of what he has neglected to tell you.”
Iris shut her mouth, determined to remain pleasant. She couldn’t make him leave without disgracing her father, and where could she go that the tribune wouldn’t follow? Why had he shut and latched the door? She would have to handle him carefully.Pater, please come home soon.
“You are blind.”
How observant.
“Which is why you’re old and unmarried.”
