Page 35 of Of Love and Treason
“What’s this about?” Valens asked.
Hector hesitated and took a drink before answering. “Like my friends and I, many of the men from my legion, the Secondus Parthica, have returned home after serving their term. Men who haverisked their lives and proven their bravery and loyalty to the empire time and again. Men who have been repaid with dishonor and disrespect.” He took a breath and glanced at Quintus, who stumbled toward the door, aided by the server. “You’re a good man.”
Valens already suspected what request would follow this stroke of his ego and waited for it in silence.
“A brave man,” Hector continued, eyeing Quintus, who wove his way outside.
“A stupid man, some would say.” Valens shifted in his seat.
Hector’s mouth tipped slightly. “You know what I am about to ask, and I assure you, you will have the loyalty and protection of my men if you agree. We’ve given our best years to serve the empire, and Emperor Claudius Gothicus has rewarded us by withholding our right of connubium and the bearing of legal heirs. I am asking you to show pity on my men and do for them as you’ve already done for me and my friends.”
Valens took a breath. How could he refuse? He’d committed the act of treason already. Still, the consequences of the request weighed heavily and had been sitting not twenty feet from him—albeit drunk. Valens traced his thumbnail over the lines etched into the side of his clay cup. What he’d done was risky, though it hadn’t seemed terribly dangerous. But if he continued, would he put Bea at risk?
“If I agree, this cannot be traced to my family.” Valens looked up. “I want no messages sent to my home. We do everything at night.”
Hector hesitated at the last condition but nodded anyway. “Agreed.”
“How do you suggest we communicate?”
Hector brightened. “The tavern is covered with roses.” He waved a hand toward the doorway. “When there is ameetingfor you to attend, I will hang a rose above the door. It will be inconspicuous enough.”
Valens looked at the doorway and slowly nodded. Hanging roses above a dinner table or from a tavern ceiling was common enough. To be sub rosa—under the rose—meant to maintain a vow of utmost secrecy and confidentiality.
“And where will thesemeetingstake place?” Valens asked. “No homes, no apartments—the risk of being overheard is too great.”
Hector took a drink. “Public gardens. There are many; we can establish an order and rotate. To offset the danger of being in the city at night, my men will act as escorts and guards, and witnesses when needed.”
He’d clearly thought this through.
Valens gave another slow nod. “You trust your men to remain sub rosa?”
“They’d be fools not to be if their names are sealed as witnesses.”
“Then I agree.” Valens held out his hand and the men gripped arms.
“Watch for the rose.”
City of Rome
Ides of Februarius, AD 270
His hands are tied behind his back. Black and purple and swollen beyond recognition.
His fingers have been crushed one by one. The names demanded of him left unspoken. He’s been beaten, seared with red-hot irons, stretched on a rack, denied food and water. Still he stands.
Still he refuses to give in. To die.
Even as the stands scream to save their hero, one glance at the emperor’s purple-draped box where the Praetorian prefect sits tells him he will not be spared. The prefect’s arms wave, though he cannot hear the shouted orders. A blue tide sweeps down the aisles of the stands—Praetorian Guards armed to the teeth and ready to quell the crowd. They’d kill every person in the stands before the prefect would let word get to the emperor that he’d let a riot break out. The shouts begin to die as the guards do their job with clubs and the pommels of their swords.
His eyes slam shut, lips moving. “Not on my account, Lord. Don’t let anyone die on my account.” No one can hear him over the Praetorians enforcing the quiet that follows.
A trapdoor in the arena floor drops into the undergroundhypogeumand three men emerge in studded leather loincloths carrying clubs stained dark with old blood.
He is not sorry for what he has done, but he has one regret.
Just one.
XIII
