Page 4 of Of Love and Treason
She knew he meant it. Titus had been with her that horrible day, seven years ago. Iris reached beneath the fringe of her palla and ran her fingers over the scarred flesh rippling out of the hairline over her left temple. The blemish skipped over her eye, ending in a jagged nick on her cheekbone. She dropped her hand. She had long known she would never see again. For all they’d tried, there was no fixing it. And yet she couldn’t help the longing that swelled inside. To be able to see the sky awash with the colors of citrus fruit, see her father’s eyes crinkle when he smiled, see if Titus had grown into his ears.
They turned onto Cedar Street, her nose assaulted by the smell of dirty laundry and vats of urine collected from passersby and used as bleach. Nearly home.
“Have you seen my pater?”
“I’ll see him when I get to the prison. He has someone I need to talk to.” Titus didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Titus only went to the prison when they needed him to extract answers from prisoners. And whenever that happened, her father came home late.
“Christians again?”
“Not this time—broken pot.” He tugged her out of the way.
“I met one today.”
“A broken pot?”
She dug an elbow into his side. “A Christian.”
“Is he the one who told you not to buy the rock? You should have let me arrest him.” Titus bent his head close to hers. “Did he have horns?”
“I didn’t see any.”
Titus groaned. “I keep telling you to be more observant!”
Iris smiled at his good-natured teasing but continued in a serious tone. “He said he would pray for me, so I could see again.”
“And did he?” Titus’s voice was strained, as if he held his breath.
“No.” She tugged her palla further down on her forehead. “I think you scared him off.”
“Probably for the best.”
Titus opened the door to the courtyard of the five-storyinsula, stepping aside to let her precede him. The walk from the market to the insula was not long, but the stairs leading to the fourth-floor apartment were hazardous. And before those, there was the first-floor laundry to navigate. The laundress, Silvia, bawled at her slaves for scorching bed linens.
“That woman has the arms of a legionnaire,” Titus whispered. “Watch out for the urine vat.”
“You wouldn’t want to trip into that again, would you?” Iris giggled, remembering.
“Telling you that story is my biggest regret in life.”
“But your tunic was never whiter.”
He inhaled and effectively changed the subject. “Someone’s cooking sea bass.”
The courtyard was shaded, the sun having long passed overhead, but the cracked paving stones still radiated heat. Quick footsteps slapped across the courtyard.
“My dear, have you seen Priscilla?” Dorma’s voice wavered with age and worry. The insula’s oldest tenant shuffled about, clunking garden pots on the flagstones.
“Who’sPriscilla?” Titus murmured in Iris’s ear. “Anyone I should know?”
Iris answered under her breath. “Yes. The two of you would get along famously. Priscilla is Dorma’s chicken.”
Titus chuckled. “I do love a good roasted chicken.”
She sent an elbow to his gut, hoping Dorma hadn’t heard. One did not joke that way about Priscilla. Iris raised her voice. “I think I heard her on the third-floor landing when I left this morning.”
Dorma’s voice went weak with dread. “Thethirdfloor?” Sheshoved past in a shocking burst of speed, sending Iris stumbling against Titus.
“Falco said he’d eat her if he caught her in his bed again.” The old woman shrieked,“Priscillaaaaa!”
