Page 6 of Of Love and Treason
Sweat beaded on his forehead as the office became hot. Too hot. He needed a drink.
Behind the military-issued desk—little more than a box on folding legs—Tribune Braccus tilted his small head and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a compassionate pitch.
“If it were up to me, I’d overlook the whole thing.” His hands fluttered as he spoke. “You’re a good man, you’ve served Rome well, and the fates have not rewarded you in kind.”
As he paused to draw a deep breath, Quintus’s hopes rose just enough to be battered.
“But I’m afraid with the war on, we cannot be so lenient. Prefect Heraclianus has orders from Emperor Claudius Gothicus requiring all loans be repaid in full.” He paused again to let the news settle before delivering the death blow. “I called you in because per the signed agreement, you must pay the debt by the first of Februarius or pay the consequences.”
“Consequences?” The whip lashed harder, Quintus’s lathered thoughts blurring. The first of Februarius? That was only—he tapped his thumb over his fingertips—four months away.
“Any holdings you have will be forfeited and sold.”
“But I have nothing of value.”
Tribune Braccus drew his mouth in an apologetic line, but his pale-blue eyes held a greedy glint. “Your home, furnishings, slaves, and if it comes to it, you and your daughter.”
Quintus slumped in the chair, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. “I gave the money to the gods! How can they do this to me—to mydaughter? Haven’t they taken enough?”
Tribune Braccus straightened a stack of correspondence and adjusted his inkwell. “The gods did not borrow money from thePraetorian treasury.” He flicked his eyes at Quintus, jaw firming. “You, Jailor, are the only one at fault in that. Andyouare the one who must pay the price.”
The tribune stood and gestured from Quintus to the door behind him. “Four months.”
Knees wobbling as if they’d give out, Quintus stood, looking to the tribune. He hoped the leader of his one-thousand-man cohort would change his mind, but Braccus simply waved his hand toward the door again. Quintus slammed a fist to his chest in salute and left, numb with panic and shock. His mind ran with schemes, none of them good. What would he tell Iris? It would crush her to think she was the cause of this. No, he couldn’t tell her. Not yet.
The dying sun swathed the city in purple shadow. Quintus did not return to his post at thecarcer. Instead, out of habit, he headed for the run-down temple of Panacea, goddess of all healing, and the seer who waited in the dim chambers beneath.
The seer’s ebony skin glowed in the light cast by dozens of colored lamps littering the niches in the wall behind her chair. She was robed in a gauzy redchiton, her bare arms clattering with brass bangles as she gestured for Quintus to sit in the chair opposite her. As he sat, he flipped a few coins onto the round table draped in stained green silk that rested between them. The dank, smoky air held a musty, singed smell.
“You’re back.” She swiped the coins. “And unhappy.”
When he made no reply, she downed the contents of a small goblet, the light glinting off a tarnished turtle strapped to the middle of her purple turban. Setting the goblet down, she locked eyes with Quintus. He shrank back as her gaze seemed to peel away the skin from his bones, probing the very depths of his soul. She leaned toward him and took his wide hand, flipping it palm up and tracing her middle finger over the lines. Her eyes, strangely silver, took on a glassy look and did not stray from his. Quintus swallowed and shifted in his chair.
The seer’s lips pricked in a slight smile before drowning in a frown that set her face in deep creases. “You have displeased one of the gods.”
This was new. Quintus straightened and licked his dry lips. Thismight account for his problems, for Iris’s curse. “Which god? How? Why?” His voice choked, hoarse and eager.
The seer looked through him as she spoke in a tone that questioned as much as it revealed. “This god has done you a great service, and you have not taken notice.”
“Great service?” Quintus racked his brain for anything that might remotely resemble a service, small or great. Trials dogged him like the three-headed hound, Cerberus. His parents and siblings had died during the annual spring sickness that crawled over the city without partiality between young, old, rich, or poor. His wife, Julia, died birthing Iris. The strength of his leg had been stolen in battle. His heart tightened. And then Iris, blinded when girls her age were getting married. A great service? He snorted. Where indeed?
The seer’s voice lightened to a wispy singsong. “He waits for you.”
Desperation, swift and strangling, swelled in his chest. He gripped the seer’s hands. “Who? A god? Tell me which one—I’ll do anything!”
Gritting her teeth, the seer pulled her hands free, eyes clearing. “I don’t know.” The words came out hard, fear barely masked in the tone as she looked away from him. What had she seen?
Quintus leaped up. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I don’t know,” the seer repeated, shuddering. “It is not a god I know. I—I do not know his name.” Her chair screeched across the floor as she pushed away from the table, gripping her elbows. “Do not return here.” She turned away, voice edged with fear. “I cannot help you.”
Quintus wanted to shake her. What had he paid her for? He wanted answers—neededthem—and all he’d gotten were more questions. And now he had to find an unknown god who had done him some great and unnoticed service? He stormed from the room, hobnailed boots smacking against the marble steps. Cool night air washed over him as he emerged from the humid warmth of the chamber below the temple. They were all the same. The priests and priestesses,haruspicesand seers, charm sellers and healers—Pay us and we will feed you emptiness wrapped in ritual.
His bad leg ached, but he didn’t slow his pace. Quintus couldn’tbear the thought of going home and looking into Iris’s blank eyes. He’d done all a devout Roman should—and what good had his devotion done him or his daughter? The gods either were not inclined to help or did not have the power to do so. Iris was cursed, and now they would be destitute.
Quintus stopped the hard march when his leg nearly gave out, shooting pain into his hip and knee. He cursed the old battle wound that had pulled him out of the Praetorian Guard and slapped him in front of the carcer prison cells at discount pay. Breathing hard, he swung into a gritty tavern that advertised cheap posca and, questionably, “fresh clams.”
The patrons were spread out and quiet. He lowered himself to the nearest table, the top covered in a gummy film. A clay cup of the cheap, watered wine appeared before him without having to ask. Stellar service. He tried to drown himself in the wine, throwing it back and waving over three refills before his head began to spin. Still, it did nothing to hold back the memories that swamped him. The door of the prison bursting open and Titus staggering in, carrying Iris, her face bleeding and swollen purple. She’d been—and still was—that bright bloom of life pushing back the barren deadness of winter. Hence the pet name, Iris. To see her bruised and broken in Titus’s arms had nearly undone him.
