Page 7 of Of Love and Treason
Quintus tossed back another cup and grimaced. He should not have allowed her to run as free as she did. Perhaps if he had made her stay home—but no, sitting home had never suited Iris’s nature. And forcing her to do anything against her will went against his.
Seven years ago this very day. Quintus took another drink. He’d been at her side when she awoke, screaming for him to light the lamp. She had always been afraid of the dark. But the lamp was lit and next to the bed, and her eyes were wide and empty. He’d shouted for the doctor, begged him, “Do something, please!”
Do something. Please.
The words he’d spoken to every physician, priest and priestess, god and goddess, seer and haruspex. Nothing. That’s what he’d gotten in return.
Quintus shoved himself upright, left a few coins behind, and stumbled toward the prison, keys jingling on his belt. He’d nearly forgotten about Titus. The tavern was close enough to the prison that Quintus avoided a mugging on the way. He clumped up the stairs of worn tufa stone and the night guard, Helix, greeted him with a reproving look and the news that Titus had picked the lock to the cells. Again.
The prison office was small and square and dim. A cot squatted in the corner, bordered at its head by the wall of shelves crammed with law scrolls and prison records, writing tablets and prisoner belongings the guards had deemed unsellable. At the foot of the cot, the ironclad oak door leading to the main holding cell stood slightly ajar. Quintus moved toward his desk, set in front of the shelves and held up by three legs and the extra stool. He’d get around to fixing it someday.
Hobnails screeched behind the armored door, faint at first, then growing louder as they ascended the few steps to the office. A yellow light flickered around the edge of the door before it opened fully with a groan. Quintus settled into his chair, twisting slightly so the broken slat in the seat wouldn’t pinch. Relief shot through his leg.
Titus emerged from the holding cell, carrying a lantern and a look of tired triumph. In ten years he’d moved through the Praetorian ranks faster than the Tiber fever in spring. If his father were alive to see him, he would have been proud.
“Did you get what you needed?”
Titus shut the door and nodded, stooping over the grimy washbasin to rinse his hands in water that turned pink. “Eventually.”
“Long live the emperor.”
Titus raised a grim smile. “And now he shall live a little longer... if the plague doesn’t kill him.”
“What do you hear on the street?”
Titus wiped his hands and flung the dingy towel next to the basin. He crossed his arms and settled a wide shoulder against the wall, facing Quintus. “Much the same as ever. The people think Emperor Claudius is a warmonger—that because there is bread and wine in Rome, the war is not as dire as they’re told. And now this. Have you heard about his new edict?”
“Rumors only.” Quintus rubbed his head. It was beginning to throb. “Is it as bad as they say?”
“It goes into effect in two days.” Titus examined his fingernails and went to the washbasin again. “If Claudius thinks he’s unpopular now...”
Quintus shrugged. “Soldiers have never been allowed to marry; it’s never stopped us before.”
“But this is a marriage ban on the civilians.” Titus skipped the dirty towel and wiped his hands on his thighs instead. “With a draft of all unmarried men to follow.” He locked his hands behind his head and paced the room, perusing the “wanted” notices posted near the outside door. “Military duty has always been voluntary—and with no way to marry and get out of it... there will be riots like we’ve never seen before.”
“Even so.” Quintus leaned back in his chair, shifting toward Titus. “A ban has never stopped anyone from slipping thenotariia few coins for a marriage contract.”
“A charge of high treason might.” Titus skimmed the notices, lifted a few of the sheets to peer at the ones underneath, and let them drop.
Quintus whistled. “He’d go that far?”
“It’s already in writing, according to the prefect. Claudius Gothicus wants a bigger military and he’ll stop at nothing to get it.” Titus’s eyes narrowed as he studied Quintus. “You don’t look so well.”
“I’m fine,” Quintus lied. “How was Iris?”
“Her usual.” Titus crossed the room to fumble through the stacks of records on the shelves. He shifted several precarious piles and pulled out a small amphora of wine and two cups hidden behind. Quintus waved a hand of refusal, head already spinning, and Titus poured one for himself. “She puts on a brave face, makes her jokes and laughs, but—” He took a drink, caught the despair that must have shown on Quintus’s face, and didn’t finish. A muscle ticked in Titus’s jaw as he tossed the cup back.
“I’d better get back to the Castra Praetoria.” He replaced the cup and amphora in their hiding place. “And you’d better get some resttoo. Once the marriage ban is announced, this place will be overflowing with rioters.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep here and go to the fortress in the morning?”
Titus grinned. “You don’t think I can take on a few muggers?”
“They murdered that Urban Guard last week.”
“That’s an Urban for you.” Titus shook his head. “I’ve got to get back. Thetrecenariuswill want to hear about this.” He jerked his thumb toward the cellblock and moved to the door. “Good night, Quintus.”
“Make good decisions.”
