Page 88 of Of Love and Treason
The question hung suspended in the air. Neither answered it. Neither could.
“But Hehasanswered, Pater,” she argued in a whisper. “What you’ve told me now solves everything.”
Quintus nodded, admiring her hopefulness and faith. But despite the neatly packaged plan, he couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in his gut.
City of Rome
Ides of Februarius, AD 270
He slumps forward, jaw hanging at an odd angle. There is an empty thud and he is facedown in the sand. The men drop the clubs, grab his arms, and drag him to a post that has shot up through the floor for this purpose. They prop him up on his feet and tie him in place. His head lolls back, sandy red lines running down his face and neck. He is not quite dead.
A small man emerges from a tunnel along the edge of the arena. This one is naked except for a pair of magnificent wings that resemble Cupid’s. The winged man carries a bow. The crowd goes restless at the show and the meaning behind it: His crimes will not go unpunished by the emperor nor the gods. The winged man strings an arrow on the bow. Takes aim.
Tied to the post, he watches the winged man through half-closed eyes. His body tenses as the arrow is released. The pain is sharp and numbing as the arrow finds its mark in his chest. He feels the warmth leaving him, running down his chest in hot throbs. His eyes shift upward. Has the sun grown brighter?
The keening wails of the crowd fade. The peace in his eyes turns to glass.
The winged man raises the bow overhead as if some great victory has been won.
XXXVIII
CITY OF ROME
IANUARIUS, AD 270
Thunder greeted Iris as she entered the street. Though nearly midday, the sky grew dark and ominous. All was in place. At dusk they would run, but until then all must be as it had been. Pater had returned to his post at the prison after donning thick woolen stockings under his sandals to ward off the chill of the last day of Ianuarius. Iris had found her own stockings and, with them, the bundle of her childhood things that would have been sacrificed at the temple of Juno had she ever married. She’d picked it up. Juno had no need for dolls or clay dogs, but she knew a few children who might.
The cold had seeped into her bones by the time she knocked at the culina door of the Calogarus villa. Wind blasted down the alley, bringing a faint swirling of dry snow. She tucked her chin against her chest and knocked again. This time the door opened, and Iris stepped inside, the heat of the kitchen washing over her in a near-painful relief.
“Goodness, you’re frozen through!” Phoebe pulled her toward the hearth. “Stand by the oven and warm yourself. I’m afraid you’ve caught us in a bit of an uproar. Master Marius went to the auctions this morning and returned with six children.” Her eyes filled, and she shook her head. “Those poor babies. Their parents, executed in the theatre.”
Iris couldn’t help but wonder if their parents had been killed at the play she and Valentine had passed on their way to the wedding. She held out the little bundle. “It isn’t much, but I brought some things for them.” The few toys were wholly inadequate considering the tragedy.
Phoebe took the playthings. “How thoughtful.”
Iris shuddered as she held her numb fingers over the heat. “What can I do?”
“Warm yourself first.” Phoebe lifted a kettle and filled a jar with hot water. “I’ll be right back.” Taking the jar, the maid swept out of the kitchen and left Iris alone, huddled over the oven’s heat.
Iris shivered and let out a long breath. The culina looked as if Phoebe had been in the middle of a dozen chores before being called away with every kitchen lamp. The room was dim, but light and the sound of sloshing water came from an open doorway to the right. Iris poked her head inside, surprised to find Valentine in a room she recognized as a miniature of Silvia’s laundry.
Valentine had his back to her, a boiling cauldron on the brazier in front of him. The room smelled of vinegar and hot linen, wet wood, and smoke. Her eyes watered.
Valentine glanced over his shoulder, his look of surprise melting into a grin. “Iris.”
“Hello.” She eased through the doorway. “What are you doing?”
He gave the cauldron a stir with a wooden paddle. “I have no idea. I’m just following orders. Delphine said to boil the diapers. Does this look right?”
She came closer and peered into the cauldron, the smell of hot vinegar burning in her throat. “They’re definitely boiling.” She looked at him. “For how long?”
He shrugged. “Boilwas the extent of my instructions.”
She suppressed a grin with mock solemnity. “Then you’re doing a wonderful job of it.”
The culina door banged open. Iris jumped and whirled as Beatrix paused in the doorway, then turned toward the laundry.
“Valens.” Beatrix marched inside and swatted at his arm. “I couldsmell scorched linen from the courtyard. Let me do that, you’re ruining them.”
