Tiberius sat in a small, dimly lit room. This was was clean , well lighted everything that he could have desired in the dungeon that had been his prison for what felt like an eternity , was now there .
He wore clean, simple clothes now—a tunic of soft wool that felt like a luxury against his skin. He could still feel the stiffness in his bones, but for the first time in what he felt were years, he was warm, fed, and no longer bound by the cold, stone walls of a cell.
Days after the rescue he came to know that what seemed like years from him, were just two months.
The remnants of a meal sat before him on the wooden table—roast meat, bread, and a cup of watered wine. He had eaten ravenously, almost mechanically the first days , his hunger overriding any thoughts of savoring the food. Now, with his stomach full and his hands no longer trembling, he sat quietly, staring at the pages scattered across the table.
