by Rachel Ford
He laid the snow leopard on the straw, reassuring himself that he truly was still alive, still breathing. Then Trygve slumped down beside him and said, “Have you got water, Southman? I think I may die of thirst.” He wasn’t exaggerating. The toll of the last nine days seemed now, finally, to have caught up. A kind of lethargy, like the one he’d known in the arena but more pronounced, was creeping over his senses. His breath was ragged, his heart raced; and all he wanted to do was sleep, for ten hours or ten years – it didn’t matter which.
Rufus left, saying something he didn’t hear. When the clank of a door sounded a second time, signaling the other man’s return, Trygve started from a half sleep.
“I’ve got water.”
“Ah.” He drew himself up straighter but did not rise.
Rufus brought a pail, and it sloshed as he set it down. Nothing spilled, though, and Trygve drew out and gulped down a ladle full of water, then another, and another.
“Slowly,” the southerner warned. “If you drink too fast, you’ll be sick.”
The water was reviving him, but he heeded the other man’s words all the same and forced himself to imbibe more moderately. “I thought,” he said in a minute, “you said there were more fights today? Not just me and the giant.”
“There were. I don’t know what changed. Otho told me we were to run until dusk.”
“Then what changed?”
Rufus shrugged. “Don’t know. But it was your lucky day. You say the governor of Blackstone tricked you into signing a contract? Well, Empress Cassia dissolved it. You’re a free man, now.”
Trygve snorted. “Free?” It seemed a strange word to his ears. He had been worked almost until he couldn’t stand. He was covered in the wounds of battle, and every inch of him ached. And Gunnar lay in some kind of damned trance. “I don’t even know where I am, Southman. I’ve no money, nowhere to go. I was brought here under cover of darkness and haven’t left this cell since. What am I free to do, anyway? Where am I free to go?”
“You can stay here for a few days. Until the beast is on his feet. It’s my arena – as good as, since I keep it – and I can allow that.” Rufus hesitated. “As for money, I’ll ask around about jobs. I’m sure something will turn up. You’re strong, and you’ve got a reputation now. Things’ll work out, Northman.”
Trygve snorted again. That was the kind of thing people always said when there were no options apparent. It was dogged optimism in the face of reality, a happy lie to put off facing the inevitable. It was almost word for word what he’d told his sisters, when all the while he was plotting murders.
But in the moment, Trygve was too tired to argue. So he just said, “All-Father will it.”
“Oh.” The words seemed to stir a memory in Rufus, for he started at them. “Here. Your All-Father idol.” He produced the little figure Trygve had given him for safekeeping.
This, at last, brought something like a measure of joy to the Northman’s heart. “Thank you,” he said.
“Of course. Now, sleep. We will talk again when you are awake.”
Trygve did sleep, but not for long. And it was not Rufus to whom he spoke when he woke. It was Tullius.
“Hey, Northman.”
Trygve started at the hand on his shoulder and reached for a sword that no longer hung at his side.
“Easy.”
The Northman blinked at him for a moment, forcing himself back to reality. “Tullius? What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Rufus tells me you’re new to our shores.”
“Yes.”
Tullius nodded. “So you’ve no place to stay, now that your contract is done.”
Trygve shook his head.
“Well, that bastard will give you the option of renewing, of course. He’d love to have one of the victors of the Consecration under contract.”
Sleep still clung to his brain, and his mind struggled to keep pace. “Who?”
“Governor Caius. You are – were – signed under him, weren’t you?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I assume you don’t want to sign again?”
Trygve snorted. “I want to put a blade through the son-of-a-bitch for tricking me into signing in the first place.”
Tullius grinned, and his olive-green eyes twinkled. It was the first time the Northman had seen those square features take on anything like amusement. “Well, I can’t help with that. But I can offer you a place to stay.” Instinctively, Trygve glanced down at Gunnar, and the gladiator added, “And your beast, of course.”
“I’d be in your debt.” It was the polite thing to say, but it was true too. Though he’d been here over a week, the only view of Stella he’d had was a late night, drunken journey to the coliseum, and the inside of the arena thereafter.
The other man waved this away. “Come on,” he said. “Now that the crush of foot traffic has died, we should be able to get out. I’ve got a carriage waiting.”
Trygve nodded and moved to stand. He had to fight not to groan out loud. It seemed his rest had done little except exacerbate every ache and pain in his body. Tullius offered him a hand, and he was not too proud to accept.
“I’ll get your panther. Or is it a snow leopard?”
“A snow leopard, from the tundra. His name is Gunnar.”
Tullius nodded, scooping the slumped body over his shoulders. In the gladiator’s arms, Gunnar looked no bigger than a hunting hound. “Rufus tells me it’s a scorpion sting.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good, then. He’ll be alright before long.”
The tension in Trygve’s forehead relaxed at the other man’s confidence. It was the same thing the arena keeper had said, too. That was a good sign. “What of Rufus, though? Shouldn’t I tell him we’re going?”
“You’re a free man now,” Tullius said. “You can go when you please.” Seeing that he still hesitated, he added, “But if you like, we can tell him.”
Trygve wasn’t sure why, exactly, but he did like. Rufus had been a sympathetic ear in his days of hell. Rufus had given him warning this morning, when it would have been no skin off his back to keep his lips sealed. “I will,” he said.
“Alright.” Tullius led the way to the door, and for the first time since his incarceration here, the Northman saw that it was unlocked. Pulling it open, he stood aside for the gladiator and his snow leopard. Then, he followed, leaving the dirt and straw and blood of his cell behind.
They found Rufus tending to one of the other gladiators, one of the men who had fought on a previous day. “Ah, Bull.” The southerner’s expression was respectful, almost reverential. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I wanted to take my leave,” Trygve said.
“Leave? Where will you go?”
“I’ve offered to put him up for a bit, while he acclimates to Stella,” Tullius answered. “I figure he’ll learn the city’s ways better outside a cell.”
Rufus nodded. “True enough. Well, it will be an empty arena now. Half the crew is gone already, and I expect the other half will be heading out soon. Even Marcus here.” This was said with an absent gesture toward the man seated at a table, a half-wound bandage on his arm. “Well, I’m glad you both survived.”
Tullius snorted a kind of laugh. “Me too, Rufus. Keep yourself out of trouble, eh?”
“You too, Bull.”
And with that, they were gone.
Chapter Eight
Trygve slept during the ride to Tullius’ home. When he opened his eyes, it was to greet a late afternoon sky, and a landscape of greens bathed in honey gold sunlight.
“Well,” Tullius said, “here we are.”
Here was a very fine estate, a villa situated on as pretty a piece of property as Trygve had seen. Surrounding the house and courtyard were rolling hills planted in olive trees and grains. A gentle river wound its quiet way through these undulating rises.
The home was something remarkable, too. It seemed at first a palatial, square expanse – a giant buil
ding covering acres and acres of land. But on closer inspection, as the carriage neared the gates, Trygve realized that the structure was not a single solid building, but a series of interconnected and adjacent buildings.
They drew into a courtyard at the center of the estate. Here, the inward faces of the villa’s various buildings – all lined with long, colonnaded walks – were accessible. Looking on from the outside, it had been more difficult to distinguish where one structure began and another ended. But from this vantage, they were clearly identifiable.
Opposite the gates was the tallest of the buildings, reaching three stories high and framed by a particularly grand set of arches and colonnades. Smaller, plainer structures stretched to the sides and behind them. In the courtyard itself, there was a branching walkway, and great, manicured patches of flora. The key feature, at least to the Northman’s eye, was the glistening pool central to the court.
It was circular and surrounded by a mosaic walk and colonnades. Its water was clear and blue, and it caught the sunlight in a way that made him think, rather suddenly, of the open sea.
“Well,” Tullius was saying, “what do you think?”
Trygve glanced up. “You own this place?” he wondered.
“I do.”
He nodded. “It is very fine.”
“It should be,” Tullius declared. “I bled enough for it.”
There was, the Northman thought, a hint of amusement in his companion’s tone, but there seemed a sardonic bent to the comment as well. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said simply, “Thank you for welcoming me to it.”
The other man brushed this away. “Come on,” he said as they disembarked the carriage. “I’ll show you your room.” Then, casting a glance up and down Trygve’s filthy frame, he added, “And the baths.”
“Did you find anything, Felix?” Cassia asked.
Her tone was hushed, and the patrician to whom she spoke answered in a similarly quiet voice. “No, Empress. He had already left when I inquired of the arena keeper.”
“Ah.” She frowned. “That is unfortunate. We might have been able to get him to testify. Did he have any idea of where he went?”
“He did. And I think we may persuade him yet. Rufus – the arena keeper – mentioned that it was unlikely he would sign again.”
“Oh?”
“It was in passing, you understand. And carefully done.” He paused to flash an appreciative smile. “A rough kind of fellow, you know, but I think he’d hold his own against Marcianus himself.”
Cassia smiled in turn. Senator Felix was a man who appreciated a skilled rhetorician more than most. But to evoke Marciuanus, the legendary, first-century statesman? Well, the arena master must have impressed. “What did he say?”
“That he thought the Northman would not sign under Governor Caius again. That there had been ‘confusion’ as to the terms, and he thought he’d seek some other kind of employ.”
Her smile broadened. “I had a feeling.”
Felix nodded. “I’m glad I listened. I should know, by now, not to doubt you, my lady.”
She snorted good humoredly. “Don’t try to be a politician with me, Felix. It will get you nothing.”
He chuckled. “At any rate, he’s gone – for how long, I don’t know – to stay with the Bull.”
“With Tullius?” Cassia pondered that for a minute. The gladiator was something of an enigma to her. He had entered the games of his own volition, continued on occasion – like today – to fight in them, but by all accounts, despised the sport. “Interesting.”
“I can have my man inquire in a few days, to make sure he’s settled and still there. And if he is, I can pay a visit.”
She nodded. “Yes. Try to speak to him privately, though.”
“You don’t trust Tullius?”
“I don’t know Tullius. I don’t know where his loyalties lie.”
Felix considered, then said, “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. And Felix?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. We might finally have him – but if he gets wind…”
“I know, Cass,” he smiled. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you.”
She smiled too. That was true. Felix had been a decade her mother’s senior, and a few years older than her father. He’d been a senator since the first time she’d met him, as a bawling infant – and for years before that. “Alright,” she acknowledged. “You got me there. Still, be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you, old man.”
He brushed away the softness that crept into his gaze with a deliberate harrumph. “Old man? That’s what’s wrong with this new generation: no respect.”
She was about to rejoin with a witticism when the far door opened. Faustus’ voice hit her ears, and she saw Felix grimace.
“Well,” the Senator said abruptly, “I should be going.”
“Yes,” Cassia nodded. She’d been anticipating Faustus. After ending the games early, there’d be a reckoning. Now, at last, here it was. “I’ll see you later, Felix.”
“Take care, Cass,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. There was a troubled look in his eyes, mingled with the kind of paternal affection that was more familiar in his expression.
She reassured him with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel, and Felix took his leave. Cassia heard his quiet, respectful greeting to her husband, and the emperor’s sigh of discontent after he’d gone.
“I don’t know why you still put up with that doddering old monkey,” he said as the door was closing.
She could not tell him the truth, of course. So she settled for the same line she always used when they had this argument. “He was my father’s best friend,” she reminded him.
“More like your mother’s,” he snorted. “From what I hear, anyway.”
She fixed her husband with an apprising glance as he plopped onto a divan across from her. The movement carried such a potent whiff of wine to her nostrils, though, that she glanced away. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Faustus.”
“Why?” he laughed. “The truth hurt, my sweetest?”
“Because you’re drunk. Again.”
“Drunk? I’ve barely had a glass.”
“You can barely stand, more like.” Cassia tried to keep the edge out of her tone. “It’s not even supper time. We’ve still got the feast –”
“To the lions with the feast,” he snapped.
She frowned at him. “What’s wrong with you, Faustus? I thought you loved the feast.”
“I loved the games,” he said sullenly. Now it was his turn to fix her with a hard stare. “I love being able to speak for myself, and not be made a fool in front of all Stella by my wife.”
“The crowd was turning against you, Faustus. They’d had their fill of blood.” He snorted, but she persisted. “You heard them booing and hissing.”
“So you decided to upend my plans, countermand my orders, for all the world to see – for my sake? Is that it, love?”
There was an emphatic bitterness to the last word, and it gave her pause. Her own tone softened. “No one but you, me, Otho, and a few arena hands knew what was in store, Faustus. The crowd loved the games. They loved the spectacle. They loved the food. They loved seeing the gladiators walk off the field alive.” She reached out to take her husband’s hand. “They loved you, Faustus.”
He had been moving to withdraw his hand from hers, but he paused now. “And what of you, Cassia? Did you love my games?”
“You know I don’t,” she said simply. “I cannot stomach them.”
He snorted. “And I suppose you cannot stomach me, either.”
“You’re drunk, Faustus. You would not say these things, if you were sober.”
He smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile that curved around his features. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. But it doesn’t make them less true.”
She glanced down at his hand, still in her
own. Then she stood and crossed the little space between them. He regarded her with suspicion, but she seated herself beside him anyway. He was very near, now, and she could smell the wine on his breath, stale and strong. But it was the expression in his eyes that transfixed her. There was pain and anger, love and hatred, in them.
It was like gazing into a mirror; and it terrified her. “How did it get like this, Faustus? You and me, I mean. How did we become these people, these angry, bitter people?” She gazed at his hand again. It seemed to dwarf her own. She remembered the thrill it had given her, to hold that hand once. She remembered the way her skin had prickled and danced when that hand brushed its surface.
And now? Now that hand, and the man behind it, frightened her as much as anything else. She feared the darkness of his mind, its bent toward the cunning and cruel; she feared his temper, and how it could turn vengeful and wicked.
He seemed to have followed her gaze, for he drew his hand away and brought it to her face. She almost flinched, but his eyes had softened. The bitterness was gone from them, and his touch was gentle. She let his fingers trail her cheekbone, down her face, to her lips.
She let him draw her closer, and part her lips with his fingers. “Faustus,” she murmured, “you’re drunk.”
“I don’t care,” he said, and a moment later he was kissing her. Somehow, the taste of the wine on his tongue didn’t bother her as much as she would have supposed.
For a minute, she remained where she was, kissing him and being kissed in turn. Then, though, she drew back. “You’re drunk,” she said again. He was always amorous in his cups, and always forgetful in sobriety. His was a sunset love, that would blaze bright and vibrant in the evening, and vanish with the rising sun. She’d seen it happen once too often. “And we need to go to the feast.”
She had meant it, when she said it. But when he’d asked her to stay, to sit and talk, and have a glass of wine with him, she’d done it. One glass had turned to two, and two to three. By time they’d polished off a bottle, she was as drunk and amorous as Faustus.