by Rachel Ford
“And that’s legal?” Again, Trygve was incredulous. In the south, his own homeland was talked of as barbarous. Yet it seemed to him, a place that could allow such things was barbarism defined.
“Self-defense is, of course,” Tullius said. “And when two parties fight, and one is killed, and the living claims he acted in self-defense? Who can contradict him?”
Trygve shook his head. “Your world is a strange one, Southerner. You think, then, that is why this Felix is come for me?”
“I don’t know,” the gladiator replied. “But in my experience, senators aren’t interested in much else from men of our occupation.”
“Then you’ve been made these – propositions?”
Tullius surveyed him with surprise, as if the bluntness of his question was unexpected, and Trygve frowned at himself. “I’m sorry. That’s not my business.”
The gladiator shrugged, though. “I’ve nothing to hide. Yes. More than once. For both endeavors. Sometimes, from the same man.”
Trygve nodded. “Well, then, I do not think I shall bother to meet this Felix.”
Chapter Ten
Trygve didn’t see Senator Felix, though he called twice more. The second time, he left a card with his address, and a message of invitation with the steward that the Northman should feel welcome to call at any time.
Trygve shared the card with Tullius and Lucretius – who, after having been found out as Tullius’ lover, no more vanished before the Northman rose, and so was a frequent guest at breakfast and after dinner. They laughed at Felix’s disappointment.
But it was soon forgotten as more visitors came, and more invitations were made. The Northman, it seemed, had caught the eye of more than a few members of the upper classes. Some of the offers flattered, and some repulsed; but all were refused. Trygve was not immune to the pretty face or fair form of the right kind of woman, but he had his pride. And being bartered over like a cut of meat at market, offers and counteroffers made for his person, rather dulled the effects of any of the faces or forms he encountered.
There was one exception, though, to all of this; one visitor whose offer he did not reject out of hand. It came during his second month at Tullius’ villa.
Trygve had expected to leave soon after arrival. Tullius, though, was the perfect kind of host – solicitous, but not overbearing, interested, but not nosy. Inquiring after the Northman’s plans, and seeing that he had none, the invitation to stay was extended. When Trygve’s tribute as Victor arrived, he felt less compunction in taking up the offer. He had, now, a little gold to repay his debts; and with no hearth to call his own, he could scarcely hope to find better lodgings or more agreeable company.
So a month had become two months, and Tullius was urging him to stay longer. Trygve was half convinced he would agree. He had not told – could not tell – Tullius the truth of his situation, of course, but he had told him enough to let the southerner form a reasonably true opinion of him. He had broken with his father and was no more welcome in his own land. If the gladiator thought the worse of him for it, he did not make it known. “I had no father,” he said, “and so I cannot speak to that. But my uncle raised me, and if he was a model for what fathers might be…” He shook his head. “If I had not left as a boy, probably one or the other of us would not have survived until I was a man.”
And so it was settled. They spoke of the North often after that, but Tullius never pried into the source of his banishment. He never pressed for details. Trygve – rather than indulging his nostalgia in cups, as he might have done before – would indulge it with stories of the fights he had seen, or participated in, of the hunting parties he’d been a part of, of the tundra beasts he’d slain.
“You’ve lived a charmed life, Northman,” Tullius would tell him. “You’ve seen much of the world. I have never left Stella, and until recently, only seen her streets and arenas.”
In time, Trygve had Tullius’ full story. He was an orphan and a bastard, born to an absent father and a mother who passed away while he was still in swaddling clothes. His uncle Gnaeus, his mother’s older brother, took him in, and raised him with his own sons. It was not a happy situation, though, and Tullius left before his twelfth birthday. His life after that was a series of hard patches and lucky breaks. He lived on the streets, mostly, and learned to fight to survive. He was seventeen when he entered his first arena, in one of the illegal, lower end pits. He’d risen through the ranks, and eventually, when the games were legalized again, made it to the central coliseum – the same that had hosted the Remembrance festivities. The rest, he knew already: Tullius had survived long enough to be crowned Victor of the arena, and now fought only when the coin was right. “It could be a few years before the villa sustains itself,” he explained. “Although it will be sooner, now that Luke’s managing things.”
“I’m glad,” Tullius told him once, after they had spent some time speaking of their old lives, “I didn’t have to kill you, Northman.”
Trygve snorted. “And you’re sure that’s the way it would have gone, eh?”
The southerner smiled. “No. So I’m gladder we didn’t have to find out.”
“I am curious about one thing, though.”
“Oh?”
“Why seek me out, after the games?”
Tullius shrugged. “You were a foreigner, who signed with Caius. That’s his favorite type of acquisition – vulnerable or desperate. You barely got out of your first contract with your neck intact. I didn’t think it good to leave you to your own devices, to tempt fate a second time.”
Trygve thought that was an answer that made him sound rather an imbecile. He wasn’t sure the conclusion was unmerited, but he couldn’t like it either.
“Anyway,” the gladiator added, “that stunt with throwing down your sword, after we killed the sand snake…” He shook his head. “That kind of noblesse oblige might work in the North, but it’s a miracle you made it out of the arena alive. Another fighter would have whittled your high and mighty carcass down to size at that opportunity.”
“If I recall,” Trygve said pointedly, “you set yours aside, too.”
“Only because I cannot kill a fool,” the other man countered.
So it was that the Northman came to regard Tullius as a friend – perhaps, the only friend he had left in the world – and a kind of kindred spirit. And he thought he could content himself to pick up some manner of occupation, even if it was being useful to the Southerner’s estate and carry on as he was. He was not over-fond of farm work, but it certainly was more to his liking than the mercenary employ of the arenas.
That, though, was before the visitor arrived – that visitor. Trygve was in the olive orchard, taking down nets. The dry heat of summer had made food and water sources scarcer, and all the growers in the area saw their crops beset by hungry birds. Lucretius’ duties to his father’s fields kept him away, so the Northerner picked up the slack.
It was a grim bit of business, clearing the nets of the birds and small mammals that got stuck. But it needed to be done, and he had nothing more pressing to occupy his attention. He was lost to the work when one of the house servants arrived, out of breath and, it seemed, a little out of his mind with excitement.
“Sir,” he said, “you have a visitor.”
Trygve grimaced. He’d gotten used to being ignored, and he had no desire for that particular avenue of interest to resume. “I’m busy,” he said.
“You cannot be,” the man answered. The response caught Trygve’s attention. Servants, here, took servility and deference to levels he had never seen even in his father’s long hall, so to be so addressed was more than a little unusual. “The emperor has called for you.”
That, of course, explained everything. To be visited by the emperor was even more unusual. “Ah.” He recalled what he could of Emperor Faustus. It had been less than two full months before, and yet it seemed an eternity. His mind, then, had been in a haze of exhaustion and adrenaline. His memories, now, were of mixed re
liability. But he could still recall the proud, smug man presiding over his trial of life and death. “I’m coming.”
Faustus seemed much as he remembered him. He was taller in person than he’d looked in the box, but at least as haughty.
Trygve bowed, in the way men had addressed his own father, and said, “I am honored.”
Whether this was the proper mode of address for a Stellan emperor, he could not say. It seemed to suffice, though. Faustus looked him up and down and gestured for him to take a seat. “Has Tullius put you to work in the fields, then?”
Trygve glanced down at the offending tunic, which was covered in the detritus of the day’s occupation. Here a twig had found purchase among the fibers, there a smear of dirt soiled the fabric. “Forgive me, my lord. I was working on the olive trees, clearing the nets –”
Faustus held up a hand to signal his disinterest. “You needn’t apologize, gladiator. I am surprised to see you so…domesticated, is all. Last I saw you, you were covered in blood and screaming to your gods of death.”
That was hardly how he remembered his last minutes in the arena. “Our memories of the day diverge, I think, Highness.”
Faustus laughed. “Do they? So you call me a liar, then?”
“Of course not. I say only that I have different recollections of that day.”
The emperor considered that for a moment, then smiled. “I am told you are Tullius’ guest.”
“Yes.”
“Have you nowhere better to go, then?”
Trygve considered the question. The answer, on its face, was plain enough: he did not have anywhere better to be. But it seemed to imply a criticism that was not merited. “I have nowhere else,” he said after a moment. “My ship was lost near the harbor of Blackstone.”
Faustus nodded, as if this was not news to him. “I have heard that you are not open to private work. Is that accurate?”
Trygve shifted in his seat. He was hardly about to discuss the nature of the propositions he’d been made with an emperor. And yet it was not work itself, but the manner of work, that he’d turned down. “I have had no offers to my liking.”
The emperor laughed. “I can well believe it. I wouldn’t be here, if I had heard otherwise. But perhaps this will be better suited to your talents. I would have you work for me.”
“For you?” Trygve was genuinely surprised now.
“Yes. You see, my wife is to have a child. It’s early, yet. But when our son is born – I am sure it will be a son – I want to know that he is safe.” Faustus spread his hands. “You are the best fighter I have ever seen. I would not trust her life, or his, in most men’s hands. But if you were protecting them? I should know they were safe.”
Trygve frowned. “Forgive me, but…safe from whom?”
“From anyone who might think to harm them.”
The Northman remembered Tullius’ words, about men who collected fighters, and their propensity to violence. But this seemed another thing. He was being asked to guard a pregnant woman, and later a child.
Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Faustus added, “The pay, of course, would be extremely generous.”
Chapter Eleven
Trygve took the job. It was not what he imagined his life would be, but it was honest work at least. He wouldn’t be asked to murder for anyone’s profit or entertainment – or plotting to murder anyone for his own benefit. He wouldn’t be asked – well, any of the undignified, imaginative things that so many of Stella’s patricians had dreamed up for him. It was work he was qualified – over-qualified – for, too.
And, what was more, he would be earning his own wage and way, not living off a friend’s sympathy.
Faustus was delighted. “Good,” he said. “Very good! Cass will be so surprised.” Again, he cast the Northerner in a critical glance. “We’ll need to get you prepared, of course. Make you presentable.” He gestured vaguely at his face. “That mane will have to go. I’ll send a man. You’ll be here this afternoon?”
Trygve nodded, wondering – not, he was sure, for the last time – if he’d made the right call in accepting the emperor’s offer.
“Good. He’ll take care of that. And getting you new clothes.” Faustus nodded at his own plan. “I’ll expect you after breakfast, tomorrow. I’ll give my man the details.”
And with little else said between them, the emperor took his leave. Trygve sat in a stunned silence, considering what had just transpired. It was – or so it seemed, anyway – good employment. But, then, he’d be in the public eye, day in and day out.
What if someone recognizes me?
But he’d been in the arena for nine days straight. He’d been awarded the laurels of Victor. If no one had recognized him when he’d been paraded out in front of all of Stella, it was unlikely they would recognize him in the ubiquitous role of bodyguard. No, he was overthinking things. This was a welcome change of pace, a good turn of fortune.
He’d almost convinced himself of his happiest expectations when Tullius returned. “Northman,” he said. He was a little out of breath, and dripping with perspiration, as if he’d raced back to the house from the fields. “One of the men said – he must have got it wrong – that the emperor was here?”
“It’s true,” Trygve confirmed, explaining what had transpired.
“And you agreed?”
“Well…yes.” The other man’s surprise worried him. “Why? Should I not have?”
Tullius shook his head. “No, no it sounds like a good gig, Trygve. The emperor is…well, he’s emperor. He’s used to having his way, more than most men. And he comes from money – more money than the empress, before they were married. And that gives a man as high an opinion of himself as any crown can bestow. But that’s to be expected. And it is good employment.”
As commendations went, this wasn’t the highest. He’d had his share of kings and tsars, and their sense of entitlement. Still, he appreciated the southerner’s honesty. “Not that I fancy playing nursemaid once the boy is born. But it’s got to be better than the arena, anyway.”
Tullius laughed. “Better pay, anyway.”
Lucretius, when he stopped by, was less optimistic. “A bodyguard?” he repeated through a frown that put chasms across his forehead. “To Faustus?”
“To the Empress, and their child, when its born,” Tullius said. “It’s a good job, Luke.” There was a hint of admonishment in his tone, as if signaling the other man to moderate his own.
The hint was missed. “Same thing or may as well be. Is that really what you want, Trygve? To spend your days doting on that monster? To sacrifice your life for his, if it comes to it?”
“Luke.” Tullius’ tone was sharper now.
“Monster?” Trygve frowned. To his knowledge, Faustus was no better or worse than your average head of state.
Lucretius, hearing the word spoken out loud back to him, seemed to hesitate.
“You can’t say things like that,” Tullius said quietly. “If anyone heard…”
“Well?” the younger man said in a moment, chin raised in defiance. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” He turned to Trygve, saying, “He’s the one who brought the games back, you know. And he’s the one sending convicts to the mines. It’s slavery – slavery, all over again.”
“Without the arenas, I’d still be on the streets, trading knocks to protect scraps of food. Subsisting, until I woke up with a shiv in my back. Or fighting in one of those illegal pits for pittance,” Tullius said. There was an edge of something like sadness in his voice. Or, Trygve thought, resignation.
“That’s not the way it has to be,” Lucretius countered. His tone was rising, and his gesticulations were growing more animated. “You know it isn’t. The empire is the richest it’s ever been. We’ve got gold and silver pouring in from the mines – gold and silver extracted by slaves, Tull. Slaves! What if we paid men – paid them good, solid wages, to dig out that gold and silver? Wha
t if –”
“Luke,” Tullius said, “now’s not the time. Trygve’s got to get ready.”
This, at last, returned the conversation to its former thread. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to…well, make it political. It is a good job. I’m pleased for you, Trygve.” He frowned. “Just – watch your back around that viper. Alright?”
For a while, Lucretius’ comments threw a pall on Trygve’s anticipation. But then the emperor’s man arrived. He was short and stout, with a head full of vibrant red hair and a face as smooth and hairless as a baby’s. “I am Decimus,” he declared. “And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I saw you, you know. In the fights, I mean. I was rooting for you.” Lowering his voice, he added confidentially, “I won quite a bit of gold, wagering that you’d make it out alive.”
There was no time for doubt or ill humor in the face of Decimus’ gregariousness. He was, Trygve soon learned, a kind of personal groomer and dresser. He’d come to “pare down that mane, and make you look presentable.”
The Stellan paid no attention to the fact that Trygve felt his “mane” needed no such trimming. Clip after clip, it was cut away, until it was fashioned in the close style of his hosts. The beard was Decimus’s next target, but on this front at least the Northman was more forceful.
His beard was long, perhaps longer than it needed to be. “I’ll allow you to take off a few inches. Nothing more.”
Decimus studied him in confusion. “You mean, you want to keep it?”
“Of course.”
Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he said, “You can’t be serious. How will you look presentable, if you keep that unsightly growth?”
Had he been less genuine in his delivery, Trygve felt he might have taken offense at the fastidious little man’s words. As it was, however, he just frowned. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
After some deliberation, Decimus resigned himself to a trim. “I suppose we can make it work,” he conceded.