Viper's Nest

by Rachel Ford

  “Not much,” the Northman admitted.

  “Forgive me, then: Mister Ingensen.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Cassia’s face. “I’ve a surprise on that score, too, Felix.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ingensen isn’t Trygve’s real name.”

  Felix nodded with a measuredness that seemed to indicate he’d guessed as much already. “I can’t say I’m particularly surprised,” he said, as if to confirm Trygve’s suspicions. “The name means…what? ‘Son of none?’”

  The Northman frowned. It had seemed, when he’d first used it, a clever bit of word play. But his language was obviously better known in Stella than Stellan was in the North.

  Cassia’s smile, meanwhile, broadened into something of a grin. “That’s right.”

  “Who are you, then? If you don’t mind my asking, Trygve.”

  “I…that is…”

  As if reading his mind, Cassia prompted, “You can trust Felix, Trygve.”

  He wasn’t sure about that, but he’d trusted her already with his secret – through no choice of his own, granted. Still, she knew it, and could disclose it whenever she pleased. If she trusted the senator, it seemed he had no choice but to put his faith in her judgment. “I am Trygve Bjarneson.”

  “Bjarneson …” Felix repeated the word, a frown crossing his brow. “Bjarneson. The name is familiar, but…” His eyes opened wide. “Oh. The Northern prince?” It was the senator’s turn to throw a questioning glance Cassia’s way.

  “There is more to the story than we know,” she explained. “His sister’s honor and freedom was at stake.”

  “I see.” Felix’s tone was staunchly at odds with his words, but he said no more on that score. “Is that…how he came into your employ?”

  “Oh, no. That was Faustus’ doing.”

  “Oh. Then…he does not know who Mister Bjarneson is?” Cassia shook her head, and then Felix nodded. “Then you intend to provide sanctuary to our friend?”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Cassia admitted. “I’d rather not provoke Fyodor, or King Bjarne. But, yes, if it does…I will.”

  “I see. I suppose that does explain the cat.” Again, that measuredness had returned to the senator’s voice. He turned curious green eyes to the Northman. Trygve held his gaze, and for a moment they studied each other in silence. Then, he said, “If I may ask, Mister Bjarneson…why the change of heart? You would not speak of your experience before. Why now?”

  Feeling his face flush, he shifted in his seat. “I didn’t know that that was why you had come.”

  “You didn’t wait to find out, either,” he observed mildly.

  “No,” Trygve admitted. “I had a lot of visitors those days. You must forgive me, senator. I was not in a sociable frame of mind.”

  Felix studied him again, and then nodded. “Well, here we are anyway. Now, Trygve, give me your story. From the beginning. Leave nothing out. I will take it all down, and when you are satisfied that it represents your experience, we will add it to our evidence.”

  The days came and went, and before he knew it a week had passed. Trygve had almost – almost – gotten used to pretending not to be there, when the occasion arose. Usually, this was when the royal couple were together, exchanging sweet, stomach-turning nothings. Sometimes, it was when Cassia discussed matters of state with one of her advisers or a delegation from the senate.

  It was a strange habit to fall into, to see without being seen, to hear while pretending not to hear. But most of the time, she was as aware of his presence as he of hers. His deposition to Felix seemed to have cemented him in her good will. She would engage him in conversation, remember him when it would have been as easy to forget him.

  That, too, was strange, to move between invisible to visible. He was still learning to navigate that dichotomy, to understand when he was a person and when he was a servant. The two, he was convinced, were not the same in Stellan society.

  Where Faustus was concerned, there was no change. He was rarely acknowledged, and then only as a boasted acquisition: the Victor, protecting Faustus’ future son.

  He was, he thought, still forming an opinion on Cassia, though what he had so far was generally good. The Emperor, though, was another matter. Lucretius had termed him a monster. It might be hyperbole, but he wasn’t convinced. He didn’t like Faustus, and it seemed every encounter – no matter how benign – only strengthened the feeling. Some of his dislike, he could attribute to specific reasons, individual snubs or sneers or comments; the rest was a sense, a kind of preternatural feeling. The diviner in his father’s hold would have said it was a message from the gods, whispering in their own language. Maybe it was. Maybe it was just resentment stemming from the incidents he noted, from Faustus’ attitude. He couldn’t say.

  He said as much to Tullius and Lucretius, on his first day off. Cassia had insisted he take time. “Doesn’t that negate the purpose of having a bodyguard, if I’m gone for a whole day?”

  “By that token,” she’d returned archly, “why are you allowed to sleep, Trygve? What if assassins come in the night?”

  He’d frowned. “There are guards.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why am I needed at all?”

  She grinned, in a way that was becoming very familiar to him. Her eyes would twinkle, and her expression lighten in a very becoming fashion when she thought herself, or someone else, clever. “Don’t overthink it, Trygve. It’s one day a week. And, if you want, you can switch them up. Keep my would-be assassins guessing.”

  Her flippancy, somehow, set his mind at ease, and he took the time. He’d sent a note to Tullius in advance, and, receiving a hearty invitation to return, did so. “Well,” the gladiator said, clapping him on the back as he stepped out of his carriage and into the courtyard, “how’s palace life treating you? I see they haven’t managed to get you into a toga yet.”

  Trygve shivered, and his friends laughed.

  “That rich food is catching up with you, though, Tryg,” Lucretius declared. “I swear, you’ve put on fifteen pounds already.”

  He threatened to kick both of their asses, and, exchanging barbs and laughs, they entered the villa. “What’s it like? Living there, I mean?” the younger man wondered.

  Trygve let out a breath. “Strange.”

  “Around all those politicians? I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “It’s not just that. I mean, there’s plenty of them. I must have seen half the senate this past week. But…” he shrugged. “I just don’t know how she keeps up with it all. They’ve all got their angles, their motives, their alliances.”

  “She?” Tullius asked.

  “Empress Cassia.”

  “Ah.”

  “They all smile to her face, you know, and bow and scrape. And they work behind her back to do whatever the hell they want.”

  “That’s politics,” Lucretius shrugged.

  He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. In the North, the King’s word is law.”

  “We’re not a monarchy. We’re a representative democracy.”

  He frowned at the younger man. “And yet you’ve got an unelected empress as head of state.”

  “Yes. She represents us all.”

  The Northman rolled his eyes. “How is that different than Bjarne, then? I could as easily say he represents us all.”

  “He doesn’t, though. He rules by conquest. Cassia’s family was chosen by the people.”

  Again, he scoffed. “How many generations ago?”

  “Several,” Lucretius conceded. “Still, her powers are not absolute. She must work with the senate, to ensure that she does represent us.”

  “Are you sure your senate represents you?”

  “In theory…”

  “In theory? Politics isn’t abstract. Practice is what counts, not theory.”

  Tullius grinned. “Oh no. It’s bad enough listening to Luke. Now you too, Northman?”

  “What?”

&nb
sp; “This political obsession.”

  Trygve sighed. “Believe me, I wish I could escape it. It’s all I hear, lately.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was no escape from politics for Trygve, but there were occasional changes of pace. Among the visits from Senator Felix, and the work on their case against Caius; among the visits from senate delegations and the trips to the forum; between Faustus’ complaints about his business dealings and the even more complex intersection of the Emperor’s financial interests and the Empress’ political goals; between regularly accompanying Faustus as a kind of human trophy to occasionally hauling him, drunk and unconscious, back to his chambers; there were a handful of parties and excursions that stood out to the Northman.

  The first was another dinner party, much like the one on the night of his employ. It was a week and a half after his arrival at the palace, and he was by now a familiar face to most of the regulars of Faustus and Cassia’s inner circle. Consequently, he was less a focus of attention. There were still a handful of lewd comments and crass suggestions made, of course. But they were fewer and further between, and even the emperor was less amused than he had been.

  There was something else, too, that lessened the sting of the words. The empress seemed to color when she heard them, and once or twice she caught his gaze in an apologetic way. He found, now, that he didn’t particularly care what these plump, depilated, overdressed patricians, wallowing in their libations and sense of self, said about him.

  During the course of the evening, he found a single exception to that resolve. He’d caught the eye of a woman. She was pretty, youngish and fair-haired, with light eyes and rosy cheeks, and she seemed to be studying him. She colored as their eyes met and glanced away, falling into conversation with a companion – another lady about her age, though, the Northman thought, not nearly as handsome.

  Having been the object of all manner of scrutiny since his arrival, he wouldn’t have thought much of it, except that, as the night progressed, he found her eyes on him again and again. Each time their eyes would meet, she would flush and look away. The truth was, there was something rather charming in the blushing attention of a beautiful woman – something tamer and far more pleasing than the leering stares he was used to receiving. It didn’t hurt that she was quite lovely, with pretty, delicate features, and the kind of perfect figure that was chiseled into marble all over the city.

  He was almost sorry when Faustus listened to his wife and retired before the night ran too long.

  “I think,” Cassia confided as he escorted them back to their apartments, “you have an admirer, Trygve.”

  “Oh?” Faustus perked up at the comment. “I thought they were rather bored with him tonight.”

  “I mean a real admirer,” Cassia said. “Didn’t you see Hadriana? She had eyes for no one else.”

  Trygve flushed, and Faustus repeated, “Hadriana? Oh, the blonde. The – what is she? – cousin of Herminia Aelius?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t notice,” the Northman lied.

  Cassia smiled at him, a grin that was certainly intended to call his bluff. “Too bad. She seemed very interested in you.”

  Faustus whistled. “Lucky bastard. Half of Stella would like to bed her. And the other half are a bunch of ponces.” Cassia frowned at her husband, and he shrugged. “Come on,” he said. “You know it’s true.”

  “Ponce?” Trygve said. The word was unfamiliar to him.

  “You know: uphill gardeners,” the emperor replied, offering up a gesture of one hand impacting with the other. Perhaps sensing his confusion – because it did nothing to convey meaning – he added with a sneer, “Who like back door play?”

  “Homosexual,” Cassia explained with a sigh. “He means gay men.”

  Faustus laughed at her, and Trygve said, “Oh.”

  The emperor’s attention turned to him now. “Surely you have ponces in the North? They seem to pop up everywhere. Like rats.”

  He remembered, now, how worried Tullius and Lucretius had been about being discovered, and how mystified he had been by their fear. It seemed a lot less mystifying now. “I hadn’t heard the word before. Some Northmen are gay, of course.”

  “Well, you won’t hear my wife here use it,” Faustus laughed. “It’s ‘not nice.’ But that’s what they are: a bunch of ponces.”

  Trygve wasn’t sure of how to respond to that, so he said nothing. A moment of awkward silence settled, until the emperor – apparently still wrapped up in his own thoughts – resumed the conversation at a different point. “But Hadriana is good news, anyway. Not rich, as far as I know. Her family has some kind of farm north of the City, but she’s got…” He shrugged. “I don’t know…four sisters?”

  “Five,” Cassia offered.

  Faustus shook his head, a wistful smile crossing his features. “Five? Minerva have mercy. You think she’s the plain one, or the pretty one?”

  She ignored the question. “There’s a brother too.”

  “Well, she won’t inherit much. But some sacrifices are worth making, eh?” He grinned, Cassia grimaced, and Trygve let the topic drop.

  They’d reached Faustus’ quarters, where they were bound, and he said, “Here we are my lord. My lady.”

  “Thank you, Trygve,” Cassia said. “Have a good evening.”

  Wrapping his arm around his wife to usher her inside, Faustus murmured a similar sentiment. Then, before shutting the door behind him, he turned. “If you head back, you know, she might still be there.” Then, the door closed, and they were gone.

  Trygve didn’t go back. He was flattered, of course, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little interested. But he was a stranger in a strange land, already embroiled in more intrigue and complication than he could adequately manage.

  “Anyway,” he told Gunnar as he returned to his quarters, “women are more trouble than a forum full of senators.” The snow leopard yawned and stretched, and finally came over to greet his master. He seemed to be taking his semi-retirement rather well. He’d gained weight and slept more than anything of late. “How have you been, eh, fatty? Come on. Let’s take you for a walk. And then…well, let’s see if I can finish that letter to Ingie.”

  And with that, Hadriana was forgotten.

  The second incident of interest in those first weeks came a few days later. His letter still wasn’t finished, and he’d started and restarted it a few times. But he had plenty to distract him. This particular distraction left him feeling a bit uneasy, as if some of the veneer of the city he’d come to know so well had been stripped away.

  Cassia would make a weekly appearance at the charitable kitchens in the river district, where Stellan philanthropists would pay to feed the city’s poorest laborers. Men and women, whose wages were insufficient to feed themselves and their families, would stream in to eat old bread and bland-looking soup.

  In his time in her service, this was Cassia’s second trip to the kitchens. The first time, he’d stood rather awkwardly to the side, occupying space that was in constant demand. This time, the empress put him to work. “You don’t mind, do you, Trygve?”

  He did, a little. It seemed beneath his dignity to slop soup into bowls like a serving wench or a kitchen boy and clean up after screaming children like a housemaid. But when Cassia had assigned herself the same drudgery, he could hardly complain. Forcing a tone that approached sincerity, he said, “Of course not, my lady. I’m honored to assist.”

  A flicker of a smile toyed with the corners of her mouth, but she said only, “Excellent. Then take up a station over here, will you? You’ll be filling bowls today.”

  It was every bit as exciting as it sounded: not at all. The faces, one after another, passed in front of him: hungry, lean, tired. After a space, the sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks, the drawn faces and emotionless expressions, seemed to merge, until they all looked the same to him. Men and women, young children and old: the aura of despair, the visceral stench of it that
seemed to rise off them, was the same.

  It was a far cry from the gleaming marble of the palace to which, even in his short time there, he’d grown accustomed. It was a far cry from the fertile green hills of Tullius’ neighborhood. It was worlds away from the full tables and fat bellies that congregated at the royal dinner tables.

  His own indignity was soon forgotten. It was monotonous work, but he could not imagine himself ill-used – not with a full stomach. Not in the face of so many people unused to full stomachs.

  It had been easier to ignore, he realized, his first time here. There were always volunteers and a hum of activity between him and the hungry multitude. He hadn’t looked them in the eyes, either. He hadn’t held the gaze of young mothers, arms full of starving children. He hadn’t peered into the dead eyes of old men, who seemed to move from habit rather than life.

  Working the line was a different experience altogether. The activity itself wasn’t taxing, but he found himself weary when the day was done. Cassia seemed drawn, as if she too was tired. To his surprise, though, she said, “Let’s send the carriage without us. I’d rather walk back.”

  This was done, and for a space they walked without speaking. Then, she said, “I want to thank you, Trygve. For helping, I mean. We can always use more people.”

  He nodded. That was an understatement: there had been long lines before they arrived, and long lines after they’d left. He expected that they’d be long lines even when the last call went out, and the doors were shut for the night. “Of course.”

  “It seems like every year, the lines get longer,” she said. “When we started this three and a half – no, four – years ago now – we were always busy.” She shook her head. “But it wasn’t like this.”

  “Why the change?” he wondered. He was never sure if he was allowed to ask questions like that – or questions at all, really. When he ran across his peers, other hired blades, they seemed to be as stone-faced and silent as the marble figures set throughout the City.

  If Cassia minded, though, she never let him see. “That’s the thousand aurei question, isn’t it?” It was said meditatively, and for a minute they lapsed into silence again. Then, she seemed to rouse herself from her thoughts, and shook her head. “It depends who you ask, Trygve. Senator Gallus will tell you it’s because they would rather eat free food than work for their suppers.”