“Traitor,” Torren snapped as they pushed against each other.
Jonathan broke first, giving way and stepping back. “You’re angry at me?”
Torren answered with another charge.
The sparring grew so intense Jonathan broke into a heavy sweat in spite of the cool night air. Several times he could have taken the upper hand, but this wasn’t about which of them was the better gladiator.
And it only made Torren angrier. “Fight me!”
“No.” Jonathan blocked another blow and continued to parry and swing, but only to defend. “I can’t give you what you want.”
“You know nothing of what I want!”
Jonathan shifted his weight as Torren’s sword struck his, inches from his head. “I can’t make her love you.”
A guttural cry came from Torren that would wake the entire villa. His blows became so vicious Jonathan had to attack to avoid being battered to a pulp. It was like fighting Tao again, so he faked a stumble. When Torren charged it, Jonathan recovered at the last second and flipped his sword along his arm. Fast as a cobra strike, he drove it hard into the side of Torren’s head. Torren went down face first in the sand—and didn’t move. Jonathan dropped his sword and crouched beside him. “Torren?”
Torren rolled over and landed a solid punch to Jonathan’s jaw. The blow knocked him back onto the sand and pain lit his face before Torren pounced. They fought barehanded on the ground, sand clinging to both of them as they wrestled with fists and knees tangling.
At last, Jonathan worked his forearm over Torren’s throat and pressed him back into the sand. “Yield!”
Torren slammed his forehead into Jonathan’s. The bone-on-bone collision sparked stars in Jonathan’s vision as bright as those in the sky. The hiss of a dagger slipping its sheath screamed a warning before he was flung onto his back. A cold, steel blade bit the base of his throat, but Jonathan fought the instinct to freeze. He threw his weight to the side and struck Torren’s wrist as hard as he could with the heel of his hand while smashing his elbow hard into Torren’s ear.
Mercifully, it worked. The dagger cut his shoulder and not his neck. Jonathan snatched the weapon from the sand and put it to Torren’s throat as he pinned him down in the sand.
His master panted beneath his own blade. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No.” Jonathan pulled the dagger from Torren’s throat and stabbed it into the sand beside them.
Torren’s gaze flitted to the handle sticking up beside his head. “Why not?”
“Because you are not my enemy. And in spite of what you feel tonight, I am not yours.” Jonathan took his weight from Torren and stood. The pain in his bleeding shoulder sieved through now the battle was over. He extended his other arm to Torren, who took hold and pulled himself to his feet.
Jonathan turned and saw they were no longer alone. Torren’s shout had indeed awakened the entire villa. His brothers and the slaves were gathered near the doors in various stages of dress. Jonathan leaned toward Torren, speaking low to be certain none of the onlookers overheard. “You’re going to have to trust me if we are to do what we must. We can’t let Ramses or Caelina change that.”
Torren retrieved his dagger from the ground and sheathed it at his belt. “Did you really kiss her?”
He’d failed God, Nessa, and Caelina in a moment of weakness and would make no excuses. He met Torren’s gaze. “Yes.”
“If she wasn’t lying about that, then she probably wasn’t lying when she said she hates me, called me a liar, and broke my favorite vase on her way out after she slapped me.”
“For what it’s worth, it was a mistake, and I wish I hadn’t.”
“It won’t do any good. I wish I’d never met her and now that she hates me, I find I love her more than ever.”
Torren only felt that way because he couldn’t have her. Though for different reasons, Jonathan knew that pain.
Torren frowned. “Apologies for the shoulder.”
Jonathan followed his gaze to the blood trailing down his chest to mix with the sweat and sand clinging to his skin and tunic. The hand-breadth cut wasn’t anything some salt, wine, and Rufus couldn’t patch up. “It’s a scratch. Apologies for beating you in front of the others.”
Torren laughed while they walked through the group of men who stared at them as if they were both mad. “I let you win.”
“Of course you did, Dominus.” Jonathan grinned.
“Don’t mock me in my own ludis. I’ll have the ear of the emperor soon.”
The reminder of their mission stole the moment of levity from both of them. Torren would have the ear of the emperor soon, once they put Senator Nerva into power as Caesar. That ear, and the favors it implied, would only be worth something if they survived Domitian’s assassination and Nerva’s ascent to power.
Jonathan feared Nerva wouldn’t leave loose ends, especially ends capable of assassinating a Caesar. If Torren shared that fear, he never said. Jonathan could only pray God’s work for both of them wouldn’t be finished for a long, long time.
Chapter 39 – Reckoning
Jonathan pulled his cloak tighter against the cool night air. He and Torren were in a part of the city Jonathan had rarely traveled since returning to Rome. Torren’s gaze moved to a doorway where the light of the street torches didn’t reach. A man stumbled from the darkness of the entryway into the moonlight, and Jonathan drew his dagger from beneath his cloak and moved between the stranger and his master.
“Have you seen my sandal?”
The slurred speech was as strong as the smell of the vagrant, but the man wasn’t missing a sandal. Jonathan scanned the area around them with sharp eyes, wary this was a diversion for other assailants. The man stumbled, and then collapsed into a heap on the dung-covered street.
Torren sheathed his dagger within the folds of his cloak. “He’s a drunkard. Come, or we’ll be late.”
They walked in silence for some time, the dank air thick in the narrow streets between buildings almost as tall as the city walls.
Torren glanced at Jonathan as they passed beneath a street torch, and his pace slowed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Jonathan glanced about, but the street was vacant except for them. “About the plan?”
“No.” Torren rubbed the back of his head as he walked. He only did that when he was uncomfortable with something—a rare occurrence.
“Then tell me tomorrow when it’s finished.” Whatever Torren wished to tell him shouldn’t be driven into the open by the fear one or both of them could be dead by sunset tomorrow. His master frowned, but remained silent as they continued toward the senator’s villa.
They turned a corner, and Jonathan recognized a street he hadn’t traveled on in fourteen years.
“Do you see something?”
Jonathan pulled his hood over his head, fighting a chill not born of the night air. “No.”
He needed to focus. Not on his past, but on the mission to deliver Torren safely to the meeting place and return him to the Ludis Maximus when it was over.
But the further they walked, the more familiar the route became. He glimpsed pale marble columns supporting a heavy bronze gate, and his steps faltered. Burning torches set on either side of the gateposts illuminated a crowned lion set atop a raised fist.
The House of Tarquinius.
Jonathan’s heart hammered in his chest as he stopped close enough to feel the heat from the torches. “The meeting is here?”
“Yes.” Torren nodded to the two armored men occupying the center of the stone paved entry, and continued toward the villa.
Jonathan forced his feet to hold a steady pace beside Torren. Father. Of course. Few men had commanded the respect and following among the senate Poetelius Tarquinius Cornelius did. Would Manius be here? What would he say for himself?
A servant he didn’t recognize met them at the entry doors. He and Torren made eye contact, but no words or greeting were exchanged. The atrium was unchanged
. He’d stood beside this very fountain with his mother, a boy of twelve, waiting to meet the man who’d begun his life and would change it forever. The gleaming white stone floor was gone. In its place a mosaic of gladiators in battle surrounded the fountain.
Torren removed the hood of his cloak when they were deeper into the villa, but Jonathan did not. He wanted to find and recognize Father first, especially if Manius was here. A servant met them in the corridor and motioned them to follow. On the floor against the wall, a small wooden sword and a stuffed linen rabbit lay forgotten. Signs of children, but whose?
The servant opened the door to his father’s study, and Torren slipped in. Jonathan followed, but stopped near the wall when the door closed behind them. Among the small crowd of men in the room, there could be no mistaking Manius, even after ten years. He wore no sword, and the dagger at his waist would be useless against Jonathan. He’d imagined this moment for years and now it was here, he was unsure. Of many things. Except Manius would answer for what he’d done—with his life, the truth, or both. Jonathan was still deciding.
Prefect Norbanus was recognizable even without his uniform. Jonathan had a strong memory of him that day he’d survived defying Caesar. The stranger with him must be Stephanus, who wore a wound dressing on one arm from wrist to elbow. Norbanus passed a scroll to Torren. “We need to hurry. I must return to the palace before the change of guard.”
“Yes, but first I want to meet the gladiator we’re trusting with our lives.” Manius even sounded like their father. “Among my colleagues in the senate, your name is spoken together with those of Priscus, Varus, even the gods themselves. ‘The merciful champion,’ they call you. Had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I would never believe you slew the mighty Hulderic.”
Jonathan’s hand went to the handle of his dagger within his cloak. In slow, deliberate motion, he pulled his hood away with his free hand. “I’m very good at not dying.”
The man who’d stolen everything from him stared, squinted, and then his eyes sprung wide.
He knows. Jonathan opened his mouth to demand where their father was, but Norbanus spoke first.
“I know you’re an admirer, Senator, as are we all, but we must hurry. I must return to the palace before the change of guard. Those are the names.” Norbanus nodded at the scroll in Torren’s hand. “Do you have all the coin?”
“Two hundred thousand sesterces, in a chest at the inn,” Torren answered.
Jonathan heard them, but kept his gaze locked with Manius, who had yet to move, speak, or look away. What was churning in his mind? Excuses? Escape?
“Tarquinius?” Norbanus asked.
For three breaths, no one moved or made a sound. Manius blinked, turning his head toward Norbanus but keeping his eyes on Jonathan. “What did you ask?”
Torren huffed. “He asked if you had the coin ready.”
“Yes.” Manius swallowed and took a deep breath. “Five hundred thousand of my own coin and a hundred thousand each from Aurelius and Vibianus, all here at the villa. Nerva is to deliver his hundred thousand when he is named the new Caesar and the senate has accepted him.”
Manius took his hand from his dagger handle and wiped at the pebbles of sweat that had emerged on his brow.
“And the others?” Stephanus said.
“I’ve made it known among the leaders in the senate that anything less than accepting Nerva as Caesar would be fatal.”
The slight lilt at the end of Manius’ phrases still remained, along with the way he spoke of taking life as if it were a cluster of grapes to be plucked from a vine. Jonathan’s grip tightened on his dagger so hard the carved bone handle cut into this fingers.
“Are you sure a million sestercii is enough to turn the entire praetorian?” Torren asked Norbanus.
“I’m confident in all but two of my cohort commanders. I believe they will turn with the others rather than stand against them. Neither of their cohorts will be on duty tomorrow at the palace. If they do not ally with us and swear allegiance to the new Caesar, I will allow them to leave the praetorian. I’m confident their men will remain under a new pilus.”
“We should kill them,” Stephanus said.
“No.” Norbanus’ tone held vehemence, as would Jonathan’s in a moment. What was Manius going to do, and where was their father?
“Allegiance to Caesar should not be a death sentence,” Norbanus continued. “If we kill them because they oppose us, we’re no better than the man we’re removing from power.”
“Agreed,” Torren said. “But this is all fruitless unless we’re successful in our assassination. Tell me how that is occurring.”
“The best way to hide is in plain sight.” Stephanus gestured to the linen coiled around his forearm. “I’ve feigned injury and been able to conceal my dagger in the wraps here on my arm. Domitian will be watching and wary of everything. He believes he’s going to die tomorrow and is determined not to.”
“Someone has betrayed us.” Torren’s hand flashed to the sword at his side.
“No.” Norbanus held a hand out in appeal. “Domitian believes the goddess Diana appeared to him in a dream and foretold his death tomorrow, down to the fifth hour. His court astrologer confirmed it in accordance with the signs of his birth. But we’re using that against him. Tell him, Stephanus.”
“Domitian will spend tomorrow in his chamber. He’s had the walls covered in polished metal to see even behind him and will remain in there until the fifth hour has passed. It shouldn’t be difficult to make him believe it is later than the fifth hour, when the stars have predicted he will die. Once he believes the danger has passed, we shall strike.”
“My champion and I will be guarding the empress and the escape path as promised. Our two swords equal twenty, but the fewer you can keep from coming for us, Norbanus, the better.”
“Understood.” Norbanus’ head turned between Manius and Jonathan. “Any more questions?”
“Yes.” Jonathan moved his hand from his dagger to the grip of his sword, but did not draw it. Yet. He could feel every pair of eyes in the room on him, but watched only those of his half-brother. “Where is our father?”
Silence fell over the room.
Manius’ expression twisted with all the incredulity Jonathan expected. “How dare you insult the House of Tarquinius.” He shifted his chin to Torren, but kept his gaze fixed on Jonathan. “I want his tongue cut from his head so he never utters such a sacrilege again. You’re fortunate I don’t have him killed this instant.”
Fortunate? Fresh anger swept Jonathan’s sword from its sheath. “Try it. But this time have the courage to do it yourself.”
Norbanus drew his sword and stepped between them.
Torren drew his own sword and joined Jonathan’s side. “Put that away. I’m not sure what’s happening here, but if we try to solve it with swords, I assure you only Jonathan and I will be left standing.”
Stephanus stepped away from them. He appeared unarmed. Manius was calculating. Jonathan could see it in his eyes, but there was no way he could draw that dagger and launch it before Jonathan reached him.
“I’ll ask again. Where—is—my—father?”
“Are you going to allow this?” Manius shot a glare at Torren. “I’m ready to order you both from my villa this instant.” He reached for his dagger, and Jonathan dropped into opening position.
“Stop.” Torren moved between them, dropping his sword to the floor with a violent clatter of metal on stone. “Put the weapons down and remember who the real enemy is. Fighting among ourselves will destroy everything, including Rome.”
“Gallego is right,” Norbanus said, but his sword remained ready.
“Jonathan.” Torren’s gaze pleaded. “You would never make so bold a claim unless you believed it, but—”
Manius lunged, knocking Torren aside and into Jonathan’s blade. Pulling the sword into position would wound Torren, so Jonathan dropped it and reached for his dagger. Too late. Manius slammed into him. Jonathan f
elt the wound rip into his forearm—close enough to his wrist that terror threatened to seize him as they struggled, crashing over the couch to the floor.
“Get the senator!” Torren screamed, and the light disappeared as the three men grabbed at them. Jonathan had one goal. Seize that dagger and slit Manius’ throat. His half-brother had spent his chance at mercy. Manius tried to knee him, and someone had grabbed his arms, but he threw his weight into Manius and wrestled the dagger from his hand. He fought and shoved, their tunics ripping and knees and feet sliding on the smooth stone.
An arm grasped Jonathan’s neck, jerking him back. He banged the back of his skull into the face of whoever had tackled his back, but the man held on.
“Let him go or I swear on Jupiter’s throne I will kill her.” Torren tightened his hold on Jonathan’s throat. “I’ll kill her.”
Nessa. The shock of Torren’s threat clubbed him and he dropped the knife.
Manius glared at him as he crawled away on his back, using his elbows to move him away from Jonathan. “Kill him!”
“No,” Torren said, as Stephanus and Norbanus turned toward them.
“It wasn’t a request.” Manius massaged his throat as he struggled to his feet.
“I said no, Senator. We need his sword.”
“Let me go.” Jonathan grabbed Torren’s strong arm still wrapped around his neck. He couldn’t get to his feet with Torren holding him back on his knees.
The door flew open and a little girl ran in, no more than seven or eight years old, her black hair flying behind her. A woman ran in after her, skidding to a stop as her gaze swept the room. “Forgive us, Manius. She heard the shouting, and I couldn’t contain her.”
A daughter?
“Get her out of here, now,” Manius ordered.
The woman’s gaze went to Jonathan, and she gasped. “What’s going on?”
Her face was familiar, but why? Torren tightened his hold so much Jonathan could hardly breathe.
Manius swept the girl up and thrust her toward the woman. “I said get her out of here now.”
Chasing the Lion Page 32