The Sarantine Mosaic

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  ‘Of course you are. Do tell me, I pray you,’ said the master cook of the Blues, while men fought and died in the dark outside his kitchen, ‘have you ever tasted lamprey from the lake near Baiana?’

  There followed a brief silence in the room. Kyros and the others were moderately familiar with this sort of thing; no one else could possibly be.

  ‘I’m … ah, very sorry,’ said the red-haired man, eventually, with a composure that did him credit, ‘I cannot say I have.’

  Strumosus shook his head in regret. ‘A very great pity,’ he murmured. ‘Neither have I. A legendary dish, you must understand. Aspalius wrote of it four hundred years ago. He used a white sauce. I don’t, myself, actually. Not with lamprey.’

  This produced a further, similar, silence. A number of torches were in the courtyard now as more and more of the Blues appeared in hastily thrown-on boots and clothing. The latecomers had missed the battle, it seemed. No one was resisting now. Someone had silenced the dogs. Kyros, peering through the doorway, saw Astorgus coming quickly across and then up the three steps to the portico. The factionarius paused there, looking down at the fallen man for a moment, then entered the kitchen.

  ‘There are six dead intruders out there,’ he said, to no one in particular. His face showed anger but no fatigue.

  ‘All dead?’ It was the big soldier. ‘I’m sorry for that. I had questions.’

  ‘They entered our compound,’ Astorgus said flatly. ‘With swords. No one does that. Our horses are here.’ He stared at the wounded man a moment, assessing. Then looking back over his shoulder, he snapped, ‘Toss the bodies outside the gate and notify the Urban Prefect’s officers. I’ll deal with them when they arrive. Call me when they do. Someone get Columella in here, and send for the doctor.’ He turned to Scortius.

  Kyros couldn’t decipher his expression. The two men looked at each other for what seemed a long time. Fifteen years ago Astorgus had been exactly what Scortius was now: the most celebrated chariot-racer in the Empire.

  ‘What happened?’ the older man asked, finally. ‘Jealous husband? Again?’

  In fact, he had assumed that to be the case, at first.

  A measure of his success in the dark after the racing and the feasts had always been due to the fact that he was not a man who actively pursued women. Notwithstanding this, it would have been an inaccuracy to suggest that he didn’t desire them acutely, or that his pulse did not quicken when certain invitations were waiting for him at his home when he returned from the Hippodrome or the stables.

  That evening—end of the Dykania revels, end of the racing season—when he came home to change for the Imperial banquet, a brief, unsigned, unscented note had been among those waiting for him on the marble table inside the entranceway. He hadn’t needed a signature, or scent. The laconic, entirely characteristic phrasing told him that he’d conquered more than Crescens of the Greens in the first race that afternoon.

  ‘If you are equal to avoiding a different set of dangers,’ the neat, small handwriting read, ‘my maidservant will be waiting on the eastern side of the Traversite Palace after the Emperor’s feast. You will know her. She is to be trusted. Are you?’

  No more than that.

  The remaining letters were set aside. He had wanted this woman for a long time. Wit drew him, of late, and her demeanour of serene, amused detachment, the aura of … difficulty about her. He was fairly certain that the withdrawn manner was only a public one. That there was a great deal beneath that formal austerity. That perhaps even her extremely powerful husband had never fathomed that.

  He thought he might discover—or begin discovering— if this was so tonight. The prospect had enlivened the whole of the Emperor’s banquet with an intense, private anticipation. The privacy of it was central, of course. Scortius was the most discreet of men: another reason the notes came; another reason, perhaps, he hadn’t been killed before this.

  Not that there hadn’t been attempts—or warnings. He’d been beaten once: much younger, lacking the protections of celebrity and his own wealth. He had, in fact, long since reconciled himself to the notion that he was not a man likely to die in his bed, though someone else’s bed was a possibility. The Ninth Driver would take him, or a sword in the night as he returned from a chamber where he ought not to have been.

  He’d assumed, therefore, that this was the threat tonight, as he slipped out through a small, locked, rarely used gate in the Imperial Precinct wall in the cold autumn dark.

  He had a key to that gate, courtesy of an encounter years ago with the black-haired daughter of one of the chiliarchs of the Excubitors. The lady was married now, mother of three children, impressively proper. She’d had an enchanting smile once, and a way of crying out and then biting her lower lip, as if surprised by herself in the dark.

  He didn’t often use the key, but it was extremely late and there had been more need than usual for caution earlier. He’d spent an unexpectedly intense time in the room the servant had led him to: not the lady’s bedroom after all, though there was a divan, and wine, and scented candles burning while he waited. He’d wondered if he’d find passion and intimacy beneath the court mask of cool civility. When she arrived—still dressed as she had been at the banquet and in the throne room after—he’d discovered both, but had then apprehended, through a lingering time together as the images of day were made to recede, rather too deep an awareness of the same things in himself for comfort.

  That posed its own particular sort of danger. In his life—the life he had chosen to live—the need for lovemaking, the touch and scent and urgency of a woman in his arms, was central and compelling, but the desire for any sort of ongoing intimacy was a threat.

  He was a toy for these ladies of the Imperial Precinct and the patrician houses of the City, and he knew it. They addressed a need of his, and he assuaged desires some of them hadn’t known they harboured. A transaction, of a sort. He’d been engaged in it for fifteen years.

  In fact, tonight’s unexpected vulnerability, his reluctance to leave her and go back out into the cold, offered a first suggestion—like a distant trumpet blowing—that he might be getting old. It was unsettling.

  Scortius relocked the small gate quietly behind him and turned to scan the darkness before proceeding. It was an hour he had known before; not a safe one in the streets of Sarantium.

  The Blues’ compound—his destination, honouring a promise to Strumosus of Amoria—wasn’t far away: across the debris-filled, cluttered construction space before the new Sanctuary, along the northern side of the Hippodrome Forum, and then up from the far end, with its pillar and statue of the first Valerius, to the compound gates. Beyond them he expected to find the kitchen fires burning and a fierce, indignant master chef awaiting his declaration that nothing he’d tasted in the Attenine Palace could compare to what he was offered in the prosaic warmth of the Blues’ kitchen in an interlude before dawn.

  It was likely to be the truth. Strumosus, in his own way, was a genius. The charioteer even had some genuine anticipation of this late meal, for all his fatigue and the disquieting emotions he was dealing with. He could sleep all day tomorrow. He probably would.

  If he lived. Following a habit long entrenched, he remained motionless for a time, screened by bushes and the low trees near the wall, and carefully eyed the open spaces he would have to cross, looking from left to right and then slowly back again.

  He saw no daemons or spirits or flickers of flame on the paving stones, but there were men under the marble roof of the almost-finished portico of the Great Sanctuary.

  There ought not to have been. Not at this time of night, and not spread out so precisely, like soldiers. He would not have been surprised to find drunken revellers outstaying the end of Dykania, wending their way in the cold through the construction materials in the square before the Bronze Gates, but this motionless cluster who thought they were concealed by pillar and cloak and darkness sent a different sort of message. From where they waited on the portico, these
men—whoever they were—could see the gates clearly, and the first movement he made from his own position would bring him into the open, even if they didn’t know this small doorway was here.

  He wasn’t tired any more.

  Danger and a challenge were the heady, unmixed wine of life to Scortius of Soriyya: another reason he lived for the speed and blood of the track and for these illicit trysts in the Precinct or beyond it. He knew this, in fact, had known it for many years.

  He breathed a quick, forbidden invocation to Heladikos and began considering his options. Those shadowed men would be armed, of course. They were here for a purpose. He had only a knife. He could sprint across the open space towards the Hippodrome Forum, catching them by surprise, but they had an angle on him. If any of them could run he’d be cut off. And a footrace lacked … any sort of dignity.

  He reluctantly decided the only intelligent course, now that he’d spotted them, was to slip back into the Precinct. He could find a bed among the Excubitors in their barracks—they’d be proud to have him and would ask no questions. Or he could go to the Bronze Gates openly from inside, inviting unfortunate speculation at this hour, and request that a message be carried to the Blues’ compound. He’d have an escort party in very little time.

  Either way, more people would discover how late he’d been here than he really cared to have know. It wasn’t as if his nocturnal habits were so very secret, but he did pride himself on doing as little as possible to draw attention to individual episodes. Dignity, again, and a respect for the women who trusted him. He lived much of his life in the eye of the world. He preferred some details to be his own and not the property of every envious or titillated rumourmonger in the bathhouses and barracks and cauponae of Sarantium.

  Not much choice here, alas. It was sprint through the street like an apprentice dodging his master’s cudgel, or slip back in and put a wry face on things with the Excubitors or at the gates.

  He really wasn’t about to run.

  He’d already taken the key back out of his leather purse when he saw a flare of light on the Sanctuary portico as one of the massive doors swung open. Three men stepped out, vividly outlined against the brightness behind them. It was very late; this was odd in the extreme. The Great Sanctuary was not yet open to the public; only the workers and architects had been inside. Watching, unseen, Scortius saw the waiting group of men on the portico shift silently and begin to spread out, in immediate response. He was too far away to hear anything, or recognize anyone, but he saw two of the three men before the doors turn and bow to the third, who withdrew inside. And that sent another sort of warning to him.

  A blade of light narrowed and disappeared as the heavy door was closed. The two men turned to stand alone and exposed on the porch amid the debris of construction in windy darkness. One of the two turned and said something to the other. They were manifestly unaware of swordsmen spreading out around them.

  Men died at night in the City all the time.

  People went to the graves of the violently dead with cheiromancers’ curse-tablets, ignoring the imprecations of the clergy as they invoked death or dismemberment for the charioteers and their horses, fierce passion from a longed-for woman, sickness to a hated neighbour’s child or mule, storm winds for an enemy’s merchant vessel. Blood and magic, flames flitting along the night streets. Heladikos’s fires. He had seen them.

  There were swords across the square, real men carrying them, whatever might be said about the half-world spirits all around. Scortius stood in darkness with the moons set and the stars furtive behind swift clouds. A cold wind blew from the north—where Death was said to dwell in the old tales of Soriyya, the tales told before Jad had come to the people of the south, along with the legend of his son.

  What was happening on that portico was none of his business, and he had his own dangers to negotiate through the streets. He was unarmed, save for the trivial knife, could hardly help two defenceless men against sword-wielding attackers.

  Some situations required a sense of self-preservation. He was, alas, deficient in this regard.

  ‘Watch out!’ he roared at the top of his voice, bursting out from behind the screening trees.

  He drew his little knife as he emerged. Having calmly decided just a moment ago that he was not going to run he seemed to be running after all, and the wrong way entirely. It did occur to him—a small, belated sign of functioning intelligence—that he was being unwise.

  ‘Assassins!’ he cried. ‘Get inside!’

  The two men on the portico turned towards him as he sprinted across the square. He saw a low, covered pile of bricks just in time and leaped it, clipping his ankle, almost falling when he landed. He swore like a sailor in a dockside caupona, at himself, at their slowness. Watching as he ran—for enemies, for movement, for more of the accursed bricks—he saw the nearest soldier turn and draw his sword along the western side of the portico. He was close enough to hear the sound as blade slid free of scabbard.

  His fervent hope—and inadequate plan—was that the third man had not bolted the door to the Sanctuary, that they could get inside before the assassins closed in. It struck him—rather late—that he could have shouted the same warning and not come charging like a schoolboy into the midst of things himself. He was the toast of Sarantium, the Emperor’s dinner companion, Glory of the Blues, wealthy beyond all youthful dreams.

  Pretty much the same person he’d been fifteen years ago, it seemed. Unfortunately, perhaps.

  He bounded up onto the porch, wincing as he landed on the bruised ankle, went straight past the two men and grabbed at the handle of the massive door. Gripped, turned.

  Locked. He rattled and jerked the handle uselessly, pounded once on the door, then wheeled around. Saw the two men clearly for the first time. Knew them both. Neither had made any intelligently responsive move. Paralysed with fear, both of them. Scortius swore again.

  The soldiers had encircled them. Predictably. The leader, a big, rangy man, stood directly in front of the portico steps between cloth-covered mounds of something or other and looked up at the three of them. His eyes were dark in the darkness. He held his heavy sword lightly, as if it weighed nothing at all.

  ‘Scortius of the Blues!’ he said, his voice odd.

  There was a silence. Scortius said nothing, thinking fast. The soldier went on, still in that bemused tone, ‘You cost me a fortune this afternoon, you know.’ A Trakesian voice. He’d guessed this might be it: soldiers on city leave, hired in a caupona to kill and disappear.

  ‘These men are both under the protection of the Emperor,’ Scortius snapped icily. ‘You touch either of them, or me, at absolute cost of your lives. No one will be able to protect you. Anywhere in the Empire or beyond. Do you understand me?’

  The man’s sword did not move. His voice did, however, shifting upwards in surprise. ‘What? You thought we were here to harm them?’

  Scortius swallowed. His knife hand fell to his side. The other two men on the portico were looking at him with curiosity. So were the soldiers below. The wind blew, stirring the coverings on the mounds of bricks and tools. Leaves skittered across the square. Scortius opened his mouth, then closed it, finding nothing to say.

  He had made several different, very swift assumptions since emerging from the Imperial Precinct and seeing men waiting in the dark. None of them appeared to have been correct.

  ‘Um, charioteer, may I present to you Carullus, tribune of the Fourth Sauradian cavalry,’ said the red-headed mosaicist—for it was he who stood on the portico. ‘My escort on the last part of the journey here, and my guardian in the City. He did lose a lot of money on the first race this afternoon, as it happens.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Scortius, reflexively. He looked at Caius Crispus of Varena, and then at the celebrated architect, Artibasos, standing beside him, rumpled and observant. The builder of this new Sanctuary.

  And he was now fairly certain who it was they’d been bowing to while he watched from acros
s the way. He was attaining understanding late here, it seemed. The Bassanids had a philosophic phrase about that, in their own tongue; he’d heard it often from their traders in Soriyya in the seasons when there hadn’t been a war. He didn’t much feel like being philosophic at the moment.

  There was another silence. The north wind whistled through the pillars, flapping the covers over the brick and masonry again. No movement from by the Bronze Gates: they would have heard him shouting but hadn’t bothered to do anything about it. Events outside the Imperial Precinct rarely disturbed the guards; their concern was in keeping those events outside. He had careened across the open square, roaring like a madman, waving a dagger, banging his ankle … to no effect whatsoever. Standingin darkness on the still-unfinished portico of the Great Sanctuary of Jad’s Holy Wisdom, Scortius received a swift, unsettling image of the elegant woman he’d lately left. The scent and the touch of her.

  He imagined her observing his conduct just now. He winced at the thought of her arched eyebrows, the quirked, amused mouth, and then—failing to see any obvious alternatives—he began to laugh.

  Earlier that same night, walking with an escort from the Attenine towards the Traversite Palace, where the Empress of Sarantium had her favoured autumn and winter quarters, Crispin had found himself thinking of his wife.

  This happened all the time, but the difference—and he was aware of it—was that in his mind the image of Ilandra appeared now as a shield, a defence, though he remained unsure what it was he feared. It was windy and cold crossing the gardens; he wrapped himself in the cloak they’d given him.

  Guarded by the dead, hiding behind the memory of love, he was conducted to the smaller of the two main palaces under swiftly moving clouds and the westered, sunken moons and entered, and walked marble corridors with lanterns burning on the walls and paused before soldiers at the doorway of an Empress who had summoned him, so late at night, to her private quarters.

  He was expected. The nearest soldier nodded, expressionless, and opened the door. Crispin passed into a space of firelight, candlelight, and gold. The eunuchs and soldiers remained outside. The door was closed behind him. Ilandra’s image slowly faded as a lady-in-waiting approached, silk-clad, light on slippered feet, and offered him a silver cup of wine.