Across the way, a guard was hauling one of the younger slaves from his bunk. The boy was lithe, lean and with the wholesome good looks the guards often went for. The slave protested but the guard just cuffed him around the head and dragged him away.
Brody shivered. He remembered those days all too well. Until he had shot upwards and filled out across the shoulders, he had been a favorite of the guards. Even now, they still went for him occasionally, but Brody fought them every time and he had enough muscle and determination to make their fun times expensive and often painful, so they hesitated before choosing him. It took more than three of them to make a night with Brody worth it.
He bowed his head. It was throbbing. A headache. He hadn’t had one of those in over sixteen hundred years.
“We’ve known each other ever since they threw you in this pit,” Evaristus said, his old voice soft and soothing. “You were so young, so fragile, I never thought you’d last this long, Braenden of the Celts.”
Brody rested his head against the back of the cage. “Thanks to you, I did.”
“But you are not you,” Evaristus said.
Brody lifted his head to stare at Evaristus. “What did you say?”
Evaristus stared at one of the bars as he ran his forefinger down its length. “You are not Braenden. Not the proper one. I watched you confront Basilides and your reactions are not those of the Braenden I know. He would never have the courage to bring himself so close to Basilides. Being a slave has worn him away. You’re like Braenden, if he had spent time being normal and happy. Yesterday, you were the Braenden I know. Last night and today you are this other Braenden who is a stranger to me.”
Brody tried to quell his rampaging heart, before he remembered that he no longer had any control over it. It was going to beat itself to death in his chest and there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to weigh out the pros and cons of time ripples and consequences and couldn’t factor them fast enough. Evaristus was waiting for an answer and he needed an ally. Nothing but truth would do.
Brody swallowed. Hard. “I know what you are, Evaristus,” he said softly, and pushed his tongue up under his upper lip.
Evaristus leaned back, as if he was repelled. He gripped the bars of Brody’s cage hard and for long moments he did not speak. “That is not possible,” he said, at last. “There is no way for you to know that.”
“One way,” Brody told him. “On some day in the future…I don’t know when, because I don’t know what day this is, or even what year, exactly, but someday I think not long from now, you will turn me.”
Evaristus opened his mouth to speak, then swallowed. Then, “I wouldn’t turn you. Not you.”
“You do it because I am dead and it is the only alternative.”
Evaristus crossed his legs and stared at Brody through the bars of the cage. Brody could see his mind working hard. “Then who is it who faced Basilides this evening?”
“Me,” Brody confirmed, “But a far future version of me.”
Evaristus pressed his fingertips together. “You’re from the future,” he breathed.
Brody nodded.
“You lived so long that time travel became ordinary fact?”
Brody grimaced. “Not exactly ordinary.”
Evaristus considered him again. “But you are vampire…why are you not healing like one?”
“I’m borrowing my younger self’s body and Braenden was human. I am human in this time. I can be killed just as easily as any human.”
“Then go back to your time and leave Braenden to heal, alone and without complications,” Evaristus declared in a furious under voice.
“I can’t,” Brody said. “The woman I was found with tonight—she must travel back with me. I must reach her again before I leave.”
“Ariadne, Matthew of Antioch’s wife?” Evaristus snorted. “Better to ask the gods to grant you eternal riches, boy. You won’t get near that one again. Not now you’ve been caught sullying her once. Matthew will lock her up good and tight and throw away the key.”
“What are you talking about?” Brody asked, wincing as his head began to pound anew.
“I listened to the guards tonight, after they’d finished beating you. The woman in the cellar with you was Ariadne, Matthew of Antioch’s wife. Matthew owns a string of green chariots and he’s being pressured to lose right now. If you think you’re ever going to get near his wife, then the beating they gave you knocked your brain loose. That, or the long life you’ve lived gave you far more confidence than you deserve.” Evaristus snorted. “You’re a slave, boy. You have no rights, no freedom and no one cares what you want. They just care that you win that race tomorrow, so if you don’t lie down and get some sleep and let your body recover enough to control your team of four, you’re going to find out exactly where you stand in the hierarchy that is Constantinople.” Evaristus got to his feet and gave a sour smile. “I will give you a hint. It’s nowhere near the top.”
* * * * *
Strong, slender hands lifted Taylor up off the cold marble floor, sometime after Matthew had left her at his feet with blood oozing from the corner of her numbed mouth, her eye streaming involuntary tears. She was glad of the veil that covered her head as she lay, too stunned to react to his sudden backhand blow. It had taken her completely by surprise.
“Harlots seek the company of slaves,” Matthew had intoned, standing over her. “As my wife, even popular, handsome chariot drivers should be considered beneath your notice. This is the first and last warning I will give you, Ariadne.” His boots shifted on the marble. “Do not make a mockery of my name, or the entertainment I will supply will make you wish you had never sought distraction in the slaves’ pits.” His voice came from close by her face. He was bending down, speaking close by her ear to ensure she heard him properly. “Do we understand each other?”
Taylor nodded, her chin scraping against the cool marble.
“I do not hear you,” Matthew said.
Taylor lifted her chin. “Yes, Matthew,” she said, working hard to keep her tone meek and obedient. As Ariadne, she had shelter, money and position in a city that was powered by rank and privilege. She had to do whatever it took to cling to her status so that she could use it to help shield Brody until Veris arrived in the city and they could return home.
Matthew said nothing more after that. She heard his soft boots on the marble as he walked away and the sound set off trembling in her as she realized she was safe for now and she lay, trying to recover, unable to get up, until the hands curled around her arms and waist, lifting her.
Two sets of hands. Two people. She tried to apologize when her knees buckled and the hands had to hold her steady, but there was no response to her murmured words. She was led through the opulent rooms, into an apartment of smaller, more intimate rooms that interconnected, but were distinctly feminine in décor, from the swags of cloth to delicate colors adorning the furnishings. There were cushions and cloths softening sharp corners and surfaces.
Ariadne’s rooms, Taylor guessed.
She sank down onto a divan as the servants on either side of her stepped back. There was a tinkle of water, then a cool cloth pressed against her throbbing cheek. Of course, ice and ice-making machines were ten centuries into the future.
Taylor looked up at the woman standing over her for the first time. She was dressed plainly – for a Byzantine – and had greying hair and fine wrinkles around her eyes. Taylor judged her to be in her late fifties.
“I am Kale,” the woman said. Her voice was beautiful – low and modulated in a way that made Taylor want to keep on listening. “What am I to call you when you are not playing the part of my mistress?”
Taylor drew in a slow breath. “You know I am not Ariadne?”
Kale lifted Taylor’s chin, turning her head with clinical detachment as she assessed her cheek and eye before reapplying the damp cloth. “The others serve the master. I serve Ariadne and did even when she was a child. I came to this household with her when
she married him. Of course I would know you are not her, even if I did not listen in doorways for the sake of my own skin.” She smiled briefly at Taylor. “One learns a great many things, listening around corners.”
“I am sure,” Taylor said dryly. She hesitated. “You are a slave?”
“Of course.” Kale dropped the cloth into a bowl of water resting on a low table next to the divan. “I was given to Ariadne on the day of her birth.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Kale seemed genuinely puzzled.
Taylor adjusted her answer. “I’m sorry about what is happening to Ariadne.”
“I know you are, or you would not have agreed to help. For that, I am happy and pleased to help you in return.”
“Oh.” Taylor digested that silently while Kale softly dabbed at her face. It wasn’t helping much, but Taylor wasn’t going to tell Kale that. “There are races tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed.” Kale smiled. “I like the races.” Pleasure showed on her face.
“You like the greens, of course,” Taylor added.
Kale’s smile faded. She glanced over her shoulder and her gaze skidded away from Taylor’s face. “I…yes, of course I do,” she muttered.
Taylor’s heart jumped and her stomach squeezed. “You’re a blue fan,” she breathed.
“No!” Kale replied stoutly.
“Yes,” Taylor said just as firmly.
Kale squeezed the cloth in her hand, her knuckles whitening, her lips thinning. “My mistress,” she whispered. “Her father…you must understand.”
Taylor frowned. “Pretend I arrived in Constantinople just this evening, Kale. Pretend I know nothing about chariot racing, the blues, the greens, any of it. Explain it to me.”
Kale tilted her head a little to look at Taylor with an odd frown plucking at her brows. “You really are a stranger to this city?” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“But you speak as one of us.”
“I have a gift for languages and an ear for accents. Tell me, Kale.”
Kale lowered herself onto the divan next to Taylor. “Ariadne’s father is Isaac Eudoxia,” in a tone that implied the name explained everything.
“And he is…?” Taylor coaxed.
“Oh!” Kale shook her head in bewilderment. “He is a general in the army. He is very powerful.”
“The Byzantine army?” Taylor clarified.
“Well, yes,” Kale said simply.
Taylor thought it over. “Kale, does Ariadne’s father support the blues?”
Kale pursed her lips and nodded.
“And so does Ariadne,” Taylor concluded. “While her husband owns green chariots.” She spread her hands over the soft delicate material of her robe. “But it isn’t the same faction of blues that has taken her now, is it?” she asked of Kale. “There must be many blue factions, just like there are soccer, I mean sport—never mind.” She smiled at Kale. “It can’t be her father who has conspired to have taken her hostage, surely?”
Kale shook her head quickly. “The general is in Isauria.” She wrung her hands together. “I sent word to him,” she added in a barely audible whisper. “As soon as Ariadne disappeared.” She bit her lip. “Did I do wrong?”
Taylor touched the woman’s worn hand. “No, Kale. You acted for the very best reasons. You didn’t do wrong, even if it turns out badly, so don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.”
Deep relief spread across Kale’s face. “I will not,” she agreed and stood up. “But you must rest now, before the races tomorrow. You must sit beside Matthew and play Ariadne so the Blues are thrown into confusion and dismay. That is the plan, is it not?”
“Yes, that is Matthew’s plan.”
“And your plan, my lady?” Kale asked as Taylor stood up.
Taylor touched her swollen cheek. “There is a slave – a chariot driver – I must find.”
Close to midday the next day, travelling as fast as the horse would let him coax it, Veris came across a village huddled off the road that led to Panormos. It was a place only for watering horses. There was a gesture for an inn next to the watering troughs—a window cut into the side of the nearest hut and cups strung on twine. No doubt the wine would be well-watered and kept inside, under strict control of the owners.
But there were some rough, scrubbed tables and stools near the window and on the largest table, someone had set up a game of dice. From the numbers of backs and heads bent over the game as Veris pulled up his cart by the troughs, he judged the owner of the game had a good scam going.
A head lifted from amongst the players as he climbed down to the ground. Thick, wavy black hair, in need of trimming. Olive skin. Intelligent brown eyes assessed him as he adjusted his cloak.
Hispanic, Veris judged, and a very long way from home.
The man bowed back over, returning to the game. Veris led his horse to the trough, watching the game with little interest. He knew they would try to draw him in. He was dressed too well and carried goods in his cart. He was a fat target for a bent game.
There was a cry and a chorus of moans and everyone around the table straightened up, generally despondent, as coins changed hands. Then Veris got his first look at the con man running the game. He was a tall, greying man with a surprisingly happy disposition. He was scraping coins into his purse and commiserating with the losers. He got up and stretched and held out a copper coin to one of those that lingered. “Here, buy yourself a drink,” he said, in a loud and congenial tone. “I’m going to get myself one, too, before I start another game. It’s thirsty work, out here in the sun.”
He clapped the man on the back and they headed over to the bar window to join the others, who were drinking cup after cup of the wine the locals were selling through the window.
Meanwhile, the olive-skinned man remained at the table, picking up the dice and cleaning up. Veris focused on the wide leather cuffs stitched around his wrists.
After a few minutes at the bar window, the tall man patted his current mark on the shoulder one more time, then wandered casually over to the drinking troughs, where Veris was standing at his horse’s head. “Good day to you.”
“And to you,” Veris agreed.
“You would be on your way to Panormos, then?”
“As this road leads there and nowhere else and I came from the south, that would be a good assumption.”
The man grinned. “I like you!”
Veris made himself grin back.
“Why don’t you come and join my game?”
“I’m not really one for dice,” Veris prevaricated, making himself sound meek. “I’m just a businessman.”
“You’ve played before, haven’t you?”
“Certainly. But I don’t play well.”
The man’s smile broadened. “This is just a friendly game,” he assured Veris.
Friendly, my ass. Veris pretended to give the man’s proposition some thought, then shrugged and gave in. “Very well, then. Just for a few minutes.” He hitched the horse and gave her some feed.
Then he settled at the table with the tall man, who introduced himself as Baradaeus. He didn’t introduce the brown-eyed man with the sharp gaze, who stayed at Baradeaus’ elbow, further confirming his slave status. Veris kept his current name, Gilmárdal.
He pulled coins out of his purse, making sure Baradaeus saw how many coins were still in it, and slapped them on the table. “Let’s play,” he declared.
* * * * *
An hour later, a small pile of coins sat on Baradaeus’ side of the table and very few in front of Veris. Veris had figured out the scam. The dice were being switched by the slave and Baradaeus got to use weighted or shaved dice when he needed them. It was a simple ploy, but for unsophisticated farmers it was invisible.
Veris reached into his purse for more coins. “I’d like to keep playing, but I’d like to increase the stakes.”
Baradaeus gave a small laugh. “You’re a glutton for punishment, t
hen. This is just a friendly game, remember!”
“And we’re all playing nice and friendly-like,” Veris agreed. He pulled out a dozen gold solidi and put them on the table.
Baradaeus drew in a sharp breath, staring at them. “Bezants. I don’t think I can match them.” But he didn’t look away from them.
“Yes you can,” Veris said. “Put up your slave against them.”
The slave’s soft inhalation was his only reaction. Veris looked at him directly. “I presume you have no objection to this wager?”
The man hesitated for a brief instant, his gaze flickering toward Baradaeus. Then he shook his head. Veris saw hope flare in his eyes.
“Good,” Veris said. He looked at Baradaeus.
Baradaeus shook his head. “This game is too rich for me,” he declared. “I am a simple man, with simple tastes.” He started to rise.
Veris slapped his knife down on the table. “I suggest you sit down and play, Baradaeus.”
The tall man sat back down, his mouth opening in surprise. Sweat popped on his temple. “How dare you!”
“I dare, because you play a crooked game. If you do not play me now, I will take great delight in telling all those men over there that you cheated them of their money. There are nine men and one of you, Baradaeus, and you look like you’ve not done much fighting in your lifetime. They will be very angry when they learn you’ve taken their money dishonestly. I don’t like your chances when they set on you.”
Baradaeus licked his lips, glancing at the men standing around the bar window, drinking from the cups. They were all physically strong—around this part of the country, the men worked the land, or were miners, smiths or cartwrights. They were able to handle themselves physically and every man from an early age learned how to defend himself with a knife at the very least.
“I’ll play,” Baradaeus said at last, his voice strangled and weak.
“I thought you would,” Veris said, with a smile.
Chapter Six
Kiss Across Chains (Kiss Across Time Series) Page 8