Kiss Across Chains (Kiss Across Time Series)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “What is your name?” Veris asked as he sliced away the leather stitching that had been holding slave’s leather cuffs permanently about his wrists.

  The slave looked at Veris, surprised. “Rafael,” he said.

  “Do you prefer to speak your mother tongue?” Veris asked, dredging up the smattering of old Hispanic he could remember.

  Rafael winced. “Not the way you speak it,” he said in Greek.

  Veris shrugged. “It has been a while,” he confessed. He climbed into the cart. “Hurry up,” he said. “My time is limited and this stop has put me behind.”

  Rafael hesitated. “Up at the front?”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not where slaves are supposed to sit.”

  Veris lowered the reins. He turned to look down at Rafael. “What did you think I was doing when I took those cuffs off? Adjusting your clothing? You’re free, Rafael. You’re not a slave anymore. I don’t own slaves. I never have and I never will. But I do need your help with some work I have to do in Constantinople. You need my help because you don’t have a thing to your name but the clothes on your back. So will you get into the god-damn cart, already?”

  Rafael’s face crumpled and he reached for the cart, to hold himself up. He took a deep breath. “Constantinople?” he said, his voice shaky. He climbed up and settled next to Veris on the bench. “Whatever you say, my lord.”

  “Call me Veris,” Veris said shortly as he got the cart underway. “I’m no lord. And keep an eye on the road. You have a good memory, or Baradaeus wouldn’t have had you involved in his crooked little dice games. You have to remember the way to Constantinople.”

  “Yes, Veris.”

  Veris glanced at him. “No questions? Just ‘yes Veris’?”

  “Thousands. But you said you were in a hurry.”

  “We’re going to be sitting on this plank for the next two days at least. I think Baradaeus and whoever owned you before that has killed too much of your natural personality. I’ll start first, then. Where were you born, Rafael? How did you become a slave and how did you end up in Asia Minor?”

  Rafael stared ahead, silent. He remained mute for so long that Veris thought he was refusing to answer. Then finally, he cleared his throat. “This is a story you care to hear…Veris?”

  “It was not an idle question. Why?”

  Again, Rafael paused overlong before answering. “No one has asked me these questions before.”

  “Ever?” Veris frowned, staring down at the horse’s back as it worked. He was keeping it to a steady canter, which was asking too much of it, but walking pace would have killed his own nerves sooner when he knew that Constantinople—and Brody and Taylor—was a mere twenty minute flight away in modern terms. Three days at this ancient pace was bad enough.

  He looked at Rafael when no answer emerged. Again.

  Rafael’s expression was one he recognized with a jolt. He had seen it on Brody’s face from time to time. It was the expression of a man appreciating freedom. For Rafael, it was just hitting him for the first time.

  “Take a deep breath,” Veris advised. “Several of them.”

  Rafael clutched at the edge of the bench, his knuckles whitening, the tendons in his pale wrists tightening. He breathed heavily as Veris advised, choking a little as he battled his emotions. Veris stayed silent, giving him as much privacy as he could.

  Finally Rafael lifted his head. He kept his gaze on the road ahead. “It has been nearly fifteen years, I think. This morning, when I rose from my sleep, I would never have predicted that by nightfall I would be a free man.”

  “Such is life, Rafael. There are kinks in the road so we can’t see too far along. It makes life interesting.”

  Rafael turned his head. “Or are the turns in the road to disguise what is coming so we are not dismayed by it?”

  “You don’t strike me as a pessimist.”

  “I do not understand that word.”

  Veris explained the meaning.

  “I see. Life is teaching me to be a pessimist. Behind every turn in my road, so far, has been nothing joyful.”

  “Until today,” Veris pointed out. “Yet despite the grimness, you have chosen to keep stepping around the corners, haven’t you? Doesn’t that mean you keep hoping for good, not bad, each time you reach a bend?”

  Rafael grinned. “True. I suppose I’m not a true pessimist, or I would have given up and killed myself years ago, knowing that nothing but bad awaits around every corner.” Then he blinked. “This is a very strange conversation to be having.”

  Veris shrugged. “What conversation would you rather have? You’re intelligent, able to reason and self-aware. Philosophy is an interesting subject at any time and you have a subjective viewpoint that always fascinates me.”

  “Filos…?” Rafael screwed up his eyes. “You are a scholar?”

  “Of several sorts,” Veris agreed. “Philosophy is the word you’re trying to repeat. We were discussing it, although you weren’t aware of it.”

  “We were?” Rafael rubbed at his wrist thoughtfully. “Pessimists, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You started talking about something else, to take my mind off myself.”

  Veris smiled. “Yes.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “It is the kind thing to do, when someone is feeling emotional pain. It gives them time to recover.”

  “Emotional pain?”

  “You were hurting.”

  Rafael considered it for a moment. “Yes,” he said simply.

  Veris nodded. “That is emotional pain.”

  Rafael turned on the seat to study Veris. The silence lengthened again.

  “You have a question?” Veris finally prompted.

  “If I may?”

  Veris nodded.

  “You are a Northman, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “You are a long way from home.”

  “As are you,” Veris pointed out.

  “Not from as far away as you.”

  “You have the shoulders, the wrists….and you have a sword and knife. You carry yourself like one. You are a fighter, no? A soldier?”

  “I was, once.”

  Rafael nodded. “Fighter. Scholar. Yet you come from Pergamum, as the road leads nowhere else but there. You weren’t there as a patient. You’re not sick. Are you a doctor, too?”

  Veris sighed. “Sort of.”

  “You’re driving a cart loaded with goods that you’re happy enough to defend on your own, so you’re not just a soldier, you’re a very good fighter.” Rafael lifted his hand. “Fighter, scholar, doctor.” He held up three fingers. “Have I missed anything?”

  Veris grimaced. For a reason he couldn’t pin down without deeper thought, he was reluctant to lie to Rafael. Perhaps it was something to do with his recent status as slave, which reminded him vividly of Brody. Veris’ prevarication emerged awkwardly. “I’ll point anything else out if I remember it.”

  Rafael cocked his head, studying Veris. “Then, exactly how old are you?”

  * * * * *

  Twelve hours later, Taylor stared defeat in the face. Again.

  Matthew hurried into the same room she had been hauled into the night before, to face her once more. Only this time, Taylor had Kale at her side and the head guard of Matthew’s household, Bardas, standing with spread-footed ease, his hand on the pommel of his sword, to her right. Two of his guards stood behind them.

  Taylor straightened herself up as Matthew strode into the room, a roll of papers in his hands and a frustrated look on his face. “I hear Bardas found you strolling about the city with a single slave at your side, and in the Hippodrome area, too!” His jaw clenched in sudden fury. “Is it not enough that I must punish you for disobedience the evening before, but you must force me to repeat the lesson the very next day?”

  “I took my slave with me,” Taylor pointed out. “I am armed. I was well veiled and covered and spoke to no one.”

 
Matthew’s hand clenched, crimping the book he held in his fist. “You are supposed to be here, preparing to accompany me to the races this afternoon!”

  “I will be suitably ready in plenty of time,” Taylor assured him.

  “That is not the point!” Matthew bellowed. “I have had three different people report to me on your presence near the Hippodrome! Three! You are supposed to care for my reputation, wife!” His face, with the clean-lined jaw and high cheeks, was suddenly red with choler and white lines bracketed his mouth.

  Taylor sank to her knees and bowed her head, knowing she had to restore his dignity somehow. She had to repair the damage. She’d had no idea the speed gossip could spread in a city without phones or Wi-Fi, or that something as simple as walking through streets with only one slave could be seen as such a brazen act. She’d screwed up badly.

  “I beg your forgiveness, husband,” she said as contritely as she could manage. “When I saw the beauty of the day and the sun, I forgot, for a moment, my proper place and wanted only to enjoy the fresh air. I will not forget again.”

  She heard his indrawn breath, just before his hand caught her chin and lifted it. The red in his face was fading. He nodded. “I can understand the need for air and freedom. But you’re young. You’ve time to learn to override these impulsive acts of yours. Go and prepare for the races. I need you by my side today, more than ever.”

  Kale helped Taylor to her feet and hurried her away. Taylor realized she was shaking. She had been expecting another blow. She had been braced for it. She shuddered in Kale’s hands.

  “He’s a kind husband, most days,” Kale whispered approvingly.

  Kind or not, his insistence on Taylor maintaining his reputation had robbed her of her chance of finding Brody before the races began and letting him know where she was and whose life she had fallen into.

  The ache to touch him and reassure herself that Brody was alright was like a heavy weight in her chest.

  And where was Veris now? Had he even reached what would become Dover in the centuries ahead, to find some cockle-shell little boat to cross the treacherous Channel to the mainland?

  Chapter Seven

  The entourage that Matthew considered the minimum necessary to accompany them to the Hippodrome was large enough to teach Taylor why her attempt to steal out of the house with a single slave had been met with such dire disapproval.

  As Matthew beamed his approval at her state-occasion-like clothing, accessories and make-up that Kale had spent three hours fussing to get right, Taylor stared, her jaw descending, at the fifteen or so people ranked behind Matthew. There were armed guards and slaves in festive wear—four of them designated to do nothing more than carry the corner poles of a large square parasol to keep the sun off her and Matthew at all times. Other slaves were carrying food and beverages, cushions and clothes.

  “Where is everyone going to sit?” Taylor murmured.

  “In my family section, of course,” Matthew replied. “Ready?”

  Their parade through the streets of Constantinople was another eye-opener for Taylor, as the armed guards made sure everyone was cleared out of their way and there were no obstructions to slow them down. They were like a cruise ship cutting through water. Nothing stopped them. People stopped to watch them pass and some begged for money or favors. One of the slaves dipped into a purse occasionally, when Matthew nodded, and handed out bronze coins here and there.

  Taylor realized that if the beggars had stopped her and asked for money she would have had none to give them. Would they have beaten her for the lack? No wonder Matthew had been so angry with her for travelling without armed escort. Finally, she was beginning to understand it wasn’t just his reputation he had been concerned about. Walking down the street alone wasn’t something she could do here, like she could in L.A. or New York, even as crime-riddled as sections of those cities were. Her position in society here made it simply impossible. She was too noticeable.

  So how on earth was she going to reach Brody?

  * * * * *

  Because it had been centuries since he had experienced it, waking from sleep caught Brody by surprise. He felt almost dizzy and disoriented as he tried to figure out what had happened. Then he put it together, as he felt the hard planks of the bunk beneath his side and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

  “Braenden.”

  His recent memories reassembled themselves, along with the fluttering edges of panic, until he thought of Taylor, out there somewhere in the city, alone. Veris, god knows where in Europe, busting a gut to make it here.

  In one indrawn breath, Brody tamped all the panic back down inside him. He had to hold it together for them.

  He rolled over carefully, feeling the crusts of dried blood strain on his back. Evaristus was clinging to the ladder that was nailed to the end of the bunks with one hand while he shook him with the other. Brody had the top bunk, about fifteen feet up from the dirt floor.

  They’d pulled him out of the cage sometime very late in the night, or very early in the morning. It had been getting close to dawn and the cavern had been silent except for the whispers of sleeping men and the two guards who had unlocked the cage. They had told Brody he could have the one bunk remaining, at the top of the tier…if he had the strength to climb up there himself. Otherwise, he’d just have to sleep on the dirt for the night. From their expressions and jeers, they’d expected him to simply lie where they’d dragged him and sleep.

  Instead, Brody had forced himself to roll onto his belly and get onto his hands and knees. The effort had taken a good minute or more and he’d stayed on his hands and knees, swaying, gathering strength for the next step. From there, he’d staggered to his feet and over to the ladder.

  The climb had opened the wounds again, but he had been smiling to himself when he lay down on the bunk. Sleep had dropped over him like a blanket.

  Evaristus hissed as Brody sat up. “You look worse than when I left you last night,” he said softly.

  “I’m fine,” Brody told him truthfully. “But I need clothes.”

  Evaristus dropped a tunic into his lap. It was startlingly white and clean. “Your driver’s tunic. Don’t get it dirty or they’ll whip you for it. They want you looking bright as a gold coin for the race, so clean up before you put it on.”

  Brody lifted the tunic and spread it out so he could look at it. It was short and would be a tight fit. Memories washed over him, sending a sour soup ablaze in his stomach and his heart rampaging. He swallowed. “You know that, subjectively, it’s been nearly a thousand years since I controlled a team?” he said softly.

  Evaristus scowled. “Then you’d better dig down into your memories and figure out how you do it, boy, because if you don’t win this race, they’re going to flay your hide off you for lack of a purse.”

  Brody could actually hear his heart in his ears. He put the tunic down, his breath coming more quickly, and glanced at Evaristus. The man looked angry, but there was concern in his gaze, too.

  “I spent ten centuries pretending this place didn’t still have the biggest piece of my soul locked up in a cage. Because of that, I dragged the two people I have most loved in my long sorry life right back into the pit with me.”

  “The woman?” Evaristus asked, the frown between his brows deepening. “Ariadne?”

  “She only looks like Ariadne, but yes, that’s one of them.” Brody handed the tunic back.

  Evaristus slung it over his shoulder. “And the other?”

  “He’s coming, I hope.”

  “That’s the difference,” Evaristus said, nodding. “Between you and the Braenden I knew before.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You have hope.”

  Brody drew in a breath as surprise circled through him. He nodded. “Yes,” he agreed.

  “They gave it to you, I think. The two of them.”

  Brody nodded again. This time he knew the answer. “Yes,” he said with utter certainty.

  Evaristus gr
inned and started climbing down the ladder. “There’s food,” he called. “Get washed. They’re busy with race preparations. You could steal more than your share today and get nothing more than a smile out of them for your cheek. Hurry!”

  Brody eased himself toward the ladder. With this body, hurrying wasn’t possible but he’d try. For Veris and Taylor, he’d try.

  Then his mind turned to the races that lay ahead and his memory supplied highlights of what might be in store. His gut tightened in worry.

  For Veris and Taylor, he’d hang in there.

  Veris and Taylor.

  He kept their names in his mind. They became a mantra as he faced each new and horribly familiar challenge the day provided.

  * * * * *

  The Hippodrome reminded Taylor sharply of the Roman Coliseum in the movie Gladiator, except that this amphitheater was an elongated oval in shape and the entertainment on the sandy floor below was racing, not hand-to-hand combat. But in all other respects, it was similar. There was even an emperor overseeing the entertainment.

  Taylor glanced over toward the shaded box where the small man sat attended by slaves, servants and guests. Men dressed in overblown garments were talking and drinking around him, but he was watching everything that happened below. He was more interested in the races, not the company he kept.

  Taylor remembered that the emperor was a blue man and would be of no assistance to Matthew, a green owner.

  What did Brody drive? Was he a blue driver or a green driver?

  There had been two races so far and each of them had turned Taylor’s guts to cold entrails and made her heart lurch with sick revolt, even though everyone around her had been disappointed that the races had both been clean, unexciting events, where the winner had been clear.

  “They’re a model of propriety today,” Metrodora complained, adjusting her veil and reaching for her wine glass again. Metrodora was the wife of Kousinos Dalassena, a friend and business associate of Matthew and Metrodora mentioned her father, the Emperor’s tax collector. Her father seemed to raise Metrodora herself on the social ladder in a way that Taylor didn’t understand, but she took note that even here in Constantinople, a man’s occupation and social standing was critical, while the wife was merely a child-bearing accessory that came with useful familial ties and associations.