Kiss Across Chains (Kiss Across Time Series)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Brody had been part of the real entertainment that Byzantines enjoyed and now he was once more.

  “Facing this sea is worth it, Rafael,” Veris said.

  Rafael nodded, his worry clearing as he studied him. “Very well, then,” he said simply.

  Veris clapped him on the shoulder and moved forward to help the crew with reefing in the sails. It was exacting work and it had been nearly a hundred years since he had done it. Plus, the storm that they were racing to meet was pushing up higher and higher waves that made the deck heave more sharply by the hour.

  It wasn’t until the sun slipped beneath the horizon and full darkness clothed the sea that Veris finally noticed the symptoms of blood hunger in himself and by then, they had reached a point of urgency.

  * * * * *

  They lost the spar around midnight. Veris heard the wet, slow cracking of timbers and for one small moment despair clutched at his heart, because he knew instantly what the sound meant.

  He looked up into the dark, peering through the driving rain and wind, trying to spot which of the masts they had lost. The front sail was sagging and billowing.

  “Cut the braces, don’t let it drag us broadside to the waves!” the captain shouted. “Hurry!”

  The captain’s two crewmen leapt to comply for they understood the danger of the ship being pulled around until they sat side-on to the waves rolling across the sea, giant walls of water whipped up by the wind. If the impact of the waves did not break the back of the ship in the first place, they would be swamped and would quickly founder, in the second.

  Veris moved over the heaving deck to the front mast and climbed up to where the ropes from the broken cross-spar were pulling across the sail. He pulled his long blade from his boot and sawed at the ropes. It took far longer than it should have, for he was weakened by the need to feed, which was now a steady, throbbing siren song in his mind and chest. His vision kept losing focus, as his instincts were prodded by the close proximity of prey and their hot, coppery blood scent.

  It was a battle to stay on top of the animal, to stay in control, but there were not enough humans in this ship for him to feed and not have it go unnoticed.

  After an age, the ropes parted and the broken spar slid down the canvas and was free. It dropped into the sea and was gone.

  Tired and weak, Veris lowered himself hand over hand back down to the deck. The two crewmen were re-rigging the mainsail, following Reshef’s bawled orders. Unlike his vision, Veris’ human hearing did not diminish when the hunter’s instincts were dominant, because it was a useful hunting skill. So as he stood recovering from the climb, he listened to Reshef’s fast Arabic and his gut tightened.

  Rafael was making his way along the sides of the ship, heading for Veris, clinging to the gunnels with white knuckles, but his expression was dogged. Veris could smell vomit on him and above all, the sweet smell of his blood, beating in his veins.

  Veris shook his head as Rafael reached him. “You need to stay out of the way.” He was shocked at the hoarseness of his own voice.

  “You should eat,” Rafael told him, lifting his voice above the wind and the waves. “I have some food. You look unwell!” He drew in a sharp breath as the ship’s nose lifted up high over a wave front and clutched even harder at the gunnels. He swallowed, his throat working hard.

  The spicy sharp scent of adrenaline was almost arousing. Veris closed his eyes, fighting for calm. For peace. He thought of Brody. An image of Taylor’s big grey eyes swam into his mind.

  A measure of calm returned. He looked at Rafael. “You need to stay away from me,” he said. “Until we’re on land and I can…until I’ve eaten.”

  Reshef was screaming more orders. Veris turned away from Rafael’s puzzled expression and pushed himself into movement. Human movement. He worked his way up the deck and planted himself in front of Reshef. “You cannot turn this ship around,” he said. “We have an agreement.”

  “I have only one sail now. I am the captain,” Reshef declared. “You will kill us all with this mad insistence on reaching Constantinople. We will put into land, the nearest land we can find, until this blows over.”

  Veris lifted his arm, pointing toward the full, straining mainsail. His arm felt heavy and hard to lift. “We’re already running ahead of the wind. If you try to turn in any other direction but this one, you’ll risk losing the one sail you have left. You’re better to keep running ahead and ride it out.”

  Reshef shook his head mulishly. “Your gold coin will be no use to anyone at the bottom of the sea, Northman. I would rather live to spend it.”

  “You will,” Veris assured him. “I’ve sailed bigger seas than this with a smaller sail. You have to trust me.”

  Reshef shook his head again and called out an order. Veris couldn’t translate it. The wind seemed to be too loud and Reshef’s words were all snatched and gone before he could hear them.

  A heavy hand came down on Veris’ shoulder and then he understood that Reshef had decided to rid himself of a troublesome passenger, after all.

  * * * * *

  Bribery was a slippery art, Taylor discovered. It required, to begin, a careful selection of the appropriate subject, which was where her plans to bribe her way to Brody began to unravel. She had no idea who to pay off. Kale was a house slave in a patrician household and no better an advisor. The driver slave pits were unknown territory to her.

  Taylor turned to Metrodora. The woman was used to bribing her way into freedmen’s’ arms. The slave pit was just one step further.

  Metrodora, though, when Taylor carefully outlined her ambitions, drew back with horror. “A slave?” she said in the same tone that people in the 1950’s might well have said “A black man?”

  Taylor sighed. “I’m not asking for your assistance, Metrodora. I merely seek information. I do not understand the way things work at the Hippodrome. Who controls the drivers?”

  “Oh…he is a chariot driver?” Metrodora’s interest perked. “Which one? Tell me!”

  Taylor didn’t want to give Brody’s name, but in order to find out who she needed to bribe, she needed information. She was going to have to give some to get it. “The Celt. Braenden,” she told Metrodora.

  “Oooh, he is certainly worth a bribe or two,” Metrodora agreed, her eyes sparkling. “Genesios the Money Lender owns the chariots he races, although he has nothing to do with the drivers, of course.” Metrodora tapped her pink lips with her fingertip, thinking. Then she smiled. “Here is how I would do it. There will be a slave master and a master at arms. They’re the two key people, but the master at arms is the one you must be most certain of, as his men will do the fetching and carrying, so save your biggest bribe for him.”

  “Who are these two people? What are their names?” Taylor asked.

  “I have no idea,” Metrodora told her. “But I know exactly how to find out.” She stood up and waved her personal slave forward. “I’m going to go to the markets. There is all sorts of information to be had, there. Invite me for cakes later this afternoon, Ariadne.”

  “I will,” Taylor promised, as Metrodora hurried from the room.

  Kale stepped forward to clear the low table of the early morning meal they had been eating.

  “I will need you to deliver the bribes, once we know who they are to go to,” Taylor told her.

  Kale nodded her head. “Yes, mistress.”

  Metrodora returned just after the noon meal with two names and a parcel. The parcel contained a bolt of silk cloth the color of cherries that she laid on the table in front of Taylor. “The silk merchant at the west end of the bazar has been taking my husband’s wagers for years. He shuts down his shop on race days and takes his entire family to the Hippodrome. He is devoted to racing. I thought he would know exactly who you needed to speak to.”

  “He did?” Taylor asked, running her fingertips over the beautiful silk.

  “The slave master is Basilides. The master at arms is Oresme. I had to buy this entire bolt of cloth t
o get the names, but he did tell me something else.” Metrodora grimaced. “You will need to speak to Oresme yourself, Ariadne. He has been approached by slaves with offers from their owners before and he has always said no. You will have to find a way to make him say yes.”

  “He is an honest man?” Taylor asked, her heart sinking. An honest man could not be bought, no matter what price was offered.

  “Every man has his price,” Metrodora replied. “At least, that is what my husband always tells me. If you speak to him directly, you will be able to determine what this Oresme’s price is.”

  Taylor gave a tiny shrug. “Where can I find this Oresme? When?”

  “He is a Christian. You will find him at the Cathedral every Sunday.”

  “Then tomorrow, I will attend Mass.”

  Chapter Ten

  Taylor had only a little difficulty in getting Matthew’s permission to attend the cathedral mass the next morning. He seemed distracted but amenable. “I will give you alms and an offering for the church,” he told her. “Ask Kale to remind me.”

  “You will not attend with me, my husband?” Taylor asked, for they were in one of the public rooms of the house and surrounded by slaves she did not know.

  “I have business in the city.” He waved her away impatiently and Taylor withdrew, secretly pleased to not have him dogging her every step.

  Aware that she needed to uphold Matthew’s reputation even in this outing, she consulted with Kale on the appropriate clothing and the correct number of household staff she should take with her and by the time they set out for the cathedral, Taylor felt confident that Matthew would have no reason to consider she had besmirched his reputation yet again.

  It was a pleasant fifteen minute walk from Matthew’s house to the cathedral, through the labyrinth-like streets of the city.

  People were gathering and talking along the sides of the streets in groups, their heads close together with an intensity that seemed unusual for casual gossip. Kale sent one of the other slaves off to investigate. The man rejoined them after five minutes, at the end of the block. “There was a storm at sea the night before last and much wreckage has washed up against the wharves and jetties. It has been a fruitful morning for the beachcombers. They think at least two ships were lost.”

  St. Sophia’s Cathedral was a magnificent building, with the great dome that seemed to beckon everyone from across the city. Taylor had not studied Byzantine history, but she knew enough from cross-references throughout history that nine centuries from now, when the Turks invaded the city, the cathedral would be turned into a mosque and lose none of its majesty in the transition.

  What she had not been prepared for were the large number of people gathered in the public square at the doors of the cathedral. Her first fleeting impression was that it felt like the same sort of crowd that gathered at the front of one of Brody’s concerts— badly and oddly-dressed people lingering in groups, watching others go by and calling out insults and comments.

  Then she saw and understood what was happening. These were the poorest and most desperate people in the city, gathered at the front of the cathedral where the richest and most affluent came to pray. The poor came here to beg for handouts from the rich as they passed into the cathedral.

  Matthew had anticipated this. He had given Kale alms to dispense.

  It was a direct and practical charity system that worked in place of social security or unemployment insurance, which didn’t exist in this day and age.

  Taylor turned to Kale. “You have the money?” she asked.

  Kale nodded. She was already loosening the ties on a pouch at her waist.

  “The families with children. Give them money first. After that, I’m sure you can discern who is the neediest.”

  “You don’t wish to give to your usual beggars?” Kale asked carefully, glancing at the two guards standing on either side of them.

  “I suppose, yes, that would do,” Taylor agreed.

  The guards stepped up in front and behind her, while Kale moved ahead and wended her way through the crowd. It was clear Kale was practiced at this, for she wove first in one direction, to find her intended recipients and dispense coins, then she would head off in another direction without hesitation, to find another. After nearly a dozen such stops, Kale’s purse was empty, and they were much closer to the cathedral itself. Kale tucked the purse away and returned to Taylor’s side.

  The group of slaves and guards, with Taylor in the middle, approached the grand entrance to the cathedral. There wasn’t anyone begging right at the front of the cathedral steps, but there was a large group of well-dressed people milling about, talking amongst themselves, many of them standing under parasols and shade cloths held by slaves.

  Taylor looked at Kale, raising her brow. Kale scanned the clusters of people, then moved her head toward a group of men and nodded slightly.

  “Go,” Taylor told her.

  Kale moved ahead, toward the men. There were five in the group, surrounded by others that were slaves or servants, judging by their clothing. Kale pushed past the servants, who came from lesser households than her, and stood at the elbow of one of the shortest men in the group. The short man had black hair that was silver on the sides, deep olive skin that was pitted from acne long gone and a bulbous nose. He was quite slender and wore a short roman-styled sword on his hip and a leather breast plate under his cloak.

  His shoulders were square and his bearing very upright. Even in this century, Taylor could spot his military background in his posture.

  He cocked his head as Kale spoke in a low voice. She had caught his attention.

  Then he looked around at Taylor with a frown. After a few seconds while he was clearly weighing the advantages of speaking to her, he adjusted his sword belt and excused himself from the circle of men and walked toward her, Kale trailing behind him.

  “My lady Ariadne,” he said. “I would not deign to speak to the wife of a green man, but your father’s loyalty to the blues is well known. I am aware of your own…alliances.”

  Taylor understood what he would not say in front of her servants. He knew she had been caught in the tunnels with Brody, and that she was not above dallying with blue chariot drivers. If her father was a blue man, her own loyalties most likely lay with the blues and not with her husband’s green preferences.

  “It is that alliance I wished to speak to you about,” Taylor told him.

  His eyes narrowed. “Then we have nothing to speak—”

  “But we do, for I have something you most desperately seek,” she added quickly as he started to turn away.

  Oresme paused, smiling. “I am an old soldier, madam. Even one as young and fresh and pleasing to the eyes as you does not provide incentive enough for me to jeopardize my post.”

  “But you’ve already done that.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “You speak in riddles. A typical woman.”

  “I was merely being discreet.” She smiled at him. “I have no wish to embarrass you.” She glanced up at her own head guard. “I am just going to step over here a pace or two, out of hearing. Stay here, yes?”

  The guard hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.

  She tucked her hand under Oresme’s elbow and turned him and walked him the promised few paces, out of hearing of her household and his group of people. She was taller than him by nearly an inch, but she didn’t let that diminish her estimation of his power. He was the head of security of one of the biggest slave pits in the city. He had to be a wily and dangerous man to control the guards and slaves in his care.

  Oresme turned to face her once more. “Now. Explain yourself, if you can.”

  Taylor smiled at him again. “I was in your slave pit *** nights ago, Oresme. I reached deep inside, in the furthest tunnels and associated with Braenden, who was free and without chains. Surely, you cannot tell me you have not suffered any consequences from that night? You are responsible for these slaves, and one was virtually free and clear of the pit.�
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  Oresme’s face hardened. “What of it?” he asked. “The slave was punished and from the look of your cheek, madam, so were you.”

  Taylor took a slow breath, pummeling the memory of the blood on the back of Brody’s tunic into the inner recesses of her mind. “I refuse to believe,” she replied as calmly as she could, “that at the very least Genesios did not heap disapproval upon you for letting a slave have the run of the tunnels, and a woman, too.”

  Oresme’s breathing shallowed and increased. “If you seek to curry favor with me, madam, you go about it in exactly the wrong way.”

  “Have you not wondered how I accessed the slave pit, Oresme? Has it not worried you how I slipped past your guards so easily, and how Braenden reached me without a single guard noticing?”

  Oresme’s jaw worked as he considered her questions. “And again, I ask, what of it?”

  But his I-don’t-care attitude was false. His growing anger told Taylor that he did care. Very much so.

  “I will tell you who helped me that night and how I made a laughing stock of your guards,” she said.

  “Who helped you? One of my men helped you?” Oresme drew in a breath, struggling for control. When he was contained once more he considered her anew. His jaw flexed again. “You’ll tell me for a price,” he guessed.

  “You’ll bring Braenden to my chambers tonight, via the servants’ entrance. Kale will show you the way from there.”

  “That is a steep price,” he judged. “There are many other matrons and maidens, too, who have asked that price and been prepared to pay handsomely for it and I’ve turned them all down.”