Dalassena now sat at the front of the family box with Matthew.
Metrodora and Taylor had been given small chairs at the back of the box, higher up and further away from the front. Metrodora had not seemed to mind, or even notice the disparagement. She had nodded her head at Taylor and taken her seat, and immediately began issuing a stream of orders to her own retinue of slaves and servants, while Taylor watched, stunned, as Metrodora skillfully rearranged the hot corner Taylor had been left with, turning it into a cool oasis of shade and refreshment. The slaves had constructed a smaller shade cloth over the pair of them, poured well-watered wine that was still cool and handed them both a cup, placed a small table in front of them, laid a cloth and covered the cloth with plates of fruit, small pastries and other delicacies for them to nibble upon.
“It’s not like you to linger without comfort, Ariadne,” Metrodora teased. “But then, it has been a while since I saw you. Has Matthew worn away your love of the finer stuff of life?”
Taylor sipped the watered wine and leaned forward to steal a grape, giving herself time to compose an answer. “Not at all,” she answered. “I was enjoying the sun for a while, first.”
Metrodora’s smile widened. “I don’t see any of your own people here but Kale. You are travelling light.”
“Today, yes,” Taylor agreed, adding Metrodora’s statement to the pile to be considered later. Ariadne had other staff of her own? Other slaves?
But the races began then and Taylor had been fully occupied with her horror at the danger and brutality of chariot racing.
Blue and Green were not the only factions in the city. There were also White and Red teams, but they were minor and barely rated notice. Blue and Green were always the favorites. There could be many teams in a race, which in part was what made it so dangerous.
Only the strongest drivers could control four horses at once. The four-horse chariot races were the most keenly watched of the two types of races generally held on a day of races. The other type of race was the two-horse race. The biggest purses were at stake for the winners of the four-horse races and the biggest amounts of money were spent on wagers predicting which chariot would win.
All this Taylor had learned in the course of two races.
The extent to which a chariot driver would go to ensure he outraced his opponents, she learned within one race. Underhanded football strategies had nothing on chariot racing. She had sat gripping the arms of her high-backed chair, at first astonished, then outraged, then simply horrified at the manipulations and outright attacks upon other drivers’ chariots in order to disable them and gain ground.
There were no rules in chariot racing. The first past the winning post after five laps was the winner. If the winner managed to do it with style and verve, he also became a hero of the people at the same time.
In the very first race of the day, the winning driver had destroyed his nearest competition by ramming the extended hubs of his chariot wheels into the spokes of his opponent. The wheels of the other chariot had disintegrated in spectacular fashion, to the delight of the crowd. The horses had fallen to their knees with piteous whinnies, while the driver had been thrown from his chariot up against the stone walls of the arena. He had fallen to the sand floor and lain motionless until the finish of the race when men in short off-white tunics had hurried to huddle around him, then hurried back to the small door they had emerged from, the driver between them.
The winner of the race was announced by a man standing on a high platform close to the emperor’s box, speaking in crisp, clear sentences that reached Taylor despite the lack of an amplifier.
It was then she dared risk her first question to Metrodora. “What about the injured driver?” she asked.
Metrodora lifted her brow. “He wasn’t very good, was he?” she said, as if she was agreeing with Taylor.
Taylor schooled her expression to neutral. “I mean, will his injuries be taken care of?”
Metrodora shrugged. “In the slave quarters, I suppose. Yes.” She peered more closely at Taylor. “Are you quite all right, Ariadne? You’ve gone pale.”
Taylor nodded. But the thought that wouldn’t go away was making her clutch more tightly at the chair with each heartbeat.
Brody died as a slave. He died as a chariot driver. He died driving chariots.
He could die again.
If they must stay here for months waiting for Veris, then it was probable he would die again.
Metrodora waved to one of her slaves. “Wine. Quickly!”
A cup was thrust into Taylor’s hand and Metrodora lifted the cup to Taylor’s lips. Taylor sipped and thrust it away. “I am all right. Truly.”
This is one of the penalties of knowing the future. One of the prices of time travel.
She sat up from the slump she wasn’t aware she had fallen into and readjusted her veil and robes. Then she smiled at Metrodora. “Do you know who is in the second race?” she asked, deliberately shifting the subject and the focus away from her.
Metrodora wrinkled her forehead, then called for the slave who had the races memorized. The second race had not included Brody, and Taylor had been able to relax and let the excitement of the race wash over her and pass on, while she calmed and sipped her wine.
Now at the end of the second race, which had been as ruthless as the first while still disappointing the audience for lack of spectacle, Taylor had gained some equilibrium. She thought she could deal with the racing with detachment and objectivity – enough to let her get through it and pretend she was Ariadne, the daughter of a general and a native of Constantinople.
Even after the driver had received his laurel wreath and been led away and the sand raked over to remove the detritus from the race in preparation for the third race, Metrodora was still musing over the lack of excitement in the day so far, a small furrow between her brows as she glanced around the Hippodrome. But then her frown disappeared and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
The smile caught Taylor’s attention, for it screamed sensuality and secrecy.
She glanced in the direction that Metrodora was looking, but could not see who was the focus of her gaze. Someone certainly was, though.
“Who is it that has the ability to bring such a soft smile to your lips?” she murmured.
Metrodora’s gaze snapped to Taylor’s face. Then she sighed. “Leontius,” she breathed back and nodded her head while barely moving it.
“He is not known to me,” Taylor said, taking a risk that Leontius was someone that Ariadne knew well.
“I know,” Metrodora agreed, to Taylor’s relief. “He would not be known to anyone of our station. He is a dock worker. A freedman’s son.” Metrodora bit her lip and smiled guiltily.
Taylor puzzled out the unspoken implications. If this Leontius was the son of a freed slave, then he was just barely above slave status himself. He was the lowest of low classes and certainly not a person that Metrodora could be seen with.
“But he makes you happy,” Taylor finished softly.
Metrodora sighed. “Yes,” she admitted in a whisper.
“Can you not go and speak to him, at least?” Taylor asked.
“Heavens above, no!” Metrodora replied, alarm lifting her voice into a squeak. “My husband would want to know where I was going and I would have to take at least four slaves with me. It would be impossible.” But she stared wistfully toward the distant Leontius as if she wished she had wings and could fly over to him.
Her yearning sounded exactly like Taylor’s dilemma. She couldn’t reach Brody without bringing a small army of slaves with her that would hamper every step and report back to Matthew.
“You’re just not considering this clearly because it’s Leontius,” Taylor told Metrodora in a hushed tone that wouldn’t travel. “How do you normally acquire something you want, if you want to reach it discreetly?”
Metrodora gave a small, choked laugh. “I bribe someone to bring the thing to me, of course.” Then her eyes widened. �
��A bribe,” she repeated. She pulled one of her rings off her finger and called to one of her slaves. “This is yours to keep or sell for what you can get, if you follow my instructions carefully and completely. Understand?”
Taylor sat back, her heart thundering.
Bribery. She didn’t need money at all.
As she listened to Metrodora outline the instructions to the slave to smuggle the beloved Leontius to the corridor at the back of the box so that Metrodora could steal a quiet moment with her dock-worker lover, Taylor absorbed the methodology for future use.
The chariots for the next race were being arranged at the starting line. Taylor turned her head toward the fuss, pretending an interest she didn’t have, while she attempted to squash the hot flare of hope and excitement grabbing at her chest and making her eyes water. She clutched at the metal goblet in her hand, making the gems in the base dig into her flesh so the little pain would anchor her.
She had to hold it together and think this through very carefully. Neither Veris nor Brody were here to back her up or help her.
Then she really focused properly on the drivers…on the third from the starter’s favored position at the center post.
Brody.
He was standing in the chariot with his arms outstretched, the eight reins from the horses wrapped around one wrist, his fingers curled around the leather. The whip was in his other hand and he was using it to lightly touch the back of each horse, getting them to settle down and ready themselves.
Taylor gripped the arms of her chair. Inarticulate sound roared through her mind. She was dizzy with it and the chair arms were the only thing keeping her vertical.
“Brody,” she whispered.
Metrodora gripped her wrist. “Ariadne? Are you quite well?”
“How do I stop the race?” Taylor asked, unable to tear her gaze away from Brody, who was staring up at the race starter, now. “It mustn’t go on, he can’t be in it, how do I stop it?”
Metrodora gave a small laugh. “Stop a race? Heaven’s above, why would anyone want to stop a race? I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
Then it was too late. The gilded leaf dropped with a heavy thunk to the “start” position and with a roar of the crowd, the horses reared and snorted as the whips were applied, dug in their hooves and took off, spraying oiled sand.
The race had begun.
Chapter Eight
There was a coppery sweet taste in her mouth that made Taylor want to spit or throw up. She fought back the need because she didn’t dare look away from the chariots circling the far end of the elongated track. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest was locked by a hard band wrapped around it, that tightened each time she saw Brody’s chariot rock or sway or get knocked by one of the others.
He was in second place as he rounded the end marker.
Taylor’s sight—all her senses—narrowed down to a pinpoint focus upon Brody. She heard none of the raucous cheers and bawdy comments of the people in the boxes and seats around them. The blasting heat of the day ceased to touch her. She was in a zone of silence, muffled from the world.
She could see every detail of Brody’s face and body as clearly as if he was standing next to her. He was concentrating fiercely. He wore the tiny furrow he got when he was absorbed in his music, or working on one of their weapons in the small workshop in the basement, determined to make whatever it was he was wrestling with come out right.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders and chest were rigid with the effort to control the horses.
Every few seconds, he glanced at the other drivers, his long hair whipping out behind him as his head turned. He was jockeying for a better position, to take advantage of the turns.
Behind him, two of the chariots clashed, their wheels locking. One overturned, sending the driver rolling across the sand. The chariots behind the two swerved and moved around the melee, hurrying to catch up with Brody and the other leading two chariots.
They turned at the end, completing their third circuit, and Brody eased forward on the inside, separating himself from the third chariot by a good length as they came down the back stretch. It put Brody and the lead chariot ahead of everyone.
Dimly, Taylor could head the crowd cheering happily. This wasn’t the blood and guts they were used to, but a good challenge for the lead was apparently just as entertaining.
The leader, a driver with dark skin who looked shorter than Brody, didn’t like the idea, though. As they were rounding the far end for the second time, he edged his chariot toward Brody’s, getting closer, crowding him to the inside edge.
The fallen chariots were just around the corner, a six foot high barrier of wood, metal and horseflesh directly in Brody’s path, and the leader was going to drive Brody right into them.
Taylor had no breath to call out and no strength to do anything other than sit and watch as Brody’s horses rounded the deep curve, heading for disaster, hemmed in by the leader’s chariot and horses.
At the last minute, Brody hauled on the reins. She heard him calling to the horses to slow, to stop, as the animals tried to skid to a halt before they rammed into the barrier in their way.
The lead chariot shot past the carnage, using the outer half of the track, but that was what Brody had been waiting for. As soon as the chariot moved past him, he urged his horses forward again, steering them around the fallen chariots and inserting himself in front of the chariots that came behind.
He chased after the leader, racing in a big curve around the outer rim of the starting post, while the leader used the inside curve. Now Brody had the outside track as they raced down the back stretch for the final lap. He crowded the leader against the turning post as they rounded the far end, forcing him to slow or cannon into the chariot wreckage. This time, Brody shot past, down the outside stretch. He was in the lead and there were no more turning posts for the other chariot to gain an advantage. The next post was the winning post.
The audience went a little crazy, chanting and cheering, but Taylor couldn’t hear them, except in a disconnected way. She was watching Brody as he drove the chariot down the final stretch toward home. He was scanning the tiers as he drove, his focus shifted now that he knew the race was won.
He was looking for her. She knew it as well as she knew the scar at the base of her thumb.
Taylor didn’t think it was possible for her body to feel any more stress or excitement, but a silvery hot wave shimmered through her, all the way up to the top of her head, leaving her feeling both hot and cold at once.
She realized she was on her feet.
See me! she begged silently as Brody’s gaze tripped across the family boxes one after another.
Just as he rounded the curve, he saw her. She knew it, for she saw his shoulders lift as he drew in a deep breath and his gaze locked on hers. Taylor rested her hand over her heart.
His attention was pulled from her as his team of horses rounded the starting post and crossed the finish line. Brody had won.
Abruptly, Taylor’s hearing returned to normal. The crowd was chanting. “Braenden! Braenden! Braenden!”
Handlers were hurrying out from the tunnels that served the arena, to grab the horses’ ropes and lead the chariots back into the service areas, where the horses would be released, watered and fed and the chariots repaired.
Brody’s chariot was the last to leave the arena. As the winner, he was led to the foot of the emperor’s box. The emperor tossed him a laurel wreath, with a smile and a closed fist that he raised into the air.
Brody was a blue driver and apparently a favorite of the emperor’s…and the crowd.
With more cheering and applause, his chariot was led toward the same tunnel the others had disappeared into.
Taylor saw then that the back of Brody’s white tunic was spotted with patches of fresh red blood.
The roaring sound was back in her ears. She sank down onto the hard stool, only now recalling Brody’s quick words in the tunnel just before they had been separated.
”That is the guards who come now. They have found me missing from my usual spot and seek to find me.”
The guards had punished him for his transgression last night. They had beaten him.
Taylor watched Brody disappear into the tunnel and the heavy gates close behind him, sickness washing over her.
“Ariadne, the heavens help me now, will you look at me!”
It was Metrodora’s voice, in a low, controlled and urgent whisper. Metrodora was plucking at her arm, trying to gain her attention and may have been doing so for some minutes.
Taylor turned to look at her. “I…do not feel quite myself,” she said.
Metrodora’s eyes widened. “You’re milk white!” She glanced around quickly, her hand on Taylor’s wrist. “Now is not the time to faint.”
Taylor shook her head a little. “Not faint…”
Metrodora’s eyes widened even further. “Oh my sweet lord. Kale, quickly!” she called in a soft voice designed not to carry too far.
Kale’s arms were under hers and she was being lifted. Jostled.
“No, don’t bounce me,” Taylor tried to say, but her gorge was rising swiftly.
Cool shade slipped over her, a blessed relief. Then a door was opened and closed.
A bucket was thrust in front of her.
Taylor allowed herself to recall the blood on Brody’s back and how it might have got there. How terrified he had been about being pushed into the enclosed back seat of the police car.
In the eight years she had known Brody, he had fought most doggedly for three things; her and Veris, and personal freedom. All else came second, until Marit had been born and had been added to the first list.
Now he had no freedom at all. He couldn’t even raise his hand to acknowledge her.
Brody had been a vampire so long that human pain, any pain, would be a shock. They had beaten him until he bled.
She had done nothing to help him.
Taylor fell to her knees and was violently sick, to the point where her vision greyed out and her balance left her. Kale held her upright, keeping her veil and hair back.
Kiss Across Chains Page 10