Viper's Nest

by Rachel Ford

  He did, taking off rather more than the Northman had intended. Still, when the looking glass was raised to his face, Trygve had to admit the overall effect was not too terrible. He looked a little neater, a little less ragged, than he had. This, though, he admitted only to himself. Aloud, he grumbled, “What have you done to my beard? I look like a woman.”

  Decimus and Lucretius rolled their eyes, and Tullius declared him, “The ugliest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was shortly after this that Decimus exhausted Trygve’s store of good will. He started with a heavy application of scented oils to what remained of the Northman’s beard.

  Gagging, with perhaps an added measure of emphasis for demonstration’s sake, he demanded, “What in the All-Father’s name is that? What are you putting on my face?”

  Decimus regarded him like a parent might regard an unruly child. “Stop squirming. If you insist on keeping that –” He gestured to the beard with a dismissive wave of an oiled hand. “– we at least need to tend the damned thing.”

  Complaining all the while that he really was intent on turning him into a woman, scented and prettied up until he stunk, he at last reached his breaking point when Decimus said, “Alright, now that’s complete, we should take a look at the rest of you. Take those clothes off.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t be wearing those ghastly things. I’ve got new togas for you. But we’ll have to make sure you’re properly depilated.”

  “What?” Trygve repeated. “De-what?”

  “Depilated. You know, hairless.” The Northman felt his eyes bulging at this response, but Decimus only shrugged. “You can’t wear a toga with hairy legs.”

  Finding his feet, Trygve said, “Fortunate, then, that I won’t be wearing a toga.”

  It was the dresser’s turn to ask, “What?”

  “You’ve already cut and reshaped and reworked my face so that I look a fool. I’ll be damned if I’m going to wear a dress into the mix as well.”

  On this point, Decimus found the Northman altogether intransigent. His hair cut away, his beard trimmed to a fraction of its normal length, and reeking of lavender, this, finally, was the hill he had chosen to die on. He would not don a toga, and no amount of persuasion could convince him to change his mind; and he would not be depilated, however many times the Stellan remarked that he would look like a great, hairy ape.

  “The emperor’s orders were clear,” Decimus protested. “I was to make you presentable before bringing you to the palace.”

  “Well, you must do as you see fit, Stellan. If wearing dresses and being plucked like a chicken about to be roasted is what it takes to serve in your emperor’s court, you must tell him that I am a poor fit.”

  In the end, Decimus accepted his terms. New tunics – “basic tunics, like a common field hand!” – were fetched. These were new and clean and would suffice. “Until you come to your senses, anyway.”

  It was dark by time all was said and done, and – following a few pointed hints from Decimus – Tullius extended an invitation for him to remain the night.

  “Thank you. It is a long ride back, and it wouldn’t make sense to take it just to return tomorrow morning.” Throwing a sour gaze in Trygve’s direction, he added, “Not that it should have taken so long. But, here we are.”

  Trygve rose early. Decimus had said they’d need to rise before the sun to reach the palace on time, and so he did. Not that it had made much difference; he hadn’t been sleeping anyway.

  He had nothing to pack. The Stellan was managing his limited wardrobe, and everything else he could fit into the satchel that hung from his belt. He had nothing left to take but the blade at his side, and, of course, Gunnar. He was heading for the door, when he paused.

  That wasn’t entirely true. There was still one thing. He headed to a decorative wooden box on a far shelf and flipped the lid. There, inside right where he’d left it, was a leather pouch with the scorpion’s stinger.

  He’d taken it in a moment of revenge, when he’d thought Gunnar was dead. He’d kept it to remind him of how cold that comfort had been, how alone he had felt in that moment.

  He took it now, for the same reason. Trygve Bjarneson was dead, by his own choices. Trygve Ingensen could live, or he would die, by new choices.

  He slipped the stinger into the satchel. Trygve Bjarneson had been a man who lived in the moment, for the moment. Trygve Ingensen would be more prudent; he must be more prudent.

  “Come on, Gunnar,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Tullius had risen to bid his guest a farewell, and Lucretius had dropped by as well. “I have to get back soon,” he said. “But I wanted to say goodbye. I hope we see you again, Northman.”

  “You will,” he said. “I don’t know what manner of living space I’ll have for myself, yet. But perhaps, if you find yourself in the area, you will stop by.”

  Tullius shook his hand, advising, “Remember: no signing anything if you can’t read it. Or if you’re drunk.”

  Trygve laughed, and Decimus tutted that time was running out. And with no further ado, they departed.

  The sky was dim and gray as they set out, but as they moved from the rolling hills, bustling with agriculture and dotted in villas, the sun began its ascent. It was early when they reached the outskirts of the city. Stella was just waking up, but Decimus’ imperial pass gave him preferential passage on the narrow streets, so they made good time.

  Trygve had been through the city twice before, once at night and once when he could barely keep his eyes open. This time, he took the opportunity to study his surroundings as they went.

  The city was huge, dissected by a series of labyrinthine streets and dark alleys. Buildings rose and fell all around. Some were dingy structures that reached so high they seemed to touch the sky itself. Others were one or two stories, with, neat, clean fronts. He had never seen so many buildings together, or a city so large. There was nothing like this in the North.

  Decimus had spent the better part of their trip so far dozing, but seeing Trygve’s interest as he woke, he obliged the Northman with a truncated guide to the city. They were, he told them, passing through the river district. There were equal parts industry, to take advantage of the hydropower and transportation the waters provided, and dwelling here, for the laborers and – in the more scenic areas – for the upper classes.

  The city, Decimus explained, was divided into six districts, with the imperial district at the center. As the name implied, it was the seat of imperial power, where the palace, the Senate, and the governing bodies resided. Like spokes around a wheel, the other districts were spread out around it. The river district, from Tullius’ villa, was the shortest path to the imperial district, but there were also the temple, new, old, and residential districts. “They are all self-explanatory, in their own way,” the Stellan said. “The temple district is not all temples, of course, and there are temples elsewhere in the city. But the finest and oldest temples are to be found there.”

  “And I take it the old district is…old?”

  Decimus seemed to be in a good humor this morning, because he laughed. “Yes. That’s the Stellan genius at work, you see.” Then, growing more serious, he explained, “It is the site of the oldest settlements, where the gods first led our people. And the new district – well, it’s not new anymore. It was named new two centuries ago. But in the span of our empire…” He shrugged. “It is new, in its own way.”

  The time passed quickly for Trygve as he learned something of the topography of the city; and yet, it seemed to take hours as he thought of what lay in store.

  But, finally, a palace rolled into view. The Northman stared in sheer stupefaction. He’d never imagined, much less seen, so much marble gathered in one place, arranged in pillars and statues, in facades and porticos. Warriors and goddesses, none of whom he recognized, lined the way to the palace. Men and women wearing imperial laurel wreaths, their visages captured eternally in stone, bec
koned them on.

  “Well,” Decimus said, “and here we are!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What?” Cassia demanded. “What is it?”

  Faustus shrugged with an air of innocence that might have worked, if not for the grin he wore.

  “What are you up to?” she said. “What’s this surprise, anyway?” He’d been talking about – and then, not talking, but just seeming far too pleased with himself – it since the night before.

  “Patience, love,” he said.

  “Now that’s not fair. You know I have none.”

  His grin broadened, but he was unpersuaded. “Well, you’re going to have to find some.” She pretended to pout, and he came around to kiss her. “Anyway, what kind of example will that set for our son?”

  She laughed now. “Son? Who says it’s going to be a son?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, and then declared, “I do. I’ve got a feeling about it.”

  She pulled him closer. “Oh, really?”

  For a few minutes they continued in this manner, kissing and exchanging the kind of lovers’ nonsense that, until recently, they hadn’t spoken for far too long. Then a knock sounded at the door. Faustus’ eyes lit up, and she grinned at his excitement.

  Decimus entered first, and with an exaggerated obeisance said, “Your imperial highnesses: allow me to present, my miracle.”

  At this, he stepped aside, ushering in another form. Cassia frowned, her mind trying to place the identity of the newcomer as he offered the shallowest of bows. He was tall, easily half a meter taller than the dresser, and had an air that was at once familiar and foreign.

  His hair was light and shorn close, but not too close, in the style of the day. Unlike the standards of the day, though, his lower face was covered in a beard. It was short and neatly trimmed, but an unusual sight on a Stellan.

  Then again, so too were his clothes. He wore a tunic and trousers like a plebian. But for all that, he carried himself with a dignity that was not common – much less from a Stellan before his emperor and empress.

  Faustus, meanwhile, had turned expectant eyes to her. “Well?”

  She shook her head, uncomprehendingly.

  “Don’t you recognize him?”

  “No.”

  “You have worked a miracle, Decimus,” he said with appreciation. “It’s the Northman, love. The one from the arenas.”

  Comprehension, at last, dawned. His braids had been cut, his beard aggressively trimmed…but she saw the man underneath, now. The arrogance in his posture, the surety of his stance and the confidence in his eyes: it was the same as the man who had made himself a victor in the arenas. “Oh.”

  Faustus, meanwhile, had risen, and was ushering the Northman forward. In the common tongue, he said, “Come. Come in. My love, allow me to present Trygve Ingensen. Victor, this is my wife, Empress Cassia Augusta.”

  Here, at last, the Northman spoke. He bowed again, a little less rigidly this time. “I am honored, Empress.”

  “Welcome to our home, Trygve.” She turned to her husband, asking in their own language, “But why is he here, Faustus?”

  “Why do you think, my pet?” Reverting to common speech, he said, “Only the best fighter in the realm will do for bodyguard to my wife and son.”

  Cassia’s surprise made way for concern. She had not expected to see the Northman again – not after his pointed refusal to speak to Senator Felix. He’d made his desire to stay out of politics, to avoid rocking the boat or crossing Caius, known with that, hadn’t he?

  Of course, he wouldn’t have known that she was a part of Felix’s efforts. And yet, here he was, somehow inserted into the midst of the imperial household.

  She wondered at that. Faustus wouldn’t have known. He wouldn’t have approved of her and Felix’s planning if he did, and he certainly wouldn’t have attempted to aid them.

  Her husband had no particular love for Governor Caius, she knew. He thought him vain and arrogant, and too greedy for his own good. But Faustus had a statesman’s ability not to let dislike get in the way of politics and business. And Caius – whatever else he was – was good for politics and business.

  That that consideration outweighed the others was a point of disagreement between Faustus and Cassia, and so she had prosecuted her investigation without his knowledge.

  No, whatever the reason for the Northman’s sudden arrival, Faustus’ part in it was as straightforward as he let on. Of that, she was sure.

  That still left plenty of room for uncertainty, though. Was Trygve Ingensen still on Caius’ payroll? Had the governor gotten wind of their inquiries? Was he onto her and Felix? But, even if he was, could he persuade the Northman to work for him again, after the arena?

  Perhaps. Maybe she’d gotten things wrong on that front. Maybe Ingensen was as willing a gladiator as anyone. Maybe he’d done it for the money; maybe he was still working for Caius for the money.

  She scrutinized the Northman. Despite his confident air, there was a stiffness to his shoulders and a caution in his eyes that betrayed his nerves. When he threw glances about him, and he did with some regularity, she could detect no guile in them. He was uncomfortable, out of place, and going to pains to hide the fact. But that was the extent of any deception she could detect.

  There was a kind of slickness to some men, a shrewdness and cunning masked by obsequiousness. It seemed, Cassia thought, to pool in the Senate, like the oily runoff that floated to the top of flooded city streets during a storm. Such men seemed inexorably drawn to power, to politics, and – if they had the skill for it – to the Senate, or governorships.

  She had gotten rather good at detecting it; and she didn’t see it in Trygve. But then, he was a stranger. His own brand of politicking might look quite unlike the polished Stellan veneer to which she was accustomed.

  Faustus, meanwhile, was in raptures. His initial dislike of Trygve, so many weeks ago, for defying his orders in the arena seemed long forgotten. He had acquired, he said again and again, the finest fighter who had ever stepped foot on Stellan soil; and was there anyone better suited to protect his wife, and his son?

  Not for the first time, the words gave Cassia a pang. Her husband’s sureness that their child would be a boy worried her. For her own part, she wouldn’t have minded either way. But Faustus had set his heart on a firstborn son. The odds being as good against him as not, she couldn’t help but wonder how grieved he would be if his expectations were disappointed. He’ll love our daughter, if that’s what we have, as well as a son, though, she told herself. Of course he will.

  She didn’t have much time to convince herself of the words, though. Faustus, once satisfied that Trygve was exactly what he’d hoped, decided to acclimate him to his new home. A whirlwind tour of the palace commenced, with the emperor laying out what was expected of him in what portions of the residence.

  “You’ll wait outside the baths, of course, and make sure no one is permitted in without Cas’ authorization.”

  “You’ll only be permitted inside the chapel on certain days. Unless you give up those heretical gods of yours.” This was said with a laugh and received with polite disinterestedness.

  Faustus was intent on showing off his acquisition, too. “During feasts, I’ll want you to stand…somewhere over here. So you’ll be out of the way, but so that everyone can see you.” In their own language, he confided, “Do you know, half the city wanted him to sign on with them? I’ll bet there’ll be some surprised guests tonight, eh?”

  Cassia smiled wanly. Her husband’s triumph was a little too pronounced for her comfort, like a man congratulating himself on securing a prize racehorse or hunting a great bear rather than discussing a human being. He didn’t mean it like that, of course. Faustus sometimes just let his enthusiasm get in the way of his judgement.

  After a space, she made her excuses to return to her own work and let the tour progress without her.

  “Are you tired love?”

  “A little,” she dem
urred.

  “We can continue later.” Faustus, now, was being gallant, but his disappointment was evident in his features.

  “Oh, no. Please, finish. I will see you when you’re done.”

  He kissed her. “Alright. You rest. You’ve got to take care of yourself – and our boy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trygve stood where Emperor Faustus had directed. It had been a long and strange day, first acquainting himself with his new settings, and now attending his first night on duty. He’d hardly spoken five words to the empress, whose guard he was. It was Faustus who had given him his directions for the day. He was to stand guard during the night’s feast. The timing of his hiring, it seemed, was not by accident. The emperor had planned that his first day should coincide with a feast. “It will be good for those vipers to know you’re protecting my family,” he’d said.

  Now, Trygve felt rather a fool, fixed in place with no occupation. The party was full of gentle people, with soft hands and softer frames. Vipers, they might be. But threats? To a stocked wine cellar, perhaps. But nothing else.

  Still, the futility of his endeavors was nothing compared to the commentary he overheard.

  These people, it seemed, did not comprehend that a Northman might understand their language. He had not disabused the emperor and empress of this folly earlier, nor did he enlighten anyone else in the moment. He was a stranger in a truly strange world. It seemed prudent to know what others thought – what they truly thought – of him.

  It had seemed prudent, at least, until he began to hear it. Now, he wasn’t so sure. His presence had caused a stir as the feast began. Faustus was congratulated and envied, cautioned and cajoled.

  “How’d you do it, Your Highness? Poor Claudius was turned down flat, and he was offering to pay more than what half a dozen men could expect.”

  “I’d never be able to keep such a monster in my house,” another patrician declared. “Lest he accidentally step on one of the servants and squash them.”