by Rachel Ford
She smiled. “Yes. Tomorrow. If you choose to stay, at least. And Trygve? If my husband is truly ignorant of who you are? Well, that is as well. For you. I should keep it that way, if I were you.”
Chapter Sixteen
He did. Cassia found him awake and waiting at his post, outside her door the next morning. She was glad the Northman had not gone. In a sense, his leaving might have made things easier. In keeping him here, she ran a risk – not a great risk, she thought, but a risk all the same – that Faustus would discover his true identity.
Her husband would not care what the particulars of Trygve’s case were. He would not be able to see past Fyodor’s gold, and the possibility of causing instability between the Northern kingdoms when one arrested the son of the other. He’d see the promise of trade agreements with Fyodor’s Mir, and how much revenue that would bring in. She could not blame Faustus. He was, in some ways, a better statesman than she. He could put the empire’s interests over the individual’s in a way she never could. To her mind, the empire existed to serve and protect individuals, and if it failed in that, it failed to justify its own existence. To her husband, the empire was a good unto itself, and so what was good for Stella was objectively good.
It would be good for Stella to turn the Northman over to Fyodor and reap the rewards of that trade. But she had no reason to believe that would be justice. Trygve would have killed two men. And yet, she knew only too well what it was like to be where his sisters had been. She’d been luckier than most, with Faustus.
But could she condemn a man to death and torment for trying to rescue his sisters from an unwanted marriage? That was something her husband would never understand. He would never know what it was to know that your fate was not your own, that your choices had been made by someone else. He would never know what it was like to be bargained off to someone, and to spend your waking hours fearing what kind of man you were to be given to, to know that your happiness, your very safety, hinged on someone else making a lucky guess.
She did, and though she’d been lucky, she’d shed enough tears in the process, and spent enough fearful moments to understand where Trygve was coming from.
And no one had died, after all. Whatever he’d meant to do, he’d failed. And he’d answered for his mistakes by losing everything. Surely that was enough. He’d pledged his word that he meant no harm to her family. And she believed him. There had been nothing but sincerity in his expression and tone. But, more importantly, there had been no lie in his eyes. No, Trygve didn’t mean her harm.
She would not – could not – tell her husband what she’d learned. That did not entirely protect Trygve, of course. Faustus did not speak the language of the North, and he had heard with only mild interest of the attempts on the northern kings’ lives. His reaction had been much like her own: as long as the northern kingdoms kept their problems internal, they were of little concern to them. He had not spoken of it since, and so Cassia hoped that he had thought no more of it, either.
Certainly, if he suspected Trygve’s identity, he would not have hired him into the royal household. No, she felt fairly certain that the Northman was safe from discovery. To that end, she would tell no one – no one but Felix.
How odd the machinations of Fate. Felix would be amused, she thought, at this turn of events: the gladiator who had refused to even speak of his time in the arena, now here in the palace and on the imperial payroll.
All of this, though, had to wait. She had barely time to get a note to Felix before Faustus rose with a headache from too much indulgence the night before and planted himself heavily in a chair beside her. “There’s an army marching inside my head right now,” he sighed.
“I’ll call for coffee,” she offered.
“Hemlock would be better,” he said. “It’d be quicker.”
She shook her head, smiling at him. He’d covered his eyes with a hand, but she could see purple and gray ruts peeking out from under his palm. “Oh Faustus. You always do this to yourself.”
“I know, I know. Just get me the coffee.”
“I thought you wanted poison?” she teased, kissing him as she rose.
“Such an evil woman,” he opined. “Laughing at my pain.”
This time, she did laugh. “My poor husband. How much you suffer.”
Coffee was fetched, and slowly but surely Faustus was cajoled to open his eyes and keep them open. His queries of “Why do I do this to myself?” and “I’m too old for this,” lessened, and at length he was able to present a tolerably alert façade.
“Remind me, Cass,” he implored. “Next time. Remind me that this is what waits.”
“You know I always do,” she said, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. “And you know you always ignore me.”
He grinned. “True.”
“Come on. Let’s get some breakfast in you. You always feel better after breakfast.”
Trygve tried to refrain from grimacing as the royal couple simpered and giggled their way through breakfast. He’d expected the empress to pick up the conversation where they’d left off the night before. But she’d made no mention of anything. On the contrary, he might not have even been there for the attention he was paid. Oh, she’d been courteous enough. She’d said good morning and made the requisite inquiries after his well-being. But her focus had been on Faustus after that, and she’d barely glanced at him.
The emperor, even after he’d stopped moaning into his coffee cup, was less interested in his presence. He’d not even managed a greeting. It was a curious change of pace from the night before, where Trygve had seemed a prize exhibit more than a person. This morning, he was no more interesting than an old, tired painting.
At first, he was annoyed with the pair of them. He was annoyed with the way that Cassia avoided his eye. He was annoyed by the way Faustus pretended to look straight through him.
But as he stood there mulling the wisdom of his remaining after all, an idea crossed his mind. Cassia’s silence seemed to correlate with Faustus’ arrival. He remembered, vaguely, something she’d said the night before, about the emperor not knowing his real name. He tried to recall the precise words.
That is as well. For you.
What had she meant by that? Did she intend to keep Trygve’s secret, even from her husband? It was a logical conclusion, and yet it puzzled him. There was an intimacy between them that was apparent at a glance. Aside from her pregnancy – itself, as good a clue as anything – they shared the unspoken language of lovers: the stolen glances and gentle caresses, the lovestruck smiles and lingering looks.
They’re worse than Tullius and Lucretius, he thought ill humoredly. Then, he realized that his musings had gone somewhat astray, and he returned to the more pressing topic.
Was Cassia planning to conceal Trygve’s identity from her husband? And, if so, why? How could a woman who regarded a man as well as she seemed to regard Faustus – as, he was certain, she did – in turn keep secrets from him?
What was the empress’ scheme? And what role did he play in it?
Chapter Seventeen
Breakfast had done Faustus good, as she thought it might. His expression was still a little haggard, but he was laughing freely now. “You know,” he said, pulling her onto his lap as she tried to walk past, “I should have listened to you. I would have had a much better time if I’d just gone to bed when you said.”
She grinned. “Yes. But…” She pushed herself up. “You didn’t.”
“Well, no time like the present to make up for that.”
“I have work,” she said, pecking him on the lips. “And so do you.”
He groaned. “It will wait.”
“It can’t wait. Anyway, Felix is going to be here soon.”
A grimace spread across his face. “For the love of Minerva, I can’t go two days without seeing that damned man.”
“Don’t be like that, love,” Cassia chided. “He’s a good man.”
Faustus’ good humor seemed to have gone with the turn of
the conversation. A scowl had settled onto his features, and the dark circles under his eyes seemed the more pronounced for it. “He’s a pretentious old fool who can’t get his head out of the past.”
A shadow crossed her own thoughts and mood. “I’ve got to go, Faustus,” she said firmly.
“I know. Felix waits.”
“The day waits,” she returned, “and I’ve spent enough of it already tending to your headache.”
His scowl deepened, and she found herself sighing with regret at her tone. “Come on,” she said, this time more gently. “Your day is just as busy as mine.” She took his hand, tugging at it playfully. “But I’ll try to get done as soon as I can. And maybe we can take dinner in my room tonight, eh?”
He nodded sullenly, but the scowl softened. “That might work.”
“Good.” She grinned at him. “And we’ll see if we can’t figure out a way to put you in a better mood, handsome.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the Northman shudder and roll his eyes. She’d forgotten about him, in the moment. It was one thing to have guards posted throughout the palace, but another to have an attendant always nearby. She appreciated Faustus’ solicitude, of course, in hiring him, but this was going to take some getting used to.
Well, once the baby’s born, it will be different. Then, her opinionated bodyguard would have someone else to watch, and life would go back to normal. Still, in the meantime, she was a little more self-conscious as she kissed her husband. “Have a good day, Faustus.”
“You too, beautiful.”
There it was – the grimace, spreading on Trygve’s features. He checked it when he caught her eye, but it was too late. She frowned at him, saying in an imperious tone as she passed, “With me, if you please, Trygve.”
“Keep her safe, Northman,” Faustus called after them.
“Yes, my lady. Of course, my lord.”
They walked in silence until they reached her lower office, with him following at a respectful distance. “So,” she said, “what we were discussing last night…”
“Yes, Empress.”
She gestured for him to take a seat across from her, and he did so – with a little difficulty, as the chair had been designed for a slighter form than his. It rather negated his air of stiff, formal dignity.
“You signed with Governor Caius, for the games. Tell me about that. Why become a gladiator?”
He snorted. “I was tricked.” Then, moderating his tone, he added a respectful, “My lady.”
She nodded slowly. “Tell me about it, then.”
“I was drunk. I’d gotten into a…well, a kind of scuffle, if you will, with a few locals.”
She felt an eyebrow climbing her forehead. “I might have thought,” she said mildly, “you would have avoided that sort of thing. Given your history.”
His cheeks flushed. “Yes. Well, I didn’t. I’d just lost my ship, and my crew.”
“I’m sorry.”
He scrutinized her for a moment, and the defensiveness went out of his gaze. “Thank you. But the governor came along, and plied me with more liquor, until I was so out of my senses that I signed a contract.”
“So you really had no idea of what you were signing?” she pressed.
“Of course not. I don’t even remember signing. I just know I must have, because I woke up in the damned arena.” He caught himself, again a moment too late. “That is, the arena.”
“I have heard worse words, gladiator,” she assured him.
He seemed unsure of how to respond to that, as he shifted wordlessly in his seat – and the entire thing moved with him as he did so.
She refrained from smiling, though it was a comical sight. His pride, she sensed, was still a bit too fragile after his treatment the night before to allow amusement at his own expense. “But tell me, Trygve: have you no interest in seeing him punished for deceiving you?”
The Northman’s cheeks flushed again. “What I said, my lady, was said in anger. Rufus should not have repeated it.”
“Rufus? You mean, the arena keeper?” This time, she did laugh. “You mistake me, Northman. I am not trying to trick you into admitting anything. I was unaware of your thoughts on the topic.” She grinned. “Although I am admittedly curious now as to what might have been said. But I am asking because what you describe is illegal. A signature compelled from a drunk is not valid. Putting a man in the arena on such a pretext is illegal.”
“Oh.” He seemed nonplussed by this. “It is?”
“It is.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “if it’s illegal, why does he do it?”
She shrugged. “Because no one has brought a case against him yet – a solid case.”
He blinked. “And – that is the information you wanted from me? To get vengeance on him?”
“To get justice,” she corrected. “You are not his only victim, Trygve. And – though many do not live to speak of it – you have lived and have the chance to speak.”
“To whom?” he asked, and there was a note of caution in his voice. “Wouldn’t it be enough to tell you? You are Empress, after all.”
She smiled, though with little amusement. “You might think so, Northman. But no. Caius is a popular governor. He has many allies in the senate, and…” She hesitated. It was Faustus’ name that popped into mind.
“And in the Emperor?” he prompted.
Cassia regarded him with wide-eyed surprise. Had she been so transparent, then, when thinking of her husband? Or was Trygve better acquainted with the politics of Stella than he let on? “Perhaps,” she said. “He has a way of making friends in high places, to insulate himself from the consequences of his actions.”
“Then what good will my speaking out do, except to make enemies of those people in high places?”
He was no fool, this Northman. She was glad of that. It might make him harder to persuade, but a fool was a weak ally. “You will not speak alone. There are…” She spread her hands and looked him square in the eye. “You understand, Trygve, what I’m about to say is strictly confidential – my ears and yours alone?”
“Of course.”
She nodded. “There are others. You will be one voice among several. I will present the case to the senate, with my judgement. Your circumstance, and the others’, are the framework on which my case will be built. But without a good case, to dismiss Caius – much less recommend charges – would be to provoke a war in the Senate.”
He considered this for a moment. “I see.”
“There is – I won’t lie, Northman – a risk to yourself in this. Not only that you will be recognized – on that score, at least, you are in Stellan territory, and Tsar Fyodor’s laws do not impact these borders. But Governor Caius is, as I’ve said, a powerful man, with powerful allies. If he catches wind of what we’ve done…” She shook her head darkly. “There have been men, enemies of his, who have died in mysterious circumstances. Men who have been knifed in the streets or run down by carriages that should have seen them. Which is why we want to build an airtight case, so when we arrest him, there can be no disputing the charges. But it is not without risk.”
Trygve scoffed. “Is this Stellan justice?”
“There’s never evidence, of course. Just a string of timely deaths and odd disappearances that benefit him.”
“He is a coward.”
“Among other things, yes.” Cowardice, in her mind, was the lesser of the evils of which Caius was guilty, but she didn’t belabor the point. “What do you say, Northman? Will you work with me on this?”
Chapter Eighteen
Fate, Trygve thought, was a funny animal. He’d meant to lie low in Stella. He’d spent his first week in his new country fighting for his life in front of half the world, it seemed. He’d disappeared after that, just to be dragged out and put on some kind of display for the Stellan court. And now, here he was, engaged in conspiracy against the man who had thrown him into the arena – effectively, putting a target on his own back.
&nb
sp; All-Father. I’m an imbecile. Still, it was a conspiracy of justice. He’d done worse things, hadn’t he? And how could he turn Cassia down? He had hated the governor and would have been happy to exact revenge at the point of a blade. But this would work, too.
Anyway, there had been a kind of fear in the Empress’ eyes as she spoke of Caius. He didn’t like that. Stellan ways were strange to him, but a man as corrupt and dangerous as the governor of Blackstone, a man so wicked he could frighten an empress, was a man who needed to be brought down.
In a sense, it was an extension of his duty. He was here to protect her, wasn’t he? And if she was working to bring Caius to justice, she’d put a target on her own back too. The sooner Caius was out of the picture, the sooner she’d be safe.
It was not his conversation with Cassia, though, that Trygve found the most interesting. It was their conference with Senator Felix.
The old man arrived soon after he’d agreed to help. Cassia greeted him with a hug. “Felix, come in. I’ve got a surprise for you. This is Trygve – and he’s agreed to work with us.”
The senator fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Well, well. I am pleased to meet you at last, Trygve Ingensen.”
Cassia caught Felix up briefly, and the Northman took the opportunity to study the newcomer. He was older, but not as old as a first glance had indicated. His hair was thin and white, and his brow lined with creases. Trygve put him somewhere around three-score years, or maybe a little less.
He had quick eyes, though, and was careful in his expressions. A politician. Trygve wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him, but Cassia’s warmth did prejudice him in the other man’s favor.
Still, he determined to be guarded in his own answers to this stranger.
“Well,” Felix said, “I have to admit, I did not think I would ever see you, Victor.” Trygve felt himself grimace at the title, and the senator apologized a moment later. “I’m sorry. Do you not care for the honorific?”
