by Rachel Ford
“You have not changed your mind, about Caius, I mean?” she asked.
He regarded her curiously, as if he had not expected that query. After the spectacle of the morning, she could well believe his thoughts preoccupied with that. “I have not.”
She nodded. “Good. Because I think we will act soon.”
“Is our case strong enough?” Felix wondered.
“I think it will have to be.”
It was Felix’s turn to fix her with a quizzical look. “Oh?”
“Yes. I have an idea, Felix. I want to raise the wage.”
The older man’s eyes widened. “You’ve finally gotten through to that husband of yours? I can hardly believe it.”
“No,” she said.
Felix’s expression changed at the sadness in her tone. “Oh.”
“But I’m going to do it anyway.”
He nodded. “Is everything…alright, Cas?”
“Of course, Felix. We just…had a disagreement. You know how he is, about money.”
The senator’s face clouded, but he only nodded.
She forced herself to smile. “It’ll be alright. He’ll come around, once he sees that it’s for the best.”
“Of course.” Felix sounded no more convinced than she was. “But what does that have to do with Caius?”
“Everything.” Pushing aside the thoughts of Felix, she grew more animated. “For it to pass, we need a majority in the Senate.”
“That may be harder to do than you’d hope,” the senator sighed. “There’s a lot of men in the Forum who owe their seats to one of the industrialists.”
“Yes,” Cassia nodded. “And Gallus is one.”
“Gallus?”
She grinned at the way his face wrinkled as he said the name. Gallus was the de facto head of the opposition, a frequent sparring partner of Felix’s. “Yes. Who fronted the money for his candidacy announcement parade? Who bribed Antonius and Marinius to stay out of the race?”
Felix’s eyes widened. “Caius.”
“And who in the senate secured Caius’ governorship of Blackstone island?”
There was a gleam of appreciation in the older man’s eyes now. “Gallus.”
“So if we time it right, we can take Gallus down when we take Caius down.”
“You mean, right before the election.”
Her grin returned. “Exactly.”
“And when people hear about all he’s done, it won’t just be Gallus at risk of losing his seat. It’ll be his entire coalition.”
She nodded. “Yes. Which means, we need to make sure we have good people running for those seats.”
Trygve had listened to their scheming with rapt attention. He was one part surprised and another impressed. Cassia’s skill at this struck him. She was clever – brilliant even – in a way he had not yet seen in her day to day dealings. Her plan to bring down the conservative coalition might have made his skin crawl, if there had been another reason behind it.
But she did it to help her own people, to feed her hungry and tend her poor. In a world full of schemers, surrounded by men weaving their selfish machinations like spiders wove their myriad webs, he found himself admiring her rather more than he would have thought possible. He abhorred this kind of politicking. He abhorred it in the North, where as often as not such schemes came to clashing steel. He abhorred it more here, where matters were settled with sleight of hand and double crosses.
She was not a shield maiden, or a warrior queen. She was not the kind of woman he was normally given to admire. But she was still a warrior, in her own way. She brought her mind, her ample brainpower, to the field before her. And, hearing her plans, he was convinced she outclassed anyone arrayed against her – not least of all, her idiot of a husband.
And the fact was, Trygve did admire her. He had admired her kindness since he’d met her. She had been good to him, when no one else had bothered. Now, he admired the quickness of her mind, and the carefulness of her thoughts.
But as he watched her, he found that he admired the symmetry of her features, and how it was offset by that crooked, self-satisfied grin that used to irritate him so much. He didn’t see it as smug anymore. It was the quiet smile of a woman who was not used to having her cleverness appreciated the way it deserved to be appreciated. It was the smile of a woman who was used to keeping her own counsel. It was the smile of a woman who should have been told more often how brilliant she was – not by a manipulative fool like Faustus, but by a man who really meant it, and loved her for it.
He found that he admired the poise and cut of her figure, too; he admired the sun kissed bronze of her shoulders, and the ample waves of brown hair that hung over them. He admired the glow in her cheeks, and the blue of her eyes as she grew more animated in their discussions.
And he felt his heart stir when she would glance over at him, and say in her quiet way, “Trygve, what do you think of this?” or “Would you be alright with that, Trygve?”
Before the afternoon was over, a terrible realization settled in the Northman’s thoughts: he was falling in love.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Trygve was almost glad when, on the morrow, Emperor Faustus said, “Cass, I’m going to the races today, and I promised Iulius a chance to see our Northman. You wouldn’t mind if I borrow him?”
Cassia glanced up. The pair had not reconciled as such, but they’d spoken no more of the topic that had yesterday caused so much grief. She caught Trygve’s eye, and he forced an easy smile, ignoring the quickening beats of his heart. She nodded in turn, saying, “As you wish.”
“Good. You can always take one of the guards, if you’re going anywhere.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Then, she reached over and took her husband’s hand, caressing the back of it with her thumb. “Thank you, though.”
He smiled, a hesitant kind of smile. Trygve glanced away, as angry with himself – with far more justification – as he was with Faustus. He had no reason to resent the emperor’s receipt of this affection; there was no basis for the ridiculous feeling of jealousy that swelled in his chest. Faustus was Cassia’s husband, the father of their child-to-be. Of course she loved him. Of course she was affectionate to him.
Trygve saw, from the corner of his eyes, Faustus put her hand to his lips. “Have a good day, my Cass.”
“You too, Faustus.”
The Northman grimaced. It was going to be a long day, he thought. Still, it would be better spent away from the palace. Away from her. He was being an imbecile, and a little time and space to clear his mind would set things right again. Today, he’d go with Faustus to the chariot races. Tomorrow was his day off. He’d head to the country, to the open hills and free-falling greens of Tullius’ villa. He’d take Gunnar for a long run. It would do the snow leopard good as well as him.
In short, for the next two days, he’d put Cassia far from his mind, and when he saw her again, his head would be right, his heart under control.
That was the plan, anyway. The first part of the ride to the track was spent in the usual silence Faustus observed around him. The emperor seemed to be lost to his own thoughts, and that suited Trygve just fine.
But after a space, he spoke. “So, did you ever go back to Hadriana?”
The Northman glanced up. “My lord?”
“Hadriana. The girl, who was so interested in you.”
“Oh. No, my lord.”
Faustus snorted. “Really? I would have thought a red-blooded Northman like you would have jumped at the opportunity.”
Trygve didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
The emperor was silent a moment, then shrugged. “On the other hand, I can’t say that I blame you. It always seems like a good idea when you start. But I’m not sure I’ve met a woman yet who was really worth the trouble.”
Trygve felt his jaw tighten at the implied slight against Cassia. “I’m sorry to hear it, my lord.”
Faustus grunted. “Tell me, Northman…my wife…she spends a lot of t
ime with Felix, doesn’t she?”
Trygve watched the emperor warily. “They are old friends,” he said noncommittally.
“Do you ever hear what they talk about, when they’re together?”
“I’m sorry. I am not privy to their discussions,” he lied.
Faustus laughed, and it was not a particularly mirthful sound. “She likes to play it close to the vest, does my Cass. Doesn’t she?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord.”
This was accepted with a nod of the head, and once again silence settled between them. The conversation, brief though it had been, threw a pall over the rest of the day, though. Rather than pushing Cassia out of his mind, Faustus had ensured she occupied a prominent role in it. He wondered what, if anything, the emperor suspected of her scheme. Had one of her confidante’s betrayed her trust? Or was it nothing more than their conversation of the morning before, still playing in Faustus’ thoughts?
Now, he took no pleasure in the day’s frivolities. He wanted to return, to catch a moment alone with Cassia to relate what he’d been asked. And the thought of seeking her out, of being of use to her, superseded all his prior plans. She was now foremost in his thoughts again – exactly where he hadn’t wanted her.
The races, though, could not be avoided. Nor could Iulius. Iulius was a patrician, to judge by the fine fabric and gold trim of his toga and the heavy application of gold rings on his fingers. His manners, though, were rather courser than many of the nobleman Trygve had so far encountered. His tones were brasher, his gestures more animated, and his thoughts expressed with less reserve.
This was not to say that the Northman disliked Iulius, exactly, but rather that he was not entirely sure what to make of him. With heavy jowls, small eyes and a great, barking laugh, he seemed more dog than man. “My gods,” he bellowed. “How did you fit such a giant in your carriage?” He was laughing now and shaking Faustus’ hand vigorously. Then he turned to Trygve and said – in a very broken attempt at the Northern language – “I’m pleased to meet you, Northman. I missed your fight – I was out of the country – but I am told you were spectacular.”
Trygve accepted the hand Iulius offered, and said, “Thank you, sir. I am told the same. I know only that I lived.”
The southerner laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder. At least, he tried to clap him on the shoulder, but Iulius was a short man even by the standards of his own people; so his hand fell somewhat short of the mark, landing on Trygve’s arm instead. “That’s enough I suppose, eh?” Reverting to the common language, he said, “He’s a funny man, this Northman of yours, Faustus.”
Faustus offered a supercilious smile. “I knew you’d like him.”
“Like him? I’ve half a mind to steal him from you. No one would dare touch my caravans again – not with a giant like that leading them.”
They laughed in this manner, Iulius remembering Trygve’s presence more often than Faustus. Still, he was drawn into and then left out of their conversation so abruptly that he couldn’t wait for the races to actually begin.
Iulius joined Faustus in the royal box, and Trygve stood in the rear, behind the pair of them. The crowd roared with approval at seeing the emperor, and he in turn beamed to be so greeted. After a moment of returning their salutations with waves, he motioned for them to take their places.
The stands, Trygve saw, were much like the arena seating, divided between private, shaded boxes and open, crammed benches. At Faustus’ gesture, the multitude was seated. Then the emperor walked to the edge of his box. A little table was set there, with a red cloth. He lifted this and held it high for all to see.
Then, he dropped it. It was, Trygve realized, a signal for the race to begin. At the far end of the arena, a series of gates sprang open. The sound of horses’ hooves and shouted commands sounded but was drowned out as quickly by the roar of the crowd.
Then he saw them: a dozen chariots, gleaming in the morning sunlight, each drawn by four horses. He had seen depictions of chariots before, but he’d never actually seen one in person until now. In the frozen North, such an open carriage would be lucky to see regular use four months out of twelve. Chariots were exclusively a feature of the south, and its warm climate.
He found now, at last, his interest truly piqued. They were strange vehicles, admitting only a single, standing figure. The riders were bound round the waist by their horses’ reins and dressed in tunics and trousers much as he was, with the addition of leather wrappings round their legs and arms and across their torsos.
The track itself was a long enclosure with rounded ends, divided by a kind of median constructed of pillars and stonework. Its floor was laid with dirt, and at the far ends a sloping gradient had been lain.
The charioteers managed to wring an impressive speed out of their horses; almost as soon as they were out of the gates, they were at a gallop. Faustus, by now, had returned to his seat. “There he is,” he said, pointing to one of the riders.
“That’s Marcellus?” Iulius asked.
“Yes. If the son of a whore survives the day, I owe Otho a month’s store of wine.”
The other man barked out a laugh. “Now that’s some bad luck. You never can tell what’ll happen in the races. That’s why I never wager.”
“You never wager,” the emperor shot back, “because you’re too cheap, and too boring. And it didn’t happen in a race. Damned fool got caught with a woman. Someone else’s woman.”
Iulius laughed louder. “Well, women are even more dangerous than the track.”
“Don’t I know it.”
They fell into silence for a space, and Trygve focused on the race. The charioteer, the one Faustus had pointed out as Marcellus, was pushing to the lead. His vehicle was coming up beside another, a sleek black carriage drawn by all black horses.
Marcellus seemed poised to pass the other man when, all at once, the black chariot’s horses moved toward his. Iulius caught his breath, and Faustus cheered. “Get him. Get the son-of-a-bitch.”
Marcellus’ horses were pushed toward the center, close to the median. A gasp rose from the assemblage as one of the four beasts grazed a pillar, leaving a streak of blood behind. But the charioteer was skilled, and – how, Trygve was not entirely sure – he guided his horses back into the track. It seemed to be done by some manipulation of the reins fastened to his person, but between the dust and speed, it was impossible to tell for certain.
Nonetheless, Marcellus regained his position. The other chariot moved back, returning for a second go at him. But he angled his own horses for the others. It seemed to Trygve to happen in a second, but Marcellus’ beasts moved in front of the other chariot’s horses. They turned and pulled to the side to avoid a collision. One stumbled and went down. Marcellus sailed past easily, but the black chariot left the ground, riding up over the downed animal. The sound of the cracking of wood preceded a more terrible sight than the creature’s spasms.
The chariot flew in one direction, smashing into the earth in a great mess of shattered wood and dust. But the charioteer flew from his vehicle, over the downed horse, and for a moment continued his upward trajectory. As suddenly, he seemed suspended in midair, caught between the reins of the downed horse behind him, and the three proceeding along the track.
Trygve saw that he was fumbling with something – a knife, it seemed. At this sudden jerk in different directions, though, the knife went flying. The charioteer screamed; and another set of horses, the four who had been just behind him and Marcellus, collided with him.
The Northman looked away, feeling the bile rise in his throat. He’d seen men die, of course, sometimes at his own hands. But to die in such a way? Even Faustus groaned at the sight of it. The entire crowd seemed to.
When Trygve looked again, there was little to be seen of the charioteer. The three dark horses still made their way around the track, trailing a bloody, pulverized torso behind them. Where the collision had taken place, there was a spot of blood and – well, he couldn’t tell w
hat, exactly. Some piece of the rider remained, beaten into the ground. Some piece still made its way along the course.
Trygve was reminded of his own time in the arena, and of how near he had come to a fate like the charioteer’s: his life extinguished for a moment of horrified voyeurism for the crowd, a story to tell at dinner parties, at least until the next spectacle.
Then, barely stepping outside the royal box in time, he did lose his breakfast in the stands.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The first race had proved the most exciting. There had been two more crashes, but neither had resulted in fatalities. The charioteer Marcellus had not only survived but took the day.
Faustus was sullen – he’d have to pay up, now. “Otho won’t let me live this down, either.”
“Well, you can afford it,” Iulius consoled. “You keep boasting about how well those damned mines of yours are doing anyway.”
That only served to put the emperor in a fouler mood. “It’s dumb luck, and not a damned thing else. Marcellus doesn’t hold a candle to Nero.”
After that, Iulius had been able to find nothing to say that would help. Faustus found a wine merchant before they departed the track and poured himself a cup as soon as they were in the carriage. “Here,” he said, handing it to Trygve, “drink with me, Northman.”
“I shouldn’t, my lord. I’m on duty.”
The emperor snorted, but didn’t argue, and for that he was thankful. He had no desire to drink with Faustus at all, much less in such a mood.
For a while, Trygve occupied himself by watching the city pass in the twilight, and the emperor by drinking. A few cups in, though, and Faustus grew more talkative. “Damn that man.”
“Who, my lord?”
“All of them. Marcellus. If only it had been him, and not Antonius, eh? And Otho too.” He drank again. “And Iulius, the smug bastard.”
Trygve surmised that Antonius must have been the name of the charioteer who had died. “It was a grim accident,” he said.
“Grim? It would have been glorious. If it was Marcellus.” Faustus shook his head again. “Damn that man. A witch’s own luck. That’s what he’s got.”
