by Rachel Ford
“So I hear.”
“And Iulius – you must have seen him laughing when I said I’d owe Otho.”
“He did seem amused,” Trygve agreed.
Faustus nodded sagely. “He’s just pissed because his exports are down. And mine are up.”
“What do you export, my lord? If I may ask, I mean.” It seemed to him that Faustus had a hand in every pot. He’d heard of his interests in mining, in textiles, in wine and oil, in grains and grain brewed beverages. Focusing on his triumphs rather than losses, though, seemed a sound strategy in the moment. He’d rather hear the emperor boast of his industries than complain of lost wine.
Faustus sighed. “Everything. And not enough.” He shook his head. “It’s a dog eat dog world, Northman. Every time you think you’ve reached the top –” He made a sweeping motion with his hand, and almost spilled his cup in the process. “Some son-of-a-bitch undercuts you. Or one of your suppliers stabs you in the back.”
“That must be difficult,” Trygve managed.
The emperor nodded. “You have no idea.”
The ride back to the palace progressed in this fashion, with bursts of conversation followed by lapses of silence. Faustus had polished off his bottle of wine and shared a host of grievances with the Northman. Mostly, they consisted of his aggravation with Iulius, who was, Trygve gathered, as much a rival as a friend; and his sense of injustice at Marcellus’ successes.
It was dark when they arrived. “I’m going to sleep, Northman. I’ve had too much to drink, I think. Make my excuses to my wife, will you?”
Trygve did as he was bid. The sight of her, after the day, was a relief to him. She, though, was concerned for her husband. “Is he alright?” Cassia wondered her brow creased at the news.
“Quite alright, my lady. He just had a disappointment at the races.”
Her frown eased, and she smiled. “Poor Faustus.”
“There is something else, my lady.”
“Oh?”
“Something the emperor asked me. About you.” He related his conversation from the morning, leaving out the piece about Hadriana. He meant only to forewarn her, not to hurt her.
Cassia listened, nodding now and looking grave then. “I will need to be more careful,” she said when he’d finished speaking. Then she fixed him with a curious look. “And Trygve?”
“My lady?”
“Thank you. For telling me, I mean. For trusting me.”
Trygve flushed with pleasure at her words. “Of course, Empress.”
He took his leave shortly thereafter but slept fitfully. The death of the racer was pushed far from his mind. Instead, it buzzed with the memory of her eyes locked on his; the gentleness of her expression as she thanked him; the warmth in her farewell.
After a few hours of restlessness, he rose, and took the snow leopard for a walk. That, of course, was one of the benefits of having a nocturnal companion. Gunnar might be lazy by day, but he was always up for a walk at night.
The palace was extensive, and the gardens even larger. There were gardens with fishponds and gardens with pools and fountains. There were gardens with shrubs and statuary, and gardens with growing food. They were all connected by stone walks and paths, and, at this time of night, entirely empty.
So Trygve and Gunnar traced their way through the grounds, the man sticking to the paths and the snow leopard exploring as he pleased. The moon rose higher in the night sky, and the evening grew chillier.
At last – he wasn’t sure how long had passed, but his feet had begun to ache – Trygve turned back for his rooms. This time, sleep came.
He slept well and woke early. After taking breakfast, he turned his steps toward Cassia’s quarters. It was his off day, but, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to check in with her. She’d had a hard week, and his trip to the country could wait if she needed him.
“That’s right,” she said after he’d asked, and he flattered himself that there was a shadow of disappointment in her expression as she said it. “That is today, isn’t it? I’d forgotten all about it.”
“I can always postpone, my lady.”
Aemilia was there, brewing a tea for Cassia, and she grimaced at the suggestion.
The empress, though, seemed pleased with his offer. “Oh, no, Trygve. Thank you – but you’ve got plans. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s nothing that can’t be rescheduled, if you need me here.”
She smiled. “It’s not that. I’m just so used to having you around – we all are, aren’t we Aemilia?”
The priestess grunted by way of reply. An unpleasant sound, Trygve thought, from a matron of the gods.
“I must have turned around to ask you a question half a dozen times yesterday.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage, my lady,” Aemilia offered.
Trygve grimaced until Cassia caught his eye, a hint of a smile on her lips. He smiled too. The priestess stepped between them, setting a steaming mug on the table. “Here you are, my lady.”
“Thank you, Aemilia.”
“Of course.”
Cassia waited until the priestess had stepped away. “Your friend, the gladiator, Tullius? He owns a villa south of the city, doesn’t he?”
Trygve nodded. “That’s right.”
She lowered her voice. “That’s in Gallus’ district, you know.” He didn’t and told her as much. “It is. His family is from the same area.” A light came into her eyes. “You don’t think – I know it’s a long shot – but you don’t think Tullius would want to run, do you? Against Gallus, I mean?”
Trygve shook his head. “I don’t think Tullius cares for politics.”
“Too bad. He’s got a name already. He’s a man of the people – a man loved by the people.”
“I can ask him,” he said, and his tone was dubious. “But I don’t think he’ll agree.”
Her eyes lit up the more at his words. “Will you, Trygve? He might, if you ask. You’d have better luck than a stranger like me, anyway. And we really need someone from that district. If we can’t get rid of Gallus…”
He nodded. She didn’t need to elucidate. If Gallus remained, all of their plans were in jeopardy. But, if he was honest with himself, she didn’t need to press, either. The excitement in her eyes at the thought, and the idea that he might be of use to her in her schemes, was all Trygve needed.
He’d have asked Tullius, even if she hadn’t asked him to do it.
He took his leave and she sent her wishes for safe travel with him. Passage through the city took longer, he thought, than he remembered. His snow leopard, sprawled out on the cushions opposite him, napped with a disinterested ease that he couldn’t begin to manage.
Traffic was no heavier than usual, but still the trip seemed interminable. When at last the urban bustle of the city made way for the quieter hum of the suburbs, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Even the last leg of his journey, though, stretched longer than he expected. Gunnar took no notice, only raising himself now and again as they hit a bump in the road, or to readjust himself on the seat. Otherwise, he snored away, oblivious to Trygve’s tumultuous thoughts.
Large, landless estates made way for great villas and sprawling fields. Traffic was lighter, and passenger vehicles less frequent than donkey carts and hay wagons.
There was a clearness in the air, a sweet, cleanness, lacking in the city. The thick smoke of industrial areas, the heavy mix of human and animal odors, was gone. Trygve breathed more easily and found himself relaxing by degrees.
Still, he was glad when Tullius’ villa came into sight. As eager as he was to see his friends, now his other purpose impressed itself with renewed urgency. He had to fight to push it aside, to wait until the moment was right.
In this, he was aided by Tullius’s and Lucretius’s enthusiasm at seeing him. Their pleasure, for a little while, pushed politics – and even Cassia – out of his mind.
“Northman. I wasn’t sure if we were going to see you at all after that l
ast letter. It sounds like they’ve got you doing the work of five.” This was Tullius.
“For the pay of one, I’m sure,” Lucretius said.
They were, Trygve supposed, referring to his trip to the soup kitchen, and his preemptive caution – unnecessary though it now proved – that he might not be able to get away on the appointed day after all. “Nothing so dire,” he returned. “Most of the time, I’m just standing there like a monkey in a circus anyway.”
The imagery amused them, and Tullius asked, “And how’s Gunnar been adjusting to palace life?”
“Too well. He spends his days either eating or sleeping.”
Lucretius ruffled the snow leopard’s fur. “Smart boy. But what about you, Tryg? You still like it there?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Good.” The younger man nodded. “I’m glad.”
Tullius nudged him. “I told you.” To Trygve, he explained, “Luke’s been worried, about Faustus mostly, and you having to deal with him.”
“Well?” the younger man asked. “After his first night there, can you blame me?”
The Northman shook his head. “I don’t. But I don’t work much with Faustus. Mostly I’m with Cassia.”
Lucretius nodded. “And you like that? You like her?”
For half a moment, Trygve felt his guard raise. But there was nothing so perceptive in his friend’s face as he feared, and he relaxed. “Yes. She’s a good employer. And a good empress. She’s very worried about Stella.”
“As well she might be,” the other man nodded. “Not least of all, with what her fool of a husband has done to it.”
“It’s not just Faustus. The senate is at least as much to blame.” It was, he thought, some cruel joke of the cosmos’ to put him in the role of defending Cassia’s husband. But there it was: Faustus, whatever he was, was no more in absolute power than she.
“You’ll get no argument from me there.”
“Good,” Tullius said. “It’s too early for arguments. Come on in, both of you. And for the love of Minerva, forget politics for half a day.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
That, of course, Trygve could not do. But he did let the topic drop long enough to fill his friends in on his life in the imperial court, and to be brought up to speed on the happenings of their neighborhood. Life in the country moved as slowly as he remembered it. The biggest excitement was the discovery of a juvenile wild boar a few properties away, and the hunt that ensued from that discovery.
A query as to how the crops were coming in led to an invitation to ride out and take stock for himself. He was happy to do so. Gunnar cantered along behind them, disappearing and reappearing as he found something of interest. It was a clear, sunny day, good for riding and good for taking the air.
The fact was, Trygve hadn’t realized how much he’d missed fresh air and open country until he was in the midst of it. Back home, he would frequently traverse the forests or explore the fjord of his father’s kingdom. But here, he’d spent his time among the urban sprawl of the city, behind the cultured walls of the palace, among the poverty of the river district, or in one of the blood-soaked arenas. The only thing that came close was the network of gardens at the palace. But the over-manicured flora of those gardens paled in comparison to the uninhibited beauty of nature in its element.
It was like breathing for the first time after coming up from beneath the water. He found himself wishing Cassia was here with him, the freeing sense of leaving the city’s walls behind, like the rush of oxygen to the brain, sweeping over her.
Dammit. He had to stop thinking like that. He had to stop thinking of her.
“Do you know Senator Gallus?” he asked abruptly.
The other two men glanced over at him. “Gallus?” Tullius repeated. “He represents us in this county, doesn’t he?”
Lucretius snorted. “In theory, anyway.”
“Do you know him?”
“By reputation only,” the gladiator said. “And not well at that.”
“I’ve met him,” Lucretius said. “A few years back. He was courting votes and paid his respects to my father.”
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s a snake. Like your average politician, I suppose.”
Trygve frowned. He shared the former sentiment, but the latter seemed counterproductive to his goals. “There are some senators who want to see him gone,” he said carefully.
“Good. I hope they succeed. But they’re going to need a good candidate, and a lot of money to defeat him.” Lucretius shook his head darkly. “Gallus may not represent the people’s interests, but he does a damned fine job of representing his sponsors’. And they won’t let him go easily.”
“No,” Trygve agreed. “They won’t.” He studied the two men for a moment. Tullius was listening with a disinterested politeness. Lucretius was nodding thoughtfully.
“The thing is,” the Northman said, “it’s not just senators. It’s Cassia.”
The pair exchanged glances. “The empress?” Lucretius asked. “She wants Gallus out?”
“Yes. But – you understand, this all has to be kept quiet?”
“We will not betray your confidence, Trygve,” Tullius said.
“No. But I’m glad to hear it. I had thought – I’m sorry, I know you think her a better leader than that. But I had thought her complacent, too willing to go along with what the senate decided.”
“Her list of allies is not as long as you would think,” the Northman answered. “She may be empress, but she still has to operate within the law.”
“I know,” Lucretius said. “I just…it seemed like she could have done more. She didn’t have to let Faustus bring back the arenas or cancel the old district renovations.”
“The emperor is within his rights to bring bills to the senate,” Tullius reminded him.
Trygve was frowning throughout this exchange. “She does more than you know. But she’s got to manage a coalition of senators who can hardly agree on the day of the week, much less be convinced to take a politically risky stance.” The other man seemed about to protest, so he added, “You’re not there. I am. I see it every day. Every day is a battle against those blood suckers.”
Tullius was watching him expressionlessly, and Lucretius’ brow creased at his words. The younger man nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m not there. And I don’t know what happens behind closed doors.”
This, at least, placated the Northman, and a degree more of moderation returned to his tone. “Cassia has reforms in mind: a higher wage, better living conditions, those kinds of things.”
Lucretius’ eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank Minerva. It’s long overdue.”
“But the senate is split. There’s a coalition of hardliners who won’t be persuaded, by any means. And Gallus –”
“Leads it,” Lucretius nodded. “I know. He’d see Stellans starve in the streets before he passed a law that cut into his friends’ profit.”
“Yes. Which is why we need to get rid of Gallus.”
“We?” Tullius repeated.
Trygve flushed. “I’m helping her.”
The two men exchanged glances again. “Helping her? How?”
“Part of what I’m doing, I can’t tell you. Not yet.” Seeing the concern that flitted across the pair’s face, he assured, “It’s legal – it’s all legal. It’s just…I swore not to talk about it, until the time comes.”
“Tryg,” Lucretius cautioned, “are you sure about this? Are you sure you’re not getting dragged into something…well, that’s more complicated than you may realize?”
The Northman brushed his concern away with a wave of his hand. “Of course. But the other part of what I’m doing – I’m recruiting. To find a replacement. For Gallus.”
It took a moment for the intent of his words to register in his friends’ expressions. Tullius was the first to understand. “Oh. You mean: me?”
Trygve nod
ded. “You’ve got a name and face people already know. You’re a Victor. The people love you.”
Tullius, though, was shaking his head with an adamance that the Northman didn’t like. “No. Sorry, Tryg. But you’re wasting your time. I’m not a political animal. If I’m going to put a blade in a man, it’ll be in the open, in the arena. Not in his back in the Forum. Not in whispers and backroom deals.”
Lucretius, meanwhile, had been arrested by a thoughtful look. “That’s not a half bad idea, Tull.”
“Forget it.”
“But think about it: you’re famous. That’s half the battle right there, just having the name recognition to counter that bastard’s.”
“Forget it, Luke.”
“And Cassia will help,” Trygve put in. “She’s got friends, other senators who can help you navigate a run.”
Tullius, however, would not be persuaded, not even by Lucretius, who seemed to grow more enamored with the notion even as the gladiator grew more determined against it.
Finally, Tullius said, “Damn it, Luke, I said no.”
“But Tull –”
“‘But Tull’ nothing. If you’re so excited about running against Gallus, you do it. I’m not getting involved.”
“You know that doesn’t make sense,” Lucretius protested. “You’re the one the public knows. You’re the Bull, Victor of the Games. I’m a country farmer. Anyone would vote for you. No one knows I exist.”
Trygve, though, was frowning in thought. “You know,” he said, “that’s not the worst idea.” He had had a pretty good guess what Tullius’ response would be before he’d asked. The gladiator’s interest in politics was fleeting at best. Still, he’d asked for Cassia’s sake.
But now, a new thought ran through his mind. Why not Luke? Lucretius was an unknown, it was true, but if Cassia’s scheme to take Caius and Gallus down worked, that would not matter much. But more than that – Lucretius cared about politics in a way the jaded gladiator never could. Lucretius was young enough, idealistic enough, not to surrender to any talk of resignation, not to give into speeches about “the way things are.” For Tullius, he thought, those days were long gone. His experiences had made him resigned; probably it was the only way he’d survived as long as he had.
