by Rachel Ford
She took Luke on her tour of the districts, too, and her inspection of the poorest quarters of the city. Her reason, she told Tryg, was simple enough: she wanted the people to see that, whatever fearmongering the old guard might attempt about his personal life, Luke was the one who actually cared about their well-being. He was the one who was there helping, while they wrung their hands about who he loved.
It seemed to do the trick. Or maybe that was just the nature of the city’s gossip mill: sooner or later, the big story of the day made way for something else. Either way, people seemed to move on from the junior senator by the start of the new week. Two other stories took its place. The first was an affair – a rather scandalous one, if half the rumors were true, between Senator Vitus and his brother’s wife, Aurelia.
Vitus was one of the old guard and had been one of the most vocal in expressing his disgust at Luke’s revelation. Cass was not above finding, and appreciating, the irony in that. Indeed, Tryg half suspected that she might have had a hand in the curiously timed revelation.
He mentioned as much to her one evening. She’d just remarked, rather – adorably – smugly, “Well, it doesn’t hurt the conservatives to have a sex scandal of their own, does it?”
“You know, Cass, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you might have been the one to get that rumor started.”
She grinned at him. “I’m flattered. But no. As much as I wish I could take credit for it, it had nothing to do with me at all. Vitus has made his enemies all on his own. He has rather a penchant for other men’s wives.
“So, one of the aggrieved husbands – I am not at liberty to say more, not even to you, Tryg. I swore I’d respect their privacy. I’m sorry. But one of the aggrieved husbands had acquired quite a bit of dirt on him. And apparently seeing him position himself as some kind of moral authority was a bit too much. So, here we are.”
Trygve laughed. “I was right in a way, then. You did have some hand in it.”
“Only that I knew it was going to happen. And even that was after he’d set the ball rolling, so to speak.”
“Well, however you’re involved, it’s all very devious.”
She grinned again, that same, self-assured grin that he loved now. “Yes it is, isn’t it?”
But the downfall of Senator Vitus’s marriage and familial life wasn’t the only bit of intelligence to light up the Stellan grapevine. Emperor Faustus’s friend Iulius was the other. Iulius and Octavia Livius had gotten engaged earlier in the year and set their wedding for the autumn.
Now, the date was fast approaching, and the city buzzed with news of the preparations. Iulius was a successful businessman, and she was a patrician with ample properties and hefty incomes. It was a marriage regarded as every bit to the gentlemen’s good fortune, not least of all because Stellan nobility easily considered the bride to be one of the most beautiful and eligible women of the day. Not only that, though it was whispered rather than spoken aloud, this would be a significant rise in station for the merchant.
And that was the sort of thing that Stella’s finest did not much care for. It was one thing to profit from an acquaintance with the man. Vulgar? Perhaps. But where fortune was concerned, allowances could be made.
But to marry him, when her fortune was easily the equal of his own? That, they could not understand. Indeed, it puzzled many a man and woman for many a day. The consensus, as much as it reached the Northman, seemed to be that Octavia had gone mad – mad with love, or mad at all. No one knew for sure.
Still, the diagnoses of her peers notwithstanding, preparations continued. Rich gifts and fatted calves made their way to Iulius’s estate. Rumors about the landscaping renovations abounded.
Did you hear? They’re putting in a great moon pool on the eastern lawn. For good luck.
He’s imported giraffes – giraffes! – for the ceremony. He’s as mad as she.
I heard he’s hired a hundred gardeners. Not a blade of grass is to be too tall, not a leaf or twig untrimmed.
And so in time the gossip mill abandoned Luke for newer, more exciting stories. Trygve only hoped that that would be the end of it.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The day of Iulius’s wedding came. Faustus returned the day before, with not much to say to Cassia.
They arranged for their own separate carriages. Trygve would go with her, and Faustus would go by himself. That seemed to suit both parties just fine.
Cassia did not know Iulius particularly well. He was her husband’s friend, and as a rule, she didn’t trust men who got on well with Faustus. One of many clues I should have picked up on a long time ago. Minerva, I’m an idiot.
But it was too late to change what was done. She had been an idiot. She’d tried for far too long in spite of far too many clues to believe that Faustus was a good man. She’d tried to make herself believe it in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, again and again.
She was a fool, or she had been anyway. She didn’t know what that meant for the future. She hadn’t dared to think of it. There was a reason her father – at least, the man she’d called father – and Faustus’s had forged this alliance. The empire needed gold, and Faustus brought that. Faustus’s family wanted the empire, and she had it.
So now he was emperor, and the empire was solvent. And what did it bring her, but a future of misery, a future of cold intolerance and distain for and from her husband? She could hardly bear to think of it.
But if that was the price of empire, the price of peace and prosperity for her people, did she have a right to say otherwise?
She’d read the letter her father – her real father – sent over and over again. Felix had told her, “Do not let the decisions of others rob you of your own joy. You will serve the empire better in love, in happiness, in joy. Choose these things, Cassia.”
Goddess, she wished she could. There were days when she felt like she might yet, moments with Trygve – they were always with Trygve – when she could feel her heart beating as light and gay as it had ever been.
There were times when she would glance up at him, and catch him smiling at her, or watching her in just such a way as to make her pulse quicken and her knees weak.
She hadn’t known it at first. She still refused to acknowledge it, not even to herself; not fully, not in so many words. But in Trygve’s company, in his presence, she felt a life and a joy she had thought lost to her. In her maddest moments, in the loneliest hours of the long night, she would think, What if…
But then the sun would rise on another day, and she would remember that she was empress. She was Faustus’s wife, if only in name. She was not free – not for her own sake, and not for his. She could not have him, and so she would not – could not – trifle with him. So she’d push it all out of her mind and concentrate on the work of her empire.
But there was something about a wedding day to bring it all back into her thoughts, wasn’t there? She wasn’t sure what. On some level, she supposed it reminded her of her own wedding, of the greatest mistake of her life. How could it not?
It reminded her of the happiness she would – she must – be denied. It reminded her of all the joyous and ridiculous hopes she’d cherished so long ago.
Hopes that had long since died.
And then her mind would return to Trygve. He had been for her everything that Faustus had not in her darkest hours. He had been her strength, her comfort, her dearest friend. He had saved her life when Faustus would have left her to die to satisfy some point of pride.
He had raged against her fate, and broken a nose to change it, when Faustus had abandoned her and retreated to his cups.
He had held her and cherished her and watched her with a tenderness her husband never had, when he had nothing at all to gain from it.
Oh Tryg. In the beginning, she had reminded herself that Trygve Bjarneson was hired to maintain his place here. For a while, that fact kept away any more sentimental notions. But his glance, his touch, was not the look or touch of an e
mployee. And not even Cassia in her self-imposed ignorance could ignore it forever.
Today, his glance was more amorous, more appreciative than normal, and she flushed at the sight of it. She’d dressed well, in a deep blue stola that matched the color of her eyes, set over a white gown. She’d piled her curls up and fastened them with clips bearing shimmering gemstones and wore a golden laurel on her brow.
Trygve’s jaw very nearly dropped as she emerged from her room, and he took a moment to compose himself before he could speak. He looked quite silly in the process – heartwarmingly, adorably silly. “You look…very festive, Cass.”
“Festive?” she grinned. “Are you saying I’m overdressed, Tryg?”
“No, not at all. You’re…you’re beautiful, is all.”
“Oh.” Her smile took on less of its teasing tones, and she tried to ignore the tug at her heart that his words produced. She wanted to hear those words, to feel them, without guilt, without pain, without remorse. But she was not free to do so. “Um, thank you.”
Still, she wasn’t blind either. The Northman – as resistant to Decimus’s ministrations as ever – yet dressed in the style of his own people. He’d adamantly refused to wear a toga or sandals. But even in his tunic and leggings and boots, with his face sporting a very neat but very foreign beard and mustache, she could not have imagined anyone cutting a finer figure. He seemed to her a picture of rugged masculinity, tempered by the graces of civilization. “Well,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “I see Decimus has worked another miracle on you.”
He snorted at the groomer’s name. “Is that what you call it? I reek of roses today.”
She laughed. “Well, you look – and smell – quite nice.”
He snorted again, but with less vehemence this time. “Thank you. I think.”
She wanted to stay and chat, to tease him and be teased in turn, to laugh and make light with him. But today of all days, it seemed a very dangerous proposition. So she cleared her throat, and tried to adopt a brusque, businesslike air. “Well, shall we see if the carriage is ready?”
It was, and though the ride was long, and she’d endeavored to concentrate on anything but Trygve, Cassia soon found her resolve waning. They’d barely left the palace grounds before they were talking about his friends, Luke and Tullius, and his hope that the former’s declaration might have brought the latter to his senses. “I’ve never seen either of them more miserable than since he decided they ‘had’ to call it off.”
“Perhaps not. But sometimes, you have to sacrifice for the people you love.”
The Northman snorted with a vehemence that rather surprised her. “Sacrifice? All he’s done is made them both miserable. You can’t make other people’s choices for them. I told him that.”
She smiled. “But he did not listen?”
“No.
“Because he loves him. He was trying to protect him.”
Again, Trygve snorted. “Luke’s a grown man, not a child. He doesn’t need to be protected.”
“I think it’s quite noble of him, actually.”
“Noble?”
He seemed genuinely stunned, so she tried to explain. “Yes, to sacrifice his own heart’s desire to protect the one he loves. To suffer for the sake of another. That’s the most noble kind of love, isn’t it? The love that denies self for someone else?”
Her words did not convince the Northman. “That might be all well and good in poetry, Cass, or those songs your minstrels like to sing. But breaking someone’s heart isn’t much of a favor, if you ask me. And making yourself miserable into the bargain only makes it worse. All that means is there are two people suffering instead of one.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The ceremony was over shortly after it started. It was simple, in the way Stellan marriages always were. The witnesses gathered in a circle, with the couple standing at the center. A priest prayed over them, just a few words to the deities each had selected. Then they lit a joint torch to signify the new light that sprang from their joining. One by one, the guests lit their own torches, attesting that the happy couple’s light had reached them too.
Finally, husband and wife broke a small, dry grain cake. Cassia remembered the cake she and Faustus had shared, and how dry and tasteless it had been. That was the point, of course: it was meant to signify the sharing of the most basic necessities of life. Then the couple sipped the finest wine they could afford from a shared goblet, to demonstrate that they would share the grandest parts of life too.
It was simple, and full of meaning. And for Cassia, pain too. She knew little enough of Iulius and Octavia. She wished them well; she wished them joy and years of happiness.
But standing there so near the couple, afforded a close and personal viewing as empress, she felt only pain and regret – pain that such happiness was denied her, and regret that she’d made these vows to the wrong man.
The feast that followed was anything but simple. The villa grounds had been turned into a veritable carnival. The finest seats in the dining room were reserved for the royal party and close friends, but tables and chairs had been set up throughout the courtyard. Dancers, singers, and musicians rotated from area to area. And the food never seemed to stop coming, or the wine to stop flowing.
They must have spent a king’s ransom on such a feast, she thought. It rivaled any party the palace had ever thrown. She should have been enjoying the celebration – not least of all as it came at someone else’s expense, and not the imperial treasury’s.
But the longer the day wore on, the lower Cass’s heart sank. The wine, the food, the revelry was all too much. She felt like weeping, not cheering and laughing.
Faustus was seated beside her, and that did little to improve her mood. But no, that was not all of it. Her husband sat at her side, laughing and hollering and drinking. And Tryg stood behind her, maintaining his standard respectful distance.
It seemed some kind of cruel, cosmic joke. Minerva, how can this be my life? She loathed one of those men and loved the other. How could fate have arranged her life so unkindly so that the one she loathed was at her side, and the one she loved was forced into the background?
She didn’t know, and the longer she thought on it, the crueler it seemed. Her husband, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to these musings. Oblivious, and well on his way to drunkenness.
At the start of the feast, he’d had nothing but a cold shoulder to turn her way. That satisfied her just fine. But as the turnover rate for his cups increased, his frostiness dissipated. Now and then, she’d feel a hand creeping up her thigh. He’d grin as she swatted it away. He’d take it away when she turned an icy stare at him.
But the frequency with which it was happening disconcerted her, and his half-spoken whispers didn’t help. “God, you remember when you looked at me that way?” he wondered after a particularly amorous glance between the bride and groom.
Another time, he slid his hand onto her leg again. “You remember what hell it was, waiting for the party to end? Waiting for everyone to leave so we could go back to our room?”
A few minutes later, he told her, “That’s something I miss, you know. Not the fighting or the rest of it. But you and me –”
“Faustus,” she hissed, “enough. For the love of Minerva, keep your hands to yourself.”
“I miss you, Cass.”
“No you don’t. You’re drunk. You always miss me when you’re drunk and hate me when you’re sober.” Her own tone was probably too loud. She’d tried to keep it at a whisper, but she was pretty sure it had risen above that.
He grinned at that and drained his glass. “You’re more fun when you drink, you know that?”
“I don’t want to be fun.”
“Well, good. Because you’re kind of a bitch when you’re sober.”
This, at last, was too much for Cass. The night had already grown long. The sun was setting. It seemed the right time to make her escape, since she could do it without offending the married couple. And she d
idn’t want to find out just how drunk her husband planned to get.
So she waited a few minutes, long enough so that anyone paying attention to their conversation would have moved on, and then raised a glass to the bride and groom. Feigning exhaustion, she wished them many happy returns and took her leave.
Then, turning, she flashed Tryg a relieved smile. She was happy to go – happy to escape this celebration of happiness she couldn’t know. Happy to escape her husband. And most of all, happy at the prospect of his company again.
She’d taken two steps when Faustus called, “No, leave the Northman.”
She froze. “What?”
“Leave him, wife.” He raised a glass in a mock toast. “I’ve no intention of being able to walk on my own. And since we’ve no son for him to protect, he may as well earn his keep, yes?”
A few laughs sounded, and a few shouts of, “hear, hear,” and, “bottom’s up.” She didn’t pay them any attention, except insomuch as they reminded her that they were not alone; that anything she said would be heard by everyone present.
Still, her first instinct was to refuse. But she had no reason to do so, much less in such a public way. Trygve seemed to sense her hesitation, because he nodded, ever so slightly. “Very well.”
It was a long, miserable ride home. At first, she agonized over her husband’s purpose. Did he suspect her feelings for Tryg? Did he hold the Northman to blame for her disinterest in him?
But no. She hadn’t even begun to grasp the depths of them herself until recently. And her husband was far too vain a man to consider the possibility that he might be replaced in any woman’s affections.
And why, in her case, should he? Through their years together, through his many affairs and betrayals, she’d always been true. She’d never strayed in heart or body. He’d slept with half the city, or so it seemed.
And she’d never strayed through it all. So why would he suppose that would change now?
