by Kate Quinn
Annia reached out and grabbed Marcus’s hand. “You’re not Emperor yet,” she told the Emperor’s great-nephew. “And Marcus is my cousin, not yours. So you can’t tease him.”
She turned and towed Marcus back toward the temple’s entrance, but she heard Pedanius’s voice rise behind her. “I’m telling my grandfather.”
“Tell him a girl made you cry,” she said, turning back to see the tears of rage spill over his lashes. Probably no one had ever hit him before, just stood around telling him he’d one day be master of Rome. “Now you really are a Brine-Face,” she added for good measure, looking at the salty tracks on his cheeks, and dragged Marcus back into the temple.
Old Servianus was looking peevish. “—most definitely a matter to be considered in the future,” her father was saying graciously. “Your grandson is a fine boy, most worthy of consideration. Ah, Annia, did you forget to bring young Pedanius Fuscus with you?”
“He’s coming,” she said. “He hit his hand with a mallet.”
“That’s a lie,” Marcus whispered under his breath.
“Is not,” Annia whispered back. Brine-Face did hit his hand with a mallet. She just hadn’t mentioned that she’d been the one swinging it.
Pedanius came foot-dragging into the temple, glaring at Annia and Marcus. Annia gave the glare back as good as she got, but Marcus just returned it with a proud look. Annia couldn’t say which Brine-Face seemed to resent more.
Years later, she would still remember that meeting with such clarity—the half-built temple, the flapping drop cloths, the droning overhead—and wonder how the adults could have been so oblivious to the fact that their children had just become mortal enemies. “Mortal enemies,” Marcus scoffed when Annia said as much later. “Don’t be dramatic!”
“Am I wrong?” Because Marcus remembered that day with the same steel-edged clarity, and she knew Pedanius Fuscus did, too. Like it was important, more important than just a broken thumbnail and a few childish insults. And later when they were all grown, Marcus didn’t seem to find Annia’s idea quite so silly.
“I think the Fates were watching,” he confessed. “I think they tied a knot that day. His thread, yours, and mine.”
“Now who’s being dramatic?”
But at the time, of course, they were all too young and ignorant to do anything but glare at each other. And Annia ended up glaring at Marcus too, because when Servianus finally dragged his sullen nephew away, Marcus gave Annia’s hand a squeeze and she realized they were still standing with fingers interlocked warm and damp.
“Don’t marry Pedanius Fuscus,” he said suddenly. “Marry me.”
“Oh, Hades,” she said in disgust, and wouldn’t talk to him all the way home.
CHAPTER 4
VIX
Vindolanda, Northern Britannia
“Nothing like a good kill to clear the head,” the Emperor said happily, wiping his long knife across one sleeve. A doe lay at his feet, an arrow broken off in her haunch. Hadrian’s dogs had brought her down after a long chase across the rain-spotted hills, but they didn’t finish her off. They knew to down the prey, then pull back in a ring to let their master finish the job. I’d watched the doe look up at Hadrian with huge liquid eyes as he drew the knife across her throat. “You look grim, Tribune,” the Emperor observed, gesturing for the huntsmen to bind up the doe’s carcass. “You aren’t fond of these hunts of mine?”
“No, Caesar.” I didn’t much like killing animals. Not for sport, anyway.
“Is it in the killing of men, then, that you find your release?”
I eyed him. “Depends, Caesar.”
He laughed, still full of even-tempered good cheer in that way that made me uneasy. “We travel south soon, and then make the crossing to Hispania—as soon as the first segment of wall is done. Perhaps Fortuna will favor you there with your preferred choice of game, Tribune.”
I felt a pang of wistfulness, because I’d enjoyed these months in Britannia. Watching the wall rise was a daily fascination; the steep hills gave me the chance to condition my Praetorians on ruthless marches; and my family was close again. Mirah had spent the summer helping my mother with the supervision of the hillside villa, both of them chattering in Aramaic while Dinah and Chaya played inside with the endless red-haired babies my sisters had produced while I was gone.
I still slept away from Mirah, of course. Spent most of my nights at the fort working late on endless rosters and supply lists and frumentarii reports; rising early because Hadrian apparently never slept and was always off either hunting or interviewing petitioners by first light. But as often as I could, I returned to the house I’d left at eighteen and fought practice bouts with my father or shared a mug of mead with my stonemason younger brother, who spoke eagerly of the wall that he was helping to raise. It was making his fortune for him, that wall.
No, I wasn’t really in any hurry to move on. Not from my mother, who couldn’t quite stop reaching out to touch my cheek whenever she saw me, as though memorizing my face in case I was gone another fifteen years. Not from my father’s rock-silent, rock-steady presence. And I didn’t think Mirah would be so happy to journey on to Hispania, either. She’d turned to me in bed the last time I’d been able to stay, her voice diffident in the dark. “You know I’ve always been in favor of Judaea, Vix.” Her fingers found mine on the pillow and twined through them. “My family being there, and our people. But if Judaea sounds too strange to you . . . We could settle here. After all, your family is here. We could be happy.”
“Not our girls,” I said, trying to joke. “Did you hear Dinah complaining about the mud, and Chaya crying about hearing wolves? Proper little prigs, our daughters are turning into.”
“Because they’re Roman girls, and do we want them to keep growing up that way? They’d get used to the mud and the wolves.” Mirah’s fingers tightened. “They love your family—all right, your father terrifies them, but Antinous really shouldn’t have told them all those gladiator stories.” Voice softening, then. “It doesn’t have to be Judaea, Vix. If we could stay here—”
“I’ll think on it.”
“You’re always thinking,” she sighed, and I kissed her then to quiet her. But kisses never distracted my wife for long, and I could see the question in her eyes.
We could be happy here, Vix. So how—
“Tribune?” Hadrian asked, and I looked at his bearded face.
“Hispania next, Caesar,” I said woodenly. “I’ll begin laying preparations.”
“I know, I know.” His eyes sparkled, and he swung up into his saddle in one easy flowing motion. “You’d rather conquer the rest of this wet little island. My bloodthirsty dog of war!” He shook his head at me and set off at a thundering pace for Vindolanda.
It was my fault, what happened when we got back. A guard must be alert, and I was too absorbed in my own thoughts. Hadrian had swung off his horse in the courtyard before the praetorium, dealing with the rush of secretaries and scribes thronging to meet him, and I was ordering the horses away when I heard a voice calling.
“Vix!”
I looked up with an absent frown. A familiar honey-colored head was fighting its way toward me through the crush of the courtyard. “Antinous, what are you doing here?”
“I know you don’t like me visiting you at the fort, but I had to show you.” Proudly Antinous presented me with a bright-eyed, big-eared ball of squirming black fur. “Your father gave him to me, said I could have my pick of the pups if Mirah didn’t mind! Isn’t he beautiful?”
I should have sent Antinous away. I’d been so firm on my rule that my family did not mix with the people I met as Praetorian. I should have sent Antinous home, and I was forming the suitable stern words even as I gave his new puppy’s ear a tweak, when Hadrian’s sudden laugh caught me off guard.
“Tribune, what a surprise.” The Emperor sounded knowing, and I turned,
my arm still slung absently over Antinous’s lean young shoulder. “And here I thought you always turned up your nose at bum-boys. I don’t blame you for changing your mind; he’s a pretty one.”
I’d shrugged off far worse bits of spite than that during my years at Hadrian’s side. I doubt he even meant insult; the Emperor merely looked amused. But Antinous flushed a slow dark red, and my arm tightened too late around his shoulder as I saw the danger. Because my son had never seen the Emperor up close, and in the common breastplate and mud-splashed cloak he’d donned for the hunt, Hadrian was just another bearded huntsman. And my adopted son shoved his new puppy at me, took two furious strides forward before I could yank him back, and drove his fist into the Emperor’s nose.
I saw droplets of blood fly as Hadrian toppled astonished into the mud.
“He’s my father, you foul-mouthed bastard,” Antinous shouted, coming for him again. “And I’m no one’s bum-boy!”
Miraculously, I got him before the Praetorians descended, dropping the puppy and doubling an arm about his shoulder. “Antinous, no—” I yanked him back so hard he almost fell to the mud, thrusting him behind me as the guards closed in a sudden ring. “Stay back, it’s nothing to draw blades for!” But my hand fell instinctively to the hilt of my own gladius as I saw Hadrian uncoil from the ground.
“Caesar, are you hurt?” I heard Antinous give a sudden convulsive gulp behind me as he heard the title, as one of the Praetorians approached Hadrian to blot his nose with some hastily torn strip of cloth. The Emperor waved him aside. He touched his swelling nose delicately, and I saw his tongue dart out to taste blood. He looked up then, his eyes blasting me from notice and fastening on my son, and my surge of terror nearly welded my hand to the gladius hilt.
Because all that affable, inexplicable good temper of the past few months had dropped away like a pantomime mask.
Hadrian spoke softly, eyes never leaving Antinous. “I didn’t know you had a son.”
“Adopted,” I managed to say. Hoping he would be more merciful if he thought Antinous didn’t share my bad barbarian blood.
“He requires instruction,” the Emperor stated even more softly, “in polite behavior.”
“He does,” I choked out. “I will punish him—”
“No.”
The guards edged closer, swords unsheathed.
“Stand down,” I growled, “stand down!”
They inched back, eyes never wavering from Antinous. My son stood still as a statue behind me, the puppy whining nervously between his feet, and I felt a quiver of fear go through him. A quiver of a different kind seemed to go through Hadrian; he squeezed his eyes shut and brought a hand to his own face, giving his bleeding nose a vicious pinch. I saw more blood trickle down to his lips, and he said something strange. “Merciful,” he murmured, and his tongue lapped to taste blood again. “Merciful.”
When he lowered his hand he was smiling. It would have chilled my blood, if I hadn’t been so desperate for any sign my son would get out of this alive.
“In Londinium, I blinded a slave who annoyed me,” Hadrian told Antinous in a pleasant voice. “For striking me, boy, I could take your hand. So get out of my sight, before I give in to temptation.”
“I’m—” Antinous quavered, and his voice had broken three years ago to a light tenor, but it cracked now like a child’s. He looked like a child suddenly, my tall and handsome son. “I apologize, Caesar, most humbly. I did not recognize you—I wouldn’t—”
“No.” Hadrian was still smiling, but I didn’t believe this smile. This wasn’t the carefree grin he wore as he watched the progress of the wall, striding up and down outlining his giddy plans for a full eighty miles of stonework. This smile was just a poorly constructed copy. “You did not recognize me. For that, boy, I will allow you to take your leave.”
Antinous stood frozen, pinned by the twin points of Hadrian’s eyes, but I wasn’t. I pushed the puppy into my son’s arms and sent him toward the gates with a massive shove. “Go home,” I whispered, “and stay there.”
He gave me one wide-eyed look and fled.
“Keep him out of my sight,” Hadrian said, and the cordiality dropped from his voice. He was allowing a pair of slaves to fuss over the nose, bringing a basin of water. “You have no idea how hard I find it, Vercingetorix, to extend mercy to those who hurt me.”
I felt a tiny hot thread of anger weaving through my fright, now that Antinous was safely gone. “He didn’t recognize you, Caesar!”
“Then you’ve raised a son as ignorant and barbaric as yourself, Vercingetorix.” Hadrian laughed, glancing in the direction Antinous had gone. “But he’s pretty, I’ll say that. Pretty as an old man’s dream.”
The fear left me then, and I inhaled pure red rage. It filled me, swamped me, and I took two fast steps forward until I stood nose to nose with the Emperor of Rome.
Lay a finger on my son, and I’ll kill you. I didn’t say it because it would get me killed, but I shoved it out my eyes, all my pent-up threats. Then I turned and began to stalk away, shaking with the effort to keep my hands off that Imperial throat.
But Hadrian must have made some gesture, because two of my own Praetorians caught me by the arms. “Let go of me,” I said contemptuously, batting a hand off my shoulder, but they seized me again. If I’d had Boil with me they wouldn’t have dared; my second would have my back over any Emperor—but these were boot-licking Praetorians, and they wrenched me around to face the Emperor.
“Release him,” Hadrian said, and the hands holding my arms disappeared. “Remove yourselves.” The guards and the secretaries and the rest of the entourage retreated out of earshot, although they were all gaping. Hadrian stepped closer, his face quite serene.
“I exhibit mercy,” he said, “and you glare threats at me?”
“You threatened my son,” I snarled. “My son—”
The dagger flashed in the Emperor’s hand before I could react, sharp point coming to lodge just under my chin. My muscles bunched, but I willed myself stone-still. Hadrian was no career soldier; I could have beaten him with shield and gladius—but he was the finest hunter I’d ever seen. I knew how efficiently he could cut a throat.
“Vercingetorix,” Hadrian said calmly, and the knife’s point traced a small circle just under my chin. “You are useful to me, and so I allow you a certain latitude. But my tolerance is not infinite.”
“Yes, yes, now you threaten me,” I snarled, still not moving. “We both know how this dance plays out, Caesar. You tell me to curb my tongue and do what I’m told, or you’ll cut my hand off.”
He regarded me, pitying. “Oh, Vercingetorix. If I truly wanted to punish you, I wouldn’t mutilate you. I’d just bugger you instead.”
His knife tip sank a fraction deeper, and I felt a drop of blood slide down my neck. I looked past his unblinking gaze, saw the Imperial entourage whispering among themselves and straining to hear what their Emperor was saying. But no one was close enough, and for an instant I wondered if I’d heard wrong. I looked back to Hadrian, saw his placid, peaceful smile, and I knew I hadn’t heard wrong.
And I was suddenly terrified.
“You see, I know what would happen if I threatened to take your hand off, as I threatened to take your son’s. You’d just bundle up the bleeding stump and hit me with it.” His knife traced slowly from my chin along the line of my jaw, toward the corner of my eye. That eye began to water, but I didn’t dare blink with the point pricking my lid. “But you’re proud. All warriors are.” The knife traced back down my neck. “I could crack that pride in half, and do you know how I’d do it? I’d have you stripped and spread-eagled, and maybe it would take six Praetorians to keep you still, and maybe it would take a dozen, but they’d hold you down for me. I don’t like my bedmates scarred and crude, and I don’t like them unwilling, either. I prefer them handsome and eager, and for an emperor, there are ple
nty like that. But I’d use you till you bled, Vercingetorix. I’d make you my whore while everyone watched.”
My mind flashed utterly white, like the moment when a savage streak of lightning dazzles the eyes. The lightning passes but you’re left on the ground, screaming in terror. And my mind was screaming, clutching the blank whiteness, trying not to fit images to his unspeakable words.
“I’d make you take up your duties afterward,” Hadrian went on placidly. “Make you stand watch in that lion skin you won for bravery in Dacia, while every soldier in Rome snickers because I used Vercingetorix the Red like a dog uses a bitch. And I’d smile every time I looked you in the eye, and I don’t think you’d be holding my gaze with your head thrown back, not like you are now. You’d look away. And I’d like to see that, Vercingetorix. I’d like to see that very much. But it would break you, or at least, it would if I did it properly. And you’re useful to me whole.”
The knife disappeared from my neck, but my raw skin quivered where the point had lingered. I felt sick and cold and violated. There were no words. None at all.
“So keep on being useful to me, won’t you?” He reached out and patted my head, like he’d pat a dog. Or a bitch. “Because if I can’t use you, I might as well break you.”
I turned my back on him then. A Praetorian never turns his back on his Emperor and a man never turns his back on his enemy, but I could not look at him anymore. I could not. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, but it was no use. I vomited, bending double to void my shame onto the stones. Over the roar in my ears I could hear the guards murmur blankly, wondering what was wrong with their iron-hard tribune. And I could hear Hadrian’s voice, crooning low as if to a lover.
“Good dog.”
ANTINOUS
“You look like you could use a drink,” said Arius the Barbarian, and poured Antinous a cup of wine directly from the amphora, no water. Mirah looked up, brows creased, as Antinous took the cup and collapsed onto a stool.
