“I don’t. Only, you said I must behave as a human. People relax and drop their hands from their knives when someone makes them laugh.”
Rafael considered him. “They do,” he said.
Thirty-two days after Rafael had returned to the city, Breandán drove the heavy cart through the western gates of Constantinople and along the road heading west into Thrace and Macedonia.
He wore a plain dalmatic and suede boots, a heavy cloak with a silver pin, and a sharp new eating knife was thrust into his sash. Rafael was similarly dressed. Both had heavy purses tied to the back of their belts, under their cloaks, where passers-by would not spot their wealth.
A sword was pushed beneath the seat, behind their heels, although Breandán barely remembered how to use one.
“I am as unfamiliar with a blade as you,” Rafael told him, when he put the weapon there. “Anyone who attacks us won’t know that, though. You will learn soon enough.”
It was as well Breandán was practiced at driving, for when he saw the plains which spread beyond the city gates, divided only by the wide road to the west, his shoulders hunched and all thoughts of controlling the horse dispersed.
“So much space!” he breathed. His heart fluttered. He looked at Rafael.
Rafael’s brow lifted. “You’ve never seen the horizon…”
Breandán shivered and shrank lower on the seat. “Not since before.”
Rafael considered him. “Draw a deep breath, Brody. It works for humans. It might work for you. Go on.”
Breandán obeyed. It didn’t seem to make any difference. “The horizon is still too far away,” he muttered, squeezing the reins.
“Here, give them to me. You’ll crush them,” Rafael said. “We can’t stop to replace new leather only a mile beyond the city. Here.” He took the reins. “Put your cloak over your head. It will hide the horizon from your sight.”
Breandán did as he suggested. He held the edge of the cloak up, so he could not see the wide expanse of pale land and dry bushes spreading for miles beyond the wagon.
It did help a little.
His heart calmed. The need to breathe eased.
“Better?” Rafael asked. He had been watching him closely.
Breandán straightened. “Why do such normal, simple things like horizons and markets and the sea affect me and not you? You were a slave, too.”
Rafael studied the road ahead. “I was not in the chariot pits. I never was.” He glanced at Breandán. “Not tall enough,” he said, with a small shrug. “I suppose I should be grateful for that. I was sold to Baradeaus when I was twelve and it was clear I would grow little higher. Baradeaus called himself a merchant, although he was really a thief. He made his money from crooked dice games.” Rafael paused. “You are familiar with dice?”
Breandán nodded. “The guards used to play endlessly. I don’t know how to play, myself, but I know what the game looks like.”
“I will teach you, once we have acquired some dice. It is a simple game. The wagering upon each roll is what makes it interesting. That, and the men who are drawn by the prospect of vast winnings.”
“You spoke to people. Normal people. Not slaves,” Breandán surmised.
“I spoke to people,” Rafael confirmed. “I saw the sun. I traveled widely, for Baradeaus could not linger long in a town once he had fleeced the citizens. I grew brown in summer, all except my wrists.” He turned his head to peer down the road ahead of them. “I slept under the open sky. I’ve watched the moon rise and fall. I’ve seen shooting stars, the glory of Constantinople and the pillars of Thrace. I have mingled with people all my life…and I saw what freedom looks like.”
Breandán looked down at his own unmarked wrists. He had only ever seen the sun in the few short minutes he drove a chariot, and he had been too busy winning the race to look up at it. His wrists were unmarked not because of the great change which had been made to him, but because he had never had the marks in the first place. “I was thirteen when they put me in the pit. I don’t know how many years have passed since then. When you woke me in that house and told me I was a vampire, it was the first time I had been anywhere but the pit or the amphitheater since I was put there.”
“And now you have more than a lifetime to learn what you have been denied.”
Breandán glanced beyond the edges of his cloak, then pushed it back in place. “Not if I am too afraid to look at it,” he muttered.
Rafael’s hand settled on his shoulder. “You will be able to look, eventually. Time is endless, for you. When enough of it has passed, you will be able to look and marvel.”
They traveled in easy stages along the old Roman road. The road was carefully maintained as it was the primary route west from Constantinople. It ran through Thrace and Macedonia and into the northern reaches of the Western Empire. There was a crossroads there, where another great road ran south toward Rome itself and north into Germania. Their route continued west, into Gaul.
At night, rather than seek an inn, they camped beyond town walls, the covered wagon providing secure lodgings and privacy for them to talk.
For they talked…and talked. There was little else to do and decades of knowledge Breandán did not possess, while Rafael had absorbed all manner of odd facts and information.
Until they reached the crossroads, the road was secure and they had no concern about robbers and thieves or worse. The might of both the Western and Eastern Roman Empires controlled the route and kept travelers safe. Once they were beyond the crossroads and were moving farther west, the road became far chancier.
“Rome gave up on the west before I was born,” Breandán said. “I can remember my father speaking of the might of Rome with derision.”
“The lack of concern shows,” Rafael said, wincing as the wagon creaked and rattled over the poor road surface.
When they reached Mediolanum, the last great Western empire city, they acquired a second sword. “A sword with a proper reach, Rafael—not another of those short swords the Romans favor,” Breandán said.
“The short sword suits me,” Rafael replied.
“I know how to use a long sword,” Breandán insisted. “At least, I remember training with one. I don’t know how a hilt will feel in my hand after so long without even a knife to pare fruit.”
“If there is such a sword to be found, we will find it,” Rafael said.
There was a single sword in the city, part of a collection of oddities a blacksmith had hanging from the roof. For a price the smith sharpened the blade and recovered the hilt with fresh leather.
The long sword joined the blade Rafael had acquired in Constantinople, under the bench. Each night, they would practice, and teach each other what they knew about sword fighting and defense.
“You and I have both been slaves for too long,” Rafael explained. “We don’t think about defending ourselves. Not up here.” He tapped his head, then his chest. “And in here, we are convinced it is our lot to accept whatever comes our way, because we have never had any other choice. Now, we are free men and we must defend ourselves and our possessions. So get that point up, Brody.”
“Breandán!” He slashed at Rafael’s short blade.
Rafael swiped his long blade aside and stabbed the point into Breandán’s side.
With a hiss, Breandán pulled his tunic up and watched the wound disappear. “You put a hole in my tunic.”
“I’ll teach you how to sew it closed again. Defend yourself!” Rafael came at him again.
Rafael had been right about time working changes upon Breandán. The mild mid-summer weather was shifting toward colder days, and they were well into Gaul when Breandán realized he was peering toward a far distant line of craggy mountain peaks and not cowering at the vast openness of the land.
He glanced at Rafael. Rafael laughed.
Two nights later, the storm broke.
It had been an unseasonably warm day, with the air still around them, leaving their dust trail to hang for a mile or more behind them.
The horse plodded, head down, its back sheened in sweat.
Breandán and Rafael dropped their cloaks well before the sun was at its zenith, and then their dalmatics, too, leaving them both in light tunics.
“I remember days like this,” Rafael said. He spoke softly, for in that motionless air, no noise muffled his speech but the soft rattle of the wagon wheels. He did not say more, although he watched the horizon.
Late that afternoon, he pointed to the west. “A storm is coming.” He glanced around, at their surroundings. They were on an open plain, the road running straight as an arrow to the west. “It is far too open here. We should find shelter.”
“We carry shelter with us,” Breandán reminded him.
“Not against this,” Rafael muttered.
Breandán’s chest tightened, as he watched the worry in Rafael’s eyes increase as the thick, billowing black clouds raced toward them across the pale blue sky. A breeze brushed their sweaty brows.
Breandán put his dalmatic back on. Rafael did the same and added his cloak. “Yours, too, Brody. You will need it.”
Breandán eyed the roiling clouds. They were black at the base, a bruised color in the middle and tinged with ugly yellow and green. Light flashed from deep in the interior.
His heart gave a little squeeze and hurried on. “Something flashed, inside the clouds.”
“Lightning,” Rafael said. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Light makes you afraid?”
“Out in the open, like this? Yes.” He pointed to the reins. “Hurry the nag along. The road dips, up there. It might be deep enough.”
Rafael’s worry made the band of tension around Breandán’s chest tighten even harder. He remembered this sensation from the chariot races. It was worry combined with the pressure of winning the race. Of juggling possibilities, devising ways to inch ahead.
He slapped the reins against the mare’s back and she lifted her head and picked up her hooves a fraction more. The lethargic day had left her with little energy.
“We could walk faster on our feet,” Rafael muttered. “In fact, we probably should.” He leapt to the ground, one hand on the edge of the bench, before Breandán could halt the wagon. He moved up to grab the nose strap and guide the horse along.
Breandán tied the reins to the foot bar and leapt to the ground himself. He moved up to where Rafael was guiding the horse. “How can clouds hold light, like that?”
“It’s lightning. Gods, Breandán, you must remember lightning and thunder?”
Breandán shook his head. “I know the names, I know what they mean, but I don’t remember ever seeing or hearing them. Not as a child.” He eyed the scudding clouds. “We lived in the palace, far in the innermost sanctums.”
Rafael shook his head. “And chariot races were canceled if a storm arrived, so you wouldn’t have seen them in Constantinople, either.”
The racing clouds covered most of the sky. The wind whipped their cloaks around their bodies and made their eyes water. The mare kept her head down, her steps slowing even more. She didn’t want to continue.
Rafael cursed and dragged her forward. Breandán grabbed the other strap and hauled, too. He was stronger—far stronger than he had once been, he had discovered. The mare had no choice but to pick up her pace.
The first crack of thunder caught Breandán by surprise. It seemed to come from directly overhead, accompanied by a flash of light so bright it seared the back of his eyes and blinded him for a long moment.
Breandán threw his arm up with a cry of alarm, which he barely heard, for the thunder had stolen his hearing.
He cringed, as more lightening flashed.
Rain fell in hard, stinging drops, flinging itself to the ground in a torrent.
The mare whinnied and threw her head from side to side. She halted, unwilling to take another step.
Breandán wasn’t aware that he had hunched over and was crouched close to the ground until Rafael’s hand slid under his arm and pulled him to his feet. Rafael yanked him toward the back of the wagon.
Yes, inside. Away from all this madness.
Only Rafael pushed on his shoulder, guiding him down. Under the wagon.
Another thundering crack of sound stole Breandán’s hearing again. It left his sensitive ears ringing. Breandán threw himself forward and slithered under the wagon, away from the stinging rain and the reach of the thunder.
He was breathing too hard. Even in these few short weeks, he had learned that to expend too much effort would mean having to feed sooner. He could not continuously feed from Rafael, for it weakened him. It meant finding another human, and out in this lonely part of Gaul there were few humans to be found. For certain, they would not be out in this storm.
Rafael pulled out his knife and jammed it under the wheel so the hilt acted as a brake. Then he sprawled on the ground and blew out his breath, with his head against the spokes of the wheel. He wiped the water from his face.
Breandán hunched over, his arms around his knees. Shivers wracked him. He couldn’t stop them, or his heart from running either.
A third stab of lightning and the loudest explosion of sound yet. Breandán smothered his cry against his knees. He had no idea thunder was like this. It was violent. Wild. Overwhelming.
It took as little time for the storm to pass as it had taken for it to arrive. Another few, far less ominous and deafening strikes, then the wind dropped. The rain slackened.
The heavy gray cloud stayed overhead, while the bruised and roiling light had moved on.
Breandán trembled as he climbed out from under the wagon. Rafael stood and brushed off mud and dirt and gave a small laugh.
Then Breandán realized the trembling wasn’t simply fear. His fangs were trying to descend. The need to feed was urgent and undeniable. He leapt upon Rafael, wrenching at his arm, exposing his neck.
Rafael gave a small cry of his own, as fear-filled as Breandán’s had been. He threw up his hand. Only, he was a puny human and Breandán was…was mighty and superior. He bent his head and tore open the flesh and bathed in the rich goodness which flowed.
How many moments passed before sense asserted itself? Breandán didn’t know. It was like waking from sleep, which he could still remember. Then he realized he had Rafael pinned in his arms, at his mercy.
Horrified, Breandán set about repairing the damage he had caused. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as he worked. “Please believe me. I was not myself.”
Silence.
When the wound was gone, Breandán carefully put Rafael on his feet once more. He avoided Rafael’s gaze. “I should have died in that amphitheater,” he said bitterly and went back to the wagon, got in and shut the door.
The dark was sanctuary from everything but his thoughts.
Time ticked on mercilessly. He was aware of time now, in a way he had never noticed as a human. It was invariable. Constant.
The door to the wagon opened, showing dim late afternoon light.
“Do not come in,” Breandán said sharply.
“There is no room for me between you and your self-pity,” Rafael replied. He stayed on the ground, outside the door. His arms were crossed. “Shall I bring you your sword, to fall upon?”
Breandán shuddered. “I should fall upon my sword. There is no honor in this life I have left. There is no honor in me. Only, a sword through the heart will do nothing but ruin my clothes. I cannot escape that way.”
Silence.
Rafael didn’t move from the door. He watched Breandán where he sat on the single sleeping shelf, which only Rafael needed to use. “You fail to evoke my sorrow for your plight.”
Breandán shook his head. “That was not my intention.”
“Then why do you cower in here?”
“Because…” Breandán frowned. “Because I am ashamed,” he admitted.
“God’s teeth! Ashamed? You are right, Breandán, you should find a way to end this misery you swim in.” Rafael slammed the door shut, leaving Breandá
n in the dark once more.
He had gone too long in the dark. Years of it, with only the light of torches to disperse the shadows. Breandán climbed from the wagon, out into the dim light of the cloud-filled day.
Rafael leaned against the front of the wagon. He had unhitched the mare and held the leather bucket for her to drink from. The bag of oats sat at his feet. He glanced up at Breandán.
“How can you even look at me?” Breandán demanded. “After what I have done to you?”
“You have done nothing. Look.” Rafael shifted his shoulder, to display the untouched flesh at the base of his neck.
“But…”
“No!” Rafael shook his head. “I will hear no more about your downfall. You are a fool, Breandán.”
Breandán sighed. “I know nothing,” he admitted.
“I know just as much,” Rafael shot back. “Yet I do not beat my chest about it the way you do.” He flung his arm out, pointing to the north. “Look! And there!” He shifted to point to the west. “And there!” The southern horizon showed a strip of blue sky.
“I can look at them now and not quail,” Breandán said in agreement.
“You do not see beyond them!”
Puzzled, Breandán said, “Can you?”
“No! I am not like you! I am not of the Blood! Gods, Breandán, you have all of time before you. Don’t you want to see what lies beyond the horizon?”
Breandán blinked. “Beyond the horizon…”
“You are stronger and faster than any human. You heal instantly when wounded and I think…I suspect you will never grow ill, either. You can move to the edges of the known world without fear. You can go beyond them. You can do anything you want, yet you sit in a wagon with the door closed and wail about how unlucky you are!”
The fury in Rafael’s eyes and the taut lines of his body and jaw made Breandán’s heart squeeze. Rafael was the only person he knew in this strange new life. If Rafael was to leave…
“Are you even listening to me?” Rafael demanded.
“Of course I am,” Breandán returned.
Rafael shook his head. “No, you’re not. Not really.” He hung the bag of oats over the mare’s head, so she could reach into it. Then he pulled his short sword out from under the bench and pushed it through his sash. “Make yourself useful.” His tone was flat. Disinterested. “Pull the wagon off the road and make a fire. And don’t come after me.” He walked away, heading for the tree line.
More Time Kissed Moments Page 16
