After a moment Perseus staggered up like a man under a too-heavy load. The halt allowed Auriane time to become conscious of her wound. Her blood felt hot where it matted her tunic to her skin. Nausea gripped her. The floor of the arena seemed to tilt. The pain was like molten needles thrust into her stomach. She struggled for that sense of wild freedom she had felt only moments ago, but all the strength seemed to have drained from her arms. Despair crept up on her from behind; the whole world began to seem grotesque and wrong.
This place is haunted and god-cursed. I want to be quit of it.
Gradually she became aware the throng was raising a more insistent clamor than any she had heard that day.
The always-unpredictable crowd had decided to heartily approve her refusal to strike a man who was down. They saw it as a show of supreme confidence, an act of antique gallantry of the sort often praised by the historians. Demonstrations of reckless disregard for survival always had a good chance of winning their most enduring love. Had she deliberately planned this, she could not have found a surer means of winning the wild devotion of all ranks, even the most doubtful of the Praetorian Guards.
Julianus thought, by all the gods, it is the most intelligent thing she could have done. She hardly needs my help. She was born knowing how to incite a crowd’s love.
Auriane and Perseus crashed together like wearied, battling stags, striking with less force as both lost breath and blood. The spectators in the lower seats, anxious for her safety now, shouted helpful instructions: “Watch him now, that’s the first attack. Backstroke! Now thrust!” Erato glared at them, motioning for silence, fearful they would confuse her, but Auriane knew nothing but the random staccato of striking blades. Knowing time ran out with her blood, she put her whole mind to sensing an opening for a mortal blow, inhabiting Perseus, feeling his humiliation, his sour hatred, letting his rhythm become her own. And then it was time.
She advanced, keeping her sword and shield too low, intentionally putting herself in distance. As she intended, he aimed a cut at her neck. In rapid succession she sliced upward, hitting his sword at right angles with a resounding clang; then in one fluid motion she slid her blade along his and feigned an attack to his right shoulder, her purpose to induce him to move his shield. It succeeded. He whipped it laterally to stop a blow that never came. For in the same instant she wrenched her body to the left and with one quick, precise movement thrust the point of her short sword into his naked chest. Both knew at once the wound was mortal.
Curses on all the gods. I missed the heart. He will die slowly.
An almost awkward quiet settled over them both. Then she took a step forward and knocked his sword out of his hand with one hard down-stroke, a precaution of long habit. Weaponless, Perseus sank to his knees, then rolled onto his back. She stood over him, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, as though she played a role meant for another.
We had no blood-debt between us. Will I be cursed?
Perseus’ twisting body made her think of a dying wasp. Death was ever a stalking mystery, and in spite of her weariness she felt a fearful reverence.
You were a man-creature, no wasp, whoever you were, and so are deserving of some god’s grace. You fought well enough. Now die in peace.
Tumult and confusion rushed in. A slave garbed as Mercury, the conductor of souls to Hades, removed the dying man’s helmet and pulled back his head, exposing his throat for the finishing stroke. The throng chanted “Ave Aurinia victor!” and “Long live Aurinia, our dearest, our darling!” In one moment she was carried off by the strangeness of it all. Who are these people, and who am I? she thought as she fought to stand upright; once again the floor of the arena pitched like a ship at sea. They are the enemy of all my life, the foe of my mother’s mothers, my father’s fathers, and yet they praise me in words they might use with a goddess.
Perseus’ right hand struggled up, trembling; slowly he raised an index finger. The cursing finger, Auriane thought, confused at first. Then she realized this was the plea for mercy. She turned her face from his death-ridden eyes, fearing that vindictive soul.
Someone in the lower seats shouted down, “Cut his throat! Kill the cunning wolf that tried to murder our poor Aurinia!” His words echoed the feelings of others. The crowd looked to Domitian to see his verdict but the Emperor sat woodenly, seeming too contemptuous of it all to want any part of the vote. The people took the initiative then; everywhere, rapidly, thumbs were turning down.
The trainer called Glaucus gave Auriane a hard shove. “Are you moonstruck? Do as they bid. Finish him!”
Erato gripped her shoulders, steadying her. “Auriane, do what you must.” Auriane looked at the broad, glistening chest streaming with blood, the thick throat struggling for air. She threw down her sword in disgust. Then she bent over and quietly vomited.
“She is beyond help,” muttered Glaucus. Erato, embarrassed for her, opened his cloak and tried to shield her from view, but the crowd saw, and laughed tolerantly. A number of them even started clapping. This crowd has lost its wits, Erato thought. She is sick and they applaud.
Glaucus shouted at her: “Do you know what this means, Daughter-of-a-Mule?” He thrust his downturned thumb into her face and forced the sword back into her hand.
Auriane’s voice was numbed and indifferent. “A curse unto nine generations upon one who strikes a foe who cannot strike back.”
“What’d she say?” shouted Glaucus’ assistant, cupping an ear.
“Some barbarian gabble,” Glaucus muttered, grasping Auriane’s wrist and wrenching her forward until she nearly stumbled over the dying man. “You’re not out in the woods with wild men anymore. To Hades with your nine-generations’ curses—they don’t work here. You’re among regular, civilized men and their thumbs are down. Now cut his throat, you sickly sow.” He kicked her.
Auriane whirled on him. But Erato lunged at her and caught her arm, stopping the blow and pulling her off balance. Auriane fell on top of Glaucus; Erato fell on her. Erato managed to pry the sword from her hand. But then she seized Glaucus by the throat. The crowd responded with delighted laughter; it put them in mind of the antics of a mime troupe.
“Get him, Aurinia!” came the crowd’s exuberant cries. “Our dearest! Kill them, Aurinia. Kill them all!”
Erato and the assistant pulled on her with all their strength; gradually she released her grip on Glaucus’ neck.
“You little fool, you’re throwing away all you’ve gained,” Erato cried out at her. As soon as he spoke, Erato realized the people did not care.
It is incredible, he thought. I have seen men pelted with garbage for ignoring the demands of the crowd. Instead, she in one moment makes willfulness the fashion. She owns them completely. They will forgive her anything.
Amidst the confusion an undertrainer crept close to Perseus and unobtrusively did what Auriane would not, dispatching the fallen man with a quick dagger stroke. Then a boy wearing a grotesquely grinning mask of Charon, the Etruscan death demon, touched Perseus with a hot brand to be certain he was dead. Four morgue workers rushed forward; unceremoniously they hauled the body up and dropped it into one of the wooden caskets. All the while Erato fought desperately to contain Auriane, pinning her arms behind her back, fearful she might strike out blindly at everyone within reach.
“It is done, and you won,” Erato pleaded with Auriane. “Stop fighting. Get the palm, and quickly. Your wound must be tended to!”
Gradually her rage subsided; she felt emptied of all feeling. Glaucus replaced the scarlet cloak about her shoulders. Leaning heavily on Erato, she moved toward the imperial box and stood quivering and still. With one hand she gathered up the cloth of the cloak and held it to the wound to staunch the flow of blood. She noticed, alarmed, that Marcus Julianus was no longer there. When had he left, and why? She felt the dull loneliness of one who returns from a hunt to find the hall deserted and the hearth fire cold.
One of Domitian’s disdainful white-liveried servants approached with mincing ste
p, bearing the victory palm. But as Auriane reached for it, he let it drop to the sand as he had been coached to do. Then the herald announced from the imperial box—“This woman disobeyed the order to kill. Let it be known—she shall not have this victory. Let the record read: Perseus: perished. Aurinia: defeated.”
The crowd paused like some great ponderous beast annoyed and perplexed by a barrier in its path. Then they gathered their energy and charged on through.
“Aurinia victor!” came the raw cries. “She needs no palm!”
Erato thought worriedly: Then that scoundrel Musonius Geta neither wins nor loses. But he cannot justly charge this to me. But then when was that man ever fair or just?
The herald continued, “And now we grant her yet another chance to prove her mettle…. Enter, Antaeus!”
“What madness?” Erato shouted, turning quickly around. The door of the gladiators’ entrance was slowly being pulled open. And there stood Antaeus with net and trident, eager and untired.
“No!” Erato cried. “This cannot be!”
As surprise and outrage traveled through the multitudes, the throng’s aspect became black and threatening as a swift-gathering storm. And then, high in the plebeian seats, a small, determined group began a new and purposeful chant: “Aurinia, victor! Ave Imperator Domitianus, Germanicus, Ruler of All, Lord and God, Conqueror of Germania!”
Domitian was jerked from his sullen fog. He blinked, then sat forward in disbelief. He must not have heard correctly.
But no. There it was again.
Were those villains at last granting him his title? And admitting that his victory was as great as his cursed brother’s? Could they finally be repenting of their treasonable rebelliousness?
The chant continued, rising in intensity. At last. Love, freely offered. Domitian believed it to be spontaneous praise, a change of heart brought about by his “gift” of Auriane.
Domitian was never to learn that the men in the plebeian seats who began the chant were all in Marcus Julianus’ pay.
The cry was taken up rapidly and soon it rang out nearly in unison; a mountain of sound rose up, praising the glory of the Chattian war. For as Julianus had hoped, those not party to the ruse quickly saw what a fine game this was. It was as though the same thought occurred simultaneously in seventy thousand minds. They had at last found a way to strike back at the tyrant. How amusing to trap him by giving him what he long craved, for the sake of this woman who was his Nemesis.
Domitian scowled, pinned between rage and satisfaction. The words were like honeyed wine to him; he drank long drafts and soon was thoroughly intoxicated. So great was his need that it dulled his perception—he was not alert to devious intent. What amazed him most was that even the Senators took up the cry. For Auriane’s sake, they even forgave him the necessary purging of Gallus. At long last they acknowledged his natural abilities. For the first time he took his rightful place beside his father and brother.
Domitian examined Auriane’s face, pale as milk against the blood red of her cloak. They loved her that much, and him, for providing her? Not even Aristos brought him this sort of adoration. He felt like a man whose resources have been rapidly dwindling who suddenly finds a rich new source of income. She began to look subtly different to him—more biddable, more vulnerable. Her insolence began to seem the harmless precocity of a child. He marveled at how she seemed possessed of a curious, indefinable mixture of dark and light, of frustration and satisfaction promised at once. She can keep her wretched life, he thought, but she’s still not getting that wretched palm.
He sent an order to the herald, who hastily announced the officials of the games had miscalculated the duration of the events to come, and there was not time for the bout with Antaeus. In response, the throng shouted his name and the title, “Germanicus” with such savage energy that he knew he had chosen the wisest course of action.
Auriane departed through the Victory Gate, aided by Erato. Though guards barred every entrance, somehow the crowds always managed to get through, and they swarmed about her, clutching at her and kissing her as Erato tried in vain to fend them off. Some had barber’s razors in their hands and attempted to cut pieces from her cloak. Two women attacked her from behind, pulling at her knotted hair, desperate for a lock. “The hair of a first-time victor wards off the evil eye,” she remembered Celadon telling her once.
A first-time victor. The beast has swallowed me whole. I am one of them now. I do not want to be in their songs. I will not have Avenahar ever know what her mother was made to do. And yet I feel I climbed to a high place. I know a warrior’s pride when perhaps I should not. Baldemar, what in the name of Hel would you say if you looked upon this grotesque victory?
When Auriane entered the passage that connected the Gate of Victory with the gladiators’ entrance, Erato gave her over to two burly Greek physician’s assistants, commanding them, “Take her quickly, before the gods do.” The assistants guided her firmly through the passage; one had a walking stick with a sharpened end, which he used to fend off the crowd.
They had not gone far when the mass of people ahead became like a retreating wave, hindering them, then pulling them back a step—making way for someone. Talk became muted suddenly; Auriane saw every head turn in one direction. A man tall enough to see down the passage announced: “Aristos! Stand off from him, he’s in choleric temper. Yes, he’s provoked about something!”
Auriane stiffened, drawing strength from that despised name. Before the physician’s assistants realized what she was doing she seized the walking stick and wrest herself free of them. They broke into a stream of curses that made her grateful she knew no Greek. She strode into the space left open for Aristos and stood alone, her body bent slightly against the pain of her wound as she leaned on the walking stick. Her hair, half pulled from its knot, hung raggedly, with tufts sticking out where her locks had been cut. Her bloody cloak looked like it had suffered a dog attack.
First she saw Aristos’ ruffians. Among them were an acrobat escaped from a rich man’s troupe, said to be clever at combining somersaults and murder; a boxer with ears and nose battered into baker’s dough, who was in the habit of grinning broadly to show off his gold false teeth; a Syrian-born charioteer barred forever from the Circus for poisoning his opponents’ horses, and an assortment of cutpurses and graverobbers who had survived their condemnation to the arena. They called out—“Make way! Make way!”—mimicking the lictors who walked ahead of the great magistrates in the city’s streets. Auriane realized every one of them had perfected an accurate imitation of Aristos’ walk. As ever, he draws to himself lost men anxious to remake themselves in his image.
And then came Aristos himself with ponderous, deliberate steps, so like that of a man pulling his feet out of sticky mud. The party halted ten paces off from Auriane.
Aristos regarded her with legs planted belligerently apart. For a flash of an instant archaic darkness glinted in those eyes and Odberht was revealed, crude, half-formed, a vengeful ghoul that had lost its human face, a soul that was a sink of putrefying resentments bottomless as the bogs. Then his present persona flashed into place and it was Aristos who nodded knowingly, giving her a slow, cruel smile touched with urbane amusement. A leopardskin was thrown carelessly over his heavy shoulders, further accentuating their breadth; the beast’s head, with the upper teeth still attached, hung down and rested against his massive arm. She saw that this life’s foreign luxuries had thickened him in the middle; he required a longer belt to gird his tunic than when she last encountered him in their own country. His hair had begun its slow retreat, rendering more formidable yet a forehead so heavy of bone it looked as though it could withstand hammer blows. His gray-blond hair hung in matted ropes straight to his shoulders, for he discovered his women followers admired his long locks. Burn scars mottled his thick forearms, the legacy of drunken tests of valor in which he held his arm over a lamp flame to awe his companions. A scent drifted from him not unlike that of a team of horses after completi
ng the Circus’ seven rounds. About his neck on a greasy leather thong hung a preserved wolf’s muzzle, an amulet to protect him from sorcery.
“Greetings to Auriane,” he said grandly as a herald, “daughter of Baldemar of noblest rank, flower of numerous illustrious kin—numerous, that is, if she has not murdered them all by now!” His flatterers laughed dutifully.
Auriane was surprised to discover this spear thrust had no sting. Where is the shame of all my life? Perhaps I truly have left it behind?
“Is she not beautiful?” Aristos went on, grinning. “The ravens of Wodan got tired of pursuing her and decided to nest in her hair!” He broke into a sharp, barking laugh that was ever a weapon. “And that is a fetching cloak. Bloodstains become you, Auriane. Except for the ones on your hands, that cannot be washed off.”
Furious that she did not respond to his taunts, his rage rose like a rash. “Daughter of trolls! Get your skulking shadow out of my path before I twist your neck like a chicken’s!”
Many in the crowd visibly shrank back, but Auriane felt her capacity for terror had been drained off with the last of her strength. She held his gaze steadily, evenly. Then she spoke, her voice flat with exhaustion.
“Odberht, son of Wido, I greet you. Twice now you tried to murder me in the dark—once by poison, and today by trickery. I give you a chance to try in the light, with honorable weapons of war. In the name of our whole tribe whom you betrayed, before Wodan I challenge you to single battle. Choose a day.”
“How about today,” the Acrobat called out merrily.
The boxer gave a braying laugh, and all Aristos’ companions joined in. Yet their laughter died quickly for lack of support; the crowd stood in taut silence. But most importantly to his entourage, Aristos did not laugh. They were mystified by this. He stood with head lowered like a beast at bay, looking less like a man confronted with a silly woman who was half dead and more like a man who has been ambushed.
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