by Lisa Cach
He was quiet for several steps, then shrugged. “I trust that God had his reasons. But it doesn’t matter, what really happened,” he said. “It matters what people believe. And they want to believe in Saint Kitharede. It gives them hope.”
“It’s a lie.”
“Hope is never a lie. It may remain unfulfilled, but the hope itself is pure. Remember that, Nimia. There are times in all of our lives when hope is all that gets us through.”
Alaric was waiting at the end of the pier. A king, waiting on me. But on this day I outranked him: kings came and went, but a saint was forever.
A saint was also no woman meant to be taken as a wife. I had discovered to my great sorrow that there was nothing like sainthood to make a man unwilling to give me the fucking I so dearly desired.
Alaric wouldn’t even let me hold his mentula.
Sainthood could tongue my arse. No one else here was going to.
I stood before Alaric and looked up into his large dark eyes. There was still warmth there for me, but it was restrained. And depressingly tinged with religious awe.
Everything that mattered had been said—or not said, since I had more sense than to explain to him what had really happened at the Temple of Mars, from Sygarius licking my cunny, to my calling forth the spring waters, to a chalice from which I had once drunk blood and, apparently, gained the ability to heal myself of mortal wounds. So this was simply the final farewell of a parting that had happened a fortnight past. I wasn’t as heartbroken as I had thought I would be, which made me feel obscurely guilty.
I put out my hands, and Alaric took them. “My lady,” he said.
“My lord.”
He chuckled, and shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. How does a man bid farewell to the woman he thought to wed, who then brought forth a miracle before his eyes and became a saint?”
“Not officially a saint,” I said. “I think there are people in Rome who must declare it. So for the moment I am still Nimia.”
“We Visigoths do not follow Rome, and we know what you are.”
I suppressed a sigh. “Then since I am a saint, will you swear a promise to me?”
“Anything.”
I pulled one hand free and gestured for him to lean down so I could whisper in his ear. “When you marry again, treat your wife as Eve in the garden, and teach her to love your body as I did. Will you do that?”
He nodded.
I put my hand on the back of his neck. “Now let me kiss you farewell.” I pressed my lips to his and darted my tongue out to paint the seam where his lips joined. I kissed him until he couldn’t help but respond, his mouth opening, his tongue rubbing against mine.
I pulled back. “God thinks lust is beautiful. You can tell your future wife that Saint Quitterie told you so.”
I left him with a hard cock, and myself regretting that I wouldn’t have the chance to enjoy it.
After boarding the galley I made my way to the back, where Terix was sitting under an awning, sheltered from the view of the people on the pier. I plopped down beside him, and after a moment he put his arm around me.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I want to go home.”
“But we’ve been having such a good time.”
I snorted, and then laughed.
“It’s not every day a girl gets her head cut off,” he chided. “You have to take time to savor these special moments.”
“It wasn’t all the way off.”
“Near enough, from what I saw.”
He’d told me afterward that he had come to talk to me in the palace at Aire, and been unable to find me. Sid had gone to talk to Sygarius, and been unable to find him. When it became clear we both were missing, the alarm had been raised. Fenwig had nearly eviscerated the two soldiers who had been watching my door, so furious and frantic was he. Terix had put Bone on my trail, and in short order everyone was hurtling up the hill to the Temple of Mars.
“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing when Sygarius swung that sword and cut you down,” Terix had told me. “No one could believe it. No one wanted to believe it.”
Bone had gotten to Sygarius first, knocking him down. Fenwig and the soldiers followed, securing him. Alaric and Terix went to me, stopping short of my body. “Your throat was gaping open, all the way across,” Terix had told me. “Blood, everywhere. Your eyes seemed to be staring at the frozen nymphs and the sky beyond, but they’d turned strange. I’ve seen them go fiery copper before, but this time your pupils were only tiny dots, and the copper seemed to have bled out into your whites, in streaks.” He’d shuddered at the memory. “Fenwig came and saw you, and almost fainted. I think he took one look at your neck, and saw his own head on Clovis’s pike. He had his sword in his hand, and I think he was considering sticking it in his own chest when there came a dreadful gurgling beneath our feet.”
Then Terix had told me how the gurgling rose up into the fountain, where first a trickle of water dribbled out of one nereid’s mouth—“like a girl who doesn’t want to swallow after she gets her first mouthful of come”—and then out of all the spouts, increasing to a steady stream and then, with no warning, bursting forth in geysers, one of which knocked Terix from his feet.
By the time he could get up, he saw me rolling in the river of water from the fountain’s overflowing basin. And then he saw me lift myself up, sputtering.
He didn’t believe it at first; he thought it was the water moving me, giving the illusion of life. But then I’d spoken, and Alaric had fallen to his knees, and everyone who’d seen me lying with my throat gashed open to my spine had cried out in fear. “There were some soiled breeches at the Temple of Mars,” Terix had said. “None so soiled as Sygarius’s, though.”
During the shock and chaos of those early moments after my resurrection, I had pushed myself to my feet and stumbled toward Sygarius, who was bound and held by soldiers. He had stared at me in blank incomprehension, as if being visited by a revenant in broad daylight.
Which I suppose he was.
I could see as I approached him in my slow, dragging steps that everything he’d ever believed about me was being shattered. His grip on reality itself seemed to be loosening. I must have looked a fright, with my black hair sopping and my gown covered in blood, and the gods only knew what my eyes looked like by then. The closer I came, the more terrified he became, until he was trembling in the grip of the soldiers, who themselves seemed paralyzed with shock.
When I reached Sygarius, I grabbed his chin in my cold, wet hand and forced him to meet my gaze, and said, “I was never yours.”
I think he believed me.
“What do you think Clovis will do with Sygarius?” Terix asked me now.
“Kill him. Unless there’s a use to having him alive.”
“What use could there be?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure Sid could think of several reasons. He told me that Julius Caesar kept the last king of the Celts, Vercingetorix, as a prisoner for five years before parading him through Rome and executing him.”
“Why prolong it like that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
He hugged me. “Neither do I.”
I wrapped my arms around his waist and turned my face into his chest. “Thank you, Terix,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For still being here.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I thought I’d lost you—again. You’ve got to stop dying, Nimia. It’s hard on a man.”
“I’ll do my best.” I closed my eyes and clung to him until I felt the galley push off, and we were under way.
Homeward bound, at last.
People lined the streets of Soissons to watch us arrive. Fenwig had sent word ahead as soon as we landed at Juliobona, and Clovis had sent troops to protect us and our prisoner. We were a parade 150 strong by the tim
e we reached the gates of the city and rode within.
Is this how the conquering hero felt, coming home to adulation? If so, it was a wonder anyone ever went to war. I was weary and sick at heart, my only joy being the thought that soon I would be holding Theo.
Sygarius disturbed me, though he had caused no trouble on the journey home. I had expected to savor having him as my prisoner and bringing him to the justice he so richly deserved, but Sidonius Apollinaris had taught me to be more complex in my thinking, and I couldn’t see Sygarius as evil, despite all he had done to me.
Damn Sid.
Though I believed Sygarius had earned a death sentence, I didn’t wish to see him suffer. To Fenwig’s dismay, I had ordered that he be treated with decency, that he be fed properly (though I drew the line at wine—it was beyond my generosity to allow him that pleasure) and allowed to bathe. I tried not to look upon him or think of him, but I couldn’t forget that he was there.
Up ahead, standing in the center of the street with armored men in full regalia behind him, was Clovis. Sunlight gilded his long hair, shimmered on the gold embroidery at the edges of his teal-blue tunic, and reflected off the gems and polished metal of belt, scabbard, and shoulder brooches. He was my barbarian king, a bright, fiercely burning opposite to the dark, restrained calm of Alaric.
I drew my mount to a halt before him and he grinned up at me, fires of satisfaction burning in his eyes. “Nimia. You did it.”
A thousand words tumbled in my head: words of the price I had paid in heart, in soul, in body. In the end, though, all that would matter to him was that I had succeeded. I had brought him his enemy in chains, snatched from the hands of a rival king. “Yes.”
He came to my side and lifted me down, but before he let my feet touch earth he cradled the back of my head in his palm and laid his mouth to mine. It was a kiss of claiming, of pride, of conquest—not of me, but of others. I felt in that moment like his equal, his partner. I had removed the last barrier to his possession of Soissons, and he knew it.
“Theo,” I said, when at last he lifted his lips from mine and let my feet touch the ground.
“Our son is safe.”
My lips parted. “Our.”
Clovis laughed, his energy vibrating through him. “That black hair of his fell out, and blond took its place. His face has changed, too; I can see his resemblance to me now. There’s no question he is my son.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s safe. He’s with my mother.”
“I want to see him.”
He laid his finger against my lips. “Shh. We must deal with Sygarius.”
“I’ve dealt with him quite enough already,” I grumbled.
“Did he give you much trouble?”
I slanted a glance at him. “Did Fenwig’s messenger give you none of the story?”
He shook his head. “It can’t have been too traumatic, though. You look remarkably well.”
I made a sound far short of a laugh. “I’d tell you the whole tale, but it would be dawn before I finished, and you wouldn’t believe a word of it.”
He seemed to hear something in my voice that concerned him. He studied me. “Do I need to know, before I make my decision on what to do with him?”
I had thought about this on the journey home; thought about the suffering I had endured at Sygarius’s hands, and what rights that might give me. I laid my hand on Clovis’s arm. “I ask that you allow me to choose his fate.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I continued: “Have Fenwig tell you what happened at the Temple of Mars. And then dare to tell me that Sygarius’s life is not mine to dispose of as I wish.”
He nodded.
“Now, I want to see our son.”
Clovis put his arm around my waist and steered me into the palace. He kissed my temple, then whispered to me, “He’s not here. There was an attempt on his life, so I sent him into hiding with my mother.”
I stumbled. Clovis tightened his hold on me. “Probably one of my relatives was behind it; we’re a murderous bunch. None fiercer than my mother, though. You know Theo is safe with her.”
“When can I see him?”
“I don’t know. They’ll be watching you; they’ll know you want to go to him.”
“He’s my son,” I said stupidly. “He needs me.”
“I need you.”
A terrible certainty began to creep through me: I wasn’t going to see Theo. Not now. Not, perhaps, for years. The moment Clovis had recognized the child as his own, I had lost him.
Theo was now a prince of the Franks.
I was still in a stunned state of disbelief when I saw Audofleda in the courtyard garden.
“Nimia!” she cried, and threw herself into my arms. “I’ve missed you. I’ve had no one to talk to, with you and Terix gone. And my mother.” She made a face. “Not that I could ever talk to her.”
“Was Theo well when last you saw him?”
“Theo? Of course. The little fellow about screamed the roof down when that maid tried to drown him; it’s too bad she was killed before anyone could find out who hired her.”
I felt my face go white, my knees giving way.
“Oh!” Audofleda caught me and helped me to a bench. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. He’s fine. He’s healthy as a piglet, and twice as fat.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“About a week and a half.” She patted my knee. “Try not to worry. Clovis spent the first five years of his life away from us, for the same reason. I myself spent three years with an old couple deep in the woods, where no one could find me. Theo will be fine.”
“I won’t be.”
“Yes, you will. And you can give him brothers and sisters.”
“And have them taken away, too?”
“Only temporarily. It’s for the best.”
I couldn’t comprehend it. My mind refused to take in that it might be years before I saw my son again.
“What else has happened while we’ve been gone?” I asked, changing the subject. Theo’s absence was a black pit from which I was desperate to turn away.
Audofleda wrinkled her nose. “Clovis has been digging around, looking for a husband for me.”
“Digging where?”
“Here, there, everywhere. He’s sending messages as far as Byzantium. Rome. He’d probably send me to Egypt if he thought there was a good alliance to be made from it. As it is, he’s thinking seriously about courting Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths.”
“He’s courting?”
“Well, I’m certainly not, and this Theodoric is at least thirty, and probably well past love and poetry. And an Ostrogoth. Did I mention he’s an Ostrogoth?”
“The Gothic tribes are . . . surprisingly civilized.” I thought of Alaric, and his large dark eyes.
“And Christian.” She curled her lip. “I’d have to take more lessons from Remigius.”
I laughed. “A trial to be avoided, for certain.”
“Clovis will have to take a lesson or two as well, if he wants to snare that princess in Burgundy.”
“Wh-what princess?”
Audofleda waved her hand. “Clotilde. She’s the niece of someone or another, and presently shut up in a nunnery.”
“Clovis wants to marry her?”
“He has to marry someone. She has ties to all the great families of Burgundy, which would be a powerful alliance for the Franks.” Belatedly, she saw the look on my face. She grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Oh, Nimia, it’s nothing personal. You know that. It’s political. It has nothing to do with you and Clovis.”
“Does your potentially marrying an Ostrogoth have nothing to do with you and Terix?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. I’d have to go to
Theodoric, and I couldn’t bring a lover along. I’ve always known that. It’s different for wives, especially the wives of kings. Just like Clotilde would have to be faithful to Clovis, but he’ll be free to do as he pleases, with you. He would never give you up.”
“But he’ll never marry me.”
Audofleda shrugged. “You knew that. Kings don’t marry unless it gains them an alliance.”
Alaric would have. Even Sygarius would have. Just not Clovis.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, Audofleda . . . I’m exhausted. I . . . I think I’ll retire.”
She made a murmuring sound of sympathy, and helped me to my feet. She hugged me. “I’m so glad you’re back. Promise me you won’t leave again.”
“Where could I go?”
After I left her and crawled into my bed, I asked myself that question again and again: where could I go? I wanted to escape, but it was from the pain of loss—of Theo, of any hope of being Clovis’s wife. So it didn’t matter where I was physically; that pain would stay with me.
Sygarius knelt in the center of a stone courtyard the next morning, his hands hanging at his sides, unshackled. Franks lined all four sides of the space, strangely quiet as they looked on the man whose standard many had fought beneath, not so long before. Their silence denoted warriors’ respect for a great leader, even though he had since become their enemy.
Sygarius appeared as accepting and devoid of stratagems as I had ever seen him. He looked . . . strangely at peace.
Maybe that was what happened when all options were closed, and your fate was in another’s hands.
My hands.
I had lain awake into the small hours of the night, until Clovis joined me, wine on his breath and in his voice. He had pulled me to him, nestling my bottom against his loins and wrapping his arms around me. He had tucked one hand between my thighs and held my mound, chuckling in my ear.
“So Alaric wanted to marry this. That castrated Christian had never met anyone with a cunny like yours, had he? He didn’t stand a chance.”
“If he’d been castrated, he wouldn’t have cared what was between my legs.”
