Roman

by Heather Grothaus

  Roman looked down at Zeus, whose face was a mask of panic, although they were through the last gate now and ploughing up the road at top speed.

  “I don’t see Isra!” Roman shouted over the sound of the cartwheels on the road.

  “She’s with Delilah!”

  “I don’t see her!”

  Zeus’s mouth thinned. “She’s in the back!” He hesitated. “With Kahn!”

  Chapter 24

  Isra’s hand was on the latch of the wagon door, the cloying smell of Delilah’s perfume mingling with Kahn’s musky scent and the odor of drying blood. With each rustling scuff of fur against wood she thought of flinging open the door and hurling herself from the cart, but by the wild rocking of the conveyance, she knew it was likely she would only be broken to pieces by whatever animals and wagons were racing after them: death either way.

  Were they escaping Kerak?

  Were they being chased?

  Had Roman managed to flee Baldwin’s chamber?

  She was almost completely blind in the back of the wagon, the cracks in the chinking of the boards only revealing themselves as faint, glowing threads. The rumbling of the wheels were like thunder, stirred and thickened by Kahn’s occasional short growls of unease.

  But then the wagon seemed to be slowing, and it rocked to a halt at once, throwing Isra forward. She caught herself with her hands, and Kahn gave a snarl at the abrupt movement. The wagon was flooded with warm light and she was dragged through the doorway at such speed that she left some of the skin of her forearms on the floor of the wagon.

  But then the door slammed shut and she was crushed in a one-armed embrace against Roman’s chest.

  “Are you hurt?” he rushed and then dropped her to her trembling legs, where she nearly collapsed to the dirt. He yanked her aright with one hand rather roughly and held her from him, his eyes roving her, his expression strained, wild as he demanded, “Isra! Are you hurt?”

  “N-no,” she managed to say at last and noticed his left arm hanging useless at his side. “Your arm?”

  “You’re not injured? Kahn didn’t—”

  “I am fine, Roman,” she insisted and then looked around. It seemed half of the troupe had gathered round them, and still the rest of the conveyances were pulling up short, drivers disembarking and sprinting toward them. She looked back at Roman. “Where are we?”

  “Just beyond Kerak,” he said and then leaned back against the rear of Delilah’s wagon with a ragged sigh, his eyes closing. He reached out and pulled her to him once more, dropping his lips to the crown of her head as he had been wont to do the past several weeks.

  It was the sweetest feeling Isra had ever known. And yet she could not pause to revel in it.

  She pulled away.

  “Hamid’s men will follow us,” she warned. “They saw me.”

  “The king’s men will put them off, if not stop them altogether,” Roman said. “But you are right; we must be away. Even if Hamid’s men are prevented from giving chase, I doubt Raynald will be pleased with us once the king departs. He’s not a stupid man and will likely link our sudden departure with the king’s withdrawal of favor.” He stood aright from the wagon and looked to Zeus. “Head out. Make haste.”

  “Aye, boss,” the strongman replied. “Which direction?”

  Roman stepped away from the cart and looked around. He pointed with his right arm. “Up the first of those hills. The climb shouldn’t be bad, and we will have a view of the road from there. Zeus, you drive for Delilah; she’s had a fright.” He reached out to take Isra’s hand and pull her toward van Groen’s wagon.

  “Boss?” Zeus called out. “Your arm?”

  “I’ve had to do more than drive a cart in this condition, friend,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. There’s not a Spaniard in the troupe I don’t know about, is there?”

  Isra didn’t understand what he meant, but she followed him anyway. “Are you certain you can drive?” she said. “Perhaps Zeus could—”

  “I’d have you with me,” Roman said, and he sounded angry.

  Isra didn’t question him, only preceded him onto the driver’s seat and gathered the reins. She handed them to Roman after he hauled himself up with some effort and sat down with a grimace.

  She looked forward at the rolling sand as they lurched ahead, the future rushing toward her, yet it was hidden all the same.

  They gained the top of the rise in less than an hour, the sun blazing magenta beyond the stark outline of Kerak as it snuck below the horizon. It seemed the whole of the troupe held their breath as they formed a line along the ridge, watching the road.

  “It’s late,” Dracus offered. “Perhaps they’ll overnight and leave at dawn.”

  Roman shook his head. “If I’ve learned anything about Baldwin, it’s that he doesn’t take betrayal lightly. If we don’t see him and his entourage on the road before the sun sets, he’s either dead or he’s decided he doesn’t believe me after all, meaning he’ll send men after us at first light.”

  “Not good either way,” Dracus mused.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The moments dragged by. Isra’s legs felt as if they could no longer support her, so she sank to her bottom in the silt before the cave, crossing her legs and dropping the crown of her head into her palms.

  Huda’s face bloomed in her mind, but it wasn’t the last images of her, which had haunted Isra’s dreams. It was the Huda of happy times: the giggles and dimples colored by the sheer silk as they had hid in their little makeshift tent over their bed, telling stories and secrets, drinking tea.

  The sun on her face when they’d run through the fields of short-lived flowers outside Damascus. Huda had run and run, her arms outstretched, her smile turned up to the sun, her head barely visible above the tall grass.

  Her eyes looking up at Isra with an innocent grin. I am fine, Sister. Do not worry so. I am very well and happy.

  Isra started and raised her head, opened her eyes.

  When had she said that? Isra could not place the memory. She had appeared to be small still—six years, perhaps—but the voice had been recent, untouched by Huda’s childish lisp.

  Isra jumped again as the troupe suddenly sent out a cheer. She looked ahead, down the valley, and saw a thick cluster of horses emerging onto the road leading from Kerak’s sandstone motte, a red and white banner flickering like a tiny scrap in the sunset.

  She looked up at Roman, but his face was turned to the sky now, as if he was contemplating something only he could see.

  Then he turned his head toward her, held out his hand.

  Isra placed her fingers into his palm and let him pull her to her feet. Once she was standing he drew her against his chest slowly, deliberately, wrapping his uninjured arm around her shoulders, and Isra held her breath as she looked up and he lowered his head.

  “I can wait no more,” he whispered against her mouth, and then he kissed her.

  * * *

  Isra had never been kissed in that way before, even by Roman on that disastrous night in Asa’s wagon when he’d wanted her. Now, his lips pressing against hers felt as if she was at last taking a deep breath of fresh air after being underwater for what seemed like years.

  “Er, boss?” Zeus’s voice interrupted the perfect moment, and Roman pulled away from her slowly, his easy, boyish grin shining even in his eyes.

  She tried not to feel bitterness toward the caravan’s lead man; after all, the troupe had been convinced she and Roman had been lovers since they’d begun sharing Asa’s wagon. They couldn’t know the significance of a single kiss—what it stood for, the weight it carried. And so Isra forgave the man, even though she guessed what he was going to say and had hoped to postpone it for at least a few more precious moments.

  “We’d best take to the road before the day leaves us,” Zeus continued.

  Roman’s smile faltered and he let Isra go from his embrace, although he did keep hold of her hand. He looked aroun
d at the troupe. “Where will you go?”

  The question hung in the air, and Isra noticed several people glance questioningly at one another. Zeus himself pursed his lips a moment before answering.

  “North, of course,” the man said quietly. “We must retrieve Asa. And I hope Fran as well.” He paused. “You’re leaving us, then?”

  “The events that occurred here tonight are of great import to some friends of mine. I must return to them as quickly as possible.”

  “South?” Isra offered, so glad when his face turned toward her again, like the sun on her skin. “Perhaps follow in Baldwin’s wake?”

  “It is likely many of the king’s vassals remain convinced of my guilt; if I were discovered, our long journey to save the king’s life might end with the loss of my own.”

  Isra knew too well that Roman could not circle to the east, for behind them lay Damascus.

  As if he could hear her thoughts, Roman spoke again. “The only way for us to go is west. To the sea.”

  “Through Kerak?” Zeus exclaimed. “That’s madness, boss! Raynald will have watchers posted.”

  But Roman ignored his friend’s warning as he turned once more to Isra. She braced herself.

  “We must leave Kahn behind,” he said, and his sympathy was clear on his face. “Even in his wagon, a ship might not agree to take him on.”

  “No one else save me will go near him,” she argued. “He is as wanted a criminal as we. Has he not been through enough? Has he not saved us both enough that he deserves his reward?”

  “I understand. But Isra, what shall happen to him if we must leave him at the coast?” Roman asked in gentle exasperation.

  “I will not leave him at the coast.” She thought perhaps the realization of what she intended to do was beginning to dawn on him, and yet she could not let him continue to wonder.

  “I will not leave him at all.”

  Roman stared at her until Zeus broke the heavy silence as he stalked into the spreading gloom. “I’ll ready his wagon with fresh bedding; it’s yet a mess with—” He broke off and moved away with his head down, the rest of the troupe following him quietly, as if sensing the impending tragedy.

  Roman’s handsome face wore a confused frown. “You . . . you’re staying with the caravan? But I want you to come with me.” He took her hand. “Isra, surely you know I love you. I think I’ve loved you since Damascus. I know I’ve loved you since we joined the caravan.”

  She wanted to speak, but her teeth were clenched so tightly, her throat so rigid, she felt that if she tried in that moment, she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

  Roman blew a short breath out of his nose. “Do you love me?” he demanded, his voice rough.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I love you.”

  “Then come with me to the coast,” he urged, drawing her hand to his heart.

  She shook her head as the first tears fell from her eyes. She forced herself to be braver than she ever had.

  “Why?” he pleaded and tried to urge her into a one-armed embrace.

  But she pulled away from him, stepped back, swiping at her eyes. “My whole life I have been owned. Commanded. Afraid. I have had to depend on someone else for my very existence.” She looked up at him, feeling enough of the confidence in herself Roman had always believed in to speak the words without faltering.

  “I do love you. But for me to come to you, I must first live in freedom without you.” She paused. “I do not know who I am now, who I can be. Who I want to be. I must discover that on my own. I must be whole on my own. If, after I do that, you still want me, I will be yours.”

  “I want you now,” he insisted. “Have we come all this way together only to part?”

  She placed her hands on either side of his face and raised up on her toes. He lowered his head to meet her lips, and Isra kissed him hesitantly, sweetly, for a long moment.

  “I must learn to live with myself before I can give my life to you,” she said against his mouth. “Please. Do not despise me for it.”

  “Never could I—” He broke off and then looked down at her, and his throat moved as he swallowed. “Isra Tak’Ahn, you are the strongest woman I have ever known—perhaps the strongest person. You have given me so much and asked for nearly nothing in return. Can I now refuse you this one thing?”

  He raised his right hand to stroke her face and then leaned forward to press his mouth to the crown of her head one final time, and when he breathed in deeply, his inhalation was jagged. Isra squeezed her eyes shut against the heat of his breath.

  “I vow,” he murmured into her hair, “I will never again return to this country. It has broken my heart for the last time.”

  Isra’s sob caught painfully in her throat and she clutched at his tunic.

  “Take care,” he whispered.

  Then he pulled away abruptly and turned toward the horse Zeus was walking toward them. He paused and looked up at the roof of Asa’s wagon, where Lou perched. Roman whistled and held up his forearm.

  But Lou turned his head, adjusted his wings.

  Roman dropped his arm back to his side and looked at the bird for a moment as the rest of the troupe stood watching. There were no good-byes, no stiff-lipped farewells; the crowd was uncharacteristically silent. Roman turned from Lou and gained the saddle awkwardly, immediately kicking the horse’s sides and riding toward the Mediterranean in the warmth of December, toward Melk. Leaving van Groen’s Magical Menagerie, his falcon, and Isra behind.

  * * *

  Everyone else was abed—indeed, the hour was late. Certainly the two other members of the Brotherhood who could boast of warm companionship had sought it after such a wretched night. Taking their comfort. Constantine would not begrudge them that. He hoped that if Roman still lived, he was safe. Warm. Perhaps the Damascene woman had shown him care.

  Constantine turned on his heel and began to circle the secret library in the opposite direction now, his hand reaching out occasionally to run his fingertips along the edge of a shelf, or the smooth turn of the tabletop, the back of a chair. He looked at the manuscripts lining the walls, the creamy wax as it beaded on the side of the candles in their holders. He tried to look anywhere but at the center of the table, where the message still lay.

  Victor had left it. Constantine supposed there was no need to keep it anywhere else but here since they all now knew. Save Roman. Roman, who was at this moment likely somewhere deep inside the Holy Land, risking his life on a mission that no longer mattered.

  Finally, Constantine sat down in his chair. He stared at the tabletop directly beneath his gaze for a very long time before reaching out with one hand and sightlessly placing his fingertips on the edge of the parchment. He drew it to him, sliding it beneath his gaze. He placed his hand beneath the tabletop on his lap, clenched into a fist like the first.

  He let his gaze skitter up the page until it reached the top and, at last, he read the words himself.

  To celebrate the installation of Lord Glayer Felsteppe as Earl of Rosemont, as well as his marriage to our beloved Lady Theodora while on their travels to that Holy City of Jerusalem, 21 November, in the year of our Lord 1181 . . .

  Constantine reached up and pushed the paper away slightly, unable to bear reading any further. The parchment seemed to itch under his fingertips, and so he slid the message back and forth quickly.

  Now it burned. It vibrated. It shook the very table . . .

  Constantine rose up with a roar, flipping the huge oaken slab into the air. He kept screaming, his fists clenched and shaking, his vision blurring, his temples pounding.

  His last shred of caution, of sanity itself perhaps, slipping from his grasp as the damned missive floated and twisted through the air to land on the rug.

  His arms fell back to his sides at last and he stood there, his chest heaving, for several moments. When he was once more calm, he untied his cincture and lay it along the chair near the window. He removed his monk’s robe, not minding the bite of cold winter
air in the stone room. He stood in his shirt and chausses, his boots. Then he turned to the long, thin cabinet wedged between the final shelf and the gatehouse wall.

  Opening it, he withdrew his long sword and sheath, his battered cloak, his ragged purse containing only a handful of the damned Chastellet coins.

  All of these he put on.

  Then Constantine quit the secret library, walking through the corridors dressed in a manner that no man there save Victor and his brothers had ever seen. He strode through the gatehouse, Michael’s stony eyes watching him, but the archangel made no argument as Stan pushed open the squeaking gate and left it wide.

  He disappeared into the quiet stable for the better part of an hour before emerging once more with a sleepy black mount. Together they crossed the frosty bailey to the main gate. Constantine struggled with the brace for a moment and then opened it just enough to lead the horse through.

  And then General Constantine Gerard was gone into the night, the whole of sleeping Melk unaware that they had lost him.

  Chapter 25

  Roman walked up the muddy path leading around the village of Melk, a rough satchel slung over his back. The air was crisp, still cold, but it contained a whiff of the freshness that sets men’s minds to the coming spring. The ground was soft, thawing now, and the sun blazed down with enough cheer to make up for its lack of warmth.

  He paused to look toward the center of the town and saw the bustling market, villagers meandering among the stalls he had once known so well. Everything seemed rather foreign to him now. Then a flash of red caught his eye, a lock of curling hair escaped from beneath a hood, and he knew of only one woman with tresses of such a bright hue.

  His heart ached as he drew near them, Adrian—oddly enough in the dress of a layman—escorting Maisie down the street, unaware that they were being followed. Roman was nearly upon them when someone threw themselves upon his person, causing him to stagger in the street.