His horse chose that moment to stumble. Torren nearly fell from the saddle. A bad omen to be sure. Eventually the walls of his villa broke the horizon. His horse whinnied and picked up his pace. Torren reined him in, and patted his neck.
“I know, old boy. Me too.”
He reined in even more to allow the carts to catch up with him. Otho still wore a frown. He could frown all he wanted, so long as he made sure Jonathan recovered. He rode first through the gate, and nearly fell from the saddle again.
Caelina stood waiting for him in the shade of the roof edge.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t send for you.”
She wore new silk—probably bought with his coin. Her lips blossomed into that sultry pout he knew so well. “Is that any way to greet a woman you propose to at every opportunity?”
“That refuses me repeatedly.” Her charms wouldn’t work, not today. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to afford her company for months chafed as much as her unannounced visit. “Why are you here?”
She held a scroll out to him as he dismounted. “This came for you.”
Torren took the rolled parchment, but the wax seal of an unknown emblem was already split. His heart kicked in his chest. “You opened it?”
“Don’t be angry. You should have been back before today. None of the servants knew why you delayed, and I thought it might contain important news.”
The scroll was from Quintus. Inside it was a smaller one addressed to Jonathan. He shoved both in his belt. Thank the gods it wasn’t from Norbanus, or another of the alliance. Torren shuddered at the thought of what he would have had to do if it had been. “I am angry with you.”
If she heard him, she didn’t care. She peered inside the cart where Jonathan lay. “Why does your champion not wake?”
“He’s sedated.”
Otho peeled away the thin blanket that kept the road dust and flies from Jonathan’s wounds, and Torren nearly retched.
Caelina gasped and clutched the wooden side of the cart. “What happened?”
The horror in her eyes hurt. When he’d injured himself in one of their more amorous romps, her concern had been late, and forced. They were a matched pair, she and him. Always wanting most whatever they’d been denied. “He disobeyed Caesar.”
She stepped back in the hard-packed sand as Styx and Rooster carried Jonathan between them. Otho struggled to support Jonathan’s head and shoulder his bag of supplies. Caelina rushed forward and took hold of Jonathan, not the bag. Seeing her fingers buried in Jonathan’s hair twisted his gut. As he wrestled his jealousy under control, Ramses jumped in his path.
“Torren, would you permit me to—”
“Go. Be back in a week.”
His gladiator’s eyes widened. “A week?”
“You fought exceptionally well. I want to see more of that. Rufus will issue you your coin before you leave.” Unlike Jonathan, Ramses never put aside any of his winnings. Every sesterce went to his wife and children as soon as it was earned.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Be back in a week, ready to train for the September games.”
“Thank you.”
Torren watched the man scurry off and noticed Caelina’s guards, Lucius and Octavius, sparring with his wooden training weapons. “Rufus, meet me in the library. We must discuss how Caelina has made herself the lady of my villa in my absence.”
“Y-yes, my lord.” The fear in the man’s eyes needed to be there. Torren could not risk anyone coming and going at his villa or through his property unguarded—even Caelina. Not if they were to save Rome. And their lives.
Jonathan saw the soldiers coming for him. A swarm of arrows rushing toward him. The sand churning beneath him as he tried to fight. Swords and shouts from hundreds of faces. Some were the men he’d slain. Other faces he’d seen many times. Broken bread with them, but their names wouldn’t come.
Only hers. Only her name, when her face would shimmer before him among the others. Nessa. He tried to reach for her, but she would fade too soon. The other faces swirled before him again, this time with voices.
“Is it safe to keep him under this long?”
“You’re the gladiator, Ramses. I’m the medicus. Go away before you rouse him.”
Ramses. A pharaoh’s name. It seemed more familiar than that, but why? The faces disappeared but left a great shadow he couldn’t see beyond. He couldn’t be sleeping. He could feel himself breathing, but his eyes wouldn’t open. His fingers wouldn’t move. Nothing would work, except to swallow. Fear tightened his chest like the straps of his armor, but he couldn’t be dead. He could still hear. Still taste, though he wished he couldn’t. He swallowed again to clear the bitter foulness from his mouth but it remained. It almost tasted like… opium? No. Too much. Too strong. He had to tell them. Tell them to stop. No more. But the words wouldn’t come—only a soft moan.
They must have heard, because they poured more down his throat.
Chapter 35 – Healing Arts
Caelina had finally come to him first. Torren watched as she dressed, feeling more of a man than he had in months. He was tempted to propose to her again. Petition she remain with him here at the villa for a while at least. He held his tongue however and purposed to be grateful she’d come to him—with no mention of coin.
She slid her foot into her leather sandal and her gaze to him as she tied the straps. “How does your champion fare?”
It wasn’t her question so much as the tremor in her voice when she asked that gave her away. Torren kept the hurt in his chest and off his face while he buckled his belt. At least she’d waited until they were dressed to ask. “Otho says the skin is closing.”
He received a report from Rufus twice a day. If his father were still alive, he’d curse Torren’s weakness for being unable to bear the sight of his shredded champion. He could stomach blood and slaughter, and like a good Roman, did not fear death. What he feared was what men could do before they killed you. Jonathan’s beating was a small taste of what Torren would suffer if Caesar learned of the conspiracy.
“Torren?”
He put his back to her to put his own sandals on, and so he could try to hold on to his hope things between them had changed. “Yes?”
“May I see him?”
He tried to keep his voice indifferent. “Why?”
“I’ve an interest in the healing arts.”
More lies. Like her claim she’d missed him. He’d been a fool to hope. To keep from striking her, he crossed his arms and turned to face her. “You didn’t come for me. You came to see Jonathan, didn’t you?”
She looked away, her silence a resounding yes.
Curse her. Curse her to the depths of the underworld. He stalked toward her, his grip on his own arms painfully tight, and stopped an arm’s length away to look down on her. “You can see him.”
Her sky-blue gaze met his, slicing his heart.
“But in payment. And do not ever pretend you genuinely care for me again. I’m not one of your old senators or young noblemen to be made a fool of.”
She didn’t move, or speak, but he knew she was listening. Good. He wanted her to hurt as much as he did.
“Consider it a bargain. I charge five times your fee for my champion to appear, but you need sleep with me but once.”
Her chin dipped as if he’d struck her, and something he’d never seen before flickered in her gaze. She returned his stare for a long moment, one in which he wanted to take back his cruelty. She rose and walked to the closed door.
Torren almost reached for her. “Caelina, wait.”
Her hand stilled on the latch but she would not look at him.
“He loves another.” As I love you.
She looked back at him then, her eyes twin ponds of sadness. “I know. I read the letter.” She sniffed and straightened to her full height, her gaze narrowing to a knife-point. “I wouldn’t want you to feel cheated, Torren. You may send for me four more times.”
She opened the door and left at a pace bordering on a run.
Go after her. Beg her forgiveness. He took a step forward, but Rufus appeared in the doorway with a small scroll.
“Apologies, my lord, but the messenger said it was urgent.”
Torren broke the seal and squinted to read the tiny script of the short message. Senator Aurelius would speak for Vibianus and Nerva. Senator Tarquinius would attend if able to do so without arousing suspicion. Both prefects would be absent, and Norbanus would be sending a trusted servant in his stead. In hours. “When did this arrive?”
“About two hours ago. I would have—”
“I know. Ready my horse and a mount for Rooster at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Curse his standing instructions. He would need to ride hard to make the meeting place at the appointed time. This was dangerous, assembling almost the entire alliance in one place. And why would Tarquinius call such a meeting if he weren’t certain to attend? Torren still didn’t trust the man.
Trust or no trust, he would have to go. Torren grabbed his cloak from its hook on the wall and tucked his dagger into his belt. If this were a trap, he’d kill himself before they took him alive. The memory of Jonathan’s back would ensure it. Torren wouldn’t raise two fingers to any man, especially Caesar.
Caelina pushed open the door to the medicus chamber. Floor lamps burned bright, flooding the room with light. In the corner, Torren’s medicus poured a dark liquid into Jonathan’s mouth while a slave held his head back to help him swallow. From the bed they had him laid on, Jonathan’s fingers clawed at the air while his wrist jerked at his side. His head twitched as if he’d been stung by a honeybee, spilling some of the liquid.
“What are you giving him?” she demanded.
“More opium.”
“Still?” It had been over two weeks since her last visit. The slave she first thought supported Jonathan’s head was instead holding it down.
Otho grabbed Jonathan’s jaw and pried it open. “He thrashes about without it and reopens the wounds.”
Jonathan’s fingertips straightened toward her, though he couldn’t see her. He must have heard her voice, because his fingers curled in, grasping for her—grasping for help. His weak moan called to her as if he’d shouted her name.
She rushed forward and shoved Otho’s vial-filled hand away from Jonathan’s mouth. “You idiot!”
The small bottle shattered on the floor, releasing the pungent scent of the drug. The servant stepped back, sparing her from knocking him aside as well. She leaned over Jonathan, her heart breaking as the vial had. The idiots had him on his back. His back! The sparkling eyes she remembered as the color of a new leaf were gone. Dull green stone replaced them amid vein-filled white as they darted everywhere but her face.
“It’s all right. It’s all right now.” She placed the backs of her fingers against his cheek, below that scar near his eye. Beneath the damp sheen of sweat his skin felt like a gold necklace left in the sun all day. She looked to the slave trembling in the corner. “Get me cool, fresh water. Fill the vessel so that it chills, then pour it out and refill it. Bring it to me at once and summon both my guards.”
The slave glanced to Otho without moving, and she almost reached up to slap him. “Do as you’re told.”
The servant hastened for the doorway, and Otho grabbed her elbow. “Torren instructed me—”
“Torren knows nothing of healing, which is the only reason you’re still here.” Caelina jerked free of his grasp. Her guards would be here in moments, and Otho wouldn’t dare harm her. “I don’t pretend to be a medicus, but I am an expert in opium. You’ve poisoned his champion with so much of it his body will now demand it. Jonathan knows that and is trying to fight it. Leave us.”
When he hesitated, Caelina turned her look of absolute authority on him that never failed her. When he left, she extinguished all the lamps save one in a far corner of the room. Fresh folds of linen lined a shelf on the wall, and she stacked several on the table near Jonathan’s bed. In a matter of hours this sheen of sweat would swell to drench his bed. Tremors would seize him between bouts of retching and nightmares, if he even slept at all. From the potent scent of that single vial, Otho had used prime liquefied poppy—the purest opium that existed. The kind she’d given control of her life to for two and a half years. The memories sent a shudder down her spine as she brought a stool beside Jonathan’s bed.
His hand shivered in hers. His eyes continued to skitter beneath closed lids. He was about to spend three days in the underworld, but she would pass through with him, as her dearest friend had for her. She placed her other hand on his forehead, the skin aflame beneath her palm. “You’ll endure this. You will. But you have to keep fighting. Be strong now.”
She recalled the night he’d given her his bed and slept on the floor. How many times since then had she wished they’d shared it? She searched the table for a cup and saw the scroll addressed to him she’d read on her last visit. Her eyes grew damp, but she blinked the wetness away and leaned to whisper in his ear. “Be strong for her.”
Nessa rolled in her cot until she could stare at the canvas roof of the tent she shared with Quintus. Sleep would not come, but tonight she couldn’t blame Quintus’ snoring or the frigid wind whipping the tent walls.
Jonathan was in peril.
When she’d prayed for him tonight, and said his name aloud, a heavy sense of foreboding had filled her. She remembered it well, though she hadn’t felt it in ten months. How could she forget? She’d lived it every time he entered an arena. He’d surely been in games since they parted, so why now? Why tonight?
“What is it, Jonathan?” she whispered. But her restlessness grew. Finally she shrugged from beneath her furs and pulled on her leather boots. They were cold, but not as cold as it would be beyond the tent. Her cloak would be warm. The soldiers had taught her to sleep with it at her feet. She untied the straps of their flap door, trying not to let any wind in that would wake Quintus. By the time she re-tied the last strap, her fingers were numb. She breathed on them before pulling them in the folds of her thick wool cloak.
The torches at the ends of their corridor burned bright. She would be able to find her way even without them. Every legionary camp throughout the Empire, anywhere and anytime, would be organized this same way. They’d told her that because of that, the soldiers, officers, and slaves could move themselves, supplies, and messages swiftly, especially if attacked.
Nessa walked toward the perimeter of their camp, needing the solitude of the forest. No new snow had fallen the past few days, so it only took a few minutes on the packed paths.
“Where are you going, soldier?” a deep voice called behind her.
She turned and pulled the hood of her cloak back.
The man’s hand left the hilt of his sword. “Forgive me, Nessa. I thought you a deserter.”
His face was familiar. The disjointed shoulder from four days ago, but she couldn’t remember his name. “How is your shoulder?”
“Mended. My gratitude to you and Quintus again, but why are you outside your tent?”
“I need to go for a walk.”
“At this hour? In the cold?”
“I need to.”
The soldier frowned, his forehead wrinkling his brow beneath the line of his helmet. He walked to her and handed her his torch. “Take this. Don’t move beyond where the watchmen can see it, or I’ll rouse some friends and come looking for you. The raiders prefer the dark.”
“I’ll be careful, and I won’t go far beyond the camp, you have my word.” She took the torch, surprised at how heavy it was. The soldiers carried them with such ease.
At the gate of the wall of timbers forming the boundary of their camp, the snow deepened. Trudging through it was exhausting, but she reached the boulder she’d aimed for. Sticking the torch into the snow at her feet, she swept the caked snow from the rock before sitting on it. An owl screeched from a tree near her and she almost fell. She didn
’t cry out, thankfully, or the guards would sound the alert. The entire legion would be armored and in formation long before she could find a commander and explain.
She dried her hands on her cloak before reaching inside the thick wool and wrapping her fingers around the carving near her heart. The restlessness in her spirit wasn’t a false alarm. Jonathan was in trouble. He was hurt, or in danger, or wavering in his faith. She brought his mother’s necklace to her lips and kissed the nose of the little horse. In the knots of the leather cord, she inhaled the remnant scent of his sweat though the cold air burned her nose.
Nessa pulled her hood back over her head and drew her cloak tighter around her, still clutching his carving. She might not be able to hold him, reassure him, help heal him, but God knew exactly where he was, and how and why he was in danger.
“God, the scrolls tell us not a sparrow falls to the ground You do not see. Wherever Jonathan is, protect him. Heal him. Show him Your power as in the days of the prophets. Hear the prayer of Your servant, Lord. Please. Keep our Jonathan safe…”
Chapter 36 – Scars
In Jonathan’s darkness, ants still crawled all over him, although he’d given up trying to make them stop. But through the itching, he felt a soothing stroke on his upper arm.
“Nessa?” Was that his voice? It had refused to respond for so long, he couldn’t tell. Why wouldn’t his eyes open?
A slight weight lifted from his face and he blinked, squinting against the dimness as if it were full summer sun. Caelina stood above him, holding a cloth dripping water. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her unkempt hair surprised him. Even so, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. A face even Valentina would envy. He remembered it in pieces. A woman’s voice piercing the darkness, breaking into the nightmares, calling for help before men would come hold him down.
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