She held the child close, the little girl wrapping her arms and legs around her mother. The woman didn’t look away from him. Instead she took a step closer. “Jonathan?”
He looked closer at her slim face and deepset eyes. Tried to imagine them ten years ago and see them in the woman before him. “Hadriana?” he rasped.
Her eyes widened and her gaze flew to Manius—who slapped her.
“Take my daughter to her chamber now,” he yelled.
A growl tore from Jonathan’s throat as he jerked against Torren’s hold. He pulled free as the little girl cowered against her mother, who’d backed away, holding the side of her face. “Coward,” Jonathan screamed, lunging for Manius, ready to rip his arms from his body with his bare hands.
This time Norbanus and Torren grabbed him, one on each arm, and Jonathan couldn’t break free. Hadriana and her daughter fled the room and Manius shut the door behind them. Stephanus picked up the dropped dagger and withheld it when Manius held his hand out for it.
“I mean it, Jonathan.” Torren’s harsh whisper fanned heat on Jonathan’s neck. “You will calm yourself and obey me, or I will have Nessa killed. You’re leaving me no choice.”
He wouldn’t. Jonathan stilled to meet his gaze to be sure. What he saw there chilled his blood.
“Lest you think this a hollow threat or she’s safe in Germania, remember the men in this room are about to assassinate the emperor of the Roman Empire. There is no one we can’t reach, and you yourself told me the day we met there is no better way to compel you.”
“I want him killed for this outrageous lie. I demand it or the alliance is broken.” Manius wiped at blood coming from his nose beneath a glare that would melt steel.
“Enough, Tarquinius.” Norbanus eased his hold on Jonathan’s right arm. “I’m sure you do want him killed, but we all have eyes. He does favor you, and your father, gods rest him.”
Father was dead. He’d always known that was a possibility, but the confirmation came like spears to his chest.
“Torren is right in that we need his sword,” Stephanus said. “And you are too deep to back out now, and you know it. We all do.”
Manius’ bitter silence was acceptance. Jonathan turned to Torren. “You know I’m telling the truth. You can look at us and see it. Hadriana recognized me too. She was to be my betrothed. Manius tried to have me killed ten years ago, and thought he had. I was sold into slavery though I was a Roman citizen and a noble. Now that you know, you can’t keep me enslaved, Torren. You can’t.”
“Is it true?” Norbanus asked.
“Yes,” Manius answered. The hate in his eyes echoed in his voice. “As you all reminded me so eloquently, we’re united in this. So to have my coin and the support of my followers in the senate, you will forget this ever transpired. Torren will keep his gladiator, I don’t halve my rightful inheritance, and we install the new Caesar Rome is in dire need of. Everyone emerges a victor.”
“Torren, you’re a man of honor.” Jonathan felt no desire to rise to his feet now. He was about to beg. “You know the truth now. I’m a Roman citizen. You face grave punishment to knowingly enslave me.”
“He’d need me to prove it, Torren,” Manius said, coming closer. “And I won’t. Neither will my wife.”
Torren was silent for a long time, though both he and Norbanus had long since ceased holding him down. Jonathan remained on his knees, waiting and praying. Torren met his gaze, and Jonathan knew it was over.
“I’m sorry. I am, but we must free Rome from Domitian, and we cannot do it without Senator Tarquinius or you. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good, Jonathan. I hope you can understand.”
Understand. Jonathan hoped the venom in his chest would fill his voice. “I understand. I understand you are no better than Caius.”
Torren’s expression changed, Jonathan’s arrows landing in the soft spot he’d hoped. He pulled free and rose to his feet, enjoying when Manius backed toward the door. Jonathan picked up a cushion from where it had fallen in the struggle and pressed the expensive silk to the wound on his arm before meeting Torren’s gaze. “I will defend the empress with you as I would defend Nessa’s life. Because it’s the right thing to do, not because you threaten the woman I love.”
He turned to Manius. “I can only pray that my father died without knowing the man you truly are. For the love I bore him, I will let you live. Not because you deserve it, but because you are also his son.”
But Manius laughed. “You’ll let me live?”
“Yes,” Torren said, walking up behind Jonathan. “The past few moments, he could have reached his sword and severed your head from your body before Norbanus or I could have stopped him. You’d do well to remember that, Senator. We are in this together, as you said.”
“I’ll send word once Domitian is dead and we are ready to move,” Torren said to Norbanus. “Have Nerva and the others ready so we do not face another year of four emperors.” Torren picked up Jonathan’s sword from the floor and grabbed Jonathan’s elbow with his free hand. “We need to get that cleaned and wrapped before we get to the palace.”
Jonathan met Manius’ gaze. “This isn’t over.”
“I think it is,” Manius said. “You can keep the cushion. You’ve ruined it with your slave blood.”
“Manius, don’t push him,” Torren said.
Jonathan didn’t need Torren to defend him. He needed him to go back to being the man he’d walked into this villa with. A man he respected and obeyed from loyalty and honor, not a man like Caius. As they left, the villa he remembered so well seemed darker, colder. Absent of hope. His father was dead. Torren had done the unthinkable. Manius remained corrupt, and Jonathan feared Nerva could be as well. Torren had just proven he’d do anything to accomplish his purpose, with impunity. So were the men he would lend his sword to tomorrow really so different from Caesar? Had he misunderstood God’s leading that they were doing right for Rome and the greater good?
Outside, he couldn’t look back. The steps felt longer, and as much as he wanted to look back at his old home, he couldn’t. Torren walked beside him, but Jonathan kept trying to put distance between them. The streets were quiet as they approached the inn where they’d been staying. The night slave shot to his feet with bleary eyes when they entered.
“I need linen strips and warm wine,” Torren said. “Bring them to our room.”
Once inside, Jonathan could no longer avoid him. Torren lit the lamp and took the pillow from Jonathan’s arm. The bleeding had stopped but a scab had yet to form.
“I don’t need your help.” Jonathan went to the palate he’d made himself on the floor the night before. He opened his pack, pulled his spare tunic from it, and used his dagger to start a tear in the hem. The ripping cloth tore the silence as well, and Torren watched with arms crossed from where he leaned against the wall.
“You should at least cleanse it,” Torren said.
Jonathan folded a square of his garment and pressed it to the wound. It took some work to get the longer strip wrapped around it tightly with only one good hand and his teeth, but he managed. As he finished, the innkeeper’s slave knocked on their door and gave Torren the cloths and pitcher of wine. Steam rose from the mouth of the vessel in the lamplight, and while it would probably taste and feel good, Jonathan lay down on his pallet and turned toward the wall, propping his wounded arm up beside his head on his small sleeping cushion.
The soft splash told him Torren had poured a cup of the wine. “You should drink this. You’ve lost blood.”
Telling him to drown himself with it would be going too far, so Jonathan chose silence instead.
“Drink it.”
Jonathan rolled back over and sat up. “Will you have Nessa killed if I don’t?”
Torren frowned as he knelt to be at eye level. “Just drink it.”
The cup was already warm to the touch when Jonathan took it. He downed the wine as fast as he could swallow and set the empty cup on the floor beside him, hard
enough to crack them both. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Try to understand how important it is that we—”
“I said I understand. I will be your sword-wielding puppet, still wrongly-enslaved, doing what I’m ordered to with no regard to my birthright, my freedom, my beliefs, or my own mind. In exchange you won’t kill the woman I love. Did I miss anything?”
“Yes. Why we’re doing this.”
“Nothing you can say to me is going to justify your threatening Nessa’s life. Nothing.” Jonathan lay back down and faced the wall. It was a long moment before Torren rose and walked to his bed. He blew out the lamp and Jonathan lay there in the dark.
He’d always known his father could already be dead. What he never thought he’d see die was the friendship he’d been foolish enough to allow between him and Torren, and he silently grieved them both—long into the night.
Chapter 40 – Forgive
Jonathan was never going to forgive him. Torren glanced at him again, riding beside him to the ludis. His face remained set in stone, as it had been since leaving Tarquinius’ villa the night before. This should be a day to celebrate. Rome was free of Domitian. The assassination had gone perfectly but for the death of Stephanus. Torren would see that the others in the alliance contributed generously to the thousand sestercii he planned to send to the chamberlain’s family. The many senators and wealthy targets of Domitian were breathing easier this day. All but Torren.
He drew the leather reins of his horse tight and brought the animal to a stop on the road. “I couldn’t let you kill Tarquinius.”
Jonathan pulled his mount to a stop but didn’t turn to face him.
“I told you the only thing I knew would still your hand but I would never have hurt her, Jonathan.”
Did it matter that was the truth? Torren would never harm Nessa. He’d sooner harm Caelina. Well, sometimes he was angry enough at her continued silence to consider it, but never Nessa. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have put his other plan in place that should already be underway. If he could say with certainty it would be successful, he’d tell Jonathan everything. Right now. But he’d already disappointed his champion and wouldn’t risk doing so a second time.
Torren’s horse lowered its head, and he allowed the animal to crop some grass near the edge of the pavestones. He wasn’t moving until they’d settled this. It was bad enough to have lost Caelina.
Jonathan surprised him when he leaned forward and slid from the saddle to the ground. He kept the reins in his hand, on the arm still bound tight with the pieces of his tunic, and stared up at Torren. “You ask me to believe that you were lying then?”
“I’m telling you the truth. I needed to stop you from tearing apart the alliance, and I didn’t know how else to do that.”
“Truth?” Jonathan stepped toward him. There was anger in his voice, and in his eyes. Even the horse felt it, for he raised his head. “If the truth mattered to anyone I wouldn’t still be a slave. You saw. You heard. Manius confessed. So if truth is of any value, why am I still a slave?”
If only he could tell him.
Jonathan’s gaze cut Torren like a frigid wind. “That’s what I thought.” He put his back to him, climbed back on his horse, and kicked the animal into a hard gallop.
Torren watched him go. Jonathan would never believe until he saw it for himself.
When Nerva’s first games as emperor, the Ludi Augustales, came, the knife wound on Jonathan’s arm from his half-brother’s dagger was little more than a scab. Yet Torren had shocked them all by declaring him still unfit for contest. Jonathan grew angrier, counting on those winnings to begin replenishing his earnings for Nessa’s freedom. When his restlessness would attack, he would feel God and Nessa both urge him to forgive Torren. And he wanted to, but every time he thought he had, he’d remember the absolute conviction in Torren’s voice threatening to kill her.
He no longer possessed any reluctance about sparring viciously with Torren, which he did often. The others occasionally stared or commented, recognizing the rift between them, but Jonathan never told them the reason. There were still those in Rome who’d vowed to never be at peace until the conspirators were discovered and killed. No formal oath of secrecy had been required among the alliance. They all knew their lives depended on keeping silent.
The first games of the year were only two months away, and Jonathan hadn’t convinced Torren he was in perfect fighting form yet. He still winded faster than he had before he’d nearly been killed with opium, but that was never going to go away, no matter how hard he trained.
He held his wooden training sword over his head and sank into a low squat, holding it until his legs trembled from the effort. Thankfully, he was alone in the training yard today, so none of his brothers were there to cast glances of pity his direction. That annoyed him, and on occasion he would step over to spar with the man to whom the mournful look belonged. He’d put his sword in his left hand, and then put the man on his back in short order. Although Prito was growing very good at defending against Jonathan’s left-handed assault—almost as good as Torren. Would Tao have been able to? Had he earned his freedom or met his end in the arena? Part of Jonathan didn’t want to know, so that he could live with the hope Tao was free—as he would never be.
A messenger on horseback entered through the ludis gates. Jonathan hoped he would bear a scroll from Quintus, and if not Quintus, then at least Caelina. He knew by the way Torren often stared from his window toward Rome that she hadn’t returned. The longing in the man’s eyes in those moments was unmistakable.
Again Jonathan heard Nessa’s quiet voice. Justice or mercy. He couldn’t have both. She would want Jonathan to forgive Torren. Even for threatening to kill her. He would find the strength to, for her, because even if she didn’t know, God would know. When he and Torren trained next, Jonathan would try to find a way to set aside his bitterness. It couldn’t be any harder than killing a lion with a pugil stick, and might give him back some of the joy that had been missing since that day he’d returned to his father’s villa.
After a solid hour of forms and work at the pole, his wrists and elbows ached on both sides. He’d switched hands halfway through his exercises so his right arm would still be as good with a sword as his left. His breathing labored, and a few times he felt a little faint, but right now he felt strong. Thank you, Lord. After some watered wine from the kitchens, he’d return to the courtyard and practice simple blocks and thrusts. On the way, Cam entered from the peristyle carrying something he’d made with his clay. “What are you making this week, Cam?”
“An eagle in flight with a fish in its talons.”
Jonathan turned his head several different angles, but no matter how he looked at the two shapes, he could only see something that resembled a bread loaf and a shape more elephant than eagle. “Have you ever thought about making bowls?”
“Why does everyone ask that?” Cam glared at him before walking away.
Jonathan chuckled and continued toward the kitchen, but Rufus stopped him in the hall.
“The master summons you.” Rufus wouldn’t meet Jonathan’s gaze the entire walk to the study.
Torren stood behind his desk, waving Jonathan forward. The door shut behind him, leaving them alone, and Jonathan’s unease grew.
Torren looked him over and frowned. “Why are you covered in sweat?”
“I was working the pole this morning.”
“It’s rest day,” Torren snapped.
His foul mood suggested Caelina must be involved somehow. “Yes, but it’s also our free day. I want to be in peak condition before the spring games.”
Torren grinned, almost laughing as he rubbed his hair and turned around. “Sit down.”
“I need to tell you something first, if I may.”
A dark eyebrow rose as Torren nodded. “Of course.”
“Nessa once told me I could have justice or mercy but not both.” Jonathan laughed, picturing her round face, laughing eyes, and full smile. How he ac
hed to hold her, smell her, hear her voice. He swallowed. “Lie or not, you were wrong to threaten her.” Torren frowned, but Jonathan continued. “I have not always done the right thing. Much of my life I did not. But I will not add to my wrongs by refusing to forgive you yours.”
Silence hung between them for a long time. So long Jonathan questioned whether he’d angered Torren, for his expression remained unreadable.
Finally a corner of Torren’s mouth pulled up and he released a deep sigh. “Thank you.”
Jonathan nodded, and a weight he hadn’t known he’d carried fell from his chest. As forgiving as his Nessa was, it was little wonder she was perpetually joyful. It felt good. Jonathan seated himself on the couch while Torren circled his desk and poured two cups of wine. He handed Jonathan one before taking his own seat opposite him. “Did you know my father was a gladiator?”
“I did not.” Jonathan raised the cup to his lips and the fragrant aroma tantalized his nose. His brow dipped in curiosity, until the moment the cool red wine rolled over his tongue. He savored it a moment before swallowing. “Falernian?”
Torren grinned. “Indeed. It was my father’s favorite.”
“It was my father’s favorite as well.” Another sip of the fine wine helped push the sadness away. Jonathan had known his father for over four years. A kind, honorable man, whose name he would always be proud to carry, even if only in his heart.
“It’s no riddle why I’m a lanista. I became one like my father before me. He taught me a great many things, some of which he meant to.” Torren’s gaze moved toward a marble bust in the corner of the room. “I keep hoping that statue will speak one day. That my father will tell me he’s proud of me from the afterlife. Something I never heard from him in this one.”
Torren stared at the statue a long moment and the silence became uncomfortable. Jonathan knew he should say something, but didn’t know what. Torren blinked, and his gaze returned to Jonathan with a rueful slant to his mouth. “Forgive me, my friend.” He took a long pull at his wine before refilling their cups. “Tell me now of your father. How you went from a nobleman’s son to a gladiator under that idiot Caius Pullus, and how you and Nessa both survived him.”
Chasing the Lion Page 33
