Or so he had thought. Then he saw Thenaïs approaching in the diffused light, and his heart thumped hard within his broken ribs. She never came to the Hippodrome. If she was here, it was because she’d come looking for him, and he had no idea how—
He saw the Bassanid then, behind her, grey-bearded, slender, holding that stick he affected for the dignity of it. And silently in that moment, Scortius of Soriyya swore, with intense feeling.
He could see it now. The accursed physician would have felt some wretched sort of professional duty. Would have found him gone, deduced it was a race day, sought a way to attend, and—
This time when he swore it was aloud, like a soldier in a caupona, though under his breath.
The man would have gone to Bonosus’s house, of course.
To Cleander. Who was banned by his father from attending the races this spring—he had told them so. Which meant they’d have had to talk to Thenaïs. Which meant—
She stopped directly in front of him. Her remembered scent was with him again. He looked at her, met that clear gaze, felt a constriction in his throat. She seemed cool, poised—and he could feel the force of her rage like a blast from an oven.
‘All of Sarantium,’ she murmured, ‘will rejoice to see you well again, charioteer.’
They were alone in a vast space. For a little time. The parade would be ending, the others coming noisily back through the tunnels.
‘I am honoured that you are the first to say as much,’ he said. ‘My lady, I hope you received my note.’
‘It was so thoughtful of you to write,’ she said. The brittle formality was its own message. ‘I do apologize, of course, that I was with my family for a short while that night when you felt such an . . . urgent need for my company.’ She paused. ‘Or for that of any woman who might offer her body to a celebrated charioteer.’
‘Thenaïs,’ he said.
And stopped. She had, he belatedly saw, a knife in her right hand. And so he finally understood what this encounter really was. He closed his eyes. There had always been this possibility, in the life he’d lived.
‘Yes?’ she said, the tone as detached, as composed as ever. ‘I thought I heard someone say my name.’
He looked at her. He could not have named or even numbered the women who had shared his nights over the years. All the years. Not one had found a way to unsettle him as this one had, and still did. He felt old suddenly, and tired. His wound hurt. He remembered the same feeling, the night he’d gone looking for her. His shoulder aching in the night wind.
‘It was me,’ he said quietly. ‘I said your name. I say it most nights, Thenaïs.’
‘Really? How diverting that must be for the woman lying with you at the time,’ she said.
The two gatekeepers were watching them. One still had his mouth agape. It could have been amusing. The wretched physician remained a precise, polite distance away. It was probable that none of them had seen the dagger in the soft light.
Scortius said, ‘I went to the house of Shirin of the Greens to present her with an offer from Astorgus.’
‘Ah. He wanted to bed her?’
‘You are being unkind.’
He winced at what flashed in her eyes then, realized anew just how enraged she was.
The lifelong mask of control, of absolute, flawless poise: what happened to such a person when something broke right through. He drew a too-deep breath, felt the shock of pain in his ribs, said, ‘He wanted to invite her, discreetly, to join the Blues. I had promised to add my voice to the proposal.’
‘Your voice,’ she said. There was a glitter in her eyes. He had never seen it before. ‘Just your voice? In the middle of the night. Climbing up to her bedroom. How . . . persuasive.’
‘It is the truth,’ he said.
‘Indeed. And did you bed her?’
She had no right to ask. To answer was a betrayal of another woman who had offered him wit and kindness and shared pleasure.
It never occurred to him not to answer, or to lie. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Unexpectedly.’
‘Ah. Unexpectedly.’ The knife was very still in her hand.
‘Where did they hurt you?’ she asked.
There were noises now from one of the tunnels. The first dancers had left the sands. Beyond her, through the Processional Gates, he could see the eight chariots of the first race wheeling back around and up towards the slant of the start line.
And suddenly it seemed to him that it might actually be enough, what he had done with his life thus far. That the look in this woman’s eyes spoke to a level of pain he’d caused—an unfair burden, perhaps, but how did fairness enter into life?—and he could die here, after all, accepting it from her, in this place. He had never expected to grow old.
He said, ‘Left side. A stab wound, broken ribs around it.’
All he had wanted to do once, long ago, was race horses.
She nodded, biting at her lower lip thoughtfully, a single line across her brow. ‘How unfortunate. I have a knife.’
‘I did see that.’
‘If I wished to hurt you very, very much before you died . . . ?’
‘You would stab me here,’ he said, and showed her. There was blood, in any case. It could be seen welling through the blue tunic.
She looked at him. ‘You wish to die?’
He considered it then. ‘Not really, no. But I would not want to live if it caused you so much grief.’
She drew a breath then. Courage and pain and a kind of . . . madness. That fierce, never-before-seen glinting in her eye. ‘You can’t imagine I’d be long behind you.’
He closed his eyes again, opened them. ‘Thenaïs, there is . . . so much wrong in that. But I am prepared for whatever you desire.’
The knife still did not move. ‘You should have lied to me, just now. When I asked.’
So small he had been, that first time his father let him sit astride a stallion. They’d had to lift him up, his legs sticking out almost straight when he was seated on the big horse. Laughter at that. Then a sudden silence from the men around them, when the animal grew still under the touch of the child on its back. In Soriyya. Far away. Long ago.
A lifetime. He shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have asked,’ he said. It was truth, he would not lie.
She drew back the blade then. He was looking straight into her eyes, at what was—so terribly—revealed there when another lifetime’s composure fell entirely away.
And because he was doing so, almost falling into her gaze, entangled in her and in memory, oblivious even to the hard upward movement of the small hand that held the knife, he didn’t see the swift-striding man come from behind her then and seize her by the wrist, screening the gesture with his own body.
He twisted. The knife fell.
She made no sound, after the first sharp whimper of shock.
‘My lady,’ said Crescens of the Greens, ‘forgive me.’
She looked at him. Scortius looked at him. The three of them stood alone in a huge, dim space. Crescens said, ‘No man who ever lived is worth what this would mean to you. Put up your hood, please, my lady. There will be people here very soon. If he has offended, there are so many of us who will deal with that.’
It was uncanny—and the memory was to stay with Scortius—how swiftly her face changed, how the conduit to a kind of fever in her soul slammed shut to the world as Thenaïs looked at the Greens’ charioteer. She didn’t even give any sign that her wrist was paining her, though it had to be. He had moved very fast, twisted hard.
‘You misunderstand,’ she murmured. And even smiled. A perfect court smile, detached and meaningless. The iron bars of control crashing down again. Scortius actually shivered, seeing it, hearing her voice change. He was aware of the rapid thread of his pulse. A moment ago he had actually expected . . .
She put up her hood. Said: ‘It seems my wayward stepson played a role in our mutual friend’s injury. He has told my husband a version of the tale. It is not believed. Before we punish the b
oy—the Senator is furious, of course—I wanted to ascertain from Scortius himself just what took place. It involved a knife, you see, and an allegation of a stabbing.’
It was nonsense. Words spoken to have words spoken. A tale that could not possibly hold, unless one wished to allow it to hold. Crescens of the Greens might be a brawling, hard man on the track and in the taverns and in the Green compound, and he’d only been a single year in Sarantium, but he was First of the Greens, had been invited to court by now, spent a winter in the aristocratic circles the leading racers came to know. He’d have seen his share of bedrooms, too, Scortius thought.
The man knew what this was, how to conduct himself.
His apology was passionate, immediate—and brief, for there were loud sounds now in the southern tunnels. ‘You must allow me,’ said Crescens, ‘to call upon you, I beg, to more fully express my contrition. I appear to have blundered like an untutored provincial. My lady, I am ashamed.’ He looked over. ‘And I must return to the sands, while you should—if I may urge you—allow your escort to take you from this space, which will be no place at all for a lady in a moment.’
They could hear rolling wheels and boisterous laughter around the dark curve of the largest tunnel. Scortius had said nothing, had not even moved. The knife lay on the ground. He bent now, carefully, and picked it up with his right hand. Gave it back to Thenaïs. Their fingers touched.
She smiled, a smile thin as river ice in the north when the winter’s freezing has not yet made it safe. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you both.’ She looked over her shoulder. The Bassanid doctor had stayed where he was through all of this. Now he came forward, impeccably grave.
He looked at Scortius first. His own charge. ‘You understand your coming here . . . alters things?’
‘I do,’ Scortius said. ‘I am very sorry.’
His physician nodded. ‘With this,’ said the Bassanid, ‘I will not contend.’ There was a blunt finality to his tone.
‘I understand,’ said Scortius. ‘I am grateful for all you have done until now.’
The doctor turned away. ‘May I escort you, my lady? You mentioned a cooling drink?’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘Thank you, yes.’ She looked at the Bassanid thoughtfully for a moment as if considering new information, and then turned back to Scortius. ‘I expect you to win this race,’ she murmured. ‘From what my son tells me, our dear Crescens has won sufficiently in your absence.’
And with that, she turned and went away with the physician, towards the stairs and the concession booths and stalls on the level above them.
The two charioteers stood alone, looked at each other.
‘What was he talking about?’ Crescens jerked his chin towards the receding figure of the physician.
‘Disclaiming responsibility if I kill myself.’
‘Ah.’
‘They do that in Bassania. You needed a piss?’
The Green rider nodded. ‘Always do, after lunch.’
‘I know.’
‘Saw you. Came to say hello. Saw the knife. You’re bleeding.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you . . . back for good?’
Scortius hesitated. ‘Probably not yet. I recover quickly, mind you. Or I used to.’
Crescens smiled sourly. ‘We all used to.’ His turn to hesitate. People would be emerging any moment now. They both knew it. ‘She couldn’t possibly have hurt you unless you let her.’
‘Yes, well, that’s . . . Tell me, how’s your new trace horse?’
Crescens looked at him a moment, then nodded his head in acceptance. ‘I like him. Your young driver . . .’
‘Taras.’
‘Taras. Bastard has the makings of a racer. I didn’t see it last year.’ He grinned, wolfishly. ‘I’m planning to break his heart this spring.’
‘Of course you are.’
The Green rider’s smile deepened. ‘You wanted a lovely appearance all by yourself, didn’t you? Returning hero, walking across the sand alone? By Heladikos, what an entrance!’
Scortius’s expression was wry. ‘I’d thought of it.’
But he was really thinking about the woman, images interwoven with memories of his childhood, amazingly, and the feeling he’d had looking into her eyes just before the knife moved. You should have lied to me. He had been about to let her stab him. Crescens was right. An otherworldly mood, a state of being she had shaped, with those glittering eyes, in the dusty half-light. It seemed a dream already, only moments after. He didn’t think the dream was going to go away.
Crescens said, ‘I don’t believe I can allow you that entrance. I’m sorry. Saving your fucking life’s one thing. Trivial. But giving you that kind of a return’s another. Very bad for Green morale.’
One had to smile. One was back in the Hippodrome. The world it made within the world. ‘I can see that. Let’s go together, then.’
They went together, just as the first dancers began emerging from the darkness of the tunnel to their left.
‘Thank you, by the way,’ Scortius added, as they approached the two yellow-clad guards at the doors.
I expect you to win this race, she had said. After the doctor had formally disclaimed responsibility if he killed himself. She had come under the stands with a knife. She had come to the Hippodrome with one. She knew what she was saying. You can’t imagine I’d be long behind you. He had long thought, before ever really knowing her, that there was something extraordinary beneath her celebrated reserve. Then he’d thought, arrogantly, that he’d found it, defined it. He’d been wrong. There was so much more. Should he have known?
‘Thank you? Not at all,’ said Crescens. ‘Too boring here without you, winning against children. Mind you, I do want to keep winning.’
And as they passed the two guards, just before they walked out on the bright sands together, into the sight of eighty thousand people, he hammered an elbow entirely without warning into the injured man’s left side.
Scortius gasped, staggered. The world reeled, went red in his sight.
‘Oh! Sorry!’ the other man exclaimed. Are you all right?’
Scortius had doubled over, clutching his side. They were in the entrance now. Would be seen in a stride or two. With a shuddering, racking effort he forced himself to straighten, started moving again, an act of will more than anything else. Was still desperately fighting for breath. Heard, as in a fever, the first roars of the crowd nearest to them.
It began. The volume of noise growing, and growing, rolling along the first straightway like a wave, the sound of his name. Crescens was beside him but it was a mistake on his part, really, for only one name was heard, over and again. A screaming. He struggled to breathe without passing out, to keep moving, not to double over again, not put a hand to his wound.
‘I’m a terrible man,’ said Crescens cheerfully beside him, waving to the crowd as if he’d personally fetched the other rider back from the dead like some hero of the ancient tales. ‘By Heladikos, I really am.’
He wanted to kill, and to laugh at the same time. Laughing would probably kill him. He was back in the Hippodrome. The world of it. Out on the sands. Saw the horses up ahead. Wondered how one walked so far.
Knew he was going to do it, somehow.
And in that same moment, seeing the drivers ahead of them swivelling to look back and stare, looking at the teams and their positions, and at one in particular, he had his idea, swift as horses, a gift. He actually smiled, baring his teeth, though breathing was very difficult. There was more than one wolf here, he thought. By Heladikos, there was.
‘Watch me,’ he said then, to the other charioteer, to himself, to the boy he’d been once on that stallion in Soriyya, to all of them, the god and his son and the world. He saw Crescens look quickly over at him. Was aware, triumphantly, through the red, stabbing pain, of sudden anxiety in the other man’s features.
He was Scortius. He was still Scortius. The Hippodrome belonged to him. They built monuments to him in this plac
e. Whatever might happen elsewhere, in darkness, with the sun below the world.
‘Watch me,’ he said again.
West of them, not all that far, as the two charioteers are leaving their tunnel, the Emperor of Sarantium is heading towards his own, to pass under the Imperial Precinct gardens from one palace to another where he is about to make the final dispositions for a war he has thought about from the time he placed his uncle on the Golden Throne.
The Empire had been whole once, and then sundered, and then half of it had been lost, like a child might be lost. Or, better put, a father. He has no children. His father died when he was very young. Did these things matter? Had they ever? Did they now? Now that he was an adult, growing old, shaping nations under holy Jad?
Aliana thinks so, or wonders about it. She’d put it to him directly one night not long ago. Was he risking so much, seeking to leave so bright and fierce a mark on the world, because he had no heir for whom to guard what they already had?
He didn’t know. He didn’t think this was so. He’d been dreaming of Rhodias for so long—a dream of something made whole again. And made so by him. He knew too much about the past, perhaps. There had been three Emperors once for a short, savage time, and then two, here and in Rhodias, for a long, divisive span of years, then only one, here in the City Saranios made, with the west lost and fallen.
It felt wrong to him. Surely it would to any man who knew the glory of what had been.
Though that, he thinks, walking through the lower level of the Attenine Palace with a courtly retinue hurrying to keep pace with him, is a trick of rhetoric. Of course there are those who know the past as well as he and see things differently. And there are those—such as his wife—who see a greater glory here in the east, in the present world, under Jad.