And what would that do to the superstitious in the army, on the eve of what was supposed to be the grand war of reconquest?
And here was Ecodes, standing in the very house where Scortius had been recovering, treated in secret by a Bassanid! What a tale it would make! He could hardly wait to get back to the barracks.
For the moment, he simply nodded his head to the steward, his expression gravely sober. ‘I can see why this was secret. Be easy—it will never be revealed by us. Anyone else in the house?’
‘Only the physician himself.’
‘The Bassanid? And right now he is . . . ?’
‘Upstairs. In his room.’
Ecodes looked over at Priscus, who had come back along the hallway. ‘I’ll do that room myself. We don’t want complaints here.’ He glanced an inquiry at the steward.
‘First room on the left from the top of the stairs.’ A helpful man, if you let him know the rules of the game.
Ecodes went up. Scortius! Had been here! And the man who’d saved his life . . .
He knocked briskly on the first door but didn’t wait for an invitation. This was a search. The man might have done a good turn here, but he was still a fucking Bassanid, wasn’t he?
He was, it appeared.
The naked woman riding the man in the bed turned as Ecodes opened the door and let out a muffled shriek and then a torrent of what was obviously foul abuse. Ecodes could only get the gist of it: she was swearing in Bassanid.
She dismounted from the man beneath her, swinging around to face the door, covering her nakedness hastily with a sheet as the man sat upright. He had—not unreasonably under the circumstances—an outraged expression on his face.
‘How dare you!’ he hissed, keeping his voice down. ‘Is this Sarantine civility?’
Ecodes actually did feel just a little bit intrusive. The eastern whore—there were always some of them here from all over the known world—was spitting and swearing, as if she’d never shown her naked backside to a soldier before. She had switched to Sarantine now, heavily accented but intelligible, and made a number of pungent, explicit assertions about Ecodes’s mother and alleys behind cauponae and his own provenance.
‘Shut up!’ The physician slapped her hard on the side of the head. She shut up, whimpering. Women needed that sometimes, Ecodes thought approvingly . . . obviously a truth in Bassania as much as anywhere else and why shouldn’t it be?
‘What are you doing here?’ The grey-bearded doctor struggled to assume a measure of dignity. Ecodes was privately amused: dignity was not easy when surprised beneath the pumping body of a whore. Bassanids. Not even men enough to get their women under them where they belonged.
‘Ecodes, Second Amorian Foot. Orders to search all houses in the City. We’re looking for a fugitive woman.’
‘Because none of you can get a woman! They all run from you!’ the whore beside the doctor cackled, her mouth wide open at her own wit.
‘I heard about the search,’ the Bassanid said to Ecodes, keeping his composure. ‘In the Blues’ compound where I was treating a patient.’
‘Scortius?’ Ecodes couldn’t help but ask.
The doctor hesitated. Then he shrugged. Not my concern, the gesture seemed to say. ‘Among others. The soldiers were not gentle today, you know.’
‘Orders,’ said Ecodes. ‘Trouble to be stopped. How is . . . the charioteer?’ This was huge gossip.
Again the doctor hesitated, again he shrugged. ‘Ribs broken again, a wound ripped open, loss of blood, maybe a fallen lung. I’ll know in the morning.’
The whore was still glaring at Ecodes, though at least she’d shut her foul mouth for the moment. She had a nice, ripe body, what he’d seen, but her hair was a tangled nest, her voice shrill and grating, and she didn’t look especially clean. As far as Ecodes of Soriyya was concerned, you got mud and swearing with your soldiers, when you went with a girl you wanted . . . something else.
‘This woman is . . . ?’
The doctor cleared his throat. ‘Well, ah, you do understand that my family is a long way off. And a man, even at my age . . .’
Ecodes grinned a little. ‘I won’t go to Bassania to tell your wife, if that’s what you mean. Must say, you could have done better here in Sarantium than this, or do you like them talking dirty to you in your own language that much?’
‘Fuck yourself, soldier,’ the woman snarled in that thick accent. ‘Since no one else is likely to.’
‘Manners, manners,’ Ecodes said. ‘This is a Senator’s house.’
‘It is,’ said the doctor. ‘And manners are in short supply right now. Be so good as to finish doing what you must and leave. I confess I find neither propriety nor diversion in this encounter.’
I’m sure you don’t, Bassanid pig, Ecodes thought.
What he said was, ‘I understand, doctor. Following orders, as I’m sure you realize.’ He had a promotion to protect. The pig was living here and treating Scortius, which meant he was important.
Ecodes looked around. The usual upstairs room for this neighbourhood. Best room, view of the garden. He crossed to the window over the courtyard. It was dark. They’d already searched down there. He went back to the door, looked over at the bed. The two people there gazed at him, sitting up, side by side, silent now. The woman had the sheet up to cover herself, mostly, but not entirely. She was giving him a glimpse, a tease, even as she swore at him. Whores.
You were supposed to look under the beds, of course— obvious hiding places. But you were also supposed to use your judgement as a decurion (a centurion-to-be?) and not waste time. There were a lot of houses to be searched before dawn. There had been no ambiguity about the orders given: they wanted the woman found before the ceremony in the Hippodrome tomorrow. Ecodes was willing to assert with confidence that the woman who had been Empress of Sarantium this morning was not under the bed on which these two Bassanids had been engaged.
‘As you were, doctor,’ he said, allowing himself a grin. ‘Carry on.’ He went out, closing the door behind him. Priscus was coming down the hallway with two of the men. Ecodes looked at him; he shook his head.
‘One room that was occupied, but it isn’t any more. A patient of some sort.’
‘Let’s go,’ Ecodes said. ‘I’ll tell you about that outside. You won’t fucking believe it.’
She’d had a filthy mouth, that Bassanid whore, but a nicely curved rump, he thought, going down the stairs ahead of Priscus, remembering that first startling, arousing vision when he’d opened the door. He wondered idly if there’d be any chance of a girl himself, later tonight. Not likely. Not for honest soldiers doing a job.
In the antechamber by the front door he waited for his men to file out and then nodded to the steward. Politely. Even said a thank you. A Senator’s house. He’d given them his name when they came in.
‘Oh,’ he said, as a last thought struck him. ‘When did that Bassanid whore upstairs come here?’
The steward looked genuinely scandalized. ‘You foulmouthed man! What a disgusting thought! The Bassanid is a well-known physician and an . . . an honoured guest of the Senator!’ he exclaimed. ‘Keep your evil thoughts to yourself!’
Ecodes blinked and then laughed aloud. Well, well. Too sensitive by half! Told him something, didn’t it? Boys? He made a mental note to ask someone about this Senator Bonosus later. He was about to explain when he saw the woman behind the steward wink at him, holding a finger to her smiling lips.
Ecodes grinned. She was pretty, this one. And it was obvious that the very proper steward didn’t know all that was going on in this house.
‘Right,’ he said, looking at the woman meaningfully. Maybe he’d have a chance to come back later. Unlikely, but you never knew. The steward looked quickly over his shoulder at the girl, whose expression immediately became entirely proper, her hands clasped submissively at her waist. Ecodes grinned again. Women. Born to deceive, all of them. But this one was clean, the way Ecodes liked, a bit of class to her, not like th
e eastern shrew upstairs.
‘Never mind,’ he said to the steward. ‘Carry on.’
The night was passing, swift as chariots; they were to find the woman before sunrise. The announced reward was extravagant. Even if divided among ten (with a double share to the decurion, of course) they could all retire to lives of leisure when their service was up. Have their own clean serving girls, or wives—or both for that matter. Little chance of any of that if they lingered or delayed. His men were waiting impatiently in the street. Ecodes turned and went down the steps.
‘Right, lads. Next house,’ he said briskly. The steward closed the door behind him, hard.
He had been embarrassed by his own arousal under the sheets as she simulated lovemaking, appearing to be riding him as the door opened. She hadn’t let him lock the door, and belatedly he had understood: the room was going to be searched, the whole idea was for the soldiers to find them engaged in the act, outraged at intrusion. Her voice, a low snarl changing swiftly to a nasal whine, speaking Rustem’s own tongue with ferociously obscene eloquence, had startled him almost as much as it appeared to disconcert the small soldier in the doorway. Rustem, aware that his life was at risk here, had little trouble assuming a pose of anger and hostility.
Alixana had dismounted from her position upon him, clutching the sheets to herself. She fired another volley of invective at the soldier, and Rustem, inspired by fear as much as anything else, had slapped her face, shocking himself.
Now, as the door closed, he waited an agonizingly long moment, heard conversation outside, then steps on the creaking stairs, and finally murmured, ‘I am sorry. That blow. I . . . ’
Lying beside him, she didn’t even look over. ‘No. It was well done.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I would lock it now, probably, if this were . . . real.’
‘It is real enough,’ she whispered.
All force seemed drained from her now. He was aware of her naked form beside his own, but not with desire any more. He felt a deep shame about that, and some other emotion that came unexpectedly close to grief. He rose and quickly drew on his tunic, without undergarments. He went over to the door, locking it. When he turned back, she was sitting up in the bed, the sheets wrapped fully around her.
Rustem hesitated, at sea and unmoored, then crossed and sat on the small bench near the fire. He looked at the flames and put a log on, busying himself with trivial activity. He said, not looking at her, ‘When did you learn Bassanid?’
‘Did I do all right?’
He nodded. ‘I couldn’t curse like that.’
‘I’m sure you could.’ Her voice was leached of nuance. ‘I picked up some when I was young, mostly the swearing. Learned more when we dealt with ambassadors, later. Men are flattered when a woman speaks to them in their own tongue.’
‘And the . . . voice?’ That rancid harridan from some dockside caupona.
‘I was an actress, doctor, remember? Much the same as a whore, some say. Was I convincing as one?’
This time he did look at her. Her gaze was vacant, fixed on the door through which the soldier had gone.
Rustem was silent. He felt as if the night had become deep as a stone well, as dark. A day so long it seemed beyond belief. Had started with his patient gone in the morning and his own desire to see the racing in the Hippodrome.
It had started differently for her.
He looked narrowly at the too-still figure on his bed. Shook his head at what he saw. He was a physician, had seen this look before. He said, ‘My lady, forgive me, but you must weep. You must allow yourself to do that. I say this . . . professionally.’
She didn’t even move. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can,’ said Rustem, very deliberately. ‘The man you loved is dead. Murdered. He is gone. You can, my lady.’
She turned finally to look at him. The firelight caught her flawless cheekbones, shadowed the cropped hair, the smears of dirt, could not reach the darkness of those eyes. Rustem had an impulse—rare for him as rain in the desert—to cross to the bed and hold her. He refrained.
He murmured, ‘We say that when Anahita weeps for her children, pity enters the world, the kingdoms of light and dark.’
‘I have no children.’
So clever. Guarding herself so very hard. ‘You are her child,’ he said.
‘I will not be pitied.’
‘Then let yourself mourn, or I must pity the woman who cannot.’
Again, she shook her head. ‘A bad patient, doctor. I am sorry. I owe you obedience if nothing else for what you have just done. But not yet. Not . . . yet. Perhaps when . . . everything else is done.’
‘Where will you go?’ he said, after a moment.
A quick, reflexive smile, meaningless, born of nothing but the habit of wit, from a world lost. She said, ‘Now I am truly wounded. You tire of me in your bed already?’
He shook his head. Stared at her, said nothing. Then he turned deliberately back to the fire and busied himself there with movements old as all hearths, that any man or woman might have done in any age, might be doing even now, somewhere else in the world. He took his time.
And a few moments later he heard a harsh, choking noise, and then another. With a great effort, Rustem continued to gaze into the flames, not looking over at the bed where the Empress of Sarantium was grieving in the night, with broken sounds he had never heard before.
IT WENT ON A LONG TIME. Rustem never looked away from the fire, leaving her at least the semblance of privacy, as earlier they had simulated lovemaking. At length, as he was adding yet another piece of wood to the flames, he heard her whisper, ‘Why is this better, doctor? Tell me why.’
He turned. In the firelight he saw the tears shining on her face. He said, ‘My lady, we are mortal. Children of whichever gods or goddesses we worship, but only mortal. The soul must bend to endure.’
She looked away, but not at anything in the room. Said nothing for a time, and then, ‘And even Anahita weeps? Or the kingdoms would have no pity?’
He nodded, deeply moved, beyond words. A woman such as he’d never encountered before.
She wiped at her eyes with the backs of both hands, a childlike gesture. Looked at him again. ‘If you are right, you have saved me twice tonight, haven’t you?’
He could think of nothing to say.
‘Do you know the amount of the reward they have offered?’
He nodded. It had been proclaimed by heralds in the streets from late in the day. Had reached the Blues’ compound before sundown. Treating the wounded, he had heard of it.
‘All you need do,’ she said, ‘is open the door and call out.’
Rustem looked at her, struggling for words. He stroked his beard. ‘I may be tired of you, but not that tired,’ he said, and saw that her smile this time did touch, very briefly, her dark eyes.
After a moment she said only, ‘Thank you for that. You are more than I had any right to pray for, doctor.’
He shook his head, embarrassed again.
She said, her voice a little stronger now, ‘But you must know you’ll have to say something about this in Kabadh. You’ll have to give them something.’
He stared at her. ‘Something for . . . ?’
‘Some results from your being sent here, doctor.’
‘I don’t see . . . I came to obtain some—’
‘—medical knowledge from the west before going to court. I know. The physicians’ guild filed a report. I looked at it. But Shirvan never has only one string to a bow and you won’t be an exception. He’ll have ordered you to keep your eyes open. You will be judged on what you have seen. If you return to his court with nothing, you’ll give weapons to your enemies, and you have them there already, doctor. Waiting for you. It isn’t hard to arrive at a court with people hating you beforehand.’
Rustem clasped his hands together. ‘I know little about such things, my lady.’
She nodded. ‘I believe that.’ She looked at him, and then
, as if making a decision, murmured, ‘Did anyone tell you that Bassania has crossed the border in the north, breaching the peace?’
No one had. Who would have told him that, a stranger among the westerners? An enemy. Rustem swallowed, felt a coldness enter him. If a war began, and he was still here . . .
She looked at him. ‘There were rumours all afternoon in the City. As it happens, I am quite certain they are true.’
‘Why?’ he whispered.
‘Why am I sure?’
He nodded.
‘Because Petrus wanted Shirvan to do this, steered him towards it.’
‘Wh—why?’
The woman’s expression changed again. There were tears still, on her cheeks. ‘Because he never had less than three or four strings to his bow. He wanted Batiara, but he also wanted Leontes taught a lesson about limitations, even defeat, along the way, and dividing the army to deal with Bassania was a way to achieve that. And of course the payments east would stop.’
‘He wanted to lose in the west?’
‘Of course not.’ The same faint, almost indiscernible smile, shaped of memory. ‘But there are ways of winning more than one thing, and how you triumph matters very much, sometimes.’
Rustem shook his head slowly. ‘And how many people would die in achieving all of this? Is it not vanity? To believe we can act like a god? We aren’t. Time claims all of us.’
‘The Lord of Emperors?’ She looked at him. ‘It does, but are there no ways to be remembered, doctor, to leave a mark, on stone, not on water? To have . . . been here?’
‘Not for most of us, my lady.’ Even as he said that he was remembering the chef in the Blues’ compound: This boy was my legacy. A cry from the man’s heart.
Her hands and body were hidden beneath the sheets. She was still as stone herself. She said, ‘I’ll grant you a half-truth there. But only that much . . . Have you no children, doctor?’
It was so strange, for the chef had asked him the same thing. Twice in a night, speaking about what one might leave behind. Rustem made a sign against evil, towards the fire. He was aware of how odd this conversation was now, yet sensed that somehow these questions lay towards the heart of what this day and night had become. He said, slowly, ‘But to be remembered through others, even our own heirs, is also to be . . . misremembered, is it not? What child knows his father? Who decides how we are recorded, or if we are?’