B007IIXYQY EBOK (129 page)

She called to Glaucus, the undertrainer nearest her. They exchanged rapid-fire shouts; neither gave ground. The crowd was astir with puzzled murmurs.

Julianus understood at once. Do not give in, he urged her with all his mind. Glaucus, exasperated, motioned to Erato, who came at good speed in spite of his limp.

But Auriane did not wait for their verdict on the matter. Breaking away from Glaucus, she lifted the sword above her head, then struck it hard against the barrier. The blade snapped easily, just within the hilt. Then she half turned and stared directly at the small window covered over with a grate, where she knew Aristos watched.

That so many thousands could drop into deep silence was a wonder. Auriane halted a ritual they had never before seen interrupted. There was outrage in that hush as well as surprise, for the people regarded weapons-tampering as a hoax perpetrated directly upon themselves.

But Auriane, without realizing it, mocked Domitian. For as was customary, in a public ceremony at dawn the Emperor had inspected for soundness and sharpness all the weapons to be used in the three days of games so the people would know they were not to be cheated of blood. She made him look the fool before a throng that despised him already. A murderous flush came to Domitian’s face.

“Have the man taken out,” Domitian instructed the guard. “And loose the dogs on her.”

Julianus prayed to his father’s ghost for steadiness. Then he said casually to the company at large, “What low animal cunning, unworthy of the love that people give him.”

Domitian turned to him with a look of cold hatred, imagining Julianus referred to himself. Julianus met his eyes, his expression mild, almost bored. Montanus wondered eagerly, perhaps it will be two for the dogs?

“Whose
animal cunning, Julianus?” Domitian said, signaling to the guard to wait.

“Aristos’, of course,” Julianus replied.

Domitian’s expression did not change. Aristos was his chosen favorite; as far as his own dignity was concerned, he and Aristos were one. Something bestial glittered in the Emperor’s eye.

“So you, too,
turn against me, in full light of day, and on the occasion of the celebration of my triumph?” The simpleminded boy became frightened and began to softly cry.

Julianus smiled amiably, tolerantly, as though amused by a clever child. Montanus prayed—Minerva, if you’ve any power in human affairs, let this be the time this brazen conniver finally steps into the pit.

“I am only trying, in my humble fashion—” Julianus began.

“Nothing about you is humble.”

“—to tell you what, doubtless,
you already know. The family of this woman, Aurinia, and that of Aristos are mortal enemies, and have been for two generations.”

Domitian’s eyes narrowed. Where did Julianus obtain these trivial but sometimes crucial scraps of information?

“And this outrage has nothing to do with you, except that Aristos, in exchanging that sword, has forgotten his allegiance to you in his zeal to destroy his old enemy, and has in consequence humiliated you at your own celebration games.”

Domitian looked away, frowning. It angered him that anyone else might try to kill Auriane, especially Aristos, who should be loyal and obedient. He felt subtly subverted, as though his favorite had stolen into the Palace at night and attempted to remove some valued possession.

“And anyway,” Julianus continued, “if you give her to the dogs you’ll be doing exactly what the most ungovernable portion of this crowd wants
you to do. Do you feed a recalcitrant beast when it bites its master’s hand? ‘If we make enough noise,’ they’ll say, ‘he’ll do our bidding.’”

Domitian looked at him blankly; there was nothing he could say to that. It worried him he had not thought of it himself. He turned away and sank sullenly back into his chair. To save his own dignity before the crowd, he ordered the herald to announce that some malefactor had tampered with the sword after its inspection and that the culprit would be caught and punished.

After a moment he turned back to Julianus.

“That Syrian maid—she’s yours alone if she pleases you. I won’t ever borrow her.”

Julianus suppressed a smile. He knew it was the closest Domitian would ever come to an apology.

Auriane waited with growing impatience as her original sword was sought. Delays wore at the mind. When at last it was brought, a great show was made of passing it up to Domitian, to satisfy the crowd that this weapon was sound.

Domitian turned the sword once in his hand; then his body stiffened. He saw the symbol of Tiwaz. As he held the sword in his left hand, the runic sign appeared to him in reverse.

This cannot be. This is insidious.

Many years ago in the time of his father, Vespasian, when the great prophetess called the Veleda, Ramis’ predecessor, was captured and brought to Rome, Domitian as a young prince had summoned her and bid her explain to him the mysteries of the runes. She cast an oracle for him and warned him that nothing was so ill-omened for him as the sign of Tiwaz, presented wrong side up. He had not, to his relief, drawn it that day. She advised him that if ever he encountered it, beware, for it meant a sword of vengeance would be turned against him.

I have received a second omen of assassination.

He realized, alarmed, that both omens were connected with Auriane. Uneasily, he looked down at her. And now her eyes seemed to reflect a baleful light. Who was
this strange creature who tricked him out of ordering her immediate execution, then seduced him into craving her adoration as much as he wanted her body and her death?

The sword was passed back down, and the bearer returned it to Auriane. The undertrainers then whisked off the two combatants’ cloaks. Perseus put on his ornamented helmet and lowered the visor, disappearing into monstrous, featureless anonymity. Then Auriane and Perseus turned. While the assistants separated them with outstretched arms, they walked to the arena’s center.

The undertrainers halted, dropped their arms, and quickly backed away. And Auriane and Perseus were alone, facing each other with but five paces of sand between them.

A honeyed trill seized the stillness; then came the hobbling throb-and-trip of a drum—the musicians had begun to play. The double flutes pulled the senses to bowstring tension.

For Auriane, the throng vanished. She stood among tall pines; her feet crushed long grass. The sword of Baldemar was in her hand. Several villagers watched raptly, concealed behind a juniper bush. And somewhere near was Decius, ready to cry instructions, should she need them. A chill northern wind stirred her braided hair; it carried the scent of yew fires. And before her was her old, old enemy, not Odberht, not Wido, but that which first drove her to spurn settled life—the dark, armed menace beyond the pines.

Her gods give her strength,
Julianus prayed. Her life is mine, and mine hers.

CHAPTER XLVIII

S
UNIA COULD SEE LITTLE BUT THE
broad, sweating back of Androcles, a surly four-time victor, planted determinedly in front of her. Every time she fought her way forward she was roughly shouldered back. She called to Thorgild, who had managed to work his way closer to the barred window.

“Nothing to see…all’s quiet still,” Thorgild replied irritably. But then he took pity on her and let her crawl onto his back; she gasped with pain as muscled bodies pressed against her injured leg. At first she saw only sand; then, some fifty paces off, she made out the figures of Auriane and Perseus.

“Where is her helmet?”

“She’d none to start,” Thorgild quipped impatiently.

“But why—”

“Why? Here we are awash in a sea of cutthroats and madmen and you expect what you see to fit tight to your cozy notions of normal good sense.”

Sunia retreated back into her frantic misery.
It is but a practice bout
, she assured herself as she watched Auriane and Perseus slowly begin to move around each other with the steely poise of panthers.
Auriane can come to no harm
.

White light glinted off their blades as they were touched by the broad stream of sunlight. Auriane’s pace quickened. She started easing sideways, head slightly raised like a beast scenting something evil on the wind. The crowd was so hushed that Sunia could hear a hawker somewhere above the second tier crying that he had sausages for sale. Auriane was moving into Perseus’ sword side, her eyes just visible over the top of her oblong shield. Thorgild looked to Erato, who stood near the Gate of Death. He saw that Erato was slowly, approvingly nodding his head.

“Look at him,” Thorgild whispered, nodding at Erato. “Whatever she’s doing, it must be right.”

A moment later Erato stopped nodding. Of course, Thorgild thought. The advantage lies with the one who strikes first. Why does she delay?

Almost simultaneously, both sprang. Auriane was an eye-bat ahead. Thorgild saw that Erato grinned. She had timed it well.

They erupted into a frenzied engagement that called to mind birds fighting in air. Veils of sand were thrown skyward all about them.

The fast, fierce ring of steel on steel battered Sunia awake.
This is not practice.

Just as suddenly, both withdrew. Sunia felt an ice shard had lodged in her throat, so great was the effort of withholding sobs. Squinting through tears, she examined Auriane for some sign of blood. Apparently she had not been struck. Sunia looked at Erato and saw a guarded, pleased smile.

“What did she do?” Sunia asked.

Shaking his head, Thorgild replied, “Too fast for me—Erato alone knows for certain. My guess is, she enticed a strike. You know, to find out what draws a parry. Now, hold your tongue and watch.”

The throng reacted to this opening flurry with mild surprise; the woman almost seemed to hold her own, but they were far from convinced. Time would tell. A few who had a better comprehension of the sport looked wonderingly at Auriane, their faces suggesting they had been shown a magician’s trick. In the end most of these simply dismissed what they had seen—it was impossible that she was that skilled.

Gracefully Auriane shifted direction; Perseus followed her. They moved together as though attached by a cord. Erato gave Auriane the signal that meant:
No more test encounters, you risk giving yourself away. Move according to plan.

A change came over Auriane that was not perceptible to the crowd, but Sunia knew her well enough to detect when she was not herself. She seemed to falter in midstep; then she moved like a dancer who struggles for the rhythm and cannot find it.

“What is the matter with her?” Sunia whispered to Thorgild.

“I do not know.” They both looked at Erato, but his face told them nothing.

Perseus harried her with a flurry of low, rapid feints, while his trainer nodded in bland approval. Then he became impatient and attacked her with a sweeping down-cut; Sunia could hear the vicious hiss of that scimitar blade. Auriane jerked backward and met his blade not with her sword but with her shield. Sparks showered from the iron bindings. She seemed to half collapse under the blow; then, an instant too late, she engaged him. It was as though she were being slung around in his wake. Contemptuous laughter came from the upper seats.

Perseus then directed a series of tight, fast cuts at her unprotected head. She countered by raising her shield, while retreating in a tortured zigzag path. Soon all her movements were defensive, all Perseus’ impatient and angry. What a fool they have made of me, matching me with this! Perseus thought as he greedily took more ground.

Auriane continued to melt away from him. He cut his way forward unopposed, using the sweeping strokes for which his sword was designed; all the while she stayed well hidden behind her shield, occasionally inserting a halfhearted thrust with her sword’s point. Heads shook slowly in the throng. He was clearly much too strong an opponent for her. Soon he would have her backed against the barrier. Why was their time being wasted with this? The chant—“Aristos, save us!” began anew.

In the seats reserved for Palace officials, the Finance Minister Musonius Geta fixed a murderous gaze on Erato, mentally hatching a plan to have him kidnapped and tortured slowly. This would be the last time that rapscallion played him for a fool.

Sunia shielded her eyes, unable to watch. But Thorgild had put it all together. Erato was not alarmed enough for this to be what it seemed. “She’s playing a part, Sunia,” he said in a low voice. “It’s all right. Don’t you trust her by now to know what she’s about? She has him by a tether. She’s dragging him right before the imperial box. And Perseus thinks he has her.”

In the imperial enclosure, Julianus, who knew of the strategy, sat tensed to leap. She was playing the role too well, and it was unnerving. He fought savagely to shut off all feeling; he was but a consciousness, fiercely alert, living in her every movement, willing her to know the right moment to mount her attack.

Domitian sat forward, borne on a current of dark excitement. In his mind he
wielded the sword that beat her into submission. Much of the dread he felt at the sight of the omen began to ease away. If she possessed terrible powers, why was she not using them now? He considered whether or not he should grant her life when Perseus had her at his mercy. Taken all together, she had gotten off unpunished with more misdeeds than anyone who ever crossed him. But if he allowed the death blow he would have no further opportunities to enjoy her battling for her life.