Curses and Smoke (18 page)

A
fter lancing a boil and sewing up a fighter’s collarbone gash, Tag cleaned his instruments, put them neatly away in his surgical case, and slammed it shut. The sound made Castor jump. The little boy had been squatting on the stone floor of the medical room, practicing writing small words in Greek.

“Maybe you should fight again today,” the little boy said.

“I wish I could,” Tag murmured. He could have used the release, but he had to cover for his father instead. Damocles had had a very bad day, jabbering anxiously about when Tag’s mother might return from the market. Tag finally made him take poppy wine so he would sleep.

Rumors had roiled throughout the compound all day — that Lucius Titurius had angered the gods and was not returning to the house lest they smite it. That the priests were keeping him in the temple against his will. That Lucia and Quintus had just barely gotten away before the priests grabbed them too. It was mostly nonsense, Tag knew, but he wanted to hear about it from Lucia herself.

More important, he needed to talk to her about the bind he was in — how the very idea of running away and abandoning his father to the master made him feel like a murderer.

Quintus Rutilius entered the medical room. Tag heaved a silent groan. “Are you injured?” he forced himself to ask. “Or fallen ill?”

The patrician grinned at Tag. “No. I am, in fact, in the best of health and in the best of moods.”

“Ah. Good. Well, if you would excuse —”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Yes! Tell us why,” Castor said, jumping up, face alight.

Quintus blinked at him, then turned to Tag. “Why does this little rag boy think he can speak to me without being spoken to?”

Tag opened his mouth to explain, but Castor jumped in. “I am Castor, and I will grow up to be both a
medicus
and a gladiator!”

Quintus raised his eyebrows at Tag. “He is always with you. Is this your
son
?”

“No,” Tag said. “But he is a bright boy, so I am teaching him to be my assistant.”

Castor beamed.

“Interesting. Tell him to go, please. I do not like his filthy presence here.”

The little boy’s face crumpled. Tag gritted his teeth and contemplated telling him to stay, but he didn’t want the boy punished for his own obstinacy. So he cupped Castor’s shoulder and whispered, “Go check on Xrixus’s boil. Take some bandages with you in case he needs them.”

“By myself?”

“Yes. Don’t remove his bandage without me, but he may need some more strips to put over it. Then check on my fathe —” He caught himself. “Then go into the pantry and count out twenty-five mustard seeds and bring them back. But you must count them three times and get the same number every time. Understand?”

Castor nodded, grabbed a handful of linen strips, and left the room with his head down. Out of the corner of his eye, Tag saw Quintus sniffing small containers of honey-based salves and holding up the little blue glass containers of tinctures. Gods, he wanted to pummel the man for his patrician arrogance. When Quintus reached for a bag of herbs, Tag said quickly, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Quintus stopped and looked at him. “Why?”

“One touch and your bowels will turn to liquid for a week.”

Quintus backed away, alarmed. Tag swallowed a smile at how easily the patrician bought his lie. When he made no further move, Tag prompted him, “I am busy, so unless you need something …”

Quintus reached for small amphorae covered in wax. “What’s in here?”

“Leave it,” Tag said. “It’s a mix of crocodile and lion fat. We need it for some of our salves. It’s very expensive.”

Quintus wrinkled his nose. Watching him touch his things as if he owned them — as if he owned
him
— made all of Tag’s muscles clench. He forced himself to uncurl his fingers from fists.

“So you have heard that the lovely Lucia and I are betrothed, have you not?”

There was a moment when the words that came out of Quintus’s mouth made absolutely no sense. They sounded so foreign, so strange, Tag simply could not understand them. But when they coalesced into meaning, the room tipped slightly and a buzzing filled his head.

“Wh — what?”

Quintus, as always, was watching him very carefully. “Lucia and I are officially betrothed. That’s why we went to the Temple of Venus. We will be married soon. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

Tag’s stomach roiled. He was joking. He had to be. “But she is betrothed to —”

“It turns out my future father-in-law was beginning to question the wisdom of tying his little girl to that bitter old man. And we’ve worked out a very advantageous deal. So he is breaking the betrothal to Vitulus and handing her to me.”

“And
Domina
?” He was surprised to hear his voice sounded so normal.

“Oh, she is thrilled, of course. Overcome. Do you know that sweet, shy girl has fallen desperately in love with me? It’s quite charming. Her sweet kisses have totally seduced me.”

There was a thick paste clogging his throat. He forced himself to swallow and to breathe. Every action seemed to require conscious thought.

Quintus crossed his arms and smiled at him. “I know your secret, boy — I know you fancy yourself in love with her. I have seen your face change when you watch her.”

Gods
.
He knows?
“No, I am not … She is
Domina
—”

“Oh, it is all right. I understand. Probably most of the brutes here think that they are in love with her too. It is quite common for slaves to moon over their masters. In fact, I’m gambling on that.”

Tag put a hand down on his wooden worktable so that he wouldn’t sway. So Quintus didn’t actually know, but had just guessed at how he felt about Lucia. He needed to think. To be alone. To talk to her. To make some sense of all this.

“Ah, your little shrine to Asclepius,” Quintus said, drifting over to it. “I can see you honor him regularly.” He picked up the head votive. “A whole
head
? Who got their face clobbered recently?”

Tag breathed shallowly. “Put that down, please.”

Quintus rolled the head from hand to hand. Tag wanted to lift him by his finely woven green tunic and throw him out of the room. The patrician raised his eyebrows, smiling. Everything was a game to him.

“You do not want to anger the god of healing,” Tag finally managed. “To … to have him turn his back on you calls the Fates to send you suffering of the highest order.”

Quintus gingerly put the votive piece down. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to a strangely shaped piece of clay. “It looks like a wing. What, are you working on chickens now?” He laughed. “If so, your master could’ve used your help today.”

Tag swallowed again. The wing hadn’t been there that morning when he performed the rites. “Mocking gifts to the god is also an offense,” he said. “I must ask you to leave so that I can purify the shrine from your dishonor.”

“You are much too serious, Tag. Has anyone ever told you that?”

He did not answer, but only stared coldly at the patrician. Quintus stepped away from the shrine, throwing his arms up in mock supplication. “Fine. Well, since I have some extra time now, I believe I will go to the baths. Would you like to join me?”

Tag looked at him with irritated disbelief.

“Ah, well,” he said. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

When he was sure the patrician was gone, Tag rushed to the shrine, looking for the oddly shaped votive Quintus had laughed at. His heart raced when he spied it. It did look like a wing. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Small, carved Greek letters caught his eye. His heart leapt to his throat when he decoded the tiny message.

Need to see you. After prima vigilia noctis. L
.

He closed his fingers around the wing, surprised Lucia wanted to meet so late in the night. Quickly, he calculated how long until then. Seven hours. He had to wait seven hours to see her again. The noise in his head turned into a buzzing in his whole body. Pontius had canceled training because of Titurius’s absence, yet Tag
needed
to do something physical or he would explode.

He decided to run in the woods, so he changed into the extra-thick sandals he’d scrounged up and stripped to his loincloth. He was almost out of the gate when he heard someone drawl, “Where are you headed without your tunic, young Apollo? Have you decided to join me in the baths after all?”

Gods, he hated how Quintus talked to him. How he seemed to be mocking him all the time. He was a rich patrician. Why did he have to mock a
slave
?

“I am running up Vesuvius,” he said.

Quintus raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should join you —”

“You despise running.”

“Yes, I do. But I might reconsider.”

“But I am also going to collect spiderwebs for wound dressings, and that is sticky, boring work.” Tag tightened his fist around the clay wing. The buzzing in his muscles was turning into a roar. He cleared his throat. “So, if there is nothing else …”

Quintus hesitated, then shrugged his assent. Tag turned and began trotting out of the gate. He could feel Quintus’s gaze on his back like a weight. But he had to act natural. Not like he wanted to scream until all the tendons in his neck snapped. Not like he wanted to pull a tree up at its base and throw it over the top of the mountain. And definitely not like a slave in love with the man’s future wife.

Once out in the woods, he began to sprint. He pushed himself until his lungs burned, until his whole body felt as if it would break apart. Without even realizing it, he veered off his usual path and found himself crashing through the underbrush toward the Mephistis altar. Fire crisped his lungs and shot daggers through his legs. But he could not stop, or else the thoughts that hammered through his mind would overwhelm him:
I’ve lost her. It’s over. I’m trapped forever
.

He drove himself forward until he could see the broken columns. Then he collapsed to his knees, wheezing, near the crumbling altar and reburied curse tablet. His lungs heaved as he curled over himself, holding his middle as if someone had slammed him in the stomach with a shield. Finally, his gasps for air tore through the tightness in his throat, and he wept with frustration at the foot of the altar of the forgotten goddess.

M
etrodona was snoring well and hard when Lucia swiped the small oil lamp and snuck out into the night. It was risky going to see Tag like this, she knew, but they could not wait any longer to act. Besides, with her father spending the night in the temple, the watch slaves were likely to be more relaxed than usual. Tonight, in fact, was the best night to run. She hoped he was ready. Silently, she changed into one of her graying
tunica
s and grabbed her hoard of goods.

As she stepped over Metrodona, she said a prayer of well-being for her elderly nurse.

Minos was so excited by this late-night surprise, she couldn’t get him to stop whining with excitement as she unchained him. He would serve as good protection when they ran.

To her great relief, she spied Tag standing outside their enclosure, staring up at the stars. Her heart soared. “Tag,” she called. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was worried you couldn’t come.”

She raced toward him, put the small terra-cotta lamp and her treasure on a stone, and threw her arms around his neck while Minos bounced around them. She expected him to embrace her, to sink his face into her neck and swing her around as he usually did, but he didn’t move. “Tag? Is everything all right?”

His coldness was like icy needles pricking her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself.

“I understand you’ve been betrothed to Quintus,” he said.

She waved her hand as if dismissing Quintus and everything else that had taken place earlier that day. “It just means that we must run away
this very night
. Do you have your things ready?”

He made a strange sound in his throat. “Lucia. We can’t. We need to stop.”

She lost her breath. “I don’t understand.”

“Lucia, we’ve been fooling ourselves. You’re going to get married and not even remember me in a few months. This is nothing but torture for me.” His voice sounded as raw as if he had swallowed jagged pieces of glass.

“But …” She didn’t know what to say. She took a strangled breath. “But I love you,” she managed. “We’re going to get away.
Together
. Tonight.”

Tag released a small, strangled groan.

Lucia’s airway felt even tighter. “What’s happened?”

He made another strange sound in his throat. Why wouldn’t he look at her? Her own throat clogged with tears of fear and frustration. She couldn’t bring herself to ask what she prayed wasn’t true — if he had changed his mind about running away with her. Instead, she asked, “You got my message, though, yes? That is why you are here?”

He opened his palm and held out the wing votive. The pointed edge of one end had scraped the flesh under his thumb almost raw, as if he’d been gripping it for a long time.

“Quintus thought it meant we were treating chickens now,” he said dully.

She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “The wing means
freedom
,” she said quietly. “For
both
of us.” When he didn’t respond, she repeated, “Which is why we have to act this very night.”

He closed his eyes as if he was in pain. She wanted to smooth his furrowed brow, to make everything go away. “Look at me,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes. They looked dark and haunted. “Loving you … is destroying me,” he whispered. “We are fooling ourselves about this. It’s better to end this now. To spare ourselves the torture.”

“Why are you saying this? Do you not understand what I’m telling you — that we must run —”

“I can’t run away, Lucia,” he said.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?” she finally managed.

“It was a beautiful fantasy, but I can’t do it. I can’t leave my father to be murdered for my actions. I can’t abandon him to your father’s wrath.”

Gods, she’d never even thought about Damocles. “Well then, we’ll just take him with us.”

He laughed humorlessly. “He’d never come. And if we forced him, he’d give us away in his confusion, or we’d be caught because we wouldn’t be able to run quickly enough with him. Do you see? I’m trapped.”

“But my father wouldn’t
kill
him! I know it.”

Tag closed his eyes again. “He would beat him, which would kill him, Lucia. Especially once he discovered that we ran off together
and
I’d stolen medical supplies.”

Was he right? Was her father capable of killing Damocles? There was a time when she would have deemed it impossible, but that was before she learned about the exposures. When she imagined his rage at losing Quintus’s financial backing, she could see him ordering the old man to be beaten. And that
would
kill him.

“Tag, please,” she whispered as the impossibility of the situation became clear. How could she ask him to deliver his own aged father to a brutal death? She loved him for his essential goodness; she would never forgive herself —
he
would never forgive her — if she insisted he act
against
it. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her mind whirred with ways around the situation. They couldn’t give up now, could they? But no matter how she turned it over, there was nothing either of them could do. It would ruin them to do this thing with the knowledge of the consequence to his father.

It was done, then. They were both trapped. He would continue as a slave, and she would marry Quintus, a man she barely knew and could hardly tolerate. She closed her eyes against the bleakness of it.

“I’m sorry,” Tag said, his voice breaking a little.

“I am too,” she said. Through the tightness in her throat, she added, “I love you, Tag. I always will.”

He took her in his arms then, and they held each other in silence. After a time, he bent and kissed her forehead, her cheek, the wetness under her lashes. When he reached her mouth, his kisses were soft and gentle, the tip of his tongue tasting the edges of her lips as if they had been dipped in honey crystals.

“I love you,” he breathed into her. She swallowed the words into herself and breathed them back into him so that they could share the sweetness of it together.

For the last time.