One With the Darkness (33 page)

He turned his back on her. Four to go. He could feel the blood, slick and running down his thigh. He limped across the empty space toward the four who guarded the cup. They were shaky, these gladiators. They might wear the masks of invincible beasts, but they had just seen four of their number cut down by a naked man with only a short sword and a small round shield.

Jergan breathed deep. Forget the wound in your hip, in your side. Forget exhaustion. You are for Livia.

Jergan wasn’t certain exactly what happened next. His body acted even when his mind was dazed. He remembered the prong of the trident in his shoulder, opening the old wound. He remembered the look on the face of the young man whose mask rattled away at Jergan’s blow when he realized his throat was gurgling blood and he would die in the next minute. But the details of glinting sword and arcing ax and the jarring crunch of mace all ran together.

All Jergan knew was that he stood, every muscle trembling, alone in the arena, except for the roar around him and the moans he could hear from under the toga he had thrown over the post. He threw away the sword, the shield. They clattered to the sand. He staggered to the cup on its low pedestal. It was brimming with a liquid. He staggered to his knees and reached out.

The arena seemed silent. Perhaps his hearing was going. He felt far away from himself. He clasped the cup in both hands. Some of the liquid sloshed into the sand. His chest was heaving. He mustn’t spill a precious drop. Somehow he got to his feet. He turned.

He’d have to uncover Livia to feed her the elixir that would bring her relief. Oh, gods, could he do that?

The world contracted to the sand beneath his feet and the post in front of him. He staggered toward Livia.

Doors opened in the walls of the arena. Praetorian Guard rushed in from all sides, swords drawn. They circled him and Livia. They weren’t going to let him give her solace. They’d kill him now. He would have failed her. He fell to his knees. Precious liquid sloshed from his cup.

Chaerea. Chaerea strode to the center of the phalanx that surrounded Jergan.

“I didn’t think you could do it, barbarian. Wounded, too.”

Jergan looked up. Chaerea had his sword drawn. The captain looked up toward the imperial box. Jergan followed his gaze. The sign of life or death. If the emperor put his thumb down, Chaerea would kill Jergan, and Livia would be left to face her fate alone. The whole empire knew that sign.

Caligula stood.

Around the arena the crowd began to roar. The roar took on the rhythm of a chant. Jergan couldn’t make it out. He looked toward Livia, writhing in pain under the shroud of the toga.

“Kill me if you will,” he yelled to Chaerea over the chanting crowd. “But not until I have given her this cup.” He was begging. It was all he had left.

Fruitless, his mind whispered. They’ll never let her go.
You’ll die and they’ll torture her, even if they cannot kill her. She will not even have the respite of death to sustain her.

Chaerea dropped his sword.

Jergan looked up; blood was running in his eyes. Had he taken a blow to the head?

“The crowd has saved you, slave. Even an emperor cannot deny it. Give her the drug, if you have the strength.”

Jergan looked around. The soldiers of the Praetorian Guard took one step back.

Jergan clasped the cup. His head felt light. The arena’s sand seemed to roll like the deck of a ship. He struggled to his feet. The crowd was chanting. He staggered toward Livia. The cup was sloshing. Was he failing, even now?

He leaned against her through the cloth for balance. Her moans were low now. He took a breath and straightened. He pulled the cloth off.

Somewhere from far away he registered that her body was blistered and the blisters had broken, weeping pain. He lifted her chin. Her face was relatively untouched, protected by the curtain of her hair. He lifted the cup to her lips.

“Drink,” he whispered. He slid the liquid surcease down her throat. Her eyes looked up at him, her expression soft.

“Donnatella says I should tell you that I love you.”

And then her eyes swam.

Who was this Donnatella? Had Livia just said she loved him? He wasn’t certain. Jergan felt himself falling. He knew his knees hit the sand. The roar of the crowd swirled around him.

And then nothing.

“N
O MORE
. T
HAT
cup he gave her in the arena should keep her helpless. What if too much kills her?”

She heard the voices from far away, through a haze of pain.

“Looks to me like she’s a dead woman already. Makes my stomach turn.”

“Well, cover her up, then.”

A sheet of some kind was shaken out over her. The
cloth tore at her burned flesh. She rolled her head. She was in a cell with bars across the entire front.

“The emperor wants to see her after the banquet. Tomorrow, if she’s still alive, he’ll let in the crowds for a look.” The barred doors clanged shut.

“That was something, wasn’t it? The way she burned? I’ve never seen a witch before.”

“Emperor didn’t like that the barbarian saved her.” The voices were retreating. “But what could he do? The law of the crowd.”

“The barbarian fought like a demon to save a witch.” Rough laughter echoed against the stone.

“Think we should leave him in there with her?”

“Chaerea wants them each to know the other suffers.”

Another clanging door.

Jergan? She rolled her head the other way. He lay across the cell from her, sprawled on one hip on the rough stones, one knee drawn up. She blinked, trying to banish the cobwebs from her brain. Was it the juice of the poppy or the pain that caused that haze before her eyes?

“It’s Jergan,” she whispered, trying to focus. “Good.” Was he alive? She could smell the blood. It made the Companion that ran in her veins pound weakly at her consciousness for attention through the haze of drugs and pain.

He didn’t answer. The voice had said he would live. She remembered that. He couldn’t be dying, could he? She had the strongest feeling there was something she should do. Right here. Right now. This was the moment—for what, she didn’t know.

And then she wasn’t sure.

Maybe it was the wrong time.

For what? For
what?

How long had she before the emperor or his guard returned? If she could heal enough … If the drugs faded …

S
HE WAITED
. T
HE
minutes seemed like hours. But she was fairly certain even so that hours passed. The drug
was
fading. She could tell because the pain ramped up almost past endurance. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. Any sound might bring the guards down on her. She
wanted
the drug to fade. Only when her Companion was freed from the drug could the healing reach full strength. She needed to heal as fast as possible. Until she did, all her Companion’s power would be diverted to healing, with none left over for translocation, even for herself, let alone to take Jergan with her. Could she heal enough to get them out of here before those dreadful men returned and killed Jergan? If he wasn’t dead already….

She lay with her head turned toward him, waiting for some sign of life. It all meant nothing unless he lived.

Where was Donnatella? Perhaps the pain left no room for voices in her head. Livia must know what the mistake was, besides the enigmatic “following the Rules.” And what would she find behind the wall in the garden?

If she ever got back there.

If Jergan lived and it was worth getting back there.

Her thoughts tumbled over and over in the same round.

Jergan groaned.

Livia had never been so relieved in her long life. With a massive effort, she rolled to her side, then dragged herself, her body screaming with pain inside the shroud of a sheet, toward him. Already she must have healed a bit.

He raised his head, a groan escaping him.

“Jergan,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. How did she have enough moisture left in her body to support tears?

He blinked at her. “Are you all right?” he rumbled, hoarse. A sticky trail of blood snaked down his temple and into his eyes.

“I will be.” She managed a smile. Things were looking up. “You?” She could see now that his shoulder had been wounded again in the same place as before. His side was pierced. Blood was everywhere on his belly and into his groin and over his thigh.

He looked down at himself. “Looks worse than it is.”

He was probably lying to her.

With a grunt of pain he pushed himself up to sitting and eased himself back to lean against the rough stone wall. She could see his senses swim. His eyes refocused. He reached out for a corner of the sheet. “Don’t look,” she advised.

“Those bastards.”

“You’re alive.”

“I’m sure they will correct that soon.” He gave her a worried squint. “When they find you can heal, they may just do it all over again.”

“Cheerful thought.”

“Thank the gods Lucius didn’t tell them about decapitation.” Jergan frowned.

“Don’t hate him.” She gasped with the effort to talk. But talking took her mind off the pain. “Asiaticus told them about the sunlight. Don’t hate him, either. He may still be of use.”

Jergan bent down and took her head in his lap. “I know not how to feel about that man. He is the reason I am still alive. But he told them about the sunlight.”

She focused on his lips. It was all she could do. “Keep talking to me. If … if you can. Tell me what happened last night.”

He swallowed as if to gather himself. “Caesar wanted a
night of sport with me before the games. I wasn’t in the mood to be raped.” He took a ragged breath. “I got a sword to his throat to keep the Guard at bay. But Chaerea wanted me to kill the worm, probably to set himself upon the throne. So I had no leverage.” Talking was difficult for him as well. He continued haltingly. “Asiaticus proposed that Caesar spare me if I let him go so I could perform our little ritual in the arena. And I just needed to live until I could get to you. We made a bargain.” He looked down at her ruefully. “I didn’t stop you suffering.”

“I would have suffered more if you’d been killed.” Let him take that how he would. Even if he lived, it wasn’t for long in the scheme of things. Donnatella said he would be buried in the village near her estates in Tuscany. Her heart contracted.

“Who is Donnatella?” he asked after a moment.

She started back. “How do you know Donnatella?”

“You … spoke of her when you were drugged.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. She did not want to explain this, in pain as she was. But it was Jergan asking. And secretive as she had been all her long life, she knew she could have no secrets from him. “She is probably … the … symbol of my insanity.” It was difficult to say it. “Hers is the voice I hear inside my head … or so she says.”

“Really?” He didn’t sound dismayed. “Who is she?”

She sighed. “She says she is me….” She gathered herself. “But as I will be ages hence.”

“Do you remember what she told you to tell me?” He looked expectant.

She shook her head.

The expectancy faded from his eyes. “Just as well. You were not yourself.”

Livia was relieved. She didn’t want to know what Donnatella had told her to say.

“Livia,” Jergan whispered. “You need strength to heal. Last time you were burned, you took blood.”

“Yes,” she gritted out.

“Then take blood from me.”

She squinted her eyes shut. “You’ve lost too much already.”

“These wounds? Nothing. I’ve fought all afternoon with wounds worse than these. And with the way you’ve been feeding me, I’m strong as a bull.”

She smiled at him. “I’ll give you that. I never saw … anyone fight like … you did today.”

“I don’t think you saw much of it.” He pushed some hair from her forehead.

“The guards called … you a demon.”

He shrugged a little, nodding. “Perhaps we are well matched.”

“Both nearly useless.” She managed another smile.

He grew serious. “That’s why you must take my blood. You must get back your strength. Only you can get us out of here.”

He was right about that. Even a little blood would speed the process. “But I need power to draw my canine teeth. I … I have to wait until I’m healed.”

He chewed his lip. “They’ll return.”

“Not until after the banquet. I don’t know … how long that is.” Here, in the entrails of the arena, all was dark and torchlight. “But the sun has set. I feel it’s late.”

“Then we can’t wait. You don’t need your power to take blood.” He hefted her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. The rasp of the fabric that swaddled her almost made her cry out. The smell of his blood was overwhelming. He … he was holding her head to the wound in his shoulder. Blood trickled down his chest. Her
breathing grew heavy. The Companion inside her shrieked in anticipation.

“No,” she murmured. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he soothed, stroking the back of her head. He brought her closer. Her lips were almost touching the place where the blood still welled just beneath the collarbone.

“Gods, no,” she protested weakly. It occurred to her that he would hold her here until her Companion got the better of her. Even now it thrilled faintly inside her. Could she withstand temptation? Even now her tongue reached out and touched the blood, almost against her will.

Copper, tangy life! Her Companion sang a tremulous chorus. Rich, thick, luxurious blood.

She was lost.

She fastened her lips to his shoulder and kissed his wound. Blood welled into her mouth and she suckled there. He rocked back and forth, holding her there, giving her the one thing she most needed. So generous. So tender, he was.

Her Companion’s song swelled inside her in response to the blood. She could feel the vibrations of its energy ramping up. Already the pain seemed to be less. Or was she just distracted by the feeling of life coursing down her veins? She was
alive.

More! She sucked harder.
The blood is the life.
And oh, she wanted life.