Dutifully I took one and made my way to Mars Street.
“Oh yes,” Gallus purred. “Lady Lepida’s maid—you have a delivery from your mistress? These noble ladies and their plotting! Never fear, I’ll leave you in privacy.” He disappeared, leaving me alone with the Barbarian.
For a moment we just looked at each other. “I have a letter from my mistress,” I said crisply.
“I can’t read,” he shrugged. “Only fight.”
“I’ve been charged to read it to you.” I cleared my throat, retrieving the letter and breaking the seal. “ ‘My dear Arrius,’ ” I read, feeling my cheeks flush. “ ‘How horibly dull it is up here in Tivoli with no games. I so much look forward to the gladitorial shows when I get back. I’ve perswaded my father to give you a prime spot. I do hope you haven’t forgoten all about me. Lepida Pollia.’ ”
I folded the letter up. “Reply?”
“None.” He was leaning up against the wall, arms folded across his wide chest, gazing out the window.
“She won’t like that,” I said, and noticed incongruously how a scar behind his ear interrupted the line of his russet hair.
No answer. I curtsied, turned—
“Thought I saw you at the Golden Cockerel last week.”
“Yes. The taverner likes me to sing.”
I saw Arius there the following night, drinking. Deaf to me.
Another letter the following week. “No reply,” he said.
“All right.”
“It’s hot today.”
“Hot?”
“Oh—maybe not. In Judaea it must get much—”
“No—no, it’s hot.”
Every week I came with another of Lepida’s misspelled notes. Read them aloud. Then waited for the diffident word that always came.
“Cut yourself?” Indicating, one day, my neatly bandaged wrist.
“Yes,” I said evenly, turning my hands over to hide my scars.
Too late.
“Your wrists look like my back,” he observed, and looked at me. Just eyes, gray eyes, and they weren’t as cold as people said they were.
There was an old woman among the Pollio slaves, a Brigantian woman who did the laundry. I wheedled a song out of her, a song from Britannia. It was a lovely thing that haunted the ear, and the strange words were cool and slippery in my mouth. “A song about home,” the old woman said. “Like all songs from slaves.” The next night at the Golden Cockerel, at the dawn hour when the drunks were nodding and Arius drinking grimly in his corner, I sang the Brigantian song about home. Sang it low and soft so the melody slipped coolly through the torpid room, sang it so a damp island breeze freshened the congealed air, sang it to the top of Arius’s head as he stared down into his wine. He never looked up, but—
“Where did you learn that?” he asked me the next time I came with one of Lepida’s notes.
I shrugged. “From a slave.”
He said no more, but I was starting to know the planes and shadows of his face, the flickers of expression that crossed his eyes . . . and I was well pleased.
THE heat was making him crazy. The boredom, the inactivity, but mostly the lazy shimmering heat. He dreaded the arena, woke up swearing when he thought of the applause on his head, but the thought of the approaching games was getting better. Anything was better than feeling his own blood boil inside his veins.
He prowled out into the courtyard, where the midday sun made mirage pools on the packed sand, and got a wooden practice sword. He stripped off his tunic and drilled—relentless mechanical drills that satisfied his body if not his temper. The trainer paired him with a Greek for a practice bout, and Arius didn’t wait for the Greek’s salute before bringing his sword down in a vicious side sweep.
“Lay off!” The Greek jumped out of the way. “It’s just training!”
Kill him , whispered the demon in Arius’s head.
He launched forward. The Greek brought up his own blade, and wood met wood with a flat crack. The Greek’s sword broke off at the hilt in a spray of splinters. He leaped back
“Oh yes,” Gallus purred. “Lady Lepida’s maid—you have a delivery from your mistress? These noble ladies and their plotting! Never fear, I’ll leave you in privacy.” He disappeared, leaving me alone with the Barbarian.
For a moment we just looked at each other. “I have a letter from my mistress,” I said crisply.
“I can’t read,” he shrugged. “Only fight.”
“I’ve been charged to read it to you.” I cleared my throat, retrieving the letter and breaking the seal. “ ‘My dear Arrius,’ ” I read, feeling my cheeks flush. “ ‘How horibly dull it is up here in Tivoli with no games. I so much look forward to the gladitorial shows when I get back. I’ve perswaded my father to give you a prime spot. I do hope you haven’t forgoten all about me. Lepida Pollia.’ ”
I folded the letter up. “Reply?”
“None.” He was leaning up against the wall, arms folded across his wide chest, gazing out the window.
“She won’t like that,” I said, and noticed incongruously how a scar behind his ear interrupted the line of his russet hair.
No answer. I curtsied, turned—
“Thought I saw you at the Golden Cockerel last week.”
“Yes. The taverner likes me to sing.”
I saw Arius there the following night, drinking. Deaf to me.
Another letter the following week. “No reply,” he said.
“All right.”
“It’s hot today.”
“Hot?”
“Oh—maybe not. In Judaea it must get much—”
“No—no, it’s hot.”
Every week I came with another of Lepida’s misspelled notes. Read them aloud. Then waited for the diffident word that always came.
“Cut yourself?” Indicating, one day, my neatly bandaged wrist.
“Yes,” I said evenly, turning my hands over to hide my scars.
Too late.
“Your wrists look like my back,” he observed, and looked at me. Just eyes, gray eyes, and they weren’t as cold as people said they were.
There was an old woman among the Pollio slaves, a Brigantian woman who did the laundry. I wheedled a song out of her, a song from Britannia. It was a lovely thing that haunted the ear, and the strange words were cool and slippery in my mouth. “A song about home,” the old woman said. “Like all songs from slaves.” The next night at the Golden Cockerel, at the dawn hour when the drunks were nodding and Arius drinking grimly in his corner, I sang the Brigantian song about home. Sang it low and soft so the melody slipped coolly through the torpid room, sang it so a damp island breeze freshened the congealed air, sang it to the top of Arius’s head as he stared down into his wine. He never looked up, but—
“Where did you learn that?” he asked me the next time I came with one of Lepida’s notes.
I shrugged. “From a slave.”
He said no more, but I was starting to know the planes and shadows of his face, the flickers of expression that crossed his eyes . . . and I was well pleased.
THE heat was making him crazy. The boredom, the inactivity, but mostly the lazy shimmering heat. He dreaded the arena, woke up swearing when he thought of the applause on his head, but the thought of the approaching games was getting better. Anything was better than feeling his own blood boil inside his veins.
He prowled out into the courtyard, where the midday sun made mirage pools on the packed sand, and got a wooden practice sword. He stripped off his tunic and drilled—relentless mechanical drills that satisfied his body if not his temper. The trainer paired him with a Greek for a practice bout, and Arius didn’t wait for the Greek’s salute before bringing his sword down in a vicious side sweep.
“Lay off!” The Greek jumped out of the way. “It’s just training!”
Kill him , whispered the demon in Arius’s head.
He launched forward. The Greek brought up his own blade, and wood met wood with a flat crack. The Greek’s sword broke off at the hilt in a spray of splinters. He leaped back
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