Libya
Jurian froze, his hand still hovering over the hilt of his seax, but the cursedly rational part of his mind knew it would be suicide to rush into the fight.
“Where are the others?” one of the Legionaries asked. He was a few minutes lighting his torch, then he swung around to pace the perimeter of the camp. “Didn’t you say he traveled with a boy and a girl?”
Jurian swallowed hard. A few more steps and the Legionary would find him, and then it would be over. He could see Menas’ face taut with fear and anger, still mouthing that one word at him in a desperate effort to make him move.
“I’ll come back for you,” Jurian whispered.
He turned to run, but as he did, he noticed something in the flashing torchlight, conspicuous only because it was different. The leather band on Menas’ arm was gone. And on the slightly paler skin it had hidden, Jurian saw the mark of the Legion in black and crimson.
He reeled back like he’d been struck, and for a moment he just crouched there in the shadows, staring. At the last minute he remembered the prowling soldier, and he backed slowly away from the tree.
“He’s here!” someone shouted behind him.
He felt hands on his arms and threw himself into a roll, ducking under the man’s grasp with his hand clutching the comfortable grip of his seax. The soldier stumbled, unbalanced, and Jurian slashed back at the tendons behind his knees. Not waiting to see what the other soldiers would do, he turned and threw himself into the shadows.
Shaking with rage, he barely managed to keep himself from crashing through the undergrowth like a maimed bear. He forced himself to breathe slowly the way his old friend Leptis had taught him, to put everything out of his mind except his immediate situation. Running became the whole world. Everything reduced to abstract simplicity. Step, step, breathe, duck, weaving between trees and over uneven earth. Finally, when he could no longer hear the sounds of fighting, he threw himself on the ground at the base of a tree and dragged shattered breaths into his exhausted lungs.
As soon as the desperation of escape faded, the rage came roaring back. He’d run away. He’d run and left his closest friend to the mercy of the Legion, and he’d barely even tried to stay and fight. It didn’t matter that Menas had wanted him to run. It didn’t matter that he would have died if he’d stayed. He had abandoned Menas. Just like he’d abandoned everyone else who had ever needed him.
He ground his teeth, exerting every ounce of his will to keep some semblance of control. Slowly, slowly, his breathing steadied and his hands grew still. The sharp burning anger faded to a numb, sick ache in his chest.
When he was sure of himself, he got to his feet and peered blindly through the darkness. He had a vague sense of the way he’d come, so he started backtracking along what he assumed had been his path. Whatever happened, he would never live with himself if he forsook his friend so easily. He would go back, and he would fight to the last beat of his heart to free him.
Sabra crouched behind the narrow trunk of the tree, breathing hard. Behind her, she could still hear the sounds of the scuffle, faint above the pounding of her pulse. She risked a glance back but couldn’t see anything in the night darkness.
This is your chance. If you stay, you’ll have to tell him who you are. You’ll have to see his hatred.
She bit her lip and banged her head against the tree. Menas…that kind, impossibly kind man…he could be dying, and she was sitting behind a tree thinking about herself. And Jurian? If he was as rash as he was stubborn, he might try to fight off the Legionaries to save his friend. He would never survive.
Did you really think coming back to Cyrene would involve anything other than death? You knew from the beginning how it would end. Does it matter if they die? In a few hours, you will join them.
“Shut up,” she whispered, and pushed herself to her feet. “My fate has nothing to do with theirs.”
She cast her head back to see the stars, searching for something familiar. When she found the moon she turned her steps southeast, and headed straight across the broken countryside toward Cyrene. It was the way she would have brought Jurian. Now she wondered if he would ever find his way, if he would even last long enough to get lost. She tried to silence the corner of her mind that whispered she should be glad—he was a burden. He would have interfered. He would never have understood what she had to do.
For all that, she knew it was a lie. Jurian did know what it meant to sacrifice.
That didn’t mean he would have allowed her to do what she had to do. And worst of all, his words kept ringing in her ears, weakening her resolve, making her doubt everything she believed she could accomplish. No wonder the old priestess had forbidden her from talking to men, she thought, though deep inside she knew her doubts had crept in long before.
She pushed the thought aside and focused on her feet. The rocky ground here was treacherous, overgrown with rangy scrub and dotted with knotted trees like ink stains against the stars. She circled well to the southeast, desperate to avoid the hill of the god before her time came. By the coming night, the god…the beast…whatever he was, he would have his feast. He would have her blood, and it would be over.
Am I still innocent? she wondered. After all I have done, with all the blood on my hands…what if he no longer wants me?
Your name was chosen. Your blood is still required.
She drove the voice back. After running for what felt like an eternity, her lungs burned so violently in the cold air that she had to stop and catch her breath. Legs shaking with exhaustion, she pressed on at an unsteady walk. Her foot slipped on a loose bit of stone and she skidded to the ground, scraping her hands on the dirt. For a minute she sat where she’d landed, drawing her knees up and pressing her forehead against them. Her whole body shook but she barely felt it. She barely felt anything. Everything about her felt numb, and she knew it had nothing to do with the cold.
I am not afraid to die. I’m not. I won’t be afraid to die.
I am afraid.
She screamed through her teeth and got up. The earliest tinge of morning twilight lit the eastern sky, just enough that she could start to see the colors of everything around her. As the light steadily strengthened she picked up her pace, scrabbling down low hills and up mounds of crumbling rock until a thin glaze of sweat covered her neck.
There was too much to do; she had to hurry. It had to be tonight. She didn’t know how the city planned to sacrifice Jezbel without her there to conduct the rituals, but she was back now, and if her mental calculations of the days were accurate, the sacrifice should happen tonight. She only prayed she hadn’t made some mistake, that she hadn’t missed a day in her reckoning. If Jezbel had already died, for nothing, she would never forgive herself.
The first contour of the sun had just broken the horizon when she caught sight of the city of Cyrene spreading in the valley below her. She let out a stifled sob and started running, pulling her tattered palla over her head as she went in case she met any farmers or merchants on her way into the city. But this early, the city and its surrounds were still quiet, and no one was on the Roman road when she reached it.
She slowed to a walk, kneading her hands together as she mentally rehearsed everything that would happen. First she would need to sneak into the palace, and hope to avoid her father. Then she would need to prepare herself. She hadn’t even had time for any of the usual prayers or rites. She hadn’t prepared the ritual feast, hadn’t burned the incense or chanted the long chant in the adyton of the temple. But she was giving the god her blood—she only prayed that would be enough for him, even without all the proper rites.
As she got closer to the city, a sick dread crept into her veins. She could see the signs of recent turmoil even from outside the gate. It didn’t seem like she had been gone that long, but it felt like an era had passed. If not for the familiar sight of guards on the outer watchtower, she might have thought the city had been abandoned long ago.
“Halt there!” one of the guards shouted from the tower.
She stopped, clutching her palla close at her throat and bowing her head. The guard clattered down the stairs and came out to question her. Sabra was only glad that the sun was rising behind her, throwing her face into shadow.
“You’ve been abroad at night?” the guard asked, sounding alarmed or amazed, she couldn’t tell.
She frowned. It wasn’t the question she’d been expecting. “Yes,” she whispered, keeping her eyes down. Even in the dim light, the guard might recognize her by the color of her eyes.
“And you came safely? You weren’t troubled or in danger?”
“You mean the god in the hills?” she asked. “He was quiet tonight.”
“Ah,” the guard said, shifting uncomfortably. “Perhaps he is satisfied.”
Sabra’s blood froze. “Was the girl…was the girl sacrificed? I’m sorry, I don’t know what day it is.”
She felt the guard’s incredulous look but didn’t raise her gaze to meet it. “No, no. That happens tonight. I only meant the god might be content to wait for that, rather than chase down more difficult prey.”
Sabra swallowed back bile. “Is everything all right in the city? It looks so different from the last time I was here.”
“No. We’re coming apart at the seams. Even the nights aren’t always quiet any more. People are threatening to kill the governor if he tries to go through with the sacrifice. They heard what happened with his own daughter, and they’re furious. Say he’s been hiding the truth from them all this time.”
“Well,” Sabra said, voice thick. “Maybe they will be delivered in a way they least expect.”
She raised her gaze enough to see the confusion on his face. For a moment he just stood there, frowning at her, until Sabra grew impatient.
“May I enter the city?”
“Of course. Just try to keep from getting killed. The burial cults are overtaxed as it is.”
She nodded silently and slipped past him, walking the long-familiar road into the city and up toward the governor’s palace. If she wanted to sneak in, she would have to go around the back through the garden where the slaves’ entrance was. It was early enough yet; she might just be able to make it to her chamber without running into anyone.
Before she got too close to the palace, she slipped off the road and traced her way along the steep slope of the hill to the back of the complex. The slaves’ gate was unlatched and she let herself into the garden, the smell of bay and thyme following her as her robe brushed the fragrant plants. She slipped past the culina without trouble, and soon reached her own chamber.
Holding her breath, she entered as quietly as she could—but not quietly enough. Her new slave, Acenith, burst out of her tiny sleeping chamber and stopped short, staring at Sabra as if she’d seen a ghost.