THE ENTOURAGE THAT MATTHEW considered the minimum necessary to accompany them to the Hippodrome was large enough to teach Taylor why her attempt to steal out of the house with a single slave had been met with such dire disapproval.
As Matthew beamed his approval at her state-occasion-like clothing, accessories and make-up that Kale had spent three hours fussing to get right, Taylor stared, her jaw descending, at the fifteen or so people ranked behind Matthew. There were armed guards and slaves in festive wear—four of them designated to do nothing more than carry the corner poles of a large square parasol to keep the sun off her and Matthew at all times. Other slaves were carrying food and beverages, cushions and clothes.
“Where is everyone going to sit?” Taylor murmured.
“In my family section, of course,” Matthew replied. “Ready?”
Their parade through the streets of Constantinople was another eye-opener for Taylor, as the armed guards made sure everyone was cleared out of their way and there were no obstructions to slow them down. They were like a cruise ship cutting through water. Nothing stopped them. People stopped to watch them pass and some begged for money or favors. One of the slaves dipped into a purse occasionally, when Matthew nodded, and handed out bronze coins here and there.
Taylor realized that if the beggars had stopped her and asked for money she would have had none to give them. Would they have beaten her for the lack? No wonder Matthew had been so angry with her for travelling without armed escort. Finally, she was beginning to understand it wasn’t just his reputation he had been concerned about. Walking down the street alone wasn’t something she could do here, like she could in L.A. or New York, even as crime-riddled as sections of those cities were. Her position in society here made it simply impossible. She was too noticeable.
So how on earth was she going to reach Brody?
* * * * *
Because it had been centuries since he had experienced it, waking from sleep caught Brody by surprise. He felt almost dizzy and disoriented as he tried to figure out what had happened. Then he put it together, as he felt the hard planks of the bunk beneath his side and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“Braenden.”
His recent memories reassembled themselves, along with the fluttering edges of panic, until he thought of Taylor, out there somewhere in the city, alone. Veris, god knows where in Europe, busting a gut to make it here.
In one indrawn breath, Brody tamped all the panic back down inside him. He had to hold it together for them.
He rolled over carefully, feeling the crusts of dried blood strain on his back. Evaristus was clinging to the ladder that was nailed to the end of the bunks with one hand while he shook him with the other. Brody had the top bunk, about fifteen feet up from the dirt floor.
They’d pulled him out of the cage sometime very late in the night, or very early in the morning. It had been getting close to dawn and the cavern had been silent except for the whispers of sleeping men and the two guards who had unlocked the cage. They had told Brody he could have the one bunk remaining, at the top of the tier…if he had the strength to climb up there himself. Otherwise, he’d just have to sleep on the dirt for the night. From their expressions and jeers, they’d expected him to simply lie where they’d dragged him and sleep.
Instead, Brody had forced himself to roll onto his belly and get onto his hands and knees. The effort had taken a good minute or more and he’d stayed on his hands and knees, swaying, gathering strength for the next step. From there, he’d staggered to his feet and over to the ladder.
The climb had opened the wounds again, but he had been smiling to himself when he lay down on the bunk. Sleep had dropped over him like a blanket.
Evaristus hissed as Brody sat up. “You look worse than when I left you last night,” he said softly.
“I’m fine,” Brody told him truthfully. “But I need clothes.”
Evaristus dropped a tunic into his lap. It was startlingly white and clean. “Your driver’s tunic. Don’t get it dirty or they’ll whip you for it. They want you looking bright as a gold coin for the race, so clean up before you put it on.”
Brody lifted the tunic and spread it out so he could look at it. It was short and would be a tight fit. Memories washed over him, sending a sour soup ablaze in his stomach and his heart rampaging. He swallowed. “You know that, subjectively, it’s been nearly a thousand years since I controlled a team?” he said softly.
Evaristus scowled. “Then you’d better dig down into your memories and figure out how you do it, boy, because if you don’t win this race, they’re going to flay your hide off you for lack of a purse.”
Brody could actually hear his heart in his ears. He put the tunic down, his breath coming more quickly, and glanced at Evaristus. The man looked angry, but there was concern in his gaze, too.
“I spent ten centuries pretending this place didn’t still have the biggest piece of my soul locked up in a cage. Because of that, I dragged the two people I have most loved in my long sorry life right back into the pit with me.”
“The woman?” Evaristus asked, the frown between his brows deepening. “Ariadne?”
“She only looks like Ariadne, but yes, that’s one of them.” Brody handed the tunic back.
Evaristus slung it over his shoulder. “And the other?”
“He’s coming, I hope.”
“That’s the difference,” Evaristus said, nodding. “Between you and the Braenden I knew before.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You have hope.”
Brody drew in a breath as surprise circled through him. He nodded. “Yes,” he agreed.
“They gave it to you, I think. The two of them.”
Brody nodded again. This time he knew the answer. “Yes,” he said with utter certainty.
Evaristus grinned and started climbing down the ladder. “There’s food,” he called. “Get washed. They’re busy with race preparations. You could steal more than your share today and get nothing more than a smile out of them for your cheek. Hurry!”
Brody eased himself toward the ladder. With this body, hurrying wasn’t possible but he’d try. For Veris and Taylor, he’d try.
Then his mind turned to the races that lay ahead and his memory supplied highlights of what might be in store. His gut tightened in worry.
For Veris and Taylor, he’d hang in there.
Veris and Taylor.
He kept their names in his mind. They became a mantra as he faced each new and horribly familiar challenge the day provided.
* * * * *
The Hippodrome reminded Taylor sharply of the Roman Coliseum in the movie Gladiator, except that this amphitheater was an elongated oval in shape and the entertainment on the sandy floor below was racing, not hand-to-hand combat. But in all other respects, it was similar. There was even an emperor overseeing the entertainment.
Taylor glanced over toward the shaded box where the small man sat attended by slaves, servants and guests. Men dressed in overblown garments were talking and drinking around him, but he was watching everything that happened below. He was more interested in the races, not the company he kept.
Taylor remembered that the emperor was a blue man and would be of no assistance to Matthew, a green owner.
What did Brody drive? Was he a blue driver or a green driver?
There had been two races so far and each of them had turned Taylor’s guts to cold entrails and made her heart lurch with sick revolt, even though everyone around her had been disappointed that the races had both been clean, unexciting events, where the winner had been clear.
“They’re a model of propriety today,” Metrodora complained, adjusting her veil and reaching for her wine glass again. Metrodora was the wife of Kousinos Dalassena, a friend and business associate of Matthews. Metrodora also mentioned her father, the Emperor’s tax collector. Her father seemed to raise Metrodora herself on the social ladder in a way that Taylor didn’t understand, but she took note that even here in Constantinople, a man’s occupation and social standing was critical, while the wife was merely a child-bearing accessory that came with useful familial ties and associations.
Dalassena now sat at the front of the family box with Matthew.
Metrodora and Taylor had been given small chairs at the back of the box, higher up and further away from the front. Metrodora had not seemed to mind, or even notice the disparagement. She had nodded her head at Taylor and taken her seat, and immediately began issuing a stream of orders to her own retinue of slaves and servants, while Taylor watched, stunned, as Metrodora skillfully rearranged the hot corner Taylor had been left with, turning it into a cool oasis of shade and refreshment. The slaves had constructed a smaller shade cloth over the pair of them, poured well-watered wine that was still cool and handed them both a cup, placed a small table in front of them, laid a cloth and covered the cloth with plates of fruit, small pastries and other delicacies for them to nibble upon.
“It’s not like you to linger without comfort, Ariadne,” Metrodora teased. “But then, it has been a while since I saw you. Has Matthew worn away your love of the finer stuff of life?”
Taylor sipped the watered wine and leaned forward to steal a grape, giving herself time to compose an answer. “Not at all,” she answered. “I was enjoying the sun for a while, first.”
Metrodora’s smile widened. “I don’t see any of your own people here but Kale. You are travelling light.”
“Today, yes,” Taylor agreed, adding Metrodora’s statement to the pile to be considered later. Ariadne had other staff of her own? Other slaves?
But the races began then and Taylor had been fully occupied with her horror at the danger and brutality of chariot racing.
Blue and Green were not the only factions in the city. There were also White and Red teams, but they were minor and barely rated notice. Blue and Green were always the favorites. There could be many teams in a race, which in part was what made it so dangerous.
Only the strongest drivers could control four horses at once. The four-horse chariot races were the most keenly watched of the two types of races generally held on a day of races. The other type of race was the two-horse race. The biggest purses were at stake for the winners of the four-horse races and the biggest amounts of money were spent on wagers predicting which chariot would win.
All this Taylor had learned in the course of two races.
The extent to which a chariot driver would go to ensure he outraced his opponents, she learned within one race. Underhanded football strategies had nothing on chariot racing. She had sat gripping the arms of her high-backed chair, at first astonished, then outraged, then simply horrified at the manipulations and outright attacks upon other drivers’ chariots in order to disable them and gain ground.
There were no rules in chariot racing. The first past the winning post after five laps was the winner. If the winner managed to do it with style and verve, he also became a hero of the people at the same time.
In the very first race of the day, the winning driver had destroyed his nearest competition by ramming the extended hubs of his chariot wheels into the spokes of his opponent. The wheels of the other chariot had disintegrated in spectacular fashion, to the delight of the crowd. The horses had fallen to their knees with piteous whinnies, while the driver had been thrown from his chariot up against the stone walls of the arena. He had fallen to the sand floor and lain motionless until the finish of the race when men in short off-white tunics had hurried to huddle around him, then hurried back to the small door they had emerged from, the driver between them.
The winner of the race was announced by a man standing on a high platform close to the emperor’s box, speaking in crisp, clear sentences that reached Taylor despite the lack of an amplifier.
It was then she dared risk her first question to Metrodora. “What about the injured driver?” she asked.
Metrodora lifted her brow. “He wasn’t very good, was he?” she said, as if she was agreeing with Taylor.
Taylor schooled her expression to neutral. “I mean, will his injuries be taken care of?”
Metrodora shrugged. “In the slave quarters, I suppose. Yes.” She peered more closely at Taylor. “Are you quite all right, Ariadne? You’ve gone pale.”
Taylor nodded. But the thought that wouldn’t go away was making her clutch more tightly at the chair with each heartbeat.
Brody died as a slave. He died as a chariot driver. He died driving chariots.
He could die again.
If they must stay here for months waiting for Veris, then it was probable he would die again.
Metrodora waved to one of her slaves. “Wine. Quickly!”
A cup was thrust into Taylor’s hand and Metrodora lifted the cup to Taylor’s lips. Taylor sipped and thrust it away. “I am all right. Truly.”
This is one of the penalties of knowing the future. One of the prices of time travel.
She sat up from the slump she wasn’t aware she had fallen into and readjusted her veil and robes. Then she smiled at Metrodora. “Do you know who is in the second race?” she asked, deliberately shifting the subject and the focus away from her.
Metrodora wrinkled her forehead, then called for the slave who had the races memorized. The second race had not included Brody, and Taylor had been able to relax and let the excitement of the race wash over her and pass on, while she calmed and sipped her wine.
Now at the end of the second race, which had been as ruthless as the first while still disappointing the audience for lack of spectacle, Taylor had gained some equilibrium. She thought she could deal with the racing with detachment and objectivity – enough to let her get through it and pretend she was Ariadne, the daughter of a general and a native of Constantinople.
Even after the driver had received his laurel wreath and been led away and the sand raked over to remove the detritus from the race in preparation for the third race, Metrodora was still musing over the lack of excitement in the day so far, a small furrow between her brows as she glanced around the Hippodrome. But then her frown disappeared and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
The smile caught Taylor’s attention, for it screamed sensuality and secrecy.
She glanced in the direction that Metrodora was looking, but could not see who was the focus of her gaze. Someone certainly was, though.
“Who is it that has the ability to bring such a soft smile to your lips?” she murmured.
Metrodora’s gaze snapped to Taylor’s face. Then she sighed. “Leontius,” she breathed back and nodded her head while barely moving it.
“He is not known to me,” Taylor said, taking a risk that Leontius was someone that Ariadne knew well.
“I know,” Metrodora agreed, to Taylor’s relief. “He would not be known to anyone of our station. He is a dock worker. A freedman’s son.” Metrodora bit her lip and smiled guiltily.
Taylor puzzled out the unspoken implications. If this Leontius was the son of a freed slave, then he was just barely above slave status himself. He was the lowest of low classes and certainly not a person that Metrodora could be seen with.
“But he makes you happy,” Taylor finished softly.
Metrodora sighed. “Yes,” she admitted in a whisper.
“Can you not go and speak to him, at least?” Taylor asked.
“Heavens above, no!” Metrodora replied, alarm lifting her voice into a squeak. “My husband would want to know where I was going and I would have to take at least four slaves with me. It would be impossible.” But she stared wistfully toward the distant Leontius as if she wished she had wings and could fly over to him.
Her yearning sounded exactly like Taylor’s dilemma. She couldn’t reach Brody without bringing a small army of slaves with her that would hamper every step and report back to Matthew.
“You’re just not considering this clearly because it’s Leontius,” Taylor told Metrodora in a hushed tone that wouldn’t travel. “How do you normally acquire something you want, if you want to reach it discreetly?”
Metrodora gave a small, choked laugh. “I bribe someone to bring the thing to me, of course.” Then her eyes widened. “A bribe,” she repeated. She pulled one of her rings off her finger and called to one of her slaves. “This is yours to keep or sell for what you can get, if you follow my instructions carefully and completely. Understand?”
Taylor sat back, her heart thundering.
Bribery. She didn’t need money at all.
As she listened to Metrodora outline the instructions to the slave to smuggle the beloved Leontius to the corridor at the back of the box so that Metrodora could steal a quiet moment with her dock-worker lover, Taylor absorbed the methodology for future use.
The chariots for the next race were being arranged at the starting line. Taylor turned her head toward the fuss, pretending an interest she didn’t have, while she attempted to squash the hot flare of hope and excitement grabbing at her chest and making her eyes water. She clutched at the metal goblet in her hand, making the gems in the base dig into her flesh so the little pain would anchor her.
She had to hold it together and think this through very carefully. Neither Veris nor Brody were here to back her up or help her.
Then she really focused properly on the drivers…on the third from the starter’s favored position at the center post.
Brody.
He was standing in the chariot with his arms outstretched, the eight reins from the horses wrapped around one wrist, his fingers curled around the leather. The whip was in his other hand and he was using it to lightly touch the back of each horse, getting them to settle down and ready themselves.
Taylor gripped the arms of her chair. Inarticulate sound roared through her mind. She was dizzy with it and the chair arms were the only thing keeping her vertical.
“Brody,” she whispered.
Metrodora gripped her wrist. “Ariadne? Are you quite well?”
“How do I stop the race?” Taylor asked, unable to tear her gaze away from Brody, who was staring up at the race starter, now. “It mustn’t go on, he can’t be in it, how do I stop it?”
Metrodora gave a small laugh. “Stop a race? Heaven’s above, why would anyone want to stop a race? I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
Then it was too late. The gilded leaf dropped with a heavy thunk to the “start” position and with a roar of the crowd, the horses reared and snorted as the whips were applied, dug in their hooves and took off, spraying oiled sand.
The race had begun.