THERE WAS A COPPERY sweet taste in her mouth that made Taylor want to spit or throw up. She fought back the need because she didn’t dare look away from the chariots circling the far end of the elongated track. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest was locked by a hard band wrapped around it, that tightened each time she saw Brody’s chariot rock or sway or get knocked by one of the others.
He was in second place as he rounded the end marker.
Taylor’s sight—all her senses—narrowed down to a pinpoint focus upon Brody. She heard none of the raucous cheers and bawdy comments of the people in the boxes and seats around them. The blasting heat of the day ceased to touch her. She was in a zone of silence, muffled from the world.
She could see every detail of Brody’s face and body as clearly as if he was standing next to her. He was concentrating fiercely. He wore the tiny furrow he got when he was absorbed in his music, or working on one of their weapons in the small workshop in the basement, determined to make whatever it was he was wrestling with come out right.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders and chest were rigid with the effort to control the horses.
Every few seconds, he glanced at the other drivers, his long hair whipping out behind him as his head turned. He was jockeying for a better position, to take advantage of the turns.
Behind him, two of the chariots clashed, their wheels locking. One overturned, sending the driver rolling across the sand. The chariots behind the two swerved and moved around the melee, hurrying to catch up with Brody and the other leading two chariots.
They turned at the end, completing their third circuit, and Brody eased forward on the inside, separating himself from the third chariot by a good length as they came down the back stretch. It put Brody and the lead chariot ahead of everyone.
Dimly, Taylor could head the crowd cheering happily. This wasn’t the blood and guts they were used to, but a good challenge for the lead was apparently just as entertaining.
The leader, a driver with dark skin who looked shorter than Brody, didn’t like the idea, though. As they were rounding the far end for the second time, he edged his chariot toward Brody’s, getting closer, crowding him to the inside edge.
The fallen chariots were just around the corner, a six foot high barrier of wood, metal and horseflesh directly in Brody’s path, and the leader was going to drive Brody right into them.
Taylor had no breath to call out and no strength to do anything other than sit and watch as Brody’s horses rounded the deep curve, heading for disaster, hemmed in by the leader’s chariot and horses.
At the last minute, Brody hauled on the reins. She heard him calling to the horses to slow, to stop, as the animals tried to skid to a halt before they rammed into the barrier in their way.
The lead chariot shot past the carnage, using the outer half of the track, but that was what Brody had been waiting for. As soon as the chariot moved past him, he urged his horses forward again, steering them around the fallen chariots and inserting himself in front of the chariots that came behind.
He chased after the leader, racing in a big curve around the outer rim of the starting post, while the leader used the inside curve. Now Brody had the outside track as they raced down the back stretch for the final lap. He crowded the leader against the turning post as they rounded the far end, forcing him to slow or cannon into the chariot wreckage. This time, Brody shot past, down the outside stretch. He was in the lead and there were no more turning posts for the other chariot to gain an advantage. The next post was the winning post.
The audience went a little crazy, chanting and cheering, but Taylor couldn’t hear them, except in a disconnected way. She was watching Brody as he drove the chariot down the final stretch toward home. He was scanning the tiers as he drove, his focus shifted now that he knew the race was won.
He was looking for her. She knew it as well as she knew the scar at the base of her thumb.
Taylor didn’t think it was possible for her body to feel any more stress or excitement, but a silvery hot wave shimmered through her, all the way up to the top of her head, leaving her feeling both hot and cold at once.
She realized she was on her feet.
See me! she begged silently as Brody’s gaze tripped across the family boxes one after another.
Just as he rounded the curve, he saw her. She knew it, for she saw his shoulders lift as he drew in a deep breath and his gaze locked on hers. Taylor rested her hand over her heart.
His attention was pulled from her as his team of horses rounded the starting post and crossed the finish line. Brody had won.
Abruptly, Taylor’s hearing returned to normal. The crowd was chanting. “Braenden! Braenden! Braenden!”
Handlers were hurrying out from the tunnels that served the arena, to grab the horses’ ropes and lead the chariots back into the service areas, where the horses would be released, watered and fed and the chariots repaired.
Brody’s chariot was the last to leave the arena. As the winner, he was led to the foot of the emperor’s box. The emperor tossed him a laurel wreath, with a smile and a closed fist that he raised into the air.
Brody was a blue driver and apparently a favorite of the emperor’s…and the crowd.
With more cheering and applause, his chariot was led toward the same tunnel the others had disappeared into.
Taylor saw then that the back of Brody’s white tunic was spotted with patches of fresh red blood.
The roaring sound was back in her ears. She sank down onto the hard stool, only now recalling Brody’s quick words in the tunnel just before they had been separated. ”That is the guards who come now. They have found me missing from my usual spot and seek to find me.”
The guards had punished him for his transgression last night. They had beaten him.
Taylor watched Brody disappear into the tunnel and the heavy gates close behind him, sickness washing over her.
“Ariadne, the heavens help me now, will you look at me!”
It was Metrodora’s voice, in a low, controlled and urgent whisper. Metrodora was plucking at her arm, trying to gain her attention and may have been doing so for some minutes.
Taylor turned to look at her. “I…do not feel quite myself,” she said.
Metrodora’s eyes widened. “You’re milk white!” She glanced around quickly, her hand on Taylor’s wrist. “Now is not the time to faint.”
Taylor shook her head a little. “Not faint…”
Metrodora’s eyes widened even further. “Oh my sweet lord. Kale, quickly!” she called in a soft voice designed not to carry too far.
Kale’s arms were under hers and she was being lifted. Jostled.
“No, don’t bounce me,” Taylor tried to say, but her gorge was rising swiftly.
Cool shade slipped over her, a blessed relief. Then a door was opened and closed.
A bucket was thrust in front of her.
Taylor allowed herself to recall the blood on Brody’s back and how it might have got there. How terrified he had been about being pushed into the enclosed back seat of the police car.
In the eight years she had known Brody, he had fought most doggedly for three things; her and Veris, and personal freedom. All else came second, until Marit had been born and had been added to the first list.
Now he had no freedom at all. He couldn’t even raise his hand to acknowledge her.
Brody had been a vampire so long that human pain, any pain, would be a shock. They had beaten him until he bled.
She had done nothing to help him.
Taylor fell to her knees and was violently sick, to the point where her vision greyed out and her balance left her. Kale held her upright, keeping her veil and hair back.
When she finally sat back, black spots danced in front of her eyes, and her cheeks were wet with tears.
Kale silently used a corner of her robe to wipe her face clean. “The chariot driver you wanted to find. That is him, is it not? Braenden?”
Taylor nodded.
“He is one of the most popular drivers in the city,” Kale said, gently wiping. “Everyone loves him. The businessmen like him because he makes them a lot of money each time they bet on him. The women…well, they like him because he is who he is.” Kale lifted Taylor’s chin and looked at her, her brow lifted.
Taylor knew what she was carefully not asking. Kale wanted to know if Taylor was merely a groupie, a fan who wanted to use her privileged position to gain access to him.
Taylor cleared her throat. It burned and throbbed. “He is my husband,” she told Kale.
Kale let her robe drop and made a slow fuss of putting it back to order. “Well, then,” she said finally. “There will be maids and matrons crying into their bolsters tonight at that news.”
Horror bloomed in her chest. “No one must know!” Taylor whispered.
Kale nodded. “Not while you pass as the Lady Ariadne, at least.”
“Or until I get him out of that pit,” Taylor added.
“Get him out?” Kale repeated. “He’s a slave. Where else is he supposed to be?”
Taylor got tiredly to her feet. Her answer would take ten centuries of human evolution and ethics to explain and she keenly felt the ticking of the clock. How many more races would Brody survive?
“He’s not a slave,” she told Kale. “He’s not supposed to be there.” It was the best she could do for right now. She looked around the tiny room they were in. A shelf with a hole in it told her the function of the room, as did the rich biological aroma. A candle was burning on a shelf and was the only source of light.
Kale looked wise as she dropped the contents of the bucket down the hole, and rinsed it with water from a second. “Is that why you came to Constantinople? To free your husband?”
The truth would require another long answer, but the core of that answer was that Brody had pulled them here because despite sixteen centuries of freedom, he still hadn’t shaken off the bonds of this place.
“Yes, I need to set him free,” Taylor told Kale. “Then we can go home.”
Kale smiled as she opened the door to the privy. “You’re as much of a dreamer as my mistress. She was always chasing adventures, too.”
* * * * *
The aftermath of an adrenaline spike was something else that Brody had forgotten after so many centuries. He eased himself off the platform of the chariot, unsure whether his shaky legs would be able to support him.
The choice was taken from him after three steps, when guards grabbed his arms and reattached the chains. They hauled him down the steps into the wide bricked passage that led back to the slaves’ quarters, by-passing groups of other slaves and guards coming along the passage toward the Hippodrome for later races.
The passage had many off-shoots and by-ways turning off it, for there were many chariot owners with slave quarters that reached the Hippodrome directly via underground passages.
The people travelling the passages thinned as they moved deeper, until they turned into the tunnel that led directly to Genesios’ cavern. The guards didn’t speak as they walked, but they weren’t jostling or hitting him, either. That probably meant they were pleased he had won the race.
When they reached the big cavern, Basilides was standing by the cooking fire, his arms over his big barrel chest,. He watched Brody approach with a scowl on his face.
There was something cooking in the big pot on the fire, rich with spices and even some meat. The smell of it made Brody’s stomach grumble and cramp, and his mouth water. He carefully didn’t look at the pot.
Evaristus was sitting on one of the second tier bunks, cross-legged.
“I hear you won your race,” Basilides growled.
Evaristus grinned.
“You heard right,” Brody answered. He tried to hide any tiredness or weakness in his voice. Basilides would take advantage of it if he revealed it.
“It proves the power of a good beating,” Basilides went on. “Next time I won’t spare my arm.”
Brody made himself shrug indifferently. The chains at his wrists rattled softly.
Basilides’ face darkened. “You arrogant pup! You’ll wish you’d never been born by the time I’ve finished with you!” He waved to the guards standing stoically next to Brody, holding the ends of his chains. “Go about your business. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
The guards unhooked the chains and headed back toward the Hippodrome tunnel, leaving Brody standing alone in front of Basilides.
Basilides circled him. “You’ve ruined your tunic,” he declared. “There’s blood all over it.” His hand thumped against the back of Brody’s shoulder, sending him staggering a pace or two forward. “You’re ever careless. You need a lesson.” He lifted his voice. “Bring my whip!”
Evaristus was suddenly there. Brody didn’t see him climb down from the second row of bunks. He rounded the cooking pot and lifted his finger. “Might I suggest eating first?”
Basilides looked affronted. “Why would I eat first?”
“Not just you. All of us. Then you get the pleasure of anticipating what is to come, while he gets to anticipate…what is to come. All throughout his meal, he will be thinking about it. It will occupy his entire attention.”
Basilides was uneducated, but he was not stupid. He grinned. “A fine idea,” he declared. He sent Brody a smile that was full of evil intent. “After you eat, Celt.” He walked away, looking very pleased with himself.
Brody shuddered, cold fingers rippling down his spine.
Evaristus gripped his arm tightly. “Come and eat. You need strength. Have you forgotten about the need for nourishment after so many years without it?”
“I’d forgotten so much my head is exploding with what I now have to remember,” Brody told him.
Evaristus drew him toward the fire and the cooking pot where the other slaves were gathering and sharing out the meal. He pushed a small wooden bowl into Brody’s hands.
A watery stew was ladled into the bowl. No utensils were provided.
Evaristus drew him over to the edge of the cavern, between the end of the bunks and where the square cages sat in a long row. Three of the cages were occupied, the slaves inside watching the food being dispensed with greedy longing.
Brody and Evaristus squatted on the floor of the cavern in the shadows cast by the tall wooden bunks. Brody sipped the gruel until the food itself was cool enough to handle with his fingers.
Evaristus pushed his bowl over to Brody. “You’ll need it,” he said, “And you know well that I do not.” He sat back and wrapped his thin arms around his knees. “Basilides will have forgotten about beating you by the time he has eaten his fill. If he does remember, he will be too full to stir himself.”
Brody nodded, sipping at the stew.
“It seems you remembered how to drive a team after all.”
“It came back to me.” The entire days’ events so far had been a series of memory-evoking triggers. From pulling on the tight driver’s tunic, to walking around to the nose of each horse and talking to them in Gaelic to settle them and pat their noses, before stepping onto the platform of the chariot. When he had stopped struggling to remember and let himself move through the day with a superficial calm, the knowledge had returned, just as he had needed it.
He had correctly wrapped the reins about his wrist by letting his mind go blank and his body take over and go through the motions, instead of reaching deep for the old memories of how he had once held the strapping. When he was done, with the reins in his hand, it had felt right.
There had been a secondary advantage to keeping his mind in neutral, too. It had also kept the fear at bay.
He had let himself float around the first circuits of the race the same way, until the jolting of Euripides’ cart against his had jerked him out of the daze. Then the old strategies and tactics had dropped into place like his brain had changed gears.
He had known he was going to win the race from the beginning of the fourth circuit, when Euripides had let him take the outer edge of the track too early.
That certainty he remembered from before, too.
The certainty, the understanding about race strategy and that he had won the race by the second-last circuit had given him half-a-lap of freedom to scan the stands. He had known Taylor would be there, but seeing her and confirming that she had seen his race both terrified and reassured him in one great indrawn breath.
He didn’t want Taylor to see this side of his life, but having her here was changing it, making it different.
“I saw Taylor today,” he told Evaristus. He could still see her white face. The way her hand had clutched at her heart.
“That be the one who looks like Ariadne, Matthew’s wife? The one you were caught dallying with?”
“The one I came through time with,” Brody murmured, reaching for Evaristus’ bowl.
Evaristus thought about that for a while. “And the other one, who you must wait for before you leave again? Who would that be?”
“Veris. A…Northman.”
“He doesn’t sound like one from his name.”
“It’s the name he uses now. You know how it goes.”
“Then he’s vampire, too?”
Brody nodded.
“If he comes from the north, then you’re going to be here a while yet, aren’t you?”
“He comes from Britain.”
“Even worse,” Evaristus declared. He grinned. “It’s a good thing you’ve got hope.”