TAYLOR HAD ONLY A little difficulty in getting Matthew’s permission to attend the cathedral mass the next morning. He seemed distracted but amenable. “I will give you alms and an offering for the church,” he told her. “Ask Kale to remind me.”
“You will not attend with me, my husband?” Taylor asked, for they were in one of the public rooms of the house and surrounded by slaves she did not know.
“I have business in the city.” He waved her away impatiently and Taylor withdrew, secretly pleased to not have him dogging her every step.
Aware that she needed to uphold Matthew’s reputation even in this outing, she consulted with Kale on the appropriate clothing and the correct number of household staff she should take with her and by the time they set out for the cathedral, Taylor felt confident that Matthew would have no reason to consider she had besmirched his reputation yet again.
It was a pleasant fifteen minute walk from Matthew’s house to the cathedral, through the labyrinth-like streets of the city.
People were gathering and talking along the sides of the streets in groups, their heads close together with an intensity that seemed unusual for casual gossip. Kale sent one of the other slaves off to investigate. The man rejoined them after five minutes, at the end of the block. “There was a storm at sea the night before last and much wreckage has washed up against the wharves and jetties. It has been a fruitful morning for the beachcombers. They think at least two ships were lost.”
St. Sophia’s Cathedral was a magnificent building, with the great dome that seemed to beckon everyone from across the city. Taylor had not studied Byzantine history, but she knew enough from cross-references throughout history that nine centuries from now, when the Turks invaded the city, the cathedral would be turned into a mosque and lose none of its majesty in the transition.
What she had not been prepared for were the large number of people gathered in the public square at the doors of the cathedral. Her first fleeting impression was that it felt like the same sort of crowd that gathered at the front of one of Brody’s concerts— badly and oddly-dressed people lingering in groups, watching others go by and calling out insults and comments.
Then she saw and understood what was happening. These were the poorest and most desperate people in the city, gathered at the front of the cathedral where the richest and most affluent came to pray. The poor came here to beg for handouts from the rich as they passed into the cathedral.
Matthew had anticipated this. He had given Kale alms to dispense.
It was a direct and practical charity system that worked in place of social security or unemployment insurance, which didn’t exist in this day and age.
Taylor turned to Kale. “You have the money?” she asked.
Kale nodded. She was already loosening the ties on a pouch at her waist.
“The families with children. Give them money first. After that, I’m sure you can discern who is the neediest.”
“You don’t wish to give to your usual beggars?” Kale asked carefully, glancing at the two guards standing on either side of them.
“I suppose, yes, that would do,” Taylor agreed.
The guards stepped up in front and behind her, while Kale moved ahead and wended her way through the crowd. It was clear Kale was practiced at this, for she wove first in one direction, to find her intended recipients and dispense coins, then she would head off in another direction without hesitation, to find another. After nearly a dozen such stops, Kale’s purse was empty, and they were much closer to the cathedral itself. Kale tucked the purse away and returned to Taylor’s side.
The group of slaves and guards, with Taylor in the middle, approached the grand entrance to the cathedral. There wasn’t anyone begging right at the front of the cathedral steps, but there was a large group of well-dressed people milling about, talking amongst themselves, many of them standing under parasols and shade cloths held by slaves.
Taylor looked at Kale, raising her brow. Kale scanned the clusters of people, then moved her head toward a group of men and nodded slightly.
“Go,” Taylor told her.
Kale moved ahead, toward the men. There were five in the group, surrounded by others that were slaves or servants, judging by their clothing. Kale pushed past the servants, who came from lesser households than her, and stood at the elbow of one of the shortest men in the group. The short man had black hair that was silver on the sides, deep olive skin that was pitted from acne long gone and a bulbous nose. He was quite slender and wore a short roman-styled sword on his hip and a leather breast plate under his cloak.
His shoulders were square and his bearing very upright. Even in this century, Taylor could spot his military background in his posture.
He cocked his head as Kale spoke in a low voice. She had caught his attention.
Then he looked around at Taylor with a frown. After a few seconds while he was clearly weighing the advantages of speaking to her, he adjusted his sword belt and excused himself from the circle of men and walked toward her, Kale trailing behind him.
“My lady Ariadne,” he said. “I would not deign to speak to the wife of a green man, but your father’s loyalty to the blues is well known. I am aware of your own…alliances.”
Taylor understood what he would not say in front of her servants. He knew she had been caught in the tunnels with Brody, and that she was not above dallying with blue chariot drivers. If her father was a blue man, her own loyalties most likely lay with the blues and not with her husband’s green preferences.
“It is that alliance I wished to speak to you about,” Taylor told him.
His eyes narrowed. “Then we have nothing to speak—”
“But we do, for I have something you most desperately seek,” she added quickly as he started to turn away.
Oresme paused, smiling. “I am an old soldier, madam. Even one as young and fresh and pleasing to the eyes as you does not provide incentive enough for me to jeopardize my post.”
“But you’ve already done that.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “You speak in riddles. A typical woman.”
“I was merely being discreet.” She smiled at him. “I have no wish to embarrass you.” She glanced up at her own head guard. “I am just going to step over here a pace or two, out of hearing. Stay here, yes?”
The guard hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
She tucked her hand under Oresme’s elbow and turned him and walked him the promised few paces, out of hearing of her household and his group of people. She was taller than him by nearly an inch, but she didn’t let that diminish her estimation of his power. He was the head of security of one of the biggest slave pits in the city. He had to be a wily and dangerous man to control the guards and slaves in his care.
Oresme turned to face her once more. “Now. Explain yourself, if you can.”
Taylor smiled at him again. “I was in your slave pit a few nights ago, Oresme. I reached deep inside, in the furthest tunnels and associated with Braenden, who was free and without chains. Surely, you cannot tell me you have not suffered any consequences from that night? You are responsible for these slaves, and one was virtually free and clear of the pit.”
Oresme’s face hardened. “What of it?” he asked. “The slave was punished and from the look of your cheek, madam, so were you.”
Taylor took a slow breath, pummeling the memory of the blood on the back of Brody’s tunic into the inner recesses of her mind. “I refuse to believe,” she replied as calmly as she could, “that at the very least Genesios did not heap disapproval upon you for letting a slave have the run of the tunnels, and a woman, too.”
Oresme’s breathing shallowed and increased. “If you seek to curry favor with me, madam, you go about it in exactly the wrong way.”
“Have you not wondered how I accessed the slave pit, Oresme? Has it not worried you how I slipped past your guards so easily, and how Braenden reached me without a single guard noticing?”
Oresme’s jaw worked as he considered her questions. “And again, I ask, what of it?”
But his I-don’t-care attitude was false. His growing anger told Taylor that he did care. Very much so.
“I will tell you who helped me that night and how I made a laughing stock of your guards,” she said.
“Who helped you? One of my men helped you?” Oresme drew in a breath, struggling for control. When he was contained once more he considered her anew. His jaw flexed again. “You’ll tell me for a price,” he guessed.
“You’ll bring Braenden to my chambers tonight, via the servants’ entrance. Kale will show you the way from there.”
“That is a steep price,” he judged. “There are many other matrons and maidens, too, who have asked that price and been prepared to pay handsomely for it and I’ve turned them all down.”
“But none of them know what I know.” Taylor took a deep breath. She was in this now. She had to keep riding the bluff out. “My husband is not attending mass today because he has business in the city…with Genesios. I thought I might invite Genesios to dinner tonight. Do I have reason to, Oresme?”
Oresme studied her, his face impassive. “No, there’s no need to invite him to dinner,” he said flatly. Anger flickered in his eyes. “Tonight, then.”
He nodded shortly and turned and walked away, his cloak flicking her robe as he whirled.
Taylor returned to the protection of her guards and slaves. She was shaking, but she didn’t know if it was the aftermath of fear or excitement for the coming night.
* * * * *
Close to eleven p.m. by Taylor’s internal clock -- long after the slaves had extinguished all but the most essential lamps and Matthew had bid a stiff and formal goodnight before going to his own chamber -- there was a whisper of sound that was not wind, and Taylor stirred from her sentry duty to peer down the corridor, her heart leaping.
She had begun her vigil standing at the beginning of the long, wide passageway that ran through the center of the house and connected most of the formal rooms to the slave’s quarters and work rooms. Everyone called the passage the processional, because of its width and elegance. Brody would be brought this way to reach her chambers and so she had stationed herself at the turn from the processional to the entrance to her quarters, to watch and wait in the darkness.
Eventually, she had slid from her feet to her butt, as one hour had turned to two, then crept into the third.
Then the whisper of sound. She knew that sound. She had heard it the night they had arrived in Constantinople.
Chains.
Taylor peered down the almost-dark processional, watching for movement, her heart thundering now. Oresme was going to abide by his word. In a moment or two she would see Brody and would be free to speak to him and above all, touch him.
Taylor fought to reign in her agitation and her joy. Neither of them would help her if something went wrong. Brody was not yet in her chamber.
She climbed to her feet and waited.
The chink of chains must have been unintended, for the first confirmation she had of Brody’s arrival was the dark shape of men gliding down the processional soundlessly. They were shadowy and impossible to identify except by size and height, which told her that Oresme was not among them.
Kale hurried around them and came toward Taylor. “All of these men are to be allowed in your chamber?” she asked in a harsh whisper.
“Just the Celt,” Taylor murmured.
Kale hurried back to the swiftly moving group and spoke in an undertone to the leader.
By then the group had reached Taylor. They were all wearing hooded cloaks, she realized, which disguised their features and had let them pass through the city streets without remark. The leader dropped his hood to look at her. He had a scar down one side of his face, and the eye on that side was milky and blind. “We put him in your chamber, remove the chains and withdraw to take up guard at the doors and windows. We won’t give him the run of the place. He’s too clever. No offense my lady.”
She sighed. “Agreed,” she murmured, and stepped aside.
They moved passed her, pushing the taller figure between them.
Brody.
Her heart thudded painfully.
Taylor followed the group into the interconnected rooms that made up her quarters. They stopped in the middle of the first room, at the very edge of the area where the rugs were spread across the floor and cushions were scattered around the edges. Delicate, sheer curtains hung from the ceiling to separate the area from the divans further on, and to shield it from anyone who might be able to see in the unshuttered windows. It was a place for relaxing.
The leader turned and spoke shortly to his men. They tugged on the chains they were holding, unlocking them from the cuffs around Brody’s wrists. Both chains and cuffs had been hidden under the cloak.
Another chain had been looped through a collar around his neck.
Then the cloak was stripped from him and the guards departed as promised, leaving Brody standing alone, staring down at the cuffs about his wrists.
Taylor gritted her teeth, holding back any sound she might make, for Brody looked terrible.
In the few days since she had last seen him, his physical condition seemed to have deteriorated badly. In the dark tunnels, just before they had separated, she had noticed the unkempt state of his hair, but little else, for she had been busy dealing with the fact of their arrival in Constantinople and Veris’ absence.
Now, she realized that the wild, tangled locks were in keeping with the rest of him. The tunic he wore was barely worthy of the name. It was a simple shift of rough cloth. It was filthy and the ragged hem was barely long enough to preserve his modesty. It would give him no protection against cold, cuts, scrapes or more. One shoulder had ripped open and had been roughly knotted together again.
His body was similarly covered in dirt and sweat. Where there was not dirt, she could see bruises, cuts and scrapes.
He has been beaten. More than once.
She remembered the blood she had seen seeping through the snowy white driver’s tunic they had made him wear. That tunic had been much more presentable, even smart. Of course if he had got blood on it, someone probably would have found it offensive and taken it out on him.
“Brody,” she said, moving toward him. “What do you need?”
He lifted his head to look at her, his dark gaze drilling into her. “Do not touch me!”
The fury and repulsion in his tone was enough to make her stagger backwards, shock deluging her like a bucket of ice water.
“You don’t mean that,” she said firmly.
“I haven’t bathed in the four days we’ve been here, and god knows how long this body went without clean water before that. I sweat and there is blood and more on my body that I won’t burden your conscience with.” He swallowed. “Right now, you are the most precious…the most beautiful thing I have beheld in my entire life—” He looked away and Taylor saw him swallow. Hard.
He looked back at her again. In the moonlight filtering through the curtains, she could not see the nuances of his expression, but…were his eyes shining?
“I didn’t know where they were taking me,” he said, his voice low.
Of course they wouldn’t tell him. He was a slave. They would just bundle him up and tug him to where they wanted him.
Brody shrugged, a tiny move of his shoulders. “There was some trouble yesterday after the racing. I thought...well, it doesn’t matter. I thought wrong.”
Taylor knew exactly what he had been thinking. The trouble had centered on him. He had assumed he was being taken away to be dealt with conveniently in some lonely place where there were no witnesses.
Then it occurred to her with the impact of a too-close thunderclap: Brody was human. That meant blood, sweat…and tears.
Her step towards him was involuntary and he took a step back in reaction.
Taylor lifted her hands up, palm out. “A bath,” she declared.
“Do we have that much time?” he asked doubtfully.
“We have all night,” she assured him.
The expression on Brody’s face was infinitely wise. She had never seen Brody show his years as much as he had in that one moment. Perhaps it took being human once more to feel the weight of centuries of being non-human. He looked tired and old. “They’ll come for me long before dawn,” he told her. “As soon as they get tired of waiting, or they get bored or if it gets cold out there, they’ll be back.”
“That wasn’t what I agreed to.”
“You’re a woman. Do you think they care what you agreed to?”
Taylor wanted to scream a protest over that, but she couldn’t. Attitudes were different here and now. She considered it from Brody’s perspective. “You may be right, but I have Oresme over a barrel and he knows it.”
“You bargained with Oresme?” Brody shook his head. “I didn’t think that snow pea had a price. I’m impressed.”
“I have a feeling he’s a man who stays bought.” Taylor walked around Brody and turned to look at him. “However long you’re in my rooms for, nothing else happens until you have bathed. Let’s take care of that.” She held out her hand.
After a long moment, he lifted his hand and slid it into hers.
His hand was warm.