Author's Notes: Ach, ye gods. Can't believe it's been so long since I uploaded anything. I apologize profusely to anyone who still follows me if this was NOT the subject matter you were waiting for. I haven't abandoned my other fandoms at all and I hope this will be a new spark to start writing again. This was more a labor of duty than a labor of love (writers should finish what they start, harrumph.) So please bear with me, enjoy if you can, and review to feed my plot bunnies, kept and cared for in the garden of my Muse!
Story Note: Ben-Hur 2016 was a pretty movie, if not an excellent one. Tons of good things were cut out. Great actors were wasted. But the biggest crime of all was the fact that after Messala literally sent Miriam and Tirzah to their deaths, they accepted him back instantly with warm and familial hugs. HE SENTENCED THEM TO DIE. Whether it was from cowardice or a need for murder, THAT'S A PRETTY SERIOUS RELATIONSHIP CHANGER. Not so much between him and Judah...but still. He needs more time. And both legs needed to go. (Yes, I'm sadistic to my characters) That being said, TOBY KEBBELL IS A FANTASTIC ACTOR AND A CUTIE, ONE OF MY NEW FAVORITES. I HOPE HE IS IN TONS OF GREAT MOVIES IN THE FUTURE.
Yes, any of my previous readers who are familiar with my work. Yes, I still can't do fluff. :( Someday.
For Those Who Don't Deserve It
The ride in the cart was easily the most peaceful Messala's life had been since he left home for the first time. Without fail, the wheels would fall into every ditch and crevasse in the road, and each time they bounced sky-high again, jolting him bodily in every direction. Dazed by fever, pain, and the bitter tang of humiliation, Messala simply let his skull beat against the wooden slats of the cart and clenched his unbroken fingers deeper into the rolled-up blankets bolstered against him. They must have been horse blankets…the smell was overwhelming and familiar.
It helped his thoughts to drift, away from his bruised body, away from his struggling conscience.
Judah was so quiet from the wagon seat that he was almost an absence. He was keeping an eye out for pursuers, probably. Romans or Zealots…anyone who recognized Pilate's former golden child at that moment might easily have tried to jump the cart and kill them both. They were still frenzied from the brief struggle with the soldiers, emboldened by the unexpected and humiliating victory.
Messala was not the only one still trapped in the colosseum.
True to his word, (so unexpected, so unbelievable that even now Messala was half certain he'd dreamed it) Judah carried him some of the way, helping Messala limp past the leftover garrison, the few soldiers who lucked out on quelling the little fires of revolt that were flaring throughout the city. It wasn't unusual…the Jews had always been eager for rebellion, with a thousand rules you couldn't break and hair-trigger tempers as well. But it was all the more fortunate that day…no one could be bothered enough to stop the two men from shuffling out of the barracks and out into the seething streets.
But it soon became apparent that Messala's other leg, while not requiring amputation, was still badly bruised. Messala said nothing, of course…either too proud or too confused by what was happening…but perhaps when his eyes rolled back into his head and all that was left of his body sagged limply into Judah's arms…then the former Prince of Hur quickly stowed him on a pile of baskets and rushed off to find a cart.
Which was where Messala found himself now. Not a single part of his body didn't hurt, and the sun seemed freakishly blinding and white as it stabbed his eyes and sent waves of pain through his body like lightning. All he wanted to do was crawl into some dark hole and fall asleep, preferably leaving all his broken bits behind so they would stop hurting.
But his phantom leg twitched and rolled with every jolt of the car, and Messala felt blood leaking out of his nose again, travelling along his lips and falling behind his ear.
They were leaving the outskirts of town now. Judah was taking him…somewhere. Messala couldn't bring himself to care. He could only listen to the rumble of the cart beneath him, the rattling in his bones…the wet, whistling sound his throat made with every breath. The pallet back in the barracks had been still and calm and comfortable…and forgotten. Not a single person knew or cared that he was there. Their brave commander…so many owed their lives to him. Messala had always made it a point to surround himself with people he'd saved, indebted brothers-in-arms who would see him as more than a commander…maybe as a friend.
What an idiot he was.
Judah was thinking about him, from his silent perch on the wagon. Exactly what, Messala couldn't even begin to guess. But he was definitely thinking about him…they were thinking about each other, probably, somewhere along the same lines of loathing and confusion and anger.
Except in Judah's case it was justified.
Somewhere in between the constant jostling pain and the bright sun, Messala's stomach turned and then his mind slipped away from him. Like oil on water, he was mired in blackness. No dreams, no sense of time passing…the world literally left him behind.
He woke with a strange taste in his mouth, a weakness shuddering in the base of his spine like a cloud of sickly moths. But the sky was different. Higher and cleaner, empty of clouds. Nothing but the bright, sun painted firmament. It was still far too bright.
The cart stopped. His stomach seemed to lurch towards his throat with the motion. Judah leapt out, his shadow moving with an ease and grace that made Messala feel just that much more broken and helpless. His former brother called out words in a language that was softer and yet more jumbled than Latin. Messala knew enough to recognize it as Punic, the language of the Carthaginians of Africa.
Hesitant hands touched his good foot and then pulled at the blankets on either side. His fingers tightened in response, a feeble, pathetic motion. He didn't want them to take his horse-smelling pillows away. Because that meant he would be moved.
No matter what they did now, they would cause him agony. He knew it. They did too…Judah and the other African who appeared beside him, talking in a low, urgent voice. He almost wanted to sit up of his own power and shift off the cart, like a gladiator leaping into a sea of sharks. At least then it would be his own choice. At least then they'd stop whispering and hesitating.
But they did move him at last. White fire ripped through his bones at the slightest fraction of touch against the wooden cart, against the ground. They must have been working fast, knowing it was unavoidable. He remembered being slung between their arms and nearly pulling them into the sand with his weight before he gave in to the darkness roaring in his ears.
Again, he awoke. Wet drops were tickling his ears and lips…either he was sweating or someone had washed his face.
"Your nose kept bleeding…took me a while to stop it."
Judah's voice felt like a whiplash. Messala's instincts scrambled to gather his weapons as he realized he was slumped in a bed of some kind. He quickly blinked in the warm semi-darkness and saw Judah's hand crack open the tent flap. Again, white light blinded him and he ducked his head, unable to meet Judah's gaze. "They said I didn't have a concussion."
"Well after that cart ride, you just might."
Was Judah joking? Or was he just talking? It'd been so hard to tell the two apart when they were young.
But when his adopted brother spoke again, the tone was hoarse and dark, like when he'd confronted him in the abandoned remains of their childhood home. "For now, you should just sleep. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"
Oh gods. The question made his guts curl in on themselves. A brief fantasy of standing on two good legs, ripping through the tent canvas and fleeing on a horse with fire at its hooves and wind in its mane…but he was still here, sitting heavily on a cushion of broken bones. And he had to answer.
Really, there was no question of what he would say.
"I'm fine."
Judah's presence was deathly still a moment. Messala could feel his eyes on him, piercing him. As his sight adjusted, he could see belongings forming from the shadows…a platform cot in the corner, a small wooden chest. Laundry crumpled messily together…this was Judah's tent. Messala didn't belong here. He was unwelcome. He should be dying in the sand and the blood, dying before Pilate, dying before shame and failure could take him. Dying before guilt could find him.
"I'll check on you in a little while, then." Judah sounded more relived then anything as he started to move towards the tent flaps. "I just have to run the horses a bit."
After the race we just had?
But Messala's words died in his brain, never reaching his mouth. He squinted against the light as Judah left, tried to look at him. He only managed a fuzzy glimpse of the back of his head, and then the tent closed on him like a cocoon of silence.
His legs hurt…both of them did. The right was gone, but in the dark, Messala could have sworn it still lay there, as long and strong as the other. It hurt enough, twitched enough…yes, maybe it was still there. Maybe they made a mistake. Maybe he'd imagined the…the amputation.
Maybe he was crazy.
His mouth was dry. Even though the daylight had stopped stabbing him in the eyes his skull still ached, shattering every coherent thought he tried to pull together like a club swinging through glass figurines. The pieces scattered, sparkling bright and sharp enough to draw blood. He rubbed his fingers together, felt blood and filth flaking off. He tried to whisper a curse but it came out as a breathless whimper.
Left alone with his fever, he took turns groaning and passing out.
His dreams were plagued by visions of horse hooves. While awake, he couldn't bring it to mind, but in the dream, he experienced it vividly…the excruciating shock and pain as they pounded his fracturing body again and again, his legs collapsing and snapping under the impact. The screaming terror that he was going to die…and he couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop hearing the thunderous roar of hooves in his ear, blending with the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. Rising like a sea to drown him.
He was awake again. But something was wrong. His left leg felt…dull. Thick. He shifted it and feeble sparks of pain ran up and down, but stopped when it met a sort of numb zone, a circle of fire. Dread sank its teeth into his stomach and he threw the blanket off. The late afternoon sun was low and yellow enough to send a little light into the tent.
His good leg, his remaining leg…it looked a little swollen. And darker.
Some alien emotion caused Messala to quickly cover himself with a blanket again, to lean back and breathe a little through bruised ribs, as if nothing was wrong. Because it was just bruised, probably. Bruised and swollen and blackening. Because if it wasn't…then it was a way out. A way back to oblivion.
One more day passed. Judah didn't come in, sending instead the man who'd helped move Messala the first time. The man was young and no Medici…cautious also. His name was Abasi. The one time he dared to peek under the blanket and check on his legs, Messala told him it was just severe bruising, that it happened all the time in chariot races. He even mustered a brave smile for the boy. Abasi smiled back. Messala almost had second thoughts.
When he was left alone, he could smell his own rotting flesh in the dank darkness. He wished someone would open the tent flaps and let in the sunlight, let it fry his eyes and burn his physical frame away…in a way, he was more terrified of his leg being discovered than actually dying.
As the hours crawled by, he could feel himself growing weaker. Listless. Feverish.
Nausea passed over him in rolling waves…he was too feeble to even throw up.
It only grew worse when Judah came in that night, holding something carefully. It was a bowl of soup. A bowl of gods-damned soup.
"You haven't been eating, Messala," Judah sounded reproachful.
"My apologies," Messala could have choked on the words, "I will later."
"You will now." The bowl came closer and the smell was overwhelming, as was Judah's presence. Messala was a commander of men, a leader of soldiers. He took orders from his superiors, not from Judah. Never from Judah.
Besides, if he had to smell that beef broth much longer he was going to hurl all over himself.
Instead, he lashed out. But in his blurry vision he totally misjudged the distance. His arm slammed into the bowl, sending hot soup spattering across the tent. His hand clipped Judah in the face. Instantly, Judah caught his wrist in a vice-like grip, with the strength of a row-slave. His voice was a dangerous hiss. "Don't be a child."
Messala fell back into the bedding. Judah let him. The sharp, powerful motion had his vision swimming all over the place. His hands went to his head, wrapping around his skull and the volcanic migraine that had erupted there. Judah's next words came to him, muffled by the ringing ocean in his ears. "I know you're not feeling well…"
"Am I?" Messala snarled. Even such a simple action as falling back had reminded him sharply how skewed his sense of balance was, his sense of weight. He felt strangely like he was twelve years old again, and crying. His voice broke. "Am I? I'm only half a man…"
Judah spat fire suddenly, startling him with a curse that would have had their mother beside herself. "Is that really what you're thinking about now? You were half a man the day you sold us all into death and slavery. Or do you remember me? Mother, Tirzah, on the floor, begging you to save us, to say the word…"
"Do you remember me?!" his breath came from between clenched teeth as he glared furiously at Judah, shouting well-rehearsed accusations, well-learned stories to tell himself every night. Screaming kept the nausea at bay. He let himself go hoarse. "Remember how I asked you to help me stamp out the Zealots…you harbored one! Fed him, cared for him, let him use my bow to shoot Pilate down!"
"Your mother! Your sister!" Judah seemed stunned at Messala's refusal to embrace reality. "Family, Messala. Blood relatives, sent to suffer and die. I know the choice you faced. I know it was my fault. But you could have at least saved the girls, sent them away…I was willing to take the blame! And yet you chose…"
"There was no choice!" Messala roared. The feeling was good…he'd raged at Judah so often before. This felt like old times. Except there would be no laughter afterwards. "Mother and Tirzah were condemned the moment that Zealot broke free of your control. Their fates were sealed the moment he fired an arrow from the House of Hur. Once again, my family betrayed Rome and left me to face the aftermath. It was either I clean up the mess or join you in betraying…"
"Betraying?" Judah sat back. He laughed, outright threw his head back and laughed. "Betraying the Empire that washed their hands of a boy, because of what his grandfather did? Betraying the Empire that murdered and executed your parents, your cousins, your aunts and uncles? You escaped by sheer luck, Messala, and you came to us. We took you in, my father loved you. We all did. We betrayed Rome, perhaps, but you…never. No, coward, you simply didn't want to suffer Rome's wrath again…so you trussed us up and gave us away, into the hands of your father's murderers."
Messala was shaking with rage. Because Judah's words rang close to home, speared the very heart of him. He scrambled for something to say, something to slap the entire argument back in Judah's face.
"Yes, I abandoned ship. But you were the one who sank her."
Judah flinched, physically. Perhaps remembering the destruction of the Astroea. Messala remembered it too…the day when he thought his brother was gone, and the hope of proving his innocence, lessening his sentence to exile or even buying him back as a legal slave, was lost…the day when he was left all alone, always with the empty bitterness in his heart and the unshakeable knowledge that it was his fault. Judah's fault. Both of them. But one was dead and one was alive, and that really didn't seem to be fair.
Judah's eyes turned cold. Messala remembered his words before the gates. You should have killed me.
He could have said the same.
Judah was gone without a word, before he said something he might regret, or before he did violence to a sickly, helpless cripple.
Messala drifted away, his eyes aching with pain that was not entirely physical…his heart dying from something that was not entirely the infection of his leg.
He dreamed of sand in his teeth and blood in his tomb, of horse hooves glinting in the moonlight before coming down on him, breaking him like dry sticks in a flour mill. And the sound of it deafening his ears, so that he thought he would never hear anything else, ever again.
A strange smell, acrid and sharp, burned his nostrils. Messala's eyes fluttered open. He was in an entirely new place. A hard, pitiful piece of cloth was folded under his head, and the tent roof above him was higher, lined with poles and crowned with a lantern that burned brightly.
He heard Abasi's voice. "I failed you, Judah. I'm so sorry. I believed him like a fool, fell for his smiles like an idiot!"
Messala was almost scared out of his skin by the hand that suddenly shifted along his neck, having been there the entire time, cupping his sweating head. It was a steady, comforting pressure. Judah's voice came a little too loudly from somewhere above. "It doesn't matter now. What I need to know is: can you help him, or should I go into town to find someone who can?"
Abasi sounded tired already. "I was merely an apprentice from Carthage who was hungry for a little adventure…that's why the Sheik took me along. I can handle broken bones and infected wounds and known illnesses but this…gangrene? I…I'm not sure."
"What exactly do you know?" Judah had never sounded so exasperated before…usually Messala was the first one to lose patience.
"Clean the infected limb," Abasi seemed to be talking to himself now, as he gently touched Messala's knee. It was a faint sensation. "Make it cold so the blood will flow slowly…leave a flap of skin to wrap over the wound so it will seal. Vinegar to cleanse it, along with salt water, rose oil, and wine to ward off the return of infection. We should anoint it with Cassia and Myrrh as well. But he will lose so much blood…the Medicis and Tabibs know to tie a cord tightly around the limb, and also they know how to tie off the vessels inside. Ligature, I think."
"The flies are drinking the sweat off his forehead!" Judah cursed, waving an aggressive hand over Messala's face and fanning him. Messala could almost smile at such tiny comforts from his oblivious brother. "You need to operate now…he's dying!"
"Mother…mother stop!"
Tirzah.
A voice that made any nice, warm thoughts left in him abruptly sizzle and disappear. Hands thumped into the table that was holding him and his eyes rolled, frustratingly slow, to see Miriam bending over him. Her hair was silver and brown, her eyes sharp as she glared straight into his. "How could you, Messala?" she hissed.
He didn't have the presence of mind to answer her. But his eyes widened in glazed dismay.
Miriam reached down and, to the surprise of everyone in the room, gave him a sharp, stinging slap to the face. Judah put out a hand to force her back as Tirzah and Abasi restrained her. But she leaned forward in their arms, shouting at Messala. "How could you try to slip away like this?!"
Finally, they got her to sit down in a corner and stay there. Mostly because of Tirzah's urgent whisper. "We should pray, mother."
Their murmurs wafted towards the operation table, leaving Messala with a strange, involuntary sense of comfort, just like Judah's hand on his neck. He felt at peace.
So much so that he barely noticed the new voice near the tent entrance, impressive and unique as it was. "My son, Siraj…he was an accomplished Tabib. Abasi, go retrieve his books from the chest in my tent, the one with his initials on it. Perhaps his notes will save the Roman."
But I don't want to be saved, Messala thought lazily. The sharp smell had softened into something that was almost compellingly pleasant.
He may or may not have spoken aloud…suddenly Judah's face was close to his, his breath warm and wet and familiar. "Enjoy that apathy, Messala…it won't last. You must be strong, brother. Remember, remember to always breathe."
It was not a threat…it was a warning, earnest and heartfelt.
Silence. "We could remove some of the nerves." Somehow, somewhere in the disturbed blinking of his conscious mind, Abasi had returned.
"He wouldn't want that," Judah answered, loud and assertive, drowning out his own doubts. Messala could feel his eyes travelling up and down the numb, broken mess of his legs. "He wouldn't want to lose anymore of himself."
"The infection will take him before tomorrow ends if we don't operate now. I'll need you to help hold him down…my Sheik, should they leave?"
Messala knew they were talking about Tirzah and Miriam. The Sheik answered. "They're strong. They can stay."
They washed his leg with water that was so cold Messala began to shiver uncontrollably despite the fever. Judah left only briefly to bring back a scratchy woolen blanket that he slung over Messala's upper half, effectively trapping his arms. Firmly, he pressed his body over his brother's, wrapping his hands around Messala's arms and shoulder. Another pair of hands that must have been the Sheik's began tying leather straps around the thigh and ankle of his remaining leg.
Which would not remain for much longer, Messala sluggishly, finally began to realize. Words pushed their way out of him. "Judah…"
Judah was there. He felt his hair on his lips as Judah put his ear up close. "Yes, Messala?"
"Please…don't."
Silence. His trousers were cut with a ripping sound and rolled up around his hip. Something metal scraped against something wooden.
Judah closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he replied, finally. "Now, breathe with me, Massi. Breathe."
Something happened. Fire, spreading up his muscles, licking his skin. Abasi was cutting a sheath of skin away from the leg, ending at the knee without severing it. White hot pain shooting through every nerve like sunlight, reaching into his heart until he thought it would stop, it would burn. He jolted. The straps held him. Judah held him.
He had been through all of this once before…now he was remembering. How alone he'd been, how hard the calloused hands of the Medici had been…they'd done it a thousand times. This was nothing new. But he was losing both of them…he was losing both of them.
Soft, plaintive whimpering escaped his throat.
Messala struggled again, harder this time. He just needed a moment away from the pain, a moment away…if they'd stop cutting for just a moment, let him breathe, let him think.
Abasi's knife hit bone.
Messala screamed. The restraints on his body violently gave way and then tightened. Judah was trying to tell him something but he couldn't hear it over his own howling.
The bone gave way, just a little bit. The knife slid through enamel and marrow. Arteries spurted, shiny and red, coating Abasi's face. The boy flinched and looked away in dismay, the knife growing slack in his hands. At the same time, Messala's hand escaped from under the blanket. It clawed at the gaping wound, the massive cleft in his flesh.
Suddenly, Judah's hand took his. Fingers sliding between blood-soaked fingers, pulling the hand up until it was crushed against Messala's chest. Judah's voice in his ear, low and urgent and quick, too quick to fully understand. "Hold on, brother…Massi, breathe. Massi…when I was in the gallows, did I tell you about the little window? Brother, there was a little window by my oar, through which I could see the sky, and the sun glittering on the sea. And I could see the loved ones I had left behind, and all the good things I had forgotten. Brother, I loved that little window…it kept me alive. It brought me home."
The rest of the bone snapped in half. The wicked knife kept sawing, grinding skin into the table surface until it had separated him like a shank of mutton. Then there was an explosion of excruciating pain, lightning turning his very veins to ash as fingers began poking, prodding, dragging their way through the ruined tissue. Messala screamed again until his throat felt like it was bleeding. His arms fought with animal strength to be free, but Judah's grip was inescapable. After all, Messala had made him that way.
"You've done so well, brother. It's almost over," Judah breathed, his voice thick and strange to Messala. "Everything will be fine, Massi. You'll see. You've been very good…the pain is going to stop, so soon. So soon."
The pain is going to stop. Messala sagged with relief as the torture in his leg abated, as bandages began to wrap around his severed limb, suffocating the pain, imprisoning the burning sensation. He was so very ready to forget what had just been done to him. Darkness became a rushing torrent in his ears.
"Don't fall asleep, Messala!" the man said.
But it was so dark.
"Stay awake, Massi!" Judah cried.
There was a little window…with a little sparkling light…
Messala awoke. He felt drained. He felt lost. He blinked at the soft fabric roof above, yet another tent that he had never seen before. There were so many smells in the air…plants, opened by the morning dew. The smell of the ocean, the sound of it gently slapping on the shore. And something else…a scent he breathed every day of his life.
A fuzzy, pale lip bent over him. Giant nostrils blasted him with hot air.
Horses. Judah's whites.
Messala turned his head. Judah was asleep on the sand beside him, curled up in a heavy coat. But he was dozing lightly…any sound would probably awaken him. Messala didn't know if he was ready for that. He turned his eyes painfully to look back up at the horses. From where he was, he could see three. Beautiful, their coats glowing in the shade of the tent like white pearls or pure milk.
He wondered where his own black stallions were now…stolen by the crowd, by his competitors, or reclaimed by Pilate, to be returned to the Circus for more races. They were good horses, selected by Messala for reasons that transcended their bloodlines. Trained and pushed relentlessly to become the best animals in the Tetrarch.
Judah sat up suddenly. Messala's eyes flew to him. They stared at each other a moment. Then, the same white stallion from earlier broke the mood. His great head swung down as he nibbled at Messala's beaten up face.
Messala winced. Judah couldn't help but chuckle. "Funny, I thought you liked horses."
"I do," Messala found himself replying. His voice seemed to have aged by a thousand years, made of powdered stone and gravel, worn by use, "You don't have to talk to horses, unless you want to."
"That's how we became friends as boys, remember?" Judah said, waxing nostalgic as his eyes travelled up and down the magnificent animal. "You were such an angry person back then…horses calmed you down. We learned quickly that it was better not to argue with each other. It was better to race our horses, and let the winner be the first one back across the finish line."
"You never listened to me, you know," Judah looked at him suddenly, his brown eyes clear and sharp, like a sword, like his mother's. "Ever."
Messala found his gaze drooping. He didn't know if it was from shame or exhaustion. "You never made sense."
Judah looked like he wanted to smile. But he schooled it down and gestured at the horse. "That's Antares, the eldest brother. He's got more stamina than the rest put together, but he's also the slowest. I put him in the center so he doesn't pull the turns too much. Along with Altair, another sleepy, slower one. They anchor the entire team and keep them calm."
Messala found himself weakly reaching up with a bandaged hand to slowly, gently stroke the muzzle Antares extended towards him. The smell of old blood was making him a little skittish, but his carefully nurtured trust of humans won out. "The other two?" he asked.
"Rigel, who eats more than any other horse I've seen and yet stays fit and fast…and Aldeberan, the swiftest, the youngest…" Judah's eyes fluttered, growing dark and dim. "I put him on the outside of the team…I lost him at the finish line."
The silence was thick and painful. Judah sensed that and quickly tried to change it. "What about your blacks?" His face was tight even as he tried to be friendly, as if he sensed that it might bring up other, painful memories for Messala.
He shouldn't have worried. Horses didn't cause pain. Only men could do that.
Messala had the smallest, most natural instinct to set Judah at ease, as if he were another human being, not some terrible entity with whom he was emotionally ensnared, witless and entangled. He relished the feeling, relished the fact that he knew just how to do it.
He relaxed, if that was even possible from an already prone position. He lifted an eyebrow at Judah. "Well, first of all, none of that astrology nonsense. They've all got good and proper Roman names."
Judah cracked a disbelieving smile. "Of course."
"Dromos, like Altair, he's a heavy plodder. Still extremely well matched with the others, but he's as good as a rock in the center."
Judah stopped him with a finger. "Dromos…Racer?"
"Yeah."
"There's a deeper meaning in there, somewhere." He waggled the finger, looking at the sky for inspiration. "I'll find it for you."
Messala rolled his eyes, trying to be angry and ended up smiling instead. "Regnator is the biggest stallion on the team. Gleaming muscle and attitude…he controls the others more through a dominating presence than a calming one." He looked at Judah pointedly. "Regnator means Emperor."
"I know," Judah bowed mockingly, "How very Roman of you."
"Then there's my thin, wiry stallion…so quiet I thought he was a gelding at first. Name's Ferox (fierce)."
"Is he? Fierce, I mean?"
"No…named him that because I wished he would be. Last is Malamas, the smallest of them all. Also the quickest, and the meanest, and the most likely to step in a hole and break his leg."
"Why'd you name him 'disaster'?"
"Because he is one."
After a quick, shared laugh, the both of them fell quiet again. They could hardly help it. Messala remembered how Miriam used to complain of the stink of horses when it lingered over them as children, and the time wasted. Judah was always quick to defend himself and Messala…to Messala's chagrin, since that always meant Mother would be angry with him especially.
"Mother's furious with you."
It was like Judah had read his mind…that shouldn't be happening. Not anymore. Messala growled at him. "Stop it. Stop talking like we're home, like we're family again. Stop acting like everything's the same."
Judah bared his teeth at the change in attitude. "If you want things to change, you should start with yourself!" he barked, "Be a man and let me keep you alive."
Keep me alive…
My legs.
Messala tried to push himself up on trembling arms. Barely able to lift his head, he awkwardly flipped the blanket away. There they were. Two stumps. One freshly bandaged and bloody. With the sudden movement from his upper half, the pain flared up so badly it brought tears to his eyes. And all they could do was twitch, like sad little worms looking for the other half that had been chopped away.
He didn't trust himself to speak. Judah shifted closer. Finally, "Why did you save me?"
Judah was close enough for him to reach out and touch him. He didn't.
"There was a man…he lived in Jerusalem. A carpenter. During that first, terrible day, when the soldiers seized me, shackled me like an ox to a log of wood…I fell. I had blood in my eyes, and terror for Tirzah and mother made my heart nearly fail me…I thought I was never going to get up again. But He, a complete stranger, defied the Romans and gave me water. And when he gave me water…he wiped my face. And when he lifted me to my feet, he embraced me tightly. And he told me… 'Get up, Judah.'"
Judah's gaze was far away, miles and miles across the ocean, perhaps passing through time itself. "And then later, when I came back with vengeance and blood on my mind…I won the race, I thought I'd killed you. And I wasn't happy. And then that same man, he was being crucified by the Romans. I had to watch them haul him up, watch them nail his body up in the wind like carrion on a rope. I watched this kind man who saved my life die…and everyone cheered. No one cared. I'll bet not a single soul in that crowd had ever truly even met Him. But they were happy to see Him die."
"And I thought…I remembered all those people in the Colosseum, dragging your body around, parading you like a shank of meat. And I thought, not a single person there really knew you…not like I did. And I felt old memories surface, things I had pushed away so I would stop caring about it. Stop caring about you."
Messala knew, somehow, that the strange man Pilate showed him in the marketplace and the strange man Judah watched die were one and the same. He'd seen the man shield a leper from the rage of the people, kiss his face and give water to him. Protect him. Pity him. "Am I your leper?" he asked, half regretting the question as it left his mouth.
Judah blinked at him, honestly confused by the comparison. Perhaps he saw some of the injured ego in Messala, that great bear who could never be completely destroyed, no matter how many limbs he lost. "The first time I met Him, it was a few minutes in the marketplace, with Esther. And He told me that God has a plan for everyone, full of sorrow just as much as joy, success but also suffering. I scoffed at Him because it sounded cruel and ridiculous. But something about His eyes…they told me there was a connection. Through my life, I found it. God takes suffering, and brings success out of it. He takes sorrow, and turns it to joy."
Well, if that sentiment were true, then Messala had yet to see the joy. Or the justice of it. He lived, everyone lived, and were they to proceed as if nothing had happened between them? No. It could not. He would never allow it.
"And I saw Him, tried to help Him as He helped me…but He refused. I'll always remember his words… "My life, I give it…of my own free will. So…I remembered it, every bit of what He said, every bit of who you once were to me, and I saved you."
"I wish you hadn't." Messala said hoarsely. It was tired and defeated and honest, and Judah could tell.
"You seemed grateful at the time," He teased, in a playful, threatening sort of tone. "Anyway, it's done now. You can give your life away, but you cannot take it. Nor can I. It doesn't belong to us. It belongs to God, and all that He has in store. There is…" he paused, "no reparation you can make to Mother, to Tirzah. No repayment…but there is still a chance to find forgiveness."
Judah turned his head to look down at him. His face was so clear, the details so sharp and distinct and familiar…Messala could almost imagine they were sitting in the sand after another race. Which in a sense, they were. Except the argument had been senseless, the accident, meaningless.
"But you were a coward, Messala, in your own terrible, irreparable way, you tried to run. I'll overlook it this time. But if you try to kill yourself again…" for the first time, Judah's hand moved. Fingers twined in Messala's hair and he froze, unsure of what to make of this new development. Judah held him a moment, reminding him of the here and now, of the promise of reconciliation between them, if not between Messala and Tirzah, Messala and Miriam. "I promise you this…you'll never forgive yourself."
If he'd been in Rome still, Messala would have had legs made of bronze, cunningly molded to look human. Straps of leather and fully functioning sandals would have been wrapped all around, disguising them as much as possible. He would have had slaves to lean on surreptitiously, or a palanquin to hide in as he smiled brighter than anyone else, laughed louder…fought harder to keep his identity as a person.
But the wooden stumps Abasi gave him were functional, even if they didn't look remotely real. Smooth and thick down to the ground, where they spread out in wooden slats to form a kind of paddle that kept him from sinking into the sand. But the balance was terrible. In Rome, on good Roman streets, he might have been able to use them independently. But now there was no pretense at being anything other than a cripple, and his crutch was always nearby.
Air drifted between the fleshy, scarred nobs of his knees and the smoothed-out wooden pockets they rested in for hours at a time. The leather harness attached to his belt hung slack as he sat in a corner of the tent, keeping his head down whenever Judah or Sheik Ilderim or, gods forbid, Tirzah or Miriam passed by.
He knew what was expected of him. Knew long before Ilderim stared at him for a good five minutes across the dinner spread as they ate. He had to earn his keep, legless as he was…so he sat with the servant-women at their menial tasks. Weaving, sewing, sorting, washing. He threw himself into it and let the soft, lilting chatter of their foreign words pass over him like the tide. At first, his mind was trapped in the past, never able to break farther ahead than from one moment to the next.
After some time, it crept gradually to that night, and then the next. But he held back…because he knew there was no future for him, none beyond this awkward, silent existence as a burden of pain and guilt to himself and those he'd once called family. There was nothing further to think on, no dreams to aspire to, no pleasant days to anticipate.
But gradually, it so happened that he began to work outside, in the brisk desert wind, in the dappled sunshine and the overwhelming sense of the sea that still swept in from the shore as they skirted inland. He heard the horses whinnying and complaining from their tent, saw them peek their magnificent white heads out and throw them up and down in the light of day. As one woman took a bundle of repaired tunics from him, another brought him a load of plates to be scraped clean. And life in the camp went on.
Gradually, he began to lift his eyes and watch. Everything in his head was so dark and stagnant…it was only natural to peek at the world around him for a bit of relief.
Tirzah stuck like a bur to Miriam. There was a certain fear about her, like a tightly coiled spring. But it wasn't for herself…it was for her mother, somehow. Afraid of what her mother might do, of how others might perceive her. She did not talk to Messala. Once in a great while, their eyes would meet and then, like horses when the whip cracked over their haunches, they sped away, tense and nervous.
She smiled at him once. It was the most awful thing he'd ever seen. It was wrong, twisted, forced. It hurt. And it was all his fault. He'd ruined her.
And then Messala began to notice the Bedouin boy, slipping into her life like a shadow. He was a darker coloring, but his eyes were full of magic. Bold and brash, regaling Tirzah with chatter that made her laugh as a brilliant urgency burned in his face. Messala knew that look. Before he was Roman, he was earnest. His most endearing quality, mother-Miriam had often said. It always frightened Tirzah a little, the idea of wandering the world, bereft of riches, family, or shelter to fall back on. You make it sound so easy.
Messala left home to get wealth, to get status and honor so he could face Miriam and marry Tirzah. But he stayed for Pilate. For a father figure. For red cloth and respect and success. For the wonderful burden of leading men. For the petty joy of being more powerful than Prince Judah Ben-Hur ever was.
Well, it's not easy. His courage, his unshakeable conviction managed to overcome all that. That's life. With him, she felt safer than with anyone else
And now she'd found it again, in the Bedouin boy.
One night at dinner, Messala was never quite sure how or why, he ended up sitting beside the young romantic. He found out his name: Barakah. But he didn't want to know anything more. He saw that Barakah was a good man, and that in itself was enough to make him crumple. He managed to choke through his cheap wine and lean over to whisper, "Take her riding, teach her to forget her troubles. If you give her wings, she will never fly with anyone but you."
It was with horror and despair that he saw Barakah take his advice. The lad began to take Tirzah on his horse, his elbows under her arms, his face resting in her hair, her neck…Messala watched them ride by and a sharp fist of pain would seize him in the chest. It was want and guilt, longing and disgust. He relished it. He deserved it. He accepted it.
And then one day, as he stood outside, keeping an eye on the geese…he heard laughter. It spilled through his memories like paint on water, the color and the brilliance of his childhood when Tirzah laughed at Judah's name day feast, as Messala and Judah danced around her, teasing her, calling her pretty and vain and so many other meaningless cruelties.
But when he turned to look, Tirzah was on her own horse, galloping in a breathless circle around the tents before speeding down the trail, out into the wilderness. Her curly black hair was loose and bouncing on her shoulders, her eyes bright and free. Neck to neck, on a chestnut charger, the boy who was Messala and yet not Messala raced with her, grinning from ear to ear.
The pain was unbearable.
But she is happy, Messala thought suddenly.
Thank the gods.
And the pain seemed to burst. It scattered and sparkled inside of him, filling his lungs, brightening his soul. It became joy. She is safe. She is not alone. She is free of me. He grinned at Tirzah then, too stupid and too slow to hide it as she passed him by.
Tirzah saw him. That adorable little line of confusion darkened her perfect forehead. Barakah saw him and, mistaking it for congratulations, grinned back, giving Messala a conspiratorial wink.
Messala was still happy for Tirzah. But he would have gladly torn Barakah down from that horse and pummeled him into the sand.
But there was still more trouble with Miriam.
She had been miraculously cured from leprosy, or so she told everyone. The Shiek and all his people tolerated her as they would any other elder. She knew a little bit of madness now, and would often wander outside without regard to her personal safety, or any means to return home.
Now that Tirzah and Barakah were spending more time together, Messala took it upon himself to limp out when dusk grew warm and hold a lantern up, lighting the way back for her as she strode softly amongst the scrubs and trees.
He was always careful to scuttle inside once he saw the curly frame of her silver and brown hair come floating in through the black wall of night. He dreaded meeting her, facing her and what she'd become. The last time they'd interacted had been that stinging slap on the operating table, and he still wasn't quite sure what it meant.
One evening he squinted against the dark night, feeling the chilly air roll against his face and seep through his tunic. Shivering, he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and wondered what was keeping Miriam. She was rarely gone this long…almost everyone else was asleep now, their fires dull, their lanterns blown out.
Which made Messala's little torch simultaneously lonely and all-important, for it was the only thing left to guide Miriam back from her wanderings, short of a man-hunt. If half an hour passed and she did not show herself, Messala would have to limp over to Judah's tent and wake him up, so his (tormentor, savior, half-brother) could ride out to look for her.
Suddenly, something firm slid over his shoulder and pinched him there. And for a split second, he flashed back to the training grounds…he seized the arm above the wrist and wheeled around, his other hand primed for grabbing. But his false legs shifted awkwardly over the sand, roughly pulling him back to reality as his crutch fell along with the lantern to the ground.
Miriam was there, gazing carefully at where his hand was turning her arm white. Quickly, he let her go. "I'm sorry, you startled me," he apologized, backing away with a little distrust and no small amount of shameful fear as he glanced down at the lantern. He couldn't get it back without some ungainly maneuvering for a few minutes at least, so he let it lie.
"Ithamar didn't tell me anything," Miriam said at last, "never wrote, never sent a runner ahead of him. I was standing by the pool in the antechamber, singing softly to myself…dreaming. And then I heard that he was home. Home, after so many months. I turned and ran to the courtyard…I was undignified, Messala. I was younger then. I ran to see my husband."
Even now, with her humble homespun dress and unpinned hair, loose and soft about her shoulders…even now she seemed imposing and powerful to Messala. Her eyes were dim, the skin around them scarred and misshapen. Once they had been sharp like spears, yet even now they still stabbed into his, holding him still.
"And he had his back turned to me. He was reaching up to pull a little person off a horse. It was you…your hair just starting to turn shaggy, your skin just beginning to darken. Like Judah, you still had some baby fat clinging to your face…but your eyes, they were shattered. Like brittle glass, and the only thing holding them together was the thousands of sharp, glittering pieces. A perfect spider's web. You were staring at the ground, blind to the world."
Of course I was blind, Messala thought numbly, I never wanted to see again.
"Ithamar told me everything he knew. About how he visited the Severus family to strengthen ties with that august house, only to find it fallen in disgrace. How the bodies of the dead had been carted out, the furniture stripped, the slaves sold and the servants driven off. Yet one man, the old gatekeeper, whispered to Ithamar that there was a treasure yet left in the house."
A treasure. The old gatekeeper was a fuzzy grey face in the dimmest regions of his mind…Messala had probably never even interacted with the man. Never really known him. But still, he'd spoken out for him, saved the life of his master's son. Called him a treasure.
Miriam's hands twined together, fingers pressing harshly into the grooves of her knuckles. "And he found you curled up in a chest in the attic. You didn't speak. You offered no resistance. You had nothing but a simple bed-tunic and a bronze figure, still clutched in your hands. Nine years old and you saw your entire family slaughtered. Ithamar said you saw your father's head on a pike as he carried you to safety…you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming."
A rational person would have put it more gently. But Miriam had known madness, had lived with it for years. Messala flinched inwardly at the screams in his head, his mother slamming down the lid and nearly catching his fingers in it as he reached for her. He heard the door break, heard the soldiers and the clash of steel, the wet sound of flesh being gouged by a blade. And as Ithamar carried him away…Messala remembered seeing bits of them all. His father's head on the spear, his older brother's body swaying from a rope. His mother and sisters and aunts all piled together on a wagon, stiff and grotesque, like a human sculpture of beaten, bloody clay.
But Miriam had hinted at this before, always with the intent to put Messala in his place. Orphan. Burden. We have different gods, Messala. Pagan. You spend far too much time with Tirzah. Threat.
Once, Miriam told him that in memory and love of Ithamar, she had always done her best to raise and cherish Messala as a son. Messala had always doubted it.
"I never understood why you wouldn't let go of your pagan gods who had so clearly abandoned you," Miriam murmured softly. He wondered if she now had the power to read minds as well. It would hardly have been a surprise. "I asked you that, once. When I found yet another little idol in your bedroom and I threw it in the fire pit…you carved each and every one of those by hand, I know, Messala. I regret it. But I was confused. And when I asked you, you said that Rome had taken my country from me, so clearly my God had abandoned me too." A little smile crawled up her face. "I was so angry. But I couldn't bring myself to punish that earnest, dark-eyed little face…you were clearly searching for answers, but all the ones I could offer you weren't the ones you wanted."
Insects were whirring and chirping from the scrubs that dotted the land around them. Their song seemed to reach up and vibrate the very stars. Messala blinked, wishing he had the courage to close his eyes and dream while this Mother he never asked for, this woman of nightmares, stood so close and stared so invasively into his face.
Judah was right. Messala had donned a Roman cloak, and slaughtered his last family as surely as Rome had murdered his first. On that horse, led by Ithamar, feeling powerful muscles glide smoothly beneath him…feeling the warm, coarse hair beneath his bare legs…he still felt alone, adrift, lost, all ties cut. Worthless, relying on the good will of alien people who meant nothing to him and to whom he couldn't possibly mean anything at all. Rome scorned him as an orphan. Rome scorned him now.
He had fulfilled his own destiny. He'd had a family, and he'd chosen abandonment once more.
Truly, the gods paid him no heed, if they'd ever existed at all. Even a god wouldn't have wasted time on Messala Severus, a fool and a son of fools, a victim of his own stupidity and utter deafness of heart. A blind little boy with shattered eyes.
Suddenly, Miriam's hands were on his arms, squeezing gently. Messala stared at her, leaning precariously away on his prosthetic legs.
"To think, Messala…to think if I had never been to prison. I would never have felt the rain washing through the black grates over my head, never felt it on my face, in my soul…the tears of Jesus the Nazarene. If I had not been through such betrayal, madness, and heartache…I would never have known His Sorrow. I would never have known His Love."
She bent down suddenly, swooping up both crutch and lantern with her hale and strong arms. She carefully pushed the crutch under his right arm, keeping the lantern for herself as she took his hand in hers. "Take me inside, my son."
Messala felt the world drop out from beneath him. His voice stumbled. "M…I will, Mother."
Miriam laughed. "I forgive you, Massi. I forgive you always. Not because you deserve it…but because I love you. And I believe that, in time, you will earn that forgiveness." Her breath was warm on his cheek as she kissed him there. "You have never been alone."
He led her inside, stunned and staring, blind as the boy with shattered eyes. But that night he dreamed of horse hooves, and instead of grinding his body into the dust and the blood…they were thundering, flying beneath him, propelling him forward. The wind lifted his body and the stars were bright and warm on his back as he sped to freedom.
Barakah must have told Tirzah how Messala had advised him, how the Roman monster had finally released her from his sights. He could see it in the way her footsteps around him were stronger, less measured…in the way she dared to meet his gaze again and smile.
In the way she brushed shoulders with him and sat to help him work, sometimes for an hour…both of them silent, passing the scraper or the needle and thread between them, fingers brushing without fear, without turmoil. It was freeing, in a way. They were silent. There wasn't much to say.
Perhaps someday they would learn to chat together again, as they once had. Perhaps someday, Messala would be allowed to tease her again.
Early on, Messala had learned that there were several small children in the camp. Most of them boys, travelling with their fathers to learn a trade. But the rest were nomads, part of the family entourage of the Sheik. They were carefree, silly and reckless and comfortable.
They made fun of his legs. They were fascinated by them, by the gross bulges where the skin flaps had been sewn on, and the red spot where the bone rubbed too hard. If they lingered around him, Messala learned to take off the fake legs and stretch his fleshy stubs for a while. It was no shame. It was funny, really, to see their eyes grow wide and staring as they nudged each other and whispered.
Eventually, they grew brave enough to ask him the story. And surprisingly, Messala found that the words didn't choke him on their way out…sometimes, his regrets and grudges grew dark behind his eyes but it was nothing compared to the despairing, black, blind world he'd wallowed in until just a month ago.
He told them about the Circus, the arena, the great chariot races. The roar of the crowds that rose and grew until nothing else could fill his ears. The thundering victory of being first across the thin white line of dust…the speed, the wind whipping his face. Gifts of flowers and gold and exotic animals from pleased spectators, a sea of smiles whenever he paraded onto the field.
And of course, along with memories of his days of glory, came the pain. Because once, he was the greatest chariot racer in Judea. Once, he was the pride and joy of Pilate. He'd even been considered for transfer to Rome, to race before the Emperor. Not too long ago, he'd had two strong legs that could guide horses, tame them, race to keep up with them. Not too long ago, he'd been strong enough to help himself. He'd been his own burden.
It was tempting to dwell on that, to saturate the pain with darkness until he didn't have to look at it anymore as it sawed his heart in two. But the children's eyes were still on him. Impatient, they clustered closer. One boy reached towards his stump. He watched him, his face a mask. Neither warning nor welcoming.
But his lips moved. "It's warm. You can."
The boy's fingers touched his scarred, twisted skin. Part of him couldn't feel it…but the other part did.
Moved by a twisted gratitude and other strange feelings he couldn't name, Messala suddenly opened his pouch and pulled out the little bronze racer. (Gold, he'd stubbornly insisted to Judah as a child)
This was all that linked him to the house of Severus. This was meant to inspire dreams, to make a hero. It hadn't worked on him…but this boy was brave. This boy might bring honor to the little bronze warrior, not shame. Messala felt the pain deflate suddenly, until it became a thin, humming string of scarlet that was something fiercely akin to broken joy.
As his fingers twitched in last-minute misgivings, the child sat up abruptly and thanked him. He turned and sped off, swiping the bronze charioteer through the air like a bird as the flock of children stumbled after him, eager for a piece of the spoils. They ran off around the well and beyond the palm trees, forcing Judah to step aside.
Judah had been watching from the well.
They stared at each other. Messala didn't want to appear hostile, but…they hadn't spoken in so long. Judah had been busy competing in other races for Sheik Ilderim. Gaining success and letting his hair grow out again. Yet even as he tried to figure out if he missed Judah or if he was angry at him for leaving so suddenly, Messala realized how hungry he'd been for a glimpse of that stupid face of his.
But eventually, after a polite nod and an almost teasing smile, Judah turned and went inside to greet his mother. Messala felt the darkness murmuring in his soul and ducked his head, wishing he had something to work on to pass the time until dinner.
But before dinner came, Judah suddenly stuck his head inside the small shelter where Messala was sorting laundry, nearly scaring him to death. Which was something Judah had always loved to do. "Come outside. I've something to show you."
That was new. That was entirely unexpected. Messala tightened the leather straps for his legs and dug his crutch into the ground. He was lucky to still have his knees…it made actually getting off the ground just a bit less impossible. Finally, unable to contain the unreasonable nervousness in his stomach, he hobbled outside.
The wide wooden paddles of his feet shifted and grated against sand and pebbles as Judah waited patiently, leaning against a boulder that stood by the Via Maris, the Roman road that led from Judea to Syria along the coast.
When Messala was still a few steps away, Judah turned and strode towards him. The action was bold and strangely threatening, and there were storm clouds in his face. Messala faltered, struggling to say something witty. "Yes, it's a Roman road. I tried to stop them."
Judah didn't even seem to hear the joke. Without a word, he took Messala's elbows and guided him backwards. With a nod and a whispered sound, he lowered Messala into a sitting position. He knelt in the sand before him a moment, careful to lock gazes with him.
It was almost as if he was asking for permission. Slowly, waiting every second to be rebuked, he reached for the prosthetics. His fingers found the leather buckles and carefully undid them before slipping them off entirely.
Messala was at a loss. He heard a sharp, vigorous whinny and looked over Judah's shoulder to see two horses standing there, loosely tethered to a scrub bush.
He dared to grab Judah's wrist, and his brother went deadly still. "Judah…I can't," he whispered. Frightened. He remembered blood on the hooves of his beloved black charges. His blood. "I can't."
Judah seemed to hesitate. But his warm brown eyes with their stormy glare never left Messala's.
"Brother, you can."
He slipped his arms under Messala's, wrapping him firmly in what was almost a rough hug as he lifted him. With the ease and strength of a galley-slave, muscles bunching under his shirt, he hauled Messala towards the horse and put him on top.
With skill and terror, Messala tightened his knees. The horse shifted under him like a giant ship, throwing its head with a questioning snort.
Shifting up his tunic so he could see his belt, Judah worked quickly, attaching a new kind of prosthesis. These were smoother, thinner looking, with delicate ends that wouldn't disturb the horse without deliberate pressure. They were weighted a little more at the ends too, to keep him from bouncing out of the saddle.
Once he was secure, Judah strode briskly away and mounted his own horse. He came back, saw that Messala wasn't going to do anything, and took the reins. He led them around and around the encampment, a slow, ungainly trot. Messala could feel eyes on him, boring holes into him. He mumbled a Latin curse that was strangely like a sob.
Judah at last led him away from the camp toward the beach, where the waves crashed against the shore and the horses beneath them picked up a smooth canter.
And the Prince of Hur began to talk. About the lost years as a galley slave, and the horrors that he saw there. Wood impaling men like cheese. Fire burning skin, black tar boiling flesh. Drowned, dead men clustered together by a thread of iron…and learning to know the whiplash like an old friend.
About the man he met only twice…the forgiveness, the wonder of his survival, washing up on the sands of a beach much like this one, wretched, chained…an animal.
Messala couldn't do anything but listen. The pain in his chest grew, tremendously bright. But he wasn't sure if he could survive until this one blossomed. And Judah kept talking.
Suddenly, impulsively, he seized the reins of his own horse and pulled it short. He stopped. Judah did the same, almost immediately. He turned back to look at him. Again, they stared at each other, rich with silence, timid, unwilling to say the first word. Unsure what that word should be.
But it was Judah who spoke first. It was always going to be brave, good Judah. "I will not deny you your guilt, brother. I won't rob you of that, much as I wish I could."
Messala realized his mouth was open to protest. Too late in the race.
Judah was burning now, with the same eagerness when he came to rescue him from the garrison. Swept away by fervor for his new god, rejecting the misery of his past. Fighting for some happiness. How Messala could be any part of that was beyond him. He shook his head, feeling something bitter in the back of his throat.
"Do not…" Judah realized his voice was too loud and harsh. He swallowed. "Do not deny me the memory of only being able to breathe because of your shoulders digging into my belly, only able to think because of your voice near my head, telling me to hold on…only able to live because of your hand, grabbing mine all the way home."
Had he done that? Messala realized he had. And Judah remembered it. Could such a small thing really have kept his brother alive that day? Thank the gods. Thank you.
Heartened by the stunned relief in Messala's face, Judah held out his hand. "Do not deny me that brother, Messala. Give him to me, and we will fight your guilt together."
"No." Messala wished he wasn't trapped here, balanced on the back of a horse. He wished he was standing on the edge of a cliff, so he could step back, away from his mad brother and his mad mother and Tirzah…they didn't make sense. The road to redemption was clear to him if they did…but he was afraid to walk it. Afraid of failing them again. Afraid of falling even deeper. "No. You can't."
Judah smiled at that, a sad and pathetic twist of his features. He sidestepped his horse, leaned over and grabbed Messala's neck, pulling their foreheads together even as Messala tried to resist.
This. This was what broke him last time. This proximity to Judah, smelling him, feeling him…Judah.
Messala took a shuddering breath. He struggled. Judah used both arms this time, holding onto him.
And then, Messala began to cry, fingers clutching at Judah, relieved beyond measure to feel his heart still beating within him, so happy to see that he was still alive. That the fall from the horse hadn't killed him. The gallows hadn't killed him. Judah was indestructible. Judah was beyond all the harm that even Messala could do. Because of his stupid luck, because of his courage…because of his God. It didn't matter.
"Don't…don't forgive me," Messala sobbed at last, the words pealing into the air like echoes from a black fire long burnt out. "I don't deserve it."
"Brother, I'm sorry to tell you this, but it's already done." Judah extracted himself finally. Their fingers slipped apart. "Let's get some wind in that face to dry those girly tears." He blinked, his own eyes shining and red. "Race you home."
And they raced home, with nothing more than a whispered kiss to their steeds. Judah did all the taunting, but that was his way. Messala grinned the entire time, unable to play just yet…because the pain was still there, ashes in his mouth. Only he didn't mind the taste. Because the pain had blossomed again. Still there, always there, but now it wasn't just guilt and sorrow. It was something more.
FINIS