Chapter 4

Torches and braziers lined the promenade, casting color and light in all directions, echoed a thousandfold by the temples across the city, a merry cascade of revelers making offering at one and then another, their hoots and hollering and laughter drifting on the wind; they'd be at it all night and then some. It was the nineteenth of Augustus, the feast of Vinalia Rustica; a harvest celebration sacred to Jupiter and Venus, to prepare to gather and press the grapes ripening all summer in the terraces and vineyards and turn them into wine. It was, therefore, a most auspicious night to hold a betrothal celebration, as marriage likewise embodied the promise of harvest and fertility and children, and at no less than the imperial palace. Gaius Flavius Cassianus, it appeared, might have cashed in that favor that Hadrian owed him.

Emma had never actually been inside the palace, though her father was often there for his work, and she could not stop looking around. Silk-curtained alcoves, reflecting pools, statues on plinths, gold and ivory and marble, halls where footsteps echoed, and the most extravagant court paid to her: legates and senators and proconsuls and praetors and their wives, admitted out in public for this most special occasion, ceaselessly congratulating her on her impending nuptials. It made her feel like a rat in a trap. Everyone in Rome now knew that she was supposed to marry Baelius after the Ludi Romani were over,and she could not shake the feeling that they also knew of her indiscretion with Killian in the gardens that one night. She had grimly avoided seeing him ever since, even if it felt like strangling herself, due to being quite certain that if she allowed that to happen for a third time, she was not strong enough to put a stop to it again. And she at least, no matter how much she had less than no desire to wed, had more pride than that. A slave.

Which she would soon be, it felt. Apart from when he was accepting well-wishes, Baelius was off partaking in the celebratory libations with his friends; if she needed him for anything, she was the one who had to go find him, and he would always roll his eyes and make some comment for the benefit of his entourage about women, at which they would all obligingly guffaw. Then when they were together, he did not appear to be listening to a word she said, or would make some casual remark to suggest that while it was laudable for her to have opinions, she should restrain them for a more appropriate venue – which was apparently anywhere he did not have to hear them. Emma had never felt more like an object of furniture than she did at his side, something that he had acquired for status and prestige and would remain exactly where he put it. At least Baelius lacked the malice of his father, as he did not appear to be treating her thusly out of spite but rather a simple and oblivious belief that this was the way things were. Still, that was no foundation for a marriage, or even friendship. When Emma weighed up the prospect of spending years and years with him, a future remarkable for nothing but its imprisonment, all she could hope was that he would die first. Then she might still salvage something from her life.

These were deeply melancholy thoughts for what was supposed to be a joyously happy night, and it was what decided her that she needed a drink. As it was Vinalia, it was one of the few occasions on which women were permitted to do so without scorn. Attitudes had relaxed from the days when husbands were allowed to legally murder their wives if they caught them imbibing, but drunkenness, carrying the suspicion of improper behavior and sexual liberty, remained a vice a thousand times more sinister in women than in men. The satirists wrote of it, made mock of it; it was a staple in low comedies, how they could not be trusted with the fruit of the vine. Emma did not care. She accepted a cup poured from the new harvest, drank it down, then unobtrusively drifted to the other side of the hall and took another.

At the crux of the night, Baelius ceremonially presented her with an iron ring, which would be changed for a gold one at their wedding. Emma accepted it, doing her best to look as if this was the fulfillment of her dreams, and hoped she would now be at peace to be carried home and crawl into bed, but it was not to be. After they stepped down from the dais and had a moment almost to themselves in the crowd, Baelius asked, "Aren't you going to put it on your finger?"

Startled, she glanced down at her hand, where she still wore the green-stoned ring. She closed it into a fist reflexively, but it was too late; he'd noticed. "It's. . . just a bauble," she said, with an attempt at a winning smile. "I thought I'd make yours into a pendant. Wear it around my neck, keep it closer to my heart. I don't need it on my finger."

He grinned. "Well, I don't need to tell my father that you care more for some worthless trinket than the ring he had specially made, but. . ."

Emma flinched. Then she gritted her teeth and wrenched the ring off, scraping over her knuckle. She tucked it in the pouch at her waist and slid on the iron one instead; it felt heavy, cold, unfamiliar, almost like a shackle. Then she inclined her head, turned her back, and moved off to find her parents. David would be staying even later, but Maria Margareta and the other wives were now expected to take their decorous leave, and Emma was not at all sad to join them. She climbed into the litter and drew the curtains, wanting nothing more than to put the palace behind her and not look back. Her lips were set and grim, and she realized that she was holding them so tightly for fear that she was about to crack and burst into tears. How do I marry him? How do I do it? Join the crowds making offerings to Venus, and hope that the goddess of love would smile down on her, have mercy, somehow turn this into a happy union? Nothing on earth felt capable of doing that, and Emma felt another surge of rage at the merchant. You promised me that ring would bring true love, bliss and felicity. Baelius is right. Cheap, worthless trinket. She should just throw it out into the streets, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

It was slow going through the crowded streets, even the short distance from the palace to the Aurelius villa, and the guards had to chase off drunken stragglers on multiple occasions. By the time she was finally helped down in the courtyard, Emma could feel the burn and buzz of the wine in the back of her head, wanted more of it, wanted a potion to help her forget. But even when she reached her quiet, dark, cool quarters and was preparing to undress and fall facefirst into her bed, she was not to be at leisure to do that. She had barely reached for the pin of her drape when a voice in the doorway said, "Mistress?"

Annoyed at being interrupted yet again, Emma spun around. "Aye?" she snapped.

The servant bobbed a nervous obeisance. "I crave your pardons, mistress. But the lady Regina left instruction that as soon as you returned home, I was to fetch you to her chambers for an audience. If you will, then? My lady?"

An audience with Regina? Emma was surprised, unsettled, and dismayed all at once. She hadn't expected her step-grandmother to summon her so autocratically, and couldn't think what she could possibly want. Regina had refused to attend the engagement festivities, claiming she'd sooner put out her own eyes with a hot iron, suffer the fate of Sisyphus, or any other number of extravagantly mythological punishment, and Emma very much doubted that the older woman simply meant to wish her good health and send her on her way. Regina's gifts, if this was even what it was, always came with a poisoned sting in the tail.

Nonetheless, she could think of no good reason to refuse, and hence was forced to trail the servant out, through the corridors, and across the villa to Regina's private quarters. Warm lamplight bobbed invitingly through the silken drapes, and the sweet music of a lyre drifted on the humid night breeze. Emma ducked through and stood nervously at attention, feeling like a soldier on parade, as she waited for Regina, reclined on a luxurious couch, to take notice of her. When this did not appear forthcoming, she cleared her throat. "Grandmother?"

Regina turned, only then seeming to become aware of her. "My dear." She economically dismissed the servant and the lyre player, then stood up, turning back to Emma with a vulpine smile. "I'm sure you had a splendid time at your festival?"

Uncertain whether to answer this honestly, Emma remained rooted to the spot. Regina, however, had not appeared to require her input. She stooped to retrieve something: a small bronze pot with gadrooned lid, such as might be used to keep kohl or paint or perfume, and passed it over. "Here. I've given you a wedding present."

Certain that she was being mocked, well aware of how much Regina disdained the marriage, Emma's spine stiffened to iron. "I don't want it," she snapped. "What is it, a curse?"

Regina laughed aloud. "As if anyone needed my help hexing that union. And you'll want to see what it is before you leap to conclusions. Go on, open it."

Deeply dubious, expecting an asp or something of the like to leap out at her, Emma thumbed open the lid. She was thus greatly confused to see nothing but a few herbal pellets and crushed leaves, giving off a distinct, pungent scent. There was no reason that Emma could see why Regina would have given her a few weeds and called it a wedding present, and she once more began to suspect this of some elaborate, cruel mockery. She shut the lid and stared back at the older woman. "What is this, exactly?"

Regina's smile widened. "Silphium," she said. "Pennyroyal and tansy. All of which are rather effective, if properly used, at preventing a woman from bearing an unwanted child."

"What – as if that will last me long with Baelius? I don't think a few crumbs of – "

Once more, Emma was interrupted by Regina's laughter, the flash of her teeth, as she tossed back her loosened black hair and bestowed her step-granddaughter with a look of immense superciliousness that could, yet, barely contain its glee. "You think it's for Baelius? Truly? After everything you know as to my opinion on that idiot? Oh no. That's for you."

"But – " It remained an enigma an instant longer, until it crashed horrifyingly into place. "I – I don't know what you're talking about. I don't – I wouldn't – I never have – "

"Please." Regina waved her stammering excuses aside. "I have an excellent source. Did you really think I didn't know about your little dalliance with the slave?"

"I. . ." Emma's feet felt rooted to the floor. "It was only once. Nothing happened. Truly. He – he didn't want – we didn't – he said I had to be still a – "

"Noble of him." Regina's nostrils flared. "But do you think I was still virgin when I wed your grandfather – miserable, grasping, decrepit, controlling, hateful old bastard that he was? All they need is some blood on the sheets. They needn't ever know exactly how it got there. One good scratch after he's fallen asleep – doubtless he'll have a goblet or three of wine at the celebration, which will help – and there you are." She shrugged. "You're welcome."

The implications of this were too incredible to process all at once. "So you want. . . you want me to. . ." Emma couldn't even get the words out. "With K – the slave? Why?"

"Because." Regina raised an elegantly plucked eyebrow. "If there is one thing in the world I have sympathy with, it is a young woman being elbowed into matrimony against her will. And because if it is the last thing I do, I will ensure that neither your parents or Gaius thrice-damned Flavius has what that they want. Spoiling their perfect little marriage seems a good start."

Emma was still entirely speechless. All she could come up with was a feeble, girlish croak. "What if he does not want – "

"He's a slave. Since when do his wishes enter into it?" Regina looked as if she could not believe this piece of charming but utterly provincial naïveté. "If he is not amenable, merely inform him that you will tell your father all about how he attempted to have his barbaric way with you. That should change his mind quick enough."

"No! I won't do it that way! I won't – you're willing to play this wager with our future, with both of us being caught, with my reputation ruined and him being put to death? No!"

"Oh, you sweet thing." Regina gripped the back of her chaise, her knuckles going white. "Did you think I was really offering you a way to be with him? True Love, or whatever fanciful notion you've taken into your head? If I knew how to alter the world, tear apart the very warp and weft so as to make it fitting for a noblewoman to consort with a slave – believe me, I would, and without a second thought. But I can't. I can, however, give you one sweet memory to remember him by, to ensure that that dolt Baelius is not the one to take your maiden's gift and never will be, and that you have defied the Cassianii and the greatest men in Rome without lifting a finger. Don't tell me you don't want it. I know you do."

As Emma continued to stare at her step-grandmother in shock, something else fell into place. How Regina knew all this. Who Killian must have told. Why Regina took it, no matter how much she wanted to spite the Aurelii and Gaius Flavius alike, so very personally. "Robin."

Regina was good at feigning blankness. "Who?"

"No matter." Emma closed her hand around the small bronze pot. It was terrifying how much she wanted it, the seductive ease with which Regina had orchestrated it all, how she truly might give in and do it. Scrambling for another excuse, she found one and seized onto it. "How would we even find time alone? It's scarce as if he could be seen entering my rooms, and if you think I could sneak down to the slave quarters. . ."

"Of course not." Regina scoffed. "On the first night of the Roman Games, there will be a great spectacle at the colosseum. Your father, Gaius Flavius, and your dearest betrothed will all be in attendance, and I shall arrange for your mother to receive an invitation from the wife of some prominent senator who, of course, she must pay court on. Then I will send for you. When you arrive in my quarters, you shall find the person of your interest waiting for you, having been instructed in his task. Do try to be finished by the midnight hour, as I'll be returning then."

Emma opened her mouth. Nothing came out except a faint squeak. She closed it.

Regina turned and swept back to the chaise. When Emma remained motionless, the older woman glanced up with one dark eyebrow sharply raised and said, "Good night."

Emma went.

For the next several days, Emma's stomach was in such a knot, her attention so scattered, her nerves so raw, that she felt certain she was about to betray them all with her face. The only solution was to build up a wall, to hide her emotions behind it, to refuse to let either of her parents in, no matter how persistently they tapped at the window. It was plain that both of them were concerned about her low spirits, when a young woman about to be married should show – if not improper and lascivious excitement – at least some semblance of happiness. They were attempting to cheer her with reassurances that this was the beginning of her life, that as Baelius' wife she would see things and go places and have responsibilities quite beyond the sheltered existence she had led as the praetor's only daughter, but Emma could not have cared less. One moment she was determined to reject Regina's offer, refuse to be played as a pawn against her own mother and father and the Cassianii and even her own future. Then the next it was the only thing she wanted, the only way she could see to claw back even a scrap of what had been taken from her without her cooperation or her consent. The hunger burned in her more or less constantly, like the vestal flame tended by the virgins, the hearthfire of Rome. I could become one of them. Renounce all worldly ties and never marry. Nobody could blame her, at least not openly, for coming down with a sudden attack of religious piety. And yet. . . and yet. . .

By the time the appointed night arrived, Emma had decided precisely nothing. As Regina had promised, her parents were gone and would not be back until the wee hours of the morning, and the villa was almost deserted except for her; Emma had feigned a headache and a woman's complaint to avoid accompanying her mother. She briefly, giddily considered running away, slip out one of the city gates in a cloak and dark hood and get as far as she could before the sun came up. But how far could she get, truly? A clearly well-born woman alone, beyond the walls of Rome with no idea where she was going or how to get there, would be a catastrophe.

The entire walk to Regina's quarters, she savagely second-guessed herself. She shouldn't go. This was a setup. She'd find Baelius there ready to spring at her from behind a curtain, aghast that she had ever thought of doubting his devotion to her. In some strange twisted part of herself, Emma almost wanted him to be, wanted him to prove that he might actually want to fight for her, to make their marriage at least bearable. If she didn't have a choice, if this was it. . .

She came to a halt. Stared at nothing. Then raised a fist, and knocked on the door.

A moment later, it opened.

The room was cool and dark and deserted, the braziers out, the moonlight paving pale tracks on the floor through the columns. Emma looked from side to side, anxiously clutching her shawl close. She couldn't see who had let her in. Just shadows shifting, hangings fluttering in the breeze. "Regina?" she whispered. "Anyone?"

"Lass?"

The voice came from behind her, clearly startled. She turned to discover that for the third time, she was alone and in a compromising situation with Killian mac Dáithí – who was staring back at her, clearly as lost as she was. He took a convulsive step forward. "What in Danu's name are you doing here? This is bloody dangerous, you're not supposed – "

"You're here." Emma's mind felt numbed, slowed, stupid. Somehow she had never thought he would be. "Did Regina send for you?"

"What?" Killian stared back at her, tense and pale-faced. "I was told that there was some sort of alarm up here, that someone had broken into the villa, that you and Lady Regina were in – " He stopped, apparently having thought he'd revealed too much. "Evidently I was mistaken," he said to the ceiling, trying to compose himself. "May I see you back to your rooms, mistress?"

"I." It was slowly dawning on Emma that Killian had not, in fact, been informed that he was supposed to summarily seduce her and take her maidenhead as part of whatever demented plot was truly going on here. Instead, he'd been told that she was in danger, and he'd unthinkingly rushed to find her, regardless of where he – or she – was or was not supposed to be. Then, nay doubt, she was supposed to thank him for his bravery, bestow him with a kiss, and let matters proceed naturally from there. She could see the little bronze pot sitting in plain sight on the sideboard, reminding her. To take what she wanted. To defy them. Or give into them.

She let out a slow, heaving breath.

"Killian," she said.

His head jerked up at the sound of his right name. He stared at her. "Swan?"

"What?" She blinked. "What's that?"

"I – it's how I've thought of you. Ever since. As I said. A swan who should spread her wings and fly." He glanced away, a flush burning up his elegant cheekbones. "Just my name, my thought. I apologize, mistress."

"No," Emma blurted. "Don't."

Once more, that blue gaze so heavily shadowed by his dark lashes, by his odd blend of violence and brusqueness and sarcasm to everyone else, but strange and gentle tenderness and care to her, came to bear. He didn't blink. He waited.

Emma took another breath. "I want," she said, "for you to run away."

Killian seemed to require a moment to process. "And how," he said at last, deliberately, "do you suggest I do that?"

"It's the first night of the Ludi Romani. My parents are gone. Everyone of any status is at the colosseum, and all the plebeians are on the streets, drinking and feasting. Even the centurions on the gates are far more interested in betting on the chariot races and making plans to visit brothels. Put on a cloak and hood, take this – " Emma held out her Aurelius signet ring – "and nobody will challenge you. There are trading caravans that leave every day for every corner of the empire. Go back to your Hibernia. Go back to your. . . wife." She could barely get her lips around the word. "Milah, that was her name. Wasn't it? I free you, Killian mac Dáithí, from this moment forward. You are not, nor have you ever been, a slave. Run."

He stared back at her, utterly dumbstruck. "Was it you?" he said at last, in a croak. "Is that why you brought me here?"

"I didn't. It was. . . someone else, for their own selfish reasons. I will not play their game." Emma tugged at his arm, trying to make him understand. "Please, Killian. You're no slave. You're a man. A man of honor. This is the only thing I can give you. Please. Go."

He seemed irresolute. She could feel the tension coursing through him, but he remained frozen, like a man in a dream, not sure if it would fade away if he grasped for it. If it was a trick or trap or an illusion. "Emma. . ." he said at last, his voice faint and aching. "Emma, I. . ."

"No." Emma pulled away with a jerk; it felt as if her hands were still burning where she had touched him, as if all of her was. "We don't have time to waste. Hurry."

At that, Killian seemed to surface from his stupor. Realize that if he did not take this opportunity he might never have another, would live and die in servitude far from the distant green shores of his native land, his people, his queer gods with their queer names (Manannán mac Lir, Emma repeated to herself in her head, so as not to forget. Danu. Tuatha Dé. She would make offerings to them as well, every time she went to the temple. Ask them to carry him swiftly home.) They found a cloak, a hood, an old toga of David's to disguise him as a freeman, a shortsword, a satchel for food. Then Emma opened her purse and pressed a few golden denarii into his hand, a few sestertii as well so he would not have to risk robbery on the road. Then she slid the signet ring onto his smallest finger, unable to think of anything but how Baelius had slid the ring onto hers. "Say you're on the praetor's business, if you're stopped," she said, her voice sounding crushed and choked and small in her chest. "That should get you far enough away from Rome for you to have a good head start when they catch on."

"Emma. . ." He seemed to have entirely forgotten that it was not decorous to call her by her given name, as they were hurrying through the gardens together to the small postern gate in the villa wall. "Emma, I can't thank you enough."

"Don't thank me." They reached the gate, and she summoned up the nerve. Now she was going to have to do it. Let him go for good, and condemn herself to a lifetime as Gaia Baelia Cassiania. She couldn't think about it, couldn't look at him. "Not until you survive it."

She felt more than saw his mouth twist into a crooked smile. Felt him reach out, his hand hovering near her shoulder as if to touch her one last time, but was afraid he would never be able to go if he did. Or perhaps that was merely what she wanted to believe. Terrified herself that it was true, she turned her back, pulled down the bar on the gate, and opened it, leading them both out into the narrow alleyway beyond. Trees overhung the path, and the mud squashed under her delicate beaded slippers. She could hear him breathing steadily behind her, following her step for step, until they emerged into the lane that snaked down to the bottom of the hill. From here, both of them could see the city laid out, the gates, and the dark countryside beyond.

Emma gulped down a tremulous little breath. She didn't dare to go farther; even out here she was too exposed, couldn't shake the fear of someone seeing her. "There," she whispered. "Hurry."

Killian glanced at her sidelong again. He seemed to be struggling just as much, though the hood was hiding what she could see of his face. Then at last he blew out an unsteady breath and turned to her. "There's not a day that will go by," he said, "when I don't think of you."

Emma could only look back at him, look and look and look, imprint him onto her heart, burn herself with it, break. The only word that came to mind was one, small and simple.

"Good."

Killian blew out another breath. He turned away convulsively, and then back. And then before either of them knew what was happening (or did they?) or what could, they were both reaching for each other, clawing into each other's arms, their mouths meeting, his hand fiercely cradling her head, her lips opening, as she breathed him, she fell into him, every angle and every line of their bodies moved into harmony, and she wrapped herself into him, kissing him, closing her eyes, letting him sway her back and forth in his embrace, the last one they would ever have. She'd keep this, she'd cherish this, even if he forgot her one day, even if he went back and had the happiest life that could be managed, and gods, she wished that for him even while her heart was breaking. Stroked the back of his neck, sliding her fingers through his hair. He cradled her. She completed him. Neither of them seemed able even to stand upright without the other.

"Come with me," Killian panted into her mouth. "Swan. My swan. Come with me."

"I – " Like this? She had not dressed for it, had not dared to. Had only made provisions for him, knowing how terrifyingly easy it would be if she even let herself think about it. "I can't."

"Aye. If you choose it." His gaze bored through her. She couldn't let go of him, couldn't make her fingers unclench, couldn't do it, couldn't do it, don't ask her. "I'll protect you. We can do this. Both of us. Together. Be free."

"But your – your wife – "

"Milah's dead." His voice broke roughly on the word, but he never stopped looking at her. "Killed in the uprising. My fault. She's gone, lass. There's nothing back there for me."

Emma rested her forehead against his, still out of breath from that kiss, their noses brushing. Couldn't help but kiss him again, then, and know somewhere in her heart that she was lost, had been from the moment she laid eyes on him, and he on her. Turned boneless in his arms again, needing him so fiercely that it made her gasp, as he trailed one hand down her back, caressing her, holding her. Then she was stumbling back with him into the alley, and it was not controlled and careful and scented and silken as Regina would have had it, but madness, nothing but madness. His careful, tender fingers stroking her, her arms wrapped around his neck as he lifted her, their bodies locked. The press of his hardness against her leg, the way she hooked her ankles around him, how she was about to break apart or burn because she did not have enough hands to touch him with, his kisses pressed into her neck and shoulder, worshiping her. How she knew that if she did not stop him now, there was no going back.

She did not stop him.

There was no going back.

When he entered her, after all the gentle touches and caresses and preparation, it barely hurt at all. He slid into her, stretching her, filling her, throbbing inside her like a heart, his eyes closed, his lips pressed into her sweaty, tangled hair, murmuring wordless Gaelic imprecations that must have been prayers. Her body arched up into him, pulling tight, slick and hot and wet. Let him slide deeper a bit at a time, finding her, making her pant hard against his shoulder as she held onto him, her braids coming undone. As he had her up against a wall like some common slattern, and how she could not care in the least. She could hear the soft wet carnal sounds they were both making, could feel the steady pressure rising, the friction between them as he held her as if she was a fragile eggshell. She pushed back on him experimentally, and felt him respond almost at once, riding back on her, finding a tentative rhythm, god, good, good, she loved it, loved him, loved him, loved him. Bunched her fists in his dark hair, every inch of him still held under control, until at last she kissed his ear and bit it and pulled it between her teeth, and he snapped.

Killian rode her like a tempest, like a ship at sea, like the wind and the waves sweeping them both away. Until she lost all sense of what was his body and what was hers, as he would rise to an almost unbearable tempo and then slow down, prolonging it, taking his time about each stroke, as she jerked and gasped and squirmed and shuddered, possessed by him, yet able by the smallest gestures or motions or kisses to seize control back, to turn him to molten gold in her hands. Then it was faster, and then still faster, and then he pressed her back against the wall and lost himself, as instants later she did the same, clutching him and dying of the light.

Sense returned only belatedly. They untangled themselves badly and slowly. She thought of the herbs left behind in Regina's quarters, how it would be madness or suicide to try to go back and get them (and sundry other things) now. She felt giddy. Drunk. Lightheaded. She had done it. Ruined herself, or saved herself. Made her choice.

"Here." Killian's voice sounded like a broken husk of itself as he pulled off the cloak and draped it around her. "Folk will know you much sooner than me. We have to. If we are. If we're going."

Emma looked at him. There was silence, for the longest moment. Then she reached out and took his hand.

He squeezed it, hard and tenderly and desperately. Both of them took a step forward. Only one.

Then the shadows shifted. Took form around the man standing at the end of the alley. How long he had been there, or how much he had seen, it was impossible to say. But he was wearing a cloak and a hood thrown back, and something that looked oddly like crocodile skin beneath. It made him look almost less than human, spectral. And Emma knew him at once.

Aurum. Gold.

Him.

"Well, well," said Gaius Flavius Cassianus, and giggled. "Whatever have we here?"