Chapter 5

"No." It was the first, instinctive word that sprang to Emma's lips, as she moved to put herself between the two men. "This – it's not – "

"Oh, I suspect it's exactly what it looks like, dearie," Gaius Flavius Cassianus commented sleekly. "You don't want to try to argue your way out of this, because you can't. After all the trouble I've gone to in order to ensure that this wedding would happen. . . why?" He shook his head, like a kindly uncle or benevolent patron deeply disappointed in his favorite protégé's behavior. "And with a slave? I always considered you a young woman of refined sensibilities and good breeding, but clearly I was quite mistaken."

"Leave her out of this." It was Killian who spoke, stepping out from behind Emma and shielding her with his arm. "It was my fault. I dragged her down here and forced myself on her. Look at her – do you think she's dressed in any fashion to run? You want me. Take me."

"Aye, it looked as if she was not enjoying it in the least." Gold – his moniker had never more perfectly fit him as he stood there, bright and hard and soulless – raised an eyebrow, then grinned, looking thoroughly reptilian. "You don't understand, do you? I know. I know everything. When I contrived to betroth my son to you, I had informants placed in your household, so I would not be caught off guard by an unfortunate scandal such as this. When I heard of Regina's mad plan to yield your purity to that slave. . ." He shook his head. "I could not intervene until I knew if you were the sort to be tempted. And thus, I have learned everything I need to know. That filthy barbarian has stolen what belongs to me and by my right, what I bought and paid for, and I am not the sort of man who cares to be robbed. So, then. So."

"Please." Emma's voice sounded thin, desperate, and she hated it. "Consul, don't. I – I can – "

"You can what? Pay me? Oh believe me, dearie, what do you think you have that I could possibly want? So no, you cannot pay me. What we're going to do is this. We're going to make a deal."

Emma and Killian exchanged a wary glance. "What deal?"

"Oh, just this." The sly bastard was almost dancing on the spot. "We have the Ludi Romani going on at the very moment, do we not? And our mutual friend here, the slave, fought so admirably in the gladiatorial games where he first drew your attention. So, then. That's my bargain. If he goes back into the arena and defeats my champion, then I will let you both go free. I'll break off the betrothal, I'll be of no consequence in either of your lives again. On my honor."

Emma's breath caught. She didn't want to think it would be so easy, couldn't. Anyone Killian faced in the arena, with the stakes this high, would be a seasoned and ruthless killer, a veteran of countless matches with life and death balancing on his blade. Not that she doubted Killian's ability – only Gold's integrity, his willingness to keep to the bargain, and near everything else about him. Not to mention what must be coming. "And if. . .?"

"And if he dies? Which would be terribly tragic, of course? Well then. The slave would be quite dead, I expect. As for you, dearie. . ." Gold snapped his teeth. "I'll ruin you. I'll let it be known far and wide what sort of dishonor you've brought on your house and father and family, how you defied me, how you spat on every virtue and value that Rome and the Empire stands for, and how there is nothing more disorderly to the very pillars of society themselves than a disobedient and unchaste woman. Especially one who spent her purity on this. So then. Do we have a deal?"

"I want your word," Killian growled. "Your word, crocodile, that this will be as you said. If I defeat your champion, you let her go. You release her from the engagement and never breathe anything of it to anybody."

"On my honor." Gold flourished an elaborate bow. "Give me your hand."

Killian hesitated a long moment, then slowly reached out. Emma noticed at once, however, that it was his left hand, the unclean and inauspicious one, sinistra, an insult that the consul could not fail to notice. But at the same time, there was something unusual about Gold's hand, the way his body was tilted, the fact that the shortsword he had been wearing at his waist had suddenly disappeared, and the way the predatory smile had reappeared, the sudden conviction that –

Emma's outcry got stuck in her throat an instant too late. Instead she had to watch, transfixed, as a blade flashed in the moonlight, came down, and Killian staggered, screaming in pain, as something fell into the mud. Gold stooped with a triumphant smirk to retrieve it, and in sickening horror, Emma realized that it was Killian's hand. As in the one that moments ago had been attached to his wrist, still dripping dark blood. Killian was on his knees, clutching at his maimed arm, swearing in Gaelic, choking and gasping, and it was in that instant that Emma realized she had been counting on him to be invulnerable, the same ruthless warrior who'd murdered his first opponents without remorse. Yet in one brief moment, Gold had – he had –

"You son of a dog!" Emma lunged forward, having no fathom of what she was doing, only knowing that she wanted to hurt him and hurt him badly. But he had already turned his back, sauntering away without an apparent care in the world, and she had no weapon at all; there was nothing to stop him from doing the same to her. And she had something more urgent to attend to, the only thing she could. She spun on her heel and ran back to Killian.

She tore her chiton off at the hem and wrapped the long strips around his wrist, but the white cloth at once drank up the blood and bloomed dark red. She pressed as hard as she could, having a faint notion that pressure was supposed to help, but Killian made an ungodly noise and tried to jerk his arm away from her. "Go," he croaked, retching. "Go, get away. Run for it. Find your parents, tell them it's all a misunderstanding. Anything. Don't stay. Not when – "

"No!" Emma slung his good arm over her shoulders, braced herself, and hauled him to his feet; he tottered, nearly losing his balance, but she refused to let him fall. She tightened the bloodstained rags around his stump, tore off another hunk of cloth, and tied it clumsily in a knot, fingers shaking. "We have to find someone to take care of this."

"Who?" He almost went to his knees again. "No one in Rome is going to treat a slave, especially if you tell them why. Emma. . . lass. . . don't. It's too late. Leave me."

"You're wrong." She shifted him into a better position, then started to walk, one step after another, breath burning in her chest from his weight and the exertion, feet slipping in the mud and sweat stinging her eyes. "There's one place."

She had heard of them before, if only in passing. The pagans and heretics who lived in the catacombs under the city, who professed allegiance to none of the traditional deities nor the emperor, who jealously clung to their one god and insisted that others must do the same, a source of constant grievance and woe to the fortunes of the empire for their refusal to pay proper homage or perform the ritual sacrifices. Jews at least were tolerated due to being ancient, but these were not even quite Jews, and in retaliation for their supposedly causing the great fire some decades ago, Emperor Nero had had several dozen of them thrown to dogs or burned as human torches. Emma ordinarily would not have consorted with such dangerous and strange people by her own will, but as she was currently most in sympathy with anything that defied Rome, and as the pagans were said to take in and treat the sick, poor, widows, orphans, lepers, slaves, and other such outcasts that polite society washed its hands of, she had no choice but to seek their help.

It was a painful, arduous climb across the city to the alleys that led into the catacombs, and they were nearly caught on half a dozen occasions, just barely ducking out of sight in time. At last, however, they crawled into the dark, low passages, with shafts of moonlight slanting through at odd intervals, their footsteps muffled in the dust. Killian was on the very last shreds of consciousness, and he lost it just as they emerged in the central chamber, lit flickeringly by twisted, gremlin candles, low and smoky; they were made of animal fat, not the fine white tallow used by the rich. Killian glanced around with a glazed expression, then folded facefirst into the ground, arms outspread, blood pooling into the dirt beneath his left arm.

Their unexpected ingress soon drew the attention of the place's inhabitants, and they peered out warily, clearly expecting trouble. But when Emma managed to explain to them that she needed them to take care of Killian, and would be willing to pay whatever it cost, they sprang into action quickly enough. The head of the community told her that all they asked was that she give the money to their fund for widows, and Emma agreed; she would have agreed to hand over all her jewels and rare perfumes and fine clothes if they wanted. None of that mattered anymore.

She helped them lift Killian onto a slab, and held him by the shoulders, wincing every time he swore and screamed and sobbed, as the pagans cleaned his arm, did their best to stem the bleeding, and cauterized it with hot iron. They padded the stump in wool and bandaged it in linen, but he kept tossing and thrashing in hellish agony, balling his good hand and hitting the stone over and over until his knuckles cracked and bruised. He passed out again at last, which was a small mercy, but kept jerking back to the surface, and what Emma could see in the slits of his eyes was terrifying. It was fixated, maddened, almost demonic, and he seemed capable of repeating only five words, over and over, in a broken patois of Latin and Gaelic. "I'm going to kill him," he mumbled, feverish and frantic. "I'm going to kill him."

Emma held a jug of water to his lips, trying to get him to drink something, but most of it ended up spilled down her torn, bloodstained chiton. One of the women went to fetch her fresh garb, and Emma changed; it was a rough homespun tunic, nothing that she had ever worn before as the praetor's daughter, but she would have worn sackcloth without complaint. The entire night felt like a dream. How could she have started it going to Regina's quarters, deciding to free Killian, then being unable to let him go and taking him far more permanently than she'd ever meant, then being caught by Gold, his unthinkable bargain, Killian's injury and struggling all the way here, and realizing that she had no notion of where to go or what to do next. Could they simply hide down here, for days or perhaps weeks? Yet she could not imagine that Gold would be content to let them disappear into thin air. There were the Games, his threat to send Killian into the arena, the betrothal to Baelius, the realization that he could be at the villa now, pouring the gods only knew what sordid tale into her parents' ear. . . Regina would be aghast and exasperated that she had not merely taken from Killian what she was supposed to, and left it at that. Why did I not? It would have been easier, far easier, and he might still be whole, might have run and. . .

She couldn't think of it. There was no rhyme or reason. She slept a few fitful hours, curled up on a mat beneath the ossuaries containing the dust of their dead fellows, as the candles went out and only Killian's faint moans stirred the darkness. When she awoke, she watched the pagans pray and wondered why the greatest empire in the world considered them any sort of threat. Surely Roma and the pantheon would not rescind their patronage that had stood for over a thousand years since the time of Remus and Romulus, simply because these poor, ragged, insignificant people neglected a sacrifice or two. Surely the gods should care more for the opinion of the emperor and the other great men? Men like Gaius Flavius Cassianus. Her mouth twisted bitterly. She felt tempted to offer up a few prayers in hopes of hastening his demise as well.

Emma stayed in the corner until one of the women came to give her a coarse-grained loaf of bread and a few drops of salt and oil, which she choked down in hopes of appeasing the hunger stabbing her stomach. She had never missed a meal, never had to wonder where the next day's provenance was coming from, but that looked to be the least of her troubles. As distant dawn light speared down through the tunnels, and she felt her heart ache with the desire to just go home and crawl into bed and wake up to all this being only a dream, she rubbed her gritty eyes and padded across the grotto to Killian.

He was lying in semi-consciousness, covered by a thin grey blanket, head curled on his good arm and his maimed one awkwardly extended. Dark, dried bloodstains showed on the bandages, and she reached out, hand skimming over his shoulder, afraid to actually touch him. "Killian?"

After an interlude just long enough to make her fear that he had shut her out as well, he flickered one eye open to look at her. His voice was a hoarse, sandy rasp. "Aye?"

"I'm. . . I'm sorry. This wouldn't have happened if I just – "

"No." He pushed himself upright, then reeled and nearly fell again. The heavy muscles in his shoulder and arm were trembling like a plucked string, his teeth bared, his eyes unseeing and savage. "It wouldn't have happened if Cassianus wasn't a bloody animal. A reptile. Crocodile. I'm going to kill him. Kill him."

"Brother?" It was the man who had been treating him last night, looking worried. "You are still weak, and the wound could open if you are not cautious. You should – "

"No." Killian, shuddering, hauled himself to a sitting position. "You have something for this? Anything?"

After a few more frowns and protests, the man hurried off and shortly returned with a length of tanned and cured leather. He removed the bloody linen, changed the wool, and then sewed the leather around the stump with an awl and waxed thread, creating a makeshift brace. "You should not use the arm if you can avoid it. Otherwise – "

"I have a fight to win." Killian swung his legs over the side of the slab and to the ground, testing his weight. His eyes flickered around the tunnels, clearly in search of something, until they fell on the well, rigged up with a rope, a hook, and a bucket to draw water up from the underground sources of the Tiber. He lurched across the floor, and before anyone could take it into their mind to stop him, pulled the hook loose. After a prolonged period of experimentation, he managed to get it wedged into the brace, collected the spare thread, and lashed it tightly down. When he tried an experimental swing, the hook whistled and slashed through the air like a dangerous weapon, making everyone in the vicinity take a startled step backwards.

"Good." A smile crossed Killian's gaunt, wracked face. "All I need is a whetstone."

"You. . . you're. . ." Slowly, horribly, Emma grasped his plan. "You're going to fight in the arena after all?"

"A man who doesn't fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. And I will be damned if I let that maggot, that festering filthy whoreson and the men he serves, think they can get away with doing this to me, one more time. This empire is corrupt and immoral, it has taken my brother, my home, my family, my wife, my freedom, and now it seeks to take my hand and make me kiss its boot. No. Enough."

"Killian." Emma took a step, imploring. "At least – "

"I want revenge!" Killian roared, loud enough to echo eerily away down the stone labyrinths, so it seemed as if a legion shouted them back. "Live or die, I will do it as a free man, by my own choice, by my own hand. I will not suffer another hour as a slave. I am not running away. I am not backing down. If they want to face me. . ." He inhaled a slow, ragged breath, opening and closing his good fist. "They can bloody well have me. I understand if you want to go, lass. Leave me. I would. I've already cost you enough. This is for me now. I must."

The silence felt thick, towering, impossible, climbing higher and higher around them both, as she stared at him. It seemed as if a depthless abyss yawned between them, and only telling their darkest secrets could build its bridge. And so, taking the risk, she steeled herself and told hers.

As dark, as dangerous, as desolate as this future was, it was the only one she could see.

"No," she whispered. "I'm coming with you."

They climbed to the surface slowly, painfully, squinting when they emerged into the sun as if they had been underground for weeks or months. They both had cloaks with hoods, and the toga they had stolen for Killian last night; they could pass for a plebeian couple on their way to see the spectacle. They hitched a ride on one of the countless carts bumping along the crowded thoroughfares toward the colosseum, Killian still hissing in pain every time they hit a bump. But then they were there, spilling out among the crowd, and he seemed to know precisely where he was going. She trailed behind him, until he turned, caught hold of her wrist, and pressed her back against the sunbaked brick. "No," he whispered. "I go from here alone, lass."

"What – no, I'm going to – "

"Please." Even in the burning light of the midday sun, he looked pale and ill. "This is where they take in the slaves. The gladiators. If you have to watch this, go buy a seat in the commons. I expect you'll see me soon enough."

"Killian. . ." She could find no words to say, nothing that her tongue would shape around, no way to catch the unformed, desperate feeling that clutched at her. At last, all she could do was bunch her fists in his cloak, pull him in, and kiss him as hard as she could.

He grunted low in his throat, and kissed her back, their heads turning, mouths moving, lips opening, tasting, until at last she had to force herself to pull back, their foreheads and noses still touching, breathing each other. Then he whispered, "Please. Don't follow me."

It broke her, but she didn't.

Emma bought a place among the commoners' terrace and squeezed in, smelling her neighbors' sweat, oniony breath, unwashed reek, and general malodor. All she could think of was how she had reclined in the shade in the luxury box reserved for the praetor's family at the games that had started this all, where she had watched Killian fight for the first time and been intrigued enough to risk everything, to insist on his freedom. Now, in a demented, horrible way, it had come full circle. She was standing here in disguise, not certain what was coming or even if it was, only waiting, waiting. Her parents must be sick with worry. Frantic. Had Gold told them? He must have. It was madness to think he would keep his bargain. He had asked for Killian's hand to seal it, and then quite literally taken it. We are both dead. Exile seemed too kind a fate to hope for.

Emma paid no attention to the combat going on below, the displays of athletic prowess, a gladiator matched against a lion, until at last they were dragging the beast's corpse away and the proud victor was strutting around to the approving roars of the crowd. A slim, smirking youth of not more than sixteen, he was a great favorite of the commons. He called himself Pan, after the Greek god, and always fought with a set of pipes dangling from his waist; he played a mocking funeral dirge on them after driving his blade through his foe's brain. He must have been born and bred his entire life for the arena; he was fast as a serpent and just as deadly. He had never lost a bout or failed to kill whatever man or beast he was set against, and he was –

Emma's breath caught in her throat, choking –

– known to be a particular favorite of Gaius Flavius Cassianus, who had sponsored his training and won large wagers on him on long odds, who bragged that he had cultivated him as the one who would never be defeated even if –

While everyone else was still engrossed with Pan, she was staring, petrified, at the great barred door on the far side, where they loosed wild animals and other fighters into the pit. She suddenly knew what was going to happen, knew it sudden and terribly to the core of her, and could only watch as the gate began, rattling, to rise. To reveal, silhouetted in the shadows, a lone figure.

Pan had noticed nothing, was still basking in the adoration of his public, as the figure stepped out. Clad in gladiator's costume of manica, greaves, sandals, loincloth, and shortsword. His left wrist was shrouded and tied in rough cloth, concealing the hook that Emma knew he wore underneath in place of the missing hand. Step by step, he advanced, inexorable as a nightmare.

A sudden hush began to fall over the raucous thousands as the new challenger was noticed, followed by a whisper fast as wildfire. Even the mighty colosseum seemed stilled, wondering if this was part of the games or something much different, as Killian mac Dáithí came to a halt at the very center of the arena and drove his sword into the ground before him, waiting. Pan turned, no longer smiling. Stared at him. Then, understanding the challenge for what it was, began to move across the sand with short, sharp strides.

Emma saw the guards on the surrounds exchange baffled looks, clearly having no idea if they should leap in and pull the two apart, or let it play out as it would. Pan and Killian were already circling like a pair of stalking panthers, swords out, and the crowd had clearly begun to think this was a final match, a treat, an unexpected joust for their favorite, and was happily preparing to lay more wagers and sit back to enjoy the show. Gods, if Killian kills him – yet that was too much even to hope for. He was making a fair show of it, feinting and bluffing, but Emma knew he could not hold out for long. The pain must be incapacitating. If Pan sniffed out his weakness, and scored even a glancing hit on his left arm, he would be done for.

She twisted her fingers together, briefly afraid she was going to pass out, as Pan and Killian closed even tighter. The crowd was chanting or shouting, some of them holding thumbs down to indicate that they wanted the arrogant challenger killed and killed immediately, but others seemed impressed by his bravery or appreciative of his madness; Pan was well known as the Cassianii creature, after all, and the Cassianii were certainly not without a myriad of enemies. Emma wondered how many of their opponents or their opponents' slaves they had sent in to die here, how many under-the-table "arrangements" they had made, certain of Pan's prowess to free them from any obligation to uphold them. It ends. It ends now.

One moment the two fighters were still circling, and then they lunged. Steel met steel with a rending crash, sending up sparks, and then, after a final breath in which all hung by the princess of Crete's magic thread, they were at each other's throats. Hacking and hammering, twisting, thrusting, slashing, uppercuts, backhands, a rain of steel on each other, blows sliding and shrieking off, almost too fast to follow. Pan went low, and Killian spun away, coming at him again, a thunderous roar going up as first blood was scored, dripping off Killian's arm and making Emma's heart stop – but it was the right arm, and only a shallow wound. The cuts came harder and harder, and Killian was gaining ground, forcing Pan back onto his heels, relentless as a tempest or a thunderstorm, using his superior size and weight on the younger, smaller man. Yet then Pan was recovering, coming back, blades locked over their heads, teeth bared. Reversing from the deadlock and slashing, Pan sensing victory, one more for the laurel crown, another pipe to play, another deal that Gold would win and then they all were damned and –

Everything seemed to happen very slowly.

Pan slammed the flat of his blade into his enemy's wound, and Killian buckled. Went to one knee, empty hand raising as if in futile defiance – Pan upraised, poised for the kill –

And then, as Emma's scream caught in her throat, Killian flung up his left arm.

He caught Pan's sword with a horrible rasp of metal on metal, twisted his wrist, and flung it away, as the cloth tore and the sun flashed on the lethally glimmering edge of the hook and the crowd gasped as one in a mixture of shock and horror and disbelief. Then Killian was up, clearly on his last reserves of strength, reaching for Pan, reaching, reaching, staggering, grabbing him with his right hand, pulling him closer, almost into a tender embrace –

Then, with one swift, utterly merciless slash, opening his throat from ear to ear.

Pan staggered, clutching uselessly at the wound, falling back, folding, facedown, blood blooming red, red, crimson, scarlet, ruby, black. Killian was still standing, but not for much longer. Reeling back, then falling, not getting up, not moving, both of them downed, dying or dead, as the roars of the crowd sounded almost bestial in Emma's ears, far away, dreamy, fainter and fainter, as the sky and the sun both turned white and then, slowly and softly, to darkness.