Chapter 6

Demons swarmed in the darkness, screaming and screaming, clawing at her face and snatching at her feet. Every time Emma raised a hand to ward them off, they bit into her flesh, making blood run red down her forearm until she looked and realized that the hand was gone, and only grisly bone remained. She tried to stanch the flow, but couldn't; her other hand was crisping to ash, gulped up in the inferno. Somewhere far away, swords clashed under a blazing sky, and she remembered that something dreadful was happening and she had to get there, but her legs had turned to tar. No matter how much she ran, she never moved. Then the ground tilted out from beneath her, opening into a depthless abyss, and she was falling.

Emma plunged through endless blackness, hit the bottom with a jerk, and opened her eyes.

Everything was so bleary and formless that it took her several moments to register if she was even awake. Then the world began to coalesce, sending a stabbing pain through her head as it did, and she belatedly recognized the ceiling of her own room, in her own bed in the Aurelius villa, a realization that sent shock lurching through her. What the – how had – she had wanted this all to just be a dream, and now if it was, if it could please be, if she could close her eyes and slip back under and awake to a morning where she had never let any of this happen and –

But even as she prayed it, she knew it wasn't. She felt achy and bruised and beaten, exhausted, eyes gritty, and too sore and heartsick for it to be anything but real. She watched the camphor flame flicker in the lamp for a while, counted her heartbeats, tried to patch together what must have happened. After seeing Killian kill Pan in the arena – after seeing him go down as well, blood blooming like Persephone's pomegranate, the white sun, the roars of the crowd –

She must have lost consciousness, Emma decided. Perhaps in the disorder, she had been fortunate – or unfortunate – enough to be recognized as the praetor's daughter, and thence taken home instead of the Aesculapium on Tiber island, where the poor and sick and plague victims were sent for convalescence. But if she was here, then that meant he was –

Emma sat bolt upright, ignoring the sickening whirl of her head, and swung her legs over the side of the lecto. She didn't know what she was going to do or where she was going to go, only that she couldn't stay here, and got as far as halfway across the floor, bare feet padding on the warm clay tiles, when she was abruptly interrupted by the entrance of a flustered servant. "My lady? My lady! You should not be up! You need your rest, you need – "

"An explanation, for a start." Regina, looking sleek and composed, materialized behind the servant and made it clear in no uncertain terms that her presence was no longer required. It was only when she had fled, and Regina stepped into the room and shut the door, that the mask crumbled. "You foolish, stupid girl! What in the name of the gods did you think you were doing?"

Emma flinched. "I wanted to – "

"I gave you a chance to have what you wanted of him, and have that be that. Now. . . this?" Regina waved a scathing hand, clearly unable to think of an epithet foul enough. "Though I do thank you for the revelation of the Cassianus spy in my household. He sang sweetly enough, told me everything I needed to know."

"And he won't run back and tell the – "

"Oh, there's a talent for making sure they sing only to you." Regina grinned, dark and feral. "I doubt he'll be doing much more talking with a cut throat. Now, my dear. We have very little time, and you'd do best not to waste it by talking. As you are so fortunately awake, you'll be going." She put a hand on Emma's back and steered her curtly across the room, out through the columns and down the narrow garden stair, past the fountain and arbor. To judge from the blur of blood-red on the eastern horizon, it was just before dawn. "You are going to the countryside villa, and if anyone asks, it will be put about that you are preparing for your marriage to Baelius. That should buy us a little time, if not much."

"For what?"

"For what?" Regina's grip tightened to a claw. "Don't you understand what you've done? Your pet slave killed Gold's pet slave! And suddenly all the other unfortunates who made deals with him, sealed on the edge of Pan's sword, have cause to wonder if their loss is still binding. The rats will come out of the woodwork now, mark my words. Gaius Flavius Cassianus is the most powerful man in the empire behind Hadrian, or perhaps not behind him. Heads will roll."

"But I thought – " Emma stumbled to keep up. "I thought that was what you wanted!"

"Did I?" Regina mused grimly. "No matter. The point is, if you want to keep your empty head on your dainty little shoulders, you'll do very well to be out of the city, far from any apparent interference or involvement. You threw my last gift in my face. If you do likewise with this one, it's liable to be the last thing you ever do."

"But – " Emma knew she was right, but still couldn't accept it out of hand. "What about Killian?"

Regina stopped short and let out a bitter curse of frustration. "Do you think that's any concern of mine? If you'd done what you were supposed to, he'd be safe! It was your idiocy in trying to free him that led to this. He's a slave. He'll die, and he deserves it."

"No." Emma didn't move. "He's not. I freed him. And he won. I'm not going to let Gold get away with killing him. And besides." She didn't know if it was a weakness, or if she was merely delusional, but she had to grasp for whatever she could. "Would you do the same if it was Robin?"

Regina remained motionless for a moment longer, then cursed again. Without another word, she snatched Emma by the wrist and nearly dragged her along, down to the very same postern gate that she and Killian had escaped through the first time. Regina removed a set of keys from her shawl – stealing them from the household had earned a wife severe punishment, even death, not that long ago – and shoved it open, then escorted Emma out into the alley. A cart and driver, half-hidden in the shadows, were waiting, and Regina shoved Emma tersely toward the canvas-draped back. As Emma crawled underneath it, making sure she was hidden, she saw Regina bend toward the driver and say something in a low voice. It was only when he answered that she recognized Robin's voice.

Emma watched through the slit in the drape, tense and nervous, as Robin nodded once. Then Regina leaned down, took his face in her hands, and kissed him for one long moment, her loosened black hair tumbling over them both. Robin's own hand floated up as if to touch her, but didn't quite. Then they pulled away, Regina said something else, and Robin cracked the whip over the ox's back. Squeaking and lumbering, they rolled down the steep streets of Palatine Hill, which were mostly empty. Emma lay still and tense, having no idea what was meant for her.

They crossed the city, a seemingly interminable journey, and then finally slowed. Peering through, Emma saw the great shadow of the colosseum towering over them, huge and silent in the thin grey predawn light. Empty of its screaming crowds and clashing gladiators, the pomp and spectacle and circumstance of the Ludi Romani, preparing for another round of bloodsport and death on the morrow. She opened her mouth, about to say something, but Robin turned and gave her a very sharp look. Then from under his hooded cloak, he removed a shortsword and buckled it around his waist. It was death for any slave to be caught armed, especially after Spartacus and the six thousand crucified rebels, and Emma's breath caught. What is he –

Once more, Robin silenced her with a glance. Then he stood up and jumped to the ground, and she watched as he stole off. They couldn't have much time, and she squirmed around, possessed by a sudden and uncontrollable urge to follow him. But she had enough sense to realize that there was nothing she could do, and as if in a dream, her thoughts drifted to her parents. Did they know she was all right? Had they disowned her? Were they themselves protesting their innocence to Gold at this very moment? The thought of just how much trouble her defiance could have caused made Emma feel lightheaded – and oddly exultant. I'm not yours. I don't belong to you. And come whatever may, it would not include her marriage to Baelius.

At last, the sound of running footsteps broke her reverie. She balanced herself on a knee and peered out – just in time to see Robin nearly throwing a comatose Killian on top of her. The story of how he had sprung his fellow from whatever miserable bolthole he'd been held prisoner down was clearly going to go untold, as Robin sprinted back around to the driver's seat, leapt up, and jolted them into motion, the ox achieving such speed as to make Emma wonder if he'd been purloined from pulling Apollo's chariot for the day. They jerked and rattled to the gates, had a brief and nerve-wracking encounter with the guards on the surrounds, but were allowed to pass unquestioned when Robin must have flashed the praetor's seal at them. Then they were out, out in the world beyond, and she got enough of a look to see that they were on the Via Appia, the road that ran south all the way to Brindisi. The Aurelius seaside villa lay in Terracina, a little over ten leagues distant. A messenger on a fast horse, riding hard and stopping little, could make it in a day, but with the luxuries of a patrician household and the correspondent leisurely pace, Emma had never done it in fewer than three.

Everything turned into an interminable blur. Emma braced her feet on the rough boards and managed to get her arms around Killian, holding him from sliding off the cart. He groaned and shifted, but never surfaced into consciousness. There was fresh blood on the tangled wrappings around the stump of his left arm; the hook was gone. How long until they discover that we are as well? She knew that their lives remained horribly in danger, that all this was a ruse, smoke and misdirection, a conjurer's trick on a stage. He will find us. He will always find us.

Time continued to while past. They stopped, changed the ox for a fresh beast, and Robin thrust a waterskin and a loaf of hard brown bread under the canvas. Emma held Killian's head and coaxed and cursed until she got a few drops and crumbs into him, then steeled herself for further hours of bone-bruising jolting. It was stiflingly hot with the sun full up and beating down on them, and a splinter was digging into her back, but she didn't care. All she wanted was for them to get as far away from Rome as possible, from everything it meant and everything it symbolized.

Despite the discomfort, she must have fallen asleep, lulled into a stupor by the steady movement. When she opened her eyes, her throat was as dry and scratchy as sand, it was nighttime, and they were rolling up to the villa, starlight twinkling on the wine-dark sea. It made her think of the adventures of Ulysses, and of his wife, plagued by unwanted suitors. If only I had the weaving to unpick. But then there was a blaze of torchlight, and Robin's face looming over them, and it was time to go.

Emma scrambled out of the cart and nearly fell, cramped and weak and sore from hours and hours of hiding. But she regained her balance, and helped Robin with the tottering Killian, his arms draped over their shoulders as they hauled him up the path. Since the servants and slaves and soldiers were all back in Rome with the main household, there was nobody except the three of them, and Emma felt almost ghostly as they tramped through the garden and into the elegant, airy halls. They found Killian a bed and hoisted him onto it, and Robin checked the dressings of his wounds, a fine line carved between his brows the entire time. He was evasive when Emma asked if he would be all right, then departed to find them some more food.

When he was gone, Emma crawled up on the bed beside Killian and laid her head on his chest. The slow, deep thump of his heart was reassuring, and she closed her eyes, able to imagine for the moment that they were the only two people in the village, the empire, the world. She was tired, so tired, but didn't want to drop back to sleep, for fear that he would somehow have been spirited away when she woke. She couldn't begin to process the immensity of the last days. Only that somehow, impossibly, they were still together, still alive, still fighting.

Overcome by weariness, she gave into the soft darkness regardless of her protestations. When she woke again, rosy-fingered dawn was stealing in, and Killian was stirring next to her, a slit of blue showing beneath his eyelashes. He put out his good hand to grasp at her, looked stunned to discover that she was solid, and stared. "Lass?"

"It's me." Emma smiled tremulously. She couldn't blame him for his confusion; the last that he would have been measurably aware of the situation, he was a prisoner in the colosseum under sentence of execution. "How – how are you feeling?"

Killian groaned. "Like death was knocked down and pissed on. Where the blazes are we?"

"Our country villa." Emma shifted closer; the warmth of his body was welcome against the cool of the morning, and she couldn't rid herself of the desire to touch him, just to be near him. "Robin got us here. We'll take care of you."

Killian's eyelashes fluttered at the mention of his friend and comrade in arms, but he didn't reply. Instead, with a grunt of exertion, he reached up and carefully, lightly threaded her filthy, tangled hair through his bloody fingers, with a look of wonder and awe on his face as if he had just beheld his goddess Danu in the flesh. She didn't want to hurt him further, but she couldn't breathe, and all she could do was lower her lips to his, kissing him gently and then harder.

Killian sighed, then crushed her closer, as she rolled half on top of him. For the next several moments, he clearly neither noticed or cared less about any pain in his arm, as they explored each other with something close to desperation, hot and deep and fervent, tasting salt and blood and sweat, the sound of their mingled gasps echoing in the stillness. They had just started to investigate if they could possibly be rearranged into a more comfortable and conducive position when a pointed cough interrupted them. Robin was leaning against a pillar, one eyebrow raised.

Flushing, Emma hastily disentangled herself and sat up. Robin had apparently gone thieving through the surrounding orchards and terraces, and had brought back grapes, bread, and a few bug-eyed fish who clearly had not yet processed their sudden seizure from the ocean. This was converted more or less efficiently into a meal, and all three of them ate like ravenous buzzards. Killian's color was better and his demeanor more spirited, and while his stump was still fairly hideous to look on, the pagans had done a thorough job stitching and cleaning it, and there was no reek of incipient infection. All that remained, it seemed, was if they could stay long enough to permit him to heal completely and then –

And then what? There was no way Killian could ever show his face in Rome again, at least not without then being stoned to death by a mob, and Emma's own future was similarly nebulous. Even assuming that Gold refrained from destroying her entire family, their reputation and position and wealth and anything else he could get his claws on, she couldn't imagine that he would be content to sit back and watch her make a new match, or otherwise get away without punishment. She had just poked the biggest dragon in this or any world directly in the eye, and there would beyond any doubt be consequences. Very well. Let them come.

Morning became afternoon. After the frantic hustle and bustle of Rome, this little seaside resort town felt quiet, somnolent, almost peaceful. Emma went down to the shore and waded knee-deep in the glittering blue water, feeling scandalously libertine. Her arms were already turning brown in the Mediterranean heat, her hair cascading in loosened curls over her shoulders. At last, when the shadows started to lengthen, she stepped out, slipped her sandals on, and trudged up the seaward wallwalk back toward the villa.

She was almost there when she stopped short, having a sudden and ineffable sense that something was wrong. The back of her neck was prickling, and she noticed the horse in the courtyard, one that had assuredly not been there when she departed, with an elaborate golden headstall and caparison. Visitors. Someone had known or guessed where they had fled. Someone had followed them. And she would have wagered every single denarius in the imperial treasury that she knew who.

Suddenly chill with dread, Emma advanced into the villa, clenching her fingers in her damp chiton. Windswept and salt-stained and sun-browned, she must look quite far from a proper lady indeed, but she did not care. She wasn't, and wasn't going to be. Let them nail her up too if they wished. Let them try. She would fight back just as hard. Show them who she was.

With head high and back straight, she walked into the inner sanctum, and stopped short, waiting.

"My lady Aurelia." Still clad in his dusty traveling cloak and clothes, Gaius Flavius Cassianus turned to her and smiled. "We were waiting for you to grace us all with the delight of your company."

A deep growl came from the couch. To judge from the way Robin's arms were straining, it was taking all his strength to hold Killian back, even in the latter's invalid state. Emma flashed her eyes to him, ordering him to control himself; if he charged Gold now, the loss of the other hand or worse would be the prompt result. Besides, they had to find out what he wanted now, and she addressed herself to the consul directly. "My lord. What a. . . surprise."

"Not so much as that, surely?" Gold flashed her the predatory smile he did so well. It was still late afternoon, the light rich and buttery, but he seemed to be soaking it into himself as he stood there, a dark one both great and terrible. "You knew I'd come for you. For you both."

"Aye, perhaps." Emma held his gaze, stony and unflinching. "I didn't know you'd break a deal once you'd given your word."

Gold shrugged. "Previous arrangements are irrelevant, dearie. Your. . . friend here changed all that, when he killed my champion."

"And you're a sore loser, crocodile," Killian snarled from the corner. "I beat the bastard fairly and cut his throat before a hundred thousand witnesses. You gave your word that you would honor the agreement. Release the lady from her betrothal to your imbecile of a son, and never breathe a word of any of this affair. To anyone."

"Oh." Gold's smile widened. "I will."

"You – what?" Killian clearly hadn't expected that. He frowned, momentarily at a loss.

"Indeed. I am fully prepared to honor the arrangement I made. So long as you, my stubborn friend, are prepared to play your part."

Killian's jaw tightened. "And that is?"

"Leave," Gold said bluntly. "Go and never be seen again. Go back to whatever wretched little soggy hellpit you crawled out of in Hibernia, conduct your life in peace. But never be seen in any realm or territory or province of the Roman Empire again, as long as you live, or my wrath will make the Furies look well-mannered. On you, on her, and the Aurelius family and name altogether. So make your choice. Are you willing to bring that down on the world? On her?"

Silence. Then Killian said hoarsely, "No."

"A sensible thought. I barely knew it could be managed." The consul raised an eyebrow.

"Why not just kill me?"

"Ah, but that's not in the cards for you, sonny boy. I prefer to leave you alive, to suffer. So then. I have your word that you'll go?"

"No," Emma interrupted. "No, I won't – "

"Do you want him to stay, then? Want me to reveal your dirty little dalliance to the world?" Gold grinned. "I can, you know. I would like nothing better than to destroy you root and branch, if you give me the opportunity. Or you can come back to Rome and have your life returned to you, exactly as it was. And the slave even gets to live as well, just not here. I am nothing if not merciful, dearies."

Both Killian and Emma were silent. He caught her eye and shook his head minutely. No.

Emma choked down the thickness in her throat. She was terribly aware that he was right, that she could not be responsible for visiting this kind of devastation on everything and everyone she knew and loved, could not brave Gold's boundless and unending and most imaginative malice. I have to let go of him. If there was any other choice, any way they could possibly stay at each other's side – but there wasn't. Just a lifetime of wondering what might have been, what could have. Nothing. Not remembering, or thinking something else, would be kinder. She longed for a Circe to work a spell, for magic, for sweet oblivion. But remembering would be her curse.

Killian found his voice first. "And so you're going to exile me now?"

"You're leaving tomorrow at dawn. There will be a ship waiting for you in the harbor. I advise you be on it. After which, I expect this. . . associate here will convey the lady Aurelia back to Rome, and we can all go on with our lives." Gold glanced at them both, deliberately. "You will agree that I could have crushed you into dust, and did not?"

Silence. Towering, immutable, infinite. A muscle worked in Killian's cheek, but he said nothing. Neither would Emma; they would not thank their enemy for anything. But Gold shrugged, as if it mattered very little to him in the end. Turned on his heel, and walked out.

That night was the only one they truly had, was to be the last memory or moment or glimpse or breath or dream of each other, and they knew it. They had each other once and then again and a third time, with a need that could never be met, that only grew deeper and more desperate every time, tasting and touching, fitting together, rising and riding above each other in the dim glow of starlight. She had never known such a coupling was possible, that man and woman could pleasure each other like this, that she could see him, that he could be there under her fingers, in her arms, in her. It seemed impossible that the air he charged, the space he took, should so soon slack away and fade and dwindle to greyness and nothing. That as long as she lived, for months or years or decades, she would only have the memory.

She would not let him see her weep. Nor would he let her. But she tasted the salt on his cheeks nonetheless when she kissed him.

Near dawn they lay entangled, dreading the daylight and the end that was coming, naked in body and mind and soul, holding each other, breathing slow. Emma ran her hand down the lines of Killian's spine, pressed a kiss into his sweaty dark hair, listened to him whispering in Gaelic and didn't have the heart to ask him what he was saying. Then slowly and badly and reluctantly, they roused themselves and dressed. Could gaze down to the harbor and see the ship riding at anchor in the outgoing tide, just as promised, and knew that time ran short.

Emma walked with him out of the villa, to the shore. Torches flickered on the prow like earthbound stars. Killian turned to embrace her one more time, to crush her to him, his mouth opening and musing against hers, and she clung to him as if she could never let go. But at last she had to. Become Penelope after all, once and for good. As she watched him wade out and climb aboard, as the oars came out and began to pull, as the ship began to move out on the glassy water, as it grew lighter, as daylight broke. As she stood there in the shallows, hair and chiton whipping in the wind, until there was nothing left but a faint shadow on the face of the deep, and the grey ship had been accepted by the sea.