The Sarantine Mosaic (115 page)

Knew he was going to do it, somehow.

And in that same moment, seeing the drivers ahead of them swivelling to look back and stare, looking at the teams and their positions, and at one in particular, he had his idea, swift as horses, a gift. He actually smiled, baring his teeth, though breathing was very difficult. There was more than one wolf here, he thought. By Heladikos, there was.

‘Watch me,' he said then, to the other charioteer, to himself, to the boy he'd been once on that stallion in Soriyya, to all of them, the god and his son and the world. He saw Crescens look quickly over at him. Was aware, triumphantly, through the red, stabbing pain, of sudden anxiety in the other man's features.

He was Scortius. He was still Scortius. The Hippodrome
belonged
to him. They built
monuments
to him in this place. Whatever might happen elsewhere, in darkness, with the sun below the world.

‘Watch me,' he said again.

West of them, not all that far, as the two charioteers are leaving their tunnel, the Emperor of Sarantium is heading
towards his own, to pass under the Imperial Precinct gardens from one palace to another where he is about to make the final dispositions for a war he has thought about from the time he placed his uncle on the Golden Throne.

The Empire had been whole once, and then sundered, and then half of it had been lost, like a child might be lost. Or, better put, a father. He has no children. His father died when he was very young. Did these things matter? Had they ever? Did they now? Now that he was an adult, growing old, shaping nations under holy Jad?

Aliana thinks so, or wonders about it. She'd put it to him directly one night not long ago. Was he risking so much, seeking to leave so bright and fierce a mark on the world, because he had no heir for whom to guard what they already had?

He didn't know. He didn't
think
this was so. He'd been dreaming of Rhodias for so long—a dream of something made whole again. And made so by him. He knew too much about the past, perhaps. There had been three Emperors once for a short, savage time, and then two, here and in Rhodias, for a long, divisive span of years, then only one, here in the City Saranios made, with the west lost and fallen.

It felt wrong to him. Surely it would to any man who knew the glory of what had been.

Though that, he thinks, walking through the lower level of the Attenine Palace with a courtly retinue hurrying to keep pace with him, is a trick of rhetoric. Of course there are those who know the past as well as he and see things differently. And there are those—such as his wife—who see a greater glory here in the east, in the present world, under Jad.

None of them, even Aliana, rules Sarantium. He does. He has guided them all to this point, has strings in his
hand and a very clear vision of the elements in play. He expects to succeed. He usually does.

He comes to the tunnel. The two helmed Excubitors stand rigidly at attention. At a nod, one swiftly unlocks and opens the door. Behind Valerius, the Chancellor and the Master of Offices and the wretchedly inadequate Quaestor of Imperial Revenue all bow. He has dealt with them here in the Attenine over a rapid midday meal. Given orders, heard reports.

Has been awaiting one particular dispatch, from the northeast, but it hasn't yet come. He is, in fact, disappointed in the King of Kings.

He has been expecting Shirvan of Bassania to attack in Calysium by now, to set in motion the
other
part of this vast undertaking. The part no one knows about, unless Aliana has divined it, or perhaps Gesius, whose subtlety is extreme.

But there has come no word yet of an incursion across the border. It's not as if he hasn't given them enough signals as to his intentions, or even his timing. Shirvan
ought
to have sent an army over the border by now, breaching the bought peace in an attempt to undermine a western campaign.

He will have to deal with Leontes and the generals differently, as a consequence. Not an insurmountable problem, but he'd have preferred the elegance of things had there been a Bassanid attack already launched, appearing to force his hand and divert troops before the fleet sailed.

He is, after all, pursuing more than one goal here.

It is, one might say, a character flaw. He
always
has more than one goal, entwines so many threads and designs into everything he does. Even this long-awaited war of reconquest in the west is not a thing that stands entirely alone.

Aliana would understand, even be amused. But she doesn't want this campaign, and he has made things easier
for both of them—or so he judges—by not discussing it. He suspects that she is aware of what he is doing. He also knows her unease, and the sources of it. A regret, for him.

He can say, with uncomplicated truth, that he loves her more than his god and needs her at least as much.

He pauses a moment at the open door to the tunnel. Sees the torches flicker ahead of him as the air ripples through. Shirvan has not yet attacked. A pity. He will have to deal with the soldiers now, at the other end. He knows what he will say. Leontes's pride as a military man is his greatest asset, and his core weakness and there is a lesson, the Emperor has judged, that the younger man must learn before various next steps can properly be taken. A staying of reckless pride first, and then a moderating of religious zeal.

He has given thought to these matters, as well. Of course he has. He has no child, and succession is an issue.

He turns briefly, acknowledges the genuflections of his advisers, and then enters the tunnel alone, as he always does. They are already turning to leave as the door closes; he has given them a great deal to do this afternoon before they reconvene in the kathisma at the end of the racing to tell the Hippodrome and the world that Sarantium is sailing to Rhodias. He hears the door close and lock behind him.

He walks over mosaic floor tiles, in the footsteps of Emperors long dead, communing with them, imagining silent dialogues, luxuriating in that silence, the achingly rare privacy of this long, winding corridor between palaces and people. The lighting is steady, the air and ventilation carefully devised. The solitude is a joy for him. He is the mortal servant and exemplar of Jad, lives his life in the bright eye of the world, is never alone save here. Even at night there are guards in his chambers, or women in the rooms of the Empress when he is there
with her. He would linger now in the tunnel, but there is much to do at the other end as well, and time is running. This is a day awaited since … since he came south from Trakesia at his soldier uncle's command?

An exaggeration, with truth in it.

His pace is brisk, as always. He is some distance down the tunnel, under the evenly spaced torches set in iron brackets in the stone walls, when he hears, in that rich silence, the turning of a heavy key behind him and then a door and then the sound of other footsteps, not hurrying.

And so the world changes.

It changes in every moment, of course, but there are … degrees of change.

Half a hundred thoughts—or so it feels—run through his mind between one step and the next. The first thought and the last are of Aliana. In between these he has already grasped what is happening. Has always been known—and feared—for this quickness, has taken an unworthy measure of pride in that, all his life. But subtlety, swiftness, may have just become irrelevant. He continues walking, only a little faster than before.

The tunnel, twisting slightly in the shape of an S for Saranios—a conceit of the builders—is far below the gardens and the light. Meaningless to shout here, and he'll not get close enough to either door to be heard in the lower corridors of either palace. He has understood there is no point running, because those behind him are not: which means, of course, that there is someone ahead of him.

They will have entered before the soldiers meeting him in the other palace arrived outside the door, will have been waiting underground, perhaps for some time. Or perhaps … they might have entered through the same door he did and gone towards the other end to wait? Simpler that way? Only two guards to suborn. He thinks back and yes, he does remember the faces of the two
Excubitors at the door behind him. Not strangers. His own men. Which means something … unfortunate. The Emperor feels anger, curiosity, a surprisingly sharp grief.

The sense of relief that Taras felt when he heard the rolling, rapidly growing explosion of sound and looked back was as nothing he'd ever felt in all his life.

He was saved, reprieved, divested of the massive burden that had been crushing him like a weight too heavy to shoulder and too vital to disclaim.

Amid the noise, which was stunning even for the Hippodrome, Scortius came walking up to him, and he was smiling.

Out of the corner of his eye Taras saw Astorgus hurrying over, his square, bluff features creased with worry. Scortius got there first. As Taras hastily untied himself from the reins of the first chariot and stepped down, lifting off the silver helm, he realized—belatedly—that the other man was not walking or breathing easily, despite the smile. And then he saw the blood.

‘Hello there. Have a difficult morning?' Scortius said easily. He didn't reach for the helmet.

Taras cleared his throat. ‘I … didn't do very well. I can't seem to—'

‘He did just fine!' said Astorgus, coming up. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?'

Scortius smiled at him. ‘Fair question. No good answer. Listen, both of you. I have one race in me, maybe. We need to make it count. Taras, you are staying in this chariot. I'm riding Second for you. We are going to win this race and stuff Crescens into the wall or the spina or up his own capacious rectum. Understood?'

He wasn't saved, after all. Or, perhaps he was, in a different way.

‘I … stay First?' Taras mumbled.

‘Have to. I may not be able to go seven laps.'

‘Fuck that. Your doctor knows you are here?' Astorgus asked.

‘As it happens, he does.'

‘What? He … allowed this?'

‘Hardly. He's disowned me. Said he takes no responsibility if I die out here.'

‘Oh,
good,'
said Astorgus. ‘Should I?'

Scortius laughed, or tried to. He put a hand to his side, involuntarily. Taras saw the track steward coming over. Normally this sort of delay for an on-track colloquy would be prohibited, but the steward was a veteran and knew he was dealing with something unusual. People were still screaming. They would have to quiet a bit before the race could start in any case.

‘Welcome back, charioteer,' he said briskly. ‘Are you riding this race?'

‘I am,' said Scortius. ‘How's your wife, Darvos?'

The steward smiled. ‘Better, thank you. The boy sits out?'

‘The boy rides First chariot,' said Scortius. ‘I'll take Second. Isanthus sits. Astorgus, will you tell him? And have them redo the reins on the trace horses the way I like them?'

The steward nodded his head and turned away to report to the starter. Astorgus was still staring at Scortius. He hadn't moved.

‘You are sure?' he said. ‘Is this worth it? One race?'

‘Important race,' the injured man said. ‘For a few reasons. Some that you won't know.' He smiled thinly, but not with his eyes this time. Astorgus hesitated a heartbeat longer, then nodded slowly and walked away towards the second Blue chariot. Scortius turned back to Taras.

‘All right. Here we go. Two things,' the Glory of the Blues said quietly. ‘One, Servator is the best trace horse in the Empire, but only if you ask him to be. He's conceited and lazy, otherwise. Likes to slow down and look at our statues. Scream at him.' He smiled. ‘Took me a long time to realize what I could make him do. You can go faster in the turns with him holding the inside than you will ever believe you can—until you've done it the first few times. Stay wide awake at the start. Remember how he can make the other three cut with him?'