The Sarantine Mosaic (98 page)

It isn't a night to lie alone.

Of course it wasn't, but sometimes lovemaking—bought in a doorway or otherwise—wasn't the real need either. There were notes lying on a table in his home from women who would be exquisitely happy to relieve him of the burden of being by himself tonight, even now, even so late. That wasn't what he wanted, though for a long time it had been.

The woman he'd gone trudging uphill in the cutting wind to see was … closeted with her husband, the servant had said. Whatever
that
meant.

He swore again, fiercely. Why wasn't the accursed Master of the Senate off playing his night games with this season's boy? What was
wrong
with Bonosus, in Jad's name?

It was at this point, walking alone (a little reckless, but one didn't normally bring companions when attending upon one's mistress at night, intending to climb her wall),
that he'd thought of going to the stables. He wasn't far from the compound. They'd be warm; the smells and night sounds of horses would be those he'd known and loved all his life. He might even find someone awake in the kitchens to offer a last cup of wine and a quiet bite of food.

He didn't
want
wine or food. Or even the presence of his beloved horses now. What he wanted was denied to him, and the degree of frustration he felt was what— perhaps more than anything—was disturbing him. It felt childish. His mouth twitched at the irony. Did he feel old or young or both? Past time to make up one's mind, wasn't it? He considered, decided: he wanted to be a boy again, simple as a boy, or failing that, he wanted to be in a room alone with Thenaïs.

He saw the white moon when it rose. Was passing a chapel of the Sleepless Ones just then, walking east, could hear the chanting inside. Could have gone in, a few moments out of the cold, praying among holy men, but the god and his son at this immediate moment didn't offer any answers either.

Perhaps they would have, had he been a better, more pious man, but he wasn't and they didn't and that was that. He saw a quick blue flicker of flame further down the street—a reminder of the half-world's presence among men, never far away in the City—and he came, in that moment, to a sudden, unexpected decision.

There
was
another wall he could climb.

If he was awake and abroad and this restless perhaps he could put the mood to use. On the thought, not allowing himself time to hesitate, he turned and set off along a lane angled to the street.

He walked briskly, kept to shadows, became motionless in a doorway when he saw a party of drunken, singing soldiers stumble out of a tavern. He remained where he was a moment and watched a massive litter appear from
blackness at the other end of the street and then turn down the steep road they took, heading towards the harbour. He considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. There were always stories unfolding in the night. People died, were born, found love or grief.

He went the other way, uphill again, rubbing his arm at intervals, until he came again to the street and then the house where he'd spent much of the afternoon and evening in celebration of a wedding.

The house the Greens provided for their best dancer was handsome and well maintained, in an extremely good neighbourhood. It had a wide portico, and a wellproportioned solarium and balcony overlooking the street. He had been in this home before today, as it happened, and even upstairs—visiting earlier inhabitants. Sometimes those living here placed their own bedroom at the front, using the solarium as an extension, a place from which to watch the life below. Sometimes the front chamber was a sitting room, with the bedroom at the back, over the courtyard.

Without much to rely upon but instinct, he decided that Shirin of the Greens would not be the sort who placed herself over the street. She spent enough of her days and nights looking out on people from a stage. She'd be sleeping above the courtyard, he decided. Unfortunately the houses were set so closely together here that there was no way to get to the courtyards from the front.

He looked up and down the empty street. Torches burned fitfully on walls; some had been extinguished by the wind. He looked up, and sighed. In silence, having done this sort of thing many times before, he moved to the end of the portico, mounted the stone railing and, reaching above his head with both hands, gripped and then pulled himself straight upwards in one smooth motion onto the porch roof.

One became very strong in the upper body and legs after years of mastering four horses in a chariot.

One also developed injuries. He paused long enough to give vent under his breath to the pain in his arm. He really
was
becoming too old for this sort of thing.

From portico roof to solarium balcony involved a short vertical jump, another hard gripping, and then a steady pull upwards until one knee could get purchase. Life would have been easier if Shirin had chosen to make this her bedchamber, after all. She hadn't, as he'd surmised. A glance inside—darkness, some benches, a fabric hanging on the wall above a sideboard. It was a reception room.

He swore again, and then stepped up on the balcony railing, balancing. The roof above was flat, as they all were in this neighbourhood, no edging at all, to let the rain run off. Made it hard to find a grip. This, too, he remembered from elsewhere. Other houses. He could fall here if his hands slipped. It was a long way down. He imagined some servant or slave finding him in the morning street, neck broken. A sudden hilarity entered into him. He was being indescribably reckless here and he knew it.

Thenaïs ought to have been alone. She hadn't been. He was here, climbing to another woman's roof in the wind.

Footsteps sounded in the street below. He remained motionless, both feet on the railing, a hand on a corner column for balance, until they went away. Then he let go of the column and jumped again. He got both hands flat on the roof—the only way to do this successfully— and, grunting, levered himself up and onto it. A hard movement, not without cost.

He remained lying where he was for a time, on his back, determinedly not rubbing at his arm, looking up at
the stars and the white moon. The wind blew. Jad had made men to be foolish creatures, he decided. Women were wiser, on the whole. They slept at night. Or closeted themselves with their husbands. Whatever that meant.

He laughed this time, softly to himself,
at
himself, and stood up. He walked, treading lightly, towards the place where the roof ended at a view of the interior courtyard below. He saw a small fountain, dry still at winter's end, stone benches around it, bare trees. The white moon shone, and the stars. Windy night, brilliantly clear. He realized that he felt happy, suddenly. Very much alive.

He knew exactly where her bedroom would be, could see the narrow balcony below. He took another look at the pale moon. A sister of the god, the Kindath called it. A heresy, but one could—privately—understand it sometimes. He looked over the roof edge. Going down would be easier. He dropped to his stomach, swung his legs over the side, lowered himself as far as he could, hands stretched above him. Then he dropped neatly to the balcony, landing silently, like a lover or a thief. He straightened from a crouch, moved softly forward to peer through the two glasspanelled doors into the woman's room. One door, oddly, was ajar in the cold night. He looked at the bed. No one there.

‘There is a bow trained on your heart. Stop where you are. My servant will kill you happily if you do not declare yourself,' said Shirin of the Greens.

It seemed wise to stop where he was.

He had
no
idea how she'd known he was there, how she'd had time to summon a guard. It also occurred to him—very belatedly—to wonder why he'd assumed she would be sleeping alone.

Declare yourself
,
she'd ordered. He did have his self-respect.

‘I am Heladikos, son of Jad,' he said gravely. ‘My father's chariot is here. Will you come ride with me?'

There was a silence.

‘Oh, my!' Shirin said, her voice changing.
‘You?'

Speaking quickly, in a low tone, she dismissed the guard. After he'd left, she swung open the door to the balcony herself and Scortius, pausing to bow, entered her chamber. There came a light tapping at the inner door. Shirin crossed, opened it only a crack, accepted a lit taper from the servant briefly revealed in the hallway and then closed the door again. She moved about the room lighting candles and lamps herself.

Scortius saw the bedcovers in disarray. She
had
been asleep; was dressed now, however, a dark green robe buttoned high over whatever she wore to bed, if anything. Her dark hair, cut short, just reached her shoulders. A fashion emerging; Shirin of the Greens set fashions for the women of Sarantium. She was barefoot, high-arched, moving dancer-light over her floor. He felt, looking at her, a quick pulse of desire. This was a
very
attractive woman. He loosened his cloak, let it fall to the floor behind him. He began to feel a measure of control returning with the warmth. He knew all about this sort of encounter. She finished with the candles, turned back to him.

‘I take it Thenaïs was with her husband?'

Asked it with
such
a wide-eyed, innocent smile.

He swallowed hard. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Watched her sit, still smiling, on a cushioned seat near the banked fire.

‘Do sit down, charioteer,' she murmured, her back straight, exquisitely poised. ‘One of my women will bring us wine.'

With great confusion and very real relief, he sank into the indicated seat.

THE PROBLEM WAS
that he was an absurdly attractive man. Shedding his cloak, clad still in white from the wedding, Scortius appeared permanently young, immune to all the aches and doubts and infirmities of lesser mortals.

She'd been lying alone, by choice of course. Jad knew there were enough who would have offered their versions of solace in the dark had she asked or allowed. But Shirin had discovered that the greatest luxury of status, the real privilege it conveyed, was the power to not allow, and to ask only when and where she truly desired.

There would come a time when it would make sense to take a protector, perhaps even an important husband from the army or one of the wealthy merchants or even someone from the Imperial Precinct. There was a living Empress who was proof of such possibilities. But not now. She was young still, at the apex of her fame in the theatre, and had no need— yet—for a guardian.

She
was
guarded, by celebrity, and other things. Among those other things was the fact that she had someone here to warn her when there were those who sought her room after darkfall.

‘I understand that he couldn't be killed, but why is the man sitting at his ease with wine to come? Enlighten me, please.'

‘Danis, Danis. Isn't he gorgeous?'
she asked silently, knowing what the bird would say to that.

‘Oh. Wonderful. Wait for him to smile once more, then take him to bed, is that the idea?'

Scortius of Soriyya smiled, uneasily.

‘Why, ah, would you think that, I, er …'

‘Thenaïs?' she finished for him. ‘Oh, women know these things, dear man. I saw you looking at her this afternoon. I must say she's exquisite.'

‘Um, no! I mean, I'd, ah, say rather that … women may see strands of stories, where none are really to be found.' His smile grew more assured. ‘Though I must say
you
are exquisite.'

‘You see? I knew it!'
said Danis.
‘You
know
what this man is like! Stay where you are. Don't smile back!'

Shirin smiled. Lowered her eyes demurely, hands in her lap. ‘You are too kind, charioteer.'

A scratching at the door again. To preserve her guest's identity—and avoid the windstorm of gossip this visit would cause—Shirin rose and took the tray herself from Pharisa, not letting her in. She set it down on the side table and poured for both of them, though Jad knew she didn't need more wine at this hour. There was a tingle of excitement in her that she couldn't deny. The whole of the City—from palace to chapel to wharfside caupona— would be stupefied were it to learn of this encounter between the First of the Blues and the Greens' Principal Dancer. And the man was—

‘More water in yours!
' Danis snapped.

‘Quiet, you. There's plenty of water in it.'

The bird sniffed.
‘I don't know why I bothered to warn you of sounds on the roof. Might as well have let him find you naked in bed. Save him so much bother.'

‘We didn't know who it was,'
she said reasonably.

‘How did you, ah, realize I was there?' Scortius asked, as she handed him his cup. She watched him take a long drink.

‘You sounded like four horses landing on the roof, Heladikos,' she laughed. Untrue, but the truth was not for him, or anyone. The truth was a bird her father had sent her, with a soul, never sleeping, supernaturally alert, a gift of the half-world where spirits dwelled.

‘Don't make jokes,'
Danis complained.
‘You'll encourage him! You
know
what they say about this man!'

‘Of course I do,'
Shirin murmured inwardly.
‘Shall we test it, my dear? He's famously discreet.'

She wondered how and when he was going to make his overture of seduction. She took her seat again, across the room from him, and smiled, amused and at ease, but feeling an excitement within her, hidden like the soul of the bird. It didn't happen often, this feeling, it really didn't.