Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Marco: Caged Bird
Iwalk home slowly in the humid night air.
Victora is beautiful like this, when the stars are brighter than the houses, and the stadium is silent and dark.
You can’t even see the wall that surrounds the city, or the vicious sentries perching in its crevices, alert to all the horrors of the outside world.
But eight hours from now the blistering sun will rise again, tearing the illusion apart street by street. Poverty, grinding work, the stink of dirty roads and the blood on the pavement. A meat grinder for all but the wealthy—the chosen class, of which I’m temporarily a part.
The men who walk two steps behind me, the guards, don’t talk to me. I’m not of their world. They do their work, they get paid, and they go home. They never speak a word of the things they see when they’re in my company.
I wonder what they think of me. After all, I’m a worker too, nothing more, albeit one wrapped in silk and gold.
When I was first let out of the dungeon, when the Emperor offered me the role of captain, I couldn’t imagine a day I’d choose to go back there. But now, knowing what awaits me in my grand villa, the exchange I agreed to make, I’d give almost anything for a few more hours with the team.
Light talk and a drink with Evander.
The company of the few men who treat me as an equal.
Robin…
Robin, listening to my story of home, that wistful look in his eyes. Did he recognize Atrea in my description?
It was stupid to say it, the wrong side of bold, but some part of me, spurred on by alcohol and misplaced hope, thought he might recognize it. Might recognize his kin.
Robin, who’s one of mine.
Robin, dripping wet, steam budding on his swollen arms. His nipples, pink and pert… and that big, hardening cock…
I push the image from my mind, walking a little faster.
That meant nothing. The man hates me.
And he’s not to be associated with this anyway. This life of mine outside the dungeon.
He’s fresh and untarnished, healthy and island grown.
And this… This is putrid and low.
This is what a man’s brought to when every shred of his soul is chipped away…
No.
It’s survival. Survival and nothing more.
They can’t touch my soul.
My sandals crunch on the gravel. My hand falls on the brass door handle.
It stills.
Survival. Nothing more.
One deep breath, and I push it down, then step quietly into the house, leaving my guards to join the others standing on either side of the front door.
I slip off my sandals and plaster a wide smile across my face, trying to force it into my eyes. I raise my head and my shoulders, put one foot in front of the other, walk down the dark hall, around the corner toward the lounge—
“Shhhhhh!”
A hand slams down over my mouth. I stumble backwards, hitting the wall as Maria pursues me, her face moving close to mine in shadow.
“He’s just drifted off,” she whispers, barely audible. Her large and frightened eyes move frantically toward the living room, then she releases me at a snail’s pace. The sharp tilt of her head is a command, so I follow her into the kitchen.
The first thing I lay eyes on is a carafe of wine on the central bench, then a paper packet ripped open beside it, spilling white powder across the oak surface.
Three seconds home and already my life is on the line.
Scrambling to snatch it up, I whisper a fierce, “What were you thinking? You’ll get caught!”
“I was in a hurry!” She splashes the wine down the sink, rinsing the carafe out, while I force what little powder I can back into the packet.
“He had one whole carafe while he was waiting. I had an entire teaspoon worth in there! I couldn’t believe he drank all of it.
He just kept talking, asking when you’d be back.
I was preparing him some more just now, when he stumbled, fell onto the coffee table. ”
“Oh shit. Is he okay?”
“No harm done to him or the furniture. But when he fell, I had to run out of here and leave it. You know I would never be so stupid as to let anyone see.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I seal the little envelope with a fold, then shove it deep down inside a jar of flour.
Turning back, I take a moment to look at her properly.
Her long black hair is slipping from the tight knot she usually keeps it in.
The kohl around her eyes has smudged, making the dark circles beneath them more pronounced than usual.
All signs she’s had a shit evening in my absence. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She taps the clean carafe down on the table with sharp finality, prim and proper, her professionalism a shield for all the trauma her twenty years in this place has stuck inside her. “It’s not me he’s after.”
“It makes little difference to a predator whether a mouse or a lizard crosses its path. It will happily devour either of them.” Her eyes flare in a quick show of defiance at my reprimand.
It only makes me feel ten times guiltier.
My elbows hit the bench, face falling into my hands, and I dig my palms into my eyes, as if I could squeeze out every memory of my life here.
“I shouldn’t have left you with him. I didn’t think he’d wait for me. Or that you’d have to deal with it.”
She comes around behind me, always so light on her feet. The firm circles she runs over my aching back soothe the tight muscles. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. You see?” She shrugs toward the living room where the sleeping Emperor awaits.
Yes, she can take care of herself, better than most men and women in this city.
And she takes care of me too. But she does it within the construct of my protection.
And that only exists so long as the Emperor deigns it.
The second he tires of me, I lose the villa and Maria—the housekeeper who comes with it.
There will be no helping either of us if that happens.
I drop my hand onto hers when it comes to rest on my shoulder. “Please don’t risk yourself like that for me again. If he’d discovered you…”
“Marco, you’re so tired. I couldn’t stand the thought of it tonight.”
Her words catch me off guard.
Maria can see it. Everyone can see it.
One crack, and they’ll stick their fingers in and pull me all apart.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
“It’s my last season.” I drop it like a mantra. “Then I’ll be free.”
“Marco…”
“And you’ll come live with me. And I’ll never let you lift a finger again for as long as we live.”
I’ve said these words to her so many times. For years now. And I’m not convinced she believes me any more now than she did when I started. “It’s a lovely dream.” Her smile is both sad and apologetic. I hate it.
“It’s my last season.”
One more squeeze of my arm, then a gentle pat before she pulls away. “Okay, Marco.”
I push off the bench, turning my weary body, every muscle feeling as heavy as the Deathball itself.
Her gentle voice calls over my shoulder, “He had a lot. He should sleep through the night.”
Overwhelming relief, a grief I didn’t realize was so close to the surface, floods me, taking me back to her, pulling her small frame close against my chest. “Thank you.” Her two thin arms wrap around me, embracing me as hard as she can, until I break the hold, take her shoulders, and make her promise, “Don’t risk yourself again. It’s not worth it.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I don’t believe her. And I love her for it.
Leaning down, I drop a goodnight kiss on her cheek, and she whispers, “Next time I’ll stab him in the heart.”
I’m too anxious to laugh, but the smile feels good. It settles me enough to leave her, to go deal with the Emperor.
The debt of thanks I owe Maria wraps my heart in a tight bind as I make my way through to him.
It’s never been easy being the Emperor’s favorite.
I’ve been through every emotion imaginable through the years.
It took a long time to settle on acceptance, but I’ve never been able to put a true shine on it.
I hate him. I hate what I have to do for him. I hate that I’m the one who must initiate our relations, every time, as if this was my idea. As if I actually want him.
It would be one thing to give myself to him. The charade of my enjoyment is another entirely. It wears on me daily, hourly. And it seems the closer I come to being made a free man, the less tolerable the engagement becomes.
He’s not an unattractive man—not on the surface.
Mid-fifties, still dark-haired, graying in dignified streaks just above his temples.
He’s desirable from a distance. He’s got a strong nose, a cleft chin, and skin that shows it was never in the sun for more than five minutes before a lackey came running with some shade.
It’s occurred to me more than once how easy this might have been. If he’d been handsome on the inside.
If he weren’t an animal.
If he’d only asked…
But my slave lineup wasn’t like Robin’s. The Emperor was there. He personally selected me. And I’ve been his since that very first day.
I had to work hard for him to let me perform that duty in his place.
Handsome men, strong men, all in a line, marching to their deaths.
At least I can make it fast for the weak ones. At least I can keep men like Robin out of his sight. For a time.
No such luck for me. I was washed, brought to kneel before him, and told how it would be.
Submit or die.
He gave me weapons. He gave me armor. He gave me hope. He kept his end of the deal, and he elevated me.
I gave him my body.
And a lot more than that.
When I find him, he’s passed out with his head on the arm of the couch, a little puddle of drool soaking into the ivory fabric. He’s growing softer by the day, living off wine, fatty meat, and the adoration of a people he keeps under his thumb.
Me included.
His empty wine glass sits on the table, and the thought occurs to me for the millionth time: one slip. Crack the bulb off the stem. Slit his throat. Turn the couch red.
It would all stop.