The woman had stopped just inside, was waiting for Rustem. She said quietly, from within her sheltering hood, "You were correct, doctor. It seems your patient, our unexpected houseguest, is here after all. Do give me a moment with him, will you?"
And without waiting for a reply, she walked towards the man standing alone in the tunnel. There were two yellow-clad track attendants by the wide, high gates, not far from the small one where Rustem stood. They had clearly been about to swing them shut. Equally clearly, from the way they were looking at Scortius, they were not about to do so now.
He hadn't yet been noticed by anyone else. Must have remained hidden in the shadows here until the chariots rolled out. There were three main tunnels and half a dozen smaller ones branching from this large atrium. The Hippodrome's interior space was vast, cavernous, could hold more people than dwelled in Kerakek, Rustem realized. People lived their lives here, he knew, in apartments down those corridors. There would be stables, shops, food stalls and drinking places, doctors, whores, cheiromancers, chapels. A city within the City. And this open, high-roofed atrium would normally be a bustling, thronged gathering place, echoing with sounds. It would be again in a few moments, Rustem guessed, when the parade performers returned down tunnels from the far side.
At the moment, it was nearly empty, dim and dusty after the bright light outside. He saw the Senator's wife walk towards the charioteer. She pushed back her hood. He saw Scortius turn his head-rather late-and notice her, and so Rustem registered the sudden change in his posture and manner, and some things came clear with that.
He was, after all, an observant man. A good doctor had to be. Indeed, the King of Kings had sent him to Sarantium because of it.
He had anticipated a number of things, including the distinct possibility that he might collapse before getting to the Hippodrome, but having Thenais appear in the empty, echoing space of the Processional Atrium had not been one of them.
The two attendants at the gates had seen him as soon as he came out from one of the residential tunnels, after the last of the chariots had gone. A finger to his lips had ensured their immediate, slack-jawed complicity. They would be drinking until all hours on this tale tonight, he knew. And for many nights to come.
He was waiting for the right moment to go forward. Knew that he had-at best-only one race in him today, and a message had to be given with maximum impact, to sustain the Blues, quiet the roiling of unrest, serve notice to Crescens and the others.
And assuage his own pride. He needed to race again, remind them all that whatever the Greens might do during this opening of the season, Scortius was among them yet and was still what he had always been.
If it was true.
He might have made a mistake. It had become necessary to acknowledge that. The slow, long walk from Bonosus's house by the walls had been amazingly difficult, and the wound had opened up at some point. He hadn't even noticed, until he'd seen blood on his tunic. He was very short of breath, felt pain whenever he tried to draw in more air. He ought to have hired a litter, or arranged to have Astorgus send one, but he hadn't even told the factionarius he was doing this. Stubbornness had always had a price-why should it be different now? This arrival for the afternoon's first race, this entrance on foot across the sands to the starting line, was entirely his own statement. No one in Sarantium knew he was coming.
Or so he had thought. Then he saw Thenai's approaching in the diffused light, and his heart thumped hard within his broken ribs. She never came to the Hippodrome. If she was here, it was because she'd come looking for him, and he had no idea how-
He saw the Bassanid then, behind her, grey-bearded, slender, holding that stick he affected for the dignity of it. And silently in that moment, Scortius of Soriyya swore, with intense feeling.
He could see it now. The accursed physician would have felt some wretched sort of professional duty. Would have found him gone, deduced it was a race day, sought a way to attend, and-
This time when he swore it was aloud, like a soldier in a caupona, though under his breath.
The man would have gone to Bonosus's house, of course.
To Cleander. Who was banned by his father from attending the races this spring-he had told them so. Which meant they'd have had to talk to Thenai's. Which meant-
She stopped directly in front of him. Her remembered scent was with him again. He looked at her, met that clear gaze, felt a constriction in his throat. She seemed cool, poised-and he could feel the force of her rage like a blast from an oven.
"All of Sarantium," she murmured, "will rejoice to see you well again, charioteer."
They were alone in a vast space. For a little time. The parade would be ending, the others coming noisily back through the tunnels.
"I am honoured that you are the first to say as much," he said. "My lady, I hope you received my note."
"It was so thoughtful of you to write," she said. The brittle formality was its own message. "I do apologize, of course, that I was with my family for a short while that night when you felt such an… urgent need for my company." She paused. "Or for that of any woman who might offer her body to a celebrated charioteer."
"Thenai's," he said.
And stopped. She had, he belatedly saw, a knife in her right hand. And so he finally understood what this encounter really was. He closed his eyes. There had always been this possibility, in the life he'd lived.
"Yes?" she said, the tone as detached, as composed as ever. "I thought I heard someone say my name."
He looked at her. He could not have named or even numbered the women who had shared his nights over the years. All the years. Not one had found a way to unsettle him as this one had, and still did. He felt old suddenly, and tired. His wound hurt. He remembered the same feeling, the night he'd gone looking for her. His shoulder aching in the night wind.
"It was me," he said quietly. "I said your name. I say it most nights, Thenai's."
"Really? How diverting that must be for the woman lying with you at the time," she said.
The two gatekeepers were watching them. One still had his mouth agape. It could have been amusing. The wretched physician remained a precise, polite distance away. It was probable that none of them had seen the dagger in the soft light.
Scortius said, "I went to the house of Shirin of the Greens to present her with an offer from Astorgus."
"Ah. He wanted to bed her?"
"You are being unkind."
He winced at what flashed in her eyes then, realized anew just how enraged she was.
The lifelong mask of control, of absolute, flawless poise: what happened to such a person when something broke right through. He drew a too-deep breath, felt the shock of pain in his ribs, said, "He wanted to invite her, discreetly, to join the Blues. I had promised to add my voice to the proposal."
"Your voice," she said. There was a glitter in her eyes. He had never seen it before. "Just your voice? In the middle of the night. Climbing up to her bedroom. How… persuasive."
"It is the truth," he said.
"Indeed. And did you bed her?"
She had no right to ask. To answer was a betrayal of another woman who had offered him wit and kindness and shared pleasure.
It never occurred to him not to answer, or to lie. "Yes," he said. "Unexpectedly."
"Ah. Unexpectedly." The knife was very still in her hand.
"Where did they hurt you?" she asked.
There were noises now from one of the tunnels. The first dancers had left the sands. Beyond her, through the Processional Gates, he could see the eight chariots of the first race wheeling back around and up towards the slant of the start line.