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?"
Taras did remember. It had been done to him, last fall. He nodded, concentrating. This was business, their profession. "When do I whip him?"
"When you come up to a turn. Hit on the right side. And keep yelling his name. He listens. Concentrate on Servator-he'll handle the other three for you."
Taras nodded.
"Listen for me during the race." Scortius put a hand to his side again and swore, breathing carefully. "You're from Megarium? You speak Inici at all?"
"Some. Everyone does."
"Good. If I need to I'll shout at you in that tongue."
"How'd you learn…?"
The older man's expression was suddenly wry. "A woman. How else do we learn all the important lessons in life?"
Taras tried to laugh. His mouth was dry. The crowd noise was amazing, really. People were still on their feet, all over the Hippodrome. "You said… there were two things?"