Or maybe not a guard. The man was dressed in the same overall design, but his cape was dark blue, as was the plume on his helmet. And his breastplate, belt, and sword were of far higher quality than any Mircea had seen on the guards.
An officer, at a guess.
“I—yes, yes, dòmino,” Mircea bowed his head and bent at the waist, to the point that he was almost doubled. And then scurried down a couple of steps—until the man turned and headed up again, forgetting the bedraggled servant as soon as he was out of sight.
Down in the garden, the official who had been standing by the consul moved forward. “You have a petition, senator?” he asked pleasantly.
“No.”
“If you wish to ask forgiveness for the actions of your men, the consul will hear—” The man stopped. “No?” he repeated, as if the word had just registered.
“I come not to petition, but to rule. I hereby make formal challenge for the right to lead our people.”
The man appeared flustered, why, Mircea couldn’t imagine. Every damned person here had known that was coming. Unless he’d actually expected her to crawl.
He didn’t know her very well, Mircea thought grimly.
“And what grounds do you bring for your challenge?” the man demanded.
The lovely eyes slid to the consul. “Madness.”
The collective crowd sucked in a breath, and even Mircea felt a bit shocked. He hadn’t expected her to just come right out with it like that.
Of course, he hadn’t expected to be grabbed by the arm, either. “Are you hard of hearing?”
It looked like the officer hadn’t forgotten his presence, after all. And wasn’t that just his luck? Everyone else in the whole damned place was focused on the drama down below, except for one man.
And, naturally, he would have to be the one who spotted Mircea.
“El me scuxa, dòmino. Your pardon,” Mircea said, and tried groveling again.
But this time, it didn’t work.
“You’re very dirty for a servant,” the man said, taking a closer look at him. “And, yet, also too finely dressed.”
His fingers rubbed the nap of Mircea’s black outfit thoughtfully. It was a little worse for the wear even after the servants had dried it out and given it a good brushing. And it had some mud and grass stains here and there, from this night’s activities. But even with everything, the man was right—it wasn’t a servant’s attire.
“My lady, she likes to dress us well—”
“Your lady?”
“Lucilla, the wife of—”
“I know who she is.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have the look of one of Lucilla’s men.”
“I’m new, dòmino—”
“And if you belong to Lucilla, why were you delivering drinks just now, like one of the house slaves?”
“She asked me to, dòmino. She wanted a drink for her husband—”
“Indeed?” The man stared into the distance for a moment, dark blue eyes narrowed. And then back at Mircea. “That is strange. She doesn’t seem to remember it.”
Damn it, trust them to have the more intelligent guards inside, Mircea thought furiously.
He tried to look both stupid and innocent, as well as cowed and servile and unthreatening. But judging from the man’s expression, he didn’t think it was working. But then the officer’s head jerked up, as a drawling voice rang out across the crowd.
“Don’t tell me I’m late.”
Mircea’s head turned along with everyone else’s, thousands of eyes searching and then focusing on a spot on the opposite wall.
Where Antony stood atop a broken cornice.
He was in ancient golden armor now instead of a toga, and holding a sword instead of a wineglass. But he somehow looked the same. Especially when he leapt over the side, falling three stories to land in a perfect crouch at the feet of his queen.
And then looked up, grinning. “I challenge!”
The official, who had been halfway through an explanation of the rules, looked annoyed. Although not nearly as much as the senator, whose lips tightened into a single grim line. But her inner voice was not affected, and it was scathing.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“What did I just say?” Antony asked, getting to his feet.
“This is not your fight!”
“And yet I believe I’ve just made it mine.”
Mircea, who was willing to try anything at this point, tried a tentative mental message of his own. On the theory that if he could hear, perhaps he could also be heard. The senator had certainly seemed to be picking up on a few of his thoughts that day on the terrace.
But maybe that was simply the effects of fifteen centuries of observing people. Or maybe there was some trick to it. But if so, thinking really hard in her general direction did not seem to be it.
Because his message either wasn’t received, or was completely ignored.
“Don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “You cannot defeat him!”
“And you can?” Antony demanded.
“I have a better chance than you. You have no offensive skills, not against an opponent of his level.”
“And yet I am supposed to be almost impossible to kill.”
“It’s the almost that concerns me!”
Mircea tried to focus his power on his message, since that had always expanded his sight and hearing considerably. But it didn’t appear have the same effect here. Either that, or he didn’t have enough power left to help. Because neither party so much as twitched, even when he gave the mental equivalent of a scream.
“And are you concerned, my dearest?” Antony asked.
“If you dare to make a joke of this” —her mental voice shook with anger—“I swear to you—”
“I assure you, I am not joking. And offensive skills do you little good if you don’t stay alive long enough to use them.”
“As you will not!”
“We shall see.”
“I hereby issue formal challenge,” Antony repeated aloud. “Will the lord honor me or no?”
The official’s bald head gleamed in the moonlight as he looked back and forth between the three of them. He didn’t appear to be getting any help. “I—that is—this is unprecedented—”
“Nonetheless, I challenge.” Antony looked straight at the consul when he spoke this time. And while his voice was unexceptional, the sneer on his face contained all the haughtiness of an empire.
And also something else.
Something that made Mircea pause, because he’d seen it before. He’d seen it on the faces of his men, the night before the Battle of Varna, the last chance to save once great Constantinople from the Turks. The Hungarian king had decided to stop them; his troops had known he never would.
And yet they’d fought anyway.
Not for victory, or for glory. Certainly not for a king they didn’t know or respect. But for their homes and families. Their crops and fields. Their religion, for those who believed in it. For all they thought might perish if the Turks took the last bastion of Roman might, and swept into Europe.
They had gone expecting to die, but hoping that they might thereby purchase something that mattered more to them. Mircea had sat with them around their campfires the night before the battle, had shared their wine and bread, had listened to the stories they wanted to tell. And he’d seen their faces.