Part 8 (1/2)
Tonight, Tirhin went forth beautifully dressed, and his friends were select companions of high birth and respectability, but he was making less than minimal effort to honor his young stepmother. And according to servants' gossip, he had not yet attended any of the palace functions. That in itself was a plain insult.
Caelan whistled silently to himself. The prince played with fire. Would the emperor let his son get away with such behavior? Would he send Tirhin off to the war as he had done before? Would he banish his one and only heir for a time to teach him better manners? Kostimon was infamous for not tolerating any disrespect. He had killed sons before. He could again.
In honor of the empress, every house in Imperia looked alight with guests and merriment. High in the western hills r.i.m.m.i.n.g the city, the villas of the n.o.bility stood secluded and separate within their own gardens and groves. It was to one of these exclusive homes that the prince rode now. He was welcomed by his hosts, and the prince and his friends spent an hour among staid surroundings with mostly middle-aged guests of eminent respectability. Having been left in the hall under the sharp eye of the porter, Caelan saw nothing of the house except a few pieces of statuary and a hard bench to sit on. He could hear the sedate strains of lute music, and well-modulated laughter. It was not Tirhin's usual sort of party, but in the past year Caelan had learned that a prince with ambition did not always seek pleasure but instead worked to purposes unexplained to mere gladiators.
The porter had nothing to say to Caelan. Presumably he had no interest in betting on the arena games. Or perhaps his owner did not permit him to gamble. If he even knew who Caelan was, he looked completely unimpressed. It was a long, silent hour of boredom. Caelan had never been one to stand much inactivity.
Just before he rose to his feet to go outside and prowl about in the darkness, the prince emerged with the well wishes of his host, a gray-haired man looking much gratified by the honor that had been conferred on him by Tirhin's visit.
They rode to another villa, staying only a short time before leaving again. The prince did this twice more until at last they arrived at the exquisite home of Lady Sivee.
Caelan had been here before, and he found himself grinning with antic.i.p.ation. Now that social obligations had been satisfied, they could enjoy themselves. The lady was a youngish widow of considerable beauty and fortune. She spent her money on lavish entertainments, and threw the best parties in Imperia. Her personal notoriety did not keep people away, and she delighted in mixing people of different social cla.s.ses and standing. As a champion gladiator, even Caelan was welcome in her home, for he provided additional entertainment for her guests, especially the female ones who invariably cl.u.s.tered about to admire his muscles. It was rumored the lady had hopes of marrying Prince Tirhin, but while the prince dallied, he did not propose. Politically, he could do better.
The rooms were crowded with guests, but Lady Sivee came fluttering through to greet the prince warmly.
”Sir, we are honored indeed by your graciousness,” she said with a radiant smile.
The prince kissed her hand. ”My lady, how could I even think of forgoing your invitation? You knew I would come.”
”I could only hope,” she replied.
Her gaze swept to the others, and when they had been suitably greeted and directed onward to the tables of food and drink, she turned to Caelan.
”Welcome, champion,” she said with kindness. ”There were rumors that you had suffered grievous wounds. I am glad to see them false. You look particularly well.”
”Thank you, my lady,” he said, pleased by the courtesy she extended to him. ”Your hospitality s.h.i.+nes above the rest.”
Her brows arched, and she seemed surprised by his gallantry. ”Well, well,” she said. ”You are gaining polish. Soon you will have a charm equal to your master's.”
”Never, if I may contradict a lady's p.r.o.nouncement,” he said, drawing on his boyhood lessons in etiquette. Gladiator or not, he wasn't a barbarian and he didn't intend to be taken for one. ”My master surpa.s.ses most men in ability, wit, and graciousness. Together, those qualities create a charm I could never approach.”
Lady Sivee laughed. ”Truly I am amazed by this speech. You sound like a courtier instead of a gladiator.”
Caelan bowed, accepting the compliment.
”But I must question you,” she continued. ”You say the prince surpa.s.ses most most men. Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpa.s.s such a man whom the G.o.ds have favored so completely?” men. Are you not at risk with this opinion? Who possibly could surpa.s.s such a man whom the G.o.ds have favored so completely?”
As she spoke, her gaze followed the prince, who had reached the opposite side of the room. Everyone was vying for a chance to speak to him or to attract his notice. Prince Tirhin acted graciously, nodding to some, speaking to others.
Caelan watched him too, aware of the ears listening to his conversation with the hostess, aware of those who stared at him as though they could not believe him capable of opening his mouth intelligently. He was not going to fall into any trap. Yet here was one small chance for a dig at the prince's expense, a temptation impossible to resist.
”Who?” Lady Sivee persisted, her eyes s.h.i.+ning merrily. ”Who is his better? Who? I would know this paragon, this man without peer.”
”Only the emperor, my lady,” Caelan said in a mild voice. ”I meant no disparagement of my esteemed master; only the truth do I speak.”
Someone laughed, and Lady Sivee flushed.
”Very clever,” she said, and tossed her head. Turning her back on Caelan, she walked away to link arms with a friend.
The man who laughed gave Caelan a mock salute. ”Well done,” he said. ”An articulate fighter is a curiosity indeed. A witty one is a rarity. Who taught you repartee?”
Another man joined the first, saving Caelan from having to answer. This one leaned forward, his cheeks bulging with honeyed dates.
”Didn't expect to see Giant here,” he said, poking at Caelan's tunic with his forefinger. ”Word on the streets was that he died.”
”Obviously he didn't,” the first man replied.
While they were busy talking to each other, Caelan bowed to them and seized the chance to melt away into the crowd. He towered over most of the other men, and his broad shoulders were constantly colliding with others in the general crush. Caelan disliked such close quarters. Living a life of constant combat, he had difficulty switching off his alert instincts. To be crowded like this meant anyone could attack with little or no warning. Caelan tried to tell himself no one had such intentions, but every brush of a sleeve against him made his muscles tense.
Remembering his instructions, Caelan wandered into other rooms away from the eye of his master. He found himself recognized and greeted by some, and stared at by others who seemed insulted by the unfettered presence of a thug in their midst.
Deeply tanned from constant exposure to the outdoors and considered exotic because of his blue eyes, light hair, and height, Caelan found himself ogled and watched by both men and women. Many asked him to discuss his victory over the Madrun. Giggling maidens approached him, begging to feel his biceps. Grinning house servants with admiration in their eyes offered him spiced wine and honeyed smiles. Caelan did his best to be gracious; there was always another room to escape to.
He strolled through sumptuously appointed rooms filled with priceless art. He stood in the company of lords and ladies. He watched; he sampled delectable sweetmeats and pastries; he drank as he willed. Normally, he would have spent the time pretending he was a free man. After all, with the prince's leash so loose tonight this was in one way a mark of his trust in his champion. In another way it was Tirhin's silent boast to his friends. His champion could not only kill the strongest, fiercest fighters owned by anyone in the empire, but his champion was also civilized, educated, and trustworthy.
But tonight, fantasy held no appeal.
Eventually Caelan found himself in a quiet enclave where a poet stood reciting his literary creations. The room was dramatically lit. A few women sighed over the phrases; the men looked half-asleep. It was dull indeed, but Caelan picked up a ewer of wine and helped himself to a cupful while no one was looking.
He sipped his drink, standing in the back where no one need notice his presence. The poetry was well crafted, but staid and unimaginative.
Here, Caelan felt his bitterness return. With a grimace he lowered his cup. Yes, he could walk about his house as he willed, but he was not a guest. He could reply if someone spoke to him, but he could not initiate conversation. He could watch, smile, and pretend, but he did not belong among these people. His clothes were made of fine and costly fabric, but the garments were plain compared to the tailoring of the others. He wore a gold chain worth a small fortune, but it was still a chain chain.
To a man who had been born free, slavery-no matter how privileged-remained a galling sore that could not heal. What good were possessions, money, and finery when they were only a subst.i.tution for civil rights and a free will?
Worse, he had admired his master enough to serve him with honor and complete loyalty. Now he felt like a fool. How many times had Orlo warned him? But he hadn't listened. From his own stubbornness, he had let himself be used and manipulated. When the Madrun's sword and pierced his side, he had felt a fierce satisfaction-almost joy-at having succeeded in serving his master so well. Now he understood just how deluded he had been.
It was not easy to look into one's own heart and realize one was a fool.
As though magically sensing Caelan's dark thoughts, a man robed in green and brown turned h s head sharply away from the droning poet and stared hard at Caelan.
At once Caelan put down his cup and retreated from the room.
The man followed, emerging into the pa.s.sageway with Caelan's cup in his hand.
”Wait a moment,” he said. ”You left your wine behind. Here.”
Reluctantly Caelan took the cup from his fingers. He had left it nearly empty. Now it had been refilled. Out of politeness Caelan took a token sip, but in his present mood the wine tasted as sour as vinegar.
The man sipped from his own cup and smacked his lips appreciatively. ”Delicious, is it not?”
”Very fine.”
”You appreciate a good vintage?”
Caelan felt as though he'd been trapped in a mad play where he did not know the lines. ”I have not the training of a connoisseur,” he replied politely. ”If it tastes good, I drink it.”
”Ah. A simple man, with simple tastes.”
As he spoke, the aristocrat smiled toothily. He was not a member of Prince Tirhin's circle, and Caelan did not recognize him. The man had perhaps been good-looking in his youth, but now his square face had jowls and his body was going soft. He was sweating in the heat, and his expensive clothes looked stiff, too new, and uncomfortable.