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  Rafael considered him. “Phil-os-ophy. You really do not recall any of it, do you?”

  “I taught you that word?” Stunned, Veris stared at him. The ground between them had abruptly shifted. Rafael was, in this moment, not the weaker man. “What happened in those eight days?” Veris demanded. “Tell me. All of it.”

  Rafael shook his head. “I cannot.” His gaze met Veris’. He had deliberately echoed Veris’ tone and words.

  Veris laughed. The merriment caught him by surprise and the chuckle emerged as a squeezed, sighing sound.

  Rafael’s smile was an echo of his amusement. The expression lightened his whole face and drew Veris’ attention to the fine line of his jaw and the surprisingly strong neck.

  Was that how it happened? Did he signal in some way? For Rafael leaned forward and kissed him, his full lips warm and soft.

  For just a fraction of a heartbeat, Veris enjoyed the kiss. Then better sense asserted itself. He shoved Rafael away. The man sprawled on the bleached white earth beyond the blanket, his fine merchant’s dalmatic and cloak coated in the stuff.

  Rafael picked himself up, his expression bewildered.

  Veris didn’t remember getting to his feet. He stood over Rafael, his chest heaving.

  “I do not understand. You like…men,” Rafael said. “I know it.”

  “I like people,” Veris shot back, his anger rising. “You are not a person, despite your fine clothes and sandals.” He picked up Rafael’s forearm and held it up so the wretchedly white, bloodless flesh above his wrist was between them. “You’re still a slave. In here.” He tapped the man’s chest. “Find another way to thank me for saving your miserable life.”

  Rafael’s eyes widened.

  Veris tossed his hand back. “And I do not entertain liars in my bed, either.” He turned and made himself stalk away before he said anything else he might regret.

  The sun was at its highest when they came to the tiny inn on the side of the road.

  Rafael, who had said nothing all day, straightened on the bench, staring at the parched, lonely building. “This place is the last I know. From here, I have only your directions.”

  Veris glanced at him, startled. “My directions?”

  Rafael’s gaze focused far away. He said in a flat monotone, “Continue east for a day and a night. There is a village, Soma. The cave lies north of the village. You know the way from there, from when you first found the cave.”

  Veris barely noticed that the mare had come to a halt, as he let the reins go slack. “You quote me?”

  “You made me remember it,” Rafael said. He rolled his eyes. “It would all be so much easier if you knew how to read. Then you could have simply written a letter for yourself and I could have remained in Constantinople.” The bitter note in Rafael’s voice stirred Veris’ guilt.

  Then the secondary meaning registered. “Wait, wait… I knew I would not remember those days?”

  Rafael’s eyes widened and his wariness grew. “It is best not to speak of them,” he said stiffly and looked ahead.

  Veris had no intention of leaving the subject be. Only, before he could do more than fill his lungs to interrogate Rafael for every last scrap and detail, Rafael shaded his eyes and said in a low, worried tone, “Those are Byzantine army horses, in front.”

  Alarmed, Veris extended his vision to pick out the horses tied to the railing on the far side of the building. Only the first two animals were visible. He noted the burnished copper buckles and stirrups. The smooth leather over the beasts’ noses. Their high and wide shoulders.

  The Eastern Legions had been shifting away from the old Roman foot soldier model for more than a generation, favoring cavalry and speed. The Byzantine legions always acquired the best and strongest horses for their soldiers. Sometimes they didn’t pay for the animals, either.

  In one respect, the Byzantine army was identical to the old western Roman legions: Their fighting prowess and power was to be respected…or feared.

  Movement at the door of the tiny inn drew Veris’ gaze. An officer stood peering at them, his hand to his eyes, his cloak furled back over his shoulders.

  “We’ve been seen,” Veris breathed.

  “If we turn around, they’ll come to see why,” Rafael added.

  Veris glanced at him, surprised at the display of strategic thinking. Then he realized it was pure survival instinct in the man, not strategy at all.

  “Can we just drive past and not stop?” Rafael suggested.

  Veris shook his head. “If you are right, if what I made you remember to tell me is correct, then there is no other inn or water between here and the village, a day away. It would be natural to stop. So we must stop and water the horse and eat, ourselves. It will raise suspicion if we do not.”

  The wariness which naturally arose in the presence of Byzantine soldiers was both mutual and undiscussed. They were in accord. They would ease away from the soldiers as swiftly as they could and pray they did not earn their attention in the meantime.

  They fell silent as the cart rocked and jolted its way to the inn. As they drew closer, Veris studied the details. A pergola built over tables and benches, to serve customers outside. The pergola, which should have been a shady retreat because of tangled growth of some vine or another, was a bare skeleton. Any vines planted to grow over it had long since withered and died.

  Instead, long lines of harsh sunlight painted the tables beneath.

  The inn itself had a long window open on one side, to serve customers. Cups hung from rope, beside the window.

  Farther along, close to where the army horses were tied, was a long and narrow water-filled tub, for watering horses. No shade was on offer there, either.

  Altogether, it was a miserable, dry spot, but it would be guaranteed the custom of every traveler, because it was the only inn in this area.

  On the benches beneath the pergola were a dozen soldiers, their leather breastplates and red cloaks distinctive. They drank from cups which were not secured by rope. The inn keeper had wisely chosen to behave as if he trusted the soldiery.

  The officer stood with his shoulder against one leg of the pergola, his arms crossed, his eyes creased against the strong sun, watching the cart approach. He had the raven black hair, cut short, and olive skin of a native Roman. Likely he came from a well-to-do family in Constantinople who reckoned their ancestors back to Rome itself, and had bought himself an officer’s commission.

  Only, he did not look weak or stupid, or dull. He straightened as the cart came closer and murmured something to his men. One soldier wiped his mouth of wine and hurried into the inn itself.

  Veris’ wariness increased. He let the cart drift past the pergola and halted the mare in front of the watering tub. As he fussed with lowering the reins, he pushed the sword deeper beneath the bench with his heel, where the sunlight would not glint upon it.

  Rafael jumped from the cart and hurried up to the mare’s nose and helped her step forward and drink. It put him on the far side from the soldiers, who had all turned to watch them.

  Veris let his cloak drop around his shoulders and arms despite the heat of the day, for it helped disguise his scars and the width of his shoulders. It also hid the hilt of his knife, which would let him draw it unobtrusively, if he needed to.

  “That’s the man, Captain! He’s the one who stole my slave!”

  Rafael gave a startled curse and looked over the mare’s neck. Veris whirled.

  The officer—a captain, although he wore no insignia—stood three paces from the door of the inn. A tall, skinny man of greater years, with thin hair and watery eyes, stood beside him. His chin was silver with whiskers and his long finger pointed at Veris.

  Rafael ducked under the mare’s nose, as the two men headed for where they stood. “His name is Baradeaus,” he said, his tone urgent and low. “He cheats at dice, so you cheated him, to win me. Then you freed me. You did not steal me.”

  Veris met his gaze. His surprise was muted by his growing a
nger. “A merchant of Constantinople, you said?”

  Rafael’s expression was earnest and sincere. “This is the truth.”

  Veris nodded. “I believe you.” And he did, for it made terrible sense.

  He turned to confront the captain and Baradeaus. “Good afternoon, Captain.” He let his gaze settle on the second man. “Baradeaus.”

  “See, he remembers me!” Baradeaus plucked at the captain’s tunic sleeve.

  The captain tilted his head, taking in Veris and Rafael. Rafael stood at full height, his shoulders square, and looked straight back at the captain without a quiver or tremble.

  Veris hid his smile. “Of course I remember you,” he told Baradeaus. He looked at the captain. “Be wary if he offers a game of dice, Captain. He shaves his dice.”

  Soft curses sounded from the pergola. “He fleeced me!” came the protest.

  The captain’s eyes narrowed. “A crooked game of dice isn’t as serious a charge as the theft of a slave.”

  “I won Rafael in a game, despite the weighted dice,” Veris replied.

  “He lies!” Baradeaus protested.

  “Then freed him, I see,” the captain said, ignoring Baradeaus. Instead, his gaze crawling over Rafael once more. “Are you so rich you can let a slave go, Northman?”

  Veris hesitated. Claiming wealth would make him a target, farther down the road. Neither could he claim he freed the man because his status as a slave offended him, although Rafael’s hasty whisper told him he had done exactly that. Only, to say so would mark him as an oddity and raise suspicion.

  He had already hesitated for too long. The captain glanced at the loaded cart with open curiosity. Veris could not afford to have the man look beneath the canvases. There were items in the cart he could not easily explain, for they had been acquired in a different time and place.

  “This is a trifle not worthy of your time, Captain,” Veris told him. “Let me buy you and your men a few flasks of wine, instead.”

  A few of the centurions at the table looked around hopefully.

  The captain frowned. “You don’t look like a thief. If the slave has been freed and stays with you willingly—”

  “Veris Gilmárdal is a good man,” Rafael said firmly. “Wise beyond what even he understands, and a fierce warrior, too.”

  Baradeaus shrank back.

  The captain looked curious. “Aye, you have the markings of a soldier. Were you with the legions?”

  “I was a mercenary for many years,” Veris replied, for there was no harm in letting the captain and all his men, who listened openly, know he could fight. “Now, I study healing. I am on my way back to Pergamum.” As the road east led nowhere else, there was little point in disguising the fact.

  “Captain, if he’s a surgeon, let him treat Florian’s wound,” a soldier called.

  The captain raised his brow.

  “I would be happy to,” Veris replied. “Only, I do not have my tools and herbs—”

  “They’re in the cart, remember?” Rafael replied. “Tucked down behind the bench.”

  Within reach of the sword.

  Veris shrugged and tried to look sheepish. “It has been many days since I packed the cart, and this has been a journey for business, not medicine. I will treat your man if you wish it.”

  The captain stepped to one side and waved toward the pergola.

  “Rafael—” Veris began.

  “I’ll get the chest,” Rafael said, his tone one of agreement. He spun and turned back to the cart.

  The man, Florian, had scored his arm on some rusty implement, somewhere. Veris did not ask for details. His companions had stitched the wound, yet infection had set in.

  Even though he had only been studying at Pergamum a short time, Veris knew how to treat the wound. He was pleased to realize that the contents of the chest Rafael brought him were all known to him. He remembered placing the items in there, and he remembered using them. He had not lost all his faculties in the missing eight days.

  Veris set about opening the wound once more, letting it drain and cleaning the interior, while Florian moaned and his companions poured wine down his throat. Veris re-stitched the wound, using the thread the surgeons in Pergamum had thoroughly boiled, then applied a poultice of herbs to draw the rest of the infection out. He gave the man and his fellow soldiers instructions on caring for the wound until it was properly healed, while Rafael repacked his chest.

  By the time he finished, the captain had moved to another table and was drinking with his men, his suspicion allayed. Veris nodded to him as Rafael carried the chest back to the cart.

  Veris refused as gently as he could the many cups of wine the soldiers tried to press upon him as payment. He moved back to the cart, climbed on and turned it onto the road.

  As the inn fell behind them, Rafael sighed. “Thank you.”

  Veris raised his brow. “For what?”

  “You don’t remember a thing, only you defended my freedom, anyway. You could have just as easily let Baradeaus take me back and avoided the captain’s suspicions.”

  Veris stared at the mare’s back, which shone a healthy cream color in the afternoon sun. “I could have done that,” he said in agreement, speaking slowly. “Only, it wouldn’t have been right.”

  “That’s what you said, when you first freed me. That slavery wasn’t right. You were angry about it.”

  “Was I?” Veris nodded. “It…makes sense.”

  “Does it?” Now Rafael was the one to sound surprised.

  Veris reached for an answer. It was there, just out of reach, for he had never had to find the words for the feelings and beliefs which had been gradually building in him over the years. “I have lived a long time, Rafael. I have seen far too many slaves and men bound by obligations, trapped in misery because of it. It isn’t right, although there isn’t a sensible man or merchant alive who would say so. They haven’t lived as long as me. They haven’t seen what I have seen. I’ve been a poor mercenary most of my life and couldn’t buy a slave. When I had the means to afford one, I was no longer interested in buying one. I had seen the plight of too many.”

  “And one in particular,” Rafael added.

  “Apparently, your fate touched me more than any other.” Veris still could remember nothing about freeing Rafael, even though it made sense that he would do so.

  Rafael hid his surprise.

  “Then you were not referring to yourself?” Veris said. He sat up. “Another slave…one known to me.”

  “I spoke out of turn,” Rafael said swiftly. “This is not a matter we can discuss, for your own future would be impacted by it.”

  “Future?” Veris turned on the bench to face him properly. The hint of great, life-changing affairs he could not remember made his heart beat. “Who are you?” he breathed.

  “I was once a slave. I am no longer,” Rafael replied. “Thanks to you and your need to turn to healing, instead of hurting. That is all you need to know…all you can know.”

  “While you know it all,” Veris said bitterly.

  “One day, so will you,” Rafael assured him. “At least, that is what you told me. That one day, it would all make sense to you.”

  They drove a dozen more miles, while Veris mulled over Rafael’s startling hints. Then he heard what he should have heard far earlier. He cursed and looked over his shoulder. “Horses. A mile or two away but coming closer. And fast, too.”

  Rafael didn’t question how he could possibly hear such a thing. He gripped his hands together. “The soldiers.”

  Veris snapped the reins, encouraging the mare to quicken her pace. “The captain showed far too much interest in the cart. We can’t out-run them. Look for a track, anywhere we can pull off and hide.”

  “It’s wide open here,” Rafael said, his tone worried. “Not a single olive grove or valley.”

  The bleached white earth spread to either side of them, dotted with rocks and the odd, stunted bush and dry grasses.

  Veris didn’t try to re
assure Rafael. He was too busy calculating, weighing possibilities and options. There had been fourteen in the unit, beside the captain. He could fight fifteen and win, even fifteen Roman-trained soldiers. Only, it would be a costly fight and he couldn’t protect Rafael while he was doing it.

  Hiding was their only option. There was nowhere to hide, though.

  “I see them,” Rafael said, his voice tight. “They are far away.”

  “They are coming closer. The horse cannot keep this pace for long.” Veris glanced at Rafael. “Even giving them the whole cart will not appease them. Not now.”

  Rafael’s gaze met Veris’. He nodded.

  They didn’t speak again, for there was nothing to say. They listened to the growing thunder of the cavalry unit gaining on them. Not even Rafael looked back.

  The soldiers stopped the cart by pacing alongside the mare and grabbing her halter. They tore the reins from Veris’ grip.

  They pulled Rafael from the cart, as Veris leapt among them with his sword and knife.

  It was a bloody few minutes. Veris killed six before another smashed the back of his head in with a stone. The blow would have killed a human. It dropped Veris to the hard earth, his senses reeling. He gasped, trying to pull together his thoughts, while his blood pooled in front of his face.

  Rafael struggled between two men, while the captain studied him. Veris watched with dull fury, his limbs useless until he healed, as the captain gripped Rafael’s hair in his fist and yanked his head back, to better examine him.

  Rafael spat at him.

  The captain wiped the spit from his breastplate, grinning. “Take him behind the cart and hold him down,” he said, his tone amused.

  Veris swore in his mind, his voice still useless.

  Rafael shouted and struggled between the pair as they hauled him around the cart and out of sight.

  The captain looked at his men. Six still stood. “Carry on,” he told them.

  They grinned and laughed as he stepped around the cart, unclipping his cloak.

  Veris got his knees under him and came up from the earth with a roar. There was only six, and they thought him dead, or dying. He finished them easily, for their shock limited their movements.