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— Day 157 —
He still wakes up in stages these days.
It’s faster now—faster than ever—but it still happens, and it’s like this: the cocoon of warmth around him, the give of the mattress beneath him, the heaviness of the bedding over him, the pillow beneath his head, the body stretched out against his back, this is a bed, this is a room, good so far.
Dean. That’s always first. There’s something new, though, not even two weeks old: next is Cas.
Dean, Cas, Chitaqua, brownies, fever, Ichabod, party, emergency, their headquarters, their room, their bed: okay, got it. Right arm, still there; right hand aches, but it’s a good ache; he can feel the faint strain in the muscles of his inner thighs from being held open that far for that long last night. Cas didn’t push past his comfort zone, but he was right on top of it, and his muscles are reporting to say he should either do that less or stretch a lot more. He’s going to say the latter is in his future and hope to God everyone pretends they can’t guess why he suddenly wants to be more flexible.
Dean, Cas, here, in their bed: awesome. Burying a grin in his pillow, Dean lets the rest filter in however it wants; he got the important stuff down. Dawn is just starting to peek through the small opening in the balcony’s curtains, spreading loops of grey-pink light across the walls and spilling onto the floor. It’s quiet, no one’s screaming (yet), and there’s no check-out at ten.
Safe, his mind offers up warily, testing the concept and finding it good: yeah, that, too.
He feels a press of warm lips against the back of his neck, the arm around his waist tightening. “Good morning,” Cas whispers against his skin, sending a shiver through his nerves that’s echoed with the scrape of stubble as Cas works his way to his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Dean says lazily, turning his head enough to breathe the last word against Cas’s lips. Reaching up and back to tangle his fingers in the dark hair, he slides his tongue into Cas’s welcoming mouth. He can feel Cas hard against his ass; yeah, he’s not the only one. Kicking back the blankets, he pushes back against it and catches his breath at the slide of Cas’s cock, tip leaving a cooling wet streak. “Gonna do something about that?”
Cas hand slides between his legs, pulling his left leg up—oh yeah, more stretching is definitely happening—and shifts his hips. He forgets all about muscle strain (and everything else) when he feels Cas’s cock slide between his legs, head bumping against the back of his balls. Then Cas drapes his leg over Dean’s, pushing Dean’s together tight for an experimental thrust that he can feel in his teeth and makes Cas shudder.
“That should work,” Cas breathes in his ear right before his left hand closes over Dean’s cock, and fuck yeah, that does fucking work. He doesn’t realize he even reached for Cas’s other hand until he squeezes the fingers of his right hand around Cas’s against the pillow. Closing his eyes, he pushes into Cas’s hand in the same slow rhythm as Cas’s cock moves steadily between his legs, an electric spark every time the head bumps against the back of his balls. Experimentally, he squeezes his thighs together on the downstroke and Cas moans against his shoulder. “Dean.“
It takes a second to match everything up, but Cas is inspiring; once he has it, he sets it to automatic, concentrating on the spreading tingle, the coil of pressure low in his belly and groin, how good Cas’s hand feels—holy shit, he’s got a guy who doesn’t have any problems with coordination first thing on the morning, thank you—thumb working expertly over the slick head on the upstroke. Christ, he’s almost dripping; this isn’t gonna take long at all.
It doesn’t; Cas breaks from sucking a kiss into his shoulder with a gasp, picking up speed, and Dean’s right there with him; a twist of Cas’s hand, a breath, and Dean’s coming hard enough to see spots dance in front of his eyes like solar flares. Cas isn’t far behind him, either, or so he assumes; a few thrusts that drag out the aftershocks, and Cas stills; the flood of liquid warmth between his legs is worth another shock all by itself.
Settled to his bones, Dean sinks into the mattress, taking the precaution of catching Cas’s slick hand as it reluctantly lets go of his cock, lacing their finger together and tucking them against his belly and tightening his thighs warningly just in case Cas gets some crazy idea he should move. He wants to keep this moment, everything about it; lock it away somewhere safe where it’ll stay fresh, and when he pulls it out, it’ll be like he’s here again: a grey-dappled room and warm bed, and Cas’s lips against the back of his neck, sleepy satisfaction and contentment infusing every breath.
“Breakfast?” Dean murmurs. Turning his head, he feels the scratch of stubble against his jaw and cheek, stilling when Cas comes into view; post-coital Cas is something to see, sure, flushed skin and tangled hair falling in his eyes, but that’s not what makes it hard to breathe. He can remember this, sure (and he will), but he doesn’t have to. He’ll have more of these, a lifetime of them, to pick from.
“Dean?”
“Later, I mean.” Rolling on his back, he brushes back the dark hair and smiles into the warm blue eyes. “Come here.”
Dean knows something’s wrong the second he reaches the mess and looks inside.
It’s not crowded—maybe a third of Chitaqua at most along with a few of their new recruits—but most of the tables occupied are toward the kitchen, leaving a pretty fucking obvious space around where Alicia’s sitting in the southeast corner. Sure, it could be an accident, but it’s also like a flashback to freshman year, high school six, when he forgot to play normal and paid for it. Good thing he didn’t have money for lunch, anyway.
Stepping back out of view, Dean stops being fifteen for a minute and tries to work out exactly what the hell is going on. A quick count shows they’re below threshold, no one looks in danger of violence—so far so good—but that just makes it weirder. They don’t need more weird; they got enough of that.
Joe comes out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee, eyes tracking the room before finding him at the door; nodding, he casually makes his way across the mess, and Dean retreats down the hall.
When Joe joins him, the casual look vanishes, brown eyes fixing somewhere south of his face. “Uh, Dean…” He raises his eyebrows: what? “You got—uh, something…” He gestures toward his neck in some way that Dean assumes is supposed to make sense.
Oh, right. “Hickeys?” Joe takes a drink from his coffee and makes a muffled sound that could be agreement. “I got laid, it was great, thanks; you should try it sometime. Moving on, what the fuck is going on in there?”
He grimaces, lowering his cup. “Short version or long?”
“You pick.”
“Carol.” Dean starts to ask what the hell Carol has to do with it when Joe adds, “And Kat. Maybe Kyle, too, not sure yet; he’s still hoping to get back in Alicia’s pants, but he’s gotta know his chances are zero.”
Dean stares at Joe for a moment, trying to absorb the mess is, actually, doing what it looks like it’s doing. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Gossip makes the world go around, and the shittier the better.” Joe sighs. “Kat’s popular, and I’m pretty sure at least a couple of her visitors took her way too seriously about what Alicia did or didn’t do outside the walls that led to Andy’s death. That’s not the problem, though.”
For a chilling second, he wonders if Micah told Carol about Alicia. “What?”
“What she said…” He makes a face. “Alicia said she’d done it before, when she took care of Andy?”
Dean feels no desire to work out why he’s relieved. “Yeah. Why?” Then he gets it. “Spit it out. Isolation?”
Joe nods grimly. “Kids.
“Croat kids,” he argues, keeping his voice low with an effort. “How the hell did anyone find out about that anyway? Dolores won’t talk, even to Vera…” Son. Of. A. Bitch. “Where’s Kyle?”
“Volunteer Center,” Joe says, eyes narrowing in sudden comprehension. “Son of a bitch. Yeah, left early: wonder why? Want me to go get him?”
Dean almost says he’ll handle that himself, thanks, but a glance at the mess changes his mind. “Take your team and get him as publicly as you can, make it obvious. Put him in an empty room here and don’t tell him anything but that he’s restricted to quarters.”
Joe’s bewildered frown changes into a grin. “I like it. What about Kat and Carol?”
“Carol’s invitation to hang out here is revoked.” Kat’s a problem; she’s popular and she’s grieving for her dead boyfriend, and that’s gonna buy her sympathy no matter what she does. He’ll worry about that later. “Talk to Sarah, find out exactly who Kat’s grief buddies have been for the last twenty-four hours.”
Joe starts to look wary. “Dean, look, I get you’re pissed, but you start disciplining people for what they say—”
“They can say whatever the fuck they want,” he interrupts, though that’s pending right now. “What they do, different thing. Anyway, not gonna punish them for being fucking sheep.”
If anything, Joe looks even more wary. “What are you gonna do?”
“Show ‘em how not to be,” he says, taking Joe’s coffee and almost choking at the first taste (black, Jesus, what, would sugar kill him?) as he goes back in the mess, pausing to make sure he gets as much attention as possible before walking casually to Alicia’s table and sitting down.
And is suddenly, viscerally aware of what he did last night (and this morning). Adjustment: the gift that just keeps giving. Not sore, exactly (he doesn’t make the mistake of spreading his legs, though), but something. With that comes the memory of Cas cleaning him up fifteen minutes ago—water restrictions mean no showers—but Dean can still smell Cas on him. A flicker of heat slides down his spine in a textbook example of so fucking not the time.
“Dean?” Alicia says blankly; her expression is almost worth the bullshit.
Grinning, he takes another drink and pretends he likes it while scanning the plate she’s barely touched. Chorizo, potatoes, preserved tomatillos, green peppers and onions and if he’s right, there’s tiny bits of jalapenos in there: eggs would be nice, but hell, who needs ‘em when you got that combination? “What’s up?”
Alicia puts down her fork, and he watches her eyes flicker behind him to the suddenly quiet peanut gallery. “Nothing much.” She may be an early riser, but the dark circles under her eyes tell him it wasn’t by choice. “Uh, Dean, I should tell you—”
“Pick up your fork and start looking like you’re enjoying breakfast,” he mutters, then thinks of something. Reaching for one of her tortillas, he tugs her plate toward him and clears enough space to unroll it. Taking her fork from her hand, he scoops a third of the mix into it, rolls it up, and shoves her plate back at her. Then takes a tortilla himself; Alonzo may be his favorite recruit. “Eat,” he says and waits for her to warily pick it up and take a bite. “You lied on your report about Ichabod, yeah; you worked isolation, I know; I can also do the math and I know what you had to do.”
She chews like it’s the only thing she has to do.
“I get why you lied about it,” he continues, pitching his voice for her alone. “Now you know you didn’t have to. You didn’t do anything wrong. Take another bite for our fucked up buddies back there. Now.”
She obeys—more from surprise than anything else, he suspects—and finishes chewing with an effort. “I would have told you,” she says quietly. “Before I knew you liked kids.” She takes another bite, and Dean never realized how much of an effort it is to just eat with this kind of attention on everything you do. “I like kids, too,” she breathes. “That’s why—that’s why I volunteered. Have you ever seen kids with Croat?” He shakes his head, tamping down horror; he will, one day, and he’s not looking forward to it. “I have. They shouldn’t have to live like that, not if…” She lowers her head before anyone can see her face crumple. He straightens, giving her what cover he can with his body.
“Keep eating,” he murmurs, taking another tortilla and waiting for her to take another grim bite. “I’m going to get us both coffee. Deep breath, then laugh like I just said something really funny.”
He’ll give her this much; she does, though he may be the only one who hears the hysteria in it. Crossing lazily to the carafes, he smiles a dare to anyone who has the courage to back their gossip-based convictions; surprise, no one does. He fills two cups, adding plenty of sugar and fake creamer, figuring Alicia can deal with Cas-style coffee, stops to grab more tortillas, and walks back, perfectly aware of everyone watching, the faint, uncomfortable whispers. Like maybe everyone in the room just realized they’re an average of a decade and a half past passing notes in English class; a little late, sure, but he’ll take what he can get.
When he sits down, Alicia is slowly rolling another taco up because she’s got the sense to know a good thing when she tastes it.
“Thanks,” she says with a bright smile as she takes the cup.
“Anytime,” he says, rolling his tortilla up for another delicious bite; even without butter, they’re awesome. “How long?”
“Since I came down,” she answers, then takes an enthusiastic bite.
“Anything else?”
She checks her chewing.
“Just the not-so-silent treatment or harassment?” he asks. “Alicia, you can lie if you want, but it won’t change anything. I’m gonna find out—”
“I can take care of myself.” She stuffs half the goddamn taco in her mouth: bingo, that’s where Cas got that shit. Chewing rebelliously—at least she’s showing less ‘animal watching for headlights’—she swallows, Jesus Christ, what the hell? “I don’t need anyone to protect me.”
Fuck his life, she sounds like Cas: word for word, even. What, did the two of them fuck then discuss how competent they are or something and don’t need anybody? Actually, he can kind of see it.
“It’s not your job to take care of this,” he says, (quietly, but to be honest, he doesn’t care if the peanut gallery hears this). “It’s mine, so let me fucking do it. One question: did you tell anyone else about it?” She opens her mouth to say no. “Other than Kyle, I mean, and why the fuck are you protecting him?”
She shuts her mouth on whatever she was going to say, staring at him like she doesn’t understand the question. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are.” He thinks of Micah’s answer to what Alicia would tell him if he asked her why their breakup involved weapons: she’d lie. “You done?” She looks at her plate in regret before nodding reluctantly. “Good. We’re leaving; smile and look really happy about something while I take our dishes back to the kitchen.”
Alicia’s smile doesn’t come anywhere near her eyes. “Why?”
“We’re gonna talk,” he answers, sliding her plate toward him. “Either stand up now or I go get Cas, and you can have this talk with him. You pick.”
Her horror hits him like a blow; Jesus Christ, this was so much easier when the wannabe assassins weren’t people he’d ever met. People who sat at his kitchen table drinking coffee and sewed up Cas’s back and helped Joe on the border. Who in a thousand years he never would have guessed would kill anyone in cold blood. He wouldn’t have even thought she could.
Still grinning like her muscles froze that way, she stands up, handing him her empty coffee cup. “Thanks.”
Inexplicably, Haruhi, Rosario, Derek, and Vicky are already up and doing their damndest to be the best hunter bureaucrats in history. Granted, that’s not hard; they’re probably also the first.
“Hey kids,” he says, wondering what Cas is doing to their recruits; Haruhi’s got a laptop, Rosario and Derek are doing something with manila folders and labels that he just can’t wrap his mind around, and Vicky is—okay, now he feels like a voyeur watching her with that laptop. “Take a break or something. You have breakfast yet?”
“I did,” Vicky says, not looking up from the laptop screen, while the other three give him reassuring nods and actually make eye contact.
“Okay, take everything to the next room and make sure no one comes in here,” he decides, noting they all look relieved. “Secret mission, blah blah blah, don’t want any interruptions.”
“Got it,” Haruhi says, and in very short order, the room is clear.
Locking the door, Dean debates only for a moment before pointing to the broken down sofa and grabbing a chair for himself. Seating herself in the middle—smart move, the left and right sides both act like goddamn quicksand—she looks at him, expression smoothly, brightly curious, baseline Alicia; until now, he didn’t realize that was something she actually practiced to get right, enough to put on at a moment’s notice. She’s not doing it so well today, though; the scarred hands are locked together in her lap like they might run away if she doesn’t keep a tight grip. Or maybe she’d like to be flipping a knife.
Sitting down across from her, he starts with the first item on his list. “Did you tell Kyle about what happened here or did he tell you he already knew?”
“I told him,” she answers immediately, but he’s not watching her face anymore, it won’t tell him shit. Her voice though—hesitation, just a second, and she’s not lying, no, but there’s something there.
“How’d he get you to talk about it?” Dean asks, picking up his cup with a casualness he doesn’t feel. “Sympathy, empathy, a few shots of whiskey…?”
“All three,” she answers easily. “Why does it matter—”
“Because I want to know whether or not he was stalking you in Ichabod before you got together,” he says; that day they were digging a hole at Chitaqua, she was oblivious, but he wasn’t. If he’d known more about Kyle, even guessed… what? Stalking Jane was still a joke, she didn’t even take it seriously, but maybe, just maybe, she did; she just figured he wouldn’t. “So how sympathetic was he? Almost like he already knew about it, knew exactly what to say, how to get you to tell him so he could make you feel better? Come on, if you can work out what the geas does with a goddamn library book and a list of random ass stories from those incoming, you can—”
“I didn’t think about it,” she interrupts, and the edge in her voice tells him that pisses her off. “Not until—not until later.”
“Any chance that’s why you broke up?”
She shakes her head. “No. It was—we fought about something else, and he said something… Dolores locked down the infirmary to anyone not immediate family or medical personnel—or Alison and Claudia—so Kyle couldn’t know the layout of the infirmary. He mentioned the back stairs—he said I told him.”
“Did you?”
“I might have,” she answers carefully. “I was drunk. Look, it’s not important—”
“It’s important,” he interrupts. “Yes or no: do you think he followed you in Ichabod when you were here after the attack?”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her knuckles go white, tendons standing up in sharp relief. “I can’t prove it—”
“You don’t have to prove it,” he says. “Your word is enough.”
She wets her lower lip, and even now, he can almost feel her fighting the automatic no; she’d lie, Micah said, like there was no doubt Dean would believe him, like there was no doubt Dean would never believe her now that Micah explained the situation. No doubt at all.
“Yeah,” she says finally, the faint quiver in her voice jerking his attention away from wondering why Micah was so surprised Dean didn’t take it on faith; how many times he told people that. And why he’d need to, come to think. “I mean, I think—”
“That’s enough for me.” It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask exactly how much alcohol was involved with Kyle’s sympathy that night, but that’s one question he knows he can’t ask, not unless she wants to answer it. That doesn’t mean he’s not thinking it, though, and now he can’t stop. “You told Cas that he wasn’t bothering you but probably wanted to; on a guess, you set the bar on ‘bothering’ higher than I would, so we’ll do this categorically. Is he following you around, and by that I mean, he is where you are often enough for there to be effort involved to make it happen?”
Alicia’s gaze flickers to some point over his shoulder. “I’m not sure. If—Matt and Jody could tell you—”
“Your word is enough,” he repeats. “You don’t need a single goddamn witness other than yourself. Now, where and how often? Volunteer Services, ended up with him getting assigned to the same place you were?”
“Yes. Maybe.” Her gaze returns to him, wary. “I’m not sure. We all eat here, and… it’s meal times. When I go on or off duty, but you know, our schedules might match, so I don’t… I don’t know. He doesn’t do anything,” she adds quickly, like she’s forming a character defense for someone not worth the mud on her boots. “He doesn’t even come near me, even to say hi. Just…”
“Makes sure you see him watching you.” She looks away, and yeah, that matches what Cas told him. “For reference; he cleared my bar for ‘bothering’ like he learned to fly just on spec. He doesn’t have to break into your room and hold a knife to your throat for it to count.”
“I can handle it,” she says, and wow, how unsurprising is that? “It’s just Kyle.”
“It doesn’t matter if you can,” he says patiently. “You shouldn’t have to. Is that why you didn’t report it?”
The blue eyes study him for a long moment; that’s one of the reasons she didn’t report it. She’d lie; he bets he’s not even close to the first person Micah told that. “If I did,” like maybe he’ll just ignore this, “what will happen to him?”
“Cas’s decision,” he says, and she stiffens. “But he asks me, he’s out of Chitaqua.”
She shakes her head. “No, not for me.”
“Alicia—”
“Not when I won’t be there anyway,” she continues brutally, eyes fixed on the wall behind him, and honest to God, he would have rather she punched him. “Dean, it doesn’t matter, just—let it go.”
“It matters,” he says quietly, and her gaze jumps back to him. “Not for yourself, fine, but it’s not about you.” That’s a lie, but whatever, at least she’s not arguing. “I let it go, what do you think happens the next time Kyle hooks up with someone? What if it’s not someone in Chitaqua?”
She frowns, then swallows.
“Someone who can’t handle it,” he continues relentlessly. “Someone who might not even know how, especially when he wears a gun and belongs to a scary militia and she doesn’t. You were on patrol, come on; until Harlin, no one would even speak to us. We got lucky with the Alliance, and that’s not gonna happen again. We’re going to have to prove ourselves—to the Alliance, to every town, every goddamn day. Caesars’ wife, Alicia; we can’t afford the appearance of shitty behavior, and Kyle…”
“Yeah,” she agrees, and he thinks maybe she actually does.
“But it doesn’t matter if he was the nicest guy on earth and you’re the super special exception that unearthed his creep alter ego,” Dean continues. “He did it to you, and that’s enough.” She doesn’t argue, which is something. “That goes for what happened this morning, too. Now, was there harassment?”
“No, you saw it,” she says grudgingly. “That’s all, I—Dean, I brought it on myself.”
He gives himself a few seconds to control his voice before he says, “You don’t say. I gotta hear this.”
“I went to talk to Carol yesterday.”
Jesus Christ, even Cas wasn’t masochistic enough to go find people to make him miserable, or at least, he made them just as miserable in return. “And then put a compulsion on her and Kat to do this? Didn’t we learn from the geas how that ends badly?”
Alicia gives him a filthy look, but hey, it’s a genuine, honest to God reaction; he likes those. “I just had to—it’s private, okay? She was pissed, and with Andy—Kat’s still, you know—” She glares at him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m your leader and—”
“You know what I mean,” she interrupts. “Why are you—after I told you…” Thankfully, she trails off.
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” he exclaims before he can stop himself, and Alicia leans back, eyes wide. “You didn’t deserve Kyle stalking you because he’s an asshole, and you sure as fuck don’t deserve shit for doing your duty. Now, can you say you’re reporting so I can get Cas’s breakfast before he gets up and comes looking for me?”
She opens her mouth, but what comes out is, “You take Cas breakfast in bed?”
“Yeah, why?” He wishes he’d brought his coffee so he could take a casual drink. “He needs to eat.”
She blinks at him, but he watches her hands this time. Her nails are bitten nearly to the quick, but in the bright light of the room, he can see every scar; thick white ridges and thinner, nearly invisible lines, thick calluses on the side and pad of her thumb and first finger and surprisingly, on the pad of the middle finger as well. Throwing knives: she works with thumb and first as well as middle: insurance against losing the use of—or losing altogether—her first finger. He’d bet her fourth finger’s got them, too, and he bets she’s just as accurate no matter which she uses for a throw.
He keeps his focus on her hands, keeps his mouth shut, keeps his expression neutral; if he has to do it for her, he will, but he wants her to have first option on it.
Abruptly, she loosens her tight grip, flexing her fingers absently against the couch. “Dean…”
He meets her eyes and waits.
“Dean,” she repeats more strongly, eyes watchful. “I’d like to report that Kyle’s been stalking me since we broke up and maybe before. If I’m not in my room or with my team, he finds a way to be nearby where I can see him; this includes the infirmary when I’m on duty, when I’m on assignment, and when I’m off duty. I saw him twice when I met Cathy for breakfast at the general mess, he was across the street last night when I went to Karl and Pedro’s building for dinner, and outside Naresh and Suma’s when I was there for lunch three days ago.”
Dean nods. “Just watching you?” Not anything else, he means; watching is shitty all on its own, it sure as hell doesn’t need dressing.
“Until I see him,” she answers slowly. “Then—then he goes away. Sometimes.”
“And the talk about what happened when you were in Ichabod a few weeks ago?”
She takes a breath. “He’s the only one I told. Unless Dolores told Carol—and she didn’t—Kyle is the only one who could have told Carol and Kat.” Then, “But to be fair to Kyle, he says stupid shit when he’s drunk, and he may not have—meant to have it spread like this.” She adds, “Unless we count Vera, which I don’t. Only person she would tell is Cas, and he’d tell you, which is how you found out, I guess. When? Had to be yesterday; you would have talked to me already if it was earlier, but yesterday was a little too busy.”
Dean fights back a chuckle; what can you do when you’re sitting with a woman who actually is the smartest person in every room she’s ever been in? “We guessed about isolation: kids was yesterday, though. I would love to know how you do that.”
Any other time, she’d grin at him outright, but he can still see the glint in her eyes. He can’t get over how much she enjoys doing that, how people react when she does. Like it’s still new.
“I’ll handle it from here on out,” he says.
She nods. “Should I—I mean, other people saw him, and I can—”
“I don’t need anyone or anything else, just you,” he says firmly, and for some reason adds, “You get you—if there’s anything else you want to tell me, I’ll listen. Whatever it is.” Her expression doesn’t change. “It matters, Alicia.”
She looks at him unblinkingly for a long moment. “Okay. Good to know. Can I—uh…”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen, assuming there’s anything (assuming that anything is—something, whatever). “Yeah,” he says, then frowns as she stands. “Hold up. Where’re your weapons?”
She looks at him like he’s crazy. “What?”
He motions toward the lack of weapons belt. “You’re unarmed: why?”
“Under the circumstances, I thought…” She hesitates, finishing uncertainly, “…that I shouldn’t be armed, you know?”
“Did I tell you not to arm yourself?” Alicia obediently shakes her head. “Did I remove you from your position as a team leader?” She shakes her head again but looks in danger of maybe asking him why that is; he keeps talking. “Then you will go upstairs, arm yourself, and be here for the meeting with the team leaders. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she says immediately.
“Dismissed,” he says as he gets to his feet. Following her out of the room (and waving the kids back in to do their thing), he pauses at the sight of her at the front desk, her back to him. Jeremy looks worried (but not condemning, points to Vera, Joe, and Cas’s parenting) but Joelle, who still has her coat on and must have just arrived, looks upset as she removes a thick knitted (not orange, he notices) hat, revealing her hair is covered beneath the folds of a scarf.
Quietly, he approaches them, trying to see what Alicia’s looking at: a note. “Alicia?”
Joelle and Jeremy both jump, but Alicia doesn’t move, lowering the paper and crumpling it in one hand before stuffing it in her jeans pocket. “Just Cathy canceling lunch,” she says lightly, smiling at him. “I’m going to go see if Matt and Jody are up; not morning people, very cranky wakers, you know what I mean?”
He nods, watching her bounce toward the stairs like there’s nothing on her mind but the day ahead, then looks at Joelle, who tosses her coat to Jeremy. “You scheduled this morning?”
“Mom said I should come early today,” she says, holding his eyes. “And make sure people saw me. She’s taking a second shift at the infirmary this morning, but she checked in with me so I’d… so I’d know.”
Cathy was in the infirmary last night, and so was Carol when they took her back. “Whole infirmary?”
“Yeah,” she says, nose wrinkling. “Mom said she can’t figure out how anyone even found out, but she and Dolores are handling it. Isolation is privileged information, Dolores is the only one that even knows who…” She looks helpless. “Dolores already called in half the staff and started ripping them apart individually and in groups, but no one knows—”
“I do,” he interrupts. “What else?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that,” she answers, looking at Jeremy. “It’s so stupid, Dean, it doesn’t even make sense.”
She really doesn’t want to say it. “Joelle—”
“People are asking if—outside the walls,” she says slowly, and right there, he knows what she’s going to say. “They’re saying you… that we—we should have checked them ourselves, that there was no proof they were infected. And that’s why Alison got Callisto to clear burning them so fast, so no one would know.” She makes a disgusted sound. “Like I said, it’s stupid.”
Callisto lost her cousin outside the walls. “Do Alison and Callisto know yet?”
“Yes and I don’t know,” she answers. “But—mortuary services is open for business, which is weird this early when nothing’s going on. I noticed on the way over and figured you’d want to know.”
Despite himself, Dean grins. “Good work.”
“Good enough to start training when I turn eighteen?” she asks, and though she’s smiling, she’s serious. “Seven months from now, in case that’s relevant.”
“Your mom will kill me.”
“My mom,” Joelle answers, “is training to qualify for Amanda’s next class. She and a few others are working on better ways to hide weapons in our headscarves.” She points to her own, a patterned blue-green to match her thermal, as intricately folded as origami. “Mom asked me to test this one today; ask me what I’m carrying.”
Dean takes a moment to visualize Maimouna—who is about five-five and looks as delicate as a porcelain doll—gutting a Croat and then remembers she’s worked patrol; it’s probable she actually has. “A stiletto?”
“Two,” she says proudly; Dean’s guess was literally that, and staring at her scarf, he tries and fails to work out how. “Point behind my right ear, the other at the back of my neck.”
Behind them, the door opens, and it says no good things that he just stops himself from going for his gun. He almost regrets it; Joe’s expression is grim, and Kyle’s…
He may know why Callisto is up this early. “What happened?”
“There was a catalyst incident in the YMCA,” he says, and Dean takes in Kyle’s disheveled appearance. “They didn’t even know it was happening until—anyway, Claudia and Naresh are handling it. Five dead, and they ask us to keep Kyle here and Naresh will come to question him.”
Kyle’s blank expression says nothing good. “Kyle?”
“I was helping deliver clean sheets,” he says hollowly. “Next thing I know, I got eight people around me saying Chitaqua killed people and they…” He trails off, and following his gaze, Dean sees the blood on his coat and hands.
He glances at Joe, who nods: the five dead got that way by way of Kyle’s gun. “Kyle, look at me.” The dark eyes come up, pupils nearly swallowing the iris; he’s in shock. “It’s not your fault.”
Kyle opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and his eyes go right back to his hands.
“Leah, you and the rest of the team, check him over in the infirmary, get him something to drink, and I’ll—” He’s not sending Alicia, hell no. “Work out what’s going on. Quiet room on the second floor, and stay with him, okay?”
“Got it,” she says, glancing at Joe, who nods genially.
“And me?” he asks when they’re gone.
“Go to Admin, you know the drill. I’m gonna go get Cas.” The morning couldn’t even wait until after breakfast, Jesus. “Make it fast. We’ll be in the Situation Room.”
Dean takes the precaution of using the back stairs—no idea why, it just feels right—carrying a carafe of coffee and a foil-wrapped bundle of breakfast tacos, sugar and creamer in his pockets, since this is not going to be a leisurely breakfast in bed after all but goddamn it, Cas is gonna get to eat.
Mindlessly, he jogs the last flight and shoves the heavy door open with his shoulder, and is almost ten steps into the white room before he realizes where he is: fuck this goddamn building. Turning around, he eyes the place the door was without favor: he really doesn’t have time for this shit.
Seeing the couch he brought in last time, he deposits everything on it for now, searching all the walls for another way out; nothing, what a surprise. Taking a deep breath, he turns to face the nearest wall and waits; might as well get this over with.
Ink slithers over the plaster, forming four pictures: Demeter, eyes alight in rage, one hand outstretched toward the dry, barren earth, the red-orange sun huge in the sky and beating mercilessly on the piles of skeletal bodies piled around her; dry-eyed and bitterly satisfied, Clytemnestra standing over Agamemnon in his bloody bath with an axe in her hand; Hecuba smiles, the eyes of the dead sons of the King of Thracia resting on her palm, their lifeless bodies at her feet; Medea, laughing wildly while her dragon-drawn chariot carries her from the corpse of Jason’ new-wed wife, body surrounded by the dismembered bodies of her own children.
And one more, as stylized as the first four: a younger Cornelia seated in an elegant sitting room, an adolescent Gaius standing at his mother’s shoulder looking grim, a much younger, painfully thin Sempronia on the rug at her mother’s feet with Claudia Pulchera beside her, all in the unrelieved black of mourning. Sempronia’s head rests in her mother’s lap, dark hair loose beneath her mother’s hand, and Dean hisses at the sight of her tearstained face: one eye blackened, mouth swollen and bruised, shoulders hunched and stiff beneath Claudia’s comforting arm.
Following Cornelia’s gaze, he glimpses Publius just inside the frame on the far right, and in his hand is an unsheathed knife, blade gleaming silver.
Moving to the next picture, he sees Cornelia sitting at her desk and holding a piece of paper. A man with short, barbered hair and the wide purple stripe of a Senator on his tunic bows. “I’m at your service, domina.”
“I understand educating your sons is expensive,” Cornelia says pleasantly, handing him the paper. “As you are aware, I support education of the young. Please accept this.”
Smiling, he takes it, tucking it into the sinus of his toga and bows lower. “Your kindness will be rewarded.”
Then it’s Publius in a variety of tabilii, the first four with smiling senators offering nods and thank you; the fifth raises his chin and shakes his head at the offered scroll. Rising with a smile, Publius bows and leaves.
The picture beside that one comes to life, a deserted road outside of Rome late at night, and a litter is stopped by a group of masked men. The man within the litter sticks his head out, demanding something, and he’s dragged out as his slaves run away.
Dragged to his knees, he stares up at them in horror as one of the men stabs him in the heart, waits for him to die, then takes out a handful of sticks and places it on his chest. “For remembrance,” the man says in Publius’ voice.
“What the hell…” Dean starts as Publius appears in Cornelia’s tabilium, once again the elegant knight, smiling as he sits down, and Cornelia makes a mark on that tiny scroll she was looking at last time. Dean looks at his companion, not entirely surprised to see her dressed once again as a Roman noblewoman, unscarred arms emerging from a dress the same unrelieved black as Cornelia’s. “That list—who’s on it?”
“If I were guessing,” she says, not looking nearly as surprised as she should, “it’s a list of those responsible for Gaius Sempronius’s death, from knights of the First Class to Headcount.”
“She’s killing them?” She nods. “For votes?”
She looks up at him. “No, she’s killing them because she wants them dead; the Senate just gave her a reason. A woman who kills a man in vengeance is simply a woman, emotion rules her; one that kills for politics is a competitor, her offering is to ambition, and Rome respects ambition.”
“That’s not better.”
“That’s survival,” she says succinctly. “She doesn’t have a choice, Dean.”
“There’s always a choice,” he argues. “She’s doing this for money!”
“Not everyone can fake credit card applications when they need cash,” she answers hotly. “If she’d stayed in Misenum, she’d be dead, and every Gracchi with her. There’s been a knife to the throat of everyone in her household since the day Gaius Sempronius was murdered, including little Sempronia’s. There’s only one thing that can stop a knife in Rome: money, and a lot of it. She has one chance—one—to get this right, and her life and the lives of Claudia, Sempronia and little Sempronia, what remains of the Fulvii Flacci, the families of those killed by Opimius, and every tenant and retainer of the Cornelii or Sempronii Gracchi ride on her doing this. She needs money to get that knife away; she needs the Senate to be afraid to make sure it never comes back. You think she doesn’t know how much blood is on her hands? She’d sell her soul if…”
Dean waits out the silence for as long as he can, uncomfortably aware he’s not sure how to answer that. Two wrongs don’t make a right, sure, but not doing the wrong doesn’t get any better results here, not if she’s right. And nothing he’s seen so far tells him she’s not.
Finally, just to break the silence, he asks, “Well?”
She shakes her head, frowning at nothing. “Nothing, just thinking.”
Dean backtracks and has a really horrifying thought. “She didn’t—”
“No, she couldn’t; Crossroad demons can’t manifest at any crossroad in Rome and nowhere a Roman Crossroad college exists. You wanted to sell your soul to a demon, that took effort, assuming they’d even let you. Roman citizenship, useful like that.”
Dean straightens. “Who?”
“The Lares,” she answers, then seeing his expression, explains. “The Lares are… not gods, but forces of the cosmos, I suppose. Rome made contract with them, as we did with the gods. The Crossroad Colleges see to the maintenance of the crossroads and offer to the Lares there; in return, they protect us.”
“From demons?”
“From making deals with them, yes, among other things,” she says. “Why?”
“Where can we get some of those?” Not gods, they escaped Lucifer’s purge, so far so good. “Like, summon them, what?”
“They’re everywhere,” she answers in surprise. “You know not of them?”
“I don’t.” Before he can ask for more information, he hears Cornelia say, “We’ll start with these,” and hands Publius three more scrolls—regular size ones, Dean’s relieved to see. “I want them introduced to the Senate immediately; we’ve wasted enough time.”
In the Senate, the consul calls for a division and Sempronia Graccha Minor, daughter of Gaius Sempronius Gracchus and Licinia Crassa, is awarded the (mostly non-existent) Gracchi estate in preference to any past, present, or future male claimants and made sole heir to the whole of her grandmother’s estate with a lex Voconia. The auction bill follows it, and there’s more debate and the three-fifths discount fails, which worries Dean until he sees Cornelia’s amusement when she receives the news. “Okay, what?”
“It was never going to pass,” she says, echoing Cornelia’s amusement. “She was just making a point.”
“What point—” Women are emotional, he remembers. “She wants them to think she’s weak.”
“And driven by revenge, at least for now,” his companion answers. “So they won’t think too hard about what she’s trying to do.”
“Now the next three,” Cornelia says, laying three scrolls on the gleaming citrus-wood desk. She looks thinner, and standing behind her, Sappho and Cardixa both look worried. “The return of the Gracchi property and fortune, the reversal of the proscriptions of my son’s followers, and…” She pauses, weighing one in her hand. “Their fortunes and properties. I have the amounts of each listed by gens.”
Dean looks at his companion. “Not the nefas thing?”
“No, she wants the Gracchi fortune first; she’s got to get rid of that knife before she can do anything else,” she answers, eyes narrowing. “The property of Gaius’s followers all together is many times over greater than that, even at auction prices. The revocation of the proscriptions of those families—and the Gracchi fortune—will be allowed to pass just to stop that one.”
“Money.”
“Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t put a price on a human life,” she answers. “The price of hers, Sempronia’s, Claudia’s, little Sempronia’s, and everyone under Cornelia’s hand is the Gracchi fortune; money is a better deterrent than a sword.”
“I get that,” Dean answers patiently. “But why would they give it to her?”
His companion smiles slowly, eyes on the picture. “She’s a woman, what does she know of politics? More importantly,” she adds, “Sempronia Graccha Minor will one day be a woman, too, and they have unloved wives as well as sons.”
The picture changes; Publius goes to more senators, casual and calm, and nodding happily when they take the scrolls eagerly and the paper tucked inside each (“Bank draft,” his companion tells him. “Cash is heavy. Do I understand you use plastic cards for that now? That’s genius. Who thought of it?”). There’s another division and two of the bills pass with way too much excitement for people handing over a really large fortune to a woman whose sons they killed. The Gracchi fortune is secured; combined with what she’ll inherit from Cornelia, Sempronia Graccha Minor is heir to the single largest private fortune in all of Rome, held in trust by her grandmother and more bankers than he knew existed.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, craning his neck to read the papers in front of Cornelia: prime real estate both in Rome and throughout Italy and Africa, insulas in half a dozen cities, estates, farms, fish farms (fish farms?), interest in dozens of ships, mines, sleeping partnerships in corporations, the list goes on; it’s too much to even work out actual value. “That’s—a lot.”
“In Cornelia’s time, fifty talents was a lavish dowry for a girl,” she answers, and he chokes; just one of those fish farms was double that. “Sempronia Graccha Minor is now officially inviolable; they’ll be offering to the gods every time she gets the sniffles now.”
He remembers what Publius said about girls and their dowries. “Protected?”
“Cornelia set it up herself,” she answers. “A husband might try, but it’s ironclad. Even Mater wouldn’t be able to break the trust and lose it, not that she would have even tried.” Her voice turns wry. “Or her heir, for that matter.” She makes a face. “I did try, yes. Balbus had the grace not to laugh at me while I was sitting in front of him, at least.”
“Claudia’s and Licinia’s dowries,” Cornelia says, looking thinner and even more tired, but the dark eyes burn with energy, like they’re feeding on Cornelia’s body. Sappho, seated in the background and at work on a scribe’s table, watches her sharply. “And the proscription of my sons and their status as nefas, so that their names be cleared and I can pay their fare.”
“Are you certain you do not want to introduce the bill regarding Fulvius Flaccus now and use it to gain the other two?”
“No,” she says. “That one will be last.”
Publius studies her for a long moment. “Domina,” he says, and Dean goes on alert at the switch from Cornelia. “Please hear me out. Gaius loved him and he Gaius, and of his courage and ethics there can be no doubt; after his consulship, he was stood for tribune of the Plebs for your son to help him continue his reforms. He was a popular consul and respected general who earned a triumph from the People, and despite this, Opimius murdered him on the Aventine like a dog in the street and two of his fine sons as well.”
“I know this,” she agrees.
“Then you also know,” he continues, “that they would have the Fulvii Flacci erased as entirely as the Sempronii Gracchi with the death of your sons. They will not allow that child to come to manhood and take his father’s place in Rome, domina. If any of your sons’ sons had lived, the same would have been true of them.”
“I’m aware,” she says. “More than one senator who voted to uphold my granddaughter’s right to the Gracchi fortune was thinking how well that fortune and mine would fill his family’s purse if she should be taken to wife.”
“If you wish to do this,” Publius says, and even Dean can hear the sudden wariness in his voice, “coming to agreement with one with sufficient influence would greatly increase its chances of passage.”
“No.” Her mouth tightens, something very old and unhappy filling her eyes, but her voice is cool. “Children serve their families in all they do. For the daughters of senators, marriage to those who can serve their family’s ambitions is the price they pay for the privilege of education, literacy, wealth, and never to fear hunger or privation. For my little Sempronia, it will be no different; she has neither father nor brothers whose ambitions must be considered, so her family’s ambitions are these: she will be given in marriage to one who may need her fortune to serve his ambitions but will also make her a happy wife.”
Reaching across the desk, Publius takes Cornelia’s hand, looking into her eyes. “Neither you nor Gracchus could have known what he was when you made contract for Sempronia; we knew him from childhood and saw it not. It is the rare man who was as he.”
“My little Sempronia has neither father nor brothers to protect her,” Cornelia answers. “Only me. And I doubt I will live to see her wed. I must be sure, Publius, and I cannot be if I use her to acquire votes on the Senate floor.” She pulls her hand away. “See to those two so we can introduce the last. I grow weary of Rome and cannot leave until all is done.”
Publius takes the two scrolls and bank drafts, securing them in his toga before bowing low. “As you wish.”
Publius visits senators again, and Dean notes the difference in their behavior but somehow, he gets the job done with only two tiny piles of sticks. Then Cornelia looks up at him and hands him the last scroll.
“There’s going to be a fight,” Publius says quietly.
“I know,” she says. “And I shall win.”
The rounds of senators this time are fast, flipping by at speed and (a couple of times) a door is shut in Publius’s unsurprised face.
“Fulvia Ursa,” Cornelia tells him, not looking up from her writing. “I need a quorum in the Senate for it to be discussed, and a simple majority is sufficient for its passage. Give her this so we can start.” Cornelia produces a small velvet bag and hands it to Publius, who opens it to allow the rich color of the red stones in the intricately wrought necklet to catch the light. “Tell her if she would like a crown, she must earn it.”
“As you will,” Publius says, secreting it away in the sinus of his toga. “Who should I ask to introduce it to the Senate?”
“I have a volunteer,” she replies, mouth quirking bitterly. “It seems my Licinia’s death was not in vain after all.”
In the Curia Hostilia, an elderly man rises from his ivory curule chair in the front row—a consular, got it. “I would speak,” he says, and despite the fact he looks about a hundred years old, the guy’s lungs are in working order. Dean notes the startled faces of some of the Senators, and for that matter, his companion looks equally surprised.
“Who’s he?”
“Marcus Licinius Crassus,” she answers. “The elder, I mean. Licinia’s grandfather. He’s been retired in the country for decades. I’m not sure anyone even knew he was still alive.”
“You are recognized,” the consul says, trying to look bored, but Dean can feel the growing anticipation.
“This is a petition asking for the recall of the only remaining son of Consular Gaius Flavius Flaccus, murdered on the Aventine Hill by Consul Opimius,” he says clearly; you can’t buy that kind of venom, “and last of his gens of that cognomen.” Over half the Senate is on its feet, shouting, but the guy just grabs more lung power from somewhere, shouting in stentorian tones over them, “His exile ended, his citizenship restored, and the proscription on the Flavii Flacci rescinded!”
Dean takes a step back at the sheer volume coming from a goddamn picture. “They know he’s alive now.” Abruptly, a younger guy throws a punch at the guy beside him for no reason (well, okay, there was something about someone’s feelings about fish in there, he thinks). “What the fuck?”
“Senatorial politics,” his companion tells him and grins as two elderly senators get in an actual goddamn fist fight on the Senate floor, stools flying everywhere. “I love politics.”
The shouting (and fighting, holy shit, they’re brawling on the Senate floor) doesn’t end until after the sun goes down. “Voting can only take place between dawn and dusk,” she explains, and nauseated, Dean watches as the number of piles of sticks increases over days. He can’t help but be fascinated by the regular throw-downs on the Senate floor between guys old enough to be his grandfather though; he’s also pretty sure most of them could beat him up before breakfast while calling each other impotent goatfuckers over his bleeding body.
That part’s fucking awesome; Granddad Licinius just kicked the ass of one of his sons-in-law while ten ancient (seriously ancient, like almost mummies) senators scream encouragement and hit anyone who comes near them with their walking sticks that look suspiciously like branches they picked up on the walk to the Senate this morning. Some still have leaves.
Then the scene abruptly changes to Sappho and another servant who’s holding a wooden tray of bottles, and Dean just stops himself from yelling to take them back to Calpurnius sobbing from a bloody nose while two grandpas tell him all about how he lacks a cock and offer to show him (and his wife) what one looks like and how to use it.
Under her breath, his companion mutters something he takes as yeah, she’s kind of disappointed, too.
Picking up one, Sappho opens the stopper and takes a quick sniff, nodding. “Very good,” she says, setting it back down and taking the tray. “You may go. Inform me if Cornelia asks for me.”
Balancing the tray on one hand, Sappho pushes open the door to the bathing room just as Sempronia stands up, dark hair piled on her head and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
The thing is, he never would have imagined this.
“Sappho!” Sempronia freezes, half turned, but Dean can’t stop seeing the mass of ridged scars covering her back from shoulderblades down to her upper thighs before they disappear into the water.
“Di Omnes,” his companion whispers, and Dean mind helpfully offers up what did the damage; a cane, a whip, a leather belt, a switch from a tree in the peristyle garden that Sempronia had chopped down the day of her husband’s death and burned with his body. Years and years of those from the look of it, and he glimpses more on her small breasts—Jesus Christ—her belly, the fronts of her thighs. He looks at his companion’s dress and then at Sempronia: everywhere a normal dress would hide them, son of a bitch.
“Get out!” Sempronia shouts, face flushed red in humiliation as her thin hands fist at her sides. “I’ll have you whipped…” Her voice cuts off and, looking nauseated, her shoulders bow as she closes her eyes. Taking a shaking breath, she says, “Leave me. Now.”
“Yes, domina,” Sappho answers, voice startling calm, her expression showing nothing but disinterest. “Forgive me, the oils your mother ordered arrived. Let me put them away.” There’s a brief pause as she glances into the hall before shutting the door firmly. Carefully not looking at Sempronia, she puts them on a small table, taking time to rearrange them for no reason Dean can figure out. “Would you like me to fetch your maid, domina?”
“No.” Sempronia still hasn’t moved. “Nissa is otherwise occupied.” From the way she says it, Nissa is always occupied when Sempronia decides she needs to bathe.
Sappho nods, turning with one of the bottles in her hand. “Allow me to assist you, then.”
Sempronia’s expression turns to horror, mouth dropping open, but Sappho simply walks to the edge of the tub and sets down the oil.
“Sappho, you will—” Sempronia’s voice cuts off as Sappho loosens her dress and it falls to her feet. Stepping out of it, she picks it up, tossing it toward the wall.
Dean isn’t the kind of guy who spies on naked girls in bathtubs—bathing rooms—but holy fucking shit. Sappho is really…
“Healthy,” he blurts out, and feels his face heat. “She’s—uh, doing pretty good since she got here. Good to know.”
“That’s what I was going to say,” his companion answers breathlessly, and glancing at her, he’s relieved to see the same expression he feels on his own face. Sappho could model a Greek statue or something: full breasts, a narrow waist and slim hips, overall drop-dead gorgeous. She’s almost unreal. “My maids never stripped down to bathe me,” she adds, a note of disappointment in her voice. “And none of them looked like that.”
The movies lied; he should have known. “So this wasn’t standard?”
“I wish. Clodius would often join me in my bath, however,” she answers distractedly as Sappho joins a silent Sempronia in the bath like the opening scene of all the porn ever (or should be), water lipping at her skin until she’s submerged to the upper thigh and therefore leaving Dean no safe place to look. “He preferred to be the one to bathe and oil me. A well-made man indeed, but no Sappho.”
Huh. “That fun? The bath thing?”
“I recommend it,” she says, then hisses, and Dean follows her gaze back to Sappho and stills; as Sappho half-turns to get the oil, they can see the barely visible silver lines that cover almost her entire back. Sempronia closes her mouth, but she stands very still as Sappho gently pours the olive oil in her hands before stepping behind her and starting with Sempronia’s shoulders.
“Relax, domina,” Sappho says in the most normal voice in the world. “I was well-taught; tell me if you feel any discomfort.”
At the first touch, Sempronia shakes like a leaf, but Sappho knows what she’s doing (so you can take classes in bathing people? Who knew?); each touch is firm and impersonal, yet somehow soothing as well, at least from the way Sempronia relaxes. Unmarked shoulders and arms first, all the way to the fingers, her neck, using the strigil to scrape away the oil and dirt before she starts on Sempronia’s back. Sempronia stiffens, biting her lip, but slowly, she relaxes again, eyes closing in sensuous pleasure as Sappho works down to the curve of her ass and uses the strigil again.
By the time Sappho comes around to face her, Sempronia’s hot color’s faded enough that its return is really noticeable. Pouring out more oil, Sappho works down her chest, oblivious to Sempronia’s embarrassment.
“Your last master flogged you,” Sempronia says suddenly and looks appalled at herself. “You need not speak of it, of course.”
“No, not him, domina,” Sappho says, rubbing in the oil beneath Sempronia’s breasts. “My first owners: my mistress, not my master.”
Sempronia head comes up. “Why?”
“When my master ordered me to his bed,” Sappho answers calmly, but the flat edge he remembers from when she told Cornelia about that is evident; she really, really doesn’t like remembering that, and on a guess, it’s not just because of the beating after. “She liked it not.”
“You healed well,” Sempronia whispers, something fragile in her voice. “A slave who bears the marks of flogging—it can be difficult for them to find good masters.”
“My second mistress saw to that,” Sappho answers, smiling faintly, as she always does when speaking of Maria. “She was a good physician and taught me a great deal. She also recommended I avoid letting my skin darken in the sun so they’re less visible.” Her smile fades. “I was fortunate; Grania scarred the face of the one he took before me. My master forbade her to do that again; he had to sell the girl at a loss and that displeased him greatly.”
Sempronia doesn’t look surprised, but the revulsion in her expression and the set of her jaw reminds him of Cornelia when Sappho told her life history. “My father said the measure of a man can be taken in these three things: the state of his horse, the welcome of his wife, and the contentment of his slaves. A man’s truest nature is revealed not in his behavior to his equals, his betters, or even those beneath him, but to those within his hand.”
“Your father was wise,” Sappho says with a flickering smile at Sempronia, and the comfortable silence between them continues as Sappho helps Sempronia out of the bath and she’s stretched out on the padded table. Getting more oil, Sappho goes to work, and suddenly, Dean’s really aware he’s watching two naked women. “Would that all Roman owners were as kind as your father.”
“It’s not kindness.”
Sappho pauses briefly, the barest check in her movements. “Yes, domina.”
“Have you ever seen a pack of dogs turn on the weakest of their number or those injured?” Sempronia asks abruptly, sitting up to look at Sappho, who takes an abortive step back.
“I have, domina,” she agrees, oily hands hovering uncertainly. “Why?”
“They are dogs; they have no judgment, they do not think,” Sempronia answers. “That is their nature. He who flogs his horse, his wife, or his slaves has the nature of a dog; he is no man. It’s not kindness, Sappho; my father was a man, as were my brothers after him. Say rather would that all that wear the shape of men be truly men; most are not.”
“Or women, domina?” Sappho says lightly; Dean didn’t realize she’d tensed until she relaxes now.
“Or women,” she agrees, mouth quirking as she lies back down, submitting to Sappho’s ministrations. “My mother is head of this house, mistress of its fire and water, not me; when you speak to me, ‘Sempronia’ is sufficient.”
“Yes, Sempronia,” Sappho says obediently, and Sempronia doesn’t wince at all as she works the scented oil deep into her skin, eyes falling closed in sensual pleasure. Naked women, Dean’s mind offers helplessly, and he represses it firmly, concentrating on Sappho’s face; that’s a mistake but also a revelation. Unobserved by Sempronia, her expression isn’t ‘doing duty whatever’ but more ‘I could do this for the rest of my life for fun.’ Huh. Seems like she shares more with Sappho the poet than just a name.
“I see why Cardixa welcomes you now,” Sempronia says drowsily as Sappho works down her calves. “She was jealous, you understand; she’s been with my mother almost all her life, as close as sisters.” Then, with an acidic edge he’s never heard in Cornelia’s voice, much less Sempronia’s, “Far superior to her only sister of birth. Cornelia Major was far too infatuated with her high position to notice someone as mundane as a little sister. She was like their mother and cared for three things only: her rank, her husband, and her wardrobe, in that order.”
“You liked her not?” Sappho asks.
“I liked her very well,” Sempronia answers. “But for what she was. It’s a difficult lesson for many, for some impossible.” There’s a thoughtful silence before she adds, “Harder still is to use those you like not; even my mother finds difficulty in that.”
Sappho hesitates. “I did not know that.”
“Aemilia Paulla, wife of Cato the Elder’s eldest son, was my husband’s sister,” she says. “The sons of that union may be their mother’s son’s in their snobbery, but they’re no less of the Catones Licinianii; you want to break the will of the Plebian Assembly, that needs a Cato.”
Sappho finishes with Sempronia’s feet and at a touch, Sempronia rolls over, and Dean’s once again really aware he’s watching one naked woman being massaged by another naked woman (Sappho’s expression immediately rearranges itself to neutrality).
“I thought the Catones did not share amicus with the Cornelii or the Sempronii,” Sappho says carefully. “Cato the Elder was enemy to the patriciate and the old Roman families.”
“This is true,” Sempronia answers. “But the Catones Licinianii bear the existential burden of their grandfather’s peasant birth and his second marriage to Salonia; that’s the Aemilia in them, no help for it, but it’s a bore indeed. Those of Salonia’s get are of far better quality and would serve our purposes well, but none of them are of age to be of assistance. However, an invitation to the Catones Salonianii to dinner will prick the Catones Licinianii, who are so thin of skin a single scratch will draw blood; they will do whatever required to assure they are seen as Cato the Elder’s true line. My mother is the first woman in Rome; she must use it.”
Sappho nods slowly, and Dean’s concentration on the conversation breaks as she starts to work down Sempronia’s chest; sure, this is important (probably?) but Jesus Christ, who knew politics happened in the bathing room? A vision of Cas discussing camp business while giving him a bath flashes through his mind; okay then, so that’s definitely going to happen as soon as they get back to Chitaqua. They’re gonna need a better bathtub; maybe he should build a new bathroom as well.
After a moment, Sappho says, “The reason for your mother's dislike of the children of Cato the Elder's eldest son has often eluded me.”
A slow smile spreads over Sempronia’s face, and Dean’s startled by the change; she looks years younger, and there’s a brightness to her that wasn’t there before, like the kind of person you’d have a beer with while she told you all the best gossip. “How Roman you grow, Sappho; you couch your curiosity in such innocuous terms. Publius and my mother did well with you.”
Sappho flushes, looking disconcerted. “I do not—”
“I am not so delicate,” she continues, smile turning into a grin. “Don’t look so. She dislikes the Catones not for their bloodline, but for their ethics. Cato the Elder was a brilliant man, but those born of his first marriage to Licinia beat their wives and their slaves; those born of his second marriage to Salonia do not. Salonia’s influence, of course, but then, she saw to her son’s rearing and education after Cato died, and she was far superior to Licinia—or Aemilia—no matter her ancestry.”
Sappho tilts her head. “Your mother liked her as well.”
“She was among my acquaintance in Rome,” Sempronia says, voice taking on an edge. “My husband liked it not, but I liked her very well. We had much in common. I miss her still.”
Yeah, Dean thinks, thinking of Sempronia’s back; he supposes they did have a lot in common.
“Nothing is lower to a Roman of the First Class than a wife-beater; they are dogs,” Sempronia continues, expression distant. “That is their nature, they have no reason, they will not change; like all dogs, when they grow rabid, it must either be tolerated or they must be killed; they will bite, the only question is when.”
Dean was pretty sure after seeing that picture of Publius what happened to Scipio Aemilianus Africanus (especially in light of those piles of sticks), but he’s still surprised to hear Sempronia say it, voice thick with hatred and fear and relief, too.
“The Catones Licinianii may be dogs,” Sempronia says abruptly, looking faintly annoyed with herself, “but that is an asset in this case; like a dog, when they sink their teeth into something, they will not let it go. My mother knows that as well as I do; it’s time she set aside her dislike and finished this.”
Sappho concentrates on Sempronia’s stomach for a long moment before slowly working down to her thighs; despite how painfully thin she is, the strong musculature in her legs shows she really likes to walk, and then she stretches, spreading her legs for Sappho’s ministrations and his mind shuts down.
“Breathe, Dean,” his companion says in amusement and he looks at her incredulously. “It’s just a massage. A really… thorough one.”
“This part,” Dean tells the wall above Sempronia and Sappho, “is just like the movies.”
“I do not think,” Sappho says slowly, working the oil in slowly, which, hey, points for her work ethic, “that your mother will welcome such advice from me.”
“She will,” Sempronia answers, eyes closing. “Tell her to expect my attendance at both dinners two and four days from now. She will understand.”
Sappho’s hands falter, and Sempronia’s eyes open, curious. “I understand better,” Sappho says quietly, “why you go not into Roman society. Surely—surely it can be avoided, your health—”
“I’m a Sempronia Graccha,” Sempronia answers, voice quiet. “If my brothers could face a mob bent on their deaths without fear, I can face a dinner party.”
Dean looks at his companion, whose surprised expression tells him he’s missing something. “She doesn’t like company.”
“She doesn’t like Rome,” she corrects him as Sappho assists Sempronia to her feet. “And no fault in her, for how they treated her was a disgrace.”
Dean thinks of the scars with an internal wince. “Why? If he was beating her and everyone knew it—”
“Not many did,” she answers grimly. “The rights of a paterfamilias are absolute when it comes to those in his hand, and those that didn’t like it simply avoided him. Sempronia had great pride; she would reveal to no one what he did to her, and to cover for her frequent public absences while she recovered, her husband would call her misshapen and barren and of nasty temperament. We can be cruel, Dean; she bore it because she had to, but it makes it no easier now that all know.”
“Gossip,” he says in disgust; wow, he’s getting tired of it. “Why didn’t she leave him in the first place?”
She looks up at him in surprise. “How?”
“She could just…” He trails off, adjusting his thinking. “She literally couldn’t.”
“Literally,” she answers slowly, “she could. She could return to her family and petition for a divorce, though he might not allow the last. She was a Sempronii and granddaughter of Africanus, and her family would have protected her. It would have created a permanent rift between the families, however; her husband was Cornelia’s first cousin through her mother and adopted son of Cornelia’s brother, and he was guardian of Sempronia’s brothers after their father died.”
Dean cocks his head; he’s not liking where this may be going. “So what, her brothers would pick him over her?”
“Of course not,” she replies impatiently. “They were not dogs but truly men; they would have given her protection and support without question. Even the Sempronii could not have easily weathered the disgrace of it, however, and her brothers’ careers and work would have been impaired; they would have cared not, but she would have cared very much. He was family, Dean; how do you tell your brothers that their beloved guardian and friend treats you with less consideration than a mine slave? How could she bear for them to see the proof…” Her voice falters, and Dean tries to imagine showing anyone—anyone at all—the kind of scars that Sempronia has, explain where they came from, and can’t.
“So she stayed for them?”
His companion hesitates, and he realizes she’s rubbing her forearm, absent of the criss-cross of open wounds; that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, though. Invisible wounds are still wounds, and harder to heal because of it; you can almost pretend they aren’t even there. “I don’t know why she stayed,” she says softly, and he has the feeling it’s not just Sempronia she’s talking about.
He thinks of the picture, Sempronia’s bruised face, Cornelia and Claudia and Gaius all in black—no Tiberius, though. They were in mourning. “What changed her mind?”
“Tiberius,” she says softly. “She discovered that her husband conspired in his death and went to her mother. All Rome knew Cornelia and Sempronia were responsible for Scipio Aemilianus’s death—no other way could Publius have gained access to her husband’s home and cubicle to kill him so easily without Sempronia’s assistance—but none cared. It is a paterfamilias right to do what he will with those in his hand,” she adds, voice lowering, “but that makes him no less a dog; no one mourns the death of a dog that bites.”
“So her being at dinner,” he says, changing the subject. “What does that mean?”
“He was a bad husband, but his name, at least, has some worth,” she answers, a thread of relief in her voice. “The widow of Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Minor, consular, censor, and general as well as adopted grandson of Africanus, isn’t to be despised. The fact she’ll see the Catones Salonianii when she’s seen no one else will assure the Catones Licinianii will burn down Rome itself if it assures she’ll see them as well; they’ll pay the price she asks for the favor without question. Very well done.”
Dean glances back at the scene and realizes they’re back in Cornelia’s tabilium; Cornelia looks exhausted, and Sappho and Cardixa both watch her as Publius enters with a low bow, looking solemn. To his surprise, Sempronia is in attendance, seated in a low chair just behind and to the right of her mother, expression impassive, Nissa standing behind her.
“That doesn’t look good,” Dean murmurs as Publius formally seats himself across from Cornelia.
Cornelia seems to feel it as well, bloodless lips tightening. “The vote was taken?”
“It could not be delayed,” he answers soberly. “A division was called a quarter hour before the sun set.”
Cornelia waits, but Publius isn’t biting. “And?”
“By one vote,” he says, dragging it out, “it passed. The proscription of the Flavii Flaccii has been rescinded, their rank reinstated, and they’ve been recalled from exile; Gaius Flavius Flaccus’s father’s property is still forfeit to the State, of course, but his mother’s dowry was returned in full, and serendipitous indeed, a mysterious benefactor assumed to be a Fulvius who does not want the stain of treason but wishes to help has augmented it. It’s enough to assure his mother’s comfort as well as his membership in the First Class and his rank senatorial when the census is taken. He’ll be able to stand for office.”
Cornelia leans back, eyes closing in relief. “It worked.”
“We also have someone to take the bills before the Plebian Assembly,” Publius continues. “He spoke to me after the vote was taken; he’ll convene the Assembly tomorrow and introduce them en toto.”
“All of them at once?” Cornelia asks blankly. “To the Plebian Assembly? Are they suicidal?”
“Who is this brave Roman?” Sempronia interjects before Publius can answer, and Cornelia half-turns to look at her daughter. “Such a man is a treasure indeed.”
“I am pleased that you asked,” Publius replies airily. “Coincidentally, the same man whose vote gave us a majority in the Senate: Marcus Porcius Cato Licinianus, tribune of the Plebs and current president of the Plebian Assembly. I almost forgot—he sends his regards to you, Sempronia, as well as your mother.”
Sempronia nods, folding her hands demurely in her lap as Cornelia regards her thoughtfully. “Tell him we will welcome him and his wife to dinner before we leave Rome,” Cornelia says. “Hopefully, that will be soon.”
“He did not think it would take long,” Publius says. “The Catones are not known to dither.”
“Interesting.” Dean looks at his companion, who cocks her head. “Our Cato is smarter than I thought. Rome is going to adore him; he’ll be elected to any office he wants if he can pull this off.”
“Can he?” Dean asks, thinking how hard it was to get some of those passed in the Senate, especially the last one. “Doesn’t the vote have to be unanimous in the Assembly? One veto kills it.”
“The Plebian Assembly is the most popular entertainment in Rome for the People,” she answers, “and the People loved Gaius Sempronius, and they’d burn Rome down for Cornelia. Right now, word is spreading through Rome that tomorrow, Cato is going to bring all Cornelia’s Senate decrees to the Assembly for ratification. Cornelia only owns half of them; getting the rest is up to Cato.”
Abruptly, the picture spreads out to encompass the entire wall, and Dean sees a tall, skinny guy, almost swimming in his whitened toga approach the rostra, dark haired and unassuming, but with a nose that rivals an eagle. Before him is spread what looks like all of Rome, anticipatory and waiting; Dean looks at him as he fussily rearranges his toga and tries to be impressed.
Then he opens his mouth.
“Quirites,” he roars, and holy shit, that guy must have a built-in microphone or something; even Dean takes a step back at the sheer volume. “Today, we speak of injustice—no, I will not,” he interrupts himself, and a sigh goes through the crowd; like them, Dean waits for it, breath caught in his throat. “Today, I will not prevaricate; today, I will speak nothing but truth; today, I will speak the words and you will hear them and know them as true. Today, we speak of murder, for what else do we call it when innocent men die without trial?” It’s impossible, but he seems taller, looming over the rostra and the tiny, insignificant men behind him. “We speak of Gaius Sempronius Gracchus, of Consular Gaius Fulvius Flaccus, and the thousands of Roman citizens that died by the Senate’s decree without a trial!”
Behind him, half the solemn tribunes jump in horror and the crowd roars its approval loud enough to shake Rome itself.
“A true Cato,” his companion says approvingly. “Go straight for the throat and don’t let go. He’s setting them up; a veto on those decrees will be seen as support of Gaius Sempronius’s murder. By the time Cato finishes his opening speech, anyone who vetoes will be seen as personally stabbing Gaius Sempronius to death in the Grove.”
Dean eyes the crowd uncertainly. “Tribunes of the Plebs are inviolable.”
“They are,” she agrees. “But throwing them screaming from the Tarpeian Rock doesn’t count.”
“They won’t…” Cato is still talking, and the crowd is like a single living thing, huge and ineffable and impossible to control, held here only by the power of Cato’s voice. Dean watches as the scene changes; always Cato in his white toga, always that huge, endless crowd, hungry, starving, and Cato feeds it: their rage, their grief, their hunger for vengeance. What Cornelia did from the Forum grounds Cato does from the rostra itself, a bludgeon to Cornelia’s elegant rapier, but it gets the job done just as well. Now, he can see why Tiberius and Gaius Sempronius Gracchus were so dangerous to the State, why their mother frightened the Senate; demagogues aren’t just in what they say or how they say it, but the unbending will that backs it, the spark of something within that can ignite a crowd to believe them, purely personal power that can leash—or unleash—a mob. Cato has them as surely as any Gracchi and won’t let them go, and not one of the other tribunes doesn’t see that crowd dragging them screaming to the Tarpeian Rock on Cato’s word.
Scanning the crowd, he finds her immediately; in a shadow by the shops of the Tabernae is Cornelia in black, veil obscuring her face and Sappho beside her, watching, and even from here, he can see her faint smile.
Eight days, only two tribunes are holding out; thirteen, and there’s only one; on the seventeenth, that one—visibly bruised and limping, and from the way he’s standing, some ribs might have suffered—sullenly withdraws his veto.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Cornelia says abruptly, seated at her desk in the tabilium; her face is thinner, skin stretched tightly over her cheeks, but it’s the strange blankness in her eyes that makes the hair raise on the back of his neck. Wary, Publius does, and Cornelia takes out a scroll more crumpled than rolled. “The Pontifex Maximus conferred with the other pontifices,” she says flatly. “And it has been decided that my sons’ status as nefas cannot be lifted due to a black dog interrupting the sacrifice of the white bull. The gods have spoken; Charon remains unpaid, and my sons’ shades left to wander.”
Publius’s eyebrows raise. “How did a black dog find itself in the precincts of the priests?”
“Carried physically, no doubt, by the Pontifex Maximus himself just for the occasion,” she spits, throwing it on the desk.
“The Senate—”
“When it comes to religious law, it could be decades at the best of times,” she interrupts. “Cato will try to force the Plebian Assembly to pass a new bill to overrule it, but he was not optimistic, and in this much, I trust his judgment.”
“Then we will try later,” Publius says firmly. “The Senate is… itself. There is time, Cornelia; you are not like to die so soon that failure is inevitable. What else? Claudia?”
Cornelia’s expression remains unchanged, but Dean can’t help but think of Licinia. “Emet sees her twice every market interval, and her maid follows his instructions to the letter. He says it is melancholia, and its progression, while slow, does not seem to be improving, though the worst has been arrested, he thinks. The blow of Licinia’s death was too much for her, and with this…”
“It is not an uncommon malady,” Publius says encouraging. “There are many treatments for it, all know that. When we return to Misenum, the change of scenery alone will do her good; surely Emet will find better success once we’re in the country.”
“Emet says the same,” she says, and he sees her relax slightly. “He has consulted among several Greek and Roman physicians as well who are familiar with it and has already asked to join my household.” She makes a face. “The Ambassador has made it clear this is very acceptable to him, as someone told him I do not keep a physician, and he would like to attend me and Sempronia as well.”
Publius raises his eyebrows. “Strange, that. I wonder who could have been so indiscreet?”
“I wonder,” she says sourly, but her smile comes out. “You mean to join us? I didn’t want to presume, but I’d hoped you would.”
“Where else would I go?” he answers, elaborately nonchalant. “My younger brother sees to the honor of our gens, and is far happier in Rome when I am not.”
“Your brother,” she says succinctly, “is an ass. And what of Titus Annius?”
Publius makes a face. “He must marry, we both know that,” he replies. “He is first in his family to reside in Rome, the first to be elected to office; his duty is clear.”
“But less clear when you are by,” she says softly. “Can I help?”
“Find him a wife,” Publius says firmly. “He would be a good husband, but a wife would—find difficulty if she was not aware of his—preferences. One who… would be content with what he can give. A friend and partner, yes, but he cannot give more.”
“I thought you wanted something hard.” Publius straightens. “A widow, thirty-five, so still young and fertile, of excellent family and wide connection, with one son and daughter living. He can adopt the son if he wishes, but I think she would be willing to bear more children. Since her widowhood, despite her limited circumstances, she has—not been amenable to marrying again, and I assured there was no financial need for it. For reasons I think may be compatible with those of Annius.”
Publius stares at her. “How did you—”
“I very much enjoyed his company at dinner,” she answers. “My acquaintance is vast, and I explored it. I would not cause you pain, however.”
“It would relieve my mind considerably to have him settled and content,” Publius says with certainty. “Who is she?”
“Cornelia Germanica, called Germanica; her grandfather served under my father in Carthage; they were great friends,” Cornelia answers. “He was the first of their family to be elected consul and thus ennobled them. There are no males of his line left, only Germanica, and she has been under my protection since she was widowed, of course. Her family served my father well so want for nothing.”
Publius starts to answer, then sees Cornelia’s mischievous expression. “Great friend to Africanus? Like brothers, one might say?”
“Certainly not,” she says with dignity. “At least, from what I understand of the closeness of brothers; I am but a woman, after all, and know not the ways of men.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Publius shakes his head. “Consular stock and granddaughter of one of Africanus’s… generals.” Cornelia looks more dignified still. “Would she agree, however? Annius is only a New Man.”
“I think she would. She’s extremely well educated, intelligent, cultured, witty: the ideal political wife. An excellent politician as well: if she were a man, she would be consul in five years’ time. To be partner to a man who wishes to be consul—especially a New Man—would suit her very well. I will arrange it once we return to Misenum, let them meet and see what comes of it.” She studies Publius for a moment. “Is something—”
“I meant to comment on Sempronia but you distracted me,” he says. “I had not thought to see her so animated as she has been the last weeks.” Cornelia’s expression softens. “Do you know the reason, for I do not.”
“Emet tells me that to treat someone as if they are made of glass will convince them that they are,” she answers, the sourness this time broken with a rueful smile. “I know not what happened, no, but Sempronia has submitted to Emet’s rule with poor grace, which he says is very encouraging, for a patient that does not argue is a patient whose spleen needs relieving. Now, Publius, I know your face and all its moods; tell me what pill I must take that requires this much honey to swallow.”
“I meant to wait until I was certain, but that is prevarication; I am certain now.” He settles himself, mouth tight. “Opimius.”
“What of Opimius? His trial proceeds apace.”
“He will be acquitted,” Publius says quietly. “Carbo has done his work well. Doubtless the proceeds from the sale of all that property helped a great deal to convince the jury of his innocence.”
Cornelia doesn’t move. “My son, his followers, and three thousand Roman lives ended without trial mean nothing, then.”
“They’re to be the example of the Senate’s power,” Publius says quietly.
Cornelia is silent for a long moment. “I wish you to accompany my household back to Misenum in two days’ time.”
“And you?” he asks.
“I need to finish with my bankers,” she answers. “My little Sempronia’s future must be secured. Before you leave, however, I will need you to set up a meeting for me with Decumius of the Crossroad College; tell him ‘for remembrance.’ He will understand.”
Publius hesitates, licking his lips. “Cornelia—”
“I built a temple to her; she refused my offering and turned a deaf ear to my pleas,” Cornelia says tonelessly. “Diana promised my son Rome would pay; it has not.”
“What are you planning?” he asks.
Cornelia’s eyes fix on the scroll. “Arrange it, Publius. Now leave me.”
Slowly, he rises to his feet. “Domina,” he says with a bow that makes Cornelia wince. “As you will.”
Dean opens his mouth then shuts it; the scene changes abruptly to late night, two shrouded figures in the alley behind Cornelia’s house. One of the figures—unmistakably Cornelia—nods at the shorter figure’s deep bow.
“Domina,” he asks in the patois of the Subura, “what is your will?”
“Can you read?” she asks with none of her usual warmth.
“I can, domina,” he answers. “I can count as well.”
She hands over the tiny scroll. “I think you know how best to use this.”
He takes it, opening it and skimming down the list, lips pursing. “Some of these, domina—”
“You cannot do it?”
He grins at her. “I can, of course. It will take time, however.”
“You have until my death,” she answers. “Is that time enough?”
“It is,” he answers, closing the scroll. “My fee?”
“What is the price for a market interval of wine for your college?”
“Equal to each name on this list,” he answers, and she nods agreement. “It shall be done, domina. For remembrance.”
“For remembrance,” she agrees softly.
Dean swallows as the scene begins to flicker through various scenes, just slow enough for him to see they’re all death. “She’s killing them all.” A glance at his companion’s face confirms it. “She got what she wanted. This isn’t about anything but revenge.”
She doesn’t answer.
“So that ‘without a trial’ thing is bullshit,” he continues. “Only counts if we like ‘em—”
“You don’t understand—”
“I get murder,” he snaps. “I get killing a whole bunch of people just because you’re pissed at them. What, back then there was another word for it?”
“Who are you to judge what she did? You know nothing of politics, of—”
“I know revenge,” Dean says quietly; in his peripheral vision, a guy in a plain toga abruptly stops short, blood spilling down his chest from a slit throat. For a moment, the guy’s face is Micah’s, then Alicia’s; he focuses on his companion, feeling sick. “That list? Not all of them put their blades in Gaius themselves.”
“They were part of the mob that stalked him,” she retorts. “They were under the command of those who ordered his death. What does it matter if they didn’t do it personally; they belonged to the men who caused Gaius’s death. That is reason enough for them to die.”
The picture shows a small cottage, a man comes to the door in the plain clothes of a farmer, and behind him, a wife and small children; he only has time to open his mouth before his throat is cut. Thankfully, he only sees the woman’s mouth open in horror, the children’s shocked faces; the scene cuts before he can hear them scream. Doesn’t help: another cottage, somewhere else, another guy, another family, it just doesn’t end.
He meets his companion’s eyes. “Where’s the door?”
“Dean,” she says quietly, “you—you can’t understand.”
For the first time, he realizes she’s wearing the sword again—or maybe it just appeared now. He flexes his hand—feels okay—but he can see even sheathed there’s something different about it, something—off. Any other time, he might want to check it out, but right now, he doesn’t care.
“You’re right, I can’t. Where’s the door?” Going to the couch, he retrieves Cas’s breakfast and looks around: no door. “Well?”
She stares at him, mouth tight, then points behind him; look at that, a door.
“Thanks,” he says, starting toward it.
“Dean,” she says just as he reaches for the door. “They—why does it matter? They were just—”
“People,” he says, opening the door to the hall to his and Cas’s room. “And they mattered. If you’re calling me here for this, stop; I’m done.”