Caveat Emptor

Chapter Three

His first conscious thought was that he was thirsty. His tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth, and his head throbbed with a dull ache. He tried to lift his hand to his face, wishing to brush away the heavy fog that lay across his eyes. But his limbs felt leaden, loath to move, almost as if they were tied down. He was obviously asleep, perhaps in some unknown plains between the living and the dead. What else could explain this almost forgotten feeling of security? He could sense no demons here, no hidden threat. It felt good to lower his defences.

But then, if he were asleep or even dead, why did he still feel the ache of bruised muscles? Slowly tilting his head, he peered through his heavy lids, his blurred vision making out the outline of a woman. That is, the face of a woman. She slept with her head cradled in her arms, her golden hair fanned across the blanket that covered the lower half of his body. She was so close, he could almost touch her. With a concerted effort, he walked his fingers closer until he could brush them against the feather-soft strands. He turned his start trying to get a clearer view of her, noticing her long eyelashes and somehow knowing that her eyes were blue. A clear and unique blue. He frowned, unsure why he was so certain of this. Thoughts and memories raced through his mind, confusing him.

His eyelids were heavy, and he struggled to remain alert. As if seeking to anchor himself to her existence, he curled his fingers in the wisps of hair and absently marvelled at how true they felt in his grasp as he slipped back to obliviousness.

******

Relena woke with a start, a feeling of displacement washing over her at the sight of the sleeping man before her. A fleeting moment of panic passed as the events of the previous day flooded back. Straightening up quickly, she flushed with mortification that she had dozed off. Turning her head to see if Trowa was still there, Relena gave a yelp of pain. Her hair was snagged somehow, and the roots protested at the sharp tug they had received.

Investigating the source of the catch, Relena’s heart skipped sharply. Her hair was wound tightly in his clenched fist, tucked between his fingers in an unyielding grasp. Glancing at his face, Relena saw he was now sleeping; his features peaceful and untroubled. Moving carefully, she uncurled his hand, nervous that she should wake him. Despite her apprehension, Relena found herself mesmerised by his large hand, fascinated by the contrast between it and her own small and slender one. Her fingertips brushed lightly across his palm, tracing the fleshy pad of his thumb and stroking the thick calluses. She wondered if hours of yielding a sword were responsible for such strong hands.

“You look exhausted, My Lady.”

Relena stumbled back, flushing guiltily at Catherine’s soft whisper. The nurse gasped softly, raising her hands in reassurance, horrified that she had frightened the other woman. Relena smiled apologetically at her, straightening her robes self-consciously and glancing to make sure she had not woken Catherine’s patient. She sighed with relief, seeing that she had not disturbed him, although there was the faintest scowl on his face, marring the otherwise tranquil complexion. Suddenly she felt unwelcome, out of place. As much as she wished him a quick recovery, it occurred to her that perhaps it would not be for the best if she were at his side when he regained consciousness. Slave or not, Relena suspected that his temperament would be a proud one.

“I should go.” She murmured, glancing at the light sky outside the miniscule window. “Before I am missed.”

Taking the other woman completely by surprise, Relena clasped Catherine’s hands in her own, her expression earnest and sincere. “My thanks to you, Catherine. You have saved his life, I am sure of it. I could never thank you enough for your kindness.”

Catherine nodded numbly in reply, her cheeks flushed at her Lady’s praise. Relena gave her fingers one last squeeze before darting quickly out of the small cell. Walking briskly down the corridor, Relena realised that she had left her cloak behind in her haste to return to her room. Chastising herself softly, she was taken completely by surprise when a hand reached out and pulled her suddenly into a small alcove.

Relena first impulse to scream was immediately muted when she found herself looking at the young handmaid who had assisted her the evening before. The young woman’s face was the picture of contrition, and she bowed her head quickly and made her excuses.

“I am so sorry, My Lady, I meant no offence.” She waited a moment for Relena to acknowledge her. At the nod of her mistress’s head, she continued. “The Emperor is looking for you. He has news from the General and wishes to speak with you. I beg your forgiveness, but I told him you were still resting and that I would wake you and send you straight to him.”

The woman’s voice was a little unsteady, no doubt nervous that she had lied to Caesar to cover Relena’s absence. Nodding briskly, her heart beating faster at the close call, Relena smoothed her robes and combed her fingers through her unfashioned locks self-consciously.

“Thank you…” she paused, embarrassed that she did not know the maids name.

“Hilde, My Lady, and it was nothing.”

“Hilde,” Relena repeated, smiling, “Well then, Hilde, I suppose we should hurry to see my brother.”

******

The first thing Trowa noticed upon his return was that Relena had gone. This relieved him a little, as he doubted that Caesar would be even mildly impressed to hear that his treasured sister had passed the evening at the bedside of a slave. The Emperor was by no means an uncharitable man, but it was strangely evident that what he deemed acceptable for other ladies was certainly not acceptable for the Lady Relena.

While Relena was much respected, even loved, by the upper classes and even more so by the people of Rome, there was still whispered speculation as to why she remained unmarried at the age of 21. Most Ladies were at least promised in marriage by now, but her brother held her to him, deeming every prospective suitor unworthy. He kept her sheltered from much of the ‘social’ gatherings at the palace and some of the more spiteful members of the aristocracy had even hinted that there was more to the relationship than mere sibling affection.

This, of course, wasn’t the case. Relena was in fact an innocent to such things, truly a rarity in their society where it was not unusual for Ladies to keep a slave purely to satisfy their needs. Having grown under the strict tutelage of her father and then her brother, Relena had spent very little time in the company of other Ladies. Instead she had travelled the Empire of Rome extensively and studied closely their history and political processes. Trowa doubted she could lower her mentality to exchange meaningless compliments and idle gossip with other women her age.

Leaning against the door frame, Trowa watched Catherine, as she applied fresh ointment to the wound on the man’s arm. He felt a nagging sense of guilt at deceiving Relena. He knew the slave was no deserter, and he doubted that the tattoo had been subjected to self mutilation. He was concerned, however, that the soldier had not recognised him. He feared that it was not only his body that bore scars.

Catherine leaned across her patient’s body working to readjust the loosened bandage around his chest. She tutted and clicked her tongue softly as she worked, her actions smooth and relaxed. Without warning, Trowa felt the prickling of hair at the back of his neck, and he stepped forward quickly, his hand moving impulsively to the sword at his side.

“Catherine, be careful!”

His sister gasped loudly, the sound muted suddenly as strong fingers placed pressure to the soft tissue of her throat. The man had struck with the speed of a viper, his action swift and without warning. He glared up at Catherine, his eyes hazy yet focused. Licking his lips slowly, his words came out in a growl; dark and menacing.

“Where am I?”

He yanked forcibly at the shackle around his wrist, his actions becoming more agitated when he realised his constraints. His fingers tightened their hold, and Catherine struggled for breath, her own fingers clawing at his arm for release. Her face became ashen and her wide eyes brimmed with shocked tears while she stared beseechingly at her assailant.

“Let her go!”

The impact of Trowa’s fist to the slave’s jaw was not enough to knock him out, but it stunned him long enough for Catherine to struggle free, tumbling to the floor in a gasping heap. Holding trembling hands to her bruised throat, she nodded stiffly to her brother’s order to leave them alone. Stumbling back to her feet, she gave a last frightened glance at the man before tearing from the room.

“You have a stinking way to show your gratitude.” Trowa ground out, glaring grimly at the other man. The returning stare was equally as grim, and the man looked warily at Trowa’s sword and uniform. His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to recognise the tall soldier.

“You were in the market.”

Trowa nodded. “What do you remember? Who are you? What is your name?”

The slave stared into space, his brow furrowed in concentration, puzzled. Trowa’s heart sank. His instincts had been right. Sighing softly, he tried his last question again.

“What is your name?”

Blinking slowly, the man looked back at him. “I don’t… know. The trader called me something… but I don’t think it was my name.”

Trowa nodded slowly. “Well, what did he call you? We have to call you something.”

“Heero,” the man replied, “He said my name was Heero.”

******

The Queen cast her elegant clay goblet at the wall in a fit of temper, gaining no satisfaction as it exploded into a myriad of jagged pieces. How dare the man lecture HER about etiquette! Who did he think he was? Her eyes narrowed as she remembered the spoilt, arrogant boy she had encountered so many years ago. Obviously his manners had not changed. It was a shame she had shown such restraint in their games at the time and avoided defeating him in an attempt to protect his precious pride. Men were such conceited creatures. Well, she refused to lower herself again to suit his self-esteem. It was time to throw decorum aside.

Pacing across the room, her stride agitated and incensed, she brushed her fingers across the heavy collar of jewellery at her throat. Turning quickly, she pointed at the quaking messenger, her numerous gold and silver bracelets jingling on her arm.

“You! Get me the Royal Carpenter.”

******

The imposing stallion tugged impatiently at his bit, tossing his elegant chestnut head in ill-humour. General Treize Khushrenada smiled in amusement at the animal who had never failed him in battle, yet who also held little esteem for parading through the crowded streets of Rome. Giving the horse’s thick crest a good-natured slap, he spoke softly.

“Sa, Epyon, Sa. We’re nearly home.”

The horse crab-walked a few steps, unimpressed by his masters promise of a fresh stable and a feast of oats. Snorting loudly, he feigned alarm as a loud cheer rang out from the masses, congratulating Caesar’s returning victors. Jibbing sharply, he bucked beneath his saddle, attempting unsuccessfully to shift his rider. The General simply laughed, taking pleasure in his favourite war horse’s high spirits.

Treize sighed. It was good to be home again. This most recent campaign had lasted ten long months, and the Spanish rebels had taken longer to subdue than he had expected. There had been whispers, unsettling rumours, suggesting that traitors within Rome had been supporting the rebels, providing them with supplies that had allowed them to hold out against Caesar’s Legions longer than otherwise expected. It did not bode well.

Having been suspicious of the rumours early in the battle, Caesar had ordered his best assassin and spy to investigate. Known only as Aquila, The Eagle, even Caesar himself did not know his true identity. His reputation preceded him, however, and the mere mention of his name struck the fear of the Gods into the enemy’s hearts. But after regular messages from the soldier, indicating that he was learning a great deal indeed, he had disappeared. It had been three months since his last missive.

Ahead of them, the Emperor’s palace rose into their view. The sight of it produced a moment of melancholy, taking Treize by surprise. Such a vision of architecture, the building usually invoked pride and awe in the General, but now for some reason he only felt empty. It had been a symbol of what he had gone to war for, what he fought for. Suddenly it was just a building.

Behind him marched Caesars army. Men of courage who fought with valour and complete loyalty to Rome. Men who had family to go home to, to defend and provide for. Men who would die for the honour of their Emperor. But for each soldier that marched, there lay one on the bloody battlefield. And while it weighed more and more on Treize’s conscious of late, it had also begun to trouble him that it did not weigh on Caesar’s conscious enough.

As they drew closer, he could see the Emperor waiting to welcome his army home, flanked by the members of the Senate. Watching the man he had known since childhood, the man he called his friend, only one question continued to plague him.

When exactly had Caesar begun to lose sight of the dream that was Rome?