chose General Salvius . . .’
They all looked apprehensive; they were watching him to see what he would do; he was watching himself for the same thing. And he found that that there was no need to be angry or alarmed at all. He said, quite mildly, ‘Really?’ and turned away from them, back the way hehad come. He caught the wrist of the nearest nurse and smiled at her, earnestly and sadly. ‘I need to see a longvision.’
Part of Sulien was incredulous he’d stayed even this long, just because Una had told him to. Where was she? How could he have let her go off by herself? He pressed the torn edges of a wound together and thought,
She won’t be there
. . .
She’s gone
. . .
she won’t be there
. He could not seem to think anything else; sometimes the words came almost as a matter-of-fact observation, just one of those things; sometimes as a frantic shriek hurling against the walls of his skull. He forgot each injured person the moment he’d finished with them, wasn’t even sure how many there had been. Though he moved from one bleeding body to the next, and was dimly aware that for a moment at least he must have been able to concentrate on them, neither they nor their need of him seemed real. When he touched them, they were only solid enough to press the feel of Marcus’ cold skin deeper into his own.
And though it felt as if it had been so much longer, the hour still wasn’t up. He knew that, and ran out of the Colosseum anyway.
The rain had stopped and outside was a stunned, unnatural calm, the streets emptier than Sulien had ever seen them. Soldiers moved around quietly; a flight of pigeons scythed down over the street. He ran down the middle of the Sacred Way, past an oncoming Praetorian van that seemed to drift past slow as a pleasure-boat. He’d thought it would be better to find Una first and then go back for the trirota, but he was already too tired to sustain a good pace, instead pushing himself on breathlessly in painful fits and starts. For a moment he observed himself clinically, as if from a distance, as a living thing, warm and in motion and desperate. She’d said the bridge, and he’d assumed she meant the Sublician, but if she expected to go to her flat rather than his, then she would have gone to the Aemilian. The possibility of choosing the wrong one loomed like a disaster, though at no point did he name to himself what he feared might happen beyond repeating wretchedly,
she won’t be there
. Instead he found himself thinking of the door of the cell on the prison-ferry opening, Una’s impossible arrival, after seven years not knowing where she was. He didn’t like the idea of her waiting on a bridge at all.
Beyond the Praetorian cordon around the Colosseum the streets were crowded again, but there were no cars moving; people were all on foot, slowly walking home. Sulien ploughed through onto the bridge, plunged restlessly back and forth, his breath catching jaggedly in his throat. He could see over most people’s heads, but he couldn’t find her, and he wasn’t going to because she wasn’t there—
*
‘Sulien.’ Her voice was barely raised – she was just a few feet away, and lower than he’d thought to look.
She was sitting on the pavement, her knees loosely drawn up and her back against the parapet, like the beggars crouched further along the bridge. One hand rose in pallid greeting. Somehow he’d forgotten that she was painted in Marcus’ blood, clothed in it.
Sulien stared at her, feeling scoured, wiped blank with relief. He moved towards her and she levered herself up gracelessly and started walking away over the bridge.
‘There’s— The trirota’s back that way,’ said Sulien, apologetically.
Una turned obediently and came back without comment. She gathered speed as she approached, overtook him without looking at him. As she did so he saw the stripe of dark blood on the back of her head – he might not have noticed it, realised it was her own, except
They all looked apprehensive; they were watching him to see what he would do; he was watching himself for the same thing. And he found that that there was no need to be angry or alarmed at all. He said, quite mildly, ‘Really?’ and turned away from them, back the way hehad come. He caught the wrist of the nearest nurse and smiled at her, earnestly and sadly. ‘I need to see a longvision.’
Part of Sulien was incredulous he’d stayed even this long, just because Una had told him to. Where was she? How could he have let her go off by herself? He pressed the torn edges of a wound together and thought,
She won’t be there
. . .
She’s gone
. . .
she won’t be there
. He could not seem to think anything else; sometimes the words came almost as a matter-of-fact observation, just one of those things; sometimes as a frantic shriek hurling against the walls of his skull. He forgot each injured person the moment he’d finished with them, wasn’t even sure how many there had been. Though he moved from one bleeding body to the next, and was dimly aware that for a moment at least he must have been able to concentrate on them, neither they nor their need of him seemed real. When he touched them, they were only solid enough to press the feel of Marcus’ cold skin deeper into his own.
And though it felt as if it had been so much longer, the hour still wasn’t up. He knew that, and ran out of the Colosseum anyway.
The rain had stopped and outside was a stunned, unnatural calm, the streets emptier than Sulien had ever seen them. Soldiers moved around quietly; a flight of pigeons scythed down over the street. He ran down the middle of the Sacred Way, past an oncoming Praetorian van that seemed to drift past slow as a pleasure-boat. He’d thought it would be better to find Una first and then go back for the trirota, but he was already too tired to sustain a good pace, instead pushing himself on breathlessly in painful fits and starts. For a moment he observed himself clinically, as if from a distance, as a living thing, warm and in motion and desperate. She’d said the bridge, and he’d assumed she meant the Sublician, but if she expected to go to her flat rather than his, then she would have gone to the Aemilian. The possibility of choosing the wrong one loomed like a disaster, though at no point did he name to himself what he feared might happen beyond repeating wretchedly,
she won’t be there
. Instead he found himself thinking of the door of the cell on the prison-ferry opening, Una’s impossible arrival, after seven years not knowing where she was. He didn’t like the idea of her waiting on a bridge at all.
Beyond the Praetorian cordon around the Colosseum the streets were crowded again, but there were no cars moving; people were all on foot, slowly walking home. Sulien ploughed through onto the bridge, plunged restlessly back and forth, his breath catching jaggedly in his throat. He could see over most people’s heads, but he couldn’t find her, and he wasn’t going to because she wasn’t there—
*
‘Sulien.’ Her voice was barely raised – she was just a few feet away, and lower than he’d thought to look.
She was sitting on the pavement, her knees loosely drawn up and her back against the parapet, like the beggars crouched further along the bridge. One hand rose in pallid greeting. Somehow he’d forgotten that she was painted in Marcus’ blood, clothed in it.
Sulien stared at her, feeling scoured, wiped blank with relief. He moved towards her and she levered herself up gracelessly and started walking away over the bridge.
‘There’s— The trirota’s back that way,’ said Sulien, apologetically.
Una turned obediently and came back without comment. She gathered speed as she approached, overtook him without looking at him. As she did so he saw the stripe of dark blood on the back of her head – he might not have noticed it, realised it was her own, except
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