trace of blood or dust now. His pale hands were folded over the cloth-of-gold spread over his lower body. His smooth hair and the wreath resting on his breast gleamed dark gold in the half-light, andwhite roses and poppies shone like candle-flames against the dark silk and the green leaves. From this distance and in this light Drusus could not see the cuts on his cousin’s face; he could see only that Marcus looked tranquil, and Roman, and beautiful, and that feeling of reverence and rightness welled through him, pure and golden again. And yet the silent tableau looked strange to him too, for Marcus had not been laid on a bier but on a mat of pale silk on the floor, and Noriko was kneeling motionless beside him.
He had met her for the first time just that morning, and had been struck at how Roman she had looked with her dark hair heaped up in curls, almost like Tulliola. And now she looked absolutely foreign, folded into that odd, composed posture on the floor, her loose hair combed out straight and falling over the long square sleeves of the pale Nionian gown she wore to spread and pool behind her.
She said quietly, ‘I hope I have done right for him.’
‘Yes,’ said Drusus in a whisper from the doorway. He could not move into the room and disturb the depth of the hush, not yet, could not intrude the evidence of violence he carried in his own damaged body. ‘Everything is right.’
She looked up quickly and stared at him for a few seconds, her expression stiffening a little. Drusus watched her face, interested by the change, though unconcerned with what it meant.
‘You are hurt too.’
Drusus shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Noriko accepted this without reply. She slumped very slightly, her hair trailing forward over Marcus’ wrist.
Drusus realised vaguely that the construction of this quiet, clean beauty must have been prolonged and difficult, and could only just have been finished. He asked, gently, ‘May I have a moment alone with him?’
Noriko tensed again, crouching forward over Marcus’ body, but she said, ‘Of course.’ Looking down at Marcus’ face she laid one hand over his and gripped, quickly, biting her lip.
Then she rose, and as she passed Drusus he said lightly, ‘You weren’t there, were you?’
Noriko answered only with a polite bow of the head. But her sleeve brushed against him. She was trembling.
Drusus did not move for a moment, letting the stillness flow back into the room. There was no one there to see him, but he had never been so conscious of what looked right. He advanced slowly, barely breathing, because it would have looked wrong to rush, to grab; he tried to suppress his limp, because it would have looked wrong to beawkward; he was solemn, because it would have looked wrong to be anything else. He was anxiously aware that he too would have to kneel down, and he was afraid he might not be able to do it without falling; certainly it would hurt.
At Marcus’ side, after staring down in fascination for a moment, he braced himself and tried to lower himself to the floor. Pain lashed up his body like a snake and for a moment he lost all awareness of anything but the blind effort of forcing himself through it. He would not relinquish control to it. And, as he’d feared, he couldn’t hold himself up; he stumbled and instinctively put down his left hand so the broken bones took his weight and he crumpled sideways, barely saving himself from falling onto Marcus’ body. He hissed in frustration and shame and pulled himself up awkwardly onto his knees. Curled protectively over his arm, he let his breathing steady and the echoes of the cry he hadn’t been able to suppress die away.
He’d knocked aside a spray of laurel. He put it back, carefully. Now he could see the clean, bloodless gashes. Drusus raised a hand to his own face and touched the stitched cuts, then ran a fingertip along the cold outline of a wound on Marcus’ cheek.
‘Marcus,’ he whispered
He had met her for the first time just that morning, and had been struck at how Roman she had looked with her dark hair heaped up in curls, almost like Tulliola. And now she looked absolutely foreign, folded into that odd, composed posture on the floor, her loose hair combed out straight and falling over the long square sleeves of the pale Nionian gown she wore to spread and pool behind her.
She said quietly, ‘I hope I have done right for him.’
‘Yes,’ said Drusus in a whisper from the doorway. He could not move into the room and disturb the depth of the hush, not yet, could not intrude the evidence of violence he carried in his own damaged body. ‘Everything is right.’
She looked up quickly and stared at him for a few seconds, her expression stiffening a little. Drusus watched her face, interested by the change, though unconcerned with what it meant.
‘You are hurt too.’
Drusus shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Noriko accepted this without reply. She slumped very slightly, her hair trailing forward over Marcus’ wrist.
Drusus realised vaguely that the construction of this quiet, clean beauty must have been prolonged and difficult, and could only just have been finished. He asked, gently, ‘May I have a moment alone with him?’
Noriko tensed again, crouching forward over Marcus’ body, but she said, ‘Of course.’ Looking down at Marcus’ face she laid one hand over his and gripped, quickly, biting her lip.
Then she rose, and as she passed Drusus he said lightly, ‘You weren’t there, were you?’
Noriko answered only with a polite bow of the head. But her sleeve brushed against him. She was trembling.
Drusus did not move for a moment, letting the stillness flow back into the room. There was no one there to see him, but he had never been so conscious of what looked right. He advanced slowly, barely breathing, because it would have looked wrong to rush, to grab; he tried to suppress his limp, because it would have looked wrong to beawkward; he was solemn, because it would have looked wrong to be anything else. He was anxiously aware that he too would have to kneel down, and he was afraid he might not be able to do it without falling; certainly it would hurt.
At Marcus’ side, after staring down in fascination for a moment, he braced himself and tried to lower himself to the floor. Pain lashed up his body like a snake and for a moment he lost all awareness of anything but the blind effort of forcing himself through it. He would not relinquish control to it. And, as he’d feared, he couldn’t hold himself up; he stumbled and instinctively put down his left hand so the broken bones took his weight and he crumpled sideways, barely saving himself from falling onto Marcus’ body. He hissed in frustration and shame and pulled himself up awkwardly onto his knees. Curled protectively over his arm, he let his breathing steady and the echoes of the cry he hadn’t been able to suppress die away.
He’d knocked aside a spray of laurel. He put it back, carefully. Now he could see the clean, bloodless gashes. Drusus raised a hand to his own face and touched the stitched cuts, then ran a fingertip along the cold outline of a wound on Marcus’ cheek.
‘Marcus,’ he whispered
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