Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [137]
I shook my head. “It’s not their fault, any of it. Justina, can you still get access to Astegal?”
“Mayhap,” she said warily. “Why?”
“Sunjata made a copy of his ring.” I picked up my fork and pointed it at her. “And you are perfectly positioned to make the exchange.”
Justina was silent a moment. “I want to talk to Sunjata.”
“Fine,” I said. “Do.”
The interminable days wore onward. Astegal amused himself, Bodeshmun brooded, the Aragonians quietly seethed. Sidonie continued to be withdrawn. Sunjata was close-mouthed about his discussion with Justina, and there was no word from her.
If it hadn’t been for Kratos, I think I truly might have lost my wits in those days. Like old Carthage, the city had a public bath-house with a palaestra, although it was much smaller. Sunjata refused to take exercise there, as it had been overtaken by bored Carthaginian soldiers given to shouting crudities at him. But Kratos, sensing my rising frustration, decided to teach me to wrestle there.
It was a good release, although it left me bruised and scraped. At first the soldiers who used the palaestra as a training field were amused. They shouted crudities at me, too, but I didn’t care. And Kratos allowed I was a much better pupil than he’d expected me to be. After a few days’ worth of training bouts, the soldiers weren’t laughing.
“You’re quick,” Kratos said after the first time I nearly managed to pin him. “Stronger than I would have thought for a wiry fellow. Someone taught you before, eh? It’s coming back to you.”
“No.” I grinned. “Quick, and a quick study, that’s all.”
It didn’t take long for word to spread that Kratos had been a professional wrestler in Hellas in his youth. Once it did, a handful of soldiers challenged him to bouts. Kratos permitted himself to accept one a day, and although he must have been well into his fifties, he won with skill and cunning. I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been like in his prime and how he’d come to lose enough matches to fall into penury. When I asked him, he shrugged.
“I got careless after I’d worn a champion’s crown a few years running. Squandered my winnings on women and wine. Let myself get soft.” Kratos dusted his hands. “By the time I realized it, there was a new generation rising, younger and more fit.”
“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.
“Not your fault.” He clapped my shoulder. “Take it as a lesson.”
It was after Kratos had won five or six bouts that Astegal strolled into the palaestra, accompanied by a retinue of Amazigh guards. We watched him spar with his soldiers, laughing and jesting as their blades flashed in the wintry sun. Whatever else was true, the bastard was a gifted swordsman.
“He’s good,” Kratos muttered. “Careless, though.”
“How’s that?” I asked. I might not have been handy with a blade, but I knew enough to know Astegal was very good.
Kratos jerked his chin. “Letting victory go to his head. He’s won a battle, not a war. He ought to be drilling his troops in the field, not playing cock of the walk in the bath-house.”
“Don’t give him any ideas,” I said, and Kratos laughed.
Someone did give Astegal an idea, though, albeit of a different nature. After sparring for a time, he strolled over to the corner where Kratos and I trained.
“Leander Maignard,” Astegal said pleasantly. “You’ve been an absent courtier. I brought you under my roof to entertain my wife, not roll in the dust with an aging Hellene slave.”
I gritted my teeth and bowed. “Kratos is a freedman, and I do but await a summons from your lady wife, my lord. It seems for the moment you’ve kept her well entertained.”
“Yes.” Astegal smiled, heavy-lidded. “It does.” He changed the subject. “I wrestled in my youth, freedman,