Gods' Gaze

4.

Mud splashed on Drusilla's hem as she crossed the rutted street with two wineskins.

One to celebrate, the other for the spill.

She prayed to the Sun God Ra for all things living, and for mercy from the Death Lord Kish. She prayed before her mischief, and it had been a while since she said her last prayer.

Time flashed back by two years, and she could still feel the pulse of the past as though a breeze on her skin. When the humid roar of summer began to cool, and the seasonal tournament in Volos commenced, an ash-blond youth offered himself to make the game more, in his word, interesting.

"What a twat!" the crowds booed as they bet against him. "A betting booth clerk in the Pyrrhic fight? He'll get himself flayed!"

They all lost.

When people suffering the same defeat found themselves together, they gained a sense of justice in their sheer number to defy the validity of the victory against them. A riot was on the brink.

The ash-blond youth sneered as if watching pieces fall into their place. In the wispy shadow of locks, his almond-shaped eyes dimmed and glowed like emeralds in the dark, exuding a charm Drusilla fought to leave unnoticed. His straight nose silhouetted upon the diamond-cut jawline, a rivulet of blood hanging still from the corner of his lips. He spat. Arms about chest in a slouching pose, he proceeded to the center of the arena.

"How about we make everyone a winner today?" he offered, skewing around on his heel as he scanned the spectators at large. "Nobody shall pay on the conditions that I make my oath to the League as a pugilist, and the dance girl walks free." He swung his arm at Drusilla, pilloried by the edge of the arena. "What say you, my lords?"

The arena quieted to bouts of whispers.

"The girl is a thief, alright. She got caught stealing from Lord Romulus Scipio's guest chamber!" Drusilla heard them canvass from a row of seats behind her.

"But nothing went missing, eh?" a new voice countered.

"Well, who cares so long as the blond boy can fight and win us gold!"

An agreement was reached that day.

In cheering and jeering, the ash-blond youth strode up to the edge of the arena and helped her to her feet, his gaze affirmative, on his lips a lopsided grin. "You'll be fine," he reassured her, crooning to her ear, his voice magnetic. "My name is Moon Xeator, by the way. What's yours?"

On the same night before he made his oath to the Scipios' League, he introduced her to Anthony. The three of them gathered around a fringe of reeds by a sinus creek, winding downstream from a small dam near the Tigris Canal. Silver stars studded the arc of the canopy, their reflections caught on the murmurous flow.

"Why would you do it?" Anthony groused, his face a perennial scowl.

Crouching by the creek, Xeator skipped a stone. "Didn't you say you liked her? Well, too late now, I don't think the Scipios take returns." he jested, darting a glance at Drusilla. "Apologies, lady. I mean no offense. Neither does my friend."

"Why would you do it?" she seconded Anthony, however. "Why would you trade your freedom for mine? I, too, want to know."

"Have I ever been free before?" The blond youth huffed a sigh. "I worked at the betting booth, remember? So, please, don't feel bad like you owe me. I've only changed the terms in my oath."

"For what?" Anthony let rip. "At the booth, we get to make so much gold together! And now you'll get beaten to a pulp!"

"How else would you like me to get her out?" Xeator retorted.