He couldn’t really blame them. After all, barbarians did destroy Rome several times, according to Justus. The sight of Karl’s Moltenveil, black and red armor, coupled with his glowing antler helmet, was probably intimidating.

  “Hello,” Karl said, raising his Tentacle Bow in a polite gesture.

  The young male lover screamed like a girl, throwing his girlfriend out in front of him. The olive-skinned girl, more than likely an aristocrat with how much jewelry she was wearing, shot a disappointing look at her clean-shaven man.

  “Sorry,” Karl said, breaking into a sprint which was further enhanced by the icy ground and his Ullr blessing, making the man shriek again.

  Karl was unsurprised to find the Trickster, Björn, Mýra, and Sporus at the bathhouse when he reached it just a few minutes later. What troubled him most was not the sight of his friends lounging in the steamy baths of Aventine Hill, nor the Trickster and Björn casting crude glances at the sensuous courtesans tending to the highest-bidding men.

  It was the sight—or lack thereof—of Kara. She was the only one absent.

  They were still connected through the Pack Link, so Karl knew she was all right. She simply wasn’t sending him any thoughts, like a walkie-talkie gone silent.

  He checked his internal parchment map to confirm she was safe at Titus’s house. As he removed his Moltenveil armor—with the help of several female bathhouse slaves—he considered sending her a word to let her know he was fine.

  She had probably seen his dangerous and likely foolhardy attempt to level his blessing of Ullr. But he found he couldn’t reach out.

  His rage had faded, yet the feeling of betrayal remained. She had been reckless.

  Karl laughed quietly as he looked at himself, naked once more. He was being just as reckless, holding her to a higher standard than himself.

  Feeling petty and ashamed, he slipped into the hot, steamy waters with the others, receiving the bathhouse buff that left him groggy but relaxed.

  “Did you and Kara work it out?” the Trickster asked, his eyes fixed on a particularly busty courtesan massaging one of the gladiators they had faced—a Greek—in the bath across from them. The younger man, who reminded Karl of Alexander the Great in his composure, kept a steady, watchful eye on Karl and his friends.

  “No,” Karl said, shaking his head while keeping one eye on the Greek, just in case.

  With his other eye, he tried not to look at anyone else, though he caught Sporus’s glance. The dark archer studied Karl with quiet curiosity.

  Björn, who was shockingly not flushed with drink and holding Mýra rather close to his hairy chest, spoke up. “Who did you kill?” he asked, raising a blonde eyebrow.

  Karl frowned, shaking his head. “It was almost the other way around. I took on a Ullr quest to blow off some steam.”

  “Is she as hot as all the gods say?” the Trickster asked, leaning back along the edge of the hot pool and releasing a massive fart.

  Sporus moved faster than Karl expected. The archer snapped, driving his elbow down onto the Trickster’s belly to submerge him. Karl perked up for a second, expecting a fight, but Sporus held his ground in forcing the metal squirrel to a rather large Roman aristocrat who sat across from them. Ratatoskr thrashed like a fish caught on a hook, desperate to escape.

  No one intervened. Karl was too tired, anyway.

  “I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Sporus said, shoving the submerged Trickster near the man’s butt. “But could you fart in this creature’s face?”

  The large man hesitated, his sweat dripping endlessly off his rolls, but when Mýra placed a suggestive hand on the man’s pimply shoulder, the man grunted and nodded.

  A volcanic eruption boomed near where the Trickster’s head was. Ratatoskr suddenly went still. When Sporus let go and jumped back, ready to fight off the creature, the Trickster’s back floated up lifelessly to the surface.

  “Did you kill him?” Björn asked, totally unconcerned as he kissed Mýra’s head.

  But then the robotic squirrel turned slowly around, coming belly up, revealing very wide, glowing red eyes that looked like they had seen something traumatic.

  “If only you could see what I’ve seen,” the Trickster ominously quoted the Emperor.

  Sporus somewhat relaxed back against the lip of the steaming pool. “Very funny.”

  Ratatoskr shook himself clean, though he still reeked of the man’s gas. Everyone, Karl included, laughed at him. It felt good to smile.

  When they had calmed down a bit, Björn grabbed Karl by the shoulder, pulling him uncomfortably close to him and Mýra, both of whom did nothing at all to conceal themselves.

  “Don’t tear yourself up worrying about Kara and your child,” Björn said, looking at Karl with dead seriousness.

  “It’s easier said than done,” Karl said, watching the steam hiss off Björn’s shoulders, massive compared to his own, though Karl was not far behind in strength.

  Björn shrugged. “In my old life, trying to stop men whose sole goal in life was glory was impossible.” His eyes settled on the steamy waters, looking past Karl. “I watched many of those same men fall in the glory of battle, only for another man to take his place. Fate can be unforgiving, and true glory does not await you here, but in Valhalla.” He glanced back at Karl. “If you want Kara to abandon her quest, you must not force her. That will only strengthen her resolve.”

  Karl sighed, grateful for the hot water as it calmed him. “That’s only half the equation,” he said.

  When Björn and the others frowned in confusion, Karl elaborated. “There’s still our child. I’ve never been to this Helheim, but it doesn’t sound like a great daycare center for our child’s eternity.”

  Before Björn could respond, Sporus spoke up, the water covering his pale chest and lapping at his chin as he slouched in the water. “There’s nothing you can do to stop death,” Sporus said softly, gazing steadily at Karl. “If you try to stop death, you’ll drive yourself mad and destroy those around you in a relentless, impossible quest.”

  “But didn’t the Emperor survive the actual underworld?” Karl asked, remembering the stories of how the Emperor surpassed the Roman underworld. Justus wouldn’t stop talking about it, and Constantia never denied it.

  “Not technically,” Sporus said, his face darkening. “He had to give up the life of his wife, Cleopatra, to return. It was the only deal Pluto allowed, as the threads of fate are not easily disturbed.”

  Karl leaned back in horror. “Taking the life of his wife,” he said aloud.

  He could not comprehend doing such a thing to Kara. His petty rage toward her evaporated, replaced by even more shame. He felt like an awful husband.

  “At least I didn’t sacrifice her life,” Karl said quietly.

  Sporus nodded. “I only know because Cleopatra herself told me. The Emperor would never admit such a thing publicly.”

  “Why would he do that?” Mýra asked, leaning close on Björn’s lap, which Karl made an effort not to look at.

  “A necessary evil, perhaps,” the Trickster said, flossing his metal teeth with his sharp claws. “I can’t imagine he was easy to love after that.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Sporus said with a dark, humorous look. “She didn’t blame him for it, and in some ways, neither do I. Julius Caesar controlled everything and would have ruled the entire globe with the Orb of Morpheus, a dream relic with the power to control humanity once anyone fell asleep. Maximus was the only one who could stop him, and he barely did. He stayed awake for days to fight him.”

  As the others continued reflecting on the world before Maximus saved them, Karl drifted into his own thoughts. Thinking about the Emperor and his wife only made him want to see Kara. To put aside his rage and spend as much time with her as possible.

  He suddenly stood, splashing hot water onto Sporus’s face. Sporus sighed in annoyance.

  “Forgive me,” Karl said, blushing as he realized he was standing waist-high in the water, and he crouched down again. He checked his internal parchment map to see if Kara was still at Titus’s house.

  She was gone.

  “Kara?” he called through the Pack Link, but there was no response. She must have been hiding her vision from him.

  “She’s at the festival,” Mýra said, looking at Karl with pity.

  Anxiety flared in Karl’s mind as he imagined her alone in the massive industrial city, where countless dangers lurked in the shadows, including the Emperor himself.

  Before Karl could dash out with his enhanced speed, Sporus grabbed his wrist. “Don’t tell me you’re going to chase after her in your Moltenveil armor,” Sporus said.

  “Well, I mean—” Karl stuttered, growing awkward as he felt Sporus’s eyes flick to his carved six-pack. “What else am I supposed to wear?” he finally said, shaking free of Sporus’s hand, though not his gaze.

  “If you’re going to a festival, you should at least look the part,” Sporus said, sounding offended. “Rome won’t accept the look of an uncivilized barbarian.”

  “I don’t think he wants to wear any wedding dresses, though, right, Sporus?” the Trickster said, chuckling.

  Sporus lunged to dunk the metal creature under the water, but the Trickster scurried away, weaving between the bathhouse patrons and disappearing.

  Sporus sighed. “Come on,” he said, grabbing Karl’s hand again and helping him out of the water. “You definitely don’t want to go out looking like that.”

  “Was that you running on the aqueducts?” Justus asked as Karl and Sporus returned to Titus’s house, the sun beginning to set over Rome.

  Björn, Mýra, and the Trickster followed behind after Sporus warned that it would take time to make Karl presentable.

  “Yes, that was me,” Karl said as Sporus sat him in the living room and sternly asked Titus to show him his wardrobe.

  “Of course,” Titus said, bewildered, leading the dark archer to his and Livia’s private bedroom.

  Constantia, chopping vegetables in the kitchen with a few of the younger slave girls, watched Sporus leave with wandering eyes. She whispered to a strawberry blonde slave, who giggled.

  “Do you think you’ll max out your werewolf abilities before the games are over?” Justus asked, slicking his messy black hair back while making his werewolf action figure and robot unicorn fight.

  The sight reminded Karl of his date with Kara, slaughtering unicorns together. His throat tightened as he longed to be with her again.

  “I think so,” Karl said. “I’ve been distracted. A lot’s been happening these past few days.”

  “Can you tell me what the ability is?” Justus asked, eyes wide.

  “Uh, sure,” Karl said, pulling up his System menu. He hadn’t planned far ahead, only knowing he wanted to continue down his Alpha Path. He currently had seven Reiði Points, with the skills Lunar Sight, Moonfang Strike, and Moonflayer Veil. However, he didn’t see any more abilities. Had he maxed it out already?

  The last ability is Solar Eclipse, Fenrir growled within Karl. You need ten points to accrue it.

  I’m much closer than I thought, Karl thought in response.

  You are getting harder to kill, that is for certain, Fenrir said, displeased. Although I have enjoyed seeing you gorge upon so many lives in these games.

  So glad to please you, Karl thought back, excitement stirring at how close he was to maxing out his Alpha Path.

  Karl gave Justus the rundown of how he could temporarily darken the battlefield, along with the benefits he would receive and the negative effects his enemies would suffer. With each detail, Justus asked for clarification and mimicked the actions with his werewolf figure, acting out what Karl could soon achieve.

  “I have been praying every day that the gods would grant you such glory,” Justus said, looking at Karl with near worship.

  Karl smiled and thanked him, then glanced toward Livia, who was giving Felix instructions on how she wanted the table set for dinner. That made Karl realize something he had missed.

  “Are you not going?” Karl asked.

  “No,” Livia said, shaking her head. “We’ll stay home. There’s too much movement in the streets to take the kids with us.”

  Constantia nodded beside her mother, a striking reflection of her, though her eyes lifted when Sporus reentered the room carrying clothes Karl immediately disliked. Sporus himself was dressed immaculately in a dark tunic, silver belt, and black boots.

  “Come this way,” Sporus said, motioning Karl to stand so he wouldn’t have to change in front of everyone.

  Karl followed, his dread shifting to having to change in front of Sporus of all people.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t look,” Sporus said, chuckling as he led Karl into his and Kara’s room, which smelled faintly of her and made him miss her even more.

  Karl pulled on fine linen blended with silk, which Sporus explained Titus had bought at ruinous cost from the East. The fabric was dyed deep ivory, the weave tight and cool against his skin, with a single narrow strip of Tyrian purple along the shoulders.

  “It shows you’re wealthy,” Sporus said, fastening a supple black leather cingulum around Karl’s waist, interwoven with silver.

  Next came the toga, which Sporus fitted with careful hands, as if handling a relic. It was a soft, luminous cream, draped cleanly over Karl’s shoulder, arranged so his bow arm remained free and his chest partially visible.

  Sporus finished with red-brown leather boots stitched with gold, a gold signet ring bearing Titus’s family crest, and a thin silver torque that looked distinctly Nordic.

  “There,” Sporus said, stepping back with his hands on his hips.

  “Thank you,” Karl said, blushing as Sporus’s eyes lingered on him. “Say,” Karl added quickly, “do you like Constantia?”

  Sporus blanked. “What?”

  Karl smiled and patted his back as they descended the stairs to meet Titus, Mýra, and the Trickster, who looked cleaned up but far less refined after a few of the slaves helped them to get ready.

  “You look like a woman,” Björn said, laughing.

  “Don’t expect a brute to understand fashion,” Sporus said dismissively.

  Karl checked his internal parchment map. Kara was at the Roman festival, alive, but alone.

  Livia approached, leaning into Titus as the children argued behind them about werewolves and vampires, with Constantia stressing that blood suckers were more attractive, which Justus made puking sounds at. “Just so you know,” Livia said, raising a concerned eyebrow, “Kara is dressed similarly.”

  “What she means,” Titus added, pulling Livia closer, “is that you should take her dancing. Even if she’s upset, she’ll want to be with you.”

  Karl nodded, taking a steadying breath.

  “You can always just drink,” Björn said, punching Karl’s shoulder. “It helps me every time.”

  “Only to make a fool of yourself,” Mýra added playfully.

  “I’ll be okay,” Karl said as he stepped into the night and headed toward the festival, hoping it would involve only dancing, drinking, and—gods willing—no death.

  31

  ICARUS

  Kara stepped into the festival from a side street near the Colosseum. Everything was overwhelmingly loud, with music erupting from rotating brass organs scattered through the busy streets. Laughter—mostly drunken—layered over shouting vendors eager to take advantage of the Emperor’s generosity of free food and wine, which had lured everyone to the festivals taking place all across the city. Kara would be surprised if a single person had stayed home.

  As night descended upon Rome, hanging lanterns of colored glass were strung from nearly every building and aqueduct. There must have been tens of thousands of people here, Kara realized as she wandered, wearing a simple yet elegant white stola cut at her thighs, revealing her strong, smooth legs. Livia had gifted her golden bracelets and helped braid her blonde hair.

  She caught many eyes from celebrating Romans and even a few gladiators as she took in the industrial spectacle around her. She passed rows of mechanical marvels that should have impressed her. On one stand, restrained by a large, burly man, a brass lion roared and bowed to children, who screamed and applauded.

  Nearby, a clockwork dancer spun with limbs moving faster than a human’s joints could allow.

  There were several machine horses Kara had seen before in Rome, and dozens of Imperial guards handing out faintly glowing golden bread and chilled wine. Vendors lined the streets offering spiced meats and sweet cakes to help complement the Emperor’s generous handouts.

  All of it should have been impressive. There was nothing like this Kara had ever experienced, not with her sister Frigg in her first life, nor even in this life with all of its strange System machinations. Yet she found herself not enjoying a single moment of it.

  Maybe Frigg would have enjoyed it. The thought made her smile, yet the memory of her death made it fade just as quickly. Kara had mostly forgiven herself for ending her sister’s life, but it still stung.

  Karl’s presence had helped to dull the pain.

  Kara approached a vendor selling thick glazed rolls topped with icing. Children devoured them as fast as the man could pass them out. Unintentionally, she thought of Karl, who would have gladly tried one, critiqued the slight burns on the edges, and explained how the icing was made, along with a few suggested improvements.

  Her chest tightened. It hurt to think of him.

  A crackle of lightning rippled over the crowd.

  Kara instinctively reached for her Sólbrandr sword, hidden in the fold of her stola, her heart racing. But when she saw the raised stone platform near a fountain in the Roman Forum, she stopped.

  A Greek gladiator with short blonde hair, whom she recognized from the arena, stood atop it. The crowd gasped as he raised his hand and lightning struck it, blue electricity crawling over his arms like living veins. Applause erupted at the spectacle.