pilate.
B
efore he responds—before he turns to me, even, or notices my presence—I am running through all the options, his responses and mine, playing them like a board game.No, I do not. Well, then, I might say—my judgement is not as sharp as it once was, for it looks like you are too drunk to know when something is chasing you; finding somewhere to stay in that state would be difficult, at the very least dangerous. Or: apologies, Vercingtorix. I thought you would say so, but courtesy dictates I offer. A little tinge of something sharp in the satin of my words. A dare nestled in the corner of my smiling mouth. The implication being: courtesy dictates this thing that I would not do myself.
Yes, I do. I don’t think this will be his answer. He is a proud man—I know this without even talking to him because Adonai has always had a type—and to admit his lack of power here would be untenable, a sidestep in a dance that only requires forward movement. If I were him, this is not what I would say. Yes, I do implies that I am right. Yes, I do, implies that I have caught him in a moment less than strong, less than perfect; and if I were him, a warrior of his stature, I cannot imagine that this is the position I would want to be in.
But, to my surprise, that is what he says. He expands on it, even. Yes, actually. I would appreciate that.
I do not bother hiding the fleeting change in my expression, in which one brow quirks up, and my smile loosens slightly in its fixture. The wind between us blows harder; it smells faintly of smoke, I think from some bonfire in the city center. But snowflakes still linger on that gust. A strange dichotomy.
I wonder what game he is trying to play. I wonder why he thinks he will win, when all evidence points to the contrary, and I fight the urge to gloat in advance. The way I live—not just my family, not just politics, but the way I am as an individual—dictates thinking three steps ahead at all times. And I know celebrating ahead of time will only narrow the scope of my view into the future.
So, instead, I dip my head to him in a cordial nod. My eyes are soft and dark, and I know they glitter out of the blackness of my face like gemstones. I know the night becomes me. (Everything becomes me, but the night especially.) Looking at Vercingtorix, I know in my bones this is not his place, his time, his setup. He belongs somewhere on a battle-field, midday, so that the sun makes him shine bright against all the blood. How handsome he would be. Like the soldiers painted on our terracotta pots. Like the ones that live under all the tombstones in our backyard.
But ah, I think: I could not love a real villain.
"Of course," I respond. If my voice is chipper at all (I feel chipper), then its vibrancy is likely lost, my glee hidden underneath the stonily pleasant expression on my face. "Come, I'll walk you back. I wonder—" I pause and tilt my head, as if the question has only just come to me. "I wonder why Adonai did not offer you a room himself."
I turn back toward the estate, knowing he will follow. And offer over my shoulder, "You will have to forgive him, though. My brother is absent-minded these days."
Overhead there is just a sliver of moon left. I fall into step at Vercingtorix's side; I look at him from the corner of my eye. The once-lustrous gold of his coat has been bleached to bone by the hungry stars and the darkness.
“it does no harm to pretend you love him.
provided you sell him the idea.”
