Half A Life
by Maya Tawipart eight
"Crash and burn, all the stars explode tonight
How'd you get so desperate, how'd you stay alive?
Help me please burn the sorrow from your eyes
Oh come on be alive again, don't lay down and die"
-Hole
When Autolycus woke up, he couldn't move.
It was the first thing he tried, before he was even fully conscious, thinking for a moment that he was still in the dungeon-- had to get away, before Xena and her demented bow-woman caught him--
Then he remembered that he was already caught.
Cautiously he opened his eyes, wary of the headache lurking behind his eye sockets, and took a brief survey of his surroundings.
He was lying tilted at a more or less forty-five-degree angle, like those shapes Pythagorus was always going on about. Somehow, while he'd been unconscious, he'd been moved to the town square. It was still nighttime; various torches flickered around the square, illuminating it with an eerie, dancing red light that made people's faces look like grotesque theatre masks, something out of one of Euripides's bigger-budget productions. And there were a lot of faces within view. From behind the stone archway where he'd been positioned, hidden for the moment from the public eye, he saw that a crowd had already gathered, and more were still assembling. Their expressions, from this distance, looked like perfect, unreal parodies of tiredness, excitement, and fear.
And while he could move his head from side to side, from the neck down Autolycus couldn't so much as twitch a muscle.
"This is not good at all," he muttered, and his voice came out sounding hoarse and rusty from disuse. He craned his neck to try and see what he was leaning on. It was long and thin, made from a stiff and unyielding material-- like wood-- and had some sort of crossbeam behind his shoulders that his wrists were lashed to the end of. He had the sick suspicion that he knew exactly what it was, and he didn't like the idea one bit.
"They're all here for you, you know."
Autolycus froze, then very slowly turned his head to the left. Xena stood there, out of the battle dress and back in her empirical robes, but looking no less capable of kicking someone's ass. She leaned against the walls, her arms crossed; her hair, still unbound, rippled like an endless river of black.
Looking at her, he felt his blood chill.
"All here to watch you die," she continued. "Bloodthirsty bunch, wouldn't you say?"
"Well, if it isn't Xena the Conqueror," Autolycus said, surprised at the evenness in his own voice. "Fancy meeting you here. I can't imagine the masses had any choice in attending this particular event."
The Conqueror tut-tutted. "Oh, details like that don't matter here. This is what you want, isn't it? You crave attention, an audience, a reputation. Well--" She mock-bowed; her hair almost swept the floor. "Here you go."
He swallowed hard. "Uh, gee, thanks. But listen, if you really wanna do me a favor--"
Xena's eyes hardened. "I don't."
"So you plan to kill me, then?" Still his voice was cool. "You'd be surprised how many have tried."
She actually smiled at that. At least he thought the faint twitch of her lips was supposed to be a smile. "Really? Well, I've got you dead to rights here, my boy. I'd be interested in seeing how you escape this."
"You never would've caught that rebel girl if it wasn't for me," he pointed out, getting desperate. "You owe me. So let me go and we'll call it even, whaddya say?"
The Conquerer eyed him, and he swallowed again. His throat suddenly felt like the Sahara.
"Funny," she said finally, "I don't remember hiring you."
"You could, though. We could work this out. Just think, if you had the King of Thieves in your pocket, I'd be able to get you information no one else could--"
"I already do."
"Oh yeah?" he countered. "Just like you knew about the rebel girl, right?"
Xena didn't answer for a moment, and Autolycus took the opportunity to try again to force his arms and legs to move, to no avail. It was as though his muscles were simply no longer connected to his brain.
"Don't bother," Xena said, seeming to read his mind. "You won't be able to move a muscle until I want you to. But don't worry, you'll still feel... everything."
His eyes narrowed. "Right, well, that certainly puts me at ease. In fact--"
"You," Xena said, "talk entirely too much."
"Aw, gee," Autolycus said. "Was I bothering you? I'm so sorry."
"On the contrary." She smiled faintly. "Perhaps I could use a man like you working for me. If only I didn't have to make an example of you."
"Oh, you don't," Autolycus assured her. "Really, you don't."
"I'm afraid I very much do." Xena actually looked regretful for a moment. Autolycus blinked, then decided it must have been a trick of the light. "You could have worked well for me. You're bold, skilled, clever, talented.... Even that miniscule spark of goodness in your heart could have been snuffed out with the proper attention. It really is too bad."
She started to turn, then paused.
"I do have to make an example of you," she said again. "But maybe it won't be entirely necessary to... kill you."
"My thoughts exactly," Autolycus said fervently.
Xena smiled again.
"We'll put on a good show, you and I," she said. "Then, afterwards... we'll talk."
She turned on her heel and started to walk away.
"Wait!" Autolycus called. She stopped but didn't turn around.
He licked his dry lips. He didn't want to ask, but he knew he had to.
"Tiro...?" he ventured finally. He didn't have to say anything else.
"Dead," the Conqueror said. From her tone of voice, he suspected she was still smiling. "But you knew that. And to think you could have prevented it by simply turning yourself in. He'd still be alive, after all, and nothing else would have changed."
The truth of her words ripped at the conscience he didn't think he'd had. He gritted his teeth.
"What about Iolaus?" he asked quietly.
Xena grew very, very still. For a moment she just stood there, unmoving, not saying a word. Then, like a ghost or a god, she vanished into the darkness.
Iolaus vaulted up the steps to the temple, barrelled across the open prayer room, kicked the double doors open, and burst into the inner chamber.
"Autolycus!" he yelled.
No answer.
He slumped against the wall and swore, as loudly and as inventively as he could. Maybe it had been too much to hope for. But surely Autolycus had had enough time to find the old man and get out before Xena had caught on? If the bastard was half as good as he kept saying he was, anyway....
Maybe he'd gotten lost. Maybe he'd gotten caught on his way off the grounds. Maybe he'd gotten away and was on his way to the temple at that very moment.
Iolaus doubted it.
"Fuck," he said quietly. Then he pushed himself away from the wall and limped towards Agamede's private room in the back. Now that the burst of adrenaline was gone, he was feeling every new cut, bruise, and scrape, his sliced arm was burning, and his broken wrist throbbed. And if Autolycus hadn't made it, it was all for nothing.
Iolaus stopped in front of the simple wooden door, raised his fist, and hesitated with a frown. Was that...?
Then he shrugged and knocked.
No one answered, and he knocked again. He was starting to panic, ready to kick this door open too, when the lock clicked and it swung open, and Agamede's sleepy, tousled, and very young blond head peered at him from the doorway.
She blinked when she saw him and rubbed her eyes, and when she looked again she seemed distinctly more alert.
"Iolaus," she said, sounding uncertain.
He just nodded.
Agamede's blue gaze sharpened and darted past him. "Where's my father?" After a moment, she added, "Where's Autolycus?"
Iolaus sighed. "Agamede, we need to talk. Can I come in?"
Panic filled her eyes. "What happened to my father?" she demanded, her voice rising.
"Agamede-- Agamede, I don't know! Just listen, would you--" Automatically, he put his hands on her shoulders; she shrugged him off angrily, and as the bones in his wrist jarred together, he couldn't bite back a groan.
Agamede's expression changed. "Oh gods, you're hurt-- I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I didn't mean to-- Leia, come help!"
For a confused moment, Iolaus thought maybe she was praying to some obscure medical deity he'd never heard of. Then the door opened wider and another woman stepped up beside her.
This one was taller, with long dark hair and clear gray eyes; as Iolaus stared, dumbfounded, she swept him up and down with a clinical gaze and said, "Bring him in."
She was, he couldn't help noticing, wearing a man's dressing robe... and not much else.
The woman led him into the room and sat him down on the bed, and finally Iolaus couldn't take it anymore. "Who are you?" he blurted out.
She just raised her eyebrows.
"This is Sileia," Agamede said, with an unmistakeable note of pride in her voice, despite the worry. "My fiancee."
"Oh." Iolaus blinked at her. Autolycus's ex-girlfriend, indeed. He felt obscurely relieved by the news; then he reminded himself that, Agamede or no Agamede, Autolycus would be just as dead if they didn't do something soon.
Sileia started running her hands over his body, and he said irritably, "Look, we don't have time for a medical exam here, all right? It's just my wrist--"
"And your other arm, and your ribs, and your ankle," Sileia interrupted, without looking up at him.
Agamede gave a low whistle. "Wow. Did you get the plates of that chariot?"
Iolaus sighed. "Okay, but listen, I really don't have the time. If you could just set the wrist so I can use it, that'd be great, and I promise to get the rest taken care of later, all right?"
"What happened?" Agamede demanded. "How'd you get hurt like this? I thought you said you two had a plan!"
He hesitated. "Well, yes, but she-- they were waiting, she'd been expecting us. I mean, we'd counted on that. I was supposed to distract her, only she caught on a lot quicker than we'd planned on. I don't know what happened to your father," he added quickly, as Agamede opened her mouth again, "but if Autolycus didn't come back here then they didn't make it out, and I need to go back."
Sileia and Agamede exchanged an eloquent look, and then Agamede said, "You're in no shape to go anywhere. Autolycus got himself into this. You stay here, and Leia and I'll go back to get Dad."
Iolaus scowled up at her and opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but then Sileia twisted his arm one way and his hand the other, and the retort became a scream as his bones snapped back into their proper place.
Sileia glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows again.
After a moment, Iolaus caught his breath. "He's my partner," he said shortly. "I have to go back. And besides, Hermes'd kill me."
She started to silently splint his wrist. One corner of her mouth twitched.
Iolaus glanced at Agamede. "Quite a prize you've got here."
"Oh, shut up," Agamede snapped. "You know I'm right. You still can't use your right hand, and you need stitches for that cut, and Leia's here now, so you can't use that as an excuse."
Sileia let his wrist go with a flourish, then unabashedly dropped the robe to the floor and started to pull on her clothes.
"Well, how about this?" Iolaus jumped up and started to pace. "I finish what I start, one way or another. So I'm not just gonna stuck my feet up here and lie back while you two take over--"
"Why not?" Agamede cut in furiously. "'Cause we're women? Is that why? Is that--"
"Would you get over that already? It has nothing to do with this! I just--"
"Then give me one good reason why we shouldn't--"
"Hang on!" Iolaus held his hand up and darted out the door; after a moment, Agamede and Sileia followed.
He stopped just behind the ruined doors to the outside, listening. Agamede groaned when she saw the destruction. "You did this? Dad's gonna kill me--"
"Shh," he said, concentrating on the sounds coming from the path. Sileia was listening too, and the two exchanged grim looks. After a moment, Agamede's eyes widened.
Iolaus watched the path from the shadows of the temple; as soon as the palace guards and the gathered peasants they were herding disappeared from sight, he pushed through the doors, leaped down the stairs, and started to run. This time the two women didn't hesitate before following after. The guards' pronouncement still rang in all their ears.
You're all to witness the crucifixion of the King of Thieves-- now hurry up or you'll miss the good part....
A soldier stepped up in front of the crowd. He wore his full battle armor like a second skin.
"Behold!" he boomed; his voice was deep and strong, somehow huge in the expansive square. Autolycus imagined that he'd been chosen for his role for that voice alone.
Scattered whispers quieted and eventually grew silent.
"Your sovereign, Xena the Conqueror!"
The procession started again, not too different from the one-- was it just two days ago when he had last stood in this square, about to face prosecution? Of course, he wasn't exactly standing now.
He thought about Xena's earlier promise. To not kill him right away, and instead to negotiate. At least he assumed she wanted to negotiate. Somehow, wondering what exactly she had planned was worse than knowing and expecting death.
Then again....
Maybe they'd break his legs, like the rebel girl's. He thought about her current state and winced; of course, if Xena expected him to do any work for him, she'd have to set his legs properly afterwards. It was a small consolation that didn't take away from the terror of the prospective pain.
Not that he expected to work for the Conqueror for very long. But as long as he was relatively able-bodied and able to stand on his own two legs, the rest would be easy. Siberia was supposed to be nice this time of year....
But Tiro was still dead. And he was still a murderer, no matter if Xena's pet bow-girl had been the one to actually fire the shot.
At least Iolaus had gotten away.
Autolycus returned his attention to the proceedings. Xena was descending the steps slowly, her hair once again pulled back behind her head. She stopped at the bottom and stood regally, her pale eyes flashing. Here in the flickering firelight, she looked less like an iron-fisted despot and more like some primitive death goddess.
"Bring out the prisoner!" the soldier called.
It was almost an exact replay of the last such event, the crucifixion of the rebel girl, except he was already on the cross. Autolycus thought of the girl, not so much older than Agamede, a rebel leader of all things, sitting in a cramped room with two broken legs; he thought of Agamede, already engaged to be married, so eager to rush in and die for the chance to save her father's life; and he wondered, for the first time, just how it had all happened. How one person had so ruthlessly snatched so much power, and how everyone else had just let her do it.
He wondered if he was beginning to care.
Couldn't be. That way lay madness and an unnaturally short lifespan.
The soldiers hefted the cross in the air and carried him out into the middle of the square. Autolycus found himself following the proceedings with an almost detached air, as though he were in the audience again, and not the one on the cross this time. The crowd was still silent. They didn't know what was coming either, but they had a fairly good idea.
He wished they'd just get it over with already, so he could get on with planning his daring escape.
And then he'd come back, in a few years when everything had died down and the King of Thieves had appeared to move on to bigger, better, less painful things-- and he'd rob the Conqueror's damned treasury bare. Revenge for Tiro, because if he'd murdered the guy he might as well make it up to him in some way. Tiro would definitely approve. And Iolaus--
Why was he thinking about Iolaus? He wasn't going to go after Iolaus. The last thing Autolycus needed was someone else around to die for him.
Besides, the King of Thieves worked alone.
The soldiers carrying him came to an abrupt halt, and Autolycus snapped out of his thoughts and back to reality. A moment later he wished he hadn't. Xena was looking down at him, a faint smile on her lips. Her expression was smug and pitying, repellent and bizarrely comforting at the same time. Autolycus tried one last time to move, in vain. It was as though his body wasn't even his. Like Orpheus, doomed to live forever as just a severed head....
He did manage to resist the urge to spit in her face.
When she spoke, her voice was low, yet still seemed to carry across the square, the whole of the empire even. "Autolycus. King of Thieves, hero of the people, caught and chained like an animal." Her fingers dropped lightly to his shoulder, trailing up his throat to his face and cupping his chin, a touch so intimate it almost burned. He flinched. "Where are your fans now?"
"Where are yours?" Autolycus countered. "All I see are terrified subjects. You think these people wouldn't overthrow you in a second if they thought they had a chance?"
Xena's smile didn't alter, but her eyes turned even colder. "I don't need fans," she said quietly. "I have my army."
Then she raised her voice and turned back to the crowd. "But you! You're quite the arrogant one, aren't you?" She leaned in close. "I'll say this for you, thief, you are brave. But that won't do you any good. What you need now is a miracle."
Autolycus sincerely hoped this was part of the show.
"You call yourself the King of Thieves, yet all you are is a petty burglar--"
That was too much. "Hey, now, there's nothing petty about--"
"You came to my castle to-- what?" she continued, as though he hadn't spoken. "To steal from my treasury." She smirked. "How pathetic. And not even to give the riches to these people you seem to know so well, but to keep them for yourself. You have the skills to do the impossible-- to get past my castle defenses-- and what do you use them for? Your own personal gain.
"Folk hero?" She tilted her head thoughtfully. "No, I just don't see it."
Autolycus opened his mouth to deny it, then shut it again. There was no point in lying now. A low buzz went up around the square at his silence. Autolycus tried to ignore it; he'd never aspired to be the people's hero, after all, although admittedly he had enjoyed it, in an abstract kind of way. He was the King of Thieves, and everything else was incidental.
"You're not even worthy of a public execution," Xena spat, her eyes gleaming with a faint, unnatural light. "But I think the people deserve to witness the destruction of an icon, don't you?"
Autolycus smirked up at her. "What can I say?" he drawled. "It's who I am." Please let's get on with this, he thought, please please, my nerves can't take much more of this.
"No," Xena said. "It's not." For a moment, her smile grew wide and brilliant, glittering with hard-edged anger and barely controlled fury and vicious victory; then, abruptly, it was gone, and her face was as still as a stone idol's. "It's who you were."
Before Autolycus could fully grasp the implications of the words, another soldier stepped in between them, raising a heavy hammer above her head. No, not a soldier-- the bow-woman, Glaphyra. Her features were just as harsh as before, but something new glowed in her eyes as she looked down at the bound thief-- blind, indiscriminate hatred.
And she doesn't even know me, he thought weakly.
Then, with horror and sudden understanding, he realized the hammer wasn't aimed at his legs.
Intrinsic to Autolycus's character was his deep-seated, unshakable, necessary faith in himself, faith that whatever mess he got himself into, he would eventually manage to get himself out of it. It was a philosophy that had served him well all of his life and, he had thought, would continue to serve him until whatever time that life happened to end; he was smart and cunning and he had skilled hands, and no prison could hold him for long. Even the Conqueror's dungeon had yet to hold him for long. He was, after all, the King of Thieves.
And it was over those skilled hands that Glaphyra now poised the heavy hammer.
She seemed to lower it in slow motion, and for a few moments Autolycus could only watch, stunned by the enormity of what was about to happen. In less than two seconds his life would be as good as over.
It seemed like an eternity passed; it was only about a second before the panic hit, and he struggled frantically to at least move his hand out of the way, but the deadened muscles still wouldn't respond; he thought he felt a finger twitch, but it was too little, too slow....
He heard the hoarse cry before he realized that it was his own. "Wait! Don't--"
A small gesture from Xena, and Glaphyra, with admirable reflexes, ended the downward swing less than two inches above her intended target. As she stepped aside, she scowled down at Autolycus with an expression that promised she would finish the job soon, and enjoy it.
He ignored the look, too awash in relief at the temporary respite. His eyes stayed firmly fixed on Xena as she stepped forward, and he cleared his throat. "I'd, uh, I'd like to negotiate now."
The Conqueror moved in close again, bending over so that her lips brushed his left ear. "We don't have to do this," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. "I meant what I said. I could find good use for a man like you. We can skip the hands...."
She paused, and Autolycus felt his breath coming faster.
"If you'll tell me just one thing."
Autolycus swallowed hard and licked his lips. "What's that?"
"In fact, if you tell me this, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll have just your legs broken and leave you out for the night, and then in the morning I'll bring you in and have my healer set them. He's the best there is. You'll get the best room I have, and you'll be treated like a royal guest until you're healed. As befits a king," she added with a small smile. "Then you'll be free to go."
He didn't say anything.
"I can't possibly be more fair than that," Xena murmured. "Think about that, and think about what could happen."
Glaphyra was watching, her face dark.
"What do you want to know?" Autolycus repeated, as softly as he could.
She trailed her fingers lightly over his forehead.
"Tell me where Iolaus is," she whispered.
When he didn't respond, she added, "The two of you must have agreed to meet somewhere afterwards. Tell me where he would have gone."
"What are you gonna do with him?" he asked, dreading the answer.
Xena raised an eyebrow.
"Kill him," she said matter-of-factly. "Whichever one he is, whatever he may know, at best he knows a way into my castle. He's still a threat to me. I cannot let him live."
"Well," Autolycus managed, "you certainly are... blunt."
"I don't lie," Xena said. "And I don't go back on my word. Think about it, and think quickly; Glaphyra's itching to see some blood, in case you haven't noticed."
She correctly interpreted his hesitation. "You already let one person die to save yourself, and it didn't even work. I'm giving you my word here. You will profit from this."
Autolycus found his voice. "I can get into the castle too," he said. "I've done it twice, a different way each time. Shouldn't you kill me too? Not that that's an invitation," he added hastily.
Xena smiled. "I have the feeling we can come to an... arrangement," she said silkily. "You look like a reasonable man. I'm willing to make a deal."
"Like me working for you."
"Only if you want. Like I said, you'll be free to go."
Well, he didn't really have a choice, did he? Without his hands, he couldn't steal, couldn't pick locks, couldn't do... other things. Even if he managed to get away from the Conqueror, he'd be easy pickings for anyone who held a grudge against him-- and there were so many of those, he'd lost count.
Forget about being able to escape. There wouldn't even be a reason to. If Autolycus couldn't steal-- and he knew with a sickeningly grim certainty that this was the cold, simple truth-- he'd rather be dead.
Autolycus opened his mouth to tell her, to give everything up, tell her where Iolaus was supposed to be waiting and save himself, because after all that was what he did. Look out for numeral I. Take care of himself, and Tartarus take everyone else; they could look after themselves.
But nothing came out.
And as he pictured Iolaus's face and his crazy blond hair and that cheerful, irreverent grin, or even that scowl he got when he was really pissed off at something-- someone-- and the shadows in his blue eyes, and as Autolycus remembered that slick, muscular body leaning over his, with those eyes clear and shining and all the shadows finally gone, he felt his stomach sink into his boots. Because he knew that, newfound morality and responsibility notwithstanding because as far as he was concerned they could all go to Tartarus as well, he couldn't do that to his partner. Friend? Lover....
Whatever. He just couldn't. Wouldn't. Not ever.
I knew I shouldn't have slept with him, he thought dismally. I knew this would happen.
So he just closed his mouth and looked at Xena, his face hard and expressionless, betraying nothing.
And she understood. It was frightening-- she was almost like a mind reader, the way she could predict people's responses, the way she understood things that were never said. She hadn't expected him to tell her, he realized, and somehow that made it even worse than before.
The Conqueror stepped away without a word. Glaphyra came forward, and this time Autolycus closed his eyes so he didn't have to see her satisfaction at a job well done.
For the first time in his life, the King of Thieves was caught like a rat in a trap, with no way out.
Even without looking, he could feel it when the soldier raised her arms with one quick motion, hovering at the top of her upswing before she brought the hammer down--
He was screaming before he even felt it, an automated bodily response, and for one dizzy, confused moment he couldn't think why. Then the pain hit, Greek fire shooting from the center of his left hand down to the tips of his fingers, up his arm to his shoulder, so intense for a moment that he almost fainted, before his smashed hand went blessedly numb.
And then the scream stopped as abruptly as it had begun, as his mind decided that numb sounded pretty good and immediately followed suit.
His right hand exploded and he yelled again, but it was pure physical reaction; icy cold was seeping from the pit of his stomach into the rest of his body, creating what felt like a thin glass wall between him and the rest of the world.
Thamyris couldn't forget Hyacinthus... stripped of his craft and hung out to dry....
The subsequent breaking of his legs seemed anticlimactic, routine even. He barely noticed. It didn't matter. Not anymore.
Neither did he see the three frantic figures running towards the square-- two women, one in a simple red sleeping shift and one in a lightweight cotton fighting dress, and a man in a purple patchwork vest-- pushing to the front of the silent crowd and then freezing, stunned by the spectacle, expressions of shock turning, variously, to helplessness, frustration, and fury.
And when they lifted the cross from the ground and carried him off, he was just another broken human being, one more crushed beneath the weight of the Conqueror's rule.
Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Epilogue Email: mayatawi@populli.net