“No. I didn’t.”
He was pushing a tiny cube of apricot around his plate with his own fork. Studying the circles it made with unusual focus as she chewed and waited for words that weren’t coming.
She swallowed before digging deeper. “Do you like riding?”
“Yes.” Instead of elaborating, he shoved a hasty bite of food into his mouth.
All right, no more yes or no questions. “What do you like about it?”
He pointed to his full mouth, and she nodded in understanding and waited. And waited. And waited.
His chewing had become extraordinarily thorough in the last minute or so. But if he was hoping she’d say something more or change the topic while he endlessly chewed his mouthful of polenta—polenta, which didn’t actually require chewing—he was doomed to disappointment.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and she smiled encouragingly at him.
“Um . . .” His chest hitched in a tiny sigh, one so discreet she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him so closely. “I like being outdoors. And, uh, I’m pretty athletic, so things like riding suit me. Fit my talents, I guess.”
Suddenly, he straightened in his chair. Flipped his hair back from his face with a practiced snap of his head. “To help strengthen my thighs, I had certain exercises my trainer suggested I do. I can tell you about those.”
Nope.
“I imagine you had to practice a lot, even if you’re naturally athletic and exercise the right way.” Barreling right past his attempted conversational misdirection, she continued pressing. “Did someone from the show teach you swordplay, or did you learn how to use a sword on your own?”
At that, he met her eyes again. Finally. “You want to hear about the crew?”
“Sure.” That might prove as revelatory as any other topic, she figured.
His mouth pursed, he gave a little nod.
“Okay.” Putting down his cutlery, he leaned forward. “Um . . . okay. Any skill with the sword I have, I owe to them.”
“How?” she asked.
Once more, she waited. And this time, the dam broke.
“From the moment I was cast, they started teaching me how to handle my sword and shield in a way that would look second nature, as if I’d been doing it my whole life.” This time, she didn’t need to ask him to elaborate. He just did, without prompting. “How to walk, how to sit, how to stand at attention. And if I look capable on-screen while fighting, that’s due to them too.”
No credit for himself. Interesting. “In what way?”
He barely hesitated. “The fight coordinators and choreographers and the stunt coordinators worked like hell to make sure each battle scene not only looked impressive, but fit each character’s personality and history and the specific goals and mindset they’d have for that particular fight. Then they’d run us through the sequences again and again, until we knew exactly what to do and when to do it.”
In other words: Yes, with their help and guidance, he’d practiced a lot.
He was very skilled at erasing his own efforts from the narrative, though. Especially for a man whose vanity was legendary.
“Some of those big battle sequences, they’d start preparing us months ahead,” he added. “Up to a year, in a few cases. Always looking ahead, always striving to make each scene convincing and spectacular and memorable.”
His blue-gray eyes were bright and intent on hers, willing her to understand the greatness of the Gods of the Gates crew, the extent of their hard work. He was gesturing with his broad hands now, punctuating his points with little waves and slashes.
It was like watching a ghost become corporeal once more. Life, where only a shadow once existed. Fascinating and disorienting, all at once.
She thought over what he’d told her. “So if they take each character’s history into account, someone like Cyprian shouldn’t fight as capably as, say, Aeneas. Because Cyprian wouldn’t be as battle-hardened and wouldn’t have had the opportunity to learn swordplay in the same way.”
“Exactly. Sometimes they’d have to tell one of us to dial back the skill a few notches.” He grinned at her, and it crinkled at the corners of those eyes in a very distracting way. “Between takes, the director would come around and ask each of us what we were fighting for in that scene. What our goal was. What had happened to us prior to that scene that would inform the moment for our character. So a battle might involve hundreds of people, but for the main actors, that scene, that fight, would also be specific. Different for everyone.”
His face was mobile with passion. So much passion and intensity and . . . intelligence.
She crossed her legs under the table. Uncrossed them.
“And that’s not even getting into all the work done by the weapons master, the sword master, the horse master, the VFX and SFX people . . .” He shook his head, his golden hair glowing in the candlelight, and she couldn’t look away. “The show has over a thousand crew members, and they’re all amazing, April. The hardest-working, most talented people I’ve ever met.”
That didn’t sound like a platitude. It sounded like a bone-deep truth.
For the first time that night, April excused herself to the restroom. Once there, she used the facilities, washed her hands, and didn’t leave immediately.
Instead, she dabbed more cold water on her wrists. The back of her neck. Only two of the many places she was suddenly much too hot, even though she knew better. She did.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Red hair. Freckles. Brown eyes behind contact lenses. Round breasts, round belly, round thighs. All normal.
Not normal: the rosy flush on her cheeks, and the slight ache between those thighs.
Because she suddenly wanted him. Marcus. Caster. Hyphen. Rupp. The dim, vain man who was, apparently, neither vain nor dim. Or at least not as vain and dim as he pretended.
He was still gorgeous, however. Still famous.
And only having dinner with her tonight out of kindness, not desire for her company or her body or anything else specific to her.
Well, shit.
GODS OF THE GATES: SEASON 1, EPISODE 3
EXT. MOUNTAINSIDE CAVE – DUSK
JUNO waits inside the entrance, half in shadows, expression calm and righteous. When LEDA ventures within, Juno makes no sudden movements, aware that the woman her husband has wronged—yet another woman he has violated—has no reason to trust her, and may fear the vengeance of a possessive wife.
JUNO
Trust my good will, if you can. I no longer find relief in petty jealousy, and am no longer foolish enough to blame a mortal maiden for the rapaciousness of an all-powerful god.
LEDA
I would not have betrayed you, mother Juno. Not if resistance were in my power.
EUROPA glides through the entrance, armed, shaking with fear.
EUROPA
Whatever tortures you may choose to inflict upon me, you can do no worse than the man you call husband.
JUNO
I no longer call him husband. And if we make common cause, none of us need call him king of the gods for long.
GODS OF THE GATES: SEASON 6, EPISODE 2
INT. AENEAS AND LAVINIA’S HOME – NIGHT
LAVINIA waits by the fire. She’s pissed. He’s been fucking Anna, Dido’s sister. She knows it. AENEAS enters the house.
LAVINIA
Where you have been, my husband?
AENEAS
That is not your concern.
Whatever. He doesn’t need this shit. When Lavinia cries, he walks away.
6
WHILE APRIL VISITED THE BATHROOM, MARCUS REGROUPED.
Somehow, she’d gotten him talking about things he actually wanted to talk about. Worse, doing so in the same way he might with Alex, the one person he trusted without hesitation. Alex, who definitely wouldn’t contact a blogger and say, I think Marcus Caster-Rupp has been fucking with everyone this whole time as some kind of big joke.
His public persona wasn’t a joke. It never had been. But unless he controlled the narrative—as he’d advised her to do earlier that night—his behavior could easily be construed that way. If he chose to shed his persona, it had to be on his terms, and only on his terms. For the sake of his career, but also his own troubled conscience.
When April got back from the bathroom, Well-Groomed Golden Retriever was going to make his triumphant return to the stage, ready to perform his few hard-won tricks. Or maybe he’d simply turn the conversation to her life, her job, and let her do all the talking for the rest of the evening.
In the meantime, he got out his phone and checked his messages. Not those on the Lavineas server, since he wanted time and privacy to read any DMs from Ulsie. But by now, reactions to the showrunners’ ominous message several days before should be all over the cast’s private group chat. And . . . sure enough.
Carah: for the record, I’m not saying a goddamn word to anyone about this season
Carah: saving that for my fucking MEMOIRS, bitches
Ian: whoever hid my tuna, it’s not funny
Carah: hahahahahaha
Ian: give it back, assholes, Jupiter needs protein for this last week of shooting
Summer: I don’t know why we need a new reminder about the confidentiality clause in our contracts each season
Summer: it’s a little insulting
Summer: @Carah: looking forward to reading that, hon
Alex: no one wants your pocket tuna, Ian, you probably just ate it without realizing
Maria: THIS
Alex: I mean, it was like your twelfth serving of fish today, so
Peter: yeah, probably not very memorable, all things considered
Maria: do you know the symptoms of mercury poisoning, and do they involve referring to yourself in the third person as a god
At that point, the conversation derailed because of Ian’s extended, defensive seafood-related rant, as per usual. The man could use a few more carbs, as well as a bit more distance between himself and his role. At least enough so that he could cease referring to himself as Jupiter when the cameras weren’t rolling.
As Marcus slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, he spotted another cell’s camera pointed in his direction. Not the same one as earlier, though. This time, a woman from the table behind April was taking the opportunity to get an unobstructed, flash-free shot of him during his date’s absence. When he looked around, at least a couple of other customers were eyeing him speculatively, leaning close to their dinner companions and whispering.