Secrets of the Starcrossed

by Clara O'Connor

  “All right, settle down,” I pleaded with my friend, trying to conceal my blushes from the rest of the group, whose attention was being drawn by her peals of laughter. My connection to Marcus Courtenay was not public knowledge and I frowned at my friend’s lack of discretion.

  The announcement of Governor Actaeon and Praetor Calchas thankfully drowned her out, and an expectant hush came over the crowd as the pair made their way solemnly to the front of the council’s box in full ceremonial regalia.

  The stern-faced governor strode to the front of the box and solemnly cast his gaze around the arena. I was torn between looking at the big screen above the highest tier of the amphitheatre to take in the high-definition close-up of the most important man in our province, and looking at the actual man standing not twenty feet to my right. I finally settled on watching the man in person as I could always re-watch the actual broadcast later. He looked smaller in real life, as he delivered the traditional welcome.

  “Friends, Romans, citizens, we are gathered here once more in Londinium’s great amphitheatre that has witnessed our dedication to the imperial Code for two thousand years. We are the first and last defence of the Empire. The walls keep us safe, but our Code keeps us strong. In the Code we are one.”

  And the entire arena responded together, “We are one in the Code.”

  The moral and ethical Code protected us all. It was the system we all relied on as much as the programming Code given to us by tonight’s honoured citizen, the legend and genius that was Louis Vanders, who in his youth had brought new depths to the computing languages on which the technology underpinning our world ran.

  I followed the direction of the Governor’s nod to locate him. He was on the far side of the arena, a woman who must be his nurse or daughter helping him rise to accept the crowd’s applause.

  The crowd grew silent again as the great doors to the arena opened, and the governor took his seat.

  Praetor Calchas, the highest judge in the land, and commander of the legions stationed in the province, and who was rather more approachable-looking than the governor, stepped forward.

  “Bring forth the accused,” he directed at the sentinels who flanked the shadowed entrance.

  Tonight’s accused, wearing standard black uniforms, shuffled into the arena. The traditional masks and hoods that covered their faces were in place, beneath which their hearing would also be blocked so they were unable to hear what happened to their fellow accused. This meant they existed in a state of stasis at the side of the arena until it was their turn to be brought forward and judged.

  The silence was unnerving. I was used to hearing the swell of the signature music that accompanied the entrance of the accused into the arena. Then the stamping began, each member of the audience contributing to the pounding which reverberated through the building. I shivered in response. The accused must be able to feel it – the thud of the crowd, a vibrating baying for their blood. I marvelled at the revelation. Familiar as I was with the Metes, I had already glimpsed an authentic aspect of the event that I could barely have guessed at watching the broadcast.

  What must the accused make of it? This unexpected pounding that vibrated through the very foundations of the ancient building must be disconcerting at the very least.

  I wasn’t sure why I was spending so much time thinking about the accused and what they must be feeling. Usually, I was too busy making sure I had everything I needed for the Mete when I watched at home. I took my obligation to judge very seriously, often taking notes to make sure I followed the more complicated cases.

  My mother’s approach was much less considered. She usually judged the person on the way they took the sands to face judgement, often before the first clip had been shown. She had a pretty shoddy record in other aspects as well: it was mandatory to vote on at least 80% of judgments but my mother, at 84%, was well below the average. Usually, it was because she was out socialising and used the time of the broadcast to whip across the city in a fraction of the time. My father and I took it much more seriously, he at 98% – exemplary – and I at 91%. This was low considering I had never missed a broadcast since I turned eighteen, but I was squeamish about voting in capital offence cases. My father even allowed me to leave the room during the executions. He had taken me aside earlier in the week to warn me my vote would likely be under more scrutiny while I was in citizenship class. I needed to redress the balance so that my lack of voting in more serious cases wasn’t so apparent. I hoped there wasn’t anything horrible here tonight. I had no desire to witness blood on the sand.

  The first of the accused was walked into the centre of the arena, guided by two sentinels. His hood and mask remained firmly in place – justice had to be blind so we wouldn’t see their faces until after the vote had taken place. The mask also had a switch that was controlled remotely so they could hear the evidence against them when it was their moment on the sands.

  The praetor’s voice rang around the arena as he spoke the most iconic words in our city.

  “You are accused of crimes against the Code. How do you plead?”

  The crowd held its breath. The man in the hood fell to his knees; he chose to deny the accusations, to throw his case open to the judgement of his fellow citizens. The amphitheatre broke into delighted applause. The entertainment was underway.

  Praetor Calchas waited until the applause died down before pointing up at the screen.

  “The accused has been charged with breaking the Code by failing to pay taxes owed to the city.”

  The film rolled, compiled by the sentinels from the city’s pervasive cameras. In it we watched as a tall ship sailed up the Tamesis. The name was blurred out – a precaution to ensure voting was as unbiased as possible – just as the face of the accused in the footage was blurred in bright red; any bystanders in the shots were also blurred out in grey to ensure no innocent party was targeted after the Mete by members of the public. After all, they weren’t to know that they were associating with a Codebreaker. Unless they did, I admonished myself.

  We watched as the ship’s cargo was offloaded onto the docks, inspected, and duly signed off by the customs officer. Fast forward to night time, and the ship’s captain – for that was who the accused seemed to be – returned and entered the warehouse where he cut into a number of the bales carrying cotton from the Americas and pulled out several small bags. As he exited the warehouse, the sentinels closed in. The camera panned in for a close-up on the bags as they were opened and nuggets of gold were produced from within.

  The crowd roared and the captain pushed himself up to a standing position. The crowd roared even louder at his impudence. It was far too late to attempt to get out of a public vote. The severity of the sentence tended to be influenced by the results of the election, and the evidence here left little doubt.

  Praetor Calchas raised his fist, thumb out to the side and the crowd fell silent for the sixty seconds accorded to the Public Vote. I reached into my pocket and clicked the button to indicate guilty. Around the city, I imagined the thousands of others who were doing the same as the clock counted down.

  The dong signalled the end of the vote, the sentinels removed the man’s hood and mask, and he watched as the praetor took the note handed to him and his thumb pointed down.

  “Captain Delmer, you have been found guilty of smuggling and in light of a 99.87% conviction rate you are sentenced to our most severe punishment for evasion of taxes. You are to serve the city for ten years, during which time you will take no profits from your work, and at the end of this period your case will be reviewed.”

  The man sagged onto his knees once more. He would be utterly ruined, but the sentence was just; this was what happened to those who stole from the city.

  The crowd applauded again but politely, their interest waning. There was no further fun to be had with this one then. Calchas raised his hand once more.

  “In light of your freedom to exit the city, please note that should you attempt to flee your sentence
, your family will be held accountable, and their blood shall stain the sand in your place. This is the sentence of the city upon you.”

  The sailor on the sand nodded, accepting his fate. He walked from the sand, but as we were waiting for the next accused to be brought forward, our attention was caught by activity happening off–screen.

  The sentinels were dragging a new hooded figure onto the sands. I had no memory of anything similar ever happening before, either of an accused arriving after the opening ceremony or of them being dragged in unable to walk on their own. The man was thrown into the cage where the others waited, and was left by the sentinels sitting propped up by the wall of the arena. I looked to the big screens but the cameras hadn’t shown this unusual event; only those in the actual arena would have witnessed the late entrant. The swirl of the praetor’s robes caught my eye as he turned to glare at someone behind him – a praetorian guard hurrying forward to whisper in his ear. It appeared Praetor Calchas did not approve of this event either. Was the latecomer unexpected or was he just annoyed at the untidiness of his arrival?

  The next accused was marched to the centre of the sand. Praetor Calchas’s voice rang out once more.

  “You are accused of crimes against the Code. How do you plead?”

  This man, slighter than the last, also knelt. Another citizen wishing to put his fate in the hands of the people. The crowd roared their approval.

  Calchas again pointed up at the screen.

  “You have been accused of theft.”

  The screens lit up with the evidentiary reel. An apprentice – the accused – toiled away at a work table cutting and sewing cloth. The finished products were cheap and of average style. Disappointing.

  My attention wandered, the attraction of checking out Marcus Courtenay – golden prince of the city – too difficult to resist. He sat in the middle of his box, the charismatic centre of his group of friends, the last scion of the old blood, descendant of the rose king of York. My heart fluttered. It was hard to believe that the stranger on the other side of the arena was my soulmate.

  I caught myself. I knew better. That word, the concept of someone being the predestined other half of your soul, was outdated, like religion or one of those twentieth-century cars that ran on fossil fuel or something. I’d studied enough literature to know that in earlier times it had been a matter of luck: you met and married the nearest person to your village who was also looking for someone, usually based on status or looks or, hard though it was to believe, physical strength. I’d seen this whole series of bursts on it. The idea had intrigued me though. The bursts were on a sociological matrimonial study. Each looked at a different aspect of how matches were made in real time through the eras. Even early online experiences had been hit and miss with a laughably low ratio of successful matches, but steadily online rates had improved as real-time opportunities became fewer. New technological advances had also helped, mainly the take-off of pharma combined with wearable technology that added a chemical dimension to the psychometric to allow the sequencing that ultimately perfected the matching system.

  At a gasp from the crowd, I quickly refocused on the giant screens as the apprentice took a bolt of extremely expensive-looking cloth and put it inside his coat. He was then shown walking out of his master’s studio, with it still hidden inside his coat. It seemed a straightforward enough case, but the film kept rolling. We were shown the apprentice in a shabby room, crowded with people – his family, presumably. Once they were all asleep, he got up and, despite the long hours he had already worked, sat night after night, cutting and sewing the cloth by candlelight. The dress he produced was remarkable, an object of incredible beauty. The footage concluded, as it always did, with the sentinels arresting him. His mother was screaming, his brothers and sisters crying, as he was pulled unresisting from his home.

  The vote began. There was no denying that the crime had been committed and by kneeling the apprentice had chosen to throw himself on the mercy of the city. In some cases, sentences were lightened if the city could see a mitigating motivation or another factor that inspired mercy. In this case, it looked as though the apprentice was hoping the end would justify the means. He shouldn’t have stolen from his master, but the dress he had produced had been a credit to the rich cloth.

  Wary of my father’s warning, I hesitated over the judgement. The young man’s talent had been suppressed and I inwardly applauded his courage in doing something he knew was wrong to attain something he felt was right. I twisted the platinum ring on my left hand, closing my eyes as I pressed guilty with my right. I could only hope the wider audience had voted innocent. The clock counted down and the young man flinched as the dong signalled the end of the vote.

  The man’s mask was removed, revealing a thin, pale face, his frail frame looking as if he would crumble at any moment. The praetor accepted the note and on reading it, his thumb pointed down.

  “Apprentice Oban, the city has spoken and has found you guilty at a rate of 62.38%. It appears many citizens of the city wish to grant you some clemency. Having previewed the case, we had prepared for such a result. Master Simmonds, take the sands.”

  The camera panned to the apprentice’s master in the box reserved for the witnesses that were on occasion called on to answer a question or report on an event not caught on camera. The fussy looking master tailor seemed startled as he took his place in the centre of the arena beside the apprentice who had stolen from him.

  “Lord High Justice,” he called up to the council's box, “I don’t understand. I have done nothing. This man stole from me and I reported the crime. Why must I stand here in the place of judgement?”

  Praetor Calchas did not appear pleased to be spoken to out of turn like this and stood in stony silence until the tailor stopped talking.

  “It is for me to decide who stands in judgement on these sands, Master Tailor, not you. Am I understood?”

  Despite it clearly being rhetorical, the man hastily nodded his agreement.

  “We stand here today in judgement of a man guilty of theft. However, the city, in its wisdom, has indicated that it wishes to show leniency. We find that this man’s crime was caused by a more insidious crime – that of stifling the talent of a citizen. Master Tailor Simmonds, we find that you are a fool and as such will be attired as befits that status.”

  The sentinels pulled Master Simmonds over to a small tent at the edge of the arena. The praetor turned his attention to the trembling young man who was watching in shock as his master was led away.

  “Apprentice Oban, theft is not an offence to which we usually grant leniency. Yet it would be a shame to leave one of those talented hands upon the sands here today. Therefore, you will share your master’s punishment.”

  At his nod, the young man was also led away by the sentinels towards the tent. Praetor Calchas turned and spoke to the governor until laughter broke out from the crowd as the pair reappeared. Master Simmonds, his dignity clearly much offended, was dressed as a clown, while his red-faced apprentice followed behind dressed in a larger version of the dress that had been his undoing. The praetor’s face lit up in amusement as they retook their position to the jeers and catcalls of the crowd.

  “You have been dressed as befits your crimes, sirs.”

  The oddly attired duo stood awaiting their sentence.

  “For the crime of stupidity, Master Simmonds, you must bear this costume for a month as you go about your daily business in the hope that you remember not to waste opportunities that are gifted to you. Apprentice Oban, you too shall don this outfit for a month while you serve your master honestly. After this time, you will attend the College of Design to be more appropriately trained as befits your talent. You will thereafter be established with your own shop. The fees for your education and shop will be taken from your profits, after which you will donate 30% of your earnings for your lifetime to a fund to educate other deserving citizens who would not otherwise be given such an opportunity.”

  He paused, a
llowing the audience a moment to appreciate his mercy.

  “This is the sentence of the city upon you both.”

  Both men nodded their acceptance, the apprentice clearly still shocked by the turn of events. He must have entered the arena today expecting to lose a hand, the customary punishment given to those found guilty of petty theft. Instead, he would be walking away to a future so much brighter than the one he’d had before committing his crime. I felt a flash of relief at his sentence too, grateful that my attempt to improve the weighting of my own voting record hadn’t harmed him in any way. He was rained with flowers as he left the arena wearing the dress that had so changed his fate. I spotted the fashion-forward Ginevra tucking his name away in anticipation of his shop opening. It shouldn’t take too long for him to discharge his debt and set up shop.

  I refocused on the remaining cases. Most were minor and were sentenced to the stocks or other public humiliations. The last but one was a shocking adultery case. Crime in the city was low, but crimes against family and loyalty – the core of the Code – were beyond rare, especially given our matching system. The woman stood, head bowed, as she took her place at the centre of the arena, which meant the footage captured must be impossible to deny. Her lover had fled into the stews, but it was only a matter of time before he too was brought before the city. The woman’s mask was removed to reveal a tear-stained face. She was summarily sentenced to exile from the city, stripped bare before us all and redressed in sackcloth, her hair shorn, then marched out of the arena. She would be walked to the eastern gate at the end of the Mete and thrown out to meet whatever fate awaited her as a destitute beggar in the Shadowlands. The route to the eastern gate would take her across the city and undoubtedly would be full of people turning out to shower her with further humiliation.