‘The hand.’ The man nodded at Brann’s fingers, opening and closing in relentless hope of success. ‘Those who have known the sword reach for it without thought in times of unease. Those accustomed to wearing a weapon grasp at their hip, whether they carry the blade or not. But a gladiator never wears a weapon, never sees a sheath or a scabbard. The only weapon a gladiator knows is the one he carries, the one he holds.’ A broken wooden rod, still bearing scraps of the cloth that once had been rolled around it, lay in the dust beside them. The man crouched before Brann and put the rod in his hand. The fingers seized it, knuckles white, but the hand became still. The man smiled. ‘You see? Now his hand is content.’
Marlo bent over them. ‘It is more than just his hand that needs tended. I have never seen this before.’
The man stared, almost gently at Brann. ‘I have. Many times. In the aftermath of battle. Or sometimes before it, sometimes during it. Or sometimes even months in its wake. Any time, really. New recruits or old survivors, the basest slogger or the grandest general, there is no telling who it will strike. Memories? It seems that, for this young man, some memories have indeed been stirred. And sometimes when the memories are too much, the person in the head shuts down for a short while, lest they be destroyed, leaving the body to fend for itself.’
‘Can he be helped?’ Marlo looked up, his tone pleading. ‘Can you help him?’
Brann became aware of a grip, firm but gentle, taking hold of his head, both sides held by calloused hands as the thumbs stroked his forehead from centre out in a soothingly repetitive movement. A voice was low and calm, the words indistinct but the tone soothing. Gradually, Brann’s body stilled and, in the same moment of uncertain haziness as between asleep and awake, his cloudy gaze lifted. He blinked several times before clarity returned and found kind eyes looking at him from amid a jumble of creases so numerous that it was hard to tell which were wrinkles of age and which scars of violence. The eyes were familiar; very familiar. He blinked in an attempt to regain focus. ‘Cassian?’
A broad smile multiplied the creases. ‘No, Ossavian. But I do have a young brother named Cassian. And you,’ he peered at Brann then looked up at Marlo, ‘are a Northerner slave boy with a troubled past, who is in the company of a trainee fighter, who knows someone called Cassian who in turn looks at least vaguely like me. I am thinking you would be Brann of the North Isles, the darling of the Arena, the one I have been hearing about.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I’m Brann.’
Marlo beamed. ‘He is that Brann. I call him the Brannihilator.’
Brann looked at him. ‘No you don’t.’
‘I will now that I’ve thought about it.’
‘No. You won’t.’
‘If you two have quite finished?’ Ossavian pulled Brann to his feet with surprising ease. He looked the boy up and down. ‘I thought you’d be bigger.’
Marlo nodded. ‘His opponents thought that, too. That was their first mistake.’
The big man laughed a slow laugh, his shoulders rising and falling as he did. ‘I’m sure it was.’
With one hand against the wall and the other arm supported by the man with a grip that suggested strength held in store, Brann eased himself to his feet. ‘What just happened?’
Concern still filled Marlo’s eyes. ‘You left us for a short while.’
‘You left yourself for a short while.’ Ossavian’s voice was matter-of-fact. ‘But you are fine now. You have been through more, I suspect, than even your young friend here knows, and sometimes that catches up on the best of us.’
Marlo started to speak but was halted as the dawning of realisation widened his eyes. ‘Cassian’s brother. Oh, gods, how could I have forgotten?’ He dropped to one knee, head bowed. ‘Your Radiance, forgive me.’
‘The only things that will need to be forgiven will be you continuing to grovel down there and if you ever again address me as a high priestess,’ the man grunted, nudging Marlo with his foot. ‘Get up before I knock you all the way down.’
The boy jumped to his feet, his eyes shining as he turned to Brann. ‘This is General Ossavian. One of the only two brothers ever to have commanded the Imperial Host between them. While Cassian, you know, our Cassian, led the Army of the South on its campaigns, this man commanded the Army of the North, defending our borders and the city itself.’
‘Yes,’ Ossavian said drily, ‘my thanks for reminding me that my younger brother got the better job.’
Marlo’s cheeks flushed. ‘And you would have been given that post in time as well, had those who claim to rule made even just one appointment based on merit, as was done in Cassian’s time and before, and not based on who fawns best over them or has been spat from the womb of whoever had filled their bed from one moment to the other.’
‘Calm down, youngster, calm down. It’s far too hot to get yourself even more heated.’ He drew Marlo in towards the wall and continued in a lower tone. ‘It is a fine thing to know your own mind, but little use if the head your mind inhabits finds itself separated from your shoulders. Think what you will, but have a care what you say, and where. Those of whom you speak have many ears and few scruples in dealing with those who have opinions that differ from their own.’ He faced Brann. ‘And while I’m in the mood for advice, you should remember that this is a big city around you, and you have, you hope, a long life ahead of you. Whether a city street or the path through the years, think not of the entirety of the journey nor the thousands who will surround you upon it, but only as far as you can see at the time. Deal with what is there in clear sight – it will usually provide enough to occupy you. The rest is conjecture and chance, and there are no two better devourers of good time and thought. Worry about what you have not or wish was otherwise, and you waste the opportunity to attend to improving your situation.’ He gripped Brann’s shoulders. ‘Plot only the course you can see, and you will suffer less of,’ the big hands shook the boy rapidly, ‘this.’
‘But what about…?’ Marlo’s curiosity was halted by a calloused finger on his lips.
‘There are always exceptions. Exceptions are your executioner or your tutor. Try to be the pupil, not the corpse.’ He turned Brann to face the street that had daunted him. ‘One step at a time.’ A gentle shove encouraged his feet. ‘Starting now.’
Brann turned to thank him, but the broad back was already ambling in the opposite direction.
Marlo grinned. ‘You heard the man. Keep it going.’
He steered Brann into the throng and they weaved through the bodies, the way more open than it had looked from the corner. Before long they were several streets away and Marlo handed him a fresh apple, taking a bite from one of his own.
Brann looked at it. ‘But we didn’t stop at a stall? You didn’t…’
‘Some old habits never leave you.’ His cheer was so infectious that Brann couldn’t help but laugh with him. But still, alongside it lingered unease. Whatever that episode had been, would it strike again? He thought back to Ossavian’s words. There seemed sense in them. In any case, they were the only advice he had on this.
The white of the buildings around them had become more faded and patchy and the footing more uneven. The smell of the sea now mingling with that of the human refuse flowing down a channel in the centre of the street led him to think they were closing in on the docks, but the trading area he had been carried through on the way up from the ship had enjoyed a look more in keeping with the affluence of the business conducted there. Here every second frontage seemed that of a bar or a whorehouse, or sold some sort of stew served from a vat and seeming to be locally popular, though from taste or price it was hard to tell.
It was curious the way that attitudes had changed as they had moved through residential areas of decreasing prosperity. Where it had been well-to-do, they had passed almost unnoticed, as if their existence was beneath the interest of those who belonged there. As they moved further in, and the mass of the city wrapped itself around them, they were viewed with suspicion as str
angers, watchful eyes following them until they had moved far enough from property or possessions to pose no further threat. Here, however, the people around them showed as much interest as the wealthy had done, but from the opposite end of the spectrum. The residents were wrapped in their poverty as much as the rich had been wrapped in their opulent comfort, but the weariness in their faces and their tread spoke of an existence that considered only the day before them and left little room for anything other than what directly affected their own lives. Some had retreated into silence, some shouted their boisterousness to the world, and most were at stages between, but all were worn by life. It must take a special kind of strength to live like this, Brann realised.
Marlo’s grin flashed at him as he led him into an alley. ‘I know what you’re thinking. How could I ever think to leave the delights of a place like this to scratch my way through life at a hellhole like Cassian’s school?’
Brann’s eyes widened. ‘You lived here?’
‘Well, not strictly here. My home was in the poor bit.’
‘In the what?’
‘Oh, you dream of moving to here in Dockside when you grow up in The Pastures.’
Brann spluttered. ‘The Pastures?’
‘Your sense of humour relies a lot on irony when it is all you have to keep your strength to live another day.’
Brann looked at him appraisingly. There was much in his friend that was hidden by his cheerful demeanour.
Marlo led him down alleys that led off alleys that led off alleys until not only was he certain he could never find his way back alone, but he wasn’t even sure which way he was facing. They were in a narrow street lined by buildings of three stacked storeys, the glare of the sun barely reaching the ground where a stream of liquid that he didn’t dare inspect in any greater detail than the smell that cloyed his nose ran past their footsteps, when Marlo abruptly stopped beside a door much like all the others. Frowning, he looked up and down the street.
‘Yes, I’m sure it’s this one.’
‘This was your home?’
He rapped a specific and careful knock before he pushed the door open and stepped through, beckoning his companion after him. ‘Not mine.’
Brann followed, his eyes adjusting to the deeper gloom enough to let him see the back of a large man at a plain table, spooning stew from a large serving bowl into a smaller eating one.
‘Well bugger the gods, look who’s come to visit,’ a voice shouted from the side.
Brann almost staggered in surprise. That voice. It could only be: ‘Hakon!’
He had only managed to half turn towards the boy before he was enveloped in a suffocating bear hug. He found just enough breath to gasp, ‘I see you haven’t lost any of your strength, then.’
The hulking boy grinned and released him enough to give him a gentle slap on the back that sent him lurching forward several paces. ‘I see you haven’t gained any height, little mouse.’ He fingered the heavy chain around Brann’s neck. ‘Though you have gained some new jewellery.’
Brann shrugged. ‘It is what it is. I don’t intend to stay in this city forever. Whenever I get away, I will have to stay alive till then. And it could be worse.’
The man at the table had risen and came to grip him by the arms, looking him up and down in an unconsciously similar way to another old warrior with cropped grey hair not too long before. ‘At least they seem to be feeding you fine,’ Cannick said. ‘Good to see you, boy. And good to see you’re alive, despite their best efforts.’
Hakon drew up a chair and dropped onto it, threatening its condition. ‘Not just alive, but a legend of the Arena. You have tales to tell, young farm boy.’
‘Mill boy,’ Brann corrected him before he saw Hakon’s grin. ‘Anyway, there’s not much to tell. Someone tries to beat me, I try to beat them and, so far, I’ve come out luckier.’
‘No such thing as luck,’ Cannick growled, sitting back at his stew, ‘just what happens and what doesn’t, and what you do and what you don’t. I managed to get in for your last fight but one. Not much wrong with what you did there.’
Brann smiled, pulling up a chair for himself. ‘Aye, that was quite a good one, I suppose. He was tricky.’
Cannick levelled his gaze at him. ‘He was more than tricky. It’s just a pity Einarr wasn’t able to see how his page has improved.’ He grinned. ‘Well, improved a bit.’
Brann’s face fell at the sound of the Captain’s name. ‘Have you heard how he is? And Konall?’
Cannick shrugged and spat on the floor, scrubbing the damp spot on the dusty boards with the sole of one boot. ‘Not a peep, but you wouldn’t expect to hear anything. They’ll be kept in comfort, probably extravagance, but with a locked door on their room and an escort when they leave it. Imprisoned in luxury, that’s the lot of a hostage.’
‘And the others? The crew? Grakk?’
Cannick spat again, this time staring at his rubbing boot as he spoke in a low tone. ‘The bald one is also faring well in the Arena, though I don’t think your contests have been on the same days yet.’ Brann shook his head in confirmation, relieved but not surprised at Grakk’s fortune. ‘The rest? Mixed. Scattered. Living how they can. Those who got away were lost, just more faces in the masses of the city. You and Grakk were the Emperor’s example, Einarr and Konall are his assets, and the rest of us seem irrelevant. According to a palace servant Hakon met in a tavern shortly after,’ the big boy grinned at the memory, ‘the word is that they see only those of you who travelled to the palace as part of a conspiracy. Apparently simple seamen are, well, too simple to be mixed up in any politics. In a city of a million souls, the grumbles and gripes of the common man are as numerous and of as much consequence to the lords and ladies as the drone of the flies.’ He waved a hand in a wide sweep. ‘About half a dozen of us stay here and labour at the docks where we can find work. Others found other roofs to put over their heads. Some come and go – we’ve got plenty of space here. About half the crew have a new life here in the Heart of the Empire, thanks to the Emperor’s welcome. Remember our soothsayer from the ship? Our Lady is upstairs; we keep her as well as we can. She asks for little, as is her wont, but deserves more than we can give. And Einarr would kill us himself if we let anything happen to her.’
‘And the other half of the crew?’
‘The ones who didn’t escape the ship in time? Thanks to the Emperor’s welcome, they found death in the Heart of the Empire. That was the Emperor’s other example.’
‘Half the crew? Slaughtered? As an example?’
Cannick nodded gravely. ‘A powerful example, you must admit. They like their little reminders. A bit of random death here and there by the authorities is less work than keeping tabs on everyone.’ He sighed. ‘A lot of good men are gone. Galen? Remember him?’ Brann did. Of course he did, and his breath caught in his throat at the thought, followed closely by tears catching in his eyes. ‘Took six of the bastards with him, and only had a long knife on him when they came. Died a hero, so he did, but hero or not he’s still dead. Still, that would have been all of us but for the warning we got. Maybe half of us died, but half of us lived.’
Brann wiped the back of a hand across his eyes and smiled at Hakon. ‘You managed to reach them, then? When you escaped the citadel?’
The large boy looked hurt. ‘Of course I did. You doubt my skill and prowess?’
A cool voice slipped from above. ‘Such skill and prowess would not have got him beyond the first courtyard of the palace.’ Brann looked up to see a slim figure on a high windowsill, sitting side-on with knees drawn up with a casual relaxation that was almost feline. Dark eyes regarded him. ‘A touch of help did aid him along the way.’ A bright blade cut a slice from an apple. ‘Every step along the way, if truth be told.’
‘Well, yes,’ Hakon admitted. ‘She did help a bit. I allowed her to, so she would feel of some value.’ He yelped as an apple core smacked his head square on the crown. ‘Oh, that’s Sophaya, by the way.’
B
rann smiled. ‘My pleasure to meet you. I’m…’
‘If I didn’t know who you are,’ she said, her tone as languid as her posture, ‘I would have to be deaf to that one beside you with apple in his hair, prattling on about your exploits in the Arena. I would have grown to hate you without having to go to the trouble of meeting you, had I not been in the stadium crowd to see it was actually based on truth, even if his fawning prattle was hugely over the top.’ She produced another apple and sliced herself a piece with an adroit twist of a wrist. Hakon moved to the other side of the table, where he could see the flight of any missile from her perch. ‘So your slate with me is clear. For now.’
Brann looked at Cannick. ‘What about Einarr and Konall? You have a plan?’
The grey head shook. ‘We are too few. We are gathering our strength, but we are new to a foreign city, and while I said they aren’t actively looking for us, if you bring yourselves to their attention then they do take notice. Even if it is just a petty official, too stupid to look for an opportunity but too greedy for the opinion of his superior to risk one when it is presented, it is still a noose that he dangles for you and a carrion cage that awaits you afterwards.’ He grunted. ‘Anyway, you were always the one for a plan, and we don’t have you yet.’ He saw Brann’s look. ‘This is a fleeting visit, and you are lucky to have that. You will not be here often enough to be a part of anything and your life is too removed from ours to make this more permanent. Don’t worry, if an opportunity presents itself in the meantime to help you or the two up in the big stone house on the hill, we’ll take it.’
Brann looked into his eyes. ‘Einarr is the priority. If you get the chance, you take him and forget about me.’
Cannick reached across and gripped his arm. ‘Rest assured, if there is any way to get Einarr and his young cousin out of here, he’ll be on his way back North before you know it. But we won’t forget about you. There will always be some of us in this city as long as you are.’
Brann nodded, but then his eyes hardened. ‘And Loku? We forget him?’
Hero Grown Page 15