by J. B. Lucas
Balthasar sucked in a gallon of air through his rasping nostrils, desperately trying to calm himself. Marcan could see the others standing just out of torchlight, their shapes smudged.
“What do you want to do?” asked Balthasar.
“What can we do?” returned Marcan. “Get Demetrian’s man. Who knows who these two have told already.”
“No-one,” said Jed pitifully. “We’ve told no-one. We thought they’d take the reward. When we talked–”
“Shut up, you inbred peasant dog cocker,” Balthasar growled.
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ll work something out. I can’t find Galleus,” grumbled Balthasar. “Off to bed, the lot of you!” The spectators turned silently and quickly, somehow relieved of their morbid duty to watch.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be my shadow?”
Balthasar kept his eyes on Jed but spoke to Marcan. “My instinct is that your bodyguard is in a stream with a knife in his guts. You’re leaving tomorrow morning. You’re going to see the real-life Demetrian rather than this pig sucker who acts in his name.”
Again, dictated to, but the panic on Balthasar’s face gave Marcan a level of satisfaction. This was destiny, not the troupe master’s ploy. Marcan was finding his path now.
“Do you need this man?” asked Marcan, an edge leading his voice. Balthasar shook his head, never breaking Jed’s startled gaze.
A moment passed, then Marcan swung the stick so fast it left only a loop on the memory of the eyes. A hollowcrock as the end struck Jed’s forehead and dropped him to the ground.
“Leave me with him,” said Marcan. “I need to make sure.”
When dawn broke, Marcan sat by the edge of the camp, watching the sun’s early presence crawl across the damp plateau. A broad figure, wrapped in a military-style heavy waxed robe, came to his side without a sound and sat next to him on his makeshift bench.
“Enjoying the quiet?”
“Enjoying the last few moments, Balthasar,” replied Marcan. “Wondering what’s going to happen today.”
“You’re going to Demetrian. He’ll keep you safe.”
“Or I run somewhere further south,” said Marcan. “It’s cheaper, the food is tasty and I can survive on what you’ve paid me.” He patted Balthasar’s knee. “I owe you for your patronage and your protection. I’m sure I was the worst actor you’ve ever hired.”
“But the best Emperor Marcan,” said Balthasar. “Anyway, had I not acted as I did I would have been a worse man than I am. Interrupts my morning routine.” Both emitted a single grunt of laughter. Any threat Balthasar had felt was now hidden behind Marcan’s boyish profile. “It’s time you went back, Marcan. You’ve made a veteran proud, and in truth, I think maybe I owe you.” He passed across a scrap of paper. “Demetrian’s address.”
Marcan read it without recognition or curiosity. It was just a name from a play.
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope neither of them has an old mother in Bistrantium.”
“You’ve come a long way since that first morning,” said Balthasar. “You’re a different man.”
Chapter 17
Demetrian marched down the road. His military gait in a merchant’s tunic was a source of humour for his neighbours. Demetrian knew of the conversations that always took place around him but never to his face but he was proud of his guardsman’s background. He had protected two of the imperial line–the late emperor and the lost one–and now he was just an instructor for gladiatorial schools and rich merchants’ sons. When the Emperor Marcan had disappeared before the summer, all his guards had been dismissed as standard protocol. There was no remorse, no resentment, just shame.
So it was no surprise that the empire’s greatest bodyguard knew of the hooded figure following him from the second turn. This district of the capital was new, built in a grid pattern, and only muggers or stalkers made three right turns without hesitation. The time of night meant the former was unlikely, the sky dark and already prickled with cold white stars. His shadow wore a generous dark cloak despite the heat wafting from the sandstone bricks, the hood pulled well over his head to prevent even the slightest glimpse. Not unusual for the capital, where privacy was as cherished as coins, but it was worn with such over-exaggeration that it became a thing of attention. Demetrian knew the posture, the size and the movement with a startling familiarity. The man didn’t try to hide his natural gait or build and Demetrian read the implicit message in this. And so, he led a twisting route back, making sure his tail wasn’t being tailed, until they reached the corner of his street and the man walked closer.
Demetrian dipped his head in respect.
“My lord,” he muttered. The shadows from the hood were as black as the night and Demetrian imagined Marcan’s cold eyes soaking in the details of his face, looking for betrayal. A moment passed and Marcan didn’t move, his hands somewhere in the depths of his robe. Demetrian made sure to keep his own hands in the moonlight, indicating his fair intent. He leant close to the hood.
“This is where you say something, my lord,” he whispered.
He felt like he could hear Marcan smile in the dark. “Your house,” came the reply.
A fly came in, fat and frantic, and woke Marcan up before disappearing out of the window to leave him awake and alone with his thoughts. He lay, examining the rhomboid sunlight on the sandstone at the top of the room. Along with the light came gentle noises of people in the street, dulled by the height of the window and calm of his own senses. The air swirled slightly and for the first time since he came to in that roadside hut, he opened his eyes without the usual dew of the morning on his face. Instead, in this room and this quiet, he was at peace with the dry air and the high ceiling.
He closed his eyes, drawing in the scents around him. The floating dust must have snatched most fragrances, but he caught animals and dung from the street, sweat and leather, and warm wine sat on the back of his tongue from the night before. He memorised the sensations as if they were a layer of bricks to rebuild his house. None were new to him, but none held any currency.
Marcan sat up, gently swinging his legs from the bed. He’d swum in rustic company for the summer, and their conversation had always offered a trace of prejudice against the city populace. The urban folk were untrustworthy swindlers and Balthasar had implied their inherent nature was the cause of any disaster. But wasn’t he, Marcan, a natural city dweller?
As he stood he ticked off one day in the air. He needed to confront certain painful issues immediately, but he hoped none today.
A bitter brew was on the fire, popping bubbles on its surface as Marcan entered the kitchen. Demetrian stood to greet him, laconically but with due respect. They sat together without a word. Marcan drew in a deep breath through his nose and looked around him, taking in the details of a well-appointed but minimalist kitchen.
“How did you sleep, my lord?”
“It feels strange,” said Marcan, “to be called that name.” “But not unfamiliar, I presume?”
“No. Perhaps too many nights on the stage.” Marcan listened to chatter from the street for a moment. “Perhaps I’m fooling myself. Who doesn’t imagine themselves an emperor occasionally?”
Demetrian stood, walked to the stove and returned carrying a pot of steaming wine. He sat down and poured two heavy clay cups full of the warm liquid, adding a pinch of salt to each.
Honestly, sir, you’re not alone in this. Everything changes every day. Whether you consider yourself a king or an actor, you’re right at least once a week.”
Marcan studied him sourly over the rim of his beaker. “Bloody sword masters. Always vainglorious.”
The poets of the warrior class, my lord.” They both smiled and dropped to silence.
Marcan opened his hands, examining the fingers and palms of an emperor, wondering what he had used them for in his past life. The distinction between the loyalty of Demetrian and Balthasar and the contempt of the villagers that first morning confused his logic.
“Do you know what happened?” asked Demetrian. “Why you’re out here rather than in the royal chambers?”
Marcan shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nothing more than Balthasar’s gossip. And I don’t think I’m ready to know more yet. That all happened to a stranger, and it’s broken my life. I need to know more about the Emperor Marcan before I start investigating my fall from grace. But not today. Today, I need to rest and to gather my wits.”
Demetrian watched him, reading every small thought that crossed his face.
“I protected the emperor for fifteen years,” he said, strangely familiar in a paternal manner. “He has always been and always will be the master I serve. You’re safe under my roof.”
“Thank you. Let me ask, Demetrian, are my personal concerns just as well protected with you?”
“Within reason,” he retorted. “I’m not sure I’m ready to hear too many personal things, sir.”
Marcan drew a short smile. “What if I didn’t want to return?” “What if we needed you?”
“If I am the emperor, I was betrayed and exiled. The people don’t care for me. If I’m not, I’m just some drunk who woke up with a beaten-up brain. What responsibility do I owe anyone but you?” He paused, his comment met with a stoic silence. “I don’t think I am the right person for the throne. What makes sense is for you and your team to put your time into a better candidate and I’ll help as I can,” he concluded.
“What makes you think that isn’t already the case?” They stared at each other.
“Because I’m still the emperor. For the moment.”
The first day pushed by, then the next, and Demetrian was constantly leaving on errands. People came to the door, where they passed messages or exchanged brief conversations with the master of the house.
Meanwhile, Marcan soaked in more of the city’s food and smoke. His body yearned for a level of urban contamination to feel balanced again, and he watched as his farmer’s tan wore off. Demetrian had advised him against cutting his hair to keep some difference from his public face, but given his nose and his build and the obvious breeding in his gait, neither of them had any real confidence that he was safe in public for too long.
And so, when he finished his exercises a few days after his arrival, he felt a certain sense of betrayal when he saw new faces in Demetrian’s home. He walked through the door from the courtyard, dressed only in waist cloth, his torso covered with sweat and unruly hair. He stopped at the sight of unknown men at the circular table. The most eye-catching of the three was a man with beautifully cropped white hair and fine lips which looked like they couldn’t close. His jowls were slim but pronounced enough to be the principal feature on his face. Above them, a pair of intelligent eyes sat either side of an edgeless nose. In all, his presence was one of undisclosed intuition, a private and deep wisdom that was never shared.
Next to him sat a man who made his white-haired companion look young. His face was more of an ugly etching than a human form, its lines and creases intimating the deepest disappointment in all he saw. His watery eyes were diluted further by encroaching cataracts, and his cheeks flushed with broken veins. Eyebrows hung like grass at a cliff’s edge, swooping down over collapsed eyelids and soft bags underneath. Of the three, his was not the fanciest cloth but it was the most expensive and this small vanity wasn’t missed by Marcan. Perhaps it was intended not to be missed.
The third man sat a little further away from the other two. From his small nose, which rose out to meet the world, to the widely spaced dots of eyes, he was made to repel any intimacy. Marcan could not tell whether this was because of an inherent dislike of everything around him, or the barely hidden desire to be needed.
Marcan had paused mid-step. He made his initial examinations unhurriedly. The trio had heard his approach and they watched him enter. They were surprised, not at seeing him, or his state of undress or lack of grooming. Their amazement was because of his own reaction of defensive enquiry. The three expressions were the same as one he had seen Demetrian wear over the past few days as he disappointed his host with his changed character. What shocked them the most, he wondered–the loss of their idol or the loss of their future benefits?
“Don’t introduce your guests yet, Demetrian, let me first get to know them,” he said. His host, who had missed the silent exchanges, pivoted from his serving bench. Although the men at the table looked to him, he instead watched Marcan for a moment, amused. Demetrian then turned and continued with the platter he was preparing.
Marcan sat next to the small man, whose forehead burst upwards from his small eyebrows. The man, dressed smartly in a detailed fashion, was caught between moving away from a sweaty beast twice his size and offending his reclaimed lord. The other two appeared humoured by Marcan’s intentional choice of seat.
“Gentlemen, be honest with me,” he began, “Give me the truth without any royal privilege. Is the world a better place now you have found me?”
“Yes,” replied the white-haired mandarin. “The empire needs an emperor.”
“It completely depends upon your intentions,” refuted the ugly one. He glowered at him with his jade eyes. “What are your intentions, my lord? To reclaim your crown or to disappear into the anonymity of a travelling jester?”
The little man next to him paused. He was uncomfortable having to broadcast an opinion.
“Perhaps Selban’s question is better put–which Marcan are we answering? The former emperor of the largest professional army in the world, or the itinerant actor?”
“Which in your view is more valuable to you, given past performance?” asked Marcan, turning to him and lifting a dark arm over the back of his seat. The small man now had to address the armpit or ribcage. He brought out a small linen cloth which he flapped dramatically and placed over his nose.
“Honestly, neither has any long-term value,” he said spitefully. “You could have been one of our greatest leaders had you lived up to your legend. Unfortunately, this legend was created before you took the throne, so it didn’t include you being you. Your greatest achievement was stopping Ferran from taking charge.”
“And how did I do that?”
“You were born first,” stated the little man.
“Darcy is a rude man,” said Selban, shooting his neighbour a stare. “Sir, what he means to say is that with your inherited power and wealth, with your intelligence and understanding, you were the person to bring us out of the deadlock of the split kingdom. But instead of using your divine abilities for advancing the kingdom, you invested them in palace conspiracies. They are a toxic and addictive hobby which ruins many men, but none so great as yourself until now.”
“It seems the other side won,” stated Marcan. He paused. “So where were my wise advisors and bodyguards when they sabotaged me?” There was a pause, a rare silence of intelligent men humbled.
“I said yes, the world is a better place because of your return,” said the white-haired man. His eyes pinned Marcan’s with a straightforwardness which was unsettling but welcome. “Your enemies outmanoeuvred your people, but they did so by using your own negligence. But, my lord, let’s not consider their victory to be either complete or appropriate. Little Darcy here can work a thousand stories and rumours into what happened, and Selban can break any allegiances made by gold or threats. But, sir, if a horse bucks then there is rarely anything a jockey can do to save the race. And you, sir, were made to buck.”
The impudence riled Marcan and he had to calm himself with long breaths. It was not the same as the cavalier peer status Balthasar had attempted with Marcan. Here, Marcan had been the catalyst to his own downfall and these men begrudged him the fact. If he had admitted to himself that he had dreamed of his return, it was to blessings and compliments, not judgement.
“The horses with the strongest pedigree find the best jockeys, sir,” the older man continued. “You had a gifted team who spent their waking hours covering scandals and chasing ghosts rather than rebuilding a broken
kingdom.”
Marcan stared at the man, words on the tip of his tongue rudely held.
Marcan turned to Demetrian. “Was everyone always this rude to me when I was emperor?” he asked.
“No,” replied Demetrian, keeping away from the table. He rested against the counter, arms crossed as he watched the four talk. Something of his stance signified that he wasn’t one of this political set.
“What did you mean by your original insult?” asked Marcan.
Which one?” asked the mandarin. Darcy answered instead of the old man.
“He’s referring to his wasted talents,” stated Darcy. He spread his hands out on the table, now unaware of his previous discomfort. “Our throne suffered most in the separation of the two kingdoms. With roughly half of the population came over three-quarters of the military. So, we were blessed and burdened by a powerful fighting army which needed battles. We don’t have any wars left to fight, so either we had to find a way to turn soldiers into farmers or we’d go bankrupt. Antron had told the old emperor that he could find enough kingdoms to plunder to last another generation.”
“And there aren’t any?”
“Of course not,” replied the mandarin. “So we’re bankrupt within a matter of years.”
“Or we go to war. A campaign suits Antron well,” added Darcy.
“I was the man to lead the country past Antron and the generals?”
“We all thought that.”
“How is his war progressing?” asked Marcan.
“Well, let’s take stock of where we are. You’ve only been missing for a few months. Antron has quickly found that ruling isn’t as easy as he thought. By coercing various powerful men into his dirty tricks, he’s created a dozen lethal blackmailers who know his treachery to the crown. He’ll get his war, but not yet.”
“So, I go back to my original question,” said Marcan softly. “Is the world a better place now I am back?”