Perhaps they could become friends.
At the end of the passageway, they waited. Feslund went to find a toilet. Gretyx looked annoyed. A fat little man bustled up and conferred with Liber, who apologized to them for the delay. Feslund returned, looking no better. Finally everything was ready. A band began to play. The fat man gave a signal. They walked out of the passageway onto the field—Feslund first, with Bathanala on his arm, then her father, then Carolus and Gretyx.
Carolus had never seen such a crowd. Everyone in Roma must have been here. But it wouldn’t do to show surprise, or even interest. They walked slowly, solemnly across the field, as befitted the rulers of Roma and its empire. There were cheers, but perhaps not very loud ones. The charioteers were lined up to salute them; they looked a bit foolish to Carolus in their colored uniforms. A couple of them would soon likely be dead or gravely injured, and one of them would be crowned with glory.
Past the charioteers, the procession finally reached the far side of the field, where they walked up a short set of stairs to their seats, protected from the sun by a purple canopy. “You may wave,” Gretyx murmured to the family. They waved.
And then they sat and waited for the chariot race to begin.
Carolus liked to think he was beloved in Gallia. Common folk lined up for the touch of his hand on their shoulder or cheek. Families named their sons after him. His rule was constrained by the priests, who insisted on certain policies, certain laws, but all Gallians agreed that he was just and merciful. And they were astounded and delighted when the news came of Feslund’s triumph. Surely life would be even better now!
And for some, surely it was. But he wondered for how long. And he wondered when the love would turn to mistrust, and then to fear, and then to hatred. Because there was no way to rule this empire other than with fear and hatred. And surely it would reach Gallia as well as everywhere else.
The chariots were lined up. The crowd was on its feet. Carolus stood along with everyone else.
Gretyx leaned over to him. “I know you’re not interested, but try to look excited,” she murmured.
“Yes, my love.”
“But not too excited.”
“That won’t be hard.”
Gretyx squeezed his arm. “It will be over soon.”
But Carolus was sure that it would not be over soon.
Bathanala
Bathanala hated chariot races. She had told the truth to the queen: they were popular in Aquitania. But she had never attended a race; she couldn’t bear to see the horses abused. She hated bloodshed; she hated suffering.
There was much that she hated.
She hated Roma: the heat, the people, the wretched smells, the noise.
She hated Gretyx and her son.
She hated her father for selling her to them.
And most of all she hated herself, because she could not bring herself to act on her hatred. She would lie awake at night, imagining her future in this place, with these people, and she would be consumed with anger and dread. She would rehearse things she could do, could say, that would show them who she really was, what she really felt.
And in the morning she would rise, and smile, and pretend that she was content, that nothing pleased her more than the life she had been given.
She assumed that the queen could see through her, could feel the hatred raging beneath her simpering acquiescence. But what did it matter? Let Gretyx send her back to Aquitania in disgrace; let her father rage at her. She would be content.
She was standing, as she was supposed to, as the beginning of the race approached. She clutched the shawl she had been told to wear, despite the oppressive heat. She smiled; she looked mildly excited, as instructed. Occasionally she turned and gazed lovingly at Feslund, who ignored her.
And then the race began.
It was a blur of color and sound: the pounding of the hooves, the roar of the crowd, the charioteers’ tunics: blue, green, red, brown…The waving flags, the glistening bodies of the horses, the fierce expressions of the charioteers. Feslund was gripping her arm: too hard. He would leave a bruise. On the track, chariots veered close to one another, then moved away when a collision seemed inevitable. Orange was ahead, then blue, then green. A wheel came off red’s chariot, and he had to slow up and pull off the course. One circuit of the track, then another, and another. How long did it last?
Despite her distaste for the race, Bathanala was drawn into it. She found herself rooting for orange. Why? His long black hair? The way he gritted his teeth? She had no idea. Faster, orange, faster!
The horses thundered; the crowd roared. Surely orange was going to win—oh no!—blue was coming closer and closer…
And then it was over.
Blue had won; orange was second.
The chariots slowed to a stop. The charioteers climbed down. Men rushed out to take care of the horses. Gretyx applauded, so Bathanala did too, even though she was disappointed that orange hadn’t won. Finally they sat down.
“No collisions,” Feslund pointed out. “No one was injured. No one died. The crowd won’t like that.”
Why not? But of course, she knew. Because they were bloodthirsty savages who cared nothing for beauty or grace or goodness. They just wanted their fill of blood and death. They wanted broken limbs and screams of agony.
“This is good,” the queen said. “It means that they will enjoy the execution more.”
Bathanala smiled pleasantly. She clutched her shawl in the heat and waited for what was next. She wanted to kill Gretyx. She wanted to go home. But she was not going anywhere.
Tirelius
They held him in a dark passageway under the Circus Maximus. He was heavily guarded; his hands were bound. No one said a word to him. The soldiers were embarrassed, perhaps. Ashamed. It didn’t matter.
How many times had Tirelius been here in better times, waiting as they formed the procession of priests and dignitaries who would then cross the field and take their seats of honor to watch the chariot race?
The crowd would cheer or not, depending on the price of bread and wine or the quality of the acrobats and dancers and musicians who had just performed. But even if they booed, underneath the boos there would be respect, because the priests had brought peace and prosperity to the empire for generations, and no one could imagine a world without them.
Now they had such a world, and he had no use for it. Now they would put him to death, and he welcomed it.
He heard trumpets blaring, the roar of the crowd. The race was over, and Feslund would be crowning the victor, probably some burly fellow from a distant province for whom this was the ultimate achievement of his life. Strangers would buy him meals, women would offer their bodies to him. He would have a happy life. Or not. Perhaps he would sink into degradation and despair and slit his throat some cold gray morning, regretting everything he had ever done.
This too didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Tirelius had lived his life, and now it was over. He had visited many worlds, made many friends and many enemies. He had done what he could.
He found himself praying. Not to the gods—there were no gods; there was no life to come. He prayed to Hieron, who had created all this. Do not let it die, he prayed. We have done much good. There are no slaves; the water is clean; wars are infrequent and distant; women can live as equals of men. Don’t let the Gallians destroy it all. Don’t let the empire return to what it had been before Hieron. We made mistakes, of course. We were human, but we were not evil.
I must die, but Via must not.
“It’s time,” a gruff voice said.
Someone gave him a shove, and Tirelius started to walk. Slowly—he could go no faster, no matter how much they pushed him. From the darkness and into the light. He blinked his eyes against the light. The crowd roared when they saw him. Roared with hatred and bloodlust.
Tirelius looked down at the dirt, the grass. He did not want to stumble. He saw the platform in front of him. It wasn’t far. He looked up at the peopl
e waiting there. He recognized none of them except Feslund, wearing a purple robe and holding something in his hand. Ah, he knew what that was.
Could he make it up the steps? He didn’t think so. Two soldiers grasped him by the elbows and helped him. Absurdly, he felt grateful to them. When they reached the platform the soldiers stepped aside, leaving Tirelius alone there, facing the man who was going to kill him. The man’s eyes were bloodshot. His hands seemed to tremble a bit. He is frightened, Tirelius thought. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He will never know what he is doing.
Feslund spoke, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying over the roar of the crowd. It didn’t matter; Tirelius wasn’t interested in what he had to say. He stared at Feslund. Now, he thought. Now. Make it end.
Finally Feslund stopped talking and raised the gant.
Yes. Now.
Hieron save us all.
Twenty-Eight
Palta
Palta watched him walk slowly across the field, hands tied, to the platform where he would die. Such an old man, pitifully small, so insignificant now. The crowd jeered, but their jeers were half-hearted, uncertain. This wasn’t quite what they had hoped for.
Palta hadn’t expected to have any sympathy for Tirelius. He had, after all, condemned her to die, along with Affron and Larry and the rest. But she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for him. Why did so many people have to die?
She shouldn’t have come. But still, here she was.
She had been flooded with memories of her previous visit to the Circus Maximus. It had all ended badly, but at first she had been filled with excitement and optimism; she remembered buying a little circlet of flowers for her hair on the way to the Circus—she hoped Larry would think it made her look pretty. There were so few times in her life when she had felt pretty.
She hadn’t felt pretty today. She felt tired and lonely and worried. She had walked for hours the night before, searching for somewhere to sleep, finally finding a place on the floor of a large communal room in a wretched inn. She scarcely slept at all, with the heat and the noise and the terror of being attacked.
She knew she should leave Roma however she could, as soon as she could. But first she had to witness the execution of Tirelius.
She didn’t know why. After what she had seen yesterday in the Forum she had no love for Feslund and the Gallians, whom she had helped to defeat Tirelius. So what did it matter whether one of them killed the other? It had nothing to do with her anymore.
But still…
She had joined the crowds heading to the Circus. She felt their excitement, their anticipation. Everyone knew what was going to happen. Everyone had an opinion.
“That’s what he gets, stealing our bread.”
“I never liked him. Or any of those priests.”
“There was a good priest, though…what was his name? What happened to him?”
“I don’t believe in those magical weapons. That’s so much nonsense. If they do kill him, they’ll chop his head off, like the ones yesterday.”
“That was something, wasn’t it? Never seen anything like that.”
“Speaking of foreigners, I don’t like those Gallians. Especially the queen—she’s a hard one. The priests had their faults, but—”
“The priests are stealing our bread!”
Palta made her way into the Circus and, as before, couldn’t help but feel awed by it. So many people jammed in one place! The colors! The music! The chanting! The waving flags! The naked athletes running and jumping!
She wished Larry were with her.
Finally preparations began for the chariot race, followed by the slow procession across the field. Last year it had been priests; this year it was the Gallians. She had met most of them—Feslund and Gretyx and Carolus; she thought she recognized a few of the soldiers as well. So strange to see them here.
They took their seats. The chariots were arranged for the race. The crowd’s excitement increased. Everyone stood up. Trumpets sounded. Palta felt her heart pounding.
And the race began.
It was absurd. She didn’t care about this race! But along with the crowd she, too, was excited. And then she looked at Feslund’s bride-to-be, smiling as she gazed out at the chariots thundering by.
She hates this, Palta realized. The race and Roma and Feslund. She was doing her best, but she couldn’t hide what she felt. She was terrified.
Suddenly Palta felt so old. She had seen too much, suffered too much. And this young woman—who, surely, was older than Palta—was about to learn what it was to suffer.
Finally the race ended, and the crowd cheered endlessly for blue and whatever province blue represented. Palta remembered last year, with Larry—now, as the pontifex crowned the victor of the race, was the moment when Affron was supposed to use his power to destroy Tirelius. And that would allow Affron to become the new pontifex, which would allow Larry to use Via to return home.
She had wanted so much for Larry to be happy. But she hadn’t wanted him to leave. And so when the victor had been crowned and nothing happened, she had felt such relief….
Ah, and at last Larry had left anyway. And Affron was gone too, and Gratius was dead…And she alone of all of them was here in Roma.
Now Feslund had crowned the winning charioteer, and now Tirelius was making his way slowly towards the same platform.
He ascended the steps, with the help of two soldiers, and the crowd started to roar. The crowd wanted death, she realized. They had been denied it in the chariot race, and now they were demanding it.
Now Feslund stepped forward, and he had something in his hand. Something the crowd had never seen before. Something small and hard; bluish-gray metal, impossibly smooth. Oh, they knew what it was, even if they had never seen it. It would bring death to Tirelius, triumph to Feslund.
Feslund seemed to be saying something—reciting the pontifex’s crimes, perhaps? He looked annoyed as he spoke. No one could hear him, no one was paying attention to what he was saying, not even Tirelius. What did the crimes matter at this point?
Finally he stopped talking and raised the gant. Was his hand trembling? The roar of the crowd increased. Palta could feel the sound; it was almost painful. She found herself shivering in the heat.
“Occidere! Occidere!”
And then Tirelius was gone.
The roar abruptly ceased. People looked at each other. Was it over? What had happened? They knew what had happened. They had heard of King Harald and his army. But to see it…to see the power of this weapon…
Feslund lowered the gant and simply stood there on the platform, as if he didn’t know what to do next.
And then the sound began again—a hundred thousand voices, a hundred thousand men and women screaming out their bloodlust. Where was the blood? They wanted blood!
Feslund turned finally and walked down the platform steps, followed by the rest of the Gallians. They were leaving; the show was over.
But the roaring didn’t stop.
And then the fighting began. People were hot and drunk, and they wanted something they had been denied. So they were giving it to themselves. All around her Palta saw men and women screaming at each other, wrestling, exchanging blows. About what? It didn’t seem to matter. The fights spilled out of the stands and onto the field. The Gallians, protected by their soldiers, disappeared into a passageway. The chaos had nothing to do with them.
Palta pushed her way through the crowd. People pushed back, snarled at her, reached out to grab her. But she was small and quick and avoided them all. She reached a passageway reeking of piss and stale wine, and she raced through it, out into the plaza that surrounded the Circus. It, too, was crowded, but at least she felt as if she could breathe. It was late afternoon now, but the heat was still intense. She longed for the cleansing thunderstorms that had drenched Larry and her last year as they ran away from the Circus.
She slowed down and looked around. People were walking aimlessly or sitting on the ground,
dazed, bewildered, upset. A man stood by a fountain, washing away the blood that flowed down his face. A woman tried to comfort a crying child. The front of a girl’s robe had been ripped and, weeping, she had to hold it in place to cover her breasts.
Too many people. Palta was tired of people. She walked away from the plaza. The crowds thinned until there was just one man, weaving drunkenly along a narrow street. She tried to get by him, and he bumped into her as she passed.
“Watch yourself,” he muttered. And then he looked at her. “Ah, you’re a pretty one,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me?”
He grabbed her arm. His hand was thick and sweaty. She shook him off.
“Come on, then,” he said. “You’ve hurt my feelings, little one. I can pay you handsomely for your time.”
He reached out for her again, and Palta tripped him. He fell heavily onto the cobblestones. “Damn you,” he said.
Enough, she thought.
She took out her gant. “Do you know what this is?” she hissed. “This is the end of your worthless life.”
The man raised a hand. He knew what it was. He had seen its power in the Circus. “Please,” he whimpered. “No.” A wet stain appeared in the middle of his robe.
She gestured with the gant. “Go,” she said. “Your life is not worth the time it would take to move my finger and destroy it.”
The man scrambled to his feet and staggered away.
Palta waited until he had turned the corner, and then she put away the gant. She leaned back against the doorway of a building and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. She thought the rage inside her would split her in two. She had to do something.
And she supposed she knew what it was.
Twenty-Nine
Affron
The land became increasingly barren and rugged as they traveled through it, looking for Tulf. They spoke the word in every town and village they entered, and always the townspeople and the villagers pointed to the east. They provided food for the journey, and shelter if night was falling, but they never spoke to either of them. They didn’t seem afraid, exactly, just eager to send them on their way.
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