Solis

by Kat Ross

  “The scholar Herodotus stands accused of witchcraft and treason,” he said in a dry, thin voice that nevertheless carried throughout the amphitheater. “You, his countrymen, have the task of determining his guilt or innocence before the eyes of the gods.”

  A murmuring rose and fell.

  “There is a second conspirator. A Persian. He is alleged to be a peddler of spell dust. The Oracle reports he was in the company of a witch who worked magic on the very steps of the Temple of Apollo.”

  A few hisses greeted this statement and the Archon raised his hands again for silence.

  “So that you may know the basis of these charges, I hereby call Kadmos of Delphi to testify as to what he witnessed at the Great Library on the ninth day of the month of Hekatombaion.”

  The Stork moved in his disjointed, creeping gait to the center of the Ecclesia and repeated his story about seeing Herodotus “conjuring a foul demon” in one of the lecture halls. Then the Weasel gave his version of events, this time adding the new detail that Javid had been there as well.

  “They’re utterly shameless,” Nazafareen murmured. “Just making it up as they go along!”

  “All right, you’ve had the peephole long enough—” Megaera whispered.

  Nazafareen held up a finger. “Hold on, just one more minute. I think…”

  “And now you will hear from the accused. The Persian shall speak first on his own behalf.”

  Nazafareen tensed as two soldiers led Javid forward from a squat stone building. He looked rough and thinner than she remembered, but he had no visible injuries. Kallisto was right—the Pythia wouldn’t harm him before he’d been put on public display.

  “I am guilty,” he said loudly, and the crowd drew an audible breath. “Of being a foreigner in your city,” Javid continued. “Of foolishness and ignorance. But I am innocent of these charges. I had a small bag of spell dust, it is true, but I never used it within the walls of Delphi. Not once. And I never gave any to Herodotus. My wind ship crashed and he was kind enough to give me work to earn passage back to Samarqand. That is all. So if Herodotus is guilty of anything, it is compassion for his fellow man.” He drew a deep breath. “I cannot call any character witnesses since I am a stranger here. But if you were to ask the Merchants’ Guild of Samarqand, my employers would verify that I am an honest man, with no designs on your city.”

  The Archon Eponymos regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Are you finished?”

  Javid nodded. The Archon waved a hand and a knot of soldiers escorted him back inside the building.

  “We will now hear from the scholar Herodotus.”

  Nazafareen grunted as Megaera shoved her aside.

  “You could have asked,” she said in a wounded tone.

  “I did! Now be quiet. Herodotus is talking.”

  Nazafareen couldn’t see a thing, but she heard his voice, strong and calm.

  “My accusers would have you believe that I am a wicked man. A man who does evil. But all I have ever sought in this life is for the good of this city and my countrymen. I will not claim to be blameless—no man is. But let the gods judge our foibles. As to these charges, they are baseless and slanderous. And if you ask what motive my accusers could have to invent such lies about me, I would note that Kadmos is the new curator of the Great Library and Serpedon seems to have found himself a fine new tailor.”

  Scattered laughter greeted this statement.

  “I can only rebut these charges as false and call those who would testify to my character. All I ask is that you withhold judgment until they are through. There is nothing more foolish, nothing more given to outrage than a useless mob.”

  A long string of witnesses followed, praising Herodotus’s integrity and honesty.

  Finally, the last witness took the stage. Nazafareen recognized the voice of Adrian, the student who had come out to the farm the day before.

  “My turn,” she said fiercely.

  During the litany of character witnesses, Megaera had given way to Adeia, and then Alcippe. The fair-haired twin cast her a baleful look but made room.

  This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Without direct evidence to contradict the Stork and the Weasel, the members of the Assembly who sat on the fence would likely cast a guilty verdict. Nazafareen prayed that Kallisto and the other Maenads had accomplished their task.

  Adrian squared his broad shoulders. He showed no hint of nerves, though the outcome of the trial might well hinge on the next few minutes.

  “I could speak for days about the quality of Herodotus’ character,” he began. “He has been my teacher and mentor, and there is no finer man in all of the Free Cities of Greece. But you have already heard many before me say the same so I won’t waste any more of your time. Rather, I will go straight to the root of these charges. Those two”—he pointed a finger at the Stork and the Weasel—“conspired to place the spell dust in Herodotus’ study. It is they who should be on trial here.”

  A babble of voices erupted. The Stork turned bright red and the Weasel glared daggers at Adrian, who returned their stares fiercely.

  “How dare you?” the Weasel demanded, puffing out his chest.

  “What evidence do you have for this charge?” the Archon Eponymos inquired coolly.

  “The evidence is in Serpedon’s own pockets. I demand he empty them before the Ecclesia,” Adrian declared.

  The Weasel’s eyes bulged. “I will not!”

  Right on cue, a section of seats that seemed to be packed with friends and supporters of Herodotus started jeering.

  “If the charge is baseless, I see no reason to refuse,” the Archon said with a slight frown, and despite her initial reservations about him, Nazafareen silently cheered the man.

  “This is ridiculous,” the Weasel snapped. He reached into a pocket of his robes and his eyes flickered.

  “He has something!” someone yelled.

  “What is it?”

  Necks craned. Feverish whispering erupted. A few members of the Assembly—mostly the youngest—rose to their feet.

  “It is nothing!” the Weasel cried shrilly, backing away.

  The mood of the crowd started to turn ugly.

  “Detain him,” the Archon Eponymos said, turning hooded eyes on the soldiers flanking Herodotus. They hesitated. “Now!” the Archon ordered.

  The soldiers grabbed the Weasel before he could escape and held him while the Archon strode over and slid a hand into the Weasel’s pocket. There was a long pause. Then he held up a silken bag.

  “Open it! Open it!” the crowd chanted, smelling blood.

  The Archon loosened the string and tipped a fine, sparkling dust to the ground.

  The crowd was howling now. Javid looked startled, Herodotus serene.

  “Someone put it there!” the Weasel shrieked. His face went ashen. “I was waylaid by four women on my way here. One of them bumped into me and pretended to faint. They must have done it!”

  “And where are these mysterious women now?” Adrian asked of the crowd, spreading his arms wide. “It seems a rather farfetched tale. Well, you have seen the evidence. I demand a vote!”

  The Stork sidled toward the stone building as the Weasel shook free of the soldiers, murder on his face.

  “What do you say?” the Archon Eponymos asked in a ringing tone. “All those in favor of guilt?”

  A few dozen hands shot up. They were duly counted.

  “And in favor of innocence?”

  Nazafareen held her breath.

  More hands began to go up, then more and more. It wasn’t a landslide, but Nazafareen could see at a glance that they’d won.

  “Judgment has been passed by the Ecclesia of Delphi,” the Archon declared. “The prisoners have been found innocent.”

  Cheers went up. Nazafareen impulsively hugged Megaera, who went stiff at first, then returned her embrace so hard Nazafareen’s ribs groaned.

  “Poetic justice at its finest,” Nazafareen said with a huge grin.

&nbs
p; Adeia pressed her face against the peephole. “They ought to arrest him, and the Stork too.”

  “What’s happening?” Megaera asked.

  Nazafareen pressed her cheek against Adeia’s. She could view a tiny slice of the Assembly floor. Just enough to see the Weasel creeping up behind Adrian. He reached into his robes and pulled out a dagger. Before anyone could react, the Weasel plunged it into Adrian’s back. Adrian fell to his knees. He coughed weakly. Blood trickled from his mouth.

  “Gods, no,” Adeia whispered.

  “Murder! Murder!”

  The cry went up on every tongue. Soldiers poured into the Assembly from all five entrances, the sun winking on polished breastplates and helmets. A group of them moved toward the Weasel—and swept right past him. With a single savage stroke, a soldier took Adrian’s head from his shoulders. It rolled across the dusty ground and came to rest at the Archon’s feet.

  A knife-edged moment of silence descended. But it didn’t last long. Blades slashed and stabbed as the soldiers began to methodically slaughter the men in the first rows of seats.

  Nazafareen tore her gaze away and crawled for the tunnel, red rage dimming her vision. Megaera darted forward. Nazafareen found herself pinned against the rough wall. The Maenad’s breath came hard and fast, but her eyes were chips of stone.

  “You cannot stop it,” she said roughly. “This was planned. There are two hundred soldiers out there, maybe more. The die is cast. You cannot stop it.”

  Nazafareen stopped struggling. Megaera was right. The Pythia had laid a trap. All her opponents gathered together in a single place. Would she have done the same even if the verdict had been in favor of guilt? Perhaps. Perhaps she would have.

  Nazafareen felt a coldness fall over her. A hatred so deep, there was no name for it. She would gladly die—but only if she took the Pythia with her. It was worth continuing just for that.

  “What about Javid? Herodotus?”

  “They are either already dead, or not. If they do live, we cannot help them if we are dead too.”

  Nazafareen stared into Megaera’s dark eyes for a long moment. She saw the hatred there, mirroring her own, and knew they’d reached an understanding. Tears streamed down Adeia’s face. Her sister wrapped her arms around her.

  Nazafareen’s own eyes remained dry. Something inside her shifted. Hardened. She thought she’d despised the Pythia before but it was nothing to what she felt now.

  No one argued for rights to the peephole. They huddled in the niche until the screams finally stopped. It took a very long time.

  11

  Apollo’s Vengeance

  Javid had drifted into an uneasy slumber when the door to the cell opened. Two men stood there, but they didn’t wear the uniforms of the Polemarch’s soldiers. These had conical helmets and rich cloaks with an emblem of two crossed swords embroidered in black and gold. They looked over the motley assortment of prisoners.

  “Which of you sorry curs is Javid of Samarqand?” one asked in a conversational tone.

  Javid shared a worried look with Katsu.

  “I am?” he said tentatively.

  “Move it then,” the soldier said.

  “Would it do any good to ask where I’m going?”

  “No.”

  “Fare well,” Katsu said softly. “May your Holy Father watch over you.”

  Javid didn’t have time to respond before one of the soldiers stepped forward and hauled him to the door. They began marching down the corridor.

  “You’re a lucky bastard,” muttered the soldier next to him, a pink-cheeked youth with barely the first signs of a beard.

  “How so?”

  The events surrounding the trial were a blur. His holding cell at the Ecclesia lacked windows, but he’d heard enough to understand something terrible had occurred. Then soldiers hustled him back into the wagon. They returned him to the dungeons without a word. But whispers still penetrated those thick walls. The Assembly dissolved. War on the horizon. Dire prophecies from the Pythia….

  “Just keep quiet and you’ll soon be out of here.”

  Javid’s heart raced. Could it be possible? Was he being freed?

  They passed the first set of regular guards, who flanked a heavy door leading to the stairway Javid had used when he was brought to the Pythia. The four men exchanged looks and barely perceptible nods. Having greased countless palms in his service to the Guild, Javid got the distinct impression that silver had previously changed hands, for the guards unlocked the door and stood aside. They ascended the cramped stairway in single file, one black-cloaked man in front of Javid and one behind. He knew better than to ask who had sent them. Anonymous benefactors generally preferred to stay that way. In all likelihood, the Guild had learned of his predicament and intervened, if only so he didn’t spill their secrets to the Greeks. Javid didn’t care what the motives were. He was just relieved to be getting out.

  The air grew fresher as they ascended toward street level. Javid felt guilty to be leaving Katsu behind. He’d never even had a chance to say goodbye, or to thank him for showing such kindness. Now that he knew Katsu’s story, he no longer thought of him as a thief—not in the usual sense. He’d merely been trying to take something back that had been stolen from the emperor, which was different. He didn’t deserve to languish in the cells.

  Perhaps I can do something to help once I get home, Javid thought. Guards who take one bribe will take another.

  They emerged from the staircase into a short corridor. There should have been guards flanking that exit as well, but Javid saw no one.

  “Lazy buggers,” one of his escorts muttered.

  They’d almost reached the final door when it opened. Six soldiers came through. These wore short red cloaks. They blocked the path.

  “Step aside,” one of his guards said mildly.

  “And where are you taking him?”

  “The Archon Eponymos wants him for questioning.”

  The captain of the red-cloaked soldiers smiled. “I’m afraid we have a problem then. This prisoner is to be taken to the Acropolis under orders of the Oracle and the Archon Basileus.”

  “They can have him when the chief magistrate is finished.”

  “There can be no delay.” His face hardened. “Are you aware that this prisoner is due to be executed?”

  His guards blanched. “I…no, we weren’t—”

  “You will transfer custody immediately or answer to the Pythia directly.”

  Whatever they’d been promised, it wasn’t enough to fight six men.

  “He’s all yours.”

  The red-cloaked soldiers moved forward and seized Javid.

  “I think there’s been some mistake,” he said desperately. “Perhaps you have me confused with someone else.”

  “It’s no mistake, heathen spy,” the captain said coldly.

  Outside, the sun hit Javid’s face with the force of a hammer. He was shoved into a cart. Javid knew the route now. As they passed an intersection, he caught a glimpse of the stairways leading to the Acropolis. Crowds of people pushed and jostled to climb up. He remembered with a jolt of nausea the day he and Nazafareen had gone to the theater and been swept into the flow leading to the temple—and what waited there.

  “Holy Father have mercy on me,” he whispered, laying his head in his hands.

  Smoke. Flames. The smell of blood.

  For a terrible moment, Nazafareen thought she was back at the lake, the power searing her veins, the molten lump of the sun swelling like overripe fruit as the thing inside Culach reached for her….

  She gasped and sat up. Smoke stung her eyes, but it came from a single sputtering torch. Empty pallets lay scattered across a cracked stone floor. Old, sour wine filled her nose.

  The temple of Dionysius.

  A soft, sibilant sound brought full wakefulness. The resident snake slithered out from the blankets next to her, its flat jade eye regarding her with friendly malice. Nazafareen stared back. She no longer feared it. There were grea
ter things to fear in Delphi.

  With a flick of its forked tongue, the snake vanished into the shadows.

  Riots had shaken the streets for three days after the massacre at the Assembly, but the Polemarch finally put the rebellion down. Any last remnants of opposition were either dead or fled. The city now sat under the yoke of martial law.

  Nazafareen followed the promise of daylight up a narrow, winding staircase to the temple sanctuary. They’d hid there for the last three days, waiting to see which way Delphi tipped. Outside, chaos ruled. Makeshift barricades of flaming furniture clogged the intersections. Mobs prowled the commercial districts armed with a variety of crude weapons: smashed table legs, kitchen knives, heavy blacksmithing hammers. They clashed with the soldiers the Polemarch deployed to restore order and blood ran freely in the streets. Megaera reported that the Philosophers’ Guild had burned to the ground, and the Lyceum too.

  Then it had all suddenly stopped. By late yesterday, an eerie silence reigned.

  Kallisto knelt before the altar, the six Maenads surrounding her with bowed heads. She glanced up as Nazafareen approached. Her face looked devoid of hope.

  “Pray with us,” she said.

  “What’s happened?” Nazafareen demanded.

  “The Pythia issued a prophecy this morning that the Persians are scheming with the daēvas to invade. What half the populace already suspected thanks to her constant denunciations of magic.”

  “And?” Nazafareen asked, for she sensed something more.

  “The executions of Javid and Herodotus will be carried out within the hour.”

  She clenched her fist. “Then they still live?”

  There had been no news of either prisoner and she’d assumed they were dead.

  “Yes, but not for long.”

  “We must stop it!”

  “How?” Kallisto seemed to already be grieving for her husband. Red rimmed her eyes and she looked a decade older, the grey streaks in her hair thicker. The other Maenads knelt, silent and solemn.

  “Will they do it in the bull?”

  “Of course.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “Apollo must have his vengeance.”