by J. G. Willem
It didn’t taste good going down. Belbus could tell Pavus wasn’t happy. Not only had he been lied to, but now he had to defend the lie. It put him in a position he didn’t want to be in. Belbus saw him chewing on it, deciding how he would play this. Pistrus stared the lawyer down, daring him to say something.
After a moment, Pavus turned to the judge. “Your Honour, this man is not my client. As such, I ask that you keep your business with him from your judgement.”
Immussilus showed his open palms in agreement. “Since this man is not your client, I see no bias.”
Strixus wasn’t having any of it. “The bias exists because this man, though not your client, bears on the case. He is in possession of the slave Chimera, which was sold to him in breach of the verbal contract my client had with the defendant. Therefore, he stands to lose this slave. The pre-existing relationship between this man and the judge means that the judge is inclined to rule in his favour, lest he be stripped of the slave that was purchased illegally.”
“Enough!” Immussilus said, pounding his fist on the bench. “The man Pistrus is not on trial, only the woman Vipera is. As far as I know, Pistrus has not retained the services of Pavus and is not his client. I do not know the woman Vipera. Therefore, no bias exists. Proceed.”
Strixus bit his tongue. He looked down at Belbus, a crack appearing in what had been revealed a formidable countenance, and hope draining out through it like water. Belbus didn’t look away. Didn’t let him off the hook. He implored the old lawyer with his good eye. “You’re our last chance,” the good eye said.
Strixus heard that good eye loud and clear. Drawing on some hidden well of resolve, he set his face toward the judge.
“By the law of the Twelve Tables; in the name of Romulus and Remus, and Aeneas of Troy; in the tradition of our great Caesars, do not let this injustice abide lest it follow you to the hallowed halls of the Senate and tarnish your good name.”
Immussilus’ eyes bulged with anger. “How dare you!”
“Am I wrong?” Strixus said, budging not one inch. “Am I wrong? Are you not in any way biased by your impending marriage to this man’s daughter, child though she may be?”
“You forget yourself, Strixus,” spat Immussilus. “Remember who you are addressing.”
The inference was clear. So was the contradiction.
“I thought I was addressing an impartial judge with no connection to this case.”
Immussilus caught himself. “You are.”
“Removing your bias from this case also removes your authority as a Roman senator. You cannot have it both ways, Your Honour.”
Immussilus ground his teeth. He didn’t like it. Didn’t have a choice.
“Very well.”
Strixus stepped out from behind his table and shuffled toward the judge. The dirty hem of his toga swept the courtroom floor behind him. He came to a stop in the centre of the room, clasping his hands in front of him like a patient teacher.
“If I may ask, Your Honour, how did you come to be appointed to this particular trial? It does seem like an awfully big coincidence, after all, that you would be assigned to this case.” He pointed to the tiles before him, as if marking out some hallowed ground. “This one, in particular.”
Immussilus’s glare continued to smoulder.
Pavus scoffed. “That’s enough, Strixus. The judge is not the one on trial here.”
Strixus wheeled around and transfixed the handsome lawyer with eyes as cold as winter steel.
“That is not at all clear to me, Pavus. In fact, unless this matter is resolved, I will invoke the right of re-selection.”
“You have no grounds!” shouted Immussilus.
“Yes, really Strixus,” said Pavus. “This is all a rather big overreaction, don’t you think?”
“I’ll tell you what’s an overreaction. Getting a friend of yours to mediate a civil trial where you are so convinced of your own guilt that you feel the need to do so.”
“Is that what you’re accusing me of?” Immussilus demanded.
“That is what I am accusing the man Pistrus of, and, yes, you by association. I’ll drop it right now and never mention it again if you step down and allow another judge to be selected. If you don’t, I will spend my dying breath outside the Senate telling everyone that Immussilus holds himself above the Twelve Tables.”
Immussilus pushed back his chair and rose, looming over the clear-eyed lawyer, face twisted in a scowl of utmost contempt.
Strixus didn’t blink.
“Pistrus is not the one on trial,” urged Pavus.
Strixus rolled his eyes. “His connection to both the defendant and the plaintiff has been made painfully clear. I will not murder common sense and truth beneath this ceiling, nor will I see it done, least of all by the likes of Pavus.”
Immussilus just stared at the tireless old man, dumbfounded. He seemed to deflate by the second.
“Bailiff,” said Strixus. “Please bring in the magistrate. I would like to put my case to him.”
The bailiff nodded and disappeared from the room.
Immussilus did not argue. It seemed to Belbus that he had lost the requisite energy. The judge slumped back down in his chair, looking to Pistrus, then to Pavus.
Belbus could imagine the thought process taking place:
This is too much for a favour. Too much, even, perhaps, for a child bride.
The bailiff returned shortly thereafter with the magistrate in tow.
“This had better be good,” the magistrate said.
Ten minutes later, Strixus had finished putting his case forth.
The magistrate said, “Well of course he’s unfit to judge this trial. Immussilus, you’re excused. By Jove, you should have excused yourself.”
Again, Immussilus didn’t argue. He seemed exhausted by the whole affair. Addressing Pistrus, a half-sheepish, half-irritated look passed across his face. It seemed to say, “I tried, but damn you for making me do this.”
The vulturine man got up and left and became a Senator again. Pistrus huffed. Vipera resumed the inspection of her fingernails.
“I will find you a new judge immediately,” the magistrate said, and turned to leave.
Another ten minutes passed before he returned, accompanied by a younger senator named Gallus. This new judge seemed professional and proper and in every way devoid of passion.
“The magistrate has briefed me on the case,” Gallus said, sitting down. “I will now hear arguments. Strixus, since you are the aggrieved party, you will go first.”
Pavus rolled his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Honour.” Strixus took a breath, then began: “I do not wish to take up any more of the court’s time than necessary...”
Pavus scoffed audibly.
Strixus ignored him. “There existed between my client and the defendant a verbal contract, in which a slave of hers, Chimera, would be sold to him on the day of Equirria Two. She assured my client that if he did not produce the requisite sum by that date, the slave would be sold or sent to work elsewhere. My client gave her every assurance that he would and that he agreed to this deal and that he had every intention of carrying it out. The defendant then violated this contract by selling the slave Chimera to the man Pistrus before the date in question. We are humbly seeking that the defendant’s verbal contract be enforced, that the slave be returned to her and set aside for my client until the agreed-upon date. If he does not honour his part of the agreement by producing the requisite sum in the requisite time, he will, of course, void the verbal contract and the defendant will be free to do with her slave as she sees fit, including selling her to the man Pistrus. In the grand scheme of things, it is a matter of days. We are only asking that truth and fairness be upheld. That is all, Your Honour.”
Strixus sat. Ursa rubbed him on the shoulder and gave him a big smile. He kept his eyes on the judge. This wasn’t over yet.
“Very well,” Gallus said, turning his head slightly to face the defendant. “Pavus, you
r rebuttal.”
Vipera’s lawyer rose and addressed Gallus. “Your Honour, keep in mind this was a verbal contract and not a written one. Verbal contracts do not hold the same weight in a court of law as do those evidenced in writing.”
“Does the defendant deny that a verbal contract existed?” Gallus said.
Pavus hesitated. “Well, no. But...”
“In that case, I find in favour of the plaintiff. The defendant will take ownership of her slave once again in return for a full reimbursement to the buyer. This trial is over. Court is adjourned.”
Pavus huffed.
The charioteer’s upper lip began twitching.
Vipera looked just as bored as ever. She didn’t have a dog in this fight. Money now was sweeter than money later, but money later was still money.
As Gallus rose, he remembered something. “Oh, and good luck in Equirria Two, Pistrus. I’ve got money on you.”
Pistrus and Belbus both rolled their eyes, but for different reasons.
Gallus went out, off to perform his other senatorial duties.
Ursa hugged her father. Strixus allowed himself a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, daddy. I’m so proud of you.”
“Oh, please,” he said. “That was nothing.”
He rolled up his scroll and stood, she and Belbus with him. They edged out from behind the table. Father and daughter made their way down the aisle toward the exit.
Belbus lingered.
Pistrus saw him linger. He looked over, lip curling into a snarl.
The bookie nodded politely to the defendant. “Vipera. A pleasure, as always.”
She nodded politely in return, as though this were merely a tangent to an otherwise fruitful day.
He addressed the lawyer. “Pavus. You did the best you could with what you had.”
The lawyer looked away, deflecting the compliment.
“... but it’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools.”
Pavus simply shook his head. Said nothing.
“And Pistrus...”
Belbus looked down at the charioteer last. It took every ounce of willpower for Pistrus not to bare his teeth like a ravening wolf cornered by hunters and prodded with spears.
“Nice try, you fucking cocksucker.”
The charioteer’s face turned red with helpless, hopeless, apoplectic rage.
The bookie caught up to the other two at the end of the aisle, where they were waiting for him. Strixus was talking to his daughter.
“Please consider coming back to study rhetoric,” he was saying. “You’d make a damn fine lawyer yourself.” He looked sideways at Belbus as he approached, the disapproval clear on his face. “Palling around with this fella will only get you in trouble.”
Belbus took the hit.
“This is the last time, young lady.” Strixus raised a fist with his index finger extended. “You hear me?”
Ursa just smiled warmly at him. “I hear you, daddy.”
“Thank you, Strixus,” said Belbus, earnestly.
Strixus turned more fully to face the man, fixing him with a squinty-eyed glare. “Let’s get one thing straight, fella: I don’t like you.”
“I don’t like me either.”
“I don’t like your shady antics.”
“I assure you, I’m legitimate.”
Strixus scoffed. “The way fighting in the arena is to earning victory on the battlefield is your sense of legitimacy to mine.”
“That sounds about right. But I’m working on it, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I hope it’s true.”
“It is.”
“Still, I don’t like the cut of your jib.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I don’t like your squirrelly face or your hunched-up shoulders or the way you limp and skulk around.”
“Daddy!” said Ursa, horrified.
“Feels like this is getting a little personal,” Belbus said.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that it is. Because it’s damn sure personal to me. This is my daughter we’re talking about here.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“I don’t want her around you.”
“Fair enough, sir. I wouldn’t want my daughter around me either.”
“Are you being smart with me?”
“No, sir.”
“For whatever reason, Ursa has become enamoured with you. I know it’s not romantic, and I thank the gods for that every day. But you have a big responsibility here, son, whether you want it or not. Don’t shirk it.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re not a shirker, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m an irker, not a shirker.”
Ursa looked down to hide her smile. It was infectious, and took all of Belbus’ willpower not to follow suit.
Strixus held his gaze a moment longer to make sure the message sank in. Then he turned to his daughter and kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll see you for dinner, kiddo.”
“Thanks again, daddy.”
“Think about what I said. That could be you up there, defending some degenerate bookmaker and his slave bride-to-be.”
Belbus rolled his eyes.
Ursa nodded. “I will.”
He winked at her, squinty-glared at Belbus, then shuffled off. Belbus exhaled like he’d been holding in a breath for the last two minutes. Ursa chuckled, rubbed his arm.
“You did good.”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“You did better than the last guy.”
He snorted a laugh. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
She put her arm around him and they walked out together.
Several seconds later, Auribus, who had been waiting outside behind a column, entered. He approached Pistrus. Pavus was talking in quiet tones with Vipera. She was giggling, touching his arm.
“How’d it go, sire?”
Pistrus didn’t even turn to look at him, busy glaring at the empty judge’s chair where everything had gone so wrong.
“How do you think it went?”
Auribus hesitated. Took a stab in the dark. “Badly?”
“Badly is correct. Re-double your efforts, Auribus. I want her found. I want her found before the race. I want her found before the race so I can win the race. I want his leverage, his advantage, whatever you want to call it... I want it gone. I want it off me. I want his head on a pike and his body lain open for the crows in my courtyard.”
“Yes, sire.”
Auribus went to leave.
“And Auribus?” Pistrus said.
The centurion turned. His master was still staring at the judge’s chair.
“If it’s not his body, it’ll be yours.”
Auribus swallowed. “Yes, sire.”
He bowed and left.
Pistrus continued to stare, seething, at the place where justice had failed him.
Part VIII - In the Belly of the Beast
Belbus paced nervously beneath the stands. Overhead, he could hear the throngs of people talking, cheering, walking to and from their seats. The pounding of hooves down the track as the racers ran their practise laps. The crunching of sand beneath wheels. The insults shouted by a gang of Blue supporters to a gang of Reds, and yet more abuse hurled back in the opposite direction. Orders barked by guards, separating the rival factions before a fight broke out.
All of it foreplay for the big race to come.
The room Belbus was pacing in was one alternately used for storage and as a dungeon. Daylight shafted in from an elongated window high up on the exterior wall, latticed with iron bars. Otherwise, it was dark, and it was dank. Somewhere, something dripped.
To distract himself, Belbus went over the numbers.
Two thousand feet long. Almost four hundred feet wide. Capable of fitting over a hundred and fifty thousand spectators. That’s potentially how many people were milling about overhead, stuffing their faces, drinking, making bets.
Sometimes it helped to give him perspective. To situate his life in the context of history. To contrast his meagre existence with the immensity of the world around and behind him. The world ahead.
He heard footsteps approaching. Ursa appeared in the doorway, looking haggard. Run off her feet.
“How is it?” he said.
“Good,” she said, a grin spreading across her face. “Really good. I’ve got the lads taking bets and it’s playing out exactly as we hoped. There’s enough excitement about Leontius, but everyone’s still betting on Pistrus.”
Belbus allowed himself a smile. A breath.
“Good,” he said. “That’s good. And you’ve placed my bets?”
Ursa nodded proudly. “Through a variety of third parties we have dirt on.”
His smile broadened. He chuckled. “I think we might actually pull this off.”
“I think we might.”
Then a chair broke across the back of her head.
Ursa collapsed in a shower of splinters and dust.
Belbus’ eyes went wide.
He turned, only to see another chair coming at him.
*
Belbus woke to find himself staring at a bull. Its face was scrunched and angry, like he had unknowingly trespassed into its stable.
The bull wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing.
It was standing over him, head stooped, about to charge. Belbus realised he was lying down. Giant horns curling to savage points. A ring threaded through fleshy nostrils. One hoof curled back as if frozen in the act of scraping dust. An aggressive gesture. A threat.
Belbus went rigid, frozen in the bull’s Gorgon-like gaze.