by Will Panzo
• • •
Cassius stood with his hand on his chest and his heart racing beneath his hand. He tried to breathe deep to calm himself, but the smell in the privy behind the Purse was foul enough to make him gag. He was in the dark, though, and that helped. A blackness so complete it mattered not if his eyes were open or closed. A place where no one could see his fear.
He felt his stomach spasm. Leaning forward, he spat, then vomited, not bothering to aim for the pit. His ribs burned with the effort.
He thought about sitting across from Cinna, about the way the man had meted punishment and reward as assuredly as a magistrate well-read in statute and sworn to uphold the rule of law. The thought made his pulse pound in his ears. He felt his cheeks burn, felt beads of sweat collect on his brow.
Here was the root of the fear churning in his guts. Not a fear of the man himself but a fear of his own reaction. Fear that had he sat in that room two minutes longer, he would have leapt across the table and throttled that fat throat. Fear that he had almost lost control.
It would have all been for naught, then. The training, the struggle, the time spent building the willpower and the courage to step off the safe path and find the destiny he knew was waiting for him.
He heard a pounding at the door.
“Hurry up in there,” Nicola shouted. “We’ve work to do before this night is over.”
Cassius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Just be a minute,” he said.
He waited until he heard Nicola walk away, his footsteps growing faint, then fading completely.
“Brieus,” he whispered to himself in the dark. “Brieus.”
He said the name ten more times, said it until he was certain he would not forget, until the very sound became a promise to himself.
• • •
“People stay out of your way if they know you’re working for Master Cinna.” Nicola lifted the octan from beneath his tunic and let it hang on his chest.
It was late, but still the roads were choked with people. Drunks wandered cursing, and on corners, whores plied their trade with impunity.
“You’ll be a courier at first.” Nicola moved with a hurried slouching gait. “Collection jobs mostly. Master Cinna needs to know you can be trusted with his money.”
“That’s not a problem,” Cassius said. He watched Nicola walk, his steps furtive, his head snapping to one side, then the other at every sound that traveled through the dark.
“Do well with that, and we’ll put you on patrol, guarding warehouses and brothels and the like.” Nicola elbowed through a clutch of beggars, lashing out at a legless wretch with a poorly aimed kick. “After that we’ll give you leave to start your own rackets. And then you’ll give a percentage to the boss and keep the rest.”
“I see.” Cassius discreetly tossed a handful of coppers behind him in the lane, pretended not to notice when the beggars called their thanks.
“Now the key to collecting is that you don’t need to scare anybody who wants to pay,” Nicola said. “Only get mean when you have to. And even then, you get mean in moderation. Cinna doesn’t want his men acting like animals. Always remember that order must be maintained.”
The narrow lane terminated at a low, stucco wall, crumbling and marked with charcoal graffiti. Misspelled curses, phalluses, an image of Cinna and a horse engaged in crimes against nature. Nicola leapt, scrabbled to the top.
“Goddamn it,” he yelled, swatting his chest. “Spiders. I hate spiders.”
Cassius climbed up, and together they descended to a street bordered on either side by well-tended lawns, walled gardens filled with colorful mango trees and bright jungle flowers, man-made grottos.
Gone were the tenements they had come from, replaced by serene domi, or city villas, that would have looked impressive in Antioch City itself. Guardsmen stood outside the doorways of every home, and here and there, slaves toiled in the light of streetlamps, sweeping walkways, pruning shrubs.
“Where are we?” Cassius asked.
“The Street of Blossoms,” Nicola said.
“I feel like I’ve left Scipio.”
“I’m the one convinced Cinna to build this place.” Nicola flashed a smug smile. “Got the idea from my time in gaol.”
“What is this?”
“The most beautiful cage in all the world.”
A rider on horseback trotted in the road ahead, the first horse Cassius had seen since his arrival on Scipio.
“These are Cinna’s prisoners?”
“No, they’re exiles. Forced to flee the Republic by injunction or because they made powerful enemies. They come here for refuge, same as everyone comes here. But these are noblemen, well-heeled merchants, people from influential families. They don’t want to live among the rabble, so Cinna built them this enclave, this small slice of home amidst the blood and mud and shit of Scipio.”
“And this was your idea?”
“Gaol is like anywhere else in the Republic. The law talks of equality amongst men, but I saw rich prisoners living in luxury while the rest of us fought and killed for bread crusts and gruel.”
“They paid for preferential treatment?”
“Not them, they were prisoners. They had no coin to influence anyone. But their families paid. Paid at first for small comforts and amenities. Paid later to ensure a shiv didn’t find its way into their loved one’s ribs.”
“You’re extorting these people then?”
“Extortion is such an ugly word.” Nicola shrugged. “We provide a service. Comfort, Luxury. Safety.”
“And if they refuse to pay?”
“Then they can try their luck amongst the animals.”
“Does Piso have a similar arrangement?”
“Nothing like the Street of Blossoms. Piso is all force, no finesse. He doesn’t have the taste to cater to the elite or the connections to noble families that Cinna does.”
They reached the rider on his horse and moved to pass him in the road. The beast shied at Cassius’s approach, as some horses did when near spellcasters.
The rider reined in the horse and clicked with his tongue. He stroked the beast’s mane.
“Evening, travelers.”
They had crossed into the light of a streetlamp, and Cassius saw now that the rider was a tremendous man. On foot, he must have stood near to seven feet tall. He wore a cloak of vibrant red, similar to the flowers of a poppy, and wore also calfskin boots that came to his knees, flowing black pantaloons like those favored by Fathalans, a sable tunic.
“Evening,” Nicola said. He stared up at the rider, squinting in the dark. He did not seem to recognize the man.
“Out for an evening stroll?” The rider’s voice was deep, edged with a harsh quality that Cassius could not place. He spoke with an accent but not one Cassius recognized although he had heard the tongues of men from most every corner of the earth. “Or are you looking for more sophisticated entertainments?”
Nicola lifted his octan.
“Ah, I see. A man on business, then. Or is it two men on business?” The rider looked to Cassius. “What say you, boy? What brings you here? Business?”
“What else?”
A beam of moonlight pierced the dark of the rider’s raised hood. Cassius glimpsed his face. His eyes were big and searching and seemed to reflect the light, like the eyes of some predatory creature that makes its home in caves. He did not blink.
The sight of the red-haired men set Cassius’s heart racing. He had not seen the man since they parted company on the sea route to Borachud. He had heard whispers of him for some time. A bar fight in Gaspia, a legendary night of revelry at Queen’s Lace in Trajean. But they had never crossed paths.
Cassius had gone long stretches of time without thinking of the man. After a year, he was certain they would never see one another again.
Sometimes at night, when his mind wandered, he imagined the red-haired man was not a man at all but a creature from beyond the veil that had come to set Cassius on the path of his destiny or a demon sent to curse him.
Now they were face-to-face again. Strangely, if the red-haired man recognized Cassius, he gave no sign.
“I see no ornament of office around your neck,” the red-haired man said to Cassius.
“Very perceptive of you.”
“So then you are a man who does not advertise his business.”
“I suppose.”
Cassius met the rider’s stare, searching for any sign of recognition, but he could not hold it long. A queer sensation overcame him, a weakness that spread through his body, so that he felt on the verge of collapse although he remained clearheaded.
He took a step back.
“What about you?” Nicola said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
The rider continued to stare at Cassius. Then he turned to Nicola. He smiled. His mouth was wide, and he had a wider smile, one that seemed to split his face in half like a rictus. His teeth flashed in the streetlight. They were gold. Every tooth.
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met. As for my presence in Scipio, why, there are plenty of reasons one might find himself on the edge of civilization. A place where the laws of man no longer hold dominion. I like the excitement of it. I find it invigorating.”
A breeze picked up and rustled the rider’s cloak, revealing a massive, jeweled kopis, or forward-curving sword, sheathed and hanging from his saddle. It was an ancient weapon, one Cassius had only ever seen once before and that in a house of curios.
“Well, we’ve got to be going,” Nicola said. “See you around.”
“No, I don’t believe you will.”
“What was that?”
“I don’t believe I’ll be seeing you again,” the rider said. “But maybe you, boy. Maybe.” The horse snorted and stamped. The rider wheeled his mount. “Be safe, travelers. And I wish you luck in your business endeavors. Both of you.”
The rider put heels to his horse and trotted off. When he was out of sight, the queer sensation lifted off Cassius. Nicola continued up the road.
“Now what was I saying before that bastard interrupted us?” Nicola asked. “That’s right, order. Order must be maintained.”
“What about Piso’s men?” Cassius surveyed the road. Overhead, the moon sailed behind a cover of clouds.
“We don’t fight Piso’s men. Not in the open anyway. Not the way you did yesterday. Piso puts pressure on the people under our protection. We put pressure on the people under his protection. No need to fight anyone.”
“Seems a strange war.”
“It’s not a war. And if we have our way, it never will be.” Nicola stopped, turned to face Cassius. “I mean this. You don’t lay a hand on a man of Piso’s without the boss’s permission. Peace is good for business. Beyond that, we don’t want to look weak in front of the legion. Quintus lives in the jungle, but word of the city can still reach him.”
“And what would happen if he heard of fighting in the streets?”
“He might see an opportunity to replace the bosses.”
“Could he beat them in a war?” Cassius asked.
“Not both at once. Boss has fifteen hundred men. Piso the same. Legion has about three thousand men.”
“So any fighting between the bosses only strengthens Quintus,” Cassius said. “And if the bosses can maintain the peace long enough to build their forces, they’ll eventually be able to overthrow Quintus.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t say that a second time. You never know who’s listening in Scipio.”
“But it’s the truth, isn’t it? It must be obvious to anyone with half a brain. So why doesn’t Quintus take notice?”
Nicola chuckled. “Maybe he’s down to less than half by now.”
They passed into a courtyard overgrown with trees, then reached a squat, stone building with a domed roof. Nicola whistled. Cassius heard the sound of a heavy door open, and a short man in white robes emerged from a darkened alcove. He descended the steps delicately, as if discovering each of them for the first time. He carried a large sack at his side.
“Is this a temple?” Cassius asked. “You collect from temples?”
“Everyone pays in Scipio, boy. Even the gods.”
• • •
At the door of the Madam’s Purse, Nicola offered Cassius a half-silver piece and asked him where he was staying.
Cassius gave him the name of a pension near the city walls, and Nicola dismissed him, instructing him to wait home until someone called.
The night air was cool and as dry as it had been since Cassius arrived. The sky had cleared, and the stars shone ice white and distant, muddied by the smoke and the glare of streetlamps. Cassius’s side ached with each step.
Soon he reached the Street of Horrors, a wide avenue in Hightown along which the worst of the city’s beggars plied their trade. Cripples and lepers and madmen. They lined the street at sunup to exhibit stumps, boils, sores, empty eye sockets. They called for mercy and for charity.
At night, though, as now, it was mostly quiet. Cassius heard groans and whispers as he walked, an occasional cry for him to look on a tumor. But the lane was dark, and the beggars remained in shadow.
He came to a flat-roofed building made of stone, a private bathhouse. A small woman with a hooked nose escorted him inside.
“What can I help you with?” the woman asked.
“I’d like a hot bath. And two attendants.”
“Boys or girls?”
“One girl please,” Cassius said. “And a larger woman, about my size. Do you have that?”
“I’m sure we can find someone.”
They passed through the front room, which was tiled with a colorful mosaic of a phoenix with spread wings, to a high-ceilinged hallway lined with wooden doors, each door bearing a small plaque with a number. At number eight, the woman stopped and fished inside her dress for a key and unlocked the door.
A low wooden bench ran the length of one wall, and in the center of the room stood a large brass tub. There was a drain nearby, and from under it came the sound of flowing water, as in a sewer.
Cassius took a seat on the floor. His face was numb, and he could not breathe through his nose. His ribs burned.
A short while later, the door opened, and two women entered. The first was a young woman with wide hips and smooth, plump arms. Her hair was dark and straight, her skin the subtle tan of sandalwood.
The second woman was middle-aged, with long gray hair that had been dyed black and was still gray at its roots. She had a fat face and dim eyes. She was an inch taller than Cassius and nearly fifty pounds heavier. Both women wore shapeless gray dresses that reached to midthigh.
They set their jugs next to the tub and stood staring at Cassius.
“Is he all right?” the old one asked. They spoke the Khimir language.
“I think he is hurt,” the girl said.
“What does he want from us? Does he think us healers?”
“Speak Antiochi,” Cassius said.
“I am sorry,” the young one said. “She knows only our tongue. You would like bath?”
“I would.”
The women emptied their jugs into the tub, and steam filled the room. The young one produced a handful of soap powder from a satchel and sprinkled this into the tub.
The old woman motioned for Cassius. He rose and walked to her, and she caught sight of the gauntlets as he stood.
“I do not like this one,” the old woman said. “He is a killer. They are cruel.”
“How many have you ever known?” the girl asked.
“Enough to know they are cruel.”
The old woman flashed a nervous smile. She motioned
for Cassius to turn and he turned and she undid his belt from behind and let his belt and his gauntlets fall, then lifted his tunic over his head. He winced as her hands brushed his side.
“Do you see that scar?” the girl asked, slipping into Khimir unconsciously.
“It is big,” the old woman said. “But I have seen worse. Near the spine, a bad place. But not so bad as to kill him.”
Cassius turned to face the women. He was nude, his side purpled with a deep bruise.
The women took the towels from the bench and dipped them into the soapy water and cleaned him. They wiped the mud from his neck, his arms, and his legs. The old one held her towel open and he offered his hands and she scrubbed them.
“Rich hands,” she said in slow, strained Antiochi. “Rich hands.”
“What is she saying?” Cassius asked.
“She means that your hands are valuable,” the girl said. “Because you are . . .”
“What?” Cassius asked.
“You are killer.” The young woman stammered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know this word.”
“That is the word,” he said.
“There is a better word.”
“A more polite word maybe,” he said. “But not a better one.”
Cassius stepped into the tub. The water was hot, and he eased back until it rose to his chin.
“How long have you worked here?” Cassius asked.
“A year,” the girl said.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Are you mixed?” he asked.
“No. Khimir only. You people say Scipian.”
“You speak Antiochi well.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you work other places?” he asked. “Different baths? Do you ever work in Lowtown?”
“Sometimes,” the girl said.
He cupped his hands and splashed water onto his face and washed away the dried blood, and fresh blood dripped into the bathwater.
“How would you like to earn some money?” he asked.
• • •
At dawn, Cassius left the bath wearing the old woman’s gray dress and a cheap scarf draped over his head so that only his eyes were visible. He carried a small oilskin bundle over his shoulder, stuffed with his own clothes. He was not accustomed to walking in a dress, but he moved slowly and felt he did a passable job. If he was being followed or watched, he trusted that his tail would not be alert for a woman leaving the bath, even a clumsy one.