by Will Panzo
Flavia lived with her ten sisters, and when she brought the boy home, some of her sisters cooed and petted him and others shrieked in surprise and shouted for him to leave. Flavia wanted him to stay, though, and she was big enough to get her way.
Flavia fed him milk and bread and an apple, all the while asking the boy his name and where he came from and who his mother was. The boy met her questions with silence. She asked if he were mute and the boy did not respond, so she pinched him. The boy cried out and Flavia said he was no mute and told him to speak or she would send him back out to wrestle with the dog.
The boy did not want to wrestle the dog again. His hands still throbbed from bone splinters. But thoughts of his mother pushed the pain from his mind, and he stood silent. He had promises to keep.
Flavia sighed. She looked down at the boy and frowned and asked what she was going to do with him, asked it as though speaking to someone else although the room was empty but for the two of them.
Later that night, she washed him and shaved his head and dressed him in his tunic, which she had cleaned and mended. She laid him to rest in the basement, piling old cloaks on top of him until he felt warm and safe.
“Do you remember me?” she whispered in his ear.
He stared up at her in silence.
She smiled, her eyes filmed with tears, and wished him good night. For the first time in six months, the boy slept through the night.
Flavia let him sleep in the pantry for most of that winter. Each night, he crawled through a narrow opening in the wooden gate and snuck around the back of the house to the door that led into the kitchen. There he waited for one of the women, usually Flavia, to let him inside.
Sometimes no one opened the door. Usually, these nights saw too many men inside the house, and neither Flavia nor her sisters could spare a moment away from their guests. Other nights, Mother lurked about, and no one opened the door for fear she would catch him.
The sisters fed him often. Cold bean soup, crusts of bread, sour pickles, sometimes a hard-boiled egg. After that, they put him to bed under the pile of old cloaks and with a sack of flour for a pillow. Sometimes he woke to find Flavia sitting nearby, watching him sleep, and other times he heard her singing to him, her songs working their way into his dreams. They were sweet songs, but they were not the songs his mother had sung, songs about rain and a river, and knowing this, they only made the boy miss her more.
Each morning, Flavia’s sisters chased him outside, rushing him into the alleyways and warning him not to return while Mother was about. At first the boy misunderstood, thinking his own mother was visiting the house. Once, while the sisters were busy with housework, he snuck through the back gate and caught sight of this new Mother, a thin, old woman with heavy powder layered on her wrinkled face and a small, deformed left hand that she kept wrapped in red silk.
Mother beat the girls with wooden spoons when they were slow at their work, when they sulked or dallied, when they displeased her. When she caught him lapping up a saucer of warm cream left outside for an old tomcat, she tried to beat him as well. She threatened to clap him in chains and sell him like a plucked chicken if he ever returned. The boy kept his distance from Mother after that.
One night, while swaddled under musty cloaks, the boy heard crying from the kitchen upstairs. He often heard noises in the house, strange shouts and grunts, men calling on gods. There were always men in the house at night although none lived there.
He dozed in fits. Sometimes he woke to the sound of crying and sometimes the crying seemed to come from his dreams. The crying scared him, but Flavia had been clear in her instructions. He was allowed to stay in the basement but not to come upstairs. If he came upstairs, they would put him out of the house, and he would spend the night in the cold streets, a threat sister Minna made good on once.
He listened to the crying for some time. Between sobs, he heard voices. It seemed the girl crying was Flavia. He hated to hear her cry. It made him scared. He wondered what was wrong with Flavia, but thoughts of sleeping outside tempered his curiosity. Even in the basement, he could hear the howl of strong winds and knew a night spent in the streets would be terrible. There were not enough dogs in all of Celembria to warm him against that cold.
Sometime later, he heard steps creaking. He looked to see Flavia approaching from the dark, a small candle held before her. She set the candle next to him and kneeled and stroked his head.
She told him that she knew who he was, that she knew from the first moment she saw him.
Her breath smelled of wine. Her hands were rough and clumsy on his head.
She told him that he was her own baby boy, returned to her after all these years. She could see it in his eyes. No one else could look at her as he did.
She was sorry that she had lost him. Mother had demanded it, though. When Mother found out about him, she had taken a switch to Flavia and burned her with an iron and cut off her hair, and still Flavia would not give him up.
Finally, Mother had fed her tea laced with a tincture of Blood Belly, and he had disappeared before she ever laid eyes on him. He was here now, though, and that was all that mattered. She would let no one take him away again.
The boy kept his silence.
4
They talked through the night, and the barkeep was still drunk at breakfast. He smoked while Cassius ate boiled eggs. The tobacco Cassius bought him smelled sharp, and its smoke was heavy and dark. Cassius tried some but found it unpleasant. It made him cough and then he vomited from coughing. The vomiting hurt his ribs, and the barkeep thought this was funny.
Afterward, he shared a mug of warm rum with the barkeep and fell asleep at the table. He dreamed of fire.
He woke to the sound of a knock at the door. The barkeep rose and called out and received no answer. He opened the door partway, and Cassius saw there a small boy limned in the pink light of dawn. The barkeep conferred with the boy, then handed him a copper. He closed the door and turned to Cassius.
“Someone’s looking for you,” he said.
• • •
Cassius was ushered into the bathhouse by a Native woman. She asked what kind of bath he would like, and he asked what kind was best for a hangover.
“You are hungover?” the woman asked.
“No, I’m drunk,” Cassius said. “But soon I’ll be hungover.”
The woman nodded, feigned concern. “Cold bath.”
He asked to be attended by a girl named Tadua. The woman led him to a private room, and soon the young girl he had met at the bathhouse the other night arrived, along with the old woman.
“I didn’t expect to get your call so quickly,” he said.
“It is too soon?” asked the young girl.
“No.”
“What did he say?” asked the old one.
“He says that we worked fast,” the young girl said.
“Let us hope we are paid as fast.”
“Where is—” Cassius left his sentence unfinished.
“Come, we show you.” The young girl motioned for Cassius to follow her.
They made their way deeper into the bathhouse, past a swimming pool, then into a room with a fountain and benches, where men sat naked or sat draped with towels. Serving girls and boys offered drinks and tobacco and hashish and opium and coca leaves for chewing, all arranged on trays. They passed through a steam room and down a flight of steps into a dank, stone basement, then through a porthole that led to a sewer.
In the sewer, there was a wide stone ledge that fronted a slow-moving underground stream. The stream was black, and the air stank of excrement and salty urine.
The sewer was unlit except for a few beams of sunlight that leaked through a small grate overhead. It took a minute for Cassius’s eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, he saw a man lying on the stone ledge that fronted the stream. He lay on his back, and his left eye
was covered by an eyepatch. He had short dark hair and wore a black tunic and a hooded, short cloak.
“Is this good?” the young girl asked.
“I don’t know,” Cassius said. “You tell me.”
“What is his problem now?” the old woman asked. “Tell him we did as he told us.”
“This is what you wanted,” the young girl said. “This is Piso’s man. We know him. He goes to Lowtown baths. He talks all the time of Boss Piso, and he wears his symbol.”
“Show me,” Cassius said.
“Tell him we had to pay a boy to bring this man here in a cart,” the old woman said. “And then the boy had to drag him into the bath as though he were drunk. Tell him about the boy and the cart.”
The young girl walked to the one-eyed man and lifted the sleeve of his tunic over his shoulder. He bore a brand on his bicep. Three diagonal slash marks, the flesh raised and red as wine.
“See,” the young girl said. “Piso’s man. And he is killer, like you told us to get.”
“Is he dead?” Cassius asked.
“No, he is sleeping. We use what you give us. Will this kill him?”
Cassius shook his head. “It only makes him sleep.”
“When will he wake?” the young girl asked.
“In a few hours. You need to do again what you did to him earlier. Dip a knitting needle in the potion and then jab him in the thigh. Do this twice a day. At sunup and sundown.”
“Where did you find this potion?” the young girl asked.
“That’s none of your concern. You only have to know that it is expensive and not to be wasted. Now remember, twice a day. Will that be a problem?”
The young girl shook her head.
“How long can he stay down here?” Cassius asked.
“For a short time,” the young girl said. “They clean here once a week. We have four more days.”
“That should be enough time,” Cassius said. “You need to cover his eyes with a blindfold. And then gag him. You don’t have to feed him. But give him water when you poke him. Wet his gag, that should be enough. Do you understand?
“I do.”
Cassius walked to the one-eyed man and kneeled by his side. He unhitched the man’s gauntlets from his belt, then began to undo the belt.
“Help me with his cloak and eyepatch.”
• • •
Cassius scanned the front room of the Purse. It was early afternoon, and the crowd was small. The room smelled of cherry-scented incense and smoke, and beneath this, of human bodies, of sweat. Behind the bar stretched a large mural of dancers at practice, adolescent girls painted in pinks and creamy whites. They were dressing, their backs arched, mouths open.
Sulla approached Cassius from a corner table. She leaned against the bar and did not look at him.
“Buy me a drink,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Then lean in close. Put your hand on my ass.”
“Sulla, I—”
“Don’t be weird,” Sulla snapped. “Just do it.”
Cassius placed his hand on Sulla’s ass. She knocked it away.
Cassius ordered a drink, and when it arrived, he handed it to Sulla. She flashed a withering smile and thanked him dryly, then walked off to a corner table. Cassius followed.
“Have a seat,” she whispered.
“I thought you didn’t want people to know we were working together.”
“If you make it seem like you’re hitting on me, then people won’t think we’re conspiring.” Sulla looked away, feigned distraction. “They’ll just think you’re drunk and horny. Touch my knee.”
Cassius set his hand on Sulla’s knee. She slapped him.
“Damn it.” His nose began to bleed.
“Don’t act so angry,” she said.
“I’m not acting.”
“Word is you’re Cinna’s man now,” she said. “So where’s my money? Ten percent of any upfront money Cinna paid you. Plus a weekly retainer.”
“Take it out of the money you owe me from the sale of those spells,” Cassius said.
“I haven’t moved them all yet.” Sulla gnawed at a fingernail. She caught herself in the act and lowered her hand into her lap. “I have to be discreet. People know you killed Junius. And maybe they know I was there when it happened. If they notice me selling a batch of spells shortly after, then I look complicit.”
“Move those spells, and you’ll get your money,” Cassius said. “In the meantime, I need a favor.”
“Ask me for a handjob, and you’ll be putting your life at risk.”
“Piso’s got a man who works for him. A killer. Dark hair. About my height. He’s missing an eye. Sound familiar?”
“Servilius.” Sulla lifted her mug to hide her lips as she spoke the name. “One of Piso’s favorites. Bit of a gambling problem.”
“Would people in Hightown recognize him by sight?” Cassius asked.
“They might.”
“Would Cinna’s men?”
Sulla nodded. “Definitely. But what’s Servilius have to do with anything?”
Cassius shrugged. “I heard he might have a problem with one of Cinna’s men. He might be coming up to Hightown to settle a score tonight.”
“That’s a lie,” Sulla said. “You’re lying to me. No one is coming up to Hightown. Not after the trouble last night.”
“What trouble?” Cassius asked.
“Haven’t you heard? One of Piso’s safe houses was raided. Four of his men were killed. Some of his men suspected it was an attack from Cinna, so they ambushed a patrol of Cinna’s guards. Killed two. Wounded two. And the fifth was taken to Lowtown and hung.”
“Damn.”
“Piso’s furious because his men acted without permission,” Sulla said.
“Does Cinna know about this?” Cassius asked.
“Of course he does. And he’s not pleased. If you speak with him today, it better be to bring good news.”
• • •
The balcony on the top floor of the Purse overlooked Hightown. It faced west, with a view that was clear to the docks on one side and to the city walls on the other.
A slight breeze cooled the hot night. The sky was overcast, heavy with a coming storm.
“You did a good job getting my money,” Cinna said. He leaned out over the balustrade, his girth pressed against the wrought iron, his gaze fixed on the street below. “You’re learning, and that’s good. After the trouble we had last night, I need men who can follow orders.”
“I don’t act unless you tell me to,” Cassius said.
He scanned Cinna’s face, looking for hints of his true feelings about the money. Displeasure, curiosity, maybe even admiration. He was adept at reading subtle clues. It was the same skill he employed in combat, where the only warning he might have of a spell was some small sensory cue, a brief flash of light, the sound of a beast’s cry as it breached the veil, the faint smell of flame in the air.
But although he was a formidable spellcaster, he was no expert on Boss Cinna. And that smooth, bland face hid its secrets well.
“I won’t tolerate anyone’s getting an idea to take revenge,” Cinna said. “Is that clear?”
“Of course.”
Revenge.
Cassius thought it an ugly word. Base and nasty. Not at all like the high art he had learned on the Isle.
Cinna lifted his nose and sniffed. He closed his eyes. “Rain today.”
“Rain every day,” Cassius said.
“I suppose.” Cinna propped his elbow on the balustrade and rested his round chin in the palm of his hand. “Although if you live here long enough, you don’t notice.”
“Seems to be that way with a lot of things.”
In the distance, a man screamed, a high, wailing shriek that ended abruptly. The streets fell silent again.
<
br /> “How strong a spellcaster are you?” Cinna asked.
“I’ve never been formally tested.”
“You’re my man now. If I’m to pay you, I will see you tested.”
“And if I refused?”
Cinna stared at Cassius, his look pointed and searching.
“Respectfully refused,” Cassius said. He stepped back, opened wide his cloak, and bowed. The Isle had taught him that discipline and power were necessary for survival. But so were deceit and obsequiousness, in the right circumstance.
“I’d be curious why.”
“A point of pride. Professional courtesy. Whatever you like. Spellcasters only benefit from being unknown. My goal during a battle is to get my opponent to overestimate my strength or to underestimate it. But never to know it.”
“Kind of like now.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe I’ll think you don’t want to be tested because you’re weaker than I suspected,” Cinna said. “And not worth the money I’m paying. Or else you’re much stronger than I suspected.”
“And what would be the benefit of hiding that?”
Cinna stroked his slick neck. “I wonder.”
• • •
The Grand Market was mostly empty and the rain on the concrete loud. Cassius sat at the stone fountain, his cloak heavy on his shoulders. At the council hall, ten legionnaires stood guard. Rain dripped from the wide brims of their helmets and Vorenicus’s eagle feathers sagged.
Even at this remove, Cassius noticed those feathers. Shining and pure. They did not belong in Scipio.
The sky flashed bright, then gray. A peal of thunder shook the air, and Cassius closed his eyes reflexively. When he opened them again, the legionnaires were moving across the plaza at a run, Vorenicus in the lead. They navigated the maze of tents and stalls and emerged on the far side of the square as the fire at the shack reached the thatched roof.
Vorenicus dropped his shield in the street and charged into the house. A crowd had formed. Another legionnaire followed him inside just as the fire spread across the roof. Smoke began to roll out the front door, then two people emerged, a man and an old woman. They staggered into the street and collapsed, their faces blackened.