by Will Panzo
He watched the crowds conducting business. It seemed a kind of dance. Chaotic at a glance but upon inspection something much more formal and structured. He put the number of people in the square at a thousand although he figured that a conservative estimate. The noise of the square was loud enough to interrupt his thoughts. Sounds of haggling, laughing, shopkeepers shouting at thieves, crowds of young boys calling obscenely after women, quiet whispers of secret meetings, investment tips, gambling, talk of Piso and Cinna and Quintus, children fighting. After some time, the voices mixed into a low, featureless roar, and in this quiet, he told himself his work was inevitable.
When he finished the lemon water, he rose and headed north. He came upon a fruit vendor and paid the man a half-silver for an apple and for the location of a bar favored by Cinna’s men. The vendor was reluctant at first, or else he was feigning fear, Cassius could not tell which.
“The Drunken Monkey,” the vendor whispered. He spoke into his shoulder so that Cassius had to lean close to hear him. “By the north side of the Market. They eat and drink for free in there.”
“Thank you.”
“Will there be trouble?” The vendor grinned knowingly.
“I certainly hope not,” Cassius said.
The vendor nodded knowingly. “I take your meaning.”
The bar fronted the north edge of the Market. A Native man lay sprawled in its doorway, naked but for a pair of bleached pantaloons. His beggar’s bowl rested on his belly.
“Charity for the poor,” the beggar said.
Cassius stepped over the man and into the bar, and the man cursed him as heartless and rolled onto his side and farted.
The room was hot and dim. A stone grille smoked behind the bar, the smoke thin and smelling of roasted goat. Cassius ordered a mug of wine and made his way to the back corner.
A short time later, three men entered the bar, one man with a pair of gauntlets dangling from his belt. The men settled at the bar and ordered a pitcher of spiced rum and three plates of goat meat. They ate quickly and ordered more food and more rum. They finished their meals and made to leave.
“What kind of place is this?” Cassius called. “A bar where men eat and drink for free?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” the bartender said.
“Is my next meal free as well?” Cassius asked. “Or have these men made other arrangements?”
The three men stopped.
“Shut up, boy,” the bartender said.
“You dogs come here and take everything,” Cassius said. “You may scare this cur, but you don’t scare me.”
The bartender turned to the men at the door. “Don’t mind him. He’s drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Cassius said. “And in case you three didn’t hear, I just said I’d whip the three of you in a fight.”
“I’ll break your face.” The last of the three men lunged for Cassius. He was large and pale, a Jutlander maybe or even a Kell, who made their homes in the dark forests at the end of the world. He had a mess of red-brown hair and thick muttonchops. The bartender leapt over the bar to hold him.
“Outside,” the bartender said. “Wait for him in the streets.”
The red-haired man hooked his thumbs into the neck hole of his tunic and lifted out an octan suspended from a leather cord.
“You see that, boy. That’s what’s waiting for you outside.”
The three men exited the bar.
Cassius finished his wine. He stood and donned his gauntlets and crossed the room and stepped over the beggar into the light of the Market.
“If they kill you,” the beggar called, “can I have your boots?”
• • •
As Cassius emerged from the bar, he squinted against the glare of the midday sun and felt a stirring in his chest. He spotted the red-haired man and the killer standing ten yards ahead of him, the killer with his gauntleted hands raised. Cassius began to draw the rune for his fire ward, but before he finished, he noticed a blur on his periphery, then felt cold pain on the side of his head.
His vision dimmed as he pitched forward. He raised his hands to break his fall but his movements were sluggish, clumsy. He landed facedown and rolled. That’s when he saw the third man from the bar standing over him, his heavy truncheon held high, stained with Cassius’s blood.
Cassius lashed out with a kick to his groin, and the man with the truncheon collapsed. The smell of manure filled the air as the killer in the Market finished his casting.
Cassius lurched forward, spurred by blind panic. He grabbed the man with the truncheon and rolled, pulling the man atop him. As the flames descended, Cassius felt the heat of the fire, intense heat, a sensation he had not felt for some time. The man screamed and thrashed as the flames licked his back, but Cassius gripped his tunic tight and held the man in place, using him as shield against the blast.
When the fire cleared, he tossed aside the man and stood. Wisps of smoke rose from his tunic and from his singed hair. He beat a lick of fire that had caught the edge of his sleeve.
He felt another strumming in his chest.
Without thought, he cast his fire ward and raced to flank the two remaining attackers.
Cassius’s vision clouded. He blinked, then dragged his forearm across his head, wiping away blood. When his eyes cleared, he judged the red-haired man to be about twenty paces from him and closing fast.
The red-haired man held a knife in each hand, and behind him, the spellcaster had called forth from the void a pair of shambling corpses, their rotted flesh hanging in strips that left their gray bones exposed. They wore molded half cloaks over ancient bronze cuirasses, their helmets plumed with horsehair and shrouded in cobwebs, their spears and round shields rusted.
Here, in these two forms, was the essence of Antiochi magic made clear. The original spell had most likely originated in Awanu, one of the Southern Kingdoms. There ibis-headed priests practiced Blood magic, manipulating the passageways into the afterlife so that they might hold dominion over their dead long after death. The imitation spell though, the rune, was wielded by no priest.
Instead a mercenary Antiochi had summoned to modern-day Kambuja a pair of deceased Akhaian spearmen, warriors so ancient they might well have died at the dawn of western civilization, guarding the cyclopean Lion Gate against barbarian hordes.
All thoughts of ritual and custom were disregarded. Time and magical tradition itself were cast aside for raw immediacy, the mysteries of the arcane arts commodified in service to speed and violence. Antiochi magic.
The Market crowd fled, some calling for the legionnaires to aid them, others imploring the gods for protection.
Cassius swept his hand forward and out of the ground curled violet smoke. When the smoke cleared, a sleek panther crouched in its midst. The panther stiffened and hissed at the red-haired man, its fangs stone gray and dripping.
The spear struck the panther in its flank. The panther lifted off the ground, then landed hard and lay bleeding.
“Stand down. Or the next spear goes through one of you.” Vorenicus was approaching from the south side of the Market. He moved with a legionnaire on each side of him, the man on his right a spellcaster with his gauntlets raised.
The red-haired man checked his advance.
Vorenicus motioned to his spellcaster, and the spellcaster moved to aid the man afire, who was still now and no longer screaming.
“What the hell is going on here?” Vorenicus shouted. “Your name is Grinmall, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” the red-haired man said.
“Doesn’t Cinna have enough to worry about without two of his own fighting in the streets?”
“Cinna’s man?” Grinmall looked to Cassius. “You’re Cinna’s man?”
“He’s the one who killed Junius,” Vorenicus said.
“That doesn’t mak
e me Cinna’s man,” Cassius said. “Not any longer.”
The legionnaire had extinguished the fire and was trying to calm the burned man, who rolled and groaned and called for his mother.
“Grinmall, take your men home,” Vorenicus said. “Make sure that one sees a healer.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
Vorenicus tilted back his helmet, his eyes wild and manic.
“If I see you lingering in this Market for longer than it takes to collect your friend,” he said, “you won’t be taking orders from anyone any longer. Now move your ass.”
Grinmall stood glaring for a minute, then sheathed his knives. He looked to Cassius and spat, then made his way to his comrades.
“You.” Vorenicus pointed to Cassius. “Come with me.”
• • •
Vorenicus’s chambers were in the basement of the council hall. The rooms were neat and sparsely furnished, cool enough to offer respite from the island’s oppressive heat.
“Am I under arrest?” Cassius asked. He sat at the only table in the room. His head still throbbed, the pain sharp and cold, radiating down into his back. He felt like a mule had kicked him, pained and embarrassed in equal measure.
“I don’t usually house prisoners in my room.” Vorenicus unstrapped his cuirass and laid it on his bed. It was a muscle cuirass, of the kind favored by high-ranking officers in the legion, sculpted to represent an idealized physique and with a frontispiece bearing an elaborate relief. This particular relief depicted a human representation of one of the cardinal Antiochi virtues, blindfolded Justice holding a sword in one hand and scales in the other, a twisting serpent at her feet. An elaborate piece of armor, but not one relegated to an art object. It bore the nicks and dings of practical use, scorch marks that could only have been earned in spell battles.
Vorenicus fetched a pitcher of water and two earthenware mugs. He removed his helmet and placed it on the table, then sat across from Cassius.
“If I’m not your prisoner, what do you want from me?”
“Answers,” Vorenicus said.
“I gave you enough of those at Cinna’s bar.” Cassius rubbed the side of his head. A knot had formed just above his ear, tender to the touch and matted with dried blood. A throbbing ache settled behind his eyes.
“What happened out there? Was that to do with your switching sides to work for Piso?”
“No.”
“What was it about then?”
“The price of wine at a bar.”
Vorenicus’s helmet shone, its twin eagle feathers stiff and tall. Cassius could see his face reflected in its polished surface, eyes blackened, nose swollen and bent.
“I’m curious why you decided to change your allegiance,” Vorenicus said.
“Better pay. Better food.” Cassius shrugged. “What does it matter?”
No one spoke, and the two men sat, appraising one another.
“Where do you come from, Cassius?”
“Ivalia. Near the Murondian border.”
“Who was your trainer? Did you serve with one of the spellcaster guilds? A mercenary house maybe?”
“Are you trying to recruit me into the legion?”
“I’ve made inquiries about you. Do you know what I found?”
“How would I know that?”
“Nothing.” Vorenicus spoke softly. He was young, probably no older than Cassius, and although not an imposing figure, he had mastered a kind of calm menace more intimidating than Cinna’s flagrant displays of power or Piso’s fits of rage. “Does that seem strange to you?”
“No, I’m just a mercenary. Hundreds of us pass through this city every year. We’re common as copper. What is there to find?”
“There’s always something to find. Not always something interesting, of course. But always something. About when you arrived in Scipio, how you got here, your habits on the mainland. Something. But when I asked about you, I found nothing. How is that possible?”
“I guess I’m not a memorable person,” Cassius said.
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ve made arrangements so that no one would remember.”
“Why would I do that?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
“Surely you’ve got bigger problems to worry about.” Cassius leaned back in his chair. He retrieved the box of horn from his pocket and pinched a measure of Garza-root powder and snuffed it. His heartbeat quickened. A tight pain settled in his chest, then passed. He snorted, swallowed the rank taste at the back of his throat.
“The other day, when we discussed the incident in Lowtown, you were clear that Piso’s men had ambushed you. Would you care to amend your statement?”
“Why would I amend it?”
“Considering your new employer, I thought maybe you’d want to revisit your story.”
“Doing a thing like that would make me a liar, wouldn’t it?” Cassius asked.
“I only meant that maybe now you’d be free to say things you weren’t before.”
“I was as free then as I am now.”
“So your story stands,” Vorenicus said. “Piso’s men ambushed you and killed Cinna’s men and robbed Cinna’s money. Do you realize how that story casts your new boss? It might seem that Piso’s responsible for the violence of the past few days.”
“My story stands. I told it to you the way I understood it.”
Vorenicus nodded. “And if Master Piso has a different account?”
“Well, then, I guess that makes us two men with two separate accounts of the same incident. Not such an uncommon circumstance, I’d imagine.”
“Seems you’re in a position to tell more clearly than most who’s responsible for the violence of the past few days.”
“Maybe, but I’m not sure I’m fit to judge.” Cassius wiped his nose. “The deaths in Lowtown last week contributed. But so did the safe-house deaths and the kidnapping of Servilius and any number of offenses against Master Piso. If I had to lay blame, I’d say both parties deserved a share.”
“It’s my job to maintain the peace. If you would only help me understand—”
“What’s that?” Cassius stood and walked to the mantel above the hearth, where a small plate was set. The plate held a sliver of ivory and a sliver of bone, a small metal scale.
“That’s an altar to Tithemia.”
“The goddess of justice. You have a shrine to justice in your home and yet you share a drink with a man who just had a spellfight in the Market?”
“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. There were three of them, one of you. And, being a loud-mouthed son of a bitch and all, it’s not hard to picture him starting a fight. Am I wrong in that assumption?”
“You talk like them,” Cassius said.
“Like who?”
“Everyone else on this island.”
“I meant no offense,” Vorenicus said.
“I’m not offended. It’s just a bit strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Those words don’t fit you. You sound like a man acting a part.”
“It’s important to be able to communicate with those out there.” Vorenicus pointed a finger straight up, indicating the street. “Sometimes harsh words are necessary to make yourself heard. Especially here. But I won’t use them again if they make you uncomfortable.”
“All right.”
“And what happened this morning, that doesn’t happen again either. Not in my Market. And I’m not asking. If Piso and Cinna want to hack each other to pieces, they can do it in their parts of the city. But the Market is under protection of the legion.”
“Because the Market is where all the money changes hands.” Cassius fingered the sliver of ivory on the altar.
“Because this is where the council hall stands. Now I intend to tell Piso and Cinna as well
. But you’re new here, so I thought you should hear it from me. No more violence in the Market. Or else the legion gets involved. Understand?”
Cassius turned to face Vorenicus. “I saw you save that kid the other day, in the fire. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“You’re a spellcaster, you see men move through fire all the time.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Why do you care about this place? Why risk your life trying to maintain order in a place without any laws?”
“Scipio is unusual,” Vorenicus said. “On the mainland people are accustomed to order. But people come here to escape the rule of law.”
“So what hope is there for justice?”
“All things change with time.”
“Do you really think Piso or Cinna would upset the order of things here? Or even the good general, for that matter?”
“They won’t be around forever.”
Cassius did not speak.
“Don’t misunderstand me.” Vorenicus lifted his helmet. He buffed a small bit of grime on the brim with his tunic sleeve. “I’m not angling for control. I would never raise a hand against my father. He’s a great man. I love him dearly.”
Cassius looked away.
“But the men in power now won’t be in power forever,” Vorenicus said. “Just as my grandfather ceded control to my father, my father’s time will come eventually. And Cinna’s and Piso’s as well.”
“And then what?”
“Then maybe the island will be ready for the rule of law. Maybe we’ll finally be able to join the rest of the Republic.”
“And how do you think the savages would respond to that?”
“That’s a distasteful term, Cassius.”
“I learned it here.”
Vorenicus sighed. He considered his words.
“Officially, the Natives are already citizens of the Republic,” he said. “They live on Antiochi soil. I’d like to show them the honor in that. There’s no denying they’ve had a difficult history with the Republic, but that can change. Nothing in the past can be altered, of course. But we can show them that the rule of law will ensure they receive the same treatment as any other citizen.”