The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  Maybe he had not learned his lessons well enough. Maybe he had abandoned his training too early. A few more years of peer training might have left him better prepared, but opportunity arrived with the red-haired man. Not knowing when it might arrive again, Cassius had taken it.

  Too soon. There was no other explanation. Unless Scipio itself had bested him, a force unlike any the Masters had trained him to face. Savage, primal, cunning, unyielding. He had no way to predict its responses, the way it wore on him. Every day, he seemed diminished, his careful facade melting in the damp heat. It even filled his dreams. He had no respite from it.

  None but escape.

  What of those he was leaving behind though? Lucian and Sulla. Tadua and the old woman. The Yoruban. He had used them as pawns in his schemes, and now he would abandon them to this chaos. Defenseless in the company of cruel and powerful men.

  It had already cost the blind man his life. He would not let that happen again. There was still time.

  • • •

  The plaza was lit by streetlamps, and a great bonfire burned in the center of the square. The fires from the spits still smoldered, and although it was a clear night, the glare from the flames blotted out the stars. Hundreds of people had gathered, and Cassius could only guess at the number lurking outside the light, in alleys and dim lanes.

  The sound of the combined voices was loud, and drummers were at work in the center clearing, hammering out rhythms in the dark. Whores moved through the crowd, calling prices for their services. A pack of dogs stole a pig carcass and, in a corner, they fought over the charred bones, barking, snapping.

  Cassius stood at the edge of the crowd, near the barracks house. He ate none of the meat offered and accepted no drink from any man. Nearby, he heard the Vinalia priest calling upon men to prepare themselves for their coming deaths, to ready themselves like brides to the altar.

  “Death,” the priest said, “is the culmination of life. If a man does not recognize his own death as such, he will find himself unprepared for what follows, and the dead are dead longer than the living alive.”

  Behind him, a boy of four or five stood naked but for grime, limned in the white light of the bonfire. Drunk, he ambled about in imitation of the priest, mimicking his hand gestures. From the surrounding dark came laughter and catcalls and even a few copper coins, which twirled ringing through the air to land at the boy’s feet.

  From across the plaza, Cassius spotted a figure all in white moving through the crowd. He lost sight of it briefly but spotted it again as passersby fled its path.

  The figure was slim and shaved bald. Its head was painted white, as were its face, arms, and legs. It was dressed in a bleach-white tunic and a white, short cloak. Its teeth and tongue were stained blacker than the surrounding night and, from his remove, Cassius could not tell if it was man or woman.

  The figure in white did not speak. It moved through the crowd with an operatic grace. It fussed over each small encounter, grinning menacingly at children, staring with ominous intent at drunks and whores. As it passed, some stopped to follow its movement while others laughed nervously or made symbols with their hands that would grant them the protection of gods. None dared meet its gaze for long.

  One fat old woman clutched her chest as the figure drew near. She fell to her knees and threw herself prostrate before the figure and cried out the names of her dead, husbands and parents and grandparents buried for ages, imploring them to call her home.

  Cassius tracked the figure until it was lost in the press, and never once did it turn to match his stare and he knew this to be a false Death by its indifference to him.

  There was a table arranged under a large tent outside Piso’s hall. Piso sat at the head of this table, Vorenicus on his right. Throughout the night, people entered the tent, offered their condolences, and departed. And all the while, Piso and Vorenicus talked. A great feast was laid before them, but they ate little.

  Near the edge of the plaza, a troupe of tumblers was performing for the crowd. While the men flipped and somersaulted, a dwarf stood off to their side and worked a lyre. When the tumblers finished their routine, the dwarf moved through the crowd with his small hat held before him and people tossed coins into the hat and the dwarf thanked them each to a man.

  Someone tossed a piece of half-chewed pork into the hat, and the dwarf fished out the meat and threw it to the ground. He began to scold the man who threw it, and the man kicked him in the stomach.

  The dwarf fell, and the coins spilled from his hat. Onlookers rushed to gather the coins, and the tumblers dove into the fray to recover their money. A melee ensued, and the crowd near the fight swelled.

  “Hell of a show, isn’t it?” Sulla stood with a mug clutched in both hands. She glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, a pair of daggers tucked into the belt cinched around her small waist.

  “What’s with the steel?”

  “Dangerous times. A girl has to be prepared for the worst.”

  “Did you see Death was here?” Cassius asked.

  “See him? He hit on me. Said he had a room on the fourth floor of Piso’s hall if I was interested.”

  Someone hurled a bottle from the crowd. It struck one of the tumblers in the face, and the man fell, bleeding.

  “Aren’t these people meant to be mourning?” Cassius asked.

  “Everyone grieves in their own way.”

  One of the men in the fight slipped. He landed on his back, and before he could rise, a tumbler stomped his head.

  “Have you heard anything about Vorenicus’s visit?” Cassius asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you have?”

  “Maybe. Watch out!”

  A man reached for the dwarf where he lay facedown in the muck. He gripped the dwarf by the hair, and the dwarf twisted and bit the man’s fingers.

  “What do you think?” Sulla asked.

  Cassius looked to Piso, who was leaning close to Vorenicus’s ear. Both men touched their mugs together and drank.

  “I predict peace by morning,” he said.

  “That’s awfully optimistic of you.”

  “Why do you think Vorenicus is here?”

  Sulla shrugged. “To pay his respects. Kiss a little ass. Why does anyone come to these things?”

  “No better time to talk peace than a funeral.”

  “Vorenicus has been trying to talk peace since day one. Why would Piso listen now?”

  The man howled and swatted at the dwarf, and the dwarf drew a knife from his waist and lunged for the man. In the dark, Cassius could not see the blows landed, but the man collapsed, and the dwarf wheeled on the crowd, knife held before him.

  “Piso never wanted this war,” Cassius said. “And with Piso’s nephew dead, maybe Cinna feels his honor has been repaid.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. I’m closer to this than you are. I can see more angles. And that smile on Vorenicus’s face means this thing is over.”

  “You sound disappointed,” Sulla said.

  “I want to leave. I’m sick of this place.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like a real Scipian.”

  “I’m serious. I need you to book me passage on a ship to the mainland.”

  “Just yesterday, you were telling me to prepare for revolution,” Sulla said. “And now it’s all over? Because Vorenicus and Piso are having a toast?”

  “Book the passage and meet me at Lucian’s in the morning. Be discreet, Piso can’t find out. Or Cinna, for that matter. I have a few loose ends to wrap up before the night is over.”

  “You’re not kidding. You want to go home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” Cassius said. “But I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “Because of the peace?”

  “Because I’m tired. A
nd I want to lay my head someplace where I won’t have nightmares.”

  • • •

  By midnight, the cooking fires had died to embers. The last of the pig meat was gone, and the crowd had thinned to a few revelers come to warm themselves by the bonfire. Vorenicus and the legion had left, and Piso had retired to his room. Alone, Cassius ambled through the plaza with his arms folded inside his cloak.

  He settled into the mouth of an alley. A church bell sounded in the distance. He figured the time until sunrise to be about five hours, too late for Vorenicus to call upon Cinna.

  He thought about sleep. His head hurt. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his face and sat holding his head and trying to think as Piso thought, as Cinna and as Vorenicus thought.

  He opened his eyes and spotted Junius’s brother in the plaza. He was filthy and disheveled. He had an arm draped over a whore, and he leaned into the girl heavily as she tried to steer him toward the dining hall. They disappeared together into the dark.

  Cassius felt sick now. His stomach was empty, and the smell of pig meat was everywhere. He felt the urge to vomit but did not. He heard footsteps behind him. He shifted to listen more closely, and the footsteps stopped. He reached for his gauntlets inside his cloak.

  “Announce yourself,” he said.

  “I meant no harm.”

  “Come closer.”

  The bald boy advanced.

  “You nerve-wracking idiot. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “No,” the boy said.

  “Then why are you skulking around in an alley?”

  “This is where I sleep.”

  Cassius lifted his hands away from his gauntlets. “Forgive the intrusion. Are you hungry?”

  “I had some of the pig.”

  “Did you save some for tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  Cassius handed the boy a coin.

  “What are you doing here?” the boy asked.

  “Thinking.”

  “You can sleep here if you’re tired.”

  “Do you know of a bath around here?”

  “There are plenty.”

  “Do you know of one near Ashkani Row?”

  • • •

  The nationless Ashkani who lived in Scipio made their homes in the northeastern edge of Lowtown. Theirs was a modest, clean neighborhood, known for its metalworkers, its parchment makers, and its scribes. The neighborhood had a single stone bath. It stood at the edge of a courtyard, and on either side of its entrance loomed two statues of sea nymphs.

  The bath manager was a thin Antiochi. He wore loose blue pantaloons and a billowy, bleached shirt, and had longish hair. The man escorted Cassius to a private room and said he would send an attendant.

  “I was hoping for someone specific,” Cassius said. “A young girl. Native.”

  “We have those,” the manager said.

  “Her name is Tadua.”

  “That doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “She works here. I know she does. I only want to be seen by her.”

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  The manager left, and when he returned a short time later, he was alone. Cassius asked him about the girl, and the manager shook his head. He wrung his hands.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Does she not work here?” Cassius asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she does work?”

  The manager mumbled something incomprehensible.

  “The girl,” Cassius shouted. “Tadua. Does she work here or not?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Cassius’s knees grew weak. He exhaled slowly, as though a heavy weight had been lowered onto his chest. He steadied himself against the damp stone wall, then crossed to the far side of the room and took a seat on the low wooden bench.

  “When?”

  “I’m told last night. This is the first I’m hearing of it. I didn’t work with her often. I had no idea this—”

  “How?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the exact—”

  “How, damn it?”

  “I just don’t know,” the manager said.

  “You’ve heard things.”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “You had better find a way to say.” Cassius rose and crossed the room. When he lifted his cloak, the manager groaned at the sight of the gauntlets and backed to the door.

  “Please.” In the near dark, the manager’s eyes shone with a film of tears.

  Cassius checked his advance.

  “Here,” he said. He offered his open hand, and the coin in his palm glinted silver in the light of the room. “Take this.”

  The manager accepted the coin.

  “She worked with an old woman sometimes,” Cassius said.

  “Yes.”

  “You know her?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But you’ll be able to find out who she is, won’t you?”

  “I will.”

  “If she’s working now, you’ll send her to me directly. And if she’s not, you’ll find someone who knows where she lives. You’ll send someone to find her and bring her here. I have questions for her. Nothing more.”

  “I’ll do my best,” the manager said.

  “You’ll do it.”

  The manager looked to the coin again and slipped it inside his pants pocket. He turned to leave, then stopped at the door.

  “Did you know her well?” he asked.

  “What is that to you?” Cassius asked.

  “Just a question.”

  “People on this island get their throats slit asking too many questions. I’m not paying you to ask anything other than the whereabouts of that old woman. So be about your business.”

  • • •

  The room was windowless, and Cassius had no means to measure the passage of time. He sat for hours and dozed in fits, never for more than a few minutes at a stretch. The dreams that came to him were brief and violent.

  He saw rows of spits set over fires and the meat hanging in the smoke was Junius’s flesh and he was eating this flesh and made full by it. He saw the blind man lying faceup in a muddy lane, the wound on his belly a mottled red-black, and from out of the gash poked a massive crow. He saw the figure in white as it stalked through the plaza, and in its hands it held the head of a dark-haired woman who sang a lullaby about a river and rain.

  A knock at the door woke him. He rose and cracked the door and stared out into the hall, where the manager stood.

  “She doesn’t want to be alone with you,” the manager said.

  “What?”

  “She was very specific about that.” The manager looked over his shoulder.

  “Is she here?” Cassius opened the door and found the old woman in the shadows of the far wall. She looked to the manager.

  “I need to speak with her alone.”

  “She said that she’d only—”

  “I’ll pay her. Tell her that. I just need to talk with her.”

  The manager crossed the hall and conferred with the old woman. The manager spoke to her in slow, loud Antiochi, and she said nothing but instead shook her head at each of the manager’s requests. The manager returned to Cassius.

  “There’s no use talking with her. She simply won’t budge.”

  “Grandmother,” Cassius called softly in Khimir. “I mean you no harm. Come closer please.”

  The old woman stepped forward. In the light of hallway candles, Cassius could see that her left eye was swollen shut, half her face bruised.

  “You speak the tongue of my people,” she said.

  “I do. I will speak it with you if that will put you at ease.”

  “Why did you not speak it before now?”
/>
  “It is my secret,” Cassius said. “A secret I am sharing with you. But I am not a man who likes to share secrets with many, so I ask that we speak in my room.”

  The old woman lowered her head.

  “I will pay you for your time,” Cassius said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  The old woman stepped into Cassius’s room and crossed the room to the bench on the far wall, but she did not sit.

  “Are you well, grandmother?”

  “I am not your grandmother. Do not use this term with me.” The old woman looked as though she might strike Cassius.

  “Has someone seen to your eye?”

  “Did you bring me here to talk of the eye? The eye is fine. Do not worry over it. Ask your questions and give me my money.”

  “I would have news of the girl Tadua,” Cassius said.

  “She is dead. That is the only news I have.”

  “How?”

  “She was killed. In this house.”

  “By who?”

  “The one-eyed man. He appeared drunk last night. He asked to see her. He began to question her about the day he was drugged. He did not remember much, but he remembered her.”

  “And what did she tell him?” Cassius hung his head.

  “Do not fear, boy. She admitted nothing. Not even your involvement. When she would not cooperate, he beat her. A terrible beating. Such a little girl.” The old woman shook her head. “Still she held her tongue. In the end, he strangled her.”

  Cassius stood silently. He paced, then took a seat on the floor. He sat with his back pressed against the door and stared up at the ceiling.

  “You were here when it happened?” he asked.

  “I was.”

  “And do you fear for your life now?”

  “If this man wanted to kill me, he would have done so. But he had no memory of me, and with her silence, the girl protected me. A shame no one protected her.”

  “Did no one raise a hand to stop him?” Cassius asked.

  “I did. I fought him as best I could.”

  “Of course.”

  “I am an old woman, and still I fought him. I.” The old woman punched her chest