by Will Panzo
“I paid to be driven to the fort.”
“And there it is, straight ahead. Can’t go any farther without those soldiers asking us questions. Don’t matter how much you paid, that’s not something I’m comfortable with.”
“This doesn’t involve you,” Cassius said. “They won’t care.”
“You’re half-right there.”
Cassius pulled Vorenicus down onto his shoulder and stepped clear just as the driver wheeled the wagon in a circle, driving fast.
He continued down the road to the fort, struggling for footholds in the loose mud. The legionnaires stationed at the front gate watched his approach calmly. He wondered if they were used to visitors from the city, maybe even Natives. He was anticipating their line of questioning when his cloak fell from Vorenicus’s shoulders to reveal the legion uniform beneath.
And then he had no time to think.
• • •
He woke to a shock of cold. The water splashed his face and ran down his naked body and before he could sit up, the guard was standing over him with another bucket. A boot on his chest pressed him to the floor and frigid water hit him again. He gagged and spat, wiped at his clouded eyes. The boot lifted off his chest, and he gasped for breath.
The guard snatched him up by his hair. He swatted helplessly, bound as he was in heavy iron manacles that bit into each wrist.
The punch glanced off his cheek. If it had been a clean hit, probably his face would have numbed from the blow. Instead, his head rang, and he toppled, landing on the cool stone. A kick to the belly knocked the wind from him. His chest was on fire, and he could breathe only in short gasps.
Hands on his shoulders rolled him onto his back.
He could see the guard now. A fat man, deeply tanned, with a long brown beard that reached nearly to his chest. Three black lines were drawn on each of his cheeks and on his forehead was a red shape like a diamond. He wore the crimson tunic of the legion, but it was threadbare.
The guard leaned over him and seized his throat with rough hands. Cassius grabbed for the man’s eyes, but the chain of his shackles hindered his reach. He snatched a handful of the man’s beard, and the man grunted and began to laugh. As his vision darkened, Cassius spat at the guard. Then, just as his eyes closed, the hands around his neck opened. He breathed slowly, his chest burning with the effort, and two quick slaps to the face brought him around.
He found the guard standing over him, fingering the edge of his beard where Cassius had ripped out a tuft of hair.
“Lot of fight in you, boy.” The guard smiled. “Something to be proud of.”
He spat on Cassius and exited the cell.
• • •
He probed his manacles in the dark, searching for any small defect. He had tried to sleep for a bit, to conserve his strength, but lying of the cool floor proved impossible. The raised bruise on the back of his head stung no matter how he positioned it.
Probably this was the blow that had laid him unconscious. He could recall his approach to the main gate and the rush of the guards when they saw he carried a legionnaire. A half dozen men surrounded him in the road, many more backing them with ranged weapons from the wall, archers with crossbows, spearmen, spellcasters.
He remembered talking calmly even as the sight of an injured Vorenicus panicked the guards. He explained that he was trying to help. And then he remembered nothing until he woke in the cell.
Had one of them circled behind him? He could not remember, but it seemed possible. That was a careless mistake, one he could not bring himself to forgive. Maybe exhaustion was wearing on him, the litany of injuries that plagued him finally overcoming his will to see this finished.
He was at their mercy now. All the plotting of the last few weeks, the manic improvisation in the face of impossible odds, had brought him only to a prison cell. Stripped even of his gauntlets. His face burned at the thought of it.
Sometimes he heard voices at the door. He thought this a precursor to more beatings at first, but no one entered the cell, and so he listened closely to the muffled words and waited.
When next the door opened, the torchlight from the hallway hurt his eyes. The man who entered was not the bearded guard. He was tall and thickset, with long hair tied behind his head and threaded with a red feather. His hair was dark but graying, and the stubble on his jaw was all gray. Dabs of bright blue paint arced above each of his eyebrows.
“Cassius?” the long-haired man asked.
Cassius nodded.
The long-haired man removed his crimson cloak and folded it twice over his arm, so that it would not drag on the floor. He squatted onto his haunches.
“Look at me, boy.”
Cassius squinted against the light.
“I’m here to ask you questions,” the long-haired man said.
“All right.”
“I trust you met legionnaire Flavius.”
“The bearded fellow?” Cassius asked.
“That’s him.”
“We did meet briefly.”
“What I’m telling you is the truth,” the long-haired man said. “You might not believe me now, but you will. If you don’t answer me, or if you lie to me, I’m going to leave Flavius alone with you again. And if you still won’t talk after that, I’m going to let him kill you. Do you understand? Because you’re alive only so long as you’re useful. And you’re useful only so long as you have answers. So be smart.”
The long-haired man left the room, and when he returned, he carried a wooden stool. A lit cigar dangled from his lips. He placed the stool before Cassius and sat and took a long drag on his cigar.
“What happened to Vorenicus?” He tilted back his head, exhaled smoke.
“Is he still alive?” Cassius asked.
“Will it affect your answers?”
“No.”
“Then what does it matter?”
“I dragged him out here to save his life. I’d like to know his condition.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The long-haired man bit the end of the cigar and held it in his teeth. He spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’d like to know your name.” Cassius wormed his shoulders and then settled.
“My name is Galerius.”
“And who are you to Vorenicus?”
“That’s none of your concern.” Galerius removed the cigar from his mouth. He picked pieces of loose tobacco from the tip of his tongue. “And more to the point, this isn’t the time for you to make inquiries. I’ll let you know when that time comes. Until then, answer my damn question.”
“Vorenicus was injured by a spell. I don’t know what kind of spell. There was an explosion, and he collapsed. I thought he was dead at first. The rest of his men were. But then I noticed he was breathing.”
“Who attacked him?”
“I don’t know. It happened in the Market. The place was a battlefield by then. It could’ve been anyone.”
“A battlefield?”
“Piso’s and Cinna’s men were fighting,” Cassius said. “It was total war.”
“And why was Vorenicus there?”
“He was trying to stop the fighting.”
“I see.” Galerius tapped his ashes onto the floor. He blew on the lit end of the cigar.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just wondering why Vorenicus didn’t send a runner for reinforcements. He had roughly fifty men stationed with him. Seems odd that he would march out into—what did you call it, a battlefield? Seems odd he would march out into a battlefield undermanned.”
“The fight escalated quickly.” Cassius felt his calm returning now that his world had shrunk to a cell, his options limited, and his fate all but sealed. There was strength in knowin
g you were already dead. “I can’t speak to his intentions. But maybe he thought he could contain it when it first started, when the fighting was on a small scale. And then once Piso and Cinna’s forces grew, the best he could do was a fighting retreat.”
“Well, that would make sense. But why haven’t we heard word from the legionnaires in the city about this skirmish yet?”
“Because they’re dead. Weren’t you listening to me? They’re all dead. And Vorenicus would’ve been too if I hadn’t pulled him out of there.”
“How noble of you.” Galerius rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger.
“What do you think? That I kidnapped him? Kidnapped him and brought him to the legion’s fort? Does that make any sense?”
“Very little of this makes sense.”
“Send scouts to the city. Have them check the Market. They’ll see it’s ash now. Tell them to look for legionnaires. I’ll bet they won’t find one still breathing.”
“Bet your life on it?”
• • •
He sprang awake when the door opened. He had been sleeping sitting up although he did not know for how long. Snippets of a dream returned to him, a dream about the bathhouse attendant Tadua. He could not recall it in detail, but a sense of sadness lingered.
The bearded guard stood in the doorway, grinning smugly, his hands behind his back. Cassius decided this would be the end. The guard would beat him again, and during the beating, Cassius would provoke the guard until he killed him.
He had not considered this for very long. The guilt that accompanied the realization made him feel reduced, as though his bones had been hollowed. But he could not endure another beating like the first. Not without the ability to fight back. It was too much to ask of him. Naked and unarmed, shackled in a lightless cell. There were no angles for him to play.
If he could even talk to someone again, there at least he could make a play, turn a man’s heart, exploit his weaknesses, his greed or vanity, break his will or embolden him to an action that suited Cassius. But with hands at his throat, there was no chance for words.
He tried to comfort himself with the thought that he had come this far when others would have failed to accomplish even that.
And then he recalled a voice that was not his own. He did not remember where he had heard it, but he was certain of the words.
You die when you flee your true path. Until then, there is nothing in this mortal world to stop you.
The guard stepped into the room, his hands still hidden. Cassius rose to his feet.
“Safer for a prisoner to kneel when a guard’s present. Otherwise, it might seem he’s of a mind to do something stupid.”
Cassius remained standing.
“Insolent little bastard, aren’t you? Well, I’ve got something for you.”
“I’ve been hurt worse,” Cassius said. “And by better men than you.”
“What makes you think I’ve done my worst?”
The guard glared at Cassius, and Cassius met his stare silently. The guard laughed.
“Hell, boy. You are something else.” He pulled his hands from behind his back and he held a bowl of porridge in one and a half loaf of bread in the other. “But no dancing for you tonight. Just a bit of grub.”
The guard offered the food to Cassius and Cassius made no move to accept it.
“Not hungry? I’ll just leave it for you to pick at.” The guard dropped the bowl and the bread. The bowl landed right side up and he kicked it over, spilling the porridge into the stagnant water. He turned to leave.
“Tonight?” Cassius said. “That means I’ve been here a full day?”
The guard checked himself, just a brief pause but one Cassius noticed. Then he stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him.
• • •
There was a rat in the cell. Cassius heard it creeping through the water. It was trying for the food but not making a direct move. Cassius wondered if it could see him in the dark or if there was another sense at work. Smell maybe or sound? Or maybe something else entirely, some vague conception of a malignant force hovering in the near dark.
After a time, he could hear the rat scraping at the bread and he stomped his foot down into the water and the rat raced away and he listened to hear which wall it had wormed into.
The door opened suddenly. He shielded his eyes from the light. Galerius’s voice greeted him.
“Get up,” he said.
Cassius rose, and Galerius tossed him a tunic.
“Dress yourself and follow me.” Galerius stepped outside.
It was not Cassius’s tunic, but a fresh one, slate gray and stiff from a recent washing. He tried to don it, but his shackles made that an impossible task. He entered the hallway naked.
Galerius was standing with the bearded guard, who held a pair of sandals.
“Hard of hearing, boy?”
Cassius held his hands up, shook his chains.
At a nod from Galerius the guard placed the sandals on the ground and pulled Cassius’s hands close and unlocked the shackles. In the torchlight of the hallway, Cassius could see his hands were swollen, discolored. He rubbed his left wrist, tested that hand’s range of motion delicately. Then he donned the fresh tunic and kneeled and strapped the sandals to his feet.
Galerius headed down the hallway, and the bearded guard motioned for Cassius to follow, which Cassius did, the bearded guard at his back.
“Where are you taking me?” Cassius asked.
“The general wants to see you,” Galerius said without turning.
• • •
It was dark outside, the sky moonless and clear. Cassius had arrived at the fort at sunrise, which meant he had been imprisoned no less than a day. Maybe two. It felt like two. He had never spent time in a jail cell, though, and maybe the passage of time there felt different.
They were inside the fort, waiting by the squat stone jail. The general arrived with an armed escort, a legionnaire on either side of him and one behind him wielding a crossbow.
He was a small man and solidly built. His hair was gray and close-cropped, almost shaved, as though he were some raw recruit newly arrived at his first post. He wore a rich, short cloak the same red as his tunic and trimmed in yellow. He wore it draped over one shoulder, covering half his body, a display fashionable amongst spellcasters who fought in the arena circuits, so that crowds and opponents could recognize them by their standard. His bore the image of an eagle with spread wings, one talon gripping a spear, the other a bolt of lightning He kept his arms tucked inside his loose-fitting tunic, and no gauntlets hung from his belt.
He spoke briefly with Galerius, the bearded guard bowing low at his approach, then he stood before Cassius. He had a long nose, a heavily lined brow. His eyes were deep-set, dark.
“I’m General Quintus.” His voice was firm, weary.
“I know who you are,” Cassius said. He thought his voice might waver, but it did not.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Walk the jungle at night. You’ll believe then.” Quintus’s face was grave, as though warning a traveler of danger on the road ahead.
“I’m game if you are.”
“Right now?” Quintus’s brows arched.
“Make a believer out of me.”
• • •
Moving behind Quintus, he could see the outer wall of the fort above the nearby buildings, most of which were shapes of black against a black sky, so that he could not tell which was a barracks house, nor which a granary or administrative building. He had studied the legion’s standard for fort construction, though, and had visited this place in his mind many times.
They passed through the gates, and here Quintus waved away his escort. One of the men protested, but Quintus stood fi
rm.
“Never ghost hunt in a pack,” he said offhandedly, as though this were common knowledge.
They descended a road that was not the one Cassius had ridden to the fort. It was unpaved, narrow for a highway. Overgrowth loomed on either side, and tree limbs stretched across its expanse, roofing it, so that it appeared more like a tunnel than a road, and a tunnel near to collapse.
“Where does this lead?” Cassius asked.
“North.” Quintus gestured forward.
“And what’s north?”
“Jungle. Jungle all the way to the ocean.”
“It just leads into the jungle?”
“It leads through the jungle. The only way into the jungle is to step off the road.”
Quintus was in the overgrowth now. He seemed to move through it with little difficulty. He tossed the short cloak over one shoulder and slid his arms out of his tunic. He was unarmed.
Cassius kept directly behind him but still had trouble navigating the brush. Low-hanging branches scratched at his face. His feet caught in fallen vines.
Quintus kneeled, motioned for Cassius to do the same.
“Now we wait,” Quintus whispered.
“For ghosts?”
“To make a believer out of you.”
The smell of the jungle was wet and lush. They had stepped only yards off the road, but it was hotter here, and already Cassius was sweating. Mosquitoes buzzed the scabs on his forearms.
“Why did you bring me here?” Cassius asked.
“You wanted to come.”
“I mean why summon me from my cell?”
“Would you rather go back?” Quintus asked.
“Is that a threat?”
“I don’t make threats, Cassius.”
The sound of his name sent a chill up his spine.
“And to answer your question,” Quintus said, “I brought you here because my son is not well. And I would have some questions answered.”
“And you want to hear the answers? Not Galerius?”
“I don’t need Galerius to tell me when a man is lying.”
“Does that mean your runners to the city have returned?”
Quintus was silent.