The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  “I died in my dreams last night. Murdered by this man.”

  The Native man looked to Cassius. His eyes were small and thick-lidded, with hardly any white. He had big pupils that shone with the last bit of sunlight, a sharp, hard luster like the gleam on obsidian.

  “Who is this man to you?”

  “No one,” Quintus said. “A mercenary. He claims to have saved my son’s life, but I cannot be sure. He confounds me.”

  “He has the metal hands and carries the secret of fire in his blood as you do.”

  “He does.”

  “Have him tell me his name.”

  The general turned to Cassius. “He wants to know your name.”

  “I’m called Cassius.” He spoke slowly and overloud.

  “Have you tried to kill him?” the Native man asked. “If you fear him so much, why not be rid of him?”

  “I think he might be valuable,” Quintus said. “If he is not lying to me, if he is what he claims to be, he can be an asset.”

  “He has seen much hardship. It is a wonder he is not dead already. Maybe it is for the best that you do not try to kill him. He might be cursed.”

  “Cursed how?”

  “Cursed to be unkillable.”

  “Can you see into his heart?” Quintus asked.

  “I will try. Let me prepare while the sun fades. I will be ready shortly.”

  The Native man retired to his hut. The legionnaires lit torches and staked them into long poles outside each hut and on either side of the entrance to the clearing. The general sat with his back pressed against one of the huts and ate another leaf packed with brown powder.

  “Who is that man?” Cassius asked.

  “A former chief of the Natives,” Quintus said.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s my prisoner. Has been for years now.”

  “The ghosts offering ransom last night. They were trying to buy him back from you?”

  The general nodded.

  “Why did you take him?” Cassius asked.

  “He was an instigator. I had to stop his troublemaking.”

  “Why not kill him?”

  “He’d become a martyr. And while he’s alive, custom dictates the tribes can’t officially recognize a new chieftain. So a number of factions are jockeying for interim power.”

  “And none can gain the support he had?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Couldn’t they come capture him back? He’s so far from the fort. Guarded by just a handful of men.”

  “If they took him against my will, they know I’d retaliate. To hear him tell it, they think me some vengeful god come to punish them for straying from the old ways. It’s not easy to encourage men to fight what they think is beyond them. Easier to prove their bravery killing each other. At least that’s an enemy they understand.”

  By the opposite huts, the guards were sharing a few thin cigars. They were two distinct groups, the soldiers from the fort forming one unit, the others, in their outlandish dress, a separate set.

  Cassius nodded toward them. “Why do they wear those costumes?”

  “It heartens them,” Quintus said. “They think it lends them some of the power of the jungle. Not all, of course. Some disdain it. But the ones stationed at forward posts always adopt it. Given enough time.”

  “Doesn’t it hurt discipline?”

  “The uniform code is relaxed when a legion is in the field during wartime.”

  “Has the senate declared this a war?”

  The general rubbed the underside of his chin, scratching at the fresh stubble there.

  “I know what a war looks like. I don’t need the senate’s help with that.”

  The Native man appeared in the doorway of his hut. He held a clutch of what looked like yellow-green sprouts, the sprouts afire and spreading thick white smoke. He dusted the entranceway with the smoke and stepped outside and did the same to the roof and then entered the hut again.

  “What’s he doing?” Cassius asked. Although an accomplished practitioner of Rune magic, his arcane knowledge did not extend to older magics, ancient sorceries and enchantments. They produced in him the same unease that the sight of his gauntlets produced in others.

  “I don’t understand his methods,” Quintus said.

  “Are those bodies his handiwork?”

  “No, they’re his family.”

  “Your handiwork then?”

  “Yes.”

  “To humiliate him?”

  “To remind him, in his moments of quiet introspection, that just maybe I am that god of vengeance he fears so much.”

  • • •

  They sat in a circle, the three of them. The door to the hut had been closed with a flap of cloth, and the guards waited outside. Two bushels of the yellow-green sprouts burned on either end of the hut, and the smoke had settled to the floor. Cassius’s eyes stung, and breathing left his chest raw.

  The Native man held a clay bowl in his lap, a thin pool of black liquid in the bowl. He lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped from it. He tilted back his head and exhaled through pursed lips, spraying the liquid into a cloud that quickly dissipated in the smoke. He sipped from the bowl again, swallowing this time, and passed it to the general.

  “Drink,” the Native man said.

  The general drank and grimaced.

  “Now to him.” The Native man motioned to Cassius.

  The general passed the bowl to Cassius and Cassius drank, the liquid burning his tongue and throat. The Native man took the bowl from Cassius and set it aside. He reached into the smoke and retrieved a pouch decorated with a snake’s skull and fished out four odd-shaped bones, then shook the bones and cast them to the floor.

  He looked on the bones, then looked to Cassius.

  “Ask him if his mother is still alive,” the Native man said.

  “He wants to know if your mother is still alive,” Quintus said.

  “What does that matter?”

  “Answer him.”

  “I don’t know,” Cassius said. “I haven’t seen her since I was a child. We were separated. She might be dead or—”

  “Or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He is not sure of his mother,” Quintus said. “She might be dead or she might be alive.”

  The Native man nodded absently. “Ask about his father.”

  “He wants to know if your father is alive.”

  “Yes,” Cassius said.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he sure?” the Native man asked.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I believe it. Yes.”

  The general nodded to the Native man.

  Cassius felt light-headed now, detached from his body. His aches remained, but he experienced this pain at a remove. He lifted his hand and lowered it slowly. There seemed a delay between his intention and the action. The smoke no longer hurt his lungs.

  “How did he kill you in the dream?” the Native man asked.

  “He came to me as a spider and bit me,” Quintus said.

  “And you died?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not wake up before you died?”

  “No, I was dead.”

  They passed the bowl again. The Native man produced a thin, curved knife and slit his own palm. He spat on the palm and poured onto it a small measure of the black liquid and slapped Cassius’s face hard, smearing his cheek.

  Cassius saw the approach of the blow but felt powerless to dodge it. He composed himself, and the Native man slapped him on his other cheek. Cassius lowered his head. The Native man sprang forward and snatched Cassius by his hair, tilting back his head so that he could stare into his face.

  “Look,” he said in guttural Antiochi. And Cassius looked t
o him, gazing up into those sullen eyes. The Native man released him and licked his own palm.

  “You said he saved your son’s life.” The Native man was yelling as though struggling to be heard above some loud noise, a storm maybe or the sound of waves crashing on a beach, but the room was quiet.

  “So he claims,” the general said.

  “Is your son alive?”

  “Yes, but he is hurt.”

  “If your son dies, you must take this man as your son. It is the only way to save yourself from him.”

  “Is he trying to kill me then?”

  “I do not know. I do not think even he knows. He burns inside. It keeps him alive, but it scares him as well. He knows it is the only thing that can kill him, even if he does not know it exactly.” And then, as an afterthought, “He belongs to the jungle.”

  “How?”

  “I am not sure.” The Native man seemed troubled by this, but it was unclear if he was troubled by the fact itself or his inability to reach an answer.

  “But you are certain?”

  “I can see it to look at him. He has its resiliency. Its cruelty and secrets.”

  “I have no fear of the jungle.”

  “Then you should not fear him. But respect him as you would the jungle itself.”

  The cloth covering the front door lifted and a legionnaire poked his head into the smoke.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir.” The legionnaire was panting and sweated. “I’m a runner sent from the fort. Commander Vorenicus is awake.”

  • • •

  The walk back to the fort seemed endless. Cassius’s feet were leaden, sluggish. He knew the direction he wished to move but could not will his body to proceed there, as though he were buried in the tomb of his own flesh, forced to watch its exploits passively. He stumbled often. He felt no pain from his falls, sometimes not realizing he had tripped until he hit the floor.

  His mouth was dry, filled with a terrible taste. He heard drums again. Steady now but still distant, faster even than the beat of marching boots. He called to the others to see if they heard the drums as well, but he received no answers.

  When he fell behind, the legionnaires continued without him. He watched their torches move farther into the distance, and a horrible dread settled over him, as though all the light was passing from the world and leaving him alone in this wet, hot void, ruled by that dark rhythm he could not place.

  • • •

  He was kneeling before the statue when Galerius found him. He was staring up into the stone face, trying to glimpse its eyes.

  “Cassius.”

  He heard the voice in the dark; and then Galerius’s hands were on his shoulders.

  “Cassius, come with me. We’ll get you off to bed.”

  Galerius helped him to his feet.

  “Did he ever speak with you, Galerius?” Cassius staggered forward, steadying himself with a hand against the smooth stone of the statue.

  “General Sabacus? No, he died six months after I joined the legion.”

  “And after he was dead. Did he speak with you then?” Cassius tripped and landed on his side. He rolled to his back and stared up, the stars overhead seeming to whirl in concentric circles of diamond-colored light.

  “No. Now please sit up.”

  “There is a voice in my head. I would know whose it is.”

  “We’ll find out in the morning.”

  Galerius draped an arm around Cassius’s back and lifted him to his feet and began to herd him toward the barracks.

  “Is Vorenicus well?” Cassius asked.

  “He is much improved.”

  “Will I see him in the morning?”

  “I think he wants very much to speak with you.”

  17

  He woke with a terrible headache, the light against his closed eyes a discomfort. He opened his eyes slowly and took in the sight of his surroundings. He lay on a cot in the barracks, the other beds in the room empty. His mouth was dry and bitter. He rolled to his side and spat on the floor.

  He was fully dressed, his gauntlets still hitched to his belt, boots on his feet. He could hear rain on the roof. He rose and staggered to the entrance and stared out into the gray haze of a downpour. Two guards stood post at the door.

  “We’ve orders to take you to Commander Galerius when you woke.” The legionnaires’ cloaks were drenched with rainwater, the striking crimson now a shade closer to dried blood. Great streams of water poured from their wide-brimmed helmets, from their shirts of polished mail, and the great bowed shields strapped to their backs.

  “I’d hate to keep him waiting,” Cassius said.

  They crossed the fort to the officers’ quarters. The legionnaires escorting him walked briskly, as though on parade. He admired their discipline. They had not seen war in years. Had long been denied the succor of triumph, of spoils and pillage. Cut off from the Republic, with no hope of returning home and the faces of those they had sworn to protect long since faded. Still they remained vigilant, even in the face of chaos itself, the jungle.

  Its tree line stretched higher than the walls of the fort, ever reaching, ever hungry, eager to erase this man-made scar carved upon its face. It was the worst kind of enemy, one assured of victory.

  “Feeling better?” Galerius sat at lunch, his table set with bread and grapes, slices of cold beef. He did not offer Cassius a seat.

  “Better than what?” Cassius asked.

  “Last night?”

  “Last night I felt wonderful.”

  “So you said. Many times.”

  “Is Vorenicus receiving visitors?”

  “He is, and he’s expecting you.”

  Vorenicus’s quarters were warmed by a large hearth fire. At a corner table sat two healers. They were conversing softly over cups of tea. A book lay between them, open to a page showing cross-section figures of the human head.

  Vorenicus lay in bed. He was pale, his hair unkempt. He smiled when Galerius announced Cassius.

  “Good to see you again.” Vorenicus made to rise to greet Cassius but Cassius motioned for him to stay reclined.

  “Are you feeling better?” Cassius sat on the edge of the bed.

  “A bit of a headache, but otherwise all right.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Vorenicus stared silently for a while. “Thank you,” he said solemnly.

  “It was nothing.”

  “Not to me. It was something very important to me. I wish I knew what to say.”

  “No need to say any more.”

  The healers stopped speaking, and the room grew quiet.

  “What happened to me?” Vorenicus’s gaze was sharp and searching, as though the answers he sought could be found in this room if only he looked hard enough.

  “Didn’t they tell you?”

  “They did. But they weren’t there. You were there. I want to hear it from you.”

  “What do you remember?” Cassius asked.

  “Next to nothing. I can see pieces of a battle. Not much.”

  “A fight erupted in the Market.”

  “Over what?”

  “Who can say? There’s been so much fighting the last few weeks. You and your men were there, probably trying to stop it from escalating. I don’t know how the fight went for you. You were only about fifteen strong when I saw you.”

  “A retreat?” Vorenicus asked, the shame on his face plain.

  Cassius looked away. “I couldn’t say.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “It looked like a retreat. The men were injured.”

  At the mention of his men, Vorenicus lowered his eyes. “And what were you doing there?”

  “Trying not to get killed in the chaos. I was ambushed, along with you and your men. I played dead and subdued our attackers while
they were looting the bodies.”

  “Subdued them?”

  “Killed them,” Cassius said flatly.

  “I see.”

  “The rest of the men were dead.”

  “How did you know I wasn’t?”

  “I felt your hand twitch.”

  “You were holding my hand?”

  “I was pressing a coin into your palm.”

  One of the healers set down his cup. The room was so heavy with stillness that even this small noise seemed a great disturbance.

  “For the ferryman?” Vorenicus said. “Because you thought I was dead. Because I was dead.”

  “It was a grim scene.”

  “And later?”

  “I hid us in a storefront,” Cassius said. “Then bribed a coachman to drive us to the fort.”

  “How resourceful you are, Cassius.” Vorenicus flashed a pained smile. “If I’m ever near death again, I hope I have the good fortune to have you close by.”

  • • •

  The general was not well enough to see visitors in the afternoon, and that night, Vorenicus and Galerius and Cassius met in the general’s quarters. They had expected him to be alone, but he was with a serving girl. Young. Native.

  She excused herself, and no one mentioned her presence. Galerius cleared a place at the large table for a map.

  “Are you here to teach me the shape of the world, Galerius? Like I’m some schoolboy.” The general smiled languidly.

  He looked weak. He sat hunched in his chair. There were two cups on the table next to him and two on the floor, empty but for brown residue.

  “I have no such intentions, sir,” Galerius said. “This is a map of the city.”

  “The city my father built? Would you presume to educate me as to its structure?” Quintus laughed. “I know it as I know my own body. It is my body. Come now, Galerius. Bring me a map of my foot. Let us sit and debate its contours and the advantages to be gained by positioning ourselves—”

  “Father, please.” Vorenicus set a hand on Quintus’s shoulder.

  Sitting together, Cassius was struck by how alike they looked. The shape of their faces was similar, the nose, the brow, the hair. But their eyes were identical. Same color, possessed of the same deep-set, frenzied energy, even ailing as they both were.