The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  “You’re from here,” Vorenicus said. “You’re Scipian.”

  “Half,” Cassius said. “Born of a Khimir mother and an Antiochi father. Born in the legion fort, under the legion eagle, but surrounded by the jungle.”

  “Your father was a legionnaire.”

  Cassius nodded.

  “What was his name?” Vorenicus asked.

  “Even now, I don’t think I can bring myself to say it aloud.”

  “And your mother?”

  “A servant.” Cassius tried to recall her face, but he could not. He pictured a Khimir woman, short and thin, with dark hair and a bright blue dress. But her face was gone and had been for some time.

  “And what happened to them during the Uprising?” Vorenicus’s voice was searching, tinged with something harsh.

  “After the attempt on the general’s life, there was a purge of the Khimir at the fort. Do you remember that?”

  “No.”

  Guilt. That was the harsh note in Vorenicus’s voice. Whether it was guilt for the act itself or guilt for not remembering, Cassius could not say. But he was familiar enough with the feeling to know it by sound alone.

  “Sometimes I still dream of that night. Running through the woods while legionnaires gave chase. The barking of war hounds.” Cassius paused. “Many died in the jungle. We were lucky to make it to the city, or so we thought.”

  “The legion had pulled its men from the city by then,” Vorenicus said.

  “That’s right. Cinna and Piso controlled the city. Their army pillaged and looted, killed hundreds. They claimed to be targeting legion loyalists, but they were only grabbing for power, settling old scores. I was too young to understand the struggle or discern a rebel from a loyalist. But not too young to witness the bloodshed.”

  “It must have been terrible.”

  “It was nothing compared to the violence when the legion arrived.”

  Thunder crashed in the distance. Cassius realized his heart was pounding. He wiped his forehead.

  “Nothing to say about that?” Cassius asked. “No lecture on the nature of justice?”

  “I would never defend the legion’s actions during the Uprising. It was a horrific time.”

  “Or so you’ve heard.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Not fair?” Cassius asked. “Not fair is watching your mother beg for food. Listening as she cries herself to sleep at night. Not fair is hiding under floorboards in a run-down bar while legionnaires sweep for Natives. Men, women, children. Knowing that breathing too loud, or leaning on a creaky board will get you killed. No, I suppose I haven’t been very fair to you, Vorenicus. But then life is not fair. Scipio taught me that.”

  “You escaped, though.”

  “With help. I was smuggled aboard a cargo ship bound for the mainland. My mother was not so lucky.”

  “Killed by the legion,” Vorenicus asked, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Sold by the legion. To Fathalan slave traders. She was caught while we were in hiding. And her silence bought my freedom and my life.” Cassius rubbed the bite mark on his palm. “A debt I intend to repay.”

  No one spoke for a time. A strong breeze picked up, and the trees overhead shook and swayed and finally parted to reveal a dark sky flecked with cold, uncaring stars.

  “I don’t know what to say, Cassius. ‘I’m sorry’ seems an insult. ‘I understand’ would be a lie.”

  “You don’t have to say a thing,” Cassius said. “Your listening has been enough.”

  “I don’t know where we go from here.”

  “I’m not finished yet. Too many guilty still alive. Too much blood still calling to me.”

  “And yet you spared me,” Vorenicus said. “A man who wears legion colors. A boy who sat safe and well fed in the fort during the Uprising.”

  “You never did me harm.”

  “I don’t believe that. You’ve hurt too many. You’ve let no one get in your way. If you wanted my father to attack the bosses, you could have killed me in the Market.”

  “I couldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “You’ve killed dozens,” Vorenicus said. “Hundreds.”

  “But not a brother.”

  Silence. Even the jungle, which only minutes before had seemed a living creature, breathing and shaking and buzzing, now fell still.

  “I don’t believe that,” Vorenicus said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Everything you say is a lie.”

  “You don’t have to believe my words,” Cassius said. “I’m a killer. And touched. The proof of that is clear.”

  “That doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “There have been others. There must have been. The general’s taste for Natives is well-known.”

  “I’ve never seen—”

  “Then you’ve heard,” Cassius shouted. “Or else played blind and deaf.”

  Vorenicus shook his head. “Why would I believe this?”

  “Why would I save your life?”

  Vorenicus stood. He turned his back to Cassius. The fire in the distance had spread. Thick smoke rolled through the trees, like a shadow come to life. And Vorenicus, in his flame-lit armor, seemed the fabled hero come to vanquish it.

  “My plan was to destroy this city,” Cassius said. “To burn it to ash and watch the jungle swallow it up. But I realize now there’s another way.”

  “And what happened to change your mind?”

  “I met you.” Cassius’s throat tightened. He swallowed, fought to keep his voice from cracking. “Together, we can save this city.”

  “Do you think me so vain?” Vorenicus asked. “Or are you so desperate you’ve turned to naked flattery to sway me?”

  “I’m not trying to sway you. I know your nature. You’ll do what’s right. You always do. After I carve out the rot, when the bosses are dead and the general is dead and their armies broken, you will take power. And you will guide this city toward a just future.”

  “Do you think I’ll let you kill my father?”

  “I don’t need you to let me.”

  Vorenicus drew his sword and spun, leveling the blade at Cassius.

  “You’re alone and unarmed. There’s nothing to stop me from killing you where you sit.”

  “Nothing except that I am alone and unarmed,” Cassius said. “Have you killed such a man before? It’s not an easy task, not even for the ruthless. For you, it would be impossible.”

  “Would you bet your life on that?”

  Cassius opened wide his arms. “I already have.”

  Vorenicus lowered his blade. “I won’t kill an unarmed man. But I am still a commander in the legion of Antioch, and I am placing you under arrest. For treason and sedition and crimes against the Republic. Stand up.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “I have the authority to take you by force if I must.”

  “You must.”

  Cassius did not see the blade in the dark, but he heard it whistle as it cut air. A killing stroke, except that Vorenicus tilted his wrist at the last. The flat of the blade struck Cassius on his temple. In that instant, the smoke that had gathered in the clearing became a mouth that opened wide and devoured everything, the trees and the fire and Vorenicus, swallowed even the terrible secret that had given it life.

  And again Cassius was falling.

  • • •

  The rain woke him. He did not feel the rain but heard it rustling the underbrush instead. He felt the hard weight of the rock in his hand, slick and warm. He opened his eyes and found the world still dark. The pain in his head was gone, replaced by a sensation like hot pinpricks working across his scalp.

  He crawled to his knees, his arms limp and his face upturned to the rain. The weight of the rock in his hand felt good. It would
keep him tethered to this world and stop the falling.

  The scream was like the wail of a kettle but loud enough to shake mountains. He saw a flash of red and something gleaming. The monster’s face was all mouth and teeth, a mouth open wide like a toad’s, with knitting-needle teeth, white like the white of exposed bone. When he saw it, his pain vanished, and all the world seemed to shrink to a small point, as it sometimes does in dreams. There was no past and no future, no falling either, and the voice was gone and the drums and there was nothing to fear but the monster.

  Unlike in his dreams, he could will himself to move now and he leapt at the monster and it seemed taken aback by this and when he fell onto it, the rock seemed to move his hand, moving it down and down and down until he felt something give, a caving in, and then the rock slipped free. A flash of lightning lit the sky, so close he could taste it on his tongue, a taste like warm copper or blood, and then he was falling backward.

  • • •

  “I am proud of you.”

  The voice was sharp, a knife in his brain.

  He was adrift in a void and the only direction was the direction of the voice, behind him, always behind him.

  “You stumbled but you never fell. And lesser men have fallen before. But not you. And now here you are, so close to finishing your work.”

  “I am dead now,” he said.

  And he heard the voice laugh, a sound that made the void rumble.

  “That is not what you meant to say.”

  “What did I mean to say?” he asked.

  “Why must you make me say it for you?”

  “I am dying now. Is that what I meant to say?”

  “You were closer the first time.”

  “Closer to what?”

  “To what you have been searching for.”

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  “The truth.”

  “But not dead?”

  “No.”

  “Do not lie to me.”

  “Open your eyes.”

  And he opened his eyes, and the jungle was a roof above him. The rain had stopped, and the sky was the gray of near dawn.

  “Do you think yourself dead now?” the voice asked.

  “I cannot feel my body.”

  “Then sit up.”

  And his back arched, and he sat up. He felt the misting warmth of the jungle at first, then the familiar aches returned. His ravaged arms, his frayed nerves, the throbbing in his skull. His hands were bloodied, and he began to cry.

  “Why are you crying?” the voice asked.

  “I hurt.”

  “You should wear this pain like epaulets. Badges of honor. It is brilliant this hurt you have done yourself, crafted piece by piece like some splendid armor.”

  “You mock me.”

  “Never. Not I.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am a black star in your head.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I am the sunless dawn.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You birthed me.”

  “No more riddles,” he said.

  “Of course,” the voice said.

  “I would know you totally.”

  “You already do.”

  “I would set eyes on you.”

  “Then look.”

  And he turned to see the jungle behind him and sitting stiffly, with its back to a tree, was a man’s body. Its red tunic was trimmed with gold. Its hands were small but strong. Its head was tilted at an impossible angle, and where its face should have been was a hole. Maggots writhed in the hole and giant roaches, and set deep in that blackness was a spider with red glowing eyes like a cluster of stars.

  He blinked, and the body was gone. The world seemed hazy and imperfect. He could see well enough but could not focus his eyes completely and on his periphery was a halo of white, like frost on the edges of a window.

  He rose to his feet, his body stiff and unresponsive. He felt as though something had broken inside him. He could not name it, and there was no pain from it but the rhythms of his body seemed off, like an elaborate clockwork with a loose spring.

  Something sparkled ahead of him and he moved toward it, clomping loose-kneed through the tangle until he had come upon a gauntlet. He checked his waist and saw that neither of his gauntlets hung there, and he picked up this gauntlet and examined it and finding that it was his, hitched it to his belt. He continued on a little ways and found another gauntlet, then continued on a bit farther and saw the body.

  It lay on its back, arms pinwheeled, legs spread. He stood staring at the ruin of its face for some time. If not for the one good eye, he would never have recognized it for Vorenicus.

  Next to its shoulder lay broken teeth, some knocked out whole, roots intact, and also a bloodied rock. He lifted the rock with one hand, felt its heft. He wondered if he should not be feeling something else and, wondering this, hurled the rock into the jungle.

  19

  He wandered in the light of this new day. He sought the road but knew not where it lay, nor his direction. He did not worry over this but continued moving and trusted in the jungle to guide him. When the path he walked became impenetrable, with a thicket of trees packed too densely or a pit of quicksand he could not circle, he changed course and continued moving. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he heard the jungle rearranging itself, and when he opened his eyes, a wall of brush would stand before him where no wall stood before, or a puddle that seemed impassable, and he would move on, walking where resistance was lightest and the land seemed to slope downward.

  When he reached the road, he did not stop to consider in which direction lay the city and which the fort. Knowing his destination, but not knowing his course, he chose to walk. He came upon the city as the sun neared its zenith. A vision overcame him then.

  He saw the city deserted, its buildings crumbling husks, great webs of vines spread over the council hall, and the docks carpeted with moss. He saw the Grand Market flattened and its pavement cracked and broken by the roots of great trees. The ground was a tangle of plant life, where nested insects and small vermin so plentiful the floor seemed always to writhe. Above it all the statue of the mute jungle goddess watched with downturned eyes.

  When the vision cleared, he found himself kneeling, and he stood and turned for the fort.

  • • •

  The soldiers at the gate had marked his approach, and by the time he reached the fort proper, the men had gathered as though to greet him like a conqueror in triumph. They were shouting to him, but he could not understand their words. He walked steadily. He had been moving for hours, but there was no pain in his legs—he was beyond pain.

  He passed through the legionnaires soundlessly. They parted before him, granting him a wide berth, as though his wounds were communicable. And then Galerius appeared and clutched him tight about the shoulders and he collapsed and Galerius eased him to the floor.

  Galerius was speaking, the words a tremor against the side of his head.

  “Vorenicus is dead,” Cassius said.

  And the tremor against his head stopped, and the silence that followed was the quiet of an ocean after a storm.

  • • •

  He lay unsleeping in Vorenicus’s bed. Attendants stripped him and sponged him clean. Two healers arrived and considered his naked body as they would a chessboard they had come upon with a game already in progress and one side in a difficult position.

  A young Native girl wrapped his arms in fresh bandages, wrapping them tight, her smooth hands working deftly. A tray of food lay on the floor next to the bed, and he could smell burned bacon and oatmeal sweetened with honey and fresh bread, but he did not eat.

  They dressed him in a legion tunic, red trimmed with gold.

  When Galerius arrived, he cleared the r
oom. He sat on the edge of the bed and did not speak for a time, made no eye contact with Cassius until Cassius sat up.

  “Can you hear me?” Galerius asked.

  “I can,” Cassius said.

  “The healers say you’re mostly unresponsive.”

  “I don’t want to be healed by spell.”

  “Have you slept?”

  “No.”

  “You should get some rest?”

  “I’m not tired.” Cassius’s voice was flat and lifeless, as though he were reading aloud a forced confession. He stared off into the middle distance. His face was pained, but he did not appear to be hurt, like a man who has long lived with a deep discomfort and resigned himself to it.

  “What about eating?” Galerius grabbed a piece of bacon from Cassius’s plate and folded it and ate it, licking the grease from his fingers. “That will give you back some of your strength.”

  “I feel strong enough,” Cassius said. “Have you spoken with the general?”

  “I have.”

  “When does he want to see me?”

  “He hasn’t asked to see you.”

  Cassius looked to Galerius. “I’d like to see him. I have things to tell him.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that,” Galerius snapped. “Again and again. And besides that, you mostly said nonsense. The peace talks fell apart and Vorenicus is dead. He knows that. There’s no reason for you to ramble at him right now.”

  “There are things he must hear. About the bosses. About the city.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a smart thing for you to do right now,” Galerius said.

  “You’re scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “You wished Vorenicus dead, then it happened.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Don’t talk to me as though I’m simple. I was there. I remember.”

  Galerius patted his arm. “Just get some rest for now. You did a good job.”

  • • •

  The drums played all afternoon and into the night. Marching rhythms. Clacking snares and deep bass, and beneath even the bass, the sound of boots as soldiers moved in formation. He heard trumpets, too, the slow grind of massive wheels, the whine of worked pulleys. A great orchestration just beyond the walls of his room. He wondered if this were the sound of the world ending.