Comrade Grandmother and Other Stories

by Naomi Kritzer

  Lucien stared at Justinian’s peaceful face, wondering if the promised vial of equus might be tucked into a pocket of the clothes left strewn around the room. Or maybe it was in one of the drawers of the desk—had Justinian fallen asleep? Would he notice if Lucien got up?

  Then the door swung open without so much as a knock. Justinian blinked sleepily and sat up. “Cynthia?”

  Lucien’s heart jumped into his throat even as his hand flew up uselessly to cover the brand. Cynthia wore the clothes of a Roman woman of substance. Justinian had no sisters—was she his wife? Why wasn’t Justinian more alarmed? Lucien watched, his heart thudding in his chest, as Justinian untangled himself from Lucien and stood up to brush his lips casually against the woman’s cheek.

  “Are you done with your toy for now?” Cynthia asked. “I thought I’d have a word with him.”

  For a moment, Justinian looked as if he might protest. Then he pulled his clothes on and made a hasty exit.

  Cynthia waited until the door had closed before she spoke again. “Lucius, is it?”

  “Lucien.”

  “Cover yourself, Lucien. I don’t like conversing with naked men.”

  Lucien put on the white robe, then pulled his feet up to sit cross-legged on the bed. There was a crack under the door, and even with his bad eyesight, he could see the shadow of two feet just on the other side: Justinian was listening. He looked up to see that Cynthia had followed his gaze with a faint smile. “You’re taking this more equitably than most wives would,” he said.

  “Justinian and I have an understanding,” Cynthia said. “We agreed, among other things, that once he gave me two sons, he could share his bed with whomever—whatever—he preferred.”

  “So what is it that you want from me?” Lucien asked.

  From the sleeve of her tunic, Cynthia drew out a small vial of black liquid and set it on the side table. A cool smile curved her lips as Lucien’s eyes went to the bottle. “I want a magus,” Cynthia said.

  It took a moment for Lucien to really hear her; he had been busy calculating whether she would stop him if he simply grabbed the bottle and drank it on the spot. Then—You want a magus? “Why?” he asked.

  “Why do you think?” she said.

  There was only one reason to want a magus: to kill people, preferably in large numbers. “Are you planning to take on an army?” Lucien asked.

  “No,” Cynthia said. “But there are individuals...households that I need out of my way.”

  “Who?” Lucien asked.

  Cynthia lifted the vial and arched one eyebrow. “I pay in refined equus,” she said. “There are many in Castramagorum who would ask no questions.”

  His body’s demand for the equus struck Lucien like a knotted lash, and he sucked in his breath. But this wasn’t like selling his body; there was more at stake here. He forced himself to meet Cynthia’s eyes. “I’m not a murderer,” he said. “If you want me to kill somebody, you need to tell me why. There are other magi, but to kill individuals without blowing up half of Londinium, you’ll need someone who can aim their power precisely. I assume you checked, before Justinian brought me here; I’m one of the few who can do what you ask.”

  Cynthia’s smile faded. “Very well, then,” she said. She set the vial back onto the table with a click of glass against polished wood.

  “Rome has gone silent,” she said. “We fought on our own against the insurgent Britons two years ago, but at least the Caesar was in contact with us. Now—there’s trouble in Gaul, trouble in Iberia. We’ve sent messengers, but the governor believes we’re on our own.”

  “Are you expecting another uprising?” Lucien asked.

  “More than expecting,” Cynthia said. “I’d like to ensure another uprising.”

  Lucien shook his head, trying to pull his eyes away from the equus. “Why? You’re Roman. Are you so certain you’d win?”

  Cynthia wet her lips. “I am the daughter of a Roman, but Justinian was born a Briton. It’s not for myself that I seek power, nor Justinian—it’s for our sons.” She folded her arms quietly, and Lucien knew that she wasn’t going to give him names—not yet. If the equus would not be enough to seduce him, she would seduce him with her cause.

  Lucien leaned back against his hands and considered. “What’s in this for me?” he asked. “Besides the equus: what about later? Let’s say for argument’s sake that this works, and one of your sons becomes our own Britannic Caesar. What do I get? Are you going to brand my other cheek and throw me back into Castramagorum?”

  For the first time, Cynthia’s gaze faltered. Then she raised her eyes to meet his squarely. “You were treated execrably by the governor,” she said. “I give you my word that under my son’s rule, magi—all magi—will be treated with honor, as the veteran legionaries that you are.” Cynthia smiled, and Lucien knew she was certain she had him.

  If you aren’t lying, Lucien thought, you’re an idiot, or you think I am. Even Helena doesn’t let us into her kitchen while we’re riding equus. Letting us into the city would be insane. Even if Cynthia really intended this, the people of Londinium would never allow it—hell, Lucien’s customers covered their faces so that he wouldn’t be able to kill them later.

  With a sudden sickness that swept his equus-craving to the side like dust, he realized that this was precisely what Cynthia was counting on—that the terror of the magi, and the belief that magi could kill even from Castramagorum, would keep her enemies distracted as she struck. Castramagorum would be wiped out: Sebastia and the rest of them dead as the residents of Londinium, Briton and Roman alike, lashed out blindly in fear, just as Lucien had hit Helena when she touched his cheek. There would be no more Castramagorum; he would be the only magus left.

  Let them die, part of him said. There’s pure equus in front of you—what are you waiting for?

  But afterwards—what would happen once Cynthia’s power was secure? Perhaps Justinian would protect him. Or perhaps Cynthia would cut Lucien’s throat. Or perhaps she would lock him away somewhere, crippled without his equus, alive and safe but denied the one thing he needed most.

  Lucien held out his hand. “Give me the vial,” he said. As his fingers closed over it, his body shook suddenly with cold need, and he almost dropped the bottle on the floor. He yanked out the cork with his teeth. Turning his face away to avoid losing his resolve and gulping it down, he held the vial out to Cynthia. “You drink it,” he said.

  “Are you mad?” Cynthia said sharply. “If I were a magus, why would I need you?”

  “You can’t know until you try whether you’d be any good at magic,” Lucien said. “You know I can do what you need. But I won’t—not unless you tie your fate to mine.”

  “No,” Cynthia said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Beyond the door, Lucien could still see Justinian’s feet; he was still there, listening to their conversation. Pitching his voice to allow Justinian to hear him, Lucien asked, “There was a rumor that went around Londinium a few months ago—that magi could strike from a distance. Who started that rumor?”

  Surprise and fear flashed through Cynthia’s eyes before she could rein them in. There was a long, measured beat, and then she said, “I have no idea.”

  Lucien knew she was lying; if she hadn’t started that rumor, she was certainly planning to use it. “You won’t free us,” Lucien said. “You want us all dead.” He dashed the vial on the stone floor. The glass shattered instantly and the precious ebony liquid made a small puddle. Despite himself, Lucien’s eyes focused on that dark stain, creeping towards the cracks in the floor, and he had to struggle to resist the urge to drop to his knees and lap it up.

  “That was very foolish, Lucien,” Cynthia said. “It’s going to be a while before you’ll get any more.”

  The door swung open, at last, and Justinian stood in the doorway. “I heard glass breaking,” he said. “Are you all right?” He was addressing Lucien, not Cynthia. Lucien saw Cynthia smile sardonically.

  “I’d like to go
,” Lucien said. “Back to Castramagorum.”

  “That won’t be possible,” Cynthia said. She cut off Justinian’s protest with a raised hand. “Your toy will not be broken, Justinian. Only put away for a time. I promise.”

  She kept her word. Lucien was seized by two servants and bundled across the courtyard into an empty stable; he was chained to a ring meant to tether horses; and he was left in darkness. He was not injured, however; despite his struggling, the servants hardly even bruised his wrists. When they had gone, Lucien leaned against the walls, clenching and unclenching his fists, feeling the need for the equus knot his stomach. He knew that the worst was yet to come.

  There were rumors in Castramagorum that a rider could die for lack of equus, but Lucien had seen more people die of starvation and exposure than pure need. Outside, the evening drizzle had grown heavy. Lucien could hear spikes of rain splattering the tile roof above. A cool, moist draft, strong enough to ruffle his hair, blew through a hole in the wall. At least Cynthia had let him keep the robe Justinian had given him, but Lucien shivered anyway. The stable was a long way from the rest of the house. No doubt Cynthia didn’t want Lucien’s screams disturbing her slumber.

  Lucien had no doubt he’d start screaming soon: screaming, begging, crying. The need had taken him. His last ride had been late last night, and the pure dose had tipped the scales, making him fall that much sooner. The long walk would be coming soon, and every sound made Lucien jump. The stone floor felt hard and cold despite the thick material of the robe. He could feel the soup he’d had for dinner twisting and knotting in his stomach. Shutting his eyes, Lucien attempted to ignore the protests of his body, and instead tried to concentrate on something else, anything else.

  His mind went back to the black liquid of the uncut equus on the floor. Breaking the vial had been a rash move, and one he regretted now. Yet, looking into Cynthia’s eyes, something had stirred inside Lucien. Akin to equus—but more like draco, a dragon.

  The heaves forestalled any deeper thinking. He turned his head to the side at first, trying not to vomit on himself, but soon even that small effort was beyond him. Nausea rippled through Lucien’s body, and the smell of his own cooling vomit made him gag again. Chills set in as the fever hit him.

  By the middle of the night, his fever raged to the point where Lucien began to hallucinate. The storm outside battered the walls. In the twisted shadows brought by flashes of lightning, Lucien thought he saw Helena standing in the corner of his cell.

  “Equus,” Lucien begged.

  Helena merely shook her head, as he knew she would. “You were my hope for a new order, little scholar.”

  A flare of light transformed her face into Justinian’s ice blue eyes and hawk nose. “Cocksucker,” he said, his voice Old Martin’s. “Fellator.”

  Now it was Old Martin who hunched into the corner of the Lucien’s cell. His rheumy eyes glittered like a cat’s, and his wasted, dirty body seemed to pulsate in the stormy light. Before Lucien’s fevered gaze, the bags under Old Martin’s eyes faded, and his body regained its forgotten youth. A young man, full of potential, pride in his country, stood ready to volunteer to become a magus for Caesar.

  Lucien recognized his own face in Martin’s past and began to scream.

  The next few days were a whirlwind of sickness and pain. Sometimes hallucinations visited him; Cynthia, Sebastia, Old Martin, Justinian. Once he thought he saw Helena’s face again, but she turned away from him in fear and disgust.

  ***

  THE SCENT OF roasted lamb woke Lucien from a deep sleep. His stomach growled, but didn’t threaten to revolt. Opening his eyes, Lucien saw a bowl of broth inches from his face. He struggled to sit up and opened his eyes. Through the blur, he saw a woman’s shape. Cynthia. He turned his face away from the bowl.

  “I’ll have my servants force-feed you, if it’s necessary,” Cynthia said. “I want you alive.”

  Lucien turned his face back and let her feed him some broth. A trickle of strength began to return. “Why?” he said, his voice a hard croak.

  “Justinian has requested it,” she said. “Besides, you’re still a highly effective magus, or would be with the right tools.”

  He raised his head and squinted at her, trying to read her face. “If you gave me equus now, I would kill you,” Lucien said.

  “And take a legionary’s arrow for your pains? You don’t think you’d be able to escape back to Castramagorum after that, do you?” She stepped closer, so that he could see her chilly smile again. “You’ll be eager to serve me soon enough.”

  “Never,” Lucien said, though his heart raced with fear. A dark craving for equus still balled in his empty stomach like a fist. “Does Justinian serve you so eagerly, as well? What power do you hold over him?”

  “Do you think he’s my hostage?” Cynthia sneered. “As I said before, we have an arrangement. I needed a husband who would not interfere with me; he needed a wife who would not interfere with him. That’s all.”

  Lucien raised an eyebrow. Cynthia must still need a husband, or she’d have killed Lucien—he was certain he was only alive at Justinian’s insistence. “It sounds like you’ve got everything planned. It must have taken a lot of effort to deceive Helena.”

  “‘Deceive?’ That’s an unfortunate term, Lucien. She wants decent treatment for magi; I need magi to obtain Britannia for my son. These are not incompatible goals.”

  Lucien didn’t answer. He knew what she planned.

  From the sleeve of her tunic, Cynthia pulled out another vial of equus and held it up. “Do you want this?”

  Lucien felt a surge of desire when he saw the vial, a craving, but something was missing. He realized with surprise that his guts weren’t clamped with cold. He clenched his teeth, refusing to answer.

  Cynthia turned the vial slowly in her hand, letting the glass catch the muddy daylight that made its way into Lucien’s cell. “It would be unfortunate if this vial had an accident, wouldn’t it? I think I’d best hold onto it for now.”

  Lucien closed his eyes.

  “You’ll come around,” Cynthia said. “If not, I’ll just have Helena find me someone else. I’ll tell her I smuggled you to Gaul; she’ll believe that, because she wants to think that there are other citizens who share her concern for the plight of the magi.” He heard Cynthia move towards the door, then pause. “Helena truly does believe in me. I think if I tell her it will help, she’ll take equus herself. I’ll let you know how it works out, fellator.”

  Lucien’s eyes flew open, and he felt a surge of anger—whether on Helena’s behalf or his own, he wasn’t sure. Cynthia was smirking at him, waiting by the doorway to see his impotent anger, and suddenly Lucien felt a surge of something as dizzying as pure equus. Without stopping to wonder what it was, he focused it at Cynthia—and the vial shattered in her hand.

  Cynthia screamed as the glass embedded itself in her flesh; her blood ran down to the floor, mixing with the equus. Her eyes on Lucien, Cynthia backed out of the cell, not bothering to slam the door behind her.

  The equus pooled on the stone slabs of the floor, just out of Lucien’s reach. He studied it, not dispassionately, but with an unfamiliar sense of desire. He wanted it, but his body wasn’t writhing with need for a ride. How had he shattered the bottle? He knew it could not have been equus—there was none left in his body, none. Had it changed him somehow? Could any magus wield power without equus, if they endured the torment of need for the days it took to get it out of their bodies?

  “You would have no power over us,” he whispered, looking at the door of his cell.

  Curious whether he could do it again, he looked for the power inside him. It had welled up in anger before, but now he knew where to look. Under his gaze, the wooden door of his cell cracked in half. He felt another weird surge inside; not exactly like a ride, but strangely exciting.

  If Cynthia realized how he’d done it...if anyone realized, it would doom the magi. The magi were controlled through access to equus; with
out this limitation, nothing would stop them from blasting their way out of the ghetto, avenging their betrayal at the hands of the governor, and taking...taking the place that Cynthia so desperately wanted for her sons. She’d kill us all, to prevent that, Lucien thought.

  The cracked door creaked on its unbalanced hinges. Lucien looked up, and in the dim light he saw...Helena.

  It’s another hallucination, he thought. She can’t really be here.

  “What happened?” Helena hissed, throwing herself to her knees beside Lucien and yanking a lockpick out of her sleeve. She started working on his shackles. “When you disappeared, I thought you’d probably come here. But it was Cynthia who answered my messages, not you, so I came looking—what did you do?”

  “I refused to ride at her command,” Lucien said, still not entirely sure he believed that Helena was really there. Why wasn’t she still furious at him?

  “You what?” Helena sat back on her heels, stunned.

  “Keep working!” Lucien hissed, jerking his head towards the shackles. “Or give me the lockpicks and I’ll do it! Cynthia’s going to come back here to kill me as soon as she works up the nerve.”

  “Why did you refuse her equus?” Helena asked, bending her head over the manacles again. The first one opened with a click, and she took his other hand.

  “Cynthia’s plan hinges on betraying the magi,” Lucien said. “Her enemies are supposed to believe that it’s Sunshine or Old Martin blowing up their villas, not me—they’re supposed to wipe out Castramagorum, rather than searching for enemies close at hand.”

  Helena bit her lip. “Stupid,” she muttered. “I can’t believe I trusted her.”

  “There’s more, though. Helena—I finished the long walk, and I can do magic. Without equus.”

  “You must have been hallucinating,” Helena said.

  “No. Watch.” Lucien stretched out his free hand and narrowed his eyes at the wall, and one of the boards split.

  The lockpick fell from Helena’s hand. She stared, her eyes wide, at the cracked board. Lucien picked up the lockpick, then paused and gripped it in his fist, focusing his thoughts on the metal shackle around his left wrist. The metal broke with a snap; he hissed with pain as the hot metal left a welt behind.