Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  “It's strange,” Sorley said, “that the Empire, which sees itself as an heir to Casil, has lost the learning that Linrathe had kept, although we were never subject to the East.”

  “Aye,” Turlo agreed. “Perhaps our focus was too narrow, concerning ourselves with war and defense only. But those choices were made generations ago.”

  With every choice, we leave someone or something behind, Irmgard had said not very long ago. The idea echoed in my mind. What choices would be made, by us or for us, here in this ancient city?

  The ship drew up against the quay, following pointed directions and shouts. The commander of the ship to whom Cillian had given the letter disembarked from his own docked ship to come over to us. He and Cillian spoke for several minutes, apparently amicably. Then the man nodded and walked away, not back to his ship, but up the quay towards the buildings.

  “We are to stay here. We will be guarded, and curious on-lookers kept away. There are latrines in the building over there,” he pointed, “and we will be escorted as needed. Rufin—he is a commander of the watch on the headland—will take the letter to the appropriate authority, he says. He also says he doubts anyone will see us tonight, but if they wish to see us tomorrow, expect to be taken to baths where we can be made respectable before we are allowed in the presence of any official.” Cillian grinned. “We probably do need that, wouldn't you say?”

  We were windblown, salt-encrusted, and in the case of the men, unshaven. If Casil had baths, I liked it already.

  I was tugging a comb through my hair the next morning when Rufin reappeared, another man and a woman beside him. He beckoned Cillian up to the quay where they spoke for some time, the other man occasionally adding something, the woman quiet.

  Rufin clapped Cillian on the shoulder, said something, looked over to us watching on the ship, and saluted. Then he strode off down the quay. Cillian turned back to us.

  “Well,” he said. “Geiri and the oarsmen are to stay here, for now. They will be housed shortly. We are to be taken to the baths and then to a house that has been assigned to us. The Empress—or at least an official—is being generous. We will be given not just the house, but servants to look after us, and clothes appropriate to Casil, I am told.”

  “Servants to spy on us, no doubt,” Turlo growled.

  “Of course,” Cillian said. “It is the rest of it I wonder about: who is the Empress attempting to impress with this show of munificence? I doubt it is just us.”

  “Does it matter?” I asked, longing for the baths.

  “I suppose not, not at this moment,” he answered. “The woman's name is Prisca; she is aware you speak no Casilan beyond a few words. Follow her. We go with Sergius, here.”

  Irmgard and her women disembarked, and we followed Prisca along the quay and past buildings of stone and brick, rising several storeys, taller than anything I had seen in Casilla. At a gate, we were joined by two soldiers, who flanked us through a narrow passage to a waterway. A boat awaited us, broad and flat, propelled by a man with a long pole.

  The boat moved along the narrow waterway, quickly joining a river flowing between grassy banks. Buildings lined each side: built of stone, with tiled roofs, they abutted each other in long rows and blocks. We passed beneath a bridge, arching over the river, enormously high brick walls extending from either side. Those make Casilla's walls look like a sheep enclosure, I thought, and then we rounded a curve in the river.

  Above the lower buildings, a huge structure, its front a series of arches between three towers, rose. Long walls extended back, three storeys showing a blank face to the river, but set with arches on the ground floor, and with towers at set distances. And above it—could it be that tall, or was it on a hill?—a vast building, shining almost white in the sun, built with graceful curves and arches and columns, dominating the view. We passed under another bridge, and the boatman poled us up to a low jetty.

  I glanced at Cillian. Rapt, he studied the buildings. Turning to one of the guards, he asked something. The man grunted an acknowledgement. “The palace,” Cillian told us.

  “What is the long, walled building below it?” Sorley asked. “I feel I should know.”

  “The Arénas Ingenírus, I think.” The guard nodded, pointing. He asked Cillian a question, his eyes widening at the answer.

  What still may lie beyond the mountains and the sea. Callan's words, at the White Fort. The reality of what we had found here was beyond anything he could have imagined. The city went on and on beyond the palace. I turned to look at Turlo. He sat beside Irmgard, staring up at the buildings. Overwhelmed, I thought. As was I.

  We climbed up onto the jetty. People passed, some staring, most ignoring us. They wore, for the most part, knee-length tunics of varying quality; some men had weapons on their belts, and cloaks over one shoulder. Women's tunics varied in length, but were longer; to my eye, I thought the better quality the material, the longer the tunic, denoting social status, I assumed.

  The steward, Sergius, made a clear hand gesture: follow him. He walked beside the building Cillian had called the Arénas. How had he known that? We passed through cobbled streets lined with brick buildings, accessed through tall archways. I glimpsed gardens and fountains through the arches, and people sitting on benches, talking, eating. The street opened out into a wide, grassed area, thronged with more people, and at one end of the green space, a square building, steam rising from a central chimney.

  Our escorts stopped. “There are different areas for men and women,” Cillian told us. “Follow Prisca. We will meet you later, I presume.” Prisca turned through an archway, stepping into a portico and then through a wide door into a cool, broad room. An old woman sat behind a counter, piles of cloths behind her, and a deep bowl of soap cakes beside her.

  We were handed strips of cloth, and a piece of soap each, before we again followed Prisca into another large room. Benches and pegs lined the walls, clothes hanging from a few of the pegs. I began to undress, hanging my clothes on the pegs and leaving my secca in its boot sheath. I didn't like doing that, but I didn't know what else to do with it. After a brief hesitation, Irmgard and the other two women also undressed. Naked, we entered another room, this one heated, and steamy. Several women, wearing only a cloth around their hips, waited for us. Attendants, I guessed. Prisca gestured me forward to stand on a grated section of the floor, taking my towels from me. One of the women stepped forward and began to ladle water from a bucket over me. I sighed at the feel of warm water and began to soap myself.

  Irmgard and her women, understanding what was to be done now, positioned themselves, and for the next ten minutes we luxuriated in the process of becoming clean. My attendant took my soap from me and washed my back and hair, skilled fingers kneading my shoulder muscles as well. When we were all thoroughly clean, and rinsed, we were ushered into the baths proper.

  I slipped into the pool of hot water and closed my eyes. How long since I had lain in a proper bath? I wondered idly if these were fed by hot springs, or the water heated by fire. Prisca had not come with us, and no one else entered the room. Were other women being kept from the pool because we were here? I thought it probable, and was glad.

  We soaked for a very long time. Irmgard asked the occasional question about the baths, but mostly we just lay in the water, staring up at the ceiling, watching the water's reflection ripple on the figures of gods and goddesses painted there. On the walls shimmered pictures and designs picked out in tiny tiles, like the floor of the White Fort: fruit and animals and entwined patterns. I wondered when the baths had been built.

  Eventually, my thoughts became clearer. As welcome as these baths were, and as magnificent as the city appeared to be, we were here for a reason. Several reasons, beginning with the women beside me. I thought about Irmgard and Hana and Rind, staying here in this new land, among people whose language they did not speak and whose customs they did not know. Casil was civilised: would that make a difference, or would they feel as exiled as I had with the Kurzem
ë? It was so far from her home. Such bravery, to come such a distance.

  Prisca stepped into the room almost silently. “Séquer, gratifi,” she said, beckoning. Yet another room, and another pool, this one cold. I took a breath, and slid in, waited a minute, and got out. Surprising me, Irmgard and Hana and Rind did the same. Irmgard must have seen my face, because as she got out, she said, “In my land, we get very hot, in a small room with heated rocks, and then we jump in the water, or roll in the snow. This is much the same.”

  We were led to a room where narrow tables stood. We were to lie on these, Prisca indicated, on our stomachs. An attendant approached each of us, and began to comb out our hair. Mine took no time at all, and then I felt an unguent, smelling of lavender, being applied to my back, and firm hands begin to rub it in. I lay still. These hands, a woman's, did not threaten me, even when they moved to my lower body and my thighs. She worked down my legs, clicking her tongue at the condition of my feet, callused and rough after our long walk across the plain. Withdrawing for a moment, she returned with a rough stone, and began to rub it across the calluses. I drifted, letting her do as she liked, enjoying the sensation of being cossetted. Beside me, I heard Irmgard sigh.

  My feet took some time. Finally my attendant finished with them, and by a tap and a small tug on my arm made me understand she wanted me to roll over. I did, and she continued applying the balm. Her hands, on my hips and belly, induced a tiny flicker of something close to arousal. Just a physical response, I assured myself. As she reached my breasts, she stopped, tilting her head questioningly, holding out the jar of ointment. I nodded, and scooped out a bit, massaging it into my breasts. Then she took over again, finishing my upper chest and arms. I thought she was done, but she shook her head, and opening another small pot, applied a different cream to my face and lips.

  I felt thoroughly indulged. I sat up, glancing over at the Marai women. Irmgard, on the table beside me, was on her back, and as I watched her attendant offered her the unguent for her breasts. Irmgard shook her head, indicating to the woman to go ahead. The stab of desire that shot through me as I watched the attendant rubbing the cream into Irmgard's breasts shocked me. I looked away, confused and dismayed.

  I should not be feeling this, I told myself. I slid off the table. Prisca, seeing my movement, brought me a pile of clothes, light in colour and fabric. There were thin undergarments, and then a slightly thicker tunic with short, loose arms that fell below my knees, and it all fit almost perfectly. The mundane act of dressing grounded me. My response means nothing, I argued in my head, just old memories. I turned to Prisca. I didn't know how to ask her for my knife.

  But I needn't have worried. She held it out to me. “Gratiás,” I said, hoping I remembered the word correctly. I had no sheath for it. But again, Prisca had thought this out. She produced a thin belt, with a sheath, and after I had put it on, she bloused the tunic over it, nodding.

  We again followed Prisca out into the street. Dressed as we now were, we attracted no attention. One soldier stepped away from the wall of the bathhouse to escort us through another maze of cobbled streets. The screams of the gulls drew fainter. We passed more huge buildings, and what felt like hundreds of people, stopping finally outside a house on a wide, clean street. The building, all three storeys of it, was plastered in a pale coating, and roofed in reddish-brown tiles. Wide windows behind narrow balconies stood shuttered against the afternoon sun. We stepped through a portico and into a cool, tiled hall.

  Stairs ran up from this hall to a higher floor, and then a third. On the highest floor, bedrooms opened off a common area, and doors at one end opened onto the flat roof of the floor below. Prisca threw bedroom doors open, clearly inviting us to choose. I shook my head, and pointed at the floor below. She frowned.

  I pointed to my secca, and then again to the floor below, and then stood at something that approximated how the guards had stood, waiting for us. Prisca looked puzzled, but she shrugged, opening her hands wide in acquiescence or incomprehension. Below us, I heard the men's voices, and feet on the stairs. I went down to join them.

  All three looked as if their ministrations had been as good as ours. Turlo's hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, shorter than I had ever seen either. Both Cillian and Sorley had been shaved, and their hair cut. A spicy scent rose from their skin. They were dressed in clothes like mine, the tunics shorter and with shorter sleeves, but of the same light fabric.

  “Weren't those baths wonderful!” Sorley said.

  “Very,” I said. “Cillian, can you tell Sergius, or Prisca, that I am not sleeping on the top floor with the women? I tried to make her understand, but I'm not sure she did.”

  “Of course,” he said, and conveyed the message to Sergius, who had been opening the doors, much as Prisca had. Sergius replied with a question and a lengthy conversation followed.

  Cillian held up a hand to Sergius, turning to us. “Sergius's first question was to ask we all slept alone, which allowed me to ask about customs here. Even knowing he will be relaying everything he learns back to the palace, we are going to need to trust him, within reason. He tells me that since the Emperor Adricius, whose quincalum—the word means 'freely-chosen partner', not a slave or a servant—was an officer, the prohibition on relationships between officers was rescinded. So, General, unless you object, I will tell him that we only require three rooms.”

  “I have no objection,” Turlo said.

  “Lena?” Cillian asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  He spoke to Sergius, who nodded, impassive, and opened the door of one bedroom, offering it to Cillian with an outstretched hand. We stepped inside. The room was large and the bed wide. Shuttered windows opened to the sky; the building beside us much shorter than ours. At the far end the room, a door opened into a smaller room, housing a washing area, and a latrine.

  “I think,” Cillian said, after Sergius had left us, “we may have robbed Turlo of the best bedroom.”

  “Turlo,” I said, “is quite likely to sleep on the floor, even in the best bedroom.”

  Cillian laughed. “He does seem able to sleep anywhere, at any time,” he said. He sat on the bed, and then lay back. “I, on the other hand, am looking forward to a bed again, and this one is very comfortable.” He grinned at me. “As perhaps we will find out, tonight?” he said, dropping his voice.

  “It would be a shame to waste the bath,” I murmured. “But, that reminds me, Cillian. I am nearly out of anash. I can show Prisca what I have and try to ask her for more. Do you know the Casilan word for it?”

  “No,” he said. “I will ask her, if you like. The conversation may make her uncomfortable, though; it is not men's business, I would think.”

  “I'm sorry if it will embarrass you.”

  “Not me. Prisca.” He sat up. “Those baths were nearly hedonistic,” he said.

  “Hedonistic?” It wasn't a word I knew.

  “Purely for pleasure, self-indulgent.”

  “You do look very—groomed,” I said, sitting beside him. “And you smell delightful.”

  “Groomed is a good description,” he agreed. “I felt a bit like a horse being prepared for parading.” He leaned over. “You smell like lavender.”

  A discreet knock at the half-open door interrupted us. “Pranderum,” Sergius announced.

  “Food,” Cillian translated.

  Food was a flat bread, and a black, tangy, stoned fruit I didn't know, and figs, which were familiar to Turlo and me, along with cheese and a thinly sliced dried sausage. Sergius had laid the food out on a sideboard, along with a flask of a pale wine and a jug of water. We collected food and wine, finding places to sit around the room. The food was fresh, and delicious. Irmgard and her women did not join us, and from the platters being carried upstairs, I concluded they were eating separately, and somewhat differently, from us.

  “They are treating her as the princess she is,” Sorley said, when I commented. “We are only her escort.” He rose and fetched the
flask of wine, offering it to us in turn. I refused, but Cillian held up his glass and Sorley took it, his fingers just brushing Cillian's. I wasn't sure if it had been purposeful, but Cillian simply smiled up at him, not ignoring the touch, I thought, and not minding it, either.

  “When do you think they will call Irmgard to the palace?” Sorley asked.

  “I don't know,” Cillian said. “They may send someone here first, to talk to her. But I don't think they will wait too long; it would seem inconsistent to give her this house and staff, and then ignore her. But we will have to remain here until we know what is happening.”

  “Aye, well,” Turlo said, “we are all due some rest and relaxation.”

  “How did you know the name of that building? Arénas something?” I asked Cillian.

  “Arénas Ingenírus,” Cillian supplied. “The great field of games, approximately. I read about it. I remembered it was below the palace, so it wasn't a difficult conclusion.”

  “What sort of games?”

  “Horse racing, and men testing their skills against each other in weaponry and strength and speed.”

  “Do you know the names of other buildings?” There were so many...and so old, if Cillian had read of them.

  “A few. It is strange, to see them standing, while before I never knew if they were real, or exaggerated, or completely legendary. It makes me hope that the library is real.”

  “The one Perras told us about?” Sorley asked. “With not just the writings from Casil but from Heræcria, as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is Heræcria?” I asked, puzzled.

  “A much older city further east, whose writings and thought influenced Casil, and by extension, your Empire, and what is taught and learned at the Ti'acha,” Cillian answered.

  “How much older?”

  “Another five hundred years, more or less. You are looking a bit astounded, Lena, if I may say so.” He grinned.

  “I am,” I said. “I had no idea. And there are books from this city?”

  “Perhaps. If the library is real, and if it is still there. I will find out, at the proper time.”