by AJ Cooper
“There is a girl I know. She is an augur that went for training. She’s been sending me letters—” Not dream signals. Good call. “—and they are doing horrible things to her.”
Antonio sighed quietly. “All right, Marcus. The collegium is one of our best military resources, but if you just go get her, then that is fine. I will inform them in advance, so they can be ready for you tomorrow morning.”
Not his first choice. “All right,” Marcus said.
More nightmares assailed him that night, worse than ever before. Three times he woke up in his bed, covered in sweat. He was awake at dawn, and he went into the collegium as soon as the sunlight illuminated the city streets.
When he reached the collegium, several augurs waited for him in the entrance.
“Marcus Silverus?” one said.
Marcus nodded.
“You are free to search the whole perimeter.”
Marcus looked at them untrustingly. “Where is she?”
“Who?” said one of the augurs, a blonde woman and perhaps the leader, judging by the gold medal hanging around her neck.
“Tivera. The girl I brought here.”
The woman laughed. “She ran out and escaped into the streets. Scared of ‘Mother and Father,’ that they were going to come after her.”
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Maestra Fiora. I am Steward of the Collegium in Maestro Bachio’s absence.”
“Very well,” Marcus grunted, and pushed past them with more force than was probably necessary.
He searched all three stories, going through every room one by one. The marble floors and the furniture were immaculately clean. The glass windows that looked out into the courtyard were wiped to perfection. The lecture halls, some filled with young would-be augurs and some completely empty.
But there was no sign of Tivera. Still, something didn’t sit right with Marcus. Something had happened to her, whether outside of the collegium or within it. And he did not trust Maestra Fiora, or any of these augurs.
He went through the rooms again, searching every corner, moving aside tables and chairs. He had, perhaps, spent an hour there, when a noise echoed through the hall: a whimper—“Help me!”
It was coming from the wall. At once Marcus felt around the stone bricks, and at last found a latch. He pulled it with all his might, and the false barrier fell through.
And there was Tivera. Poor, innocent, insane Tivera. Eyes bulging in fear, her hands were tied fast with rope. She lay on a hard wooden table. Next to her—in the corner—vials, beakers and jars were packed tightly in a wooden shelf. They had been experimenting on her. Immediately, Marcus drew his sword, and hacked at the rope. It was thick, but with each slice a few strands came loose until finally it burst. He hacked the ropes off her legs, but as soon as they came loose, he felt a presence behind him, and a gust of portentous wind.
As Tivera clambered to her feet, whimpering, Marcus whipped around—seething—and saw an augur in his winged cap. He slashed in a hard cross-cut, but in a second’s lapse the augur’s staff was in position, blocking the sword.
Marcus felt the pain before he realized the staff had struck him. Then it struck him again.
“Ai!” Tivera wailed. She thrust her hands out before her; a thin beam of light went through the augur, cutting through his flesh. Blood poured from the newly-opened wound.
The augur would surely die.
Marcus grabbed Tivera. She had committed a crime—the murder of a citizen—and Marcus was complicit. But even if he were free of guilt, he would stand with Tivera, get her out of danger before a judge sentenced her to death.
They fled together out of the Augur Collegium. Together, Marcus would hire a ship to ferry them to who-knows-where. Together.
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Tables Turned
Silvestro Matteus, Legate
When Silvestro opened his eyes it was morning. For some reason, he expected to wake up in his small home in the foothills with his wife cooking eggs. That could not be further from the truth. The sky was dark and grey, but without rain. Around him was a city of black stone, its houses and homes burnt to ash and in the center of it, a gap in the earth so deep he could not see the bottom.
And Silvestro was in a large cage, behind black prison bars. Behind him, dozens of men—perhaps captives—lay shivering in the cold damp of the morning, wearing nothing but their undergarments.
They had taken his sword and his armor. The rebels. Last night, the rebels captured him. Yes, now he remembered. The woman, Kyra, captured him. He remembered her pale, deathly face, and shivered. He grasped the bars, and a chill ran through his body as the cold metal touched him.
The gap in the center of the city. Could it lead to the underworld?
“I’d get away from there,” a voice said from behind. Silvestro turned around. A man was talking to him, a burly man who looked like a legionary. “They don’t like it when you touch the cage. They’ll think you’re trying to escape.”
“Well maybe I am.” Silvestro relinquished his grip on the prison bars. “What is this place, anyway?”
“Once it was Dubaquis. Now they call it Doom,” the man answered. “The rebels dug that pit. Spent days digging it, said it’s at a fault in the earth, a big crack. They say if you fall in, you’ll fall a long time ’til you hit the bottom.”
Silvestro frowned. “And you? What’s your story?”
“I am—was—with the Seventh Anthanian.”
The air grew chill. A sense of hopelessness fell over Silvestro like a great shadow; then he realized the source: a few hooded rebels walked in from the left, black cloaks flowing in the constant wind. One held a scroll in her black-gloved hands, and she read from it, “Noldo Oneus, it is time for you to answer for your crimes.”
“My turn.” The legionary stood up, looking into Silvestro’s eyes like a reprimanding father. “Don’t give in to their mind-games. They will torture you, but never deny the glory of the Empire.”
Silvestro keeled over and retched as the man was led out of the gate. He guessed these rebels took ‘torture’ seriously. He stood back up, nonetheless still filled with nausea, and peered into the baleful grey sky. The ghosts of the tortured dead still swirled around it, and Silvestro knew he had been transported to hell.
The other prisoners did not want to talk like Noldo did. They sat there whimpering, giving short answers before they hid their faces with their hands.
Silvestro pondered how he could escape. There truly was no escape. The bars were of solid iron. Above him, arches upheld a weight of stone. Behind him there was no door, only earth. He fell to his knees and prayed to Luos, God of Light that his wife worshiped so dearly.
“Luos, save me from this darkness!” he whispered.
“Get up,” a voice croaked. Above him, beyond the bars, was a man in the black hood uniform. “I’ll cut you if you do not obey.”
Silvestro stood up.
“You offend me, and you offend Yblis.” The man pushed a latch on the door. It opened. “Your prayers to Luos will go unanswered. And you will pay… you’ve cut in line, and you’ll get your punishment first, before these others.”
A few behind him sighed in relief.
This is my chance, Silvestro thought. He bolted through the wide doors, hearing the scythe whistle as it cut through the air and the shredding of linen as the curved blade sliced through his undershirt. He sprinted through the city under the dark, portentous sky, looking for a gate, looking for any way out. Finally he saw the gate, and it was open.
But dozens of black-hooded rebels stood in his way. He turned, looked back. Dozens stood behind. I’m surrounded. He lifted his hands in surrender. “I surrender!” he called out.
Two black-gloved hands restrained him and forced him, in view of the others, to a large alcove in the stone wall. There, bound in rusty chains against the black stone, was Noldo, the legionary from before. He groaned in pain, still alive, though judging by his cries he didn�
�t want to be.
Opposite him, behind a stone lectern, a man in a black hood read his sentence. “Noldo Oneus, tribune. Kept alive after the battle with the Seventh Anthanian Legion after the others died—all to ensure you would answer for your crimes. Your slave came with you, with the legion. She escaped in the battle. We freed her. She is one of us, now. She said you beat her, Noldo Oneus. You mistreated your slave.”
“I might have hit her, once,” Noldo said. “I regret it.”
“Not good enough,” the hooded man said. “Flay him alive.”
A few rebels stepped out from behind Silvestro. In their hands, they held whips with thongs covered in broken glass. Immediately they set to their task. Silvestro shut his eyes as the whips dug into Noldo’s skin, as he was, indeed, flayed alive. When his tortured cries stopped, Silvestro looked away, not wanting to see his bloody body.
“Next,” said the man behind the lectern.
Noldo’s body hit the floor, and they pulled it aside. One of the rebels wrangled Silvestro into position. Silvestro grunted as the rusty, chipped chains dug tighter and tighter into his chest. This is it. I’m going to die. Let it be for the glory of the Empire.
“Silvestro Matteus,” said the man behind the lectern. “Leader of the Thirtieth Kersepolan Legion, formed in Kersepoli in 1094. I have no crimes written down for you. Your legion waits for you a few miles away. They are surely confused.”
“What do you want from me?” Silvestro roared. “Gods! Kill me if you’re going to kill me. You won’t get any crying or whimpering from me.”
“I have no punishments for you,” the hooded man continued. “Perhaps it is time for you to speak with Fabius and Marcia.”
The infamous Dark-Eyed Twins soon stood before him, so quickly it seemed they flew there. They were pale like corpses, young—ten years old, at most—with dark shadows under their eyes.
The boy spoke. “Will you lead your army against the emperor?” he said. “Will you join the rebels and conquer Imperial City and free the slaves?”
“Never,” Silvestro said. “Glory to the Empire!”
Fabius’s gaze darkened. “Would you rather die?”
“Yes,” Silvestro said.
“For many ages,” Marcia began, “the Empire has captured slaves. You say you have laws against mistreating them, but no slave would dare go to court. Our master beat us almost to the point of death. Then we found Yblis. Don’t you understand? Don’t you feel sorry for us?”
“After what you’ve done, I could never feel sorry for you.”
“Jerk the chains tighter,” Fabius ordered.
The rusty bands tightened with almost rib-crushing constriction. Silvestro let out a wheezing gasp.
“The Empire is bad,” Marcia said. “The Empire is doomed.”
“Treason,” Silvestro wheezed. Around him the darkness seemed to increase, like a heavy cloud all around him. The tightness of the chains made him dizzy.
“The Empire will fall, and the world will rejoice,” Marcia continued.
“If the Empire does fall,” Silvestro said, “then it will only be because of traitors like you.”
The little girl’s eyes lighted with anger. “Whip him.”
The first glass-covered thong cracked on him, excoriating his forearm. Silvestro’s entire body sang with pain. “Long live the Empire!” he screamed.
“Take it back,” Fabius said.
“Never,” Silvestro said. “Long live the Empire, and forevermore!”
But Silvestro did not give in to the subsequent skin-shredding lash, or the three dozen that fell after it.
His flayed, bloody body hung tight in chains until they threw it in the hell pit. But even in darkness it lay as a testament, a sacrifice to the Empire.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
Trouble in the South
Antonio Laureana
The Imperial Council would vote on the emperor’s incompetence tomorrow. Tonight, Antonio would offer Councilor Bruesio the thousand gold pieces to cancel the deal. I have the whole Imperial Court in my hands, he mused, as he looked out onto the blue sea.
But a ship was sailing in from the south. Judging by the gold eagle insignia on its red sail, it was a government ship. Its swiftness indicated its intent as a messenger vessel. At first he thought it might bear an important message, but quickly discounted it; it was probably minor, announcing a small shortage of grain or olive oil.
He could not have been more wrong. The messenger, an Eloesian sailor, looked left and right in an attempt to avoid eye contact. “I am afraid I bear bad news. Very bad.”
By a stroke of fate it was Bruesio that had come down to the entrance hall with Antonio; no surprise, of course, as the “emperor” delegated almost all of his duties to others.
“Tell us the news,” Bruesio demanded.
“Archamenes, Padisha Emperor of the South, has invaded Eloesus.”
Antonio’s heart sped up and a sensation of falling briefly overtook him.
Bruesio had gone white. “What do you mean? We have a longstanding truce with the southron emperor.”
“He has broken it,” the sailor breathed.
“Gods!” Bruesio cursed.
“He has an army,” the sailor continued. “Ten thousand men. A thousand Invincibles on the front lines. The magi… they’re worst of all, wielding powers of flame.”
“I will address the people,” Bruesio said. “Antonio, perhaps you should stand guard in case the crowd gets anxious and tramples me.”
Antonio nodded.
Bruesio looked to the messenger. “Now tell me all you know.”
With the rest of the Imperial Guard, Antonio accompanied Bruesio to the Imperial Square and the lectern on the High Podium. The bells rang and a crowd soon gathered before them.
In a shouting voice, Bruesio began his speech. “We have just received news that Archamenes of the Fharese Empire has crossed into Eloesus, burning as he goes. The Ten Cities of the Fertile Vale now call Archamenes their king.”
The crowd roared in anger. “Death to Archamenes!” a man in the front cried. His long hair was lined with gray and what few teeth he had were yellow. Poor lout, Antonio thought. Impoverished, perhaps diseased, and all he can cling to is the fact that he is an Imperial.
“By Lorenus, God of the Sea, and by Imperium, Spirit of the Empire… Archamenes will go no further!” Bruesio roared, turning red and shouting with such command that a chill ran up Antonio’s spine. “The Emperor Giton will not stand for this, I assure you! I have word that the Hand of Imperium will speak at sundown. But let it be known in all your hearts that this deed will not go unpunished. The armies that swarm before them will be without number. Our ships will blockade their ports, and our augurs will be upon them with the swiftness of the wind and the power of Imperium. I swear to you, we will bring back Archamenes’ head to Imperial City and thrust it upon a pike for all to see!”
The crowd roared both in anger in excitement for what seemed like minutes. Bruesio turned, and Antonio followed him up the walk to the palace.
Antonio called Bruesio to his chambers. His room in the Imperial Palace was small, as were most in that house of hundreds. But he had furnished it finely with the money he received every month from Julia Seánus: silk drapes, silk clothing, fine soft beddings, and exotic wood furniture.
“Signore, I have a business proposition for you,” Antonio said. “Take a seat.”
Bruesio looked at Antonio suspiciously as he sat down on the teak bench. “And what is it?”
“You are voting on the emperor’s incompetence tomorrow, correct?” Antonio said.
Bruesio nodded. “I hope it to be a seamless transition to another emperor, as long as the Guard does its duty and honors the will of the Council.”
The indirect accusation of dishonor did nothing to Antonio. “Well, Bruesio. What would you say if I offered you a thousand gold pieces to change your mind?”
“A thousand gold pieces?” Bruesio scan
ned the room, as if to look for spies. “This isn’t a trap, is it?”
“Of course not,” Antonio said. “I have word from a benefactor that if you keep Giton on the White Throne, he… or she… will pay you an entire thousand gold pieces.”
Bruesio nodded slowly. “Once I see the money, I will do as you say.”
Antonio read the gold-lust in Bruesio’s eyes, and smiled.
CHAPTER NINE:
A Strange Land
Julia Seánus, Empress mother
In late afternoon, Antonio arrived in Julia’s room.
“It is done,” he said. “Councilor Bruesio has canceled the vote of incompetence, citing a changed perspective.”
“Good. I can finally breathe again,” Julia said as she brushed her hair in the mirror. “I still do not forgive him.”
“Do not hold a grudge,” Antonio said. “It doesn’t help anyone.”
“Do not lecture me, Antonio,” Julia hissed. Her blonde curls simply wouldn’t fall into place.
“Did you hear of the invasion? The Padisha Emperor—”
“Yes,” Julia sneered. “And my son’s plan of action will be announced at his speech tonight. Yes, he will actually give a speech himself. I advised him in this matter.”
“What is your course of action, if I dare ask, signora?” Antonio said.
Julia finally gave up on her stubborn hair and set the brush down. She swiveled in her seat to face the leader of the Imperial Guard. “You will hear it tonight. Now leave me, Antonio.”
He walked away and eventually his footsteps faded to nothing.
A huge crowd had gathered in Imperial Square, as many as could cram in hearing range of the High Podium. Trumpets pealed as the Imperial family—Julia and her son the emperor—made their way to the lectern. The Imperial Guard, in their red halfcloaks and steel armor, stood watch along the perimeter of the podium.
At last, as the sun set over the western hills, her son spoke. “People of the Empire,” he said, golden circlet twinkling in the light, “I promise you, peace will come again. The balance will be restored and you will soon return to your old lives, as they were. The Empire will remain strong.”
