Dangerous Crowns

by A K Fedeau

  “Wait!”

  Marcus stopped, then stepped off the staircase, and took two more paces back.

  “I mean, um.” The brother cleared his throat. “General Incipio?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t mean to be presumptuous…” the brother hesitated - “but do you remember me?”

  Marcus searched the brother’s thin face and waited for him to reveal more.

  “I was at the Kuldsdottir Trench when you came to survey the troops,” the brother explained. “I was in the field hospital. I fell off the ridge and broke my leg.”

  “Oh.” Marcus’ face brightened. “Now I know you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. How’ve you been?”

  “It, uh, it didn’t heal well, so they gave me an honorable discharge.” The brother’s eyes fell. “They sent me home, but it wasn’t so bad. I’ve found this now. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” Marcus asked. “Why would I mind?”

  “Well, you know.” The brother shrugged. “Not all of us are cut out for war, I guess.”

  Marcus sighed and patted the brother’s shoulder. “I know.”

  •••

  With an itch of trepidation, Marcus sat on the bench in the anteroom - folding and unfolding his fingers, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

  Pontifex Florian mumbled behind the tall, brass-inlaid doors, and Marcus studied the space around him for the thirteenth time. A blue rib-vaulted ceiling with constellations painted in gold. Another bench across from him. Frescoes on every wall. But no matter how many times he sat forward or fidgeted in his seat, the voices inside kept talking, in a serious, indistinct hush.

  This is my fault, Marcus thought. I can’t believe I let her talk me into this. How am I supposed to steal anything? It’s like asking a fish to fly.

  Marcus bowed his head and scratched the hair on the back of his neck, and for the first time, he noticed the mosaic under his feet. Concentric circles of braids and chains, eclipses, and stars, and in the middle, a scene of Titus and Mira under an olive tree.

  What am I even supposed to tell him? Marcus asked himself. ‘Hello, Pontifex, I’m here to ruin you?’ That’ll go over well.

  Well… Marcus leaned back against the bench and stroked his chin - Livia always says that a good lie is at least one part truth.

  “All I’m asking is that you speak to him,” Florian said.

  “No. I’ve had enough.” A chair scraped, and a woman’s skirts rustled toward the door. “Thank you for the audience, Pontifex. I’m sorry I’ve wasted both our time.”

  The noblewoman threw the doors open and stormed into the anteroom, and Marcus pulled his knees together and quickly averted his eyes. As soon as the woman crossed the mosaic, she let out a strangled sob, and wiped her tears with the back of her hand before she stumbled down the stairs.

  “General Incipio?”

  Marcus turned his head when he heard his name. Pontifex Florian stood in the doorway, with his great, bald head and strong eyebrows, and a mantle embroidered with flowers and scrolls and phases of the moon.

  “Pontifex.” Marcus stole a glance at the staircase. “Is this, uh, a bad time?”

  “No, no. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, really. Is she all right?”

  “She’s unhappy that her husband fathered a son with her chambermaid.” Florian shrugged. “She asked me to hear her grievance. I told her she’ll forgive him in time.”

  Marcus frowned. “You didn’t tell her to leave him?”

  Florian snorted. “What, do you think I’m an idiot? He’s one of the Church’s biggest donors. We have to keep the candles lit somehow.”

  Marcus said nothing, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “Now.” Florian ushered Marcus in. “What can I do for you?”

  •••

  “How long have you been home?” Florian asked, as he opened his decanter of wine.

  “Not too long.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been called back.” Marcus sank into the cross-frame chair in front of Florian’s desk, and gazed at the decanter to avoid eye contact as he lied. “But I thought I’d better see you as soon as possible.”

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “I’m having a crisis of conscience.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right man.” Florian poured two goblets of wine without asking Marcus whether he wanted one. “What’s troubling you?”

  Keep him talking, Marcus remembered in Livia’s voice.

  “I’m worried about my troops losing faith.”

  Florian raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “As a general, it’s part of my job to look after my troops’ morale. Be a good example. Reassure them. You know.”

  Florian nodded. “Right.”

  “Some of them are devout, so I want to say the Celestial Pair is watching over them. But every time I read through the Book of Mira, all I see is that it condemns war.”

  Florian put the rock-crystal stopper back in the decanter as he listened.

  “I’ve always said there are necessary or unavoidable wars. I don’t think the Book of Mira agrees with me, but I think it happens, whether we like it or not.” Marcus stared into his lap and gestured as he explained. “But eight years? I’m running out of ways to justify this to them. What we’re doing there…” he shook his head - “I don’t see the gods’ will in that anymore.”

  Florian set the decanter down, and kept listening in silence.

  “I mean, I don’t know.” Marcus planted his elbow on the arm of the chair. “Has there been debate about it? Does someone have an answer? I don’t.”

  Florian picked up one of the goblets. “Sounds like you’re struggling with more than just conscience.”

  “Maybe.” Marcus cupped his chin in his propped-up hand. “Maybe so.”

  Florian paced across the room and handed Marcus the goblet. “You know…”

  Marcus poked his head up, and took a cautious sip of the wine. “Yes?”

  “I’m going to say something that may surprise you.”

  Marcus eyed Florian from underneath his brow. “I’m listening.”

  “Before Hector took the throne, I thought he might get Histria into something like this.”

  Marcus took another sip. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.” Florian shuffled back to the end table. “Maybe not with Severin and Jormunthal, but I knew he wanted to pick a fight with someone.” He took a small cheese knife off the wine platter and carried it to his desk. “I told him he was making a mistake, and he threatened to, uh…” he paused for effect - “arrange a replacement for me.”

  Marcus watched Florian’s every move.

  “So I needed to find a different answer for him. I had to protect my career, you understand.” Florian opened the drawer. “If you’d like, I could share it with you.”

  Florian dropped the cheese knife in the drawer, and Marcus froze. In the corner sat a letter with a red military seal, addressed to Florian in Ciacco’s scratchy handwriting.

  “All right.”

  “You see, the wonderful thing about debating the holy texts is that the counterarguments are built right in. There’s always a loophole. Always a clause.” Florian shut the drawer, then floated across the room to the window. “Titus and Mira don’t deal in extremes, and that makes them easy to exploit. They’ll tell you something is wrong 99 times, and all you have to do is find the one.”

  “Really?” Marcus gingerly lifted himself out of his chair. “I thought the texts were, uh, were pretty unequivocal on war.”

  “Not quite.”

  Marcus stepped closer to the desk, keeping Florian in the corner of his eye.

  “All you do is take the Verse of Balance - it’s an unorthodox interpretation, but it works - and pair it with a verse from the Book of Titus called ‘The Tale of the Kadithan Guard.’” Florian paused for a sip of wine, the
n went on. “The Celestial Pair came to the golden gates of Kaditha in beggars’ clothes. The guards ridiculed them and threw stones at them, and refused to let them pass.”

  Marcus leaned over the top of the desk and grabbed the drawer pull with both hands, and pulled it out a hairsbreadth at a time, so it wouldn’t make a sound.

  “When they revealed their true form, the guards begged for mercy, and were terrified. But the Pair tore the gates down to punish them for being so unkind.” Florian kept preaching from the patch of sunlight under the window. “You now have evidence that the Celestial Pair will fight in self-defense, and the Verse of Balance to tell you that no society can be all one thing all the time.”

  “Idealism versus realism?”

  “Exactly.” Florian folded his arm behind his back. “A province can’t maintain constant peace, and it needs to be able to protect itself.”

  Marcus’ blood pounded in his ears as he reached into the drawer, and lifted the cheese knife just enough to tug the letter out. He lifted the documents with his fingertips and found another letter not far below, so he slipped it out and set it on top, where Ciacco’s letter had been.

  “So all I had to say was that Severin had become an ungrateful threat. They’d never given us what we deserved for helping them in the Cherry Orchard Revolt.” Florian’s head roved left and right as he watched the people on the street below. “Hector took it and ran with it, and my position was safe again.”

  “But what do I tell my troops?”

  “The same thing.” Florian took another sip of his wine. “Histria is showing Severin the error of their ways. They’re doing what the Celestial Pair would’ve done all along.”

  “What about Jormunthal?”

  “They’re Severin’s friends. They chose the side of the Kadithan guard.” Florian turned his head again, but mercifully, he looked away. “Now we’re beset upon by two provinces. Your men may suffer, but history will be on their side.”

  Marcus’ fingers trembled as he inched the drawer shut again, and with a quick rustle of fabric, he shoved the letter down his tunic front.

  Florian glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t you think?”

  “I-I… I don’t know.” Marcus grabbed his goblet and raised it to his mouth. “Maybe I have to think about it.”

  “Do.” Florian gave Marcus a supercilious smile. “You don’t have to believe any of it. You just have to make them believe you do.”

  Marcus gulped down the rest of his wine. “Right.”

  “Now - is there anything else?”

  “No.” Marcus vehemently shook his head. “This has been, uh, educational.”

  “Good.” Florian put Marcus’ goblet on the table where it belonged. “Write to me. Tell me how it goes over.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Florian added, “And, uh…”

  Marcus sweated under his collar. “What?”

  “When you see him again, tell Tiberius I said hello.”

  Florian opened the door and beckoned to the doorway one more time, and after Marcus stepped out, Florian shut it without a word. Marcus reached down his front and felt the letter between his tunic and turtleneck, then ran his hand through his hair and let out a ragged, relieved sigh.

  CHAPTER 8

  That night, Marcus and Livia huddled under a pitch-dark archway, with Livia in her work armor and Marcus in a pilfered set of his own.

  Livia’s eyes flitted back and forth between the alley and the road, and Marcus shivered in his midnight blue tunic and black wool cloak. A prefect wandered up and down the quiet, empty street, then stopped to adjust his breastplate, covered his mouth, and yawned.

  “Remind me why you brought me along for this again?” Marcus asked.

  “Because I need a lookout.”

  “And you thought I was the man for the job.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You got the letter, didn’t you?”

  Marcus blew on his hands. “By a hair’s breadth.”

  “This whole job is doing things by a hair’s breadth. Welcome to the underworld.” Livia eyed the ground as she scooted aside to avoid the bucket by her feet. “Now, keep an eye on that prefect for me. I’ll check the other side.”

  Marcus watched the prefect stop and study his nails, tip his head back, and lean underneath the lamp on the nearby wall.

  “You think we should come up with an alibi?” Marcus whispered.

  “Why?”

  “In case we get caught.”

  “We’re not going to get caught.”

  Marcus scowled. “Well, if we are.”

  “I’ll disappear. You can say you were on your way to the Grand Temple.” Livia’s head darted toward a light in a nearby window. “You were going there to pray, or something.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “You were worried about your troops. Honestly, have you ever broken a rule in your life?”

  “Just pictured myself doing a lot more of this from a war room, that’s all.”

  Livia hunched over. “That’s why you have me. To try new things once in a while.”

  Marcus furrowed his brow and grumbled, “I’m not going to gratify that with a response.”

  When the light snuffed out in the window, Livia looked away, and fumbled in the pouch on her hip.

  “Is he moving yet?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.” Livia kept searching, then pulled out a match. “Let me see the letter.”

  “Again?”

  “I just want to read it one more time.”

  Marcus produced the letter and handed it to her, then turned back to the guard. Livia struck the match on the sole of her boot and held the letter up to the feeble light.

  “Oh, this is good.” A devious smile bloomed on Livia’s face. “Debt securities? For armor production and troop movement costs? This is going to destroy him.”

  Marcus grimaced. “Mira’s blood, I hope so.”

  As Livia read, Marcus blew another breath cloud on his hands, and the guard unstuck himself from the wall and strolled around the corner of the nearby shop.

  “All right,” Marcus murmured. “He’s on the move.”

  Livia shook the match out. “Come on.”

  “How much farther is it to the Grand Temple?”

  “Two or three blocks. Let’s go!”

  •••

  They ran and ran through side-streets, under arches, over cobblestones, until they reached the Grand Temple and ducked into the corner beside the steps.

  “Shit,” Livia swore under her breath.

  Marcus murmured back, “What?”

  “Look at that light under the doorway. The clerics must still be awake.”

  “They’re on the night shift.” Marcus pulled his hood further down his forehead. “Temples always have to be open. You didn’t plan for that?”

  “I forgot.”

  “The Book of Mira says so.” Marcus scowled. “You ought to read it sometime.”

  Another prefect sauntered down the block, then vanished into the dark.

  “All right.” Livia reached under her cloak and pulled a mallet from her belt. “Once I start, we’ll have a matter of moments to finish this and get out. Can you do that?”

  Marcus handed her the letter with a firm soldier’s nod.

  “Good.” Livia took the letter in her free hand and popped open another pouch. “If you see anyone coming, whistle.”

  “That call you showed me?”

  “That’s right.”

  Marcus handed her the bucket. “Let me count you down.”

  Livia stuck an iron nail in her teeth. “Go ahead.”

  Marcus mouthed the numbers to her - three - two - Livia held her breath - and as soon as he finished one, he shoved between her shoulder blades.

  Livia leaped out of the corner, tools and letter still in hand, and dashed up the steps on her tiptoes before she stumbled to a halt. She set the bucket down, spat out the nail, then raised the letter to the doo
r, and anchored it with her hand - positioned the nail - and bang! She drove it into the wood.

  Bang! The nail sank deeper. Bang! Livia hammered it down to the hilt. Splinters flew past her face and the light flickered under the doorway, and at the end of the block, the patrolling prefect turned around.

  Marcus’ eyes flitted toward the sound of footsteps, and his ears pricked up. He cupped his hands over his mouth, then whistled three soft tones - down-up-down, like a bird call - and retreated into the shadows.

  Livia stepped away and stuffed the mallet back in her belt, then picked up the bucket and shuffled further back, just to make sure. In one huge sweep, she splashed a circle of red paint onto the door, then tossed the bucket aside and bolted.

  “Come on!”

  “The bucket,” Marcus began…

  “Forget it. Go!”

  Livia sprinted down the dark street with Marcus in hot pursuit, and just as they rounded the corner, a brother opened the temple door. He looked left, then right at the deserted steps, then raised his oil lamp.

  “Hello?” He asked. “Is someone there?”

  But no one answered him.

  •••

  That same night, they moved chest-to-chest together under their duvet, until they fell out of their tireless rhythm and slowed to a stop.

  Marcus hoisted himself up and smoothed Livia’s hair back, and he kissed her to reassure her as he caught his breath. He tried again - and faltered. Then a third time - and faltered again. Livia blinked at the canopy and fidgeted under him. He grit his teeth and moved one more time, then let out a frustrated growl, and he hung his head and wheezed.

  “Marcus? What’s wrong?”

  Marcus whispered, “Shit.”

  •••

  An hour later, Livia curled up under the comforter, but Marcus tossed and turned, squirming and rearranging his pillows.

  “Marcus?” Livia squinted and pawed at her eyes. “What’s going on over there?”

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus murmured.

  Livia sighed. “I told you, it’s fine.”

  Marcus squished his cheek into his pillow with a sullen face.

  “You’re not 35 anymore.”

  Marcus sounded ill. “Don’t hang that over my head.”