The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen

by R. T. Lowe

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE Chapter 1 The Warning

  PART I Chapter 2 Ivy

  Chapter 3 The Faceman

  Chapter 4 Orientation

  Chapter 5 Dirk

  Chapter 6 Coping

  Chapter 7 The Groundskeeper

  Chapter 8 Roommates

  Chapter 9 The Betas

  Chapter 10 No-Man’s-Land

  Chapter 11 Blue Toro

  Chapter 12 Pizza and Beers

  Chapter 13 The Game

  Chapter 14 The Groundskeeper’s Other Job

  Chapter 15 Woodrow’s Room

  Chapter 16 The Numbered Ones

  Chapter 17 The Stalker

  Chapter 18 The Ghost and St. Rose

  Chapter 19 Room 444

  Chapter 20 The Interview

  Chapter 21 The Revolutionary

  Chapter 22 The Introduction

  Chapter 23 The Unveiling

  Chapter 24 Breaking the Seal

  Chapter 25 A Brave New World

  PART II Chapter 26 Midterms

  Chapter 27 The Journal

  Chapter 28 Headbutts and Footsteps

  Chapter 29 Validation

  Chapter 30 Timetables

  Chapter 31 Rain Cup on the Horizon

  Chapter 32 Answers

  Chapter 33 Secrets

  Chapter 34 What the Cat Dragged In

  Chapter 35 The Dead Campus

  Chapter 36 Birthday Wishes

  Chapter 37 The Report

  Chapter 38 Demonstration

  Chapter 39 Heaven’s on Fire

  Chapter 40 Wolves

  Chapter 41 Stalking Stalkers

  Chapter 42 The Garrote

  Chapter 43 Quinn

  Chapter 44 Smoke and Lies

  Chapter 45 The Ghost in the Picture

  Chapter 46 Traps and Bricks

  Chapter 47 Breaking News

  Chapter 48 Sleuth

  Chapter 49 The Presser

  Chapter 50 The Elf Tree

  Chapter 51 The Room

  Chapter 52 Into Darkness

  Chapter 53 Confession

  Chapter 54 Missing

  Chapter 55 Cove Rock

  Chapter 56 Grandma’s House

  Chapter 57 Farewells and Suspicions

  Chapter 58 We Meet Again

  Chapter 59 The Cliff Walk

  Chapter 60 The Trunk

  Chapter 61 The Unexpected Visitor

  Chapter 62 The Drive

  Chapter 63 The Ten-Headed Beast

  The Felix Chronicles

  Freshmen

  By R.T. Lowe

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by R.T. Lowe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission of the author.

  Book design by Jenny Zemanek

  eBook formatting by Amy Eye: The Eyes for Editing

  For Mell

  My sweetest friend.

  PROLOGUE

  (A.D. 336)

  Chapter 1

  The Warning

  Hosius should have died on the day of his birth. Nature was to blame—even though it was his father who had tried to kill him. The unfortunate infant was never given a chance, as it was his father’s right—his obligation—to expose the deformed child on the foothills to the north where the elements would remedy the mistake if the birds and wild dogs didn’t do so first. Enraged at the sight of Hosius’s writhing, crippled form, his father had snatched him from his mother’s exhausted arms and dragged him out of the house by the wrist, his tiny feet staining the floor red with his mother’s blood. But before his father could consummate the act of mercy, a strange thing happened. As they emerged into the bright midday sunshine, his father was struck dead. As for the newborn Hosius, he was found unharmed a short while later and returned to the comfort of his waiting mother.

  His first brush with mortality had come even before his eyes fluttered open to take in the world around him. There had been many since, but it was always the first that he pondered at times like this, when the risk of death—a violent, painful death—awaited him within the hour.

  Hosius calmed his thoughts, centering himself in the present as he struggled up the winding path to the castle. Soon, the north entrance, and the guards manning it, came into view. They pointed in his direction, and then came the laughter, rolling over him like thunder. Not even disinterested observers failed to notice Hosius’s deformities; one leg was much shorter than the other, and his left arm ended at the elbow. No forearm, wrist, hand or fingers, and he didn’t try to conceal it; his shirt was cut to the proper length and closed up with leather ties. He was also short and slight, not much larger than a boy of twelve or thirteen. He was able to walk without an aid, but his limp was severe, and to some people, like the guards, his awkward gait was cause for merriment. And barbs: “gimp” and “cripple” greeted him as he approached.

  Hosius chuckled along stupidly with the bored guards, pretending to enjoy the same insults that had callused his ears as a child. When one of the heavily-armed brutes gave him a stiff shove, he toppled right over (necessary for the gaping onlookers to appreciate the full effect of the gag) and burst out in squalls of laughter as if he derived great joy from the man’s stunted sense of humor. When they were done with him—after the usual jokes had run their tired course and they’d resorted to making light of his tattered clothes and his old man’s tangled white beard—he heaped thanks on them for letting him enter the castle in the same way a slave thanks his master for not beating him when his master catches him eating scraps off the floor. But in the back of his mind, Hosius was planning for their next meeting. If he survived to see nightfall he would return. And when he did, he would pay the men his compliments in a much different manner. Hosius had never been the forgiving type.

  The courtyard was chaotic, a place where sights, sounds and smells all came together to overwhelm the senses in an intoxicating (and slightly nauseating) rush. Hosius blended in with the sea of shuffling feet, allowing the waves of mayhem to wash over him. Merchants, money changers and peddlers of every good imaginable competed for the attention of soldiers, travelers, toilers from the countryside and haggard waifs uprooted by war and famine. Loud disgruntled animals—horses, fat-uddered goats, unshorn sheep, and chickens—huddled together in cramped enclosures in the shade of the towering stone walls.

  He made his way to the west side of the ancient castle where the distant dull blue waters of Lake Iznik were visible in the distance and the sickly-sweet odor of animal dung mingling with flowering plants and cooking meats no longer permeated the air. The people gathered here were very different than those in the courtyard. Servants carrying wine and serving plates piled with savory herb breads and luscious figs dripping with honey scampered among clusters of finely dressed foreign dignitaries and lords great and small. The important people paid no attention to Hosius, although one held out an empty chalice at him and said something in an unfamiliar language that most likely meant “more wine.”

  The crowds thinned. The voices dimmed, and then faded away, and he was left alone with the cold stare of the lake and the punishing weight of a blazing su
n. The heat was unbearable. Hosius could tolerate just about anything—even the flashing pain that streaked up and down his bad leg—but he wasn’t immune to the conditions, and pinpricks of sweat clung to his olive skin like a swarm of blood-starved ticks as he arrived at an arched doorway carved out of a stone wall set well within the outer fortifications.

  He stopped to catch his breath, and nearly gagged on the incense and perfumes saturating the air. It may have been tantalizing to some, but Hosius, whose tastes were simple (unrefined some might say), found it cloying and self-indulgent. His eyes scoured the room before him, assimilating everything in an instant. It was cavernous. And opulently appointed—to frivolous excess, Hosius would argue, if anyone sought his opinion on the matter. Mosaics, bold and bright, splashed across the floor. Vivid frescos and gold-framed paintings adorned the walls. On one side of the room, just off the entrance, a pair of marble busts, one of Venus, the other of Apollo, flanked a dining table and lounging couch. Eight square backless stools, each made of bronze, and ornamented with silver and gold leaf, surrounded the table. On top, a large hammered silver tray overflowed with fresh fruit. And in the back of the room, a giant marble bust of Emperor Constantine dominated the space from its perch atop a tall pedestal. Oil lamps—perfumed oil, which contributed to the throat-clenching muskiness—burned on stands that lined the walls, lighting the room.

  He found the governor of Caesarea—the man he was looking for—standing beside the bust of Apollo embroiled in a heated discussion with six men wearing identical tunics, dusty brown and bejeweled. He was easy to spot. The governor—Eusebius—was a giant. And the men he was speaking with were cut from the same cloth: soft, pale and plump with an air of self-entitled contentment. That meant they could only be bureaucrats.

  Bureaucrats.

  It took some effort for Hosius to resist a smile because his chances of survival had just increased a hundredfold.

  But Eusebius was no bureaucrat. His proportions were immense. A head taller than the next tallest man in the room, he was wide at the waist and shoulders and slightly hunchbacked, his features frighteningly hawk-like: a large hooked nose, leather-colored skin, and an Adam’s apple the size of a child’s fist. He wore an intricately decorated dark-blue tunic and an elaborate headdress that heightened the impression that he was an enormous bird of prey.

  Hosius’s arrival didn’t elicit a reaction. He cleared his throat. Nothing. He did it again. This time louder, yet still no response from the governor, though one man—fat, purple-faced, and sweating through his tunic as he struggled to catch his breath—cast a haughty glance toward the doorway as if to say go find someone else to throw you a moldy piece of bread, you filthy beggar!

  “Lord Eusebius,” Hosius said, with emphasis on Lord, which the governor could construe as a show of respect, or sarcastic baiting. Hosius hoped for the latter.

  Eusebius kept his eyes on the bureaucrats, his thin lips barely moving when he spoke. “Hosius. It’s so good to see you.” His clipped tone indicated otherwise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. What brings you to Nicea?”

  “A simple act of carelessness can sometimes have far-reaching consequences.” Hosius entered the room, stepping past wine-filled amphorae stacked against the wall on either side of the doorway. The air inside was heavy and hot. No draft. “I’ve been told you misplaced something that belongs to the Emperor. A certain book.”

  Eusebius turned deliberately toward Hosius, then folded his arms across his thick chest. “Ahhhh… yes. About that…”

  “Leave us!” Hosius demanded, tilting his head at the man still gasping for air; his tremendous girth (his neck was wreathed in rolls of fat that wriggled over his collar, pulling down on his chin and parting his lips) identified him as the highest ranking member of the governor’s delegation.

  The man’s face reddened in sudden anger and he began to breathe even harder.

  “Shall I summon the guards, my lord?” a man with hair cropped close to his skull asked the governor.

  Eusebius didn’t answer, his narrowed eyes unmoving.

  “Now!” Hosius repeated. “Go to your sleeping quarters. You’ll be reunited with the governor soon enough.”

  The fat man started for Hosius and said primly, “Guards won’t be necessary. I’ll dispose of this trespassing peasant myself.” He settled his smug gaze on Hosius and added: “I’ll teach you to respect your superiors, worm. In the presence of Eusebius, you bow your—”

  “Shut up you imbecile!” Eusebius snapped at the man.

  The man stopped, face pinched, his eyes trained on the floor.

  The others stood there, their eyes darting uncertainly at one another, then at Eusebius, clearly expecting the governor to give the order to put Hosius in chains. But Eusebius only worked his jaw, grinding his teeth, looking as though he was suffering from a bout of severe constipation.

  Hosius stifled a grin of amusement as he watched the bewildered men shifting their weight from one foot to the other, too afraid to look Eusebius in the eye. Finally, when he gave them no orders and none appeared forthcoming, they skulked toward the back of the room and shuffled past the bust of Constantine, disappearing through a doorway that led to the inner chambers.

  His face deep crimson, Eusebius’s hands slowly curled into fists and he lifted a foot as if to stamp it down hard, then he appeared to think better of it and eased the sole of his sandal onto the tiled floor. “How dare you! How dare you give orders to my men! My men! Don’t you have anything better to do? Shouldn’t you be… dead?”

  Hosius thought this was quite funny, but he kept his face placid as he turned his back and studied a fresco depicting a scene from the Trojan War. The craftsmanship was excellent. He was simple, but no philistine. “Do you know who sent me?” He didn’t intend it as a question.

  “The mighty Constantine,” Eusebius said in a dramatic voice, like an actor entertaining an audience in an outdoor theatre.

  Hosius turned away from the fresco, surprised, but not stunned, by what he was hearing. “You’re not actually mocking the Emperor… are you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Eusebius’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “His spies have obviously informed you of what happened to his precious Manifesto. We all know he grows more paranoid by the day. But to place spies in my Fortress is unconscionable. Perhaps you should remind the Emperor that I’m a master of one of the five Fortresses of the Order of Belus. If I find the spy—and I will—I’ll feed her to my hounds.” Sweat broke through his bushy eyebrows and he blinked hard, wiping at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I’m sure it’s a woman. They always make the best spies.”

  Hosius plucked a small empty amphora from off the floor and cradled it in the crook of his reed-like half arm, absently gazing at the familiar painting on it without really seeing it. “I was told that one of your Sourcerors was reading the book by candlelight, and that it got too close to the flame. I was also informed that she was drunk.”

  Eusebius raised his shoulders and let them drop heavily, his mouth twitching into a smirk.

  Hosius paused, observing Eusebius from across the room. “So you don’t deny it then?” He stroked his grizzled beard with a weathered hand. “Perhaps being a master of one of the five Fortresses you were aware that there are only five copies of Constantine’s Manifesto in the entire realm. And you may have also heard it’s rather important—that only Sourcerors initiated in the Order are permitted to know of its existence.” Hosius was goading him, trying to get a reaction to determine if Eusebius was salvageable or not. “How did you allow that to happen?”

  “Draft another copy for your Emperor.” Eusebius cleared his throat and spat on the floor. “Isn’t that what you and Constantine’s other favorites do? The Emperor says he needs to piss, and you fight to see who can bring him the shiniest piss pot.”

  Hosius smiled, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Tell me—why do you harbor such hostility for the man who made you what you are? Constantine has
always held you in the highest regard. He appointed you Governor of Caesarea. He gave you your own Fortress. And this… this is how you repay him? Do I need to remind you that Constantine could shatter every bone in your body with a thought?”