Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  Grigor held up an outstretched hand. “We should exercise caution. I do not see any of Marta’s men yet, but visibility is very poor and growing worse as the sun sets. They are likely waiting for full dark, since presumably they already know that Hank has warned us.”

  Orson stepped closer to Carter, lifted his blade casually, and twirled the tip ever so slightly, like the head of a snake bobbing and swaying. “Think carefully. What can you tell us that might—” the blade struck, poking Carter in the stomach gently, but Orson applied increasing pressure—“help your chances of surviving the night?”

  Charley noted with some measure of pride that Carter seemed to be fighting the temptation to rub his now dark and swelling eyes.

  Carter swallowed. “I’m sorry. You have to understand your High Scores are just too valuable in Meritorium. And this many Low Scores, too, and the Venatio coming up so soon? We had to; really, it’s nothing personal—”

  “What is he babbling about?” Charley demanded, feeling the tickle of his temper scratch the inside of his skull again. He pushed Orson’s blade away and stepped in close to Carter. “Just tell us how we can get our people back!”

  Carter smiled slowly, looking maniacal with his mask of two quickly swelling eyes. “It’s already too late.” Carter fell straight backward, reaching into his pocket to produce a vial of purple shimmery liquid. Hitting the ground flat on his back, eyes gazing straight up to the darkening star-filled sky, Carter smashed the vial on the ground.

  A deep purple phloxy haze enveloped them all.

  Charley sank to his knees, slowly. He tried to lift his arm toward Carter, but it remained motionless at his side, unwilling to obey the command his brain was sending. He tipped to one side, unable to resist the insistent coaxing of gravity.

  He hit the ground, asleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Circumcellions

  Wavy, knee-high grass brushed Charley’s legs as he trudged along. They had been traveling hard for about five hours since awakening in the morning, all without food or water. He licked his cracked lips. They hurt, but not as bad as the manacles digging into his neck, ankles, and wrists, which were already chafed and raw. They were all chained together in the “zippo” harness. Grigor and Orson were in the front, Charley and Hank in the rear—each pair joined by a yoke made of bamboo. His only solace was that he was walking behind Grigor, his broad back blotting out the sun, giving Charley some respite from the heat.

  The good news was that they were headed directly to Meritorium, led by a guide who knew exactly where they were going.

  The bad news was that they were slaves.

  “Let’s take a break!” Charley heard Marta call out from up ahead.

  Charley plopped on the ground, massaging his neck and then calves. The manacles not only chafed his skin almost raw, but their cumbersome weight altered his stride, forcing him to walk with his head pulled forward and up on his toes to keep from tripping.

  “Hurts, huh?” Carter said, strolling back to them—but not too close. He approached them the way a man scared of dogs, but trying mightily not to let it show, approaches a kennel of aggressive canines.

  Charley grunted something unintelligible. In retrospect, losing his temper and punching Carter had been a mistake. But the positive was that Carter’s face did look ridiculous, and strangely like a raccoon. Hank should be proud.

  “What did you say?” Carter asked, inclining his head closer.

  Charley sprung off the ground and lunged, rattling his chains at Carter with a mock yell.

  Carter backed up hurriedly and swore, recoiling as if afraid of being bitten. “Keep it up, and you won’t get any water for the entire day,” Carter said, lifting his chin, as if to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid.

  “What did you say?” Charley said. “Come a little closer so I can hear you.”

  “Carter!” Marta shouted, appearing behind him. “What did I just hear you say? You haven’t given them any water?” She cuffed the side of his head. “You worthless dolt! We need these High Scores healthy if we are going to get top dollar for them.” Marta motioned for a large bearded man with a belly like a beer barrel to bring them water.

  Charley drank gratefully, letting the water run across his lips, sucking in the much-needed moisture.

  “And get them something to eat, too.” Marta made a motion with her thick fingers. She didn’t look scared, but Charley noticed that she was experienced enough to maintain a safe distance from them. He got the distinct feeling they were not the first slaves she had captured.

  “Thank you,” Hank said, looking to Marta with eyes wide. Charley hoped Hank was not evincing some symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome, because whatever Marta had done to him while he was “bait” had messed with his typically unassailable arrogance.

  “Where’s Sandy?” Charley asked, locking eyes on Marta.

  Marta’s gimlet eyes narrowed. “She’s with me. She’s fine—for now. But, if I hear any disturbance back here, any efforts made at escape, anything that even sounds like an attempt at escape—” She stepped forward quickly, much quicker than Charley would have thought possible for her wide body and jerked the chain attached to his neck, drawing Charley up close, his head cricked to one side, the iron manacle compressing the carotid arteries in the side of his neck. “I will kill her first.” Charley felt himself growing lightheaded, the blood cut off to his brain. She twisted the chain in her fingers, digging the manacle deeper into his neck. “Do you understand?”

  He felt himself getting dizzy. “Yes,” he managed to croak out. “I understand.”

  “Good.” She abruptly released the chain, and stepped back quickly, leaving him gasping on all fours in the dirt.

  “I think she means it,” Orson said dryly, adjusting his iron collar with a delicate touch, managing somehow to still look regal and self-assured while in stock and chains.

  Grigor turned his head around as far as he could twist himself with the double set of chains they had used as a precaution against his great strength. “She’s some woman.”

  Orson started, looking sideways at Grigor. “Some woman indeed,” he snorted. “She’s your type, huh, old boy?”

  “No, of course not,” Grigor said. “Surprising—she’s a surprising woman, is all I meant.”

  “Uh-huh,” Orson said.

  Hank turned, eyes wide and looking uncharacteristically uncertain, still shook up after his experience as bait the previous evening. “She wouldn’t really do anything to Sandy … would she, Charley?”

  Orson craned his neck around, his face bland. “Oh, I believe she would.”

  Grigor spoke up. “Sandy’s a High Score, too. She does have that going for her. It’s doubtful that Marta will want to lose the revenue from selling her.”

  “Right …” Charley said. “Marta seems like nothing if not a shrewd businesswoman; I think she wants to keep us all alive.” He paused, adjusted his neck manacle, and spoke again softly. “But I don’t doubt she will resort to violence if she thinks it’s needed.”

  “So what do we do?” Hank asked.

  “I’m thinking,” Charley said.

  “Don’t do that.” Orson rolled his eyes. “We don’t need any of your harebrained ideas—let me guess, your plan will be something that involves you charging straight ahead, in a rage, trying to overpower six people, without a thought given to what will happen next?”

  “I haven’t exactly worked it out yet.”

  “Riiight.” Orson shook his head.

  “Let’s move out!” Marta called out from ahead. Rising slowly, they resumed the slow, painful slog forward, somewhat refreshed by the water and a tough strip of jerky that tasted like tree bark dipped in charcoal. But Charley was still no closer to seeing a way out.

  But he knew Orson was right: rage was not a plan.

  But it was a start.

&n
bsp; ***

  “Keep a lid on it!” Marta hissed. She ducked her head down lower to make eye contact with Charley, his neck still bowed from the tug of the neck manacle. “Let me remind you, one peep from any of you, and it’s lights out for your little girlfriend.” She clasped the chain and jerked Charley’s head up, pointing ahead, far down the dirt road, to where Sandy was walking in chains, surrounded by three of Marta’s men.

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” She released the chain, letting Charley’s head flop forward. “Because we’re almost to Meritorium. We just need to make it past these religious nut-jobs up ahead.”

  “Religious nut-jobs?” Orson asked, looking over, now interested in their conversation.

  Marta lowered her voice, as if one might jump out of the grass along their path at any moment. “Circumcellions. A Christian suicide cult that’s opposed to slavery. Their goal is to die by martyrdom, so they attack travelers with clubs in hopes that they’ll be killed. They camp outside the city.”

  “I’m familiar with them,” Orson said. “In Meritropolis, we had—” He glanced at Grigor. “We had an incident with some of them years ago.”

  “A Christian suicide cult?” Hank said. “Doesn’t sound very Christian to me.”

  “A lot of what so-called Christians do isn’t very Christian,” Orson snorted. “But these wackos are the worst. They’re usually drunk; they rape and pillage. They’ll do anything to goad someone into killing them.”

  “It’s true,” Marta said. “And we’re happy to oblige them. But even better would be to get through to Meritorium undetected.” She looked directly at Charley and hissed. “Now, if you want Sandy to live, just keep your heads down and be quiet.” Marta walked ahead of them to rejoin the men guarding Sandy at the front of their caravan.

  “They want to be killed?” Hank said, scrunching up his face.

  Orson nodded. “Sometimes the freaks will even throw themselves off a cliff if they can’t get someone to kill them. At least, that’s what they did in ancient Roman times. Around here, there aren’t many cliffs.” He curled up his lip. “Likely it’s the animal combos that get them instead.” He grinned wickedly.

  “It’s true, they are nut-jobs, as you say, but, historically, the Circumcellions actually made an important contribution,” Grigor said, his broad shoulders ahead of Charley rising and falling in time with his steps. “Well, let me rephrase that. It was a reaction to the Circumcellions by Augustine that made an important contribution: the Doctrine of Just War. Basically, it’s the philosophical theory for when Christians are justified in using violence.”

  “You’ve thought about this before,” Charley said.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Orson said, turning his head away and facing forward down their dusty path.

  “Yes,” Grigor said shortly. “Orson and I have discussed this—”

  “At great length,” Orson interjected.

  “We don’t see eye to eye,” Grigor said, choosing to leave it at that and remain silent.

  “It’s always right to fight for what’s right,” Charley said, tugging his head against the neck manacle, and raising his eyes to look meaningfully at Orson, daring him to return his gaze.

  “I think we know where you stand,” Orson snorted. “But, hey, we’re not in Meritropolis, and I’m not commander of even a dung heap now, so we can do whatever you want.” He paused, now turning to look at Charley square in the eyes. “At least until we meet up with my father. He doesn’t take so kindly to people ignoring his wishes.”

  Charley thought of Alec. The thought struck him that fighting for revenge wasn’t really fighting for what was right, was it? He pushed the thought out of his mind. He was fighting to bring down the System, that was the right thing to do—it had to be.

  “I’m going to do more than ignore his wishes,” Charley said softly, his eyes blazing, and focused straight ahead. But not before he saw the strangest of looks on Orson’s face.

  It looked very much like satisfaction.

  ***

  “Release them!” An elderly man in tattered rags straddled their path, his knobby knees jutting out to each side. “The prophet says that slavery—” he drew the word out with a preacher’s cadence, his voice rising in a fevered pitch—“is evil!” Unkempt hair spilling in all directions, his eyes wild and possibly showing signs of inebriation or worse, the man zeroed his frantic gaze in on Marta, perceiving her as the leader.

  “You!” He lifted a bony hand, slowly stretching out a long pointy nail, dark and curved like a bird’s talon. “Do you repent of your transgressions?”

  Charley watched from well behind the confrontation, still chained in the zippo harness and with eyes wide, as Marta returned the old man’s stare without flinching. She remained motionless, finally breaking the silence with a shout of her own. “I do not! Do you intend to obstruct our path, or will you let us pass and live to preach another day?”

  Charley was impressed with Marta’s resolve. Apparently, her strategy was that Circumcellions, when engaged, must be confronted head-on.

  The old man drew himself up to his full height. He looked absurdly like a dancing skeleton: his scrawny chest swelling up and gangly limbs splayed to each side. “I guard this road to Meritorium with my life. I rejoice to die a martyr for the cause!”

  “As you wish.” Marta drew her blade, advancing a step closer.

  The man laughed maniacally. Charley thought it almost certain he was abusing some sort of substance stronger than alcohol. “But, just one moment—” He cackled again, a high screeching sound that floated back on the wind to Charley and sent the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. “Agonistici, gather your Israelites!”

  Orson swore. “Great, that means there’s more than just him. And ‘Israelites’ are what they call their weapons.”

  “They have weapons?” Hank asked.

  “Just clubs,” Grigor said. “They believe it’s wrong to use swords or any type of blade.”

  “Wait, I thought they wanted to die?” Charley asked, watching the old man do a little hopping dance back and forth, side to side, as more raggedy, club-wielding Circumcellions joined from the periphery.

  “Oh, they do,” Orson said. “But it’s all about how they die that’s important. Fighting for what they believe in, stopping slavery or whatever, gets them more glory in the afterlife.”

  “So that’s why they go to such lengths to provoke people?” Charley said slowly, watching the man continue his dance, taunting Marta and her cadre of armed men, each of whom looked like they could just push their way past him. “They really do want to die …”

  “Yes,” Grigor said simply. “They are a much more formidable opponent than they look, particularly because they are almost always in a large group, and heavily intoxicated. The combination of drugs, groupthink, and religion is a dangerous mix.”

  “Maybe they’ll win and set us free,” Charley said.

  Orson corrected him with a flutter of his fingers. “Umm, that’s not the way it works. We definitely don’t want them to win. We are better off in Marta’s hands.”

  “They have been known to torture and kill any slaves they manage to free,” Grigor said. “It’s their way of sharing the blessing with the former slaves. That way they can all receive glory and enlightenment in death as a martyr.”

  “Oh,” Charley said, chagrined.

  “Uh, I think he’s looking at us …” Hank said.

  “Who?” Charley asked.

  “The prophet or whoever. The old man.”

  Charley looked for the elderly man, now hardly visible in the mass of jumping, bouncing, hip-swaying cult members that blocked their path. Then he saw a club clasped by a scrawny arm raise slowly in the air, and then the eerie screeching started again in earnest. For just a moment, Charley had the sensation that he was watching a pack of animals, not hum
ans. Something about the way they bumped up and down, clutching clubs and clearly hungry for violence, made Charley think about the chimpanzelles they had seen earlier.

  The man did seem to be looking at them. He raised his other arm and made a gesture to the Circumcellions for silence. He continued to look in their direction, the screeching and dancing now notably absent.

  “What’s he doing?” Hank asked, fear rising in his voice.

  “I believe he intends to rescue us,” Orson said.

  The man thrust both hands straight up in the air as if summoning a lightning strike. Which, Charley thought, maybe he was. He bellowed out, “You slave traders will be in those chains and wearing that harness—” he pointed toward the captives—“before nightfall!” His eyes blazed with a strange light. “Agonistici, charge!”

  Marta’s men were hardened fighters with deadly sharp blades that flashed death and dismemberment indiscriminately in the gloaming light. Marta herself was a fair swordswoman, and what she lacked in quickness, she made up for in clever maneuvering. They chopped and hacked their way into the midst of the Circumcellions with careful precision, bodies falling in their wake. The dusky light glory-striped each fallen martyr, for a moment captured, time immemorial, in a medieval-esque panorama of violence and veneration.

  But, for all of that, the battle seemed to shift before Charley’s eyes.

  Marta’s men were discovering the difficulties of fighting an opponent with senses dulled by pharmaceutical means and determined to die in spectacular fashion. One young man purposefully let himself be impaled by a sword, only to die shrieking, not in pain, but in glorious ecstasy. Charley’s eyes grew wide as the man, in his dying throes, pushed himself further onto the sword, allowing his fellow martyrs-to-be beat the man down with their clubs.

  Marta and her men were being pushed back.

  Quite suddenly, Charley, Hank, Grigor, and Orson found themselves in the thick of it. Even in chains, Grigor was a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who came near, Circumcellion or slaver, was dispatched of with brutal efficiency. The four of them moved like a slow-rolling tank, trampling all who made the mistake of getting too close. One gaunt Circumcellion, eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated, managed to find himself inside of their harness and was summarily pummeled from four directions at once.