“Perhaps,” Julia said. “Gods know that a single piece of furniture from this room would sell for a thousand gold pieces. And yet, though you advise against it, my heart’s desire is to have them all arrested, every last one of them. The fate of the Empire should not be in the hands of those incompetents.”
“Maybe you speak truly, that they deserve it.” Antonio smiled. “But you must remember, my Julia, that the people of the Empire are not like those of the South or East. Because they vote in the councilors, they have an illusion of having power. The free men and women of the Empire think they are actually in control of their lives.”
“Then the people must not be so prideful,” Julia hissed. Realizing that tears had begun to flow, she got off the couch, crossed the room, and fetched a napkin. “They must be taught respect. And my son—you know?—my son truly is incompetent. I would not admit such a thing to anyone besides you, Antonio. Even I have times of weakness.” She wiped her tears with the napkin. “Still, he is the emperor. They should not have such power over him.”
“True, signora, in the South and the East,” Antonio said, “but not in the capital. I fear you must play by our rules, and gold coin can go a long way.”
“How much is necessary?” Julia said. Suddenly the tears made her feel self-conscious. She was a proud Imperial matron—a widow, but the Empress mother—and no one should see her in such a pitiful state.
“A thousand gold pieces is enough for any sane man to do anything,” Antonio said.
“Then go,” Julia said. “It angers me that it is necessary. I don’t trust those councilors, and I know they will vote against my son. So go… offer Bruesio the money. Gods, what a barbaric land this is.”
CHAPTER FIVE:
Duty
Claudio-Valens Adamantus
For fourteen long days, Claudio-Valens rode down the Path of Tidus. With the bronze peaks of the Goldenhorn Mountains always to his left, he passed village after village. By the fifth day, the distances between the villages had shortened. By tenth day, the baked yellow grass had given way to roads, densely-packed apartment blocks, and houses. Like a herald of something greater, this suburban sprawl hinted at the glory of what was to come.
At last the fourteenth day came, and Claudio passed through the Arch of Conquest that marked the entrance to Imperial City. Once inside, Claudio rode in the shadow of the towering apartment blocks. On one of the bare brick-faced sides, an advertisement for the Imperial Arena had been painted: “Glory, Honor, Blood—Two tickets for five silver.” Another came right after it: a picture of a woman in a brassiere and skirt, and the words “Lady Ciutta’s Den—Third Building on Straight Street—Enter and Enjoy.” Claudio immediately looked away, feeling a stab of shame at his countrymen.
The city swarmed with people. A pack of urchins bolted past Claudio as they chased a dog, laughing all the way. A pair of Fharese noblewomen in white gowns approached cautiously from the other direction, their faces hidden by blue veils. A wealthy eastern couple—dressed in purple and glittering with jewelry—pushed through the crowd with a gaggle of slaves, even as they shouted complaints about the “squalor” and “ugly buildings.” More familiar to Claudio, a band of legionaries—on temporarily leave, apparently, and identifiable only by their military capes—stumbled down the way, reeking of alcohol.
The city drew men and women from the four winds.
The Empire itself was much the same, a disparate group of people united by a single force: the proud and intellectual, if useless, east; the rustic, unlearned north; and the west, kindred in blood and vision. Five parts, five peoples, all governed by one.
“One Land, One Vision, One Emperor,” Claudio found himself muttering the Empire’s motto under his breath.
Soon he reached Imperial Square. The people here were clustered even tighter. Merchant stalls lined the perimeter. On the north side was the hippodrome, and beyond it the towering White Palace with its colonnades, domes and immense columns. At once he made his way there.
The guards recognized Claudio and let him into the palace, explaining that he made it just in time for the celebration, that it had been moved back a day and would start tonight at sundown. Hearing this Claudio immediately went to his private quarters—a small marble-floored room on the seventh (and highest) story of the palace. The sun was already dipping below the horizon. Hurriedly he asked a servant for soap and a washing bowl; his skin was caked with dirt and sweat from the long journey, and his smell was less than pleasant.
He remembered that—at least partially—the reason he came was to scope out this new emperor, to see if he fit the exemplar of Anthans, first of the emperors. If he didn’t, he would need to report back to his mother with the grave news, and perhaps do something else.
In time he scrubbed all the dirt from his skin. He donned his nice clothes: a felt hat, a fine tunic of scarlet cloth and short woolen breeches. He glanced at himself in the mirror and adjusted the hat a few times. His unruly brown hair refused fit into the right place. Such fine clothing was not seemly for a man of the knights’ class; it was showy and against what his father Lucento had taught him. But the Augusts and the Imperial Family had, in recent times, taken to excess and showmanship. It was improper for a wholesome Imperial, but, alas, it was necessary for Claudio to dress like this.
He waited until the sun had mostly set before he exited the room.
Inside the grand hall, Claudio realized he was the most humbly dressed of all the partygoers. The men wore silk tunics of rich forest green and dark purple. The women wore billowing dresses of samite, dyed sky blue or flame red and woven with gold or silver thread. Claudio even caught sight of an Imperial woman in southron belly-dancer clothing: in an orange veil, a short skirt and a tight red midriff.
I, Claudio thought, am about ten years behind the current fashion. No, make that a hundred.
“Ah, Signor Claudio!”
He turned around to find a balding old man in a green, silver-embroidered tunic and form-fitting trousers. The purple sash around his chest identified him as a councilor.
“Don’t you remember me?”
“Ah, yes!” Claudio said, and froze, biting his lips as he realized that no, he really didn’t.
“Councilor Bruesio… how could you forget him? No one can!” He was clearly drunk, and the wineglass in his hand lent credence to Claudio’s guess. “The last time I saw you, you were a child. Ten years old, at most, and the son of the most famous legate in the Empire.”
The collective noise of the chatter got to Claudio and he remembered just how truly inept he was in situations like this. He put on fake smile and tried to project an air that said, “I am so happy to be here.” Then he said aloud, “I hear there’s a new emperor.”
“Yes, yes,” Bruesio said. “That is what the whole celebration is about, after all.” He laughed and took a sip of wine. “I like him very much. He is such a good ruler.”
Claudio saw dishonesty in Bruesio’s eyes. He was wise to speak well of him in public; yet self-serving dishonesty always sent Claudio’s blood boiling. “I must go,” he said, and walked off. Claudio could taste Bruesio’s stunned silence in the air as he walked away.
The party went on. The crowd grew collectively stupider as the racks of wine slowly emptied. Claudio had a glass of his own, though he never liked the taste of the stuff. He chatted as little as he could—a silent figure, for the most part, throughout the night, and the lack of acknowledgment did hurt him. But he was not a councilor or even an August; just the son of the most famous—and now deceased—Imperial Knight.
Eventually the identity of the new emperor became clear: a young man, about Claudio’s age, swarthy, with jet-black hair, wearing a white-and-purple robe studded with gems; and—Claudio noted—completely and utterly drunk. What little glimpses Claudio caught of him through the hours included his grabbing women and making lewd gestures, making filthy jokes and cementing it in Claudio’s mind that this young man had two purposes i
n life: sex and drinking. The imperial office was just a means to that end.
Late in the night, Claudio was stunned to see the girl in southron dress approach him. She tore off her veil, revealing brown eyes and light, sun-kissed brown hair. “Hello,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Claudio.”
“You’re awful quiet.” She smiled, flashing a set of bright white teeth. “Want to know a secret?”
“Erm—”
She was beautiful. “I’m not August. I’m not even of the Knightly class. I’m a girl from Lady Ciutta’s den, nothing special, just a whore from the west side. I don’t know why I’m telling you this but I think I can trust you.”
Her breath reeked of alcohol. Claudio felt duty-bound to take her back to her place of work. “How did you get in here?” he whispered.
“I snuck, and I climbed. The security precautions aren’t as strenuous as people say…”
The Imperial Guard would kill her if anyone besides Claudio found out. “Miss, you need to get out at once. You’re very lucky I’m the one you told.”
“I knew I could trust you.”
Glass shattered somewhere. A few gasps echoed through the room.
A shrill woman’s voice called out, “Someone tried to murder my son!”
The girl was gone.
Claudio rushed over to the scene of the commotion. Julia Seánus covered her eyes with her hands. She shrieked, “Someone handed my son a glass of wine, and Leon tested it, and look at him now!”
The bodyguard—Eloesian by the look of his face and a slave by the look of his simple brown clothing—lay on the floor in a seizure. In his still-shaking hand he clutched the stem of the shattered wineglass.
“I knew some people didn’t like my son!” Julia hissed. “Well I won’t let you kill him! He’s my son, gods damn it all. He’s my son!”
“Calm yourself,” said the councilor from before, Bruesio. The event seemed to have wrenched him from his drunkenness; in fact, it seemed to have sobered almost everyone. In the corner, next to his mother, Emperor Giton stood shaking, face white with fear.
Finally he said something, “Once I find out who did this, I’ll have him peeled!”
Claudio spent the night in his room pondering. Things were not well in the White Palace, and he needed to get to the bottom of it. The strange night seemed a blur to him. But despite his reservations he knew he was needed. An assassination attempt on the emperor was rare, even with such a devious and—dare Claudio think it—incompetent boy on the White Throne.
“Yes, I am needed,” he said aloud as he stared out into the lights of the city and felt the cool breeze of the sea. Tomorrow, he would write a letter to his mother. He would stay in Imperial City because duty called.
CHAPTER SIX:
Bad Dreams
Marcus Silverus
Ever since Marcus left Tivera at the Augur Collegium, it seemed a demon plagued his dreams, filling his mind with nightmares. He dreamed of sharp pains, of strange tools, weird pictures and dark grins. He dreamed of sadistic laughter and painful instruments, poking and prodding waking him up in the middle of the night, when the moon was still out.
Even what little ceremonial duties he had to perform as Guardian of the Wine Cellar seemed stressful. He had not gotten a good night’s sleep in many days. Fatigue was all he felt.
His racing thoughts ended and he realized it was a sunny day, and he was eating the noon meal with his friend Niccolo.
“Hello?” the tan, blond-haired young man said, in a tone that indicated Marcus was the stupidest person on earth. “I said my friend Jacopo is having a party at his father’s mansion on Dualmis. Are you coming, Marcus? It’s tonight.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Come on!” Niccolo sounded angry. “What is wrong with you lately? You used to go to every party in the city!”
“I don’t feel myself.” It was true; all he could think about, lately, was Tivera. Perhaps she was sending him a message through his dreams. She was, after all, an augur; a strange augur, one that had the power of Light rather than wind and speed.
“It’s Dualmis. It’s an elite party. There will be girls.” Niccolo said the last part through gritted teeth. He slammed his fist down onto the table, shaking the little scraps of beef that remained of their meal.
“Sorry, Niccolo… I don’t think I can make it. I’m sick.”
“That’s right, you’re sick,” Niccolo sneered. “You’ve lost it, Marcus. You’ve lost your charm. You’ve become boring.” He stood up and threw three silver coins onto the table. “That should cover me.” He stormed off.
Some friend Niccolo is, Marcus thought. But he realized he didn’t care, as he wandered the streets just south of Imperial Square. He knew where his legs were taking him: to the Augur Collegium, to Tivera.
Soon enough the collegium stood before him. Above the lintel, there were words: “On the Winds of Fortune, We Speed to Victory.”
A woman’s voice spoke from behind him.
“Septimo! Did you hear? Someone tried to assassinate the emperor!”
“No! Surely not!” a man answered.
Strange. Marcus, in his few interactions with Emperor Giton, found him relatively unsuited for the position, but not worthy of assassination. Especially not just weeks into his reign. Then again, a sense of apathy had fallen over him. All he cared about was rescuing Tivera, and he had lost a friend because of that.
He tried to enter the collegium but a staff blocked his path. The bearer of the weapon said, “The public is forbidden entry.”
Marcus backed up a step, then glared. “Do you know who you talk to? I hold an Imperial title. I can go wherever I please.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to speak to Tivera. In fact, I command you to let me speak with Tivera.”
The augur’s expression soured. “I do not know of any Tivera. In fact, I don’t know what you’re talking about at all.”
“Let me in,” Marcus boomed and pushed toward the gap in the doors.
In the span of one second, three things happened: the tip of the staff knocked Marcus on the mouth, knocking a tooth loose; the shaft hit him in the chin, and the augur shoved him all the way down the steps and into the street.
“We move with the speed of the wind,” the augur said. “Remember that when you try to fight us.”
Grabbing his mouth as it flared with pain, Marcus stood up. He cast a quick glance behind him and saw a crowd had gathered to watch. “The Silveri do not give up easy,” he said, repeating his father’s words as he wiped his mouth. His fingers came out dripping with blood. He grasped the hilt of his sword with his right hand, then questioned the wisdom of battling an augur. Marcus wasn’t a terrible swordsman, but augurs possessed powers of wind and speed, and someone who “wasn’t terrible” was certainly not a match.
Up on the top of the stair, the augur smiled proudly. “‘The Silveri do not give up easy.’ That is what you say. It’s a quaint saying. Unfortunately, ‘not giving up’ does not mean ‘claiming victory.’ Besides, I’ve heard the only thing the Silveri do not give up on is drinking.”
Marcus swept his sword fully out of its sheath. “I can have you arrested.”
“Can you?” The augur laughed. “What is your position, again? You said you had an Imperial title. Your name is Marcus Silverus, no?”
Marcus nodded his head brusquely.
“Guardian of the Wine Cellar, then.”
A few people in the gathering crowd laughed abruptly, but quieted down when Marcus glared back at them. He glanced to his sword, noticing it was a standard military issue, nothing special. For a second, shame filled him. He looked back up at the augur and felt disarmed by his words, even though Marcus held a slicing weapon of steel and the augur wielded a long wooden pole. He could not let the people see an augur talk down to a man with an Imperial title, even if it was Guardian of the Wine Cellar.
Yelling out, he charged up
the stairs and swung hard at the augur, who in turn blocked with the butt of his staff and whipped around to strike Marcus on the head. He thrust his hands forward and a gust of wind blew Marcus down.
Marcus fell down the stairs and hit the street with a thump, grunting in pain. As he stood up, he said, “You’ll pay for this.”
As he left he couldn’t help but hear the snickering of the crowd. He flushed red in shame.
Soon he reached Imperial Square. The sun was at its highest point in the sky, and many had gone indoors to escape the heat, leaving the area less crowded than it usually was. Near the edge, Marcus made out the figure of Antonio, Marshal of the Imperial Guard. Even from a distance he recognized the thin blackish hair and stern grey eyes, the steel breastplate and long red halfcloak.
It dawned on Marcus that Antonio, most trusted of all the public officials and an honest man to the core, was authorized to issue warrants. In fact, he was authorized to do much of what the emperor and the councilors could do. Perhaps he would issue a warrant for Marcus to enter the Augur Collegium; and hopefully, gods willing, not ask why. To say he was doing it to rescue an insane homeless girl would be silly.
Marcus quickly crossed the distance between them, feeling slightly self-conscious about his bloodied mouth and bruised body. But he hailed him and said, “Greetings, Lord Antonio.”
Antonio smiled. “Marcus.”
“Erm, well, this might sound silly, but I was wondering if you would issue a search warrant for the Augur Collegium.” Marcus bit his lip.
Antonio raised a brow. “Why?”
“I think they might be doing something illegal.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take it up with a judge,” Antonio said. “I can’t go issuing warrants left-and-right.”
“Antonio, please.” Marcus put on his best desperate face.
Antonio’s half smile pursed into a solemn line. “Perhaps, you can tell me more…”