Xeator watched Anthony and Drusilla ride off, then turned, skidding down the ridge.
With the portcullis down, and the gate barred, it was impossible to sneak back behind the walls now, and he didn't plan to do so. He waited in the woods at the rear of the quadrangle.
Never lay siege when it's impossible, as his father used to say. You'll be fighting on dispersive ground, and that's suicidal.
Chewing on a shaft of grass, he waited. Drizzles of rain pattered the leaves over his head, and the early morning sky lightened in shade like a sooty wall rinsed.
"Come on," he mused, hunching behind the lowest branch of a sycamore. He fixed his eyes upon the portcullis, behind which the chanting rose:
Hail Marcus Cornelius Uranus!
Our Praetor Magnum!
For his majesty, we fight!
May in glory we die!
The winch clunked, and the pulleys rattled, lifting the iron fangs. A column of men marched out to the woods. When they passed, Xeator tagged himself to the end of the line.
"Where have you been?" asked Felix Nipius as he dropped to the tail.
"What'd you mean?" Xeator spat out the grass. "I've been here the whole time."
"Horse fart!" The boy grunted. "I covered for you at the headcount. Hope you appreciate it!"
Xeator grinned, patting the boy's back. "I do."
They skirted around the ridge and ran twenty miles in the stench of dung, their feet stamping the ruts left on the wagon trail outside Volos. Xeator had long memorized the diurnal rhythms of caravans plying in and out of the city alone or in convoy. All were the same on this day except for one extra squad of mail-clad guards escorting a prisoner on death row back to Pethens. Xeator glimpsed sidelong as the chariot trundled by.
Inside the cage sat a man in ragged prison clothes. His tousled hair draggled before a gore-streaked face still young. His hands were manacled and chained to his neck. His eyes were closed, his mouth gaping behind weeks' growth of a beard. "I couldn't," he mumbled, shivering on bent knees, his head drooping. "I didn't."
Felix craned his neck to take a better look at the man in chains, muscles flexing as he swung his arms. "What did he do?" the boy asked quite loudly, his face the bliss of an onlooker. "And where're they taking him?"
"He's a Praetor's guard and a deserter," came a voice before Xeator. Tatius Larcius glimpsed back. His bald head bobbed, glistening in the drizzle. "He abandoned his post in the woods south of Pethens, said the newsman. He got caught nearby last week, and they're delivering him back to Pethens."
"Why Pethens?" Wheeling around as he picked up his pace, Felix ran abreast with Tatius. "Why not execute him here?"
"Fuck sake, is there anything you do know?" Tatius grumbled. "Treason is a top felony. Once the accusation holds, the traitor will be put to Gods' Gaze in the capital."
"What's Gods' Gaze?"
Tatius groaned, waggling a hand as if trying to bat away flies. "Go pester someone else, you twat!"
Curiosity appeared to have trumped pride. The boy spun to Xeator. "What's Gods' Gaze?" The fierce fighter in the battle ring seemed now an innocent cub, albeit oversized.
Xeator squinted. It had been thirteen years since he allowed Gods' Gaze to reenter his thoughts. His hands doubled.
"Well?" The boy pressed on.
"I've only heard stories," Xeator crooned, his tone detached. "A prisoner sentenced to Gods' Gaze would have his limbs severed. Then, they'd dump what's left into a tub of hard liquor. As he floats supine day or night, all the Gods in the sky gaze down on him – hence, Gods' Gaze – until he dies." Seeing Felix drop his jaw in disbelief, he added, "But as Tatius said, it's only for felonies, like treasons." He stabbed at a smile that pricked his eyes.
"Who the fuck came up with that?" The boy gaped.
"Triumvir Augustus Cassius Gaius," he answered despite himself. "Thirteen years ago."
"And how long do you think it'll take for him to die, you know, under the gaze?"
Xeator strained his cheeks, his lips primmed; on the root of his tongue trembled a voice unlike his. He shuddered, hearing the caterwaul of a woman. It rent the air through time all the way from thirteen years ago. Harlequin with human fluids, the tub of liquor gleamed under the blazing sun of Pethens as if before his eyes, and in it floated the limbless carcass of his mother like a drowning chrysalis. He groaned; his knees buckled. Biting his lower lip till it bled, he sipped his hate.
"Mate, you alright?" asked Felix.
He nodded.
The chariot creaked as it wobbled by.
Patience, he reminded himself, squeezing his fists. I'm only getting started.