Many times Anthony had traveled the fastest route out of Volos.
Behind the shrubs, misshapen and barbed, roots of trees as old as if time itself wrestled out of the soil like serpents meaning to mislead. Overhead, thick foliage the color of night insulated the bustle of the day, permitting only treads of light that littered a narrow path.
But the familiarity brought him no ease.
He detested the woods: the undertow of fetid marshes, the dampness that submerged his bones, the shadows that slunk to the corner of his eyes, and the ill whispers of dead things between and beneath the clatter of the garron's hooves. The woods were unintelligible to him.
After three days of riding in the shadow along the rushing water of the Tigris Canal, the famous double ramparts of Pethens peered into sight from miles away. The swath of russet stone walls loomed up in a ring, whose diameter stretched for many leagues, exuding gravitas that awed beholders from even miles away.
Anthony had heard tales about the city. Divided into twelve districts, each representing an hour in the day, the capital sprawled with the Ziggurat of Ra sitting at its center. As the day came forth from sunrise to sundown, the behemoth of four hundred feet in height cast its shadow onto each district for all the world to see, marking every hour. Across the Ziggurat joined the two main boulevards, each of which could allow twenty chariots to pass abreast. But since Marcus Uranus took the reign – or so prattled the peddlers back in the muddy streets of Volo as they leaned from their stalls and charts – the city had adopted a new moniker: the Garden Capital. Aloft over the boulevards hung tendrils and vines of morning glory. Flower beds of hydrangeas stretched on either side as far as the eye could see. Spires of bell towers reared up among a labyrinth of Corinthian masonry, their bells tolling a solemn ballad about Gods and great men.
Filled with wonders and longing, Anthony felt his heart hammering as they stood on the roadside now only within a mile before the legendary ramparts.
"They used to call them the Claudian walls," Drusilla spoke quietly next to him. They had dismounted the garron, their legs too sore to straddle.
"As Consul Gnaeus Januarius Claudius?"
She hushed him. "Not so loud!"
"You started it!" He glowered but complied, lowering his voice. "Can't believe after thirteen years, the name is still taboo. Hadn't they killed all sympathizers when they took the city? What's the big deal? It's just a name!"
"Yes, it's just a name, one that honors an idea they wouldn't want us to remember," she said in a whisper, surveying passersby from the corner of her eyes. "No matter how many sympathizers you kill, you can't kill off an idea. Hence, it must be kept out of earshot. Exiled. Forgotten."
"What idea?" he blurted and regretted, having caught her side-eye.
"The dual consulship, what else?" she replied, barely moving her lips, her arms akimbo. "That perhaps we should never have agreed to Exonia's independence and the treaty with Seneca, that if Consul Claudius had lived, we would have kept tyranny at bay."
"But the treaty has kept peace in the north and over the Huron Sea!" he clapped back, content with the sound of wisdom in the words he didn't come up with but came out of his lips.
Drusilla wasn't impressed, however. Kicking her legs while rolling her head, she snorted. "The price of grain had nearly doubled of late due to the drought in Seneca, in case you still haven't noticed. If it worsens, do you think the treaty will hold?" Her brows clasped; her eyes fastened on the immense walls ahead. "Peace has a price, and we're paying it now."
Drawing in his chin, Anthony scowled, "Were your family … sympathizers?"
"Does it matter?" Another snort came dripping in disdain. "They're all dead. Their bodies were burned on the Pyre of the Forgotten, and their ashes dumped in the latrines."
"So was my father," Anthony said, uncertain why, as if dredging up his own misfortune would somehow alleviate hers. "He was only a craftsman. But they called him a traitor."
"Haven't I heard the story," she raised a brow with a half-smile. Eyeing the russet-streaked walls, she gave him a backhanded slap across the arm. "Treaty or no treaty, it isn't for us to contemplate. We should part ways now. See you on the other side?"
Anthony nodded. "North to the Scipios' Castle, the fifth night."
"Do I look like I need a reminder?" She bounded ahead and waggled a hand, giggling as she darted a glance back. "In five days." Her voice tapered as she merged into a crowd before the South Gate of Pethens over sixty feet tall. She spoke with the guard. The guard bawled, directing her to a posse of plebeian youths who had nothing at hand but telltale dreams of ego yet to take shape. While they were in lines to have their permission stamped, Anthony got back on the garron and spurred it to a trot.
Sweat trickled, prickling his skin. It had been a warm early summer, more so than usual. Without a wisp of wind, thick clouds hung low, and the humid air clung to his throat, making him want it to rain.
"Halt!" A guard held up a hand at him, dark eyes peering from the gaps in a Corinthian helmet crested with a plume. Over the red tunic, he wore a scaled cuirass and a cardinal red surcoat clasped to the pauldrons. In his left hand was sported a semi-cylindrical shield about half a head short of his own height, with a golden metal boss in the center. In his right, a long javelin fashioned with a barbed metal tip on both ends. "Amulet and permission," he croaked.
Anthony groped under his tunic for the amulet snug inside the pocket and flashed it before the guard; the precious jade felt warm in his hand. "I believe this alone will do."
The guard gawked, dropping to one knee. Others saw and followed. "Welcome back, m'lord," said the guard with dark eyes as he rose to his feet, and the rest cleared the way.
Anthony nodded and gave the garron another spur. Under the arch gate as wide as allowing three chariots to go through abreast, hoofbeats rose to a crescendo and dwindled as he approached the other end. A sturdy wooden drawbridge stretching over a moat about sixty feet in width led to the inner gate in the second wall looming from a higher terrace. Under kudzu vines, the russet bricks of the inner wall were barely visible, and the lozenge watch towers every forty feet apart sent warnings to all sides.
So, this is the impregnable city, the Garden Capital.
Anthony gulped. His brazen suggestion of himself sneaking in after dark made an unbidden return and laughed in his face. He felt a flush rising to his cheeks.
Every bit inside the city was as impressive as the tales he had heard, if not more excessive. He let his eyes stray: The jutting ivory spires, the hangings of tendrils overhead, the flower beds of chiseled marbles, and the curbs of gold along the cambered boulevard leading to the grand Imperial Palazzo that sat across the Ziggurat of Ra afield.
It was said that the Garden Capital shimmered in the veil of the sun. Anthony gazed up at the overcast sky, gray and dim. He shook his head. Even without the grace of Gods, the city dazzled.
Varnished phaetons and carriages trundled by, prodding him out of the trance. He withdrew his eyes to the bustling traffic. Besides the wheels and riders, palanquins and sedans wobbled on either side. A couple of yards in front to his left, one of these moving cottages jiggled to a halt, landing on its four legs. Umpteen topazes the color of sunrise blinked atop the filigreed dome of silver, and through the latticed walls peered the velvet upholstery in cardinal. An outline of a girl rose from the velvet-slung seat, bending forward as she stepped out to the curb. She wore a pleated, lilac stola of fine silk with a ruffled hem. Her satin, waist-long tresses flowed like running molasses sweet and thick. Raising her head, she glanced at a grand courtyard before her, then turned around, bearing a smile that shone on Anthony's heart.
Anthony held his breath, mesmerized by those round, blue eyes, clear as though kissed by morning dews.
An entourage of servants addressed her as Lady Maia and led her into the courtyard, a peristyle with porches of grand colonnades enclosing on three sides. Near the front, alabasters of God Horus and Goddess Hera flanked the entrance, each spitting a gurgle of spring to a marble cistern on three legs.
Anthony swung himself off the garron and slunk up behind as though all his senses had deserted him. He only knew that he wanted to take another look at her but was thwarted by a small team of guards in the same uniform as those at the city gate. He flourished again the jade amulet.
"Pardon us, m'lord, but we still can't let you in," said a young guard, blocking the way as he held his arms lengthwise.
What would Xeator do?
Anthony cranked up the volume of his smile, "I only wanted to cut to the other side. You see, I've traveled a long distance. My ride is tired," his hand brushing the garron's neck.
The guards regarded each other.
"Apologies, m'lord," said the one blocking his way. "But this is a private party held by Lady Olivia Carina Benedictus. Would you like to use the stables outside if your ride needs replenishment?"
Straining to hold his composure, Anthony thought for a blink of an eye. "Much obliged."
The guard bowed and showed him to the stables next to the postern.
To Anthony's profound dismay, he could see nothing that went on inside from the back. Standing astride before the stone manger, he looked up at the clouds hanging on the other side. Walls inside walls, he brooded. The more impenetrable those boundaries, the more tantalizing their lures. Giggles of women tinkled from not too great a distance. He wondered which one belonged to the dark-haired girl. Then again, would it matter? He scoffed. Wouldn't they all look lovely if only he could be allowed inside?
Once the garron was fed and watered, he turned to the guard. Grinning broadly, he flaunted the pouch they had pilfered from the patrician boy in Volos, one that was embroidered with the Praetor's sigil. "I appreciate your assistance," he said, fumbling with the coins. Uncertain how much to reward the guard so as to appear first-class, he lavished on him ten silver pieces.
"My, m'lord," the guard stammered. His eyes widened; his nostrils dilated. Springing from the rim of his helm, his coiled hair framed a clean shaved face. He was young, Anthony noted, not much older than a boy, and whose reaction confirmed he had been overgenerous. But generosity wasn't in Anthony's blood. If he couldn't take back the silver spent, he had to at least make the most of it. Clapping the guard on the shoulder, he leaned close to his ear. "You see, while my horse has rested, I haven't. My legs are too sore for riding. May I count on you to lend me a carriage?"
"Of course, m'lord. The Praetor's guards are always here to serve men of your rank!" The young man saluted Anthony, thumping his feet. "Which residence, if I may ask?"
Anthony knew no such residence. Shaking his head with a smile, he had a better idea. "Take me to Ennius Tobius."
"The newsman?"
Anthony favored him with a nod. Xeator's plan to approach the newsman didn't seem as clever now as his own improv. And who's the shorter rope again? He couldn't help but smile.