"Yes, m'lord," the young man bowed and whirled, ordering around. Two sturdy horses were put before a small carriage with a cuspidal roof covered in fawn flax while Anthony stood watching. Treated as if a real lord, like those he had only seen from afar, he grabbed the guard's arm as he stepped on the back of a slave and climbed up the carriage. The wooden frame creaked under his feet.
"Rise," skewing around, Anthony ordered in a flat voice.
The slave complied, holding out his hand as he waited on his knees for his reward, his head low, his chin tucked to his chest.
The moment Anthony dropped the two dennies in those dirt-streaked and calloused palms, a manic ecstasy he had never experienced in the five and twenty years of his life seized him. It felt as if he was gripping the man's neck, hoisting him up from the edge of a bluff. Nothing would taste quite the same again once he had savored the thrill of power.
"To the Council of Notaries," the guard hollered at the driver.
"One moment," said Anthony, his head dipping out from the window. "The lady who came right before me, was she, Lady … Lady …?"
"Lady Maia Laviana Gaius?"
Another Gaius. Anthony narrowed his gaze.
"Is there anything wrong, m'lord?"
Anthony shook his head. "I only wanted to be sure. She has grown into quite a beauty."
The carriage wobbled into motion. Pushing on the soft, velvet seat, Anthony gaped at the gilded interior such as he had never seen. He strained his face before moving to the window again and glimpsed behind. An escorting guard was leading his garron by the bridle. He returned his gaze to the street. Never had he seen so many women as stunning, or silks as fine; the grandeur of the buildings; the grace of its air; the overwhelming beauty. When the driver informed him of their arrival, he almost regretted that the ride had ended.
"Is there anything else you'd like to request, m'lord?" asked the escorting guard, his head low, his right hand upon the riding leather strapped to his barrel chest.
Anthony shook his head. He alighted the wagon, then gave the guard and the driver two silver pieces each. They thanked him in turn and took their leave.
Anthony drew a long breath. What happened next further exceeded his expectations. Upon seeing him arriving escorted in the carriage for imperial use, the sentry showed him inside the Council without even asking for his amulet.
They cut through a sward in a garden abutting a long loggia on the east that housed the jurisconsults. Anthony looked over his shoulder. Lawyers of all ranks in beige tunics and red togas scattered, some alone behind their desks, others in small clusters, whispering behind the colonnade.
As they came to the other side of the sward, the sentry turned west and ascended a flight of stairs slanting up to a symmetrical masonry. Located on its central axis was a blue-tiled dome crowned with a handsome cupola in a rhombus shape.
Anthony marveled at the dome under which the air felt cooler on his skin. He reached for the jade amulet and squeezed. Act like you own it! Reminding himself, he snapped shut his gaping mouth.
Along the gleaming marble walls of a long gallery hung large tapestries. On them limned the Sun God Ra in silk thread with the Death Lord Kish. While Ra rules during the day, Kish comes to power at night. They are brothers as they are nemeses; they console yet wreak havoc on each other, and their clashes give birth to the circle of life.
Anthony surveyed the stories woven in threads. His heart clenched, caught by a profound premonition, both sad and hauntingly beautiful in ways he couldn't explain.
In a tablinum near the top of the dome, Ennius Tobius was sagging in a rosewood folding chair behind a mahogany leather desk and before an impressive bay window overlooking the sward. The newsman was every bit as fat as said. Anthony had to smile. Standing before the large leather desk, he presented the stub of his nomination, the jade amulet, the papyrus scroll, and last but definitely not the least, a handsome amount of bribe.
Tubius read the message Xeator wrote, his small eyes squinting. "Julius Pompeius Gaius?" he asked meaningfully.
"Problem?"
"Not at all."
The newsman turned to the window, holding the amulet aloft. He put it down before Anthony and regarded him with a mirthless smile, his thin lips a mere gash, like a cut on a block of wet dough. "But excuse me, my lord, for asking," he went forth after a long pause. "On behalf of which House do you speak?"
Anthony coiled his fingers. Unsure which he loathed more – that Xeator had anticipated the exact question, or he didn't know what else to say except to spiel what the blond man wrote – he harrumphed. "By order of Praetor Magnum, Emperor of Renania, and the rights of his citizens of the first echelon, I decline to divulge the name of my house." He lifted his eyes and sneaked a peek at Tobius, who was, too, sizing up him.
"By all means, my lord," said the fat man while he sat up a little. The rosewood creaked under him. His pudgy fingers glided across a cluster of scrolls and retrieved a ring of keys. He got to his feet in such an easy manner that came quite surprising for a man of his build; his keys rattled. Before an iron-bound chest of cedar embellished with gold laying atop a three-legged frame in the rear corner, Tobius worked the keys, mumbling a few curses as he got it wrong the first few tries. As the chest creaked open, he retrieved a platinum mold, a sandalwood block of brass seal, and a ceramic plate of pigment ink. Holding them in the crook of an arm, he snapped the chest shut and waddled back to his seat. He placed the amulet inside the platinum mold. The sigil fitted as if the key to the right door. Tobius grinned, yellow teeth peering behind those thin lips.
"Forgive me for my insolence, my lord," he said, his smile affecting cordiality. "Would you like to take a seat?" He beckoned Anthony with those small eyes over the velvet couch before his desk.
Anthony tried not to snort. Hunching over the desk, he leaned on the heels of his palms. "My request," He raised a brow, then flicked his eyes at the scrolls on the desk. "See to it."
"But of course, my lord." Tobius bobbed his head. His hands flapped about. Using the sigil as a signet, he dipped the amulet in the red pigment ink and stamped it in the corner of a papyrus scroll. Then, he drew out a tracing sheet, pulled it over the nomination stub, and made a copy of the serial number. Having stamped the copy with the amulet, he beamed at Anthony, "All done, my lord." He handed back the jade plate with the nomination stub.
Anthony grabbed them with a swing of an arm.
"Pardon my foolishness," Tobius continued, outstretching his elbows, his pudgy fingers clasping upon the desk. "But my lord, if, and I'm saying if, no one places the initial bet on the Underdog, the nomination will be forfeit."
Anthony chuckled wryly as he felt like the shorter rope again. His fists doubled. Stepping to the side of the leather desk, he squinted sidelong at the sward many feet below.
"It's the Gaius' turn to name the Favorite this year," regurgitating what he had rehearsed, he shrugged casually, his palms bristled with sweat. "And you've read the message, magistrate. Don't you think it's a little convenient that the Dam of Urk is complete right on the eve of the Pyrrhic Battle? With the project done, we control the Uruk, the Aztak, and the Lesto Rivers, meaning that we control the water source for both Exonia and Turis. Oh, wait, did I say we? Or did I mean the Gaius? Julius Pompeius Gaius. What a great achievement! And he's only what? Seven and twenty?" Pausing for the weight of the questions to register, he glimpsed over his shoulder and caught the small beads of Tobius' eyes rolling like wheels. He stifled a snort and continued,
"To finish this and that project, the Gaius have borrowed quite a sum from the Legidus with the consent of the Praetorship. And with the same consent, many times they have forfeited their loans. The grudge between the two Houses has long been there. And here is the tricky question: would the Legidus like to see the Gaius win more gold during the Pyrrhic Battle? Of course they would if the Gaius actually paid their loans with it. But would they? Bracket out the Legidus, could it be the Praetor himself trying to contain the Gaius in case they're doing too well? And as for the Scipios, I can't seem to find any reason for the Scipios to risk bankrupting themselves and name the Underdog among their own pugilists. But on second thought," he chuckled as airily as he could pull off. "Don't you think their noninvolvement is a little, erm, too obvious, if you will?"
Ennuis Tobius wheezed, slumping in his chair; his broad chest rose and fell with each draw of breath.
"Alas," Anthony continued. "Wheels inside wheels. All I've said could be conjecture, nonsense, that is. With a looming famine on the other side of the Huron Sea, it seems the long-standing balance between the Triumvirate and the Praetorship is drawing to a close. Better be careful where you tread now, wouldn't you agree, Magistrate?" Lowering his head, he grinned crookedly. The unrest he saw on Tobius' glistening face also churned his own stomach.
Work on the fear and suspicion of our enemy, as the blond man used to say. Nudge them to come to wrong conclusions on their own. Wile them into overreaching.
Anthony gasped, tumbling at what it meant.
Ennuis Tobius pushed on both armrests; his head inclined forward, his broad chest against the bevel of his desk. His mouth hung open, then closed to an ingratiating smile. "You're right, my lord, absolutely. How stupid of me to have overstepped." He gave himself a light slap across the cheek; his jowls wobbled like dewlap. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Anthony shook his head.
After he left the tablinum, he found the sentry waiting outside. They doubled back through the sward. Anthony couldn't resist stealing another glance at the men in togas as they padded in and out of the loggia. Their heads were low, their gaits solemn, their eyes in the perennial shade of their own brows. Even the air felt heavy around them.
Once they were back at the front entrance, he rewarded the sentry and took his garron by the bridle. A slave rushed up, offering himself as a step. He brushed him off. "I'll walk."
A look of dismay flitted across the slave's big eyes.
Anthony snorted and flipped him a silver piece.
"Thank you, m'lord!" The slave caught the piece in both hands. "May you be in Gods' grace for this life and beyond!" At the fall of his cry, he plunked on his knees. The thudding sound of his bones on concrete didn't make Anthony feel as ecstatic as the last time.
All slaves are fed with a glimpse of hope that they might buy their freedom one day. While the hope did exist, it was not theirs to rejoice. If they were lucky enough to procreate, their children would become a Renanian by birth, entitled to the rights they never would. So toil away they must today for a chance at a better tomorrow.
But what does that tomorrow have to do with him?
Anthony glimpsed over his shoulder at the man on the curb.
And why should I care?
He turned his gaze ahead. Down the road on his right, a brothel beckoned.