Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 10:

The Cup of Fate

decorative symbol


I


A horde had descended upon the city and Antires strolled among its tents that morning. Men and women of all ages bustled in bright robes and tunics beneath the clear skies of the late Oscani summer. One older gentleman stood apart sonorously pronouncing his syllables in an ages old elocution exercise. Two women applied paint brushes to an elaborate wooden backdrop of an ocean scene to carefully add wave peaks.

Some two dozen separate acting troupes had arrived for the Festival of Athelius, and their temporary settlement spread beyond the city’s outskirts near the outdoor stage built into a hill above the harbor, where the blazing orange sun now hung only a few handspans above the sea. Normally the actors would have found lodging in the resort town’s many inns, but those already overflowed with out-of-town guests, some here for the holiday season but some specifically for the festival, which Izivar had said grew larger every year.

Long months had passed since Antires had walked among stage actors. It had been years since he’d seen so many, and his chest swelled with pleasure at the sights, and sounds, even the particular scent of wet scenery paint. He missed this life, challenging though it was. Had he wished, he was certain he might have tracked down some acquaintances. That probably wasn’t a wise idea, though. Much as he would have loved to sit down with some fellow professionals and talk craft, he searched for a particular manager.

Many managers were actors, especially in the travelling troupes, but not all who fell in love with the stage could act, or write, or manufacture. Some were there owing to a talent to inspire and organize. And some were there because they had the money to fill a yearning for fame. Antires knew that was said about the man he sought today.

The tents of Antony Camillus were arrayed along semicircles in distinct units an eighth of a mile apart from the rest of the groups, for Camillus had actually purchased the closest land he could find to the festival, and even erected a small wooden stage of his own for practice purposes. His people adjusted backdrops upon it and rehearsed in little groups. A woman shouted that they were out of gold thread and the messenger boy better get back with it quick.

As he searched for someone in authority, a small plump woman passed before him and came to a sudden halt. She then turned her head to consider Antires with an intensity that grew disquieting.

She was about his own age, nearing her late twenties, and wore a simple brown tunic over a lush body. A necklace of small, dried flowers pointed toward deep cleavage. She was not at all the type to whom Antires was normally drawn, for he preferred his lovers lean. But he could not stop staring. Perhaps it was the directness of her gaze, or the outright beauty of her face. She was full-lipped, with the clear, dark olive skin of a westerner, and she possessed great dark, long-lashed eyes, but it was her unique sense of style which struck him the most. Her garb was very simple and spoke of a person possessing few resources. And yet she had done more with what she had than many a wealthy person commanding a phalanx of slaves. Her wavy hair was well kept, and decorated just so with a white bud, off center among a crown of dried wildflowers that matched her necklace. A tiny arrow of brown paint with a spiraling shaft decorated her left cheek, directly beneath her eye. Her short brown stola suited her so finely that despite its humble appearance it seemed the work of a master tailor.

“What do you seek?” she asked. Though accented, her pleasant alto was clear enough. He didn’t quite place her home language. Possibly Cerdian.

If he’d been able to think more clearly, he might have tried a clever line about having come with another purpose and now being devoted to learning her name. “I’m looking for Antonius Camillus.”

Her face fell. “I will take you to him. Come.” She beckoned him to follow and started away without waiting to see if he would.

He jogged to reach her side, enjoying the scent of wildflowers wafting after her. She was silent as they moved past a pair of men holding up costume shirts to the sunlight. One groused that they were looking old.

Antires could not help wondering about the strange regard with which she had first eyed him. “Do you recognize something about me?”

“We have never met.”

That was not what he had asked. He decided on a different course of action. “What is your name?”

“Ishana.”

A Cerdian name, he thought, and since she did not give her family name, she was almost certainly a slave. “I am Stirses Arbasis.”

“It is a pleasure.” Her glance was brief but he felt as though she had brushed him with cool fingers. He wondered as to the strength of his reaction and almost convinced himself that it was due to him not having lain with anyone for long weeks.

She conducted him to an open-walled tent near the stage. A bald actor with handsome angular features stood at one corner, gesturing broadly as he spoke. Antires guessed him Hadiran by the light brown skin and blackness of his almond-shaped eyes. A young man in a fine white tunic with green edging listened, fiddling with his glittering rings before reaching for the stem of a goblet on a pedestal table. His was a large Dervan nose; his small brown eyes were intent, focused, impatient, as though the world’s fate rested upon the actor’s lines.

Antires and Ishana waited in the sun while the actor finished a stiff recitation. It sounded like someone had poorly translated the tale of Radanthes’ heroic search for the cup of fate. The actor was describing his emotional state in great detail and contrasting it with the deep foliage through which he moved. Antires had seldom heard so clumsy a revelation of a character’s feelings, but the Dervan nodded along, his eyes fixed and dreamy, as if he thought these words the height of eloquence. Antires looked to Ishana, who tipped her pretty locks toward the Dervan. This, then, was the man he sought.

Finally the actor halted, and Camillus started. His voice was cutting. “What? Go on, go on!”

The actor swiped his hand at the single parchment he held. He was skilled enough that he had barely glanced at it once. “I just keep talking about how brave and clever I am. Shouldn’t I be doing something that’s brave or clever?”

“How else are we going to hear about all the other things Radanthes has done?” Camillus’ thin smile was triumphant, as though he’d won a victory. He took notice of Ishana. “What’s this?” His attention swung to Antires. “Who’s this?”

She bowed her head to him. “Master, this man seeks you. He is Stirses Arbasis.”

“Excellent!” Camillus set down his goblet on a side table. “The new writer’s here! Come on, man, you’re late. So, you’re a playwright?”

Antires had no prior appointment with Antony Camillus, nor did he have a reputation as a writer, for he’d never published anything under his assumed Stirses identity. But Antires answered as he moved in under the shade. “I am.”

Camillus pointed loosely at the Hadiran, still waiting in the corner. “So what did you think of the script? I made changes based on feedback from Hypatia herself.”

The famed literary critic Hypatia was one of the festival’s sponsors, and Antires was momentarily impressed that she had given Antony any kind of time at all before remembering just how many doors money opened. He decided it would be wise to make clear he was not whom Camillus thought. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

Antony drew himself up as if insulted. “I am never confused.”

For a brief moment Antires thought the Dervan joked, then saw no self-satisfied gleam in the other man’s eyes. Antires cleared his throat to hide a smile. “You’ve confused me for some other writer. I’m not here about writing for you.”

“But you are a writer, yes? Well, the one I sent for is late, and I need some help with a script. I’ll pay you for your time.”

Spoken, Antires thought, like a merchant, who, when unable to obtain one product, switches to selling another. He wanted to tell him that writers were not interchangeable, but he couldn’t resist asking for more detail. “What sort of script?”

“It’s about the hero Radanthes and his search for the cup of fate. The part you just heard is going to take place while Radanthes is creeping through the forest toward his rendezvous with the witch, and the serpent at the river crossing.”

Everyone knew that Radanthes didn’t meet the witch until long after he crossed the river. Antires chose to say nothing, understanding Camillus was one of those who loved his own voice above others.

Camillus repeated mention of the celebrated theater expert: “I’m in personal contact with Hypatia, who’s quite fond of me. She’s been giving me lots of excellent pointers. She wants my scripts to provide more insight into character.”

“That sounds like good advice.” Antires tried to ignore the watchful gaze of both the actor, whose mouth twisted scornfully, and the haunting Ishana.

Before Antires could speak further, Camillus continued. “A lot of people are saying I have a good chance to take home the wreath this year.”

Almost, Antires asked for clarity, for so far as he knew there was no wreath for managing plays, only for writing them or being the finest actor or company. But he refrained and finally changed the subject when Camillus paused for breath.

“I’m here to offer money for some of your slaves.”

“None of my slaves are for sale,” Camillus declared flatly.

Antires tried his warmest smile. “Everything’s for sale if the price is right.”

Camillus’ eyes narrowed. “Who do you work for?”

“My client wishes to remain anonymous.”

Camillus clucked his tongue. “It’s Atticus, isn’t it.”

Antires had no idea who that was. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Be mysterious then. I shall ferret it out.” His chin rose in defiance. “None of my actors are for sale.”

This statement so surprised Antires he couldn’t help blurting out a question. “Your actors are slaves?”

“Some of them. My Hadirans. The Cerdians.”

“Now he’ll tell you Hadirans can’t act, and that only Herrenes are worth casting,” the actor said with a malicious look.

Antires addressed him directly. “As point of fact, I’ve encountered fine actors from many lands.” He probably should have stopped there, but could not resist adding: “Although Hadirans are trained in more representational drama and ritual. Their performances tend to be somewhat wooden.”

“There it is,” the actor said, softly triumphant.

Antires opened his mouth to clarify, then decided against pursuing the tangent any further, much less declaring that actors must be free to practice their art. He turned to Camillus. “I’m interested in your scenery and costume workers.”

“Out of the question. They are essential to my performance.”

“I’m not talking about now. I’ve no interest in hurting your performance. I mean afterward. You ought to be able to buy or hire different ones after the festival.”

“They’re Volani,” Camillus sneered, as though they were late-season fruit. “Why do you want them in particular?”

He’d long since devised an explanation. “My client wants to reconstruct Volani plays. Most of the copies went up in flames and so did most of the actors. A lot of great works were lost. But people who worked in Volani theatre can help recall the lines.”

Camillus waved his hand dismissively. “That’s the old. Anything older than ten years back is worthless.”

Antires doubted Camillus had come to such a profoundly idiotic idea on his own and wondered which fool’s opinions he was parroting. And he didn’t realize his mouth was open until he heard the actor jeer. “Look at him. He’s gasping like a fish on the dock!”

Camillus lapped up the attention and continued. “These are modern times, not antiquity. Certainly, we can stand on the bones of the ancients, but we need to cast our eyes up, not down. Drama needs to address today’s truths, even if it’s using the old stories.”

While he might have a fair point, it was so intertwined with others of arrogance and ignorance Antires saw reaching accord with Camillus on the subject of writing would be an exercise in frustration. “About those slaves?”

“I’m not interested in that. But I need a writer.” He watched Antires speculatively.

“I thought you wanted a modern writer.”

“You’re living in modern times, aren’t you? You can be modern.”

“I really just want to negotiate for the slaves.”

“I’ll cut you a deal if you can do some writing for me.”

Antires wondered what kind of fool would hire a writer without knowing anything about his skill. Still, at least Camillus was willing to consider selling. “What kind of deal?”

“Two thousand.”

He wanted to make sure he understood. “Two thousand all together?”

“Each.”

That was a high price for a male slave unless he was highly skilled in his craft. “I’ll tell you what. You want Radanthes to be heroic? I happen to be an expert on heroes. I’ve been collecting tales of . . . military men and their exploits. Bravery. Monsters. Daring plans.”

“Perfect!” Camillus cried.

“I’ll act as your script advisor if you sell them for five hundred a piece.”

Camillus’ enthusiasm ebbed. “You think highly of yourself. Such rare workers are a bargain for one thousand each. And one of them is a woman.”

“I’m interested in her for her knowledge, not her feminine attributes. Seven hundred fifty.”

“Done.”

Antires heard Ishana suck in a breath through her teeth, and, turning, detected a warning look in her eyes, but it swiftly vanished as Camillus noted her. “What are you still doing here? Get back to work.”

“Yes, Master.” Ishana left with a final backward glance to Antires. He wished he could understand what she was trying to communicate beyond caution. He was already wary around Camillus, whom he neither liked nor trusted.

She inspired Antires to suggest a condition. “I should like to consult with the Volani first to ensure they’re who I need.”

“I want to see what you can do before that.” Camillus pointed to the actor. “Go see if the costume changes are complete. I’ll have some new lines for you soon.”

The actor bowed to him, fixed a prim, skeptical look upon Antires, and departed.

Camillus stepped to the side table at the back of the tent and removed a thick box from beneath a cloth. He walked toward Antires and opened what first seemed a hinged box lid. Antires then saw it was a wooden cover over a sheaf of paper that had been bound together along one side.

“This is a new way to keep books and plays organized,” Camillus said proudly. “I want you to sit down at this table. I’ll bring the stool over. Write down neat things heroes can do. On these pages.”

Antires wanted to make sure he understood his instructions. “You want me to write . . . anecdotes?”

“Write some great scenes. With action! Prove to me that you’re worth working with.”

Soon Antires was seated at the table in front of the blank page. Camillus pushed the ink well and stylus toward him. He could reproduce any number of moments he had witnessed at Hanuvar’s side—suitably changed to disguise Hanuvar’s identity, of course—but he wanted to make sure he’d be giving the manager what he wanted. “I don’t write like . . . that speech I just heard. I try to replicate how real people sound. At their best, though.”

Camillus shrugged that off with disinterest. “All right.”

Antires might have pointed out that he would probably be writing like those unworthy older writers, but decided against it.

He sat with stylus in hand, contemplating his options, then dipped its end into the ink, set it to the paper, and began the strangest writing assignment of his life. He immediately sketched out a moment similar to the one he’d faced with Hanuvar in the mountains when the lovely ones attacked, adding in the bird spirit Hanuvar had met earlier. Camillus stood at his shoulder, watching.

Antires glanced up at him. “How much do you want me to do?”

“Five or ten pages. Ten. Stay at it. I’ll get you some wine.”

Camillus didn’t actually fetch it himself. He clapped, called for a slave boy, then sent the youth running.

Antires found that there was so much to say about the conduct of heroes that ten pages filled with incredible speed. He’d only downed a little bit of the wine by the time he concluded, continuing on to page eleven just a little so he could finish his thought. He lay down the stylus, flexed the fingers of his right hand, and took another sip of the sweet red.

Camillus swept up the papers and flipped through them. “This seems promising. I’ll look it over and get back to you. You can go.” He closed the cover flap and waved someone forward by wiggling the gold be-ringed fingers on his right hand.

Antires hadn’t noticed the bull-necked fellow until he trod into view. With his size, his broken nose, and his unfriendly expression, his job title of bodyguard might as well have been stenciled on his forehead.

“What about our arrangement?” Antires asked. He climbed to his feet as the big man halted nearby.

“I’ll get back to you on that.” Camillus stepped to the front of the tent. The enforcer paused only an arm’s length out from Antires, watching his employer for further command.

Though he didn’t like the look of those hands, or the thought of one reaching for him, Antires was angered enough that he dared objecting. “You don’t know where to find me.”

“Leave word with my servant,” Camillus said with marked disinterest.

Antires’ voice rose in protest. “We agreed that you would trade slaves for my writing!”

Camillus smirked. “That’s not the way I remember it. Did you get anything in writing from me?” He nodded to his bodyguard.

The big man cracked his knuckles, made a fist with one hand and lifted it, then indicated it with his free hand. He then suggested an alternative to the fist by using that same free hand to point away from the tent. Though furious at Camillus and irritated with himself for not being more canny, Antires couldn’t help appreciating the simple eloquence of the enforcer’s wordless options, reinforced by his flat-eyed expression.

Antires stalked away, his anger with himself quickly outpacing his fury with Camillus. This was probably the worst he’d ever bungled an assignment for Hanuvar, and it was one he’d thought himself ideally suited for. His failure was rooted in his own pride. He hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to show off, then had gotten so absorbed in story creation he had lost sight of the real world, and the real people whose freedoms were at stake.

All he could do now was retreat, contemplate the weaknesses of his opponent, and devise a different approach. That, at least, is what he knew Hanuvar would do. It was the how, not the what, that stumped him.



II


Camillus nodded to himself as he considered the text again. The blathering Herrene had some decent stuff. Maybe even a little better than the last few fellows. There was definitely a lot of action in the two scenes, as well as a little detail about inner emotional states, and he knew Hypatia would love that.

He called for Ishana, whom he waved toward to the lacquer chest at the back of the tent before pouring himself another goblet of wine. Even mornings in Oscanus were hot, no matter that famed sea breeze.

He didn’t like the way Ishana used her eyes, like she did now, as she rose from the chest and walked toward him. She held the little brown box in one little brown hand.

He handed her the book the Herrene had been writing in. “Use both the comedy and the tragedy,” he instructed.

Ishana’s double chins creased as she frowned. “Master, the priestess said not to use more than a single tress at once.”

He hated uppity slaves. His life overflowed with them. “You think you remember better than me?”

She bowed her head but pressed on. “You bought me for my gift of insight.”

“I bought you because you were supposed to see the future.”

“My previous master exaggerated my ability. But I do sense the currents of fortune, Master, and that man who left is at or near the center of some.”

That was so surprising he peered at her to see if she lied. Lies were easy to detect with most slaves, but he had never caught her in one; her previous master had also claimed she was sworn to speak truth. He still had trouble believing what she’d told him. “That chatty Herrene’s important? He’s a nobody. Just a writer.”

“I see what I see.”

“You’re saying that man is as important as me?” Camillus tapped his chest.

“I’m saying he’s where events are being shaped.”

“You said the festival was that place, which makes sense because my play is going to be staged here soon.” He pushed the manuscript at her, but she still did not take it.

Ishana’s voice took on a plaintive quality. “I think we’re at something rare, Master. A nexus. Think about it. Many have gathered here. Maybe many of importance, drawn by the festival. Many whose actions shape the course of events.”

“And the Herrene is one?”

“I didn’t say he was a shaper, merely that I sense his proximity to important currents. It may be dangerous to work with his words.”

After a moment’s consideration Camillus understood what she was seeing. Limited as slaves were, she observed without being able to draw an intelligent conclusion. “Maybe he’s important to bring my ideas to life. His words are better than the last three. And he sounds more like Hypatia. Which is why I’ve got to use this to improve my play.” He crossed his arms in satisfaction.

Her lips pursed. “Then choose comedy or tragedy, Master. Not both.”

“Both,” he said. He thrust the sheaf of papers toward her.

She could not hide her disappointment when she accepted it. “As you wish.”

He watched while she carefully undid the cover and all but a single strand of the current binding from the pages. Then she lifted the long, ribbon like tresses of brunette and black hair by passing them through the loops carefully punched through the paper sides. “They’re so lovely,” she said. She always ended up commenting in admiration over the hairs. “They never fray.”

“Of course they don’t,” he snapped. Why would they? But then she was a slave, and given to stating obvious things.

He thought over what she’d said earlier as she tied the cover into place. “Maybe we should learn who this man is working for. Did he tell you his name?”

“I told you his name, Master.”

“That’s not what I asked. He was a nobody, and I wasn’t paying attention. Do you recall it?”

“I do.”

“I want you to find him. Learn who he works for.”

“He may not wish to talk, Master. Are there moneys to bribe him with?”

“Oh, bribe him with your body. You’re appealing enough. And stop looking at me like that.”

“Yes, Master. The book is ready.”

“Get moving, then.” He took it from her, and she was a moment late in releasing it. He elected to ignore her impertinence. “Find out who sent him, and why he’s important.”

“Yes, Master.” She departed without a backward glance, or further argument.

Camillus ran his hands along the hairs now helping bind the book. Ishana was right—they really were incredibly smooth.

Retreating to the chair, he cleared his mind of anything but the glory of drama—his drama—and thought about the theatre, and the crowd standing and applauding him as he was crowned with the laurel leaves for the great work he’d done. He imagined the beautiful Hypatia’s beaming smile being directed solely at him, and the envy of those when they learned that she was his, then flipped open the page after the one the Herrene had been writing on. He had copied the phrasing enough times now that he had it memorized.

He dipped the stylus in the ink well and began to write. “Muses I praise thee,” he began. He continued: “I want to write a play in the style of the man who wrote these scenes. A heroic play about Radanthes and his search for the cup of fate, full of action without any boring parts, and also with good dialogue that Hypatia will love.”

And then he gingerly closed the book, solemnly placed his hands upon it, and carefully repeated the old Herrenic words that drunken prune of a priestess had shown him.

The first few times he’d used the method he had felt a surge before the gods blessed him. This time he experienced a sudden warmth, as though the sun were briefly illuminating him and him alone. Sweat stood out on his brow and he wondered a moment if he had erred.

Then the moment was gone, and all was ordinary once more. He took his trembling hand from the book and opened it. The pages were dense with ink. He quickly rifled through the eleven pages at the front, and then, there it was, in his handwriting, his newest masterwork. Ordinary writers had to slave for long hours to channel the muses, but with his shortcut all he needed were their hairs and a special prayer.

He looked down at the words on the next page, written in his own hand: The Cup of Fate, Scene 1.

He laughed with pleasure. Too bad he’d sent Ishana away. He would have to unthread the binding himself—he trusted no others—then get his slaves to copying the manuscript for the actors.



III


Antires and Izivar were conducted through rooms cluttered with Herrenic sculpture and walls enlivened by murals of swans and heroes and horses and ships, and out to a high-walled garden thick with the scent of flowers. The smiling slave stopped to gesture to a narrow-columned cupola where Hypatia lazed upon a couch in the shade, sipping wine and pouring over a sheaf of papers. She could not have been much older than Antires, a slim Herrene with warm eyes, a small nose with an upturned tip and a smattering of dark freckles on her light brown cheeks.

A Dervan woman would have greeted an acquaintance more formally, but Herrenic women were much less staid, and thus Hypatia remained seated, smiled widely, gave them a friendly wave, and beckoned them forward. Nor did she set her manuscript aside, as almost any Dervan patrician might have done, for among Herrenes it was not considered rude to entertain with work in one’s lap.22

Hypatia’s history and analysis of great tragic works had caused a sensation amongst the intellectuals of the inner sea, one that had spread more widely once her gender was disclosed, and the fact that her beauty was said to rival that of the gods. That was hyperbole, although Antires found Hypatia comely.

Having met her at the festival two years previous, Izivar had requested a visit and been invited for a light lunch at the villa that the famous scholar rented each year at this time. Antires couldn’t help wondering what the critic had made of her home’s sculptures, looted from the cities of their people. From the elaborate cornices he knew the origin point of two pedestal bases for Orinth, a city the Dervans had crushed almost as thoroughly as Volanus. Did Hypatia prominently display the art as a statement most Dervans would be too unsophisticated to understand, or had she simply ignored the graceless decorations placed by the villa’s owners? If she proved open enough, he resolved to ask.

Izivar, as elegant and self-possessed as ever, introduced Antires as a writer friend, then, when invited, took the couch beside the critic. Antires sat beside Izivar, nearest the side table that supported a covered platter. An aged Ceori slave woman served Izivar chilled wine before turning to Antires to offer the same. In the meantime, Izivar and Hypatia inquired about one another’s health at some length. Neither so much as glanced at the platter. Apparently neither of them were actually hungry.

As if to challenge Antires’ appetite further, Izivar turned the topic to feasts associated with the festival, and segued into a mention of Hypatia’s Volani cooks, and whether Hypatia was truly attached to them.

“Do you know, this is the second inquiry I’ve had about my cooks.” Hypatia’s Dervan was perfectly understandable, but her accent remained strong. She had been contacted by Carthalo’s agents, and refused their offers. “They are quite marvelous,” Hypatia continued. “And I could not imagine parting with them.”

Izivar knew how to answer that. “If I can’t persuade you to sell, I’d hoped to arrange meetings between them and Stirses. I’m certain that they’re a storehouse of recipes from my people. I would like to record them.”

Hypatia’s expression cleared. “Of course!” Their young guide had long since departed, but the older Ceori remained. Hypatia turned to her, pointing to Antires as she did so. “Please take this gentleman to the kitchen.”

The slave conducted Antires away. He heard Izivar thanking Hypatia and asking what she’d been reading and clenched his teeth when Hypatia revealed Antony Camillus had sent the papers she held round to her this morning. Before he could hear more he was led to a back building separated from the house by a stretch of tile.

There a young man and a middle-aged woman shaped bread dough. The bored Ceori introduced Antires as a servant of Izivar Lenereva and conveyed how their mistress had instructed them to share recipes with him. She then departed, stiff-backed, and the two slaves paused in their work to eye Antires. The woman did so with considerable skepticism.

The boy was no more than seventeen, spare and a little hollow eyed, as though he had witnessed horrors he still watched. The broad-faced woman was likely in her early forties and revealed nothing of her inner world in the colorless stare she gave Antires.

“Recipes?” she asked. Her Volani accent was thick. “For the Lady Lenereva?”

Antires addressed her then in Volani. His own skill with it had improved markedly in the last months, since it was the primary language spoken amongst his companions. “Does anyone else on the premises speak Volani?”

“No,” the woman answered, her look warmed to careful interest.

“Then let us speak it, and quickly, before we come to discussing recipes.”

“We need to talk while we knead. Step closer, Herrene, and tell me your name.”

“You may call me Stirses.”

He drew up beside them and they resumed their vigorous dough working on the wooden table.

“I’ll get to the point so I’ve time to write some recipes. The Lady Lenereva would have you free and living among your own people, but your current owner refuses to sell.”

The boy froze, gaping in astonishment. The woman’s eyes widened, and she faltered before resuming, the white dough rising and following under her ministrations. “Our owner treats us well. Back to work, son.”

“You are freeborn Volani. If you would be free again, I’d help you arrange it.”

“Your Lady was traitor to our people.”

That was hardly fair or accurate to Izivar, although he recognized that there was an element of truth to her assertion. Izivar’s family had publicly sided with Derva, breaking with Volanus in the months before the war. A defense of Izivar now, though, would only complicate the interaction.

“She works in service for another, whose name I dare not say. You were employed by his cousin’s family, and he once pulled you aside to praise you for the excellence of your braised fish stew, the one you served with the seared flat bread and oysters at the occasion of their daughter’s promotion. He commended you to me, and told me your full name was Coriandra Anitasis, and that your employer declared you a treasure without price.”

Coriandra eyed him more somberly. “Why do you lie to me? That man is dead, as is his cousin and his wife, both of whom I loved.”

“I do not lie.”

The boy asked quietly: “Who is he talking about, Mother?”

“The rumors that he lives are true,” Antires continued. “He’s won the Lady to his cause and works to free the Volani. Through her, through me, through others.”

“And where would we live?” she asked softly.

“You served the man’s family. Surely you can guess.”

He saw from her eyes that she could, but she said so anyway. Her voice was almost breathless. “The colony. But where is it? And how many live there? And how did he survive? They said he fell from the sky, hundreds of feet—”

“There will be time to speak of that later. Know that he recalls you well, and that he would have freed you sooner except that there were others in far more terrible conditions. They had to be cared for first.”

Coriandra raised a meaty forearm to her face to wipe at a cheek, wetting now with tears. “What would he have us do?”

Antires would have liked to have told her this particular arrangement was Izivar’s plan, but he decided that could be explained later. It was she who had suggested taking advantage of the parade of costumed figures that closed the festival in five more days. The chaotic after party would provide the ideal screen for the removal of no less than two sets of slaves they’d been unable to obtain through Dervan legal means, if he could find a way to connect with the theatre people on the staff of Antony Camillus. Likely it would suit the recovery of an additional single slave as well.

For now, he concentrated on the specifics these two would need to know. They would be the simplest to remove of all the groups, for Coriandra was the master chef overseeing a party her mistress was throwing stageside on the heels of the final performance. She and her son would therefore be in close proximity to the inebriated crowd, and easily able to disappear within it.

Antires went over the schedule with them no less than four times, until he was certain they remembered the timeline and the locations and the details, and then he transcribed four recipes before returning to Izivar. He’d already written down eight other Volani ones ahead of time in case he’d be asked to show his work.



IV


When Camillus returned to Hypatia’s villa that afternoon, he sent flowers before him. After an untimely delay he was conducted to the rear of the villa and the same courtyard where she had entertained him previously. He was a little surprised to discover that she had company, a pretty woman with dark curling hair, and the same Herrene who’d helped him write his masterpiece that morning.

Hypatia sat with the script—his script—in her hands, and open.

The Herrene stared at him with open loathing. Camillus didn’t care about that, for the opinion of lackeys counted for nothing, but he knew a sudden chill. What if the man worked for Hypatia? Why else would he be here? He had not seen Ishana since this morning and swore under his breath at her for not getting back to him sooner.

“Welcome, Antony,” Hypatia said. He thrilled to the sound of her accent. Her manner was always so much warmer than that of Dervan women, but not in a slatternly way.

She continued: “What brings you here?”

He bowed to her. “You, of course! Ah, you are as radiant as ever! And I see that you have received my script as well as my flowers!” He had seen those displayed in a vase inside.

“And your generous donation,” she said. “It is appreciated and will go toward the support and upkeep of the festival.”

He supposed she said that for the benefit of her companions.

She introduced him with one well-manicured hand. “This is Antonius Camillus, author of the text I’ve been reading you excerpts from. Antony, this is the Lady Izivar Lenereva, and her friend Stirses Arbasis.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” He was pleased to hear the Herrene man was no close associate of Hypatia’s. “So you’ve read my play then? What do you think?”

She did not answer immediately, and, disconcertingly, answered with a question of her own. “Why do you want to write plays, Antony?”

Why did anyone? “To be famous, of course.”

The Lenereva woman’s mouth downturned. Stirses shook his head. But their opinion didn’t matter. Hypatia still smiled.

“What did you think?” Camillus prompted.

She ran her hand along the page edge and spoke haltingly. “There are fine lines throughout—although they are reminiscent of lines other poets have written.”

“Like me,” Stirses grumbled.

“And there’s no depth of character here,” Hypatia added. “These are just people doing things. And other people talking about them doing those same things. They all sound exactly alike.”

“. . . but I told the paper—I deliberately structured it so that the characters’ internal lives are brought forward.”

“And you use deus ex machina in four separate scenes.”

The chiding tone in her voice astonished him. “People love those! People still talk about Etiocles and the bit when Thereon was lowered on the stage by the hand of the god to set things right!”

Hypatia’s expression grew pained. “Etiocles used the deus ex machina as commentary on the artificiality of a happy ending forced upon a situation brought about by men, one that could not end well without the intrusion of the gods.”

What was that supposed to mean? “People love it when the gods appear on stage!”

She folded her hands over the pages and leaned toward him, her brows lifted sympathetically. “Antony, my oldest brother always wanted to be a great runner and to participate in the Herrenic games. He practiced and practiced. But he just wasn’t very quick. He got faster, but not fast enough. Some people can’t sing, no matter how much they love music. It might be that you don’t have an ear for the way people talk . . . or behave.”

He didn’t appreciate her condescending tone. “I hear people talk all the time.”

“I’m just saying that there’s no shame in not being good at something. Find something you are good at, and—”

Her words stung deeply. How dare she? “My work is blessed by the muses of tragedy and comedy! How could you not like it? I spent a lot of money on that!” Almost he confessed how much he had paid for the muse hairs.

“It’s not about money, it’s about art.”

“It ought to be a little about money,” Stirses said. “He didn’t give me any.”

Who needed to hear from him? “Oh, hush,” Camillus snapped. “You just wrote down a few ideas. I did the rest.”

Hypatia’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. I can’t advise that you stage this.” She leaned forward and extended the pages to him.

“You don’t think anything in here is good?” He did not ask if she were blind, though he was tempted.

“There are some fine lines,” she offered. “But are they yours?”

“Of course they’re mine! I’m going to take this back and make it even better! You’ll see! You want deeper characters, I’ll give them to you!”

He heard her calling to him as he departed but he didn’t take pity on her. He would show her yet.



V


Hypatia did not speak until the angry manager had stalked from the garden. “He’s no worse than a lot of successful men,” she said, as if in apology.

Antires thought Hypatia was being far too charitable. “He’s a thief. He took my words, and the words of greater playwrights, chopped them up, and served them warmed over.”

“Did you not do the same when you first began to write?” Her gaze was shrewd. “Poets often learn by imitation first.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. She understood how the craft worked. “You’re not condoning plagiarism?”

“No, I’m merely saying that in some form or another it is understandable when a poet is new to the work.”

“The difference being that this man has the money and influence to peddle this work as his own, before he has improved. If he’s capable of improving.”

Izivar gave him a warning glance.

“I’m afraid we’re boring our companion,” Hypatia said.

“Not at all.” Izivar turned to Antires. “Great work stands the test of time. Even if Camillus has this work staged, it will not endure. I’m sure it hurts to see poor productions succeed when you know other writers deserve better acclaim, but . . . there are many tragedies in the world.”

Hypatia laughed lightly at her word play. A practiced hostess, she changed the topic of conversation rather than dwelling on the unpleasant. She eyed Antires. “So those lines I liked about regret—those were yours? Have you considered writing a play?”

He had, of course, and he’d written a few when he was younger, but he had no intention of showing her that early work, not just because it was raw, but because he lived under a pseudonym.

Izivar came to his rescue. “He’s working on one right now, but he’s such a perfectionist it isn’t ready yet.”

“Oh?” Hypatia asked. “What’s the subject?”

“The fall of Volanus.”

“Oh.” Hypatia smiled uncomfortably. “That’s a fine subject but . . . a little too contemporary. Dervans won’t want to hear anything critical of their own recent history.”

That was certainly true, and Antires nodded.

“You could set it at some other time so people could see the parallels. And if you’re clever enough with it, maybe the ones inclined to be put off would just see it as a tragedy.”

“I’m still in the research phase,” Antires said. It was true, in a way. He was certainly recording details of the Volani rescue effort as it happened. “But I will consider your words when it’s time to lay out the events.”

Izivar came to his rescue again, turning the tide of conversation. “Hypatia, I hear rumors that you’re working on a new book. One about the great comedies, and the art of humor?”

“It’s true,” Hypatia said with a laugh. “I can tell you a little about it while we eat.”

Both subjects sounded of immense interest, but the return of the female Ceori slave at Hypatia’s elbow diverted Hypatia’s attention. “What is it?”

“Your pardon, mistress. A visitor has come to the servant’s entrance, asking for one of your guests.” The Ceori looked toward Antires. He had no idea who this person would be. Certainly he hadn’t told anyone he would be here. Nor, so far as he knew, was he waiting on word from anyone. Might Hanuvar have found some way to contact him?

Hypatia regarded him with a slightly strained politeness, for it was gauche to be called upon while visiting the home of a social superior.

“My apologies, Lady,” Antires said quickly. “I left word with no one to seek me here.”

Hypatia turned to the house slave. “Did this person identify himself?”

She is a Cerdian slave woman,” the Ceori explained. “A pretty one.” She did not verbally suggest that the visitor was a prostitute, but her prim, disapproving look certainly suggested it.

“That sounds like the servant of Camillus, whom I met earlier,” Antires said, more puzzled than ever. “I’ve no idea what she wants. Camillus certainly had no use for me.”

“Should I have her sent away?” Hypatia asked.

He would have preferred to finally sample Hypatia’s food and gladly have heard about her new book, but it might just be that Ishana could connect him to Camillus’ Volani slaves. “Ah. No. I’ll look into it.”

Seeing Hypatia’s look and the smug exchange the Ceori had with her he knew he’d just sunk lower in the famed critic’s estimation. First, he’d seemed a mere “want-to-be” writer, and now he appeared low class, even a liar. “Excuse me,” he said, hoping his face was not flushing too obviously, and turned to the slave. “Would you show me the way?”

Izivar gave him a searching stare and he lifted an empty hand to illustrate his true mystification, then followed the slave through the villa’s luxuries and out to a walled back courtyard. Again he passed the cooks, now working on some elaborate confection that smelled wonderfully of honey. He nodded in greeting and waited as the Ceori slave opened a gate in the wall.

While he had remembered Ishana’s eyes were striking, memory paled to experience. Already he had misremembered her body type as being thinner than it was in truth, but the roundness was pleasing.

“I am sorry to intrude, sir,” she said. “I wondered if you might have a moment to speak alone.”

Hypatia’s slave waited with a look much more openly sanctimonious than it had been in the garden.

Antires frowned at her. “I will leave.”

“Of course, sir.” The last word was emphasized with a hint of irony.

He stepped out into a side street, the wall of a smaller home across from him. The gate closed and then the slave seemed to lower the cross bar on the other side with a conclusive thunk demonstrative of her contempt.

“I hope that I did not take you from something important,” Ishana said.

He shook his head. “How did you find me?”

She started slowly down the alleyway and he walked with her.

“You presented a challenge, for it happens there are many handsome Herrenes in Apicius during the festival. However, I asked locals about your name and some eventually pointed me to the home of Izivar Lenereva, and workers there directed me here.”

Her compliment flattered him, no matter its directness. “And why did you seek me?”

“I told my master you were important. He told me to find you, and who you worked for. And so I have.”

“You could have stopped the moment you learned I worked with Izivar Lenereva.”

“With, and not for?”

Ishana was perceptive. “Camillus just came to the villa only a short while ago. He surely knows who I work for now.”

They turned onto a side street. In midday, the residential avenue was mostly deserted, and they walked side by side upon the raised sidewalk. A single horse-drawn cart passed them, the driver arguing with his companion over which chariot driver was the best. The chickens penned in the little cages in the cart behind them clucked and fussed.

“He may, or he may not,” Ishana said. “He never examines anything deeply. It pleases me to know more, because I am thorough, especially when it comes to finding ways to stay clear of my master. Is it true, what you told him about why you want these Volani?”

Most Volani plays had been lost in the great city’s destruction, and the stage workers were likely to remember sections of them, but that was not the primary reason he sought their recovery. Still, he had spoken truth. “Yes.”

“Is there more to it than this?”

Her perception unnerved him, especially since he thought himself a practiced actor.

“Do you mean to tell him all I say?”

“Him? No.” She laughed. “I ask now for me.”

“And why should you care? And why did you say I was important?”

She paused at a corner, then with a hand suggested they turn up a narrow street veering uphill, rather than downhill toward a busy market. “I am a Faedahni spirit talker. Do you know what that means?”

“I know you should not say it very loudly in Dervan lands.”

“Indeed. And because the Dervans maneuver the Faedahni city-states almost like puppets my training is not what it might have been a generation ago. But I sense the currents of fate.” She studied him, as if watching to see whether he would mock her. When he did not, she continued. “I know that there is something underway, in this region. Something important that has nothing to do with my master or his play, at least in no lasting way. Something of consequence to me. There are many currents readying to collide at this time, and you are close to one of their centers. I feel it upon you, just as I feel in your gaze that you would be a kinder master.”

She used those eyes against him once more, and as she stopped and peered up at him he was distinctly aware of her curves as she drew within a finger span of touching him.

He cleared his throat.

Her laugh was musical as she stepped back. “I have made you blush!” She took his hand, and his heart thrummed. “I thought you might be one of those Herrenes who loves boys.”

“I have loved men and women,” he said. “Though none of them wisely. Or perhaps very well,” he added.

“Have I found an honest poet?” she asked. “I have met many writers, and they were boasters or mopers or a mix of those things.”

“All writers are liars,” Antires admitted.

“That seems overstated.”

“I suppose some try to use their lies to shape great truths.”

“Is that what you do? Who do you write your truth for?”

“I’d like to think the stories I tell would ennoble the hearts of all who read them. But maybe I’m as deluded as your master and all I really crave is fame, and approval, and the look I’ve glimpsed in your eyes. You tried to warn me about Camillus stealing from me, didn’t you?”

“I wish I could have said more. He is too worried about the upcoming performance to consider parting with any of his slaves now. The master might yet sell the craftspeople after the festival, as you suggested, but I gather you do not wish to wait until then to see if that can happen.”

“I don’t. I can’t . . .” He sighed. Hanuvar always made this seem easy. Much as he prided himself on working with words, he had trouble articulating to her what he hoped to accomplish without giving away too much. Because he could not buy the slaves at the outset, he hoped to sneak them out at the same time he helped the cooks to escape, but that would require consultation with them. He wished he could fully trust her to assist in doing that, for he dearly wanted to. She was fascinating. Not just because of her physical effect upon him, although that surely played a part, but because of her agile insight. He’d never spoken with anyone quite like her. He decided to test her with a question on a subject that had been puzzling him. “How did your master draft a script so fast?”

She lowered her voice and stopped once more in front of a wall scrawled with a rude limerick. “I shall tell you,” she said softly. “This is his greatest secret. He has no stories of his own worth sharing, for he has a heart of stone and can no better understand another’s needs than an insect can guess human thought. He can see no further than himself. He has fallen in love with the idea of people cheering for him and speaking of him as they do the great tale tellers.”

“And he did something,” Antires suggested. “Something with that bound sheaf of papers.”

“Yes, the book. Again and again he paid court to the temple of muses in Arbos.23 He donated generously to one priestess in particular and was given a special gift. Once, long ago, the muses visited the temple and presented the priestesses there with strands of their hair. From of old, when those strands were incorporated into bindings while a work was under way, the poets who employed them wrote greater works. They did not trouble over lines that did not match meter, or rhymes, or lack for ideas.”

“I’ve never heard of this or seen that method of binding paper. Camillus said it was new.”

“It is ancient, like the temple secrets. The hairs were stolen or dispersed to favored poets, and the final few have been hidden, used only by the priestesses in sacred rites and poems written to extol the virtues of the muses.”

Antires found that surprising, but not as startling as another thought. “If Camillus’ writing comes from the muses, why is it so bad?”

“Because he puts no soul into it, and little understanding. He but says what he desires based upon the words of others and then the magic fills in the rest, with no guidance or skill. The priestess showed him the technique, warning him to use it only for inspiration. She instructed him never to use more than one kind of strand, but he used two this morning.”

“Two kinds?”

“He has locks from the muses of tragedy, comedy, and history.”

Antires wondered what his own writing would sound like if it were paired with inspiration from the gods. Then he shook his head at himself. This was all quite interesting, but it wasn’t germane to where his real focus ought to lie. “Do you think you could arrange a meeting between me and the Volani slaves?”

“Are you going to encourage them to run? Can you shelter them? You know that the master would be suspicious of your employer and seek there first, don’t you? Can you keep them safe? They would be tortured to death if caught.”

He did not answer any of her questions, but she replied to his silence.

“You’ve already thought through the dangers once they’re free, haven’t you?” She sounded impressed with him, and her look was warm.

Because little of the planning was his own, it seemed disingenuous to accept credit for having thought anything out himself. “You’re using your magics to read me?”

“I’m just reading your body language. You, or those you work with, have anticipated much. Is Stirses your real name?”

Her insight was remarkable. He took her other hand. “Can you arrange a meeting with them?”

“I may be able to do so. But if you plan what I think, you must promise to take me with them.”

“It shall be my pleasure.”

“You must pledge to keep me safe.”

“With all my heart.”

He met those eyes and he saw her invitation in them. Her lips were soft and full. When they parted he was hungry for many more of those kisses, and his heart was a thundering drum. Her hands were warm and wrapped about his own. He could not tear his gaze from her.

“The master’s performance is first after the ceremony introducing the first day,” she said. “He will be celebrating afterward. I can think of no better time to speak with the slaves you want. Where will you be?”

“I can be at the stage then,” he said.

“I will find you and lead you to them. What is it you mean to do now? Are you off to work this miracle for others?”

Once again her keen perception astonished him. “You see too much,” he said. “I think you’re dangerous.”

“I will never be dangerous for you,” she pledged.

“Maybe I like a little danger.”

She tapped his nose with her finger. “We shall have to see what you like, later. I must return to my terrible master.”

He kissed the back of her hand, astonished that he did so. “I look forward to seeing you,” he said. “Shall I walk you—”

“Carry on with your own doings, and we will meet again soon.”

He bowed his head to her. He would have liked to take her for a proper meal and then to some dark corner where he might gaze into her eyes and drink more kisses and perhaps advance his lips into other regions, but his time was not his own. He watched until she had turned the corner, then continued on for his next appointment.

The final slave he meant to free worked as a tailor for a famous Dervan actor. Ahuum had been low on the priority list almost from the beginning, for the actor himself had talked publicly about the excellence of Ahuum’s work and how he treated him like the treasure he was. Now, with the main rescue efforts winding down in Tyvol, it was time to address the better off cases, and the festival had brought Ahuum’s master, along with the tailor himself.

It turned out that the Volani man yearned for freedom as much as any and proved even less skeptical of Antires than the cooks.

Reaching him for conversation had required some complex maneuvering, and several more hours passed before Antires returned to Izivar’s villa. Reshef, Izivar’s reliable doorman, let him know the mistress had guests, a warning look in his eyes. “She was in the bath when they arrived and will be receiving them soon. I imagine that your company would be appreciated.”

“Guests? What guests?”

Reshef lowered his voice, his homely face somber. “Captain Bomilcar and a young woman.”

Antires could scarce believe it. “Did he return with”—he cut himself off before saying the name he wasn’t supposed to speak—“Decius’ daughter?”

“I don’t know.”

“May the gods show favor. Where’s Izivar now?”

“The new girl was helping her get ready.”

Antires found Izivar emerging from her chambers. Her hair was still damp but had been carefully brushed, and the teenaged volunteer brought from Amelia’s villa was still adjusting the way it lay as they started into the hall. Izivar had confided that Serliva’s replacement was woefully underprepared either for helping with garment choices or the arrangement of hair, but she was eager to learn and practiced on anyone who let her. Izivar thanked the girl, fussed with the collar of her light red stola, then took in Antires. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Is Narisia with him?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go find out.”

A young man and woman sat at one end of the long dining room table over some leftover bread, goat cheese, and wine. Both turned at Izivar’s entrance. Antires walked at her elbow, watching them. Even after the brunette raised her hand in greeting it took a moment for him to recognize her as Elistala, for she looked very different from the determined, wounded warrior he had first glimpsed in the company of Hanuvar and Ciprion. In her simple Dervan dress she might have passed for one of the sturdy, sweet-faced farm girls common in the Tyvolian countryside.

She climbed to her feet a moment behind the man. Antires recognized him as Bomilcar primarily from his powerful chin, because all of their interactions had transpired by moonlight. He wore an ordinary blue tunic, salt and sun stained, and his light brown eyes shone brightly in his tanned face. He carried with him that scent of the sea somehow borne by sailors even after they left the bathhouse. And these two had clearly not visited a bathhouse prior to their visit.

Both visitors gave Izivar a formal bow and the captain addressed her in Volani. “Thank you for receiving us.”

“You are Captain Bomilcar?” Izivar asked, to be certain.

He bowed his head once more. “I am, my Lady. Allow me to present Elistala of the Eltyr.”

Elistala’s sleeved dress was in significantly better condition than her captain’s tunic. Almost certainly it had been pulled from storage chests, for he doubted the Eltyr wore Dervan dresses on ship.

Izivar spread her arms and offered the traditional Volani phrase of welcome. “My home is open to you. May its comforts fill your needs. I am Izivar Lenereva and this is Stirses Abasis.”

“Stirses?” Elistala asked doubtfully.

“They know my real name,” Antires explained to Izivar.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d forgotten that you’d met them both.”

“Where is General Hanuvar?” Elistala asked.

“We call him Decius,” Izivar said smoothly. “He is travelling.”

“Decius?” The Eltyr sounded scandalized. “Why do you call him Decius?”

At the same time Bomilcar asked: “When will he return?” His tone was brusque.

Izivar took the chair out at the head of the table and gestured to her guests to resume their seats.

Antires sat down beside Elistala. He reached for the wine pitcher and poured himself a cup the steward had set out. Out in the kitchens some servant dropped a plate. Its smash against the tiles rang through the house, along with an oath. Antires detected the scent of roasting lamb.

Izivar answered the first question. “We call him Decius so we’re not in habit of using the other one and forget when we’re in public. As for when Decius will come back,” Izivar said, turning to Bomilcar, “he is likely a few days away, still. He’s looking for information about his niece.”

Bomilcar frowned. “We have news we know he’ll want to hear. His daughter is well. And so is his niece, for that matter.”

Their last communication from Hanuvar had conveyed that he had magically observed both Narisia and Edonia in Cerdia, but it was still fine to hear confirmation, and Izivar smiled with Antires.

“Why didn’t they come back with you?” Antires asked.

Elistala explained. “Narisia’s in Cerdia, readying them for the war against Derva.” Her features twisted into a frown as she took note of Izivar’s troubled look. “You don’t approve?” While she did not state outright that a traitorous Lenereva would naturally side with Derva, her sentiment was obvious.

“The Lady Izivar wants to see Decius reunited with his daughter,” Antires said. “That’s all.”

Bomilcar traded a significant look with Elistala, who fell silent but appeared doubtful.

The captain placed something on the table with a light thunk. When he lifted his hand Antires saw that he had left behind a short, thin wooden scroll tube. “The gen . . . Decius’ daughter wrote that for him.”

A letter from Narisia. Antires could scarce believe it. If only Hanuvar were here! “What does it say?”

“I don’t know.”

As Izivar studied the scroll’s tube, Antires saw from her wistful expression how much she wanted him here. “I will keep it safe for him,” she promised.

“See that you do.” Bomilcar bowed his head formally, and then climbed to his feet. Belatedly, Elistala did the same. “We will return tomorrow.”

Izivar stood too, in mild confusion. “You are welcome to stay. My cooks will have something ready for you shortly.”

The captain again bowed his head. “You are very gracious,” he said with hard eyes. “But we must return to the ship.”

Elistala’s uncertain glance at her commander put the lie to his statement, but Izivar pretended not to notice, and walked both to the door, where she bade them safe travels.

A quiet Izivar retreated to her office, and Antires followed. Only when she sat down in her chair behind her desk did she let out a sigh and reveal her long-held tension by rubbing her forehead.

He closed the door and sat down on the wall bench across from her. “That was challenging, but you handled yourself with poise.”

“You’re very kind.” She stilled for a long moment before continuing. “It seems they cannot tolerate my company.”

“Maybe they really did have pressing duties.”

“Do you think these are the first of my people skeptical of my family during this enterprise?”

“These were Cabera adherents,” he said. “Or they would not have left Volanus with . . . Decius. They’ll be harder to win over.”

“Most of those who settled New Volanus were Cabera adherents,” she reminded him. “My father nearly handed Hanuvar to the Dervans. How do you think they’re going to feel about me?”

“Decius will—”

“Yes, yes. He will tell them and they will at least pretend to do as he wants.” She sighed again. “But they’ll be looking for any reason to confirm their previous impressions. And how will they treat Julivar? Or the rest who left with us before the war? Will they too be blamed because they came to Tyvol with my family?”

“Some folk might have to be reminded of courtesy. But they will come around. Decius always works his miracles.”

“He always does, doesn’t he?” She sounded strangely bitter. “I was taught to hate him. He was a rabble-rouser. Listen to the way the people chant for him, my father would say.” She changed the way she held her head and spoke more formally, dropping her voice as if in imitation of someone. Probably her father, although Antires, having never heard Tannis Lenereva, couldn’t evaluate her rendition. “You can’t trust a man who stirs others that way. He will carelessly lead them on to death. He’s in love with the sound of his voice.”

“You know that’s not true.”

She answered in her normal voice. “I know it’s not true now.”

“You think he was ever one of those?”

Her dark eyes were sad and knowing. “I think he has always loved certain ideals deeply. That he chased those ideals the way the devout throw themselves before their statues. His war cause meant more to him than anything else. The lives of his followers. The lives of his brothers.”

“His own life.”

Her answer was level. “Yes.”

“It wasn’t the war itself he wanted,” he reminded her. “He hoped to make the world safer, ultimately—make it the kind of place his people could thrive in.”

Her look was inward, her voice slow and reflective. “He is a brilliant man. Maybe the smartest that I’ve ever met. Imagine what he could have done in a softer world. He could have been an architect or a scientist or a philosopher. Maybe even a playwright.”

“Maybe.” Hanuvar didn’t strike Antires as the play-writing sort.

“But he came to a father who raised him in an armed camp. And so he was taught from a young age how to master war, and the minds of others.”

“He’s no tyrant. You know that. Tyrants are only out for their own needs.”

She smiled sadly. “He bends people to his will. Look at us.” She lay Narisia’s letter on the desk. “He has me desperately hoping for the welfare of a woman I’ve never met. Leaving a safe home for an uncertain one. Risking all for people who will most likely never welcome me.”

“You care because you agree with him.”

“Yes, but also because I care about him. Who he was, and why he acted as he did, was more complicated than I knew. Except . . . what if I’m fooling myself and I’ve simply fallen under his spell, the way father always claimed people did? You must admit that neither of us would be a knife’s edge from disaster if he hadn’t come along. Hanuvar’s war . . . it didn’t work. You’ll tell me it could have, with a little more luck, but—”

“You’re saying your father was right?”

“For betraying him to Derva?” She shook her head. “No. But was my father wrong to advocate for a different course than war?”

She knew the real answer, but he told her anyway. “The Dervans would have had Volanus all the sooner, as they have the cities of my people.”

“Better than its destruction.”

“So you question him?”

“I question myself.” She put her head in her hands, then spoke quietly. “I love him. I cannot help but love him. He is . . . the finest man I have ever known. But what if he has fooled all of us? You, me, all of them. Even himself.”

“And what does he fool himself over?” Antires asked.

“That he will win through in the end. That we can make a home from the troubles of our past. That he will come home to us alive.” She sank back against her chair, one hand drifting down to rest upon her belly while the other covered her heart. “Now I sound selfish.”

“It’s not selfish to want him to survive.”

“Do you think he wants that?”

“Of course he does.”

“You’re sure? He told me once he did not expect to get so far. Does he keep pressing on because he’s not been killed yet? Is that a dark secret he keeps even from himself?”

“He presses on because there is no one who can do it better.”

Her voice became hollow, and empty. “He will go too far one day. Maybe he does so now.”

“I’m worried about him too.”

She stretched out her hand to him and he took it and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She released it and straightened in her chair. “How did things go with the cooks, and the tailor? And who was that visitor at Hypatia’s villa?”

He reported the results of his day’s efforts and she listened in a way that reminded him of Hanuvar. He didn’t mention that the cooks had been wary of her, only that they and the tailor had agreed to Izivar’s plan.

“You trust Camillus’ slave?” she asked.

“I don’t fully understand her, but yes, I think I do. Hopefully tomorrow after the performance she can get me in to talk to them.”

“There are a lot of these slaves who can be traced back to you, or me,” she said. “Do you think we’ve arranged enough additional distractions?”

It was Carthalo who’d pointed out that slaves disappeared with every festival, but they had taken steps to arrange for the liberation of non-Volani as well, to divert suspicions. A band of Cerdian dockworkers housed in terrible conditions were set to be released, and another mixed group of sewage workers would be spirited away at about the same time. “Yes, and none of them can be linked to us.” He then lifted an open hand, as if weighing a counterpoint. “There are a lot of moving pieces.”

“But so long as they can reach the rendezvous point it’s actually fairly simple,” she reminded him. “Not that I don’t wish he was here to deal with complications that may arise.”

Antires smiled at Hanuvar’s favorite word for the would-be-catastrophes that popped up from time to time. “It’s a fine plan. He approved of it. And he’d have liked our modifications.”

“I hope so. He’s not here to offer improvements.”

Over dinner Julivar expressed disappointment that an actual Eltyr had been in the villa and no one had sent for her. Izivar refrained from mentioning the troubling social overtones of the visit, then invited Antires to share some of the exploits he’d had with Hanuvar. He happily did so, though he kept his narration to lighter moments. In talking of his friend it almost felt as though he were there with them, so that when the tales were done his absence was more profound.

Antires turned in early so he would be well rested for the long day tomorrow. As he closed his eyes, his mind turned not to his friend, but toward intriguing little Ishana, and wondered again why she had such a strong effect upon him. The mystery of love, he thought, though he meant that in the broadest sense. For surely he could not have fallen in love with her already. He wasn’t even properly infatuated, merely interested. So he told himself, and thus he passed into dreaming.



VI


With the slave woman gone that afternoon, Camillus had to prepare the pages himself. It was an irritant, but he was happy in a way, because at least she wouldn’t be there to complain that he shouldn’t use all three tresses.

He lashed in the earlier version of the script as the entire example and then added in the Herrene’s notes as well as the necessary blank pages, and requested truly deep characters. When he performed the ritual this time, the experience was even more striking. For a brief moment he felt not just warmth, but a deep heat, as though the sun were burning through to his center, and a great god had found him wanting.

Then the moment was passed, the pages were full, and he saw to his delight that they were heavy with wonders. He’d never felt so ebullient. He hadn’t been entirely sure what that word meant until today, and he repeated it again and again in his mind. This script, he was certain, would elevate him to greatness. There was still enough time for his actors to memorize some new scenes. They’d have to if they knew what was good for them!

He climbed out of his chair and shouted for the copy boys.



VII


The only talk about the new play of Antony Camillus that morning was how terrible it was likely to be. Traditionally the early slots were given over to the experimental, the untried, or the less skilled, so the timing of his debut was expected. Antires would have avoided it if he’d not hoped to be introduced to the Volani following the conclusion and if the public were permitted admittance during performances. He’d have to be on hand while Camillus was speaking to the judges and before the crew was shuffled off to make room for the next production.

The benches were sparsely occupied by diehards and the festival organizers and the bored early risers who’d shown up for the opening ceremony. The festival’s formal start with its sacrifice had been conducted first thing in the morning, but there were still some dry speeches to sit through prior to the first play.

By afternoon, several thousand people would be crammed into the half circle of the Herrenic-style seating built into the hillside, but for now Antires had no difficulty taking a seat in the center, a wide-brimmed sunhat topping him and a cushion beneath him.

He spotted Hypatia, one of the principal sponsors, seated near the middle front row. Her servants had brought pillows too, and sun umbrellas.

Several gray beards moved on stage in succession to thank one another and various names behind the scenes for helping organize what the audience was about to see. Hypatia looked up from the papers she had been studying when she herself was mentioned as a prominent donor and acknowledged the smattering of applause from the meager crowd with a lifted hand.

Just as Antires was deciding even a bad play would be more entertaining than opening ceremonies, he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned and with a pleasant start found Ishana beside him. Today she wore a red dress with a black belt and bore with her that pleasant floral scent. Her dark hair had been fluffed and held back in place with a ribbon that almost matched the stola. Today in place of the small arrow a tiny hand had been drawn upon her cheek. Though she had obviously taken care with her appearance, her expression was markedly alarmed.

“There may be danger,” she said softly.

“Danger?” Antires asked.

“He has used all three threads. The actors . . . there was something odd in the way they rehearsed yesterday, and into the night. They were tireless. I didn’t think the nexus really was forming about the play before, but it is now. I don’t think it’s safe here.”

“What’s this about a nexus?” Antires asked.

“A storm is building and it if releases, many people will die.”

“That sounds bad,” Antires said, feeling foolish the moment he said so. He cleared his throat and tried to imagine what Hanuvar would say. “How can we stop it?”

“We must seize control of the book. But neither the master nor his people would let me near it.”

Hanuvar would do something. Something bold. How much he planned things out ahead of time and how much he improvised Antires was never entirely certain. He didn’t have any plan right now, and didn’t see how he could, apart from the obvious. “Can you get us back to where the book is?”

“Follow me,” she said doubtfully.



VIII


Camillus could scarcely contain his excitement. He had paced so many times to the archway to learn if the droning introduction was over, it astounded him when it finally concluded. He pushed at his actor to get moving as the stagehands wheeled the backdrops onto the stage.

At first the old Hadiran seemed to wear a simple white robe and a thick mask, but as he walked, the magic of the theatre transformed him into a handsome and eloquent master of ceremonies. The stage itself seemed to bend and twist. The decorative pillars built about the archways took on a different character, transforming into stately trees deep in the forest. As the Hadiran described the scenery it seemed as though the morning shadows were vanished. Somehow a nighted wood had come to life behind him. An actual mist flowed along the ground. The crowd gasped.

Then the chorus of citizens stepped onto stage right, robed and masked, and spoke of Radanthes and his quest to find the secret that would restore his mother’s sanity and stop his half-brother’s scheming for the throne.

Camillus thought it absolutely beautiful, and perfect, and couldn’t believe that Hypatia wasn’t watching. She was bent over some papers, immune to the magic already holding the rest of the crowd rapt. He would have liked for more people to be in attendance, but then that was the fault of the organizers, who had refused him a later slot.

He slipped away from backstage by a side exit and crept on toward Hypatia as the story unfolded. The audience watched with uncommon attentiveness. So great was the play’s power that the atmosphere seemed even to have reached into the crowd, who sat no longer in the sun, but under the veil of stars. The sounds of owls calling in the woods rang about them.

Hypatia looked up a time or two, her expression perplexed. He stopped in front of her and the woman at her side frowned and leaned away to see over him as he crouched at her side.

“I’d hope you’d turn your lovely eyes to me,” he said. “Or should I say the play’s the thing to see?”

Hypatia noticed him. “Oh. Antony. How are you?”

“I think your lips are kinder than your eyes.”

She shook her head, as if trying to clear sleep-fogged vision. “This confuses me.”

“Look what I have wrought,” he said. “Behold the tale that I have spun for you. Wonders abound—the words are sweet and true.”

“The stage craft is astounding . . . Antony, money doesn’t make a story. And you cannot write for me alone. Why does my opinion matter so much to you? You can’t win my hand.”

“What?”

“Turn your hunger to some other table.” She looked momentarily surprised, as though she had said something unexpected, or in a way that she had not intended. “This one suits you ill. You’ve no gift for words, at least not those that come from other mouths. Your thoughts turn solely on the things you crave.”

Her words sliced deep, and he bared his teeth as she continued:


“You’d order all within your sight, make slaves

of us to stand or walk or crawl or kiss,

or whistle, clap, or shout out words of praise—”


She shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts, but continued, “You think you’re owed all this by dint of birth. Not skill or practice or nights of labor . . . Why am I talking like this? I’m sorry. I’ve said more than I—”

He cut her off with a snarl.


“I thank you for your words. At last the mist

is lifted from my sight. I would have kissed

those lips and pressed that heart to mine. Instead

I raise this knife—you look on me with dread?

You’ve naught to fear, for you’ll survive to die

a thousand times beneath the open sky.

For folk crave witches for their men to slay.”


Thrice he stabbed her. Hypatia fell with scarlet breast; slaves and companions watched with whitened eyes then spoke with the chorus, in unison.


“So struck the king and laughed. He did not think

Radanthes came to bring a blow to him.”


She blinked in astonishment, then her eyes fell open as her head fell limp and her expression blanked in death. For a brief moment he knew a twinge of regret—he hadn’t wanted this, had he? He’d hoped to impress her . . . but no, she but played the part of the witch, in the play, and he was King Ildion, Radanthes’ half-brother, raised by sorcerers and talented in magic. Camillus knew it now. In the tales Radanthes slew him, but he knew he would not be stopped, for this play was his. He had killed the witch before his brother could seek her advice!

He walked then for the serpent’s cave, determined to find the cup before his half-brother. Camillus did not reflect upon how strange it was that the stone steps to the stage had become a hill or that a moon rode a black sky in the morning. All was as the story would have it be. His play, which was perfect, as he had ordered of the gods.



IX


Among Antires’ people there was a phrase that meant captured by story. Antires had thought he had known its meaning when he was so consumed by a work that he could barely slow, and the words came fast, and time became irrelevant.

But this sense was different. It was both words that lay ready to pour forth and that heady mix of fear and love when you waited just off stage and knew your cue was coming and you would vanish into your part to walk out as the character you played.

He’d learned that stage hands had carried the book onto the set, and so he and Ishana now looked out from stage right, seeking the scenery element where they’d been told the book lay. Camillus’ mania had directed that the book be within the “cave” where the cup of fate was supposed to lie. They saw no wood or curtain but an actual rocky grotto, and the stage itself had been replaced by a dense forest where the cries of bats and owls filled the air.

Antires could still perceive the sun, but distantly, as through a deep mantle painted with stars.

Ishana pointed onto the stage, and she seemed to be saying that the book was behind an archway , but she seemed also to say that the cup of fate was hidden in the serpent’s cave.

And then she clasped his shoulder and he better saw the stage, though the forested illusion lay thick upon it.

The play continued. Part of the audience now spoke with the chorus, describing Radanthes’ exploration from the river. The Hadiran actor had emerged from stage left and could be glimpsed passing among the tree boles, searching alertly as he neared center stage.

“Hold to me,” Ishana said, guiding his hands to her round shoulder, then opened a small belt pouch. From within she carefully lifted unseen things, then passed one to Antires, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. Only when he received it did Antires understood he’d been gifted with a tiny strand of dark brown hair.

“What is this?” he asked.

“I took a small bit from each of the locks of the muses, to protect me should something go awry.”

“You foresaw this?”

“I knew something would go wrong. This should shield us as we move toward the book.” She started toward the cave to stage rear. Antires followed. By concentrating he could just make out the actual floor.

Camillus ascended to the stage front, transformed into a pale robed man crowned with a dark metal circlet.

The audience spoke as one, describing the moment:


“Radanthes cannot see what lies in wait

The serpent lurks upon the riverside.

His hands shall never clasp the cup of fate

for up the serpent rears, its mouth stretched wide.”


Upon the stage a great green form stirred the jungle fronds. Radanthes, though still searching, did not detect its approach.

Antires knew this wasn’t how the story went: something had gone awry indeed. He wondered if he might affect a change. He lifted the hair of the muse, pinched carefully between finger and thumb, then called out across the stage.

“Radanthes, be alert, a serpent crawls to end your life and send you down to dust!”

The actor turned. “Who calls to me?”

Antires replied:


“Your cousin Thereon has bought you aid.

From deserts spare I raced to you and I

still wear the ring that wards the serpent’s fang.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, or to lift his hand, where a bright sword now flashed.

Thereon was said to have ventured sometimes with his cousin Radanthes, but in no version of the tale had Thereon ever accompanied him in quest for the cup of fate. And yet the play changed to meet this new development. The chorus and the crowd itself commented with one voice.


“The flowers on their stalks then swayed and flared

and spat like snakes and cast a lethal snare.

Caught unawares Radanthes took a breath

and found his way below to lands of death.”


Apparently the play was determined to kill the Hadiran actor, who sank to one knee and dropped flat when bright red blossoms turned upon their stalks. In no tradition had Radanthes been laid low by mystical flowers; that had been island hopping Lyessius in an entirely different story.

Camillus, the king, laughed and pointed to Antires.


“It needs no teeth, its coils shall crush you flat.

One gulp and you’ll be expelled with its scat!”


Antires lifted his sword, which seemed fashioned of moonlight, and cast a rejoinder: “Your verse is bad, I’d slay for that alone!”

Laughter rolled through the crowd. Camillus gnashed his teeth and shook his arms.

The serpent slid through the boles, a monster of dark green scales that had slithered through the nightmares of men and women since time immemorial. Wide around as a barrel, it stopped a horse length from Antires, its eyes white and glimmering. Its head raised up, towering over Antires, and the audience gasped as one.

Antires—or was he Thereon?—leapt sideways, striking as the serpent lunged. He knew he held nothing, and struck nothing, and yet he felt the blade he didn’t grip bite deep and his arm shook with the sword’s impact.

The serpent hit the stage with a forest-rattling thump, and the ghostly trees swayed. But the monster had not been slain, no matter the deep gash that showed upon its length. It began to turn its vast bulk. Antires backed away, scanning his environment. Ishana had arrived at a dark opening in the earth, a wooden arch bearing a black curtain to stage rear.

Though she was obscured by trees, he feared sooner or later Camillus would note her. But the snake had finished its turn and once more the head neared him. He needed help. And so he spoke to change the play’s course once more. “The king was wrong. Radanthes had not died. He’d feigned his death to lure him near his side!”

Camillus swung suddenly right and the Hadiran Radanthes staggered upright.

“With spell I’ll slay thee!” Camillus shrieked.

But Radanthes raised his blade. “With sword I’ll rend thee!”

Antires was momentarily pleased, but the snake reached him and reared high, a scaled tower of death with a flickering black tongue. The sword seemed puny and useless against such strength.

The crowd described the moment for him.


“Thereon’s end was nigh; what good was man

when nature’s wrath stood tall, for he is low—”


Antires gritted his teeth and warred against what the play would have him do. “He shook his fears and struck a deathly blow!”

When the snake lashed down he took its head in a great shining slash. The fanged maw sailed to stage rear; the body struck with such force it threw him from his feet. The crowd roared their approval.

The play, though, seemed finally to have taken note of Ishana, and assigned her a role.


“None saw what wily Thereon had done.

While eyes were turned away he sent his son

into the cave to fetch the sacred cup.”


“Be warned,” Antires cried, “break fast its hold!”

“You mewling pup!” Camillus shouted. “Radanthes, take your sleep!”

Radanthes slipped down again and the crowd spoke of the king’s magic. Camillus turned toward Ishana at stage rear, shouting indignantly. “This is my tale, and yours is tragedy!”

But Ishana was lifting a great cup Antires saw superimposed over a sheaf of paper with shining bindings. She worked to undo them.

Camillus bent and rose with the sword of Radanthes, then stalked toward her.

The stage favored Camillus because it was his story, however wrong it was. And as Antires climbed dazedly to his feet he knew a greater thrum of fear, for he intuited the sense of Camillus’ statement: Ishana wore the blessing of the muse of tragedy. Even if her will was slightly shielded from the play, her role was not likely to end well. Whose hair, then, protected him?

As he forced his way through the thick forest trunks, he knew. Cleila, muse of history.

Ishana raised her voice and lifted the cup toward the audience, and the oncoming king. “There’s but one draught within the cup of fate. I’ll drink it down and you’ll not work your spells!”

“I’ll slay you ’ere the nectar cross your lips!” Camillus loomed close, sword raised high.

The play had directed so many trees in his path, Antires could not advance, and Ishana’s end was practically foredoomed. He needed a deus ex machina.

He bared his teeth in a fierce grin. Why not? He quoted Eledicles, at the end of The Women of the Isles, when the besiegers had breached the walls and the final spears had been flung: “When all seemed lost and hope was finally passed, the sun shone through and gods arrived at last.”

Camillus turned in surprise and a brilliant scarlet light split the darkness. A single figure caught in that sunbeam descended from on high, unsupported by crane, a woman in a Herrenic gown.

All else faded. Suddenly Camillus was no longer a king, but a small man in a blood-spattered tunic, holding not a mighty sword but a dripping knife. The Hadiran groaned and sat up, adjusting his mask.

Ishana stood with the sheaf of papers, the hairs that bound it half undone along one side.

The goddess alighted upon the stage. She was the Herrenic ideal, with wide hips, small waist, high full breasts, creamy brown skin, and tightly coiled dark brown hair. Her beauty was beyond human, so great it was painful to look upon. Her eyes, ancient and wise, touched those of Antires and to endure that gaze was to be left breathless.

She said nothing, but he understood that she knew he had brought her here, and she had not decided whether she approved.

She beckoned Ishana closer, and the woman walked toward her with lowered head, book extended like an offering.

“That is my play,” Camillus cried.

“You’ve wrought nothing of your own,” the goddess said, her voice echoing, honey sweet even as it was implacably strong. The moment her flawless hand touched the papers they flaked away like fine embers that wafted into the sky. Camillus cried out as if in physical pain.

The flowing tresses faded too, and the strands Ishana had removed drifted toward the deity, vanishing as they touched her palm. Then, she turned toward him and Antires knew, with absolute certainty, that he looked upon the muse of history. Cleila walked across the stage to him and with impossible grace extended an arm.

Antires bowed his head and offered the final strand of hair.

Her fingers brushed his own, gently, as he returned it. “I but used this to stop a great wrong,” he said. “I would earn your blessing through my writing.”

“Work well then,” she said. A smile touched her lips, and Antires felt it through to the core of his being, and the sight would haunt him until the end of his days. He suspected that she had shown him favor, but only if he labored. But then he had intended to do that from the start.

Again, he bowed his head.

She advanced upon Camillus, who stood frozen upon the stage. The muse’s lovely brows clouded with wrath.

“I made a play,” Camillus stammered, “to honor you and your sisters—”

“You brought honor to none, and craved only fame, and it is that I shall grant you.” Her voice was level and cold. She did not bother lifting a hand to work her doom.

Camillus’ skin sparkled with a glistening patina. He lifted the palms of his hands to better examine them, but his movements slowed then ceased altogether. His skin had taken on the character of brass. His features ran like melting metal until his face was monstrously twisted, a craggy ruin barely recognizable for once having been human.

The muse addressed the crowd, her voice sonorous and grim. “Any who see will know his fate, but none shall know his likeness. Look well on his end, mortals, and remember how he earned it.”

Cleila lifted her hands to the sky, as if in exaltation, then she glowed warmly, and disappeared in light.

The cries and screams of terror began immediately after she vanished, and seemed all the more frantic, probably because they had been held in place.

Antires hurried backstage with Ishana. Beyond, the bewildered stage workers were still shaking off their ensorcellment. Ishana coaxed the Volani husband and wife with her and she and Antires guided them off through the tents of the many theatrical groups.

Some of the crowd fled through the stage exits, crying out that a goddess had come, that Hypatia had been killed, and that a giant snake rampaged, among other things. Though Antires lamented the death of the brilliant woman, he took advantage of the chaos. As men and women dashed hither and yon through the neighboring camps it was easy to reach Hypatia’s cooks, working under a striped tent for a midday meal for select guests. Antires then recovered the tailor from the rented rooms of his absent master, and disappeared with all his charges into the milling crowd.

decorative stars

All but a few in the audience claimed to remember the event only as scattered moments, as if through a drunken stupor. Many recalled seeing Camillus kill Hypatia in what they had first assumed was an aspect of the performance, reporting that after that they were so swept up into the stage magic that they had lost themselves.

I shaved the beard I had grown to confuse my identity, just in case anyone recalled the involvement of a bearded Herrene. I had adopted it to obscure any descriptions of Antires Sosilos, of course, but the time for worrying about that seemed ended.

Without Ishana I could not have won through, although she claimed it was me who had done the saving. We agreed that we had both done admirably then took one another to bed, like proper heroes from verse. Izivar, seemingly amused with me, had forged records of manumission created for Ishana, though she advised that my Faedahni lover would not be truly safe unless she sailed north with the other liberated slaves. Ishana elected to stay with me, saying she would keep to the villa until I should be ready to sail myself, which pleased me well.

After much debate by the organizers, the festival was resumed upon the following morning, and it was decreed that Hypatia was to have a funeral during the concluding ceremonies. Antonius Camillus, or rather, the statue left of him, was relocated to the city shopping square, a stark contrast among other monuments to famed warriors and politicians.

As it happens, the play festival that year was destined to fail. A flood of refugees arrived in Apicius with word that the countryside was in flames: once again marauding gladiators were running loose. Word had it that a Nuvaran named Tafari led a mighty band that had grown in number as he leveled the region’s gladiatorial schools and raided industries.

As rumors spread of a rebellion more and more attendees and performers departed early, Bomilcar urged Izivar to leave as well, but she would not be moved until Hanuvar himself returned.

—Sosilos, Book Sixteen




22. That a freeborn Herrene held a position of wealth and authority in Dervan society was not uncommon even in the days of empire, for the Dervans admired the older culture and its arts even as they conquered it. Herrenic scholars in particular were prized and were often bestowed with lavish gifts that might include slaves, property, and even citizenship, though Hypatia, as a woman, would not have been granted the latter.—Sosilos

23. The temple to the muses lies not upon the acropolis of Arbos, but in the nearby countryside, in a small ancillary village, built into the side of a hill.—Sosilos



Back | Next
Framed