1.21

The Son of Rome

“Is it always like this?” I asked the girl in the sun ray silks. I waved vaguely, encompassing the entirety of the lounge pavilion. Her lips curled down, the only facial feature not obscured by her golden veil.

“To greater or lesser degrees,” Selene said, sighing softly. “It usually isn’t this egregious outside of holidays and celebrations. The death of the kyrios has left everyone on edge.”

I watched a pair of bare-chested men hold a third upside down while a trio of women in sheer, see-through silks threw grapes into his mouth.

“Seems like it.”

“They distract themselves as best they can,” Selene said. “The cult is not well and they know it. There is safety in numbers, and safety in the sun. Out here in the open, surrounded by their peers, they can relax without fear of scavengers.”

Crows. My eyes narrowed, ire rising. I despised their ilk. Gaius had suffered from no end of rats in his time as general of the west, nipping at his heels and striking from the dark. It was why he never slept.

“Still,” I grunted. “They could be doing better things with their time.”

“They’re young,” Selene said, leaning back on the head rest of her lounge. “And they’re afraid. Uncertain. It’s disappointing to see, but can you blame them for seeking relief in simple distractions?” Yes. I could. Most of the truly debauched cultivators on this plateau were older than me.

I glanced at Selene, though, smirking in faint amusement. “Wise words for a fifteen year old.”

“Looks can be deceiving, cultivator.” There was an airy, mystical quality to her smile.

“They can be,” I acknowledged. “Are yours?”

“They are. I may only look like I’m fifteen years of age, but the truth is far different.” She waved a hand over her person, head tilting to reveal the slope of her sun-kissed neck. “I’m actually sixteen.”

I snorted a laugh. Selene smiled indulgently.

“My mistake,” I conceded. “What brings the wise woman to a place like this?”

Selene’s head tilted further. The golden veil that covered her face slipped just a bit with the motion, exposing the gentle slope of her jaw. Her eyes remained shrouded, but I could imagine them gazing out over the mountain, and the sanctuary city below.

“There is strength in numbers,” she repeated, sadly.

No matter where you went, scum would always be scum. “These Crows,” I said slowly. “Their maneuvering. Is it really that dire?” I was fighting myself as I spoke. I’d already involved myself beyond any sensible mark two nights ago. If Scythas was to be believed, a Tyrant wanted to see me because of it. I couldn’t afford to dig deeper. Yet even so.

“They’re not the worst of it,” she said, shaking her head. “They operate at night for the most part. It’s the paranoia they invoke by simply existing. The suspicion. The elders have always had means of competing with one another behind closed doors – Olympia wouldn’t survive any direct contention. But it was never this flagrant.”

“The kyrios kept them in line,” I guessed.

“He did. It was known that lasting harm, let alone death, was not allowed in his halls. There was maneuvering, there were power plays, but mystikos could walk the steps of Kaukoso Mons without fear at night.”

“But now the kyrios is dead,” I said, looking back over the pavilion with a more discerning eye. Whether I saw it now because I expected to see it, or whether it had always been there, I could see the tension now. Tightly leashed stress in every raving man, woman, and child. It drove them to excess. It robbed them of their senses.

“And no one knows who they can trust.” Selene nodded. “Acting out in protest of the shadow game only makes you a target. Withdrawing from it entirely is an insult to your city’s elder. The Raging Heaven was entirely unprepared for the death of the kyrios, and now it suffers because of it.”

“How long will this take to resolve itself?” I asked, the magnitude of things settling in. Cultivators were an elevated existence, capable of things that barbarian and ordinary man could hardly dream of doing. The higher up the divine mountain they went, the more stark this divide became. And two nights ago, I had seen Heroes hunted through the streets like dogs. Something told me it was only going to get worse.

“I don’t know,” Selene admitted. “With regards to politics, I only have my father’s word to go off of. Outsiders aren’t told much of these things.”

“Outsider? You’re not an initiate?”

“The Raging Heaven accepts only the best,” Selene said, tilting her head to face me. “Cultivators that have proven themselves to be exceptional beyond all conventional measures. Whether they be civic, sophic, or heroic, it is not enough to be simply powerful or well-connected. You must be significant – your story worth hearing.”

“But you live here anyway,” I mused. Scythas had mentioned accommodations for guests, I supposed. My eyes wandered, as the rest of what she’d said simmered in my mind. It sounded wrong. “I can’t say I’m interested in hearing any of the stories on display here.”

“That’s because you didn’t know them before they joined.” There was something powerfully troubled in her voice, some sorrow in the way her fingers caressed the golden filigree of sunrays woven into her tunic. “The cults of greater mysteries exist for many purposes, and their prestige is undeniable, but ultimately, they are artificial institutions. And how can an aspiring Hero refine ivory from their soul without the proper conflict to drive them?”

The sentiment was a familiar one. I’d heard its like often enough during my time at the Rosy Dawn. “You don’t want to join this cult, even if you could,” I observed. Selene smiled wistfully.

“I love my father and my mother,” she murmured. “But there are days that I can’t help wondering what life is like when you live it yourself, and not vicariously. Now that the kyrios is dead, I fear I’ll be suffering more and more days like that.”

I frowned, dropping my olives back onto their platter. I’d lost my appetite.

“You don’t have many friends here, do you?”

“How cruel.” Selene placed a hand to her chest. “What gave me away?”

“You wouldn’t be talking to me. Also, every single person on this plateau has been avoiding this corner since you sat down.” I flicked an olive across the pavilion. It struck the ear of a Philosopher that had been eyeing me earlier, sizing me up for a fight. The man flinched, but he did not turn. “They’re too afraid to even look.”

Selene was silent.

“You may not be a member of the cult,” I said. “But your father is. And he’s prominent enough to extend his influence to you.” Piece by piece, I was assembling a mental image of this place and its people. Different in every way from the Rosy Dawn on the surface. But the foundations? Those were all the same.

“You have eyes, cultivator,” Selene said softly. “So tell me, where is Olympus Mons?”

I looked back, meeting the shadowed silhouette of her eyes through the gossamer veil.

“Not here.”

A sharp cry split the skies before she could respond, and mystikos of the Raging Heaven turned and craned their heads to see a shadow bolt shoot out of the sky. It spiralled and careened through the air in a blur, avoiding thrown cups and pneuma projectiles hurled up at it with contemptuous ease.

I held out an arm and the messenger eagle of Rome swept down onto it with surprising force, talons wrapping around my arm with deceptive care. Sharp enough to draw blood, but steady enough not to. It snapped its beak, sharp eyes riveted on my discarded olives. I gathered them back up and offered my open palm to the bird of prey. It snapped them up in its beak one by one, each snap powerful enough to sever a man’s finger, but it didn’t once nick me.

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“What is that?” Selene asked, astonished.

“A messenger from Rome,” I answered, running the back of my free hand along the ridge of its wing. The eagle ruffled its feathers, pleased with the attention. I smirked.

“You’re from Rome?” I raised an eyebrow at the sudden hitch in her voice.

“I am.”

“I’ve never met anyone from Rome before,” she confided, with barely constrained excitement. She leaned forward on her lounge, planting both hands on the edge of its upholstery. “Clear across the sea! You must have seen so many amazing places before coming here.”

I thought of Gaius’ campaigns. The mountain ranges of the Gauls, treacherous heights and war-torn valleys, and the Black Forest that sprawled across entire nations. The frozen north, with their swirling Celt sigils carved into the stones and planted in their fields, squat villages clustered around the seas. Even the vile marshes and miserably damp plains of Brittania.

“You have no idea,” I told her. She lit up even further. It was odd, seeing the sudden shift in her demeanor. A bit endearing, but odd.

I was distracted by a gagging sound, and turned in time to see the eagle vomit into my open hand. My nose wrinkled. But mercifully, instead of mashed olives and the breakfast I’d fed it earlier in the day, a scroll of rolled papyrus fell into my palm. I stared at the missive for a moment, then back up at the bird.

“These are supposed to go around your leg.”

The eagle trilled sharply, snapping its beak.

“Did it just… scoff at you?” Selene asked wonderingly.

I glared at the bird. “It did.”

Miraculously, the message wasn’t covered in bile despite where it had come from. I unrolled it, curious, and rolled my eyes when I saw the distinctive handwriting scrawled across a scrap of one of Scythas’ star charts.

Greetings brother,

I pray this message finds you promptly and in good health, though I’m not expecting much from a mongrel Roman bird. Assuming it has, though, meet me after dusk where the stars align and the heavens descend to earth.

Come alone. We need to talk.

The bird can come too, I suppose. His name is Sorea. I named him for you, since you couldn’t be bothered to do it yourself.