1.43

The Son of Rome

As a young patrician of Rome, and later an attendant to Gaius, I had grown used to being in the presence of powerful people. Those with physical power, those with political power, up and down the spectrum of influence within the Republic.

“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine,” Selene counted off dutifully while I pressed against the gold and ivory mosaic floors of the late kyrios’ courtyard. ”Forty!”

I let go of Gravitas and collapsed, forehead pressed against the cool stone as I panted for breath. After thoroughly proving his point with regards to my foundational imbalance, Socrates had advised me to continue my calisthenics under the influence of the captain’s virtue. I invoked Gravitas just enough to make the work nearly unbearable, but not enough to keep me fully down, and I returned to the basics until my body gave out.

It was grueling, but I couldn’t deny the results. I felt like I was a boy again, training my body under Aristotle‘s watchful eye for the very first time. Basic calisthenics that had ceased to yield any real benefit long ago felt challenging again. With every push-up, every lunge and crunch, I cursed myself for not doing this as soon as I had first tapped into Gaius’ virtue. At the same time, a more realistic part of me acknowledged that I’d held it in such high regard for so long that I never would have considered such an option if it hadn’t been forced on me first.

Still, the benefits of Socrates’ training were one thing. But there was something unnerving about keeping this sort of company, even with all my experience.

The Oracles of the Coast, the Alabaster Isles, and the City of Squalls – also known as the Hurricane Heights – politely applauded while the Scarlet Oracle hopped off my back and went to grab a jug of water.

“My, you’re in fine form today,” the Oracle of the Alabaster Isles said, resting her cheek in one hand, the other holding her knee up to her chest while she lounged on her holy tripod. Her smile was teasing.

“I’d expect nothing less from the last son of Rome,” spoke the Oracle of the Hurricane Heights. She was a lithe woman, a slim contrast to the Alabaster Oracle’s obscene curves, and her hair drifted in a breeze that couldn’t be felt. Threads the color of harvested wheat drifted around her hallowed tripod, spiraling through her fingers as she idly weaved. “Tomorrow he may even reach fifty.”

“Respectfully,” I groaned, forcing an arm beneath me, “I didn’t ask the oracles for their input.”

“Respectfully, he says,” the Oracle of the Broken Tide cackled. Of the five, she was the only one that fit my mental image of what a soothsayer should be. Ancient, wrinkled, and frail. Her shawls and sashes seemed to swallow her up so that all a man could see of her were her skeletal hands, and the wispy strands of bone white hair that flared out from under her hood. Her face was thin and severe, perpetually leering. Her eyes were milk white and the pupils were trisected.

She was also, bizarrely, sitting in the lap of the Brazen Aegis’ Oracle. As it had been explained to me the first time I had met them, the Scarlet City had only one oracle despite being home to two separate cults because their mysteries were intimately related. The coast, on the other hand, had two entirely separate mysteries which their cults were built around, and so the city had enjoyed the privilege of two separate oracles.

The late kyrios had taken this into consideration and declared that eight tripods for eight cities was perfectly fair, and so they’d been forced to share ever since. Sitting together as they were, they looked nearly like a mother and her daughter.

“Men have given their lives pursuing a moment of our time, you know,” the crone of the Broken Tide said, smacking her fellow Oracle’s hand away when it tried to cover her mouth. “The richest man in the world wouldn’t be able to buy the company of two of us at any given time, let alone the five you have before you.”

“If I wanted to pay for a woman’s company, I’d go to a brothel.” I managed to sit up and accept the jug of water Selene offered me, nodding gratefully, and drank deeply. The Oracle of the Broken Tide laughed so hard that she started to choke.

“Forgive them,” Selene whispered, her shoulder bumping against mine. “It’s rare for us to meet someone we can speak freely to.”

“There are certain things a seer can provide that a prostitute can’t,” the Oracle from the Alabaster Isles pointed out. Her eyes danced, silk chiton shifting as she laid her chin on her raised knee. Her lips were painted in the shades of the Alabaster Isles, a spectrum of white-gold to canary yellow.

“Perhaps he has no use for a soothsayer,” the Oracle of the Hurricane Heights mused, weaving her hovering thread. She blew her waving hair absently out of her face. “Is that it after all, son of Rome? Have you no interest in what’s to come?”

I drained the last of the water from the jug. Gravitas struck me like a clenched fist, pressed me down, and I got to work on my situps.

“Seems you’re on the mark,” the Oracle of the Broken Tide croaked, having regained her breath. “The young barbarian fears what’s to come.”

I rose against the weight of command, and I fell. I saw another crone, in another place. Another time. Heard her eerie, rasping voice.

Beware the Ides of March

I didn’t need a soothsayer to tell me what I already knew. My future was hopelessly grim.

Selene added her weight to my exercise, sitting on my feet so they wouldn’t slide on the mosaic floor or lift up. She crossed her arms on my knees and set her chin upon them, considering me seriously.

“They’re only teasing you,” she said, her veil shifting as she shook her head. “The gods don’t speak to us anymore. They couldn’t give you a prophecy even if they wanted to.”

A sandal struck her in the side of the head. The Scarlet Oracle cried out, flinching back.

“Arrogant girl, telling me what I can’t do.” The Oracle of the Broken Tide struggled against the Oracle of the Brazen Aegis, the old crone doing her level best to throw her other sandal. “I’ve taken naps longer than you’ve been alive!”

“Just because you look like you’re older than dirt doesn’t make it true!” Selene shot back, immediately ducking the second sandal. It whistled sharply as it cut through the air and drove through the stone of the far wall.

“Honestly, Dona, she’s just a child!” The Oracle of the Brazen Aegis scolded her counterpart, wrestling the old woman’s arms back with some effort. Dona spat.

“If she’s old enough to be a wife, she’s old enough to get beaten.”

The soothsayers from the Brazen Aegis Cult and the Howling Wind Cult exchanged long-suffering looks across the courtyard, their tripods situated opposite from one another.

“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three-”

“Perhaps we’ve taken the wrong track,” the Oracle of the Alabaster Isles mused, and I felt her gaze as a physical thing. Something that went beyond the influence I could detect with my Sophic sense, deeper and more vibrant. I shivered as it ghosted up and down my body. “These are our leisure hours, aren’t they? Perhaps the son of Rome has something he can deliver to us.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Selene frowned, head tilting towards her fellow soothsayer.

“Certainly not good conversation,” Dona said derisively.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the woman with the gold-gloss lips said, smiling slowly. “I’m quite enjoying what he’s saying right now.”

I stopped, halfway through my situp. Her smile widened.

“Oh no, please. Continue.”

I stared hard at the holy woman. Then, slowly, I completed my situp.

“Forty.”

Dona scoffed. “It’s a wonder he knows how to count. Be truthful, boy – when’s the last time you had a real conversation, without any moody deflections?”

I looked the salty old bitch in her blind eyes and said flatly, “Bar.”

Behind her, the Brazen Aegis’ Oracle fought a smile. “Bar?”

I nodded. “Bar.”

“Bar,” Selene added.