1.73

The Son of Rome

We moved with purpose through the dock city. It was a good day for sailing, as far as I could tell – though admittedly I was far from an expert. The abundance of blue-backed tuna, mackerel, and vibrant dorado on display spoke to good fishing if nothing else. I even spotted a few mongers a bit further down the beach hauling swordfish as large as their torsos. The sight alone was enough to provoke my hunger, evoking vivid memories of the roasted filets Griffon had served at the Kronia.

I debated my next impulse within myself for a moment, but hunger won out in the end. Selene had done her best to smuggle me a few things here and there while I was in the Gadfly’s tender care, minding my health when my mentor would not. There was no substitute for fresh meat, though.

“How much for that one?” I demanded of the next fishmonger that tried to pass me with his haul. He hesitated, glancing around to see if I was talking to anyone else.

“Try a civilized tongue,” Griffon suggested.

The fishmonger fidgeting in front of me could have been from any of the free city-states, as far as I knew, or he could have been from somewhere else entirely. His features were squat and unassuming, just the wrong side of ugly, and his skin was wrinkled and leather-tanned by the nature of his work. He didn’t look any younger than thirty, but his soul was still dormant.

The shard of nameless stone from Babylon had left its mark on me in a vague and profound way. I had no way of knowing what Greek dialect or other far-flung tongue he spoke, yet when I called upon the memory of reading the foundational myths off that shard, my pneuma sprang forth from the back of my throat and coated my tongue.

“How much for the swordfish?” I asked the monger again, the words Latin and every other language at once. The monger blinked and held up his catch.

“As is, sir?”

My hunger reared up.

“From your hands to mine.”

The monger gave Griffon and I a once over, lingering on the battered bronze breastplate Socrates had lent me, as well as Griffon‘s sheathed sword and cult attire. He seemed to come to a decision within himself, shoulder slumping just slightly, and rattled off a nonsense sum of a currency I only vaguely recognized.

“I have no money,” I said flatly. The monger swallowed down his first response to that, casting around for an ally in the seaside markets and finding none that would meet his eyes.

“Don’t have much either, myself. Pardon me for saying it, but I’ve got a family to feed-”

“I’ll work for it.”

Griffon snorted. The monger regarded me with polite disbelief, strained to the limits of courtesy. It was an expression I had seen on more than one centurion’s face in my early days as a tribune.

“You’ll work for it,” he repeated, squinting as if the sun’s glare might have distorted his view of me. “Ain’t you a cultivator?”

“Solus!” Scythas called again, close enough now for even the mongers to see the Heroic flames burning behind his eyes.

“You’re with the Hero?” he asked, aghast.

“The Hero is with us,” Griffon corrected him lightly. The monger inhaled a shaking breath.

“Right. Alright. Then, if it pleases the wise men, I’ll trade for a word of advice.”

My eyebrows drew down. “You’ll what?”

“The monger wants to hear a thinking man’s opinion,” Griffon explained for my benefit. “Fortunately, it seems he’s willing to settle for yours instead.”

“I offered to work for it,” I clarified, ignoring my Greek companion now that he was back to himself. “I’m quick on my feet and strong enough. Point me to a task and I’ll see it done.”

“I didn’t take you for a haggler,” Griffon mused. I gave him an ugly look.

“I’m just telling him to take his money’s worth.”

“Hn. You don’t seem to understand, so I’ll enlighten you,” the former Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn said, throwing his arm across my shoulders. “The monger is trying to get his money’s worth out of you. A Greek philosopher’s word is worth more than any sailor’s labor. It isn’t unheard of for even a small morsel of wisdom to awaken a man to his place in the world, depending on the question asked and how well the philosopher articulates his answer.”

Awaken a man to his place in the world. There was only one thing that could mean in this context – the birth of a cultivator. But that hardly made any sense at all.

“That’s all it takes?”

“At times,” Griffon confirmed.

“But that’s so…” I struggled to find a word that wasn’t disparaging. “Soft.” I failed.

Griffon snickered. Mottled color darkened the monger’s face, flushing at the curious looks his fellow sailors were sending his way.

“I suppose where you come from the journey begins upon enlistment?” He waited for me to snap something back, and when I didn’t he groaned. “Oh, you can’t be serious-”

“Ask your question and give me my fish,” I told the weathered fishmonger. The man visibly gathered his courage, set his shoulders, and looked me in my eyes.

Griffon may have spent his life sparring with words as often as with fists, but I had not. If I had been a better student, perhaps I would have picked up Aristotle‘s easy rhetoric or Gaius’ stirring diction. But I was not, and I had not. Labor I could do. But advice of this kind was beyond me. He would be disappointed, of that I was all but certain.

“I’ve lost the clothes off my back five times since I joined Fat Nelp’s crew,” he said in a rush, flopping the swordfish tail at a group of similarly grimy sailors loitering by a beached fishing skiff and pretending not to listen in. “Those whoresons keep thrashing me at dice and telling me to put my wife on the table when I run out of coin. How do I beat them?”

“I take back what I said before,” Griffon said incredulously. “A scholar of profound mystery stands before you, and you’re asking for tips on dice? Do you have any idea-”

I held up a silencing hand, regarding the fishmonger seriously.

“Listen to me closely.”

“You have a problem.”

“Several,” I agreed. The swordfish wasn’t the largest I had ever seen caught, but it was fresh and the taste of it was sweet enough to remind me why even gods above hunger still ate at times.

“If you were half as passionate about the refinement of your soul as you are about gambling, the Fates wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”

I sank my teeth into swordfish well-earned and savored its flavor. Seabirds hopped and fluttered around in our wake, snapping up the undesirable scales and offal as I tossed them aside. I stepped lightly – objectively, the bone dice I had given the fishmonger to punctuate my lecture didn’t weigh enough for me to really notice their absence. But the spirit was another matter entirely. I felt nearly naked without them.

“I could have saved myself days and weeks of effort back then,” Griffon lamented. “If I had only known a handful of carved bone was all it took, I could have made this whole journey a wager and played you in a game for it.”

“You could have.” I pried a thin bone out from between my teeth with my tongue and spat it out into the sea. “But you would have lost every time.”

“I never lose the same game twice.”

“You’ve never played me twice.”

The air between us was tense with future promise when we made it to our Heroic companion and the captain of the vessel he had acquired for us.

“Finally.” Scythas took silent note of the bloodied knuckles of my left hand and Griffon’s split lip, satisfaction in his eyes’ golden coals. I supposed that as he saw it, I had sent him off alone so that I could discipline my student properly for his attitude. “It took some time, but I found us a charter that’s willing to sail east. This man’s name is Buccoli – he’ll be the one taking us.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Greetings.” The captain offered his hand and I took it. If the swordfish’s blood and oil coating my hand bothered him, he didn’t show it. He was a lean man, dark-haired with a mortal sailor’s complexion and a con man’s easy smile. “The Hero tells me you boys are gearing up for a bit of a journey.”

“Just running a few errands,” I replied, taking one last bite out of my fish and tossing the rest to the birds.

“Is that what it is?” he chuckled. “Suppose it might be for someone of your standing. Lately though, us crude men give the Aegean a bit more respect than that. I imagine that’s why the good Hero made it this far down the beach before he found someone who’d take his money.”

Griffon’s head tilted. “And why is that?”

The weathered captain raised an eyebrow. “The Raging Heaven Cult’s lost their kyrios. I’ve heard of cultivators seeking isolation, but you couldn’t avoid that news if you tried.”

“We know,” I said. “What does that have to do with sailing?”

Buccoli shrugged. “Same thing as a red sun at dawn, if I had to guess. Poor omen. Doesn’t help that most of the ships that were out east when the kyrios passed have yet to make it back.”

Griffon and I shared a look.

“Then why are you risking it?” he asked the obvious question.

Scythas answered in the captain’s place, bouncing a leather pouch in his hand so that the coins inside of it could be heard striking one another.

“I’ve never been able to turn down a good deal,” the captain confessed. “It’s why I have a wife for every major port and a crew that most captains wouldn’t bother pissing on. That’s them over there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.