To Dust

Cassus stood before the locked and barred tomb. Twenty years before, he laid its inhabitants to rest. It was as tombs made by families of modest wealth tended to be: four columns supporting an angled roof festooned with griffins, unicorns, and humble men seeking their eternal forgiveness from the Crescent Sun. The bards would pack the tavern with that irony. Cassus laughed to himself and the effort turned to a rasping cough that made his knees buckle. He knew he’d receive no such forgiveness when they laid him to rest.

Twenty years. Too long for him to live. He wondered if any of the well-wishers flitting around the cemetery noticed him. The sun set over the palace’s western wall and the evening bells sang their mournful, beautiful chorus. Cassus examined the carvings and wondered if she found a place as beautiful as she was after she vanished. Finally, as always, he cursed the Crescent Sun for laying her across his path.

***

Succeed or die.

The city smelled like warm piss as it always did when Caesar called his festivals, and he seemingly called his festivals every month. Cassus flowed with the crowd toward the Colosseum, avoiding sloshing wine and horse dung. Most didn’t avoid either. Most also gave him a berth; a scar from his right temple down below his lip that grayed his eye had that effect. The sword and dagger he openly carried helped too. He wore his brown traveling tunic and headscarf, relics of his campaigns in the eastern deserts–places these pink men and women in their finest white togas and colored silk scarves would never set foot. Some gave him pitiful looks. To them he sneered. He didn’t need their pity. These lot pretended that watching men fight meant they were fighters as well. If they had backbones, they’d challenge him as an Externi, red legion sash be damned. That’s what Cassus would’ve done. Alas.

With a cup of wine, provided to the people by Caesar’s Grace as the steward made overtly clear, Cassus sat amongst the crowd. Blessedly, no one sat next to him. It was the first day of duels, culminating in a grand melee of the champions on the seventh day.

The crowd rose. Cassus joined them. They cheered. Cassus didn’t. Three figures emerged. The crowd silenced. The announcer echoed their titles: first, the esteemed Lady Guivere with her swollen belly on display. Mother to the heir, Wife to the Fig Leaf Crown. The carvings didn’t do her justice. Blonde curls bounced over cherub-esque cheeks, slender yet regal, powerful yet welcoming, she waved to the crowd now chanting her name blessed as they were by her favor. Cassus sipped his wine. Her opulence was despicable, but he couldn’t deny she was beautiful, desirable even. The thought sickened Cassus, but she was the key to all.

The announcer proclaimed the man to her right. His bronze armor reflected the red sun as he stood resolute beside Caesar. He had a jaw harder than marble and close cropped gray hair–a man of the old guard. Legatus Legionis Octivarius didn’t wave despite the small detail that this festival was thrown in his honor. Victory over the Hallic tribesmen in Ossidentia only half a year after his victories in the east over the Guluharks earned you quite the expensive celebration it seemed. Cassus’s knuckles turned white as he squeezed the bench. They all knew nothing of his sins.

Finally, the crowd roared loudest for Caesar Gaius Julianus Levo, First of his Name, Ruler of the Known World…Cassus ignored the rest of the titles. By his estimation, the “Ruler of the Known World” was excessively plain, offered little leadership, and almost certainly would tire after a few moments of sparing. Everyone knew it, everyone agreed, but the mortal flaws of God Incarnate fall on deaf ears. Levo deserved the fate that was to befall him after Cassus’s victory. Wine, expensive enough to feed Cassus’s entire Eastern outpost, sloshed down Levo’s toga. Servants scampered to provide more.

For most duels, the victor was readily apparent early and Cassus paid just enough attention to note those that were dangerous. There were few. Only once did the violence below tear his attention from the balcony; a hulking Hallic donning an elk-skull helmet twirled as if the elk’s soul pranced within him, toying with his enemy more than fighting him. Cassus preferred to avoid that man’s short sword and notched axe for as long as possible.

The final duel ended with a torrent of blood and a setting sun. Cassus watched the geyser from the neck wound slowly pump to completion even as most of the crowd disappeared off to continue their revelries. If forced to guess, the boy now staining the sand was no more than fifteen. Another useless death.

Five more days of this–a thought that left a sour taste in Cassus’s mouth as he departed. He needed to watch, to study, but he didn’t savor it. He’d seen enough green boys bleed out on the eastern sands.

He paused. The wooden door had no adornment, no visible locks even. No guards stood beside it under unlit torches. It didn’t surprise him; after all the things worth protecting had long since departed. Tomorrow, he could slide within them armed with a pair of good daggers and slice the throats of those evil creatures as they watched…No. There was a plan, a carefully constructed plan, but it required him winning on the seventh day. When he won, he’d be awarded a seat at Caesar’s table and a night in the palace. Within those halls, he’d spring the trap. For all his faults, Cassus was not a rash man. He’d keep his focus. Caesar Gaius Julianus Levo’s line would not survive this festival.

Succeed or die. Those were his orders.

Before he stepped away, the doors opened, revealing the most peculiar sight. She was short, with fine olive skin and black hair tucked back behind her ears so that it didn’t track on the tray of crystal goblets she carried. As she stared at Cassus with brilliant green eyes, the corners of her lips crooked into a gentle smile that so many denied him. Cassus had stared down the Guluhark’s charging heavy horse, faced a hail of Bergan arrows, and yet that look froze him to the spot as no enemy could. For once, for the first time in longer than he remembered, there was no hatred in his soul. That presence of mind did nothing to help him find words–he’d never been a bard, and with a smile that betrayed no fear. She departed. How long he stood there, he couldn’t say.

More days of blood followed. Cassus sipped his red wine while fountain after fountain of red blood stained the sand. Levo cheered like an excited child while Octivarius sat statuesque. Alluring as ever, Lady Guivere alternated between excited cheers and regal womanhood; though despite her beauty, Cassus found himself tracing the path of her dark haired Lady in Waiting. A bad distraction. On the sixth night, in his dank rooms atop a dilapidated tavern in a decrepit part of a city leached by the palace, Cassus found himself thinking not of his duties, but of that soft beautiful smile. He shook himself. He needed to focus. In the darkness, he checked the compartment in his travel sack one last time. The letters, so central to his designs, were still there, unsealed.

Unsettled, Cassus traced thoughts of her brightest green eyes until sleep overcame him.

Black clouds blocked out the sun on the seventh day: to some it meant a bad omen, to Cassus it meant reduced glare. It had been carefully arranged so that when he slipped into the ready rooms with the rest of the melee challengers, no one noticed the extra man yet blooded during the festival. Realistically, no one cared. One more man to this crowd was little more than a pleasant surprise; no different than finding some lost denarii in an old cloak. He chose simple weapons, a shortsword and shield, plus as many daggers and axes as his leather cuirass allowed. Several competitors grabbed the short spears common to the legion. Alone, such weapons were useless without supporting formations. Cassus neglected to inform his challengers of that detail.

The tunnel smelt of the understandable detritus of men about to die: piss and shit. Several of the competitors added their offerings. Bile rose in Cassus’s throat. He was not immune to such fear. As if in a dream he floated across the sands, shouted the customary oaths, saluted Lady Guivere as her useless husband moved his mouth and let the rage boil inside him. Cassus spared one final search for those green eyes, but found nothing.

They spaced out evenly along the Colosseum wall.

The Purple-clad Marshall raised his arms.

Cassus exhaled until his lungs emptied.

The arms dropped.

And they descended into hell.

Three men died before the crowd had a chance to cheer. Cassus kept his back to the wall, deflecting an onrushing boy’s blow before ripping his belly with the short sword. He sidestepped casually, careful not to lose his footing in the dead boy’s viscera. Fools rushed in seeking glory. Fools died under laughs and gasps. It had been maybe a quarter bell and already the field halved. Heavy chests rose and fell. Cassus was no exception. Stewards rushed forth and pulled away the dead and groaning bodies, and Cassus used them to keep space between him and the twenty or so men still upright. Several swayed from bleeding wounds. He had a chance, he–

The man was on top of Cassus with a lunging tackle from behind one of the retreating stewards. Fool. A stupid moment of overconfidence. The man bit and slashed at Cassus. Blood trailed from the corners of his lips. Cassus struggled to free his arm pinned below his shield. Steel bit into his arm and Cassus shouted, feeling the blood well. The man’s breath was foul, dying. Cassus felt the wetness of blood and piss against him and hoped it was only his foes, though he knew better for the latter. Ever more desperate, he released his shortsword and scrambled for a knife. Cassius cut. The man groaned a feral, guttural throe, and crumpled.

Cheers erupted followed by every manner of scream, chant, and taunt. The survivors descended on each other, caution disappearing on the breeze as they sensed victory. Even marbled old Octivarius stood at the balcony. Before Cassus could regain his shortsword he was dodging and rolling as he did in the East when the barbarians poured over their outpost walls. At least this time he didn’t shake with hunger. A man, legion by his sash, charged headlong at Cassus, thinking him armed only with a shield. The knife, hidden then unveiled into his gut, taught the legionary otherwise.

Then there were two of them. The elk-skull helm was unmistakable. No blood dripped from the man’s arms or legs, except the blood of his enemies. Cassus wheezed. His arm was heavy, too heavy. He strapped his shield sensing he’d soon be unable to lift it. The Hallic tribesman raised his axe and sword as Cassus slid one of the axes from his belt.

The elk-skull antlers lowered as if the beast charged Cassus from the underworld. He had one chance.

With all his remaining strength, Cassus threw the axe.

The crowd gasped as it left his fingers, then cheered as it sailed over the Tribesman’s shoulder.

Cassus closed his eyes. It was done then. He’d failed.

“HALT!”

When Cassus opened his eyes, the sword blade was close enough to shave with. The Marshall held his hand aloft, and all eyes went to the balcony where Caesar stood, his thumb turned downward.

“His excellency decrees that it would displease him mightily for a defeated Barbarian to claim victory on the sands. The melee is thus declared a draw. With no victor, none will sit at Caesar’s table tonight…”

All else went silent. The Hallic tribesman threw his weapons to the sand. He’d be out of the city before night fell. Cassus just slumped to his knees.

***

He didn’t remember returning to his rooms, didn’t remember eating, nor drinking. He must have, otherwise he’d be dead–a notably preferred state of existence. He had failed. His men would die while Levo drank his wine.

A knock at the door pulled Cassus from his wallows. “Go, please–”

The smile that greeted him was of his wildest dreams

“I…You should not be here.”

“It’s good to see you alive.” Her voice was a chorus. Cassus’s head swooned and he was worried he’d faint with the unreality of it.

“How…how did you find me?” He said, lost in the brightest green of her eyes.

“The palace has ways. I am Camilla. Come, let me check that arm of yours.”

For three days, Camilla tended his wounds. She asked about his life and he told her as he told no other soul. On the fourth, she laid with him out of love.

“Why do you wear that headscarf beyond these walls?” she asked, calmly, without acquisition.

“Habit.” The blunt truth.

“You shouldn’t. People won’t see you as I do.”

“What do you see when you look at me?” Cassus asked softly in the gentle darkness.

“A true warrior. Someone who’s paid his due in blood and now deserves a rest.” Camilla smiled.

Cassus laughed, “if only it were so simple. I still must serve.” Camilla turned, the question painting her beautiful face. He didn’t deserve to be in this space with something so perfect. “It wasn’t personal glory that drew me to the melee. My men die out east. I hoped to petition at Caesar and his Lady’s table. Alas, I have failed and more Denarii will be wasted on festivals than feeding the legion.”

It was a noble lie, one he’d find pride in if it wasn’t for his shame. He wished that he was no longer a soldier operating under orders, but a free man to follow his heart. She traced the scars that lined his weary body with slender fingers. “You are truly a good man then. A petition you say? Why not go to Octivarius? I’m sure he’d hear you.”

“His hands are tied. Of that, I know.”

“Well perhaps I could assist? I do have access to the Lady’s quarters after all and could deliver such a noble petition.” She laughed playfully at the suggestion.

Cassus felt this heart lighten. A chance to steal victory gifted by the gods themselves. Cassus hated that it was her, but if he didn’t...

Succeed or die.

“I must make…alterations. Add critical details. There'll be two, one for Caesar and one for his Lady. And Camilla my love, it is crucial they be delivered privately.”

***

Camilla sat reading poems on her bed, dreaming of Cassus. The hour was late and the evening cold, unseasonably cold for the late summer.

A gentle knock came and before Camilla rose, Lady Guivere entered. She wore a heavy hooded cloak that bulged over her swollen belly and had another in hand.

“Dearest, might I ask a favor that requires the height of discretion? It seems Caesar is rather insatiable and has requested a most curious rendezvous,” she said with a coy smile. “I fear the night even for a short journey. Please accompany me.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

***

Cassus watched from the headstones as two cloaked figures sneaked through the night. He cursed silently. The planted letter, so carefully forged in Caesar’s own hand, explicitly said to come alone. It was no surprise such grotesque people enjoyed added perversions. It didn't matter. Victory was at hand.

Succeed or die.

The pair creeped into the darkened recess curiously. In a whirlwind, Cassus sprang forth. Before they had a chance to turn, Cassus slammed and barred the marble tomb.

“In the name of all of those starved and broken souls who will never petition before you, I condemn Levo’s line to eternal rest.”

And through the thick marble doors, neither God incarnate nor mortal legionary would ever hear their screams.

Relief flooded over Cassus. He’d succeeded. The rest he knew would succeed. Come the morning, the line of Levo would be finished, and he and Camilla might live together in a brighter, better empire.

***

Twenty years. Cassus thought of Camilia. She vanished in the chaos that followed. He never learned how nor why. Many things did, including a Hallic tribesman and a curious note delivered to the Lady Guivere’s chambers. The others played their parts properly. Still, it saddened him. Like all the other sneering faces, she must have rejected him.

It did nothing to lessen his love. Cassus silently prayed that wherever she escaped to was as lush as her eyes. One day, he’d proclaim his love, he hoped. Though the empire flourished, life was cruel. His meditation broke as someone shuffled up beside him. “Your presence here is unwise.”

“Same to you.” Only the heavy breaths between Octivarius’s words indicated the man aged at all in the years since he’d first issued Cassus’s orders. “A tale for the histories. A bastard son sown by a barbarian. A midnight escape. An Incarnate God slicing his wrists note left detailing her affair still in hand. What a tale. What a tale.”

“You read them then?”

“After I found Levo’s body, and before burning her summons to this cursed place.”

“I wonder if the truth will ever be told,” Cassus muttered, more to himself than to his once superior officer.

Octivarius hacked, “the truth? Those people walking over there sleep with full bellies tonight because Levo’s line is at an end–all the better that it ended with such gusto! That is the truth. That is what they preach. That is the story the bards tell now and the story that will persist long after us. The facts…well, those, like their bones, will simply crumble to dust.”